On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  Before he left, his nostrils took in the smell of dinner.

  “Meatloaf.” He made a face. “Only in here could they make it smell like shit.”

  I slept that night. For the first night in almost three months, I was undisturbed, for sixteen hours, free from the monster of diesel therapy. It was the greatest sleep of my life.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Hey! What the Hell are You Doing with all those Bags of Money?

  SPRING 1994

  Always suspect everybody.

  Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop

  A nice man is a man of nasty ideas.

  Jonathan Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects

  As the weeks turned to months, Tony began to accumulate small amounts of the prosecution’s “discovery” – or evidence – against me. Each visit was like waiting for an executioner, as he explained all the pieces of the enormous jigsaw puzzle that the prosecution had sitting in their office, slowly building up a picture of what fitted where. They needed that picture to show the jury. The clearer the picture, the easier the chances of securing a conviction.

  “There are a few other, tiny, but not unimportant, bits of the puzzle sitting in their lap,” he stated, sitting down at the table and placing his briefcase on top. “They’ve traced your job in Park Avenue as a doorman. They claim that you were absent on the night of the robbery.”

  Before I could open my mouth, he delivered a knockout punch. “They’ve got tyre marks from the van that was used on the night of the robbery. Just like fingerprints.”

  “Fuck …” was all I managed to say.

  “And, they claim to have the tyres.”

  He watched my reaction, as my mind flashed back to a McDonald’s and grinning cops not believing their luck.

  My stomach felt heavy. I had known all along it was hopeless. Now Tony had confirmed it.

  I started hating his visits. He was worse than the Angel of Death in Long Kesh.

  “Do you ever bring good news to your clients?” I asked.

  “Analysis has revealed that there are similar characteristics between the tyres and the photographs taken of tyre marks at Brinks. Similar, but not identical. That’s a very big plus for us.” He smiled. “I haven’t even begun to fight back yet, and those cock-suckers know it. They’re frightened of me – and for good reason. Right now, at this very minute, they’re sitting over in their warm office, wondering if all these pieces will fit nice and snugly for them. Their jobs are on the line. Their careers. They see this case as a ladder to further themselves – maybe in politics, perhaps with some big Wall Street firm. Between you and me, Sam, I’m going to do my best to ensure that their dreams never materialise.”

  He then started to outline how much effort the Feds had put into the case.

  “Officially, forty FBI agents were on the case, watching all of you at all times, totalling 20,000 man hours. Another sixty were brought in intermittently, when needed. The FBI has more than 100 alleged witnesses, some from as far away as California and Florida. This isn’t counting the dozens of FBI and New York detectives.”

  Why was he filling me with this death-row talk? Was he secretly a sadist, laughing at the look of defeat on my face?

  “I know,” he continued, as if reading my mind, “that this may all seem overwhelming, disconcerting to you, but you must believe me when I say we have a chance of beating this. Initially, there was a lot of infighting between the New York Feds and the Upstate ones. Everyone wanted the glory of the case, because of the high publicity surrounding it. An FBI agent has already admitted this to me.” He smiled, a Christopher Lee-type smile. “Would you believe, the Feds from New York called the Feds up here ‘rednecks and hillbillies’ when the decision was made to allow them to take the case? I can assure you that that didn’t go down too well.”

  Tony knew, by reputation, the prosecuting attorneys, Christopher Buscaglia and Christopher Taffe.

  “They are both hardworking and meticulous to detail, but they are under a lot of pressure from their boss, Patrick NeMoyer, US attorney for the Western District of New York, to come up with a conviction. A lot is at stake here. Not just your freedom, but also the reputation of the FBI – especially the local branches. If they fail, then the Big City Feds will have been vindicated.

  He brought some other pieces of news with him. “The Feds have rearrested the teacher, McCormack. These pricks know the poor guy is totally innocent, but they want to ironclad their conspiracy theory for the jury. The more people charged, the better it looks for them. But it also tells us that they are not one hundred percent confident. This can help us in the long run. I mean, I feel for the poor guy, but it shows how desperate they have become, with the pressure mounting on them.”

