Vatch raised his eyebrows. “So Anthony is in with this Spider person.”
Barts laughed, again. “You don’t get it.” Barts dunked a fry in the ketchup. “There are no rules anymore.” He ate the fry. “Not only are there hundreds of gangs, but kids are in three or four of them at the same time. Just depends on who’s hanging out, who’s partying, and whether somebody wants to shoot.”
“You mean shoot other people?”
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter.” Barts shook his head. “It’s all random. It’s chaos out there. You’re lucky you’re in an office, man. Stuff makes sense in an office. On the streets, here in the hood, it’s just wild.”
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Michael didn’t trust the phones. The government claimed that it didn’t monitor or record the phones reserved for attorney-client communications, but he doubted it. “Safety” was an exception to every government policy related to privacy. It just took one civil servant to decide that somebody’s safety was at risk, and the confidentiality was gone. In his case, Michael knew that civil servant’s name was Agent Frank Vatch.
Michael wanted only in-person conversations. Those were the safest, even though it made the MDC a lonelier place that got lonelier every minute.
He’d been on self-imposed solitary confinement since his arrival. Although the individual cell doors didn’t close until after the evening head-count, Michael wasn’t in the mood to make friends. He didn’t wander around Pod 3. He didn’t play board games or explore the MDC’s small library. He didn’t go outside to the yard. Michael only came out of his cell for meals.
One of the MDC’s psychologists stopped by to see if he was depressed or whether she should place him on a suicide watch, but Michael declined her services.
He didn’t think he was depressed, which was likely what a depressed person would think, and Michael had told the psychologist that he’d be more social after the hearing. He was just waiting it out.
Michael had one more day. The custody hearing was scheduled for 9:00 am, and Michael hoped that the judge would release him.
The court could make Michael surrender his passports. Michael could be placed under house arrest with an ankle bracelet. Hell, Michael thought, he’d agree to the judge implanting a microchip in his shoulder, if it’d get him out.
In the meantime, Michael sat in the cell for hours.
He thought about the money being spent to keep him caged. Then, he thought about all the money wasted on the people around him.
The United States had the highest incarceration rate of any country in the civilized world. Yet it was still one of the most violent. The money spent on prisons and jails could be spent on schools and roads, but America was a land of immediacy. Investing in schools and roads provided little immediate pleasure, Michael thought, locking up a crook was more fun.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Then he felt shame and guilt. Who was he kidding? He deserved to be locked up.
When he was still the highest-billing associate at Wabash, Kramer, and Moore, Michael remembered reading a law review article about white-collar criminals like him. Two psychiatrists interviewed three hundred white-collar criminals residing in various federal prisons throughout the United States. The psychiatrists created a personality profile, listing the most common traits.
Michael thought about the list and the three most common traits.
The first one was that white-collar prisoners believed that they were the focus of government harassment and that his or her prosecution had been politically motivated or a personal vendetta. The second trait was that none of the white-collar criminals believed that they had actually committed a real crime or that they were real criminals, like a murderer. The third trait was that they were narcissists. Deep down, they all believed that they were the smartest people in the room. They believed they were smarter than their attorney, smarter than the investigators, smarter than the judge. They had it all figured out. They believed that they had found a loophole to avoid any consequences for their actions. They believed that they deserved the money that had been stolen. They were entitled to it.
Check. Check. Check.
How could he be so self-righteous about education and incarceration rates when he had rolls of gold coins in a dry box, fake passports, a history of evading investigators, and had just snuck across the United States border from Mexico in the past week?
Michael sighed.
Maybe I am depressed, he thought. Maybe I should be on a suicide watch.
###
A guard knocked on Michael’s door. “Visitor.”
The word lifted Michael’s spirits. He opened his eyes. Michael sat up and got out of his cot, and then followed the guard out of his cell. They walked through the common area, and through the series of secure doors leading out of Pod 3.
As they walked down the hallway to a door, Michael studied everything. He tried to remember the route. He noted the cameras and the location of the guards. Michael realized that most of the doors that they had walked by were unmarked, probably to make escape more difficult and the MDC’s layout more confusing.
Escape would be hard, thought Michael, probably impossible.
They stopped.
The guard that had escorted him from Pod 3 pressed an intercom button. They both looked up at a small camera above the door. They waited, and were buzzed inside another small room a few seconds later.
A second guard sat behind a glass window surrounded by security monitors. The second guard waited for the door to the hallway to close and lock, and then he buzzed Michael inside the visitation room through a second door. As stated during his orientation, neither door could be open at the same time, another obstacle for escape.
Michael walked into the visitation room. It was an open area with four tables spaced evenly apart. It was brightly lit, but sterile. There were no pictures on the wall. There were no lamps or wall sconces. There were no magazines or pencils. In short, there was nothing that could easily become a weapon.
