On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  “What the fuck happened? Why has she been arrested?” I was frantic, trying to remain calm.

  “New York does not recognise common-law marriages, but exceptions are made for those that began elsewhere, in a place where common-law unions are legally recognised. Judge Larimer said, after researching the law, he did not believe such relationships are recognised in the North of Ireland.”

  “What the fuck would he know about the North of Ireland!”

  “He told Bernie he didn’t relish this proceeding, but he had to hold her in contempt if she still refused to testify. She refused and was led away.”

  “No. I can’t allow this. We have three kids. What will happen to them? No way will I go along with this.”

  “You can’t allow the Feds to get to you,” said Tony, trying to inject some fight into my misery. “This is how they work. You are stronger than they are. They couldn’t break you. Now they think they can get to you through Bernie. They know she knows nothing, just like McCormack. But they are desperate, Sam. Believe me, you don’t know just how desperate.”

  At that moment, I was at rock bottom. Tony knew in my state of mind, I was no longer thinking rationally. He didn’t want to leave the room.

  “Listen. Bernie has an excellent lawyer, Robert Napier. He’s a fighter, just like me. Neither of us will sleep until we overturn this. You have my word on that. But I need your word that you will stay strong. Deal?”

  I muttered an agreement that he could live with. Lucky for him, I had yet to see a copy of the evening’s newspaper. Bernie was on the front page, handcuffed, being led away by federal agents.

  “Under no circumstances will Bernadette agree to answer questions about Sam. They are in all ways, spiritually and emotionally, married people. She will not violate that relationship in any way,” said Robert Napier sombrely, to the assembled reporters. “A jail-house wedding ceremony appears to be the best option for her early release.”

  * * *

  It made little difference that Tony repeated to me each day: “We think we have something … this could work. I told you this guy was good …” I knew he was simply stalling me, trying to keep me focused. “I’ve got to tell you this, and it’s no bullshit. But the Feds have a grudging respect for you. They’re hitting you with every single thing they can, and you are still standing. I’ve talked to a few of them, and they are totally baffled by your actions. They know if you had been an American, you would have collapsed a long time ago. They think you’re one cool guy.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “In a backhanded way, yes.”

  “Well, the next time you’re talking to your great Fed buddies, tell them I said to stick their compliments up their hairy holes. Okay?”

  He left before I could deteriorate any further. His remedy was having the opposite of the effect desired.

  * * *

  Eventually, a month later, proof of our relationship in Ireland, in the form of a divorce decree, was presented to the court and studied by Judge Larimer. Bernie’s lawyer asked the judge to vacate the contempt order, so that she could apply for a marriage licence at Rochester City Hall.

  “Four kids and ten years together speaks for itself in my mind,” argued Napier, studying the judge’s expressionless face.

  “This puts me in a Cupid-like position,” Judge Larimer said, studying the documents. “But I approve it, and I wish the couple happiness on their wedding day.”

  Only in America could a judge speak with such compassion.

  “Didn’t I tell you he was a fair judge?” Tony said later that day, all smiles.

  I said nothing, but savoured the moment. A great weight had been lifted. I no longer gave a fuck about prison.

  “A fair judge,” reiterated Tony, not knowing that he and the judge would soon be at each others’ throats, and making all the headlines.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Our Strategy

  OCTOBER 1994

  The investigation has run over $1,000,000 so far – and that’s not counting the trial.

  Dean Anderson, spokesman for the FBI

  It’s a funny old world – a man’s lucky if he gets out of it alive.

  Walter de Lean and Paul M Jones, You’re Telling Me

  Before the trial began, a process of jury selection was undergone.

  “Are you kidding me? We get to select the jury?” I asked Tony, as we all sat in a tiny room, over in the Kenneth B Keating Building, mapping out the best strategy to beat the charges.

  “More or less. The prosecution gets to pick some; we get some. They get a couple of chances to bar the ones whom they believe to be biased in our favour, and vice versa. It’s all very democratic. Not like back where you came from, with all that non-jury bullshit. We have democracy in America.”

  We all sat in the room, fiddling with notepads and lawyers. Pat had both his lawyers; Charlie had his, as did Tom.

  Tony began outlining his ideal profile of potential jurors. He believed the personalities, backgrounds and opinions of the jurors could be crucial at the end of the day.

  “No blacks on the jury,” Tony said. “They’re out to prove they’re tough on crime, because they’re frightened of being stereotyped as criminals themselves. I’d put twelve blacks on the jury if I thought they’d be sympathetic, but I can tell you now, they’d be a disaster.”

  The other lawyers wrote something down, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Everything would be ironed out later. Someone suggested that, this being a cop town, perhaps getting relatives of law-enforcement people on the jury might be a plus for Tom.

  There was laughter at this. “No,” advised Tony. “They’d be like the blacks, out to prove that not all cops – and I’m not implying anything by this, Tom – are corrupt.”

  Tom just smiled his Gary Cooper smile.

  “Also,” continued Tony, “I recommend that we try to get all females on the jury. We have four good-looking guys here; no all-female jury will convict.”