  Charlie’s fingerprint had allegedly been found on a piece of cardboard. The simple reason for this was that he lived in the apartment – his fingerprints would have been everywhere, including on an old piece of cardboard that we had taken from beneath the sink to do some scribbling on. The Feds, of course, knew this – knew, in all probability, that Charlie was totally innocent. That was something their conscience could overlook if it meant convictions for the rest of us, along with Charlie.

  “I thought we were the ones under pressure?”

  He ignored this remark. “One of the witnesses for the Feds, Louis Niger, apparently jumped to his death, last night, in very suspicious circumstances. He was the barman who called the ambulance for O’Connor the night he was abducted, and helped him to a bar stool after a stiff shot of Southern Comfort.”

  “Will it help or hinder us?” I asked callously, without a thought for the unfortunate man.

  “Time will tell. Now, if all the prosecution’s witnesses were to follow the same path …” He grinned, and once again Christopher Lee came to mind. “O’Connor invoked the Fifth Amendment when placed in front of the Federal Grand Jury. He also declined a polygraph test. Anyway, in a few minutes you’ll be taking a walk with me over to the Kenneth B Keating Building. That’s where the trial will be held. I want you to study the video tapes the Feds have of you and your buddy Maloney.”

  “Video tapes?”

  “Oh. I thought I’d told you about them? They’ve hundreds of hours of tape, allegedly of you and Maloney leaving and entering the apartment.”

  I must have turned white, because he laughed and said, “Don’t worry. It doesn’t prove too much against you. But I’m sure Maloney will have some explaining to do …”

  An hour later, over at the courthouse, I sat down in a tiny room while Tony rolled out a massive TV and VCR.

  “Sorry, Sam. No popcorn, I’m afraid,” he said, laughing just a wee bit too much for my liking.

  The screen came to life and there I was, with my Belfast dander, walking in and out of the apartment, not a fucking care in the world. I felt myself go red. Sweat was trickling down my back. What a dick, not even knowing they had been watching me. I wanted Tony to turn it off.

  “Wait. It only gets better,” he assured me, grinning.

  Turn the TV off, and that fucking grin also, please.

  Now it was Pat’s turn, walking up to the apartment door, disappearing inside. Suddenly, Tony fast-forwarded one of the tapes. “Watch this.”

  The tape was dated four days after we had first entered the apartment. Pat could be seen coming into the corridor, looking about.

  I thought nothing of it, until the two black men appeared beside him, carrying empty bags under their arms.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I said out loud, baffled by the presence of the two men. I hadn’t known Pat had told anyone about the apartment. What was he playing at?

  Tony froze the picture and flicked on the light. “I take it they weren’t part of the plan?” he asked. “Do you recognise them?”

  “No,” I said, livid.

  “Okay. Let’s get it over with,” he replied, turning the lights back off.

  It was the same day on the tape, about an hour later. I could see the door ope
n and Pat’s head popping out slowly. Then came his two friends, carrying bags – full-to-the-brim bags. Like a nice hot cup o’ tea.

  “I don’t fucking believe this!” I wanted to put my foot through the screen.

  “The scene repeats itself, Sam, over the next two days of taping. In with empty bags, out with full ones. Would you like to see them?”

  I sat in silence for a few moments, then said, “No … I’ve seen enough …”

  As Tony cleared away the TV, he explained that this would all be shown at the trial, for the benefit of the jury. “It makes the Feds look professional, shows people where all their tax money goes. The jury will be watching your reaction, so it’s imperative that you remain calm, expressionless.”

  It really didn’t matter any more. I didn’t care. It was bad enough that Pat hadn’t given Ronnie the money; now he had this to explain.