The guard led Michael across the room to a door with a small window near the top. It was a private room for attorney-client conferences. The various detainees that were visiting in the public area looked at Michael with jealousy. They wanted a private room too, but for other reasons.
The guard opened the door and pointed inside. “Have a seat.”
Quentin arrived a few minutes later. “How you holding up?”
Michael shrugged. “How are you holding up?”
Quentin shook his head. “It’s been interesting.” Then he told Michael about the person with a brick in front of their rental and the offer from United States Attorney Brenda Gadd.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
United States Attorney Brenda Gadd had offered Michael twenty years if he pled guilty to three counts of wire fraud. With good time, Michael would be released shortly before his sixtieth birthday. He’d come back into the world as an old man.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”
Quentin bowed his head, because he knew Michael was right. “Well, they’re confident. They’ve already put the work into the case, so a plea doesn’t really save them many resources or time at this point,” Quentin said. “Plus they’re pissed at you. You’ve made them look like idiots for a long time.”
“Any upside?”
“It’s not fifty years, so you’ll be able to walk out of prison.” When Michael didn’t laugh, Quentin added. “And they’re guaranteeing you a spot at Sherrod Pines.” Sherrod Pines was a white-collar country club comprised of six dorms and a lodge near Mount Mansfield in Vermont. There was no fence, a two mile walking-hiking path, and recently updated work-out facilities. The population were all convicted of non-violent crimes, like drugs or theft, or they were over the age of sixty.
“They usually don’t negotiate placement.” Quentin shrugged. “But I think this is a high enough priority that Gadd got personally involved with the Bureau of Prisons.” When Michael didn�
��t respond, Quentin filled the silence with another bad joke. “Are you worried about the cold winters in Maine or something?”
Michael smiled, allowing a little levity. “My blood has thinned considerably over the years.” He knew Quentin was in a tough spot. He was the deliverer of bad news.
Quentin didn’t push Michael on the plea deal any further. Instead, he talked about the massive document dump that the government had just performed on him. Then they talked about the custody review hearing and Quentin prepared Michael for the pre-trial services interview.
“Anything else?” Michael asked.
“Just that nut in front of the rental.”
“A nut?”
Quentin laughed. “A nut with a rock. No worries though, Kermit was there to chase him off.”
“Weird.”
“What’s weird, Kermit or the guy with the rock?”
“Both,” Michael said, “but I was referring mostly to the visitor.”
“I got it on video. Kermit got the license plate number. I was going to call the cops after talking with you about it. Figure out who it was.”
“What does Andie think?”
“She said she didn’t want us to make any calls until I talked to you.”
Michael nodded, thinking. He thought about Brea Krane and her brother.
“Just call the non-emergency number and report the suspicious activity. Don’t tell them about the license plate and video.”
“Why?”
Michael thought about her brother and the fire at the Sunset.
“Just so that there’s documentation, but not too much documentation.”
Quentin seemed puzzled, but he wasn’t going to argue. Then he checked his watch. Michael knew that Quentin needed to leave, but Michael didn’t want him to go. Quentin sensed that, so they just sat together for a few more minutes. Then Michael stood up.
“You should head out.” Michael held out his hand. “Thanks for doing this.”
Quentin stood and shook Michael’s hand. “You’re getting pretty formal on me now.”
“You took a big risk taking the case.”
Quentin shook off the compliment. “The People’s Legal Center will always be there.” He picked up his notepad and put the notepad and various other papers back into his briefcase. “And if they don’t take me back, there are always more poor people needing legal advice than lawyers, so I’ve got a natural client-base of people who can’t afford to pay me anything.”
Michael nodded. “It’s a great business model.”
As Quentin started to leave, Michael blurted a question. He felt uncomfortable the moment that it had been asked. “Is Andie coming tomorrow?”
“She is, and Kermit wants to say hello. He’s got some new theories to offer you, something about neutrinos and sub-particles. He’s going to come by during visiting hours to share.” Quentin turned back toward the door, and then stopped, returning back to their initial conversation. “What should I tell them about the offer?”
Michael felt a wave of nausea run up from his stomach. He swallowed it back down. “I know you want me to take it.”
Quentin shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Michael put his hands on his hips and looked up at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, and then looked back at Quentin. “It’s good advice.” Michael nodded. “If I were you, I’d advise me to take the deal, but … I can’t and I won’t.”
“You’ve got a secret plan?”
Michael took a deep breath. “Maybe.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The days passed, and Michael returned to the group holding room in the basement of the federal courthouse. There were ten of them waiting to be processed this time, and it seemed to be a livelier group.
Four of the men stood off in the corner. They told stories, each trying to top the other with a tale of who had “partied the hardest” before their most recent arrests.
Michael sat on a metal bench that ran the length of the wall. He sat alone, watching the monitor for his name to appear on the list.
His interview with pre-trial services had gone well. Quentin had warned him about some of the questions, and so Michael had avoided any answers that may theoretically be used at trial to corroborate the prosecution’s case against him. Now it was up to Quentin and the judge.