  More laughter.

  “That’s not going to happen. The Feds would see right through it,” said an unconvinced lawyer, staring at Tony over half-moon glasses. “In addition, there’s no proof that it will work. The whole case could explode in our faces. Besides, women can be more prosecutorial than men. Picking all women – and I doubt if we can do it – might just backfire on us. It’s a big risk, and could be an unmitigated disaster.”

  Tony laughed. “Are you kidding? You’re telling me, put twelve women in a room, for maybe two months, and they’re still friends? By the end of this trial, they’ll be killing each other. The least we can expect is a hung jury.”

  “Or hung clients.” Very tiny laughter at that one.

  “It can’t work. The Feds will not allow it to happen,” said Felix, Tom’s lawyer.

  “It’s up to us to make it happen,” Tony replied calmly. “And I’m going to give it my best shot. What about the rest of you?”

  They moved on to other matters.

  “I think our biggest problem is Buscaglia. There’s nothing flashy about him, but he keeps coming at you like a glacier,” said Felix.

  John Speranza, Charlie’s attorney, summed his own feelings up. “The conspiracy statute gives considerable leeway to prosecutors in linking defendants in a conspiracy. It takes into account the whales and the minnows. The net is a fine net, and it’s very broad.”

  The debate went on for two hours, each lawyer voicing his concerns, each trying to map out a strategy beneficial to all, yet keeping their own client’s acquittal at the top of the list. It would be a thin tightrope to be walked, and I doubted very much if any person in that room believed we would all stick to one selected path. We could only wait and see, as jury selection began in earnest.

  I wanted to talk to Tom, to apologise for the mess I had placed him in, but Tony advised against it. “The less you communicate with the other defendants, the better it will be in the long run. O’Connor is a big boy. He’ll understand.”


  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Jury Selection

  The court is obliged to submit the case fairly, but let the jury do the deciding.

  Chekhov

  There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.

  Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

  Each potential juror was brought in individually. They were asked to sit in front of us, while our lawyers fired questioned at them. Most looked, to me, to be nervous, dreading the interrogation, but Tony told me not to be fooled by appearances.

  “Oh, they want desperately to be on this trial. Make no mistake about that. This is probably the most exciting thing to happen to them in all their lives, something to tell their grandchildren about.”

  The first hopeful walked in, spoke his name, sat down. He was covered in gold, from head to toe. Tony quickly ran a line through his name on the list. “Maybe he was the one who robbed the Brinks!” whispered Tony, trying not to laugh.

  Another was a toolmaker. He was quickly disposed of, for fear of knowing too much about the Brinks security. One had a sheriff for a cousin. Everyone quickly shook their head. Get him out of here!

  Another potential juror’s father had worked for Brinks, and had been a “model employee”.

  Goodbye.

  The prosecution asked a female if, with her Catholic religion, she could convict a priest if she thought he was guilty. She looked straight at Pat for a few moments, studying his face. Pat returned her gaze, his back stiff, fingers slowly rubbing his “worry beads”.

  “Yes. I could. If he were guilty …”

  Pat sagged and his lawyers moved quickly to have the woman’s name removed.

  “Don’t be too hasty,” whispered Tony to the other lawyers. “I think she could be fair. Something tells me the evidence would have to be overwhelming for her to convict. We may not have much of a choice, as the list gets smaller. Think about it.”

  After a few minutes of consultation between themselves and Pat, they decided to allow her to stay on the list.

  One woman on, eleven to go …

  Another potential male juror sat and, without a blush, told us he hadn’t heard about the Brinks case. “Can you believe this guy?” whispered Tony, quickly scribbling Mister Never Heard from the list. “I know some of them are desperate to get on the jury for their sixty seconds of fame, but you’d think they’d come up with something credible.”

  One woman, immaculately dressed, sat down where Never Heard’s arse had just warmed. Her expression gave little away, and the routine questions directed at her were answered thoughtfully, yet almost indifferently. She would be next on the list. I had no doubt about that.

  Then came the shocker.

  “You have a nephew in the police force. Is that true?” asked Felix.

  There was complete silence. The woman’s face wasn’t moving.

  “Is that true?” asked Felix again. He balanced a pencil between two fingers, and a tiny smile appeared on his face.

  “Yes. That’s true,” the woman said, breaking the silence.

  “And your husband? He’s a retired police officer?”

  “Yes.” There was a hint of pride in her voice at this.

  “In all honesty, you would not look too kindly on policemen who allegedly broke the law, would you?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “No, sir. I would not.”

  “Thank you for your candour, Mrs _. Your honour, I move to have her name removed from the list.”

  The prosecution tried to retain the woman, for obvious reasons, but to no avail. The judge ruled in Felix’s favour.

  The day progressed slowly; a name dropped from the list, one added. The novelty was wearing off and everyone – judge included – was getting a bad dose of itchy arse. We wiggled in our seats, trying to stay focused.

  “How much longer?” I asked Tony.

  “As long as it takes to get what we want. All week, if necessary. Any problems, seeing as how we are doing this for you?” Christopher Lee was back with an acerbic tongue