  “We have to be careful how we handle this guy Maloney,” advised Tony, reading my thoughts. “We don’t want to alienate him at this crucial moment, lest he does something stupid. His hairs were all over the place, as were his fingerprints. The ink used to write down the money totals was quickly traced to pens he kept in the church. An Empire safe located in his bedroom contained thousands of dollars. The list is endless.”

  It was all becoming clear now. For months, Pat had kept writing to me, asking – telling – me to drop Tony as my lawyer. He didn’t trust him, he said. He had heard a few things about him. If I dropped him, Pat would get me another lawyer, one who would work hard to get us all free. Not like this “shyster” who was only after fame and money.

  I had almost believed him.

  He had even asked that we petition the court for a change of venue, to move it back to New York City, where we had been arrested. He claimed his health was suffering from having to make the eight-hour journey up to Rochester each time he had to appear in court. But more importantly, a trial down in liberal New York would grant us a far better chance of beating the whole thing than the redneck cop town of Rochester.

  God! I had almost succumbed! A few weeks ago, I had contemplated dropping Tony, just to please Pat, to keep us united for the trial.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tony; he simply feared him. He knew, by now, that Tony would leave no stone unturned to get me off. He must also have known how angry I would be upon seeing the tapes.

  “Look on the bright side, Sam,” said Tony, as I prepared to return to the jail. “You’re only on the video twice, and with nothing in your hands. Maloney is the one who will have to explain to the jury what was in all those stuffed bags. My guess is he won’t take the stand, for fear of incriminating himself. Want to bet?”

  “I would, except you and the Feds have taken every dollar I have.”

  He laughed. I almost cried.

  “Confidence, Sam. Have confidence. Oh, did I tell you that some guy from Buffalo is suing Brinks? He claims he squealed on O’Connor, but never received a cent from the reward money. What a scumbag! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s rats – the human kind. I suppose I’m a bit like Indiana Jones.” He smiled, and I waited for him to produce a whip. “Anyway, remember the key word: confidence.”

  Confidence? Why was I not filled with any, I wondered, as I was escorted back to my cell? The guard kept reminding me I had the best lawyer in upstate New York, and that I should be grateful he was willing to take me as a client.

  How did this guard know that Tony was the best lawyer in upstate New York? Simple: he had been one of Tony’s clients, also.

  “Some niggers claimed me and six other cops in town violated their civil rights by slappin’ them about a bit. Can ya fuckin’ believe these people? Aim a shotgun at your face, and we’re the violators?”

  I remained silent. I was having a rough enough time. I didn’t want to make things worse by expressing my liberal views and disgust at his racist words.

  “So you beat the rap?” I asked, trying to keep out of my cell for as long as possible. It was like stealing time from the Feds.

  He grinned. “We all beat the rap and the niggers. Ya’ll do well by Tony. He’s the best fuckin’ lawyer in the world.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  A Judge. A Real Good Honest To Goodness Judge

  Naked … for years on end in a freezing cell … beatings … whatever … Millar went through it all.

  Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Sherman, Esquire magazine

  Is there no way out of the mind?

  Sylvia Plath, Apprehensions

  The weeks and months following the TV screening saw dents appearing in the “united front” Pat and I had initially established. We barely spoke a word to each other. I began to receive hate mail from some of his supporters, accusing me of duping him into the mess he was now in. Nonsense, of course, but he did little to dispel such notions. It suited him perfectly, the role of gullible martyr. It was beginning to gall me. I had done my best to give him a plausible excuse for getting involved, giving my gambling history to his lawyers in the hope it might secure his release, despite the fact that Tony went ballistic when he heard what I was doing.

  But once he started to claim he knew nothing about where the money came from – or, as some of his starry-eyed supporters claimed, that perhaps the money was “going to Ireland” and that he had been duped – then it was time for me to defend myself. If they thought he had been duped, then why did he go with me to purchase a $300,000 house? He claimed the money found in his bedroom – almost $200,000 – came from illegal aliens! Surveillance notes had recorded Pat giving out money like Santa – $3000 here, $5000 there. Eight thousand dollars went to Jason, a young man he had adopted. He had attempted to deposit $21,000 in cash at a bank in Florida, but thought better of it when told by the bank official that he would have to fill in a Currency Transaction Report. Names kept popping up at an alarming rate, all given large amounts of money.