###
The elevator doors slid open. Michael walked through a smaller holding area, and then into the courtroom. The room was filled to capacity again, but Andie and Kermit were easy to spot this time. They sat in the front row.
Michael forced a smile while his stomach churned. Andie blew Michael a kiss.
He took his place next to Quentin, and the magistrate judge called the case and noted the appearances.
“Where we last left off,” The judge peered down at Michael over his thick glasses. “We had a discussion regarding the status of Mr. Collins pending trial. The prosecution requested time to prepare as well as the defense, and so …” The judge opened his hands, palms up, and extended them toward Quentin. “Let’s hear your thoughts.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Quentin looked at Michael, and then back at the judge. “My client poses no safety threat to the public. He is accused of theft, that is all. And, he obviously will make all court appearances because my client turned himself in.” Quentin paused for emphasis, but he was careful not to pause too long. He didn’t want to invite questions from the judge.
“He has rented a brownstone here in the city, and so everybody knows where he is staying. It seems like a good use of resources to allow him to be discharged from the MDC and be under house arrest pending the trial. We’d agree to electronic bracelet, independent monitoring, whatever the Court needs to feel confident in my client’s continued participation in these proceedings.”
The judge rolled his eyes. “It took you three days to come up with that?” He shook his head. “That’s all information that we knew at the initial hearing. You’re wasting my time.” The judge stopped talking and pouted-out his bottom lip. He stared at Quentin, daring him to speak. When Quentin did not say another word, the magistrate judge continued.
“Your non-violent client also happened to have led law enforcement on a wild chase through the streets of New York City a few years ago. He struck an FBI agent in the face, breaking his nose. Why he was not charged, I haven’t the faintest idea, and now — with his back against the wall — he turns himself in and expects to be released.” The magistrate judge shook his head. “No, counselor. Your request for release pending trial is denied.”
Realizing that the prosecution hadn’t even made an argument, the magistrate judge looked at Brenda Gadd. “I assume you don’t disagree with my decision.”
Gadd stood. Her round, Mother Hubbard face was frozen, serious. She shook her head slowly, and decided to forego the speech that she had prepared. “No, I don’t disagree with you, Your Honor.” Gadd sat back down.
“Good.” The magistrate judge nodded. “We’ll place this on Judge Husk’s trial calendar.” The judge turned to the court clerk. “Call the next case.”
###
Within seconds, Michael was back in the elevator. He was shocked by the swiftness of the proceeding. The total hearing lasted less than five minutes.
It was over.
Michael was going back to the MDC. He’d be there until trial.
Michael chided himself for thinking he actually had a chance at release. It was apparent that the whole thing was an unrealistic fantasy. Did Quentin know that it was all a show or did Quentin actually believe he had a chance? What was worse?
Michael had always found a way to escape, and now he was stuck. As the elevator doors slid shut, he saw his reflection again. He was nothing but a man standing in an orange jumpsuit.
His grand plan now didn’t seem as clever as it once did. He had wrongly assumed he’d be free pending trial. He assumed he’d have time to check all of his accounts and find money that hadn’t been frozen. He wro
ngly thought that he could personally negotiate with Brea Krane and orchestrate an ending. It was a stupid thought.
As the elevator sunk to the basement of the courthouse, Michael realized that this might be his life for the next twenty years. Kermit’s plan of plastic surgery and a new resort in Brazil now didn’t sound quite so bad, but it was too late.
He could only hope that Andie could handle it. He had no options. He had to trust her for the first time in his life.
PART TWO: PLANS
“Everybody’s got plans … until they get hit.”
–Mike Tyson
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
The West Side Line was an elevated railroad spur built in 1929. It was built because people and trains didn’t mix too well in the early days of New York City. After numerous deaths, commuter trains were sunk into the ground, creating the city’s subway system. Freight trains were raised above ground. The West Side Line was part of the original elevated freight train system, which was eventually abandoned about fifty years later.
The structure fell into disrepair. Connections to the spur had been dismantled. The empty platform stretched over the neighborhood for a little over a mile, then stopped. Train tracks to nowhere.
It was slated to be torn down, but the West Side Line escaped demolition due to a couple of neighborhood dreamers. It became New York’s High Line Park. Its tracks were turned into walking trails. The garbage was removed. Trees were planted and sculptures were installed. Now Andie Larone wondered if Michael could make a similar escape and transformation.
She had almost sold him out, once. It was a desperate attempt to get herself out of jail, but despite her betrayal, Michael had kept fighting for her. He had saved her. Then she had the audacity to run after Michael had told her the truth about his past.
Andie never let go of her guilt. Maybe that’s why she was here. Andie wanted them to be even. If their plan worked, she wouldn’t owe Michael Collins anymore. Then perhaps they could just love one another again.
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