  One of the many letters I received was from a nun, who told me that: “You’ll be going to Hell very soon, unless you repent your terrible sin against Father Pat.” I wrote back that I had already been to Hell, and it wasn’t such a bad place actually, thank you very much. Hate mail poured in, displaying various levels of nastiness.

  It was crystal clear now why Pat had wanted me to drop Tony in favour of a lawyer of his choosing. But it was all too late. The chickens were coming home to roost.

  * * *

  “Have you heard of William Sherman?” asked Tony one morning, as we sorted through mountains of legal papers in a tiny office in the county jail.

  “The name sounds familiar.”

  “He’s a famous writer. He won the Pulitzer, along with a load of other awards. Anyway, he has asked me to allow you to collaborate on an article for Esquire magazine. He says it will be sympathetic to you, put a human face on you for his readers. What do you think?”

  “I kind of like the face I already have. I don’t know about doing interviews. Isn’t there always the possibility of saying the wrong thing?”

  “You’ve echoed my thoughts exactly,” said Tony. But I thought I detected a slight disappointment in his voice. Did he see his smiling face on the cover of Esquire? “It would be a blunder. That’s why I’ve recommended to the priest’s attorney that his client refuse also, say nothing that may jeopardize everyone. Why are you grinning?”

  “You don’t know Pat. He’ll love all this, the publicity. There’s not a hope of him saying no.” Perhaps Tony didn’t want either of Pat’s lawyers on the cover either.

  “Well, I think you’re wrong. I’ve convinced his lawyer on the folly of it. I was pretty adamant. I doubt if it will go ahead.”

  * * *

  The article in Esquire appeared two months later, titled “Blood Money”. Almost every page carried a picture of a grinning Father Pat.

  “I can’t fucking believe this guy!” shouted Tony, throwing the magazine on the table in the prison room. “He’s trying to get us all hung. The Feds love this sort of shit. What a fucking as
shole! Can no one speak to this guy, ask him to shut his mouth?”

  No, not Pat. He loved it; even if it damaged our case, he would continue talking to reporters.

  And the Feds did love it. Sooner or later, he would say something incriminating.

  “We’ll weather this one, Sam. I’ll personally go down to New York and speak to Maloney.”

  He needn’t have bothered. There was more to come. Pat was now on the TV, giving interviews with all the well-known celebrities, radio stations and newspapers. There’s no stopping him now, I thought, as I watched him holding a child in his arms for the cameras. He could have been a senator running for office, a fire-fighter saving a child from a burning building. Even the “Late Night Show” wanted him. And when I phoned him on one rare occasion, asking him to tone it all down, he simply told me not to worry, Hollywood would pay for everything.

  I put it all down to a nervous breakdown, to the strain, the pressure. Tony was less diplomatic. “He is full of shit. He thinks the more people hear him, the more they’ll believe him. Our only concern is what twelve people think. Not David fucking Letterman.”

  It was then that Tony hit me with a devastating piece of bad news.

  “The Feds have arrested Bernie.”

  He spoke so softly I could barely hear what he had said.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Look, there’s no easy way to tell you. The Feds ordered your wife to appear at the Grand Jury this morning to give evidence against you, to give an account of anything she allegedly knows about the robbery. She refused to testify, citing the spousal-testimonial privilege, which excuses spouses from offering adverse testimony against their partners.”

  Bernadette’s first marriage had lasted only months. It had been annulled by the Catholic Church, after a long battle by us. She had been my common-law wife of ten years, as we were still having problems with the Church in the North over divorce proceedings. Had we been rich while living in the North, we would have had no problem getting the annulment, of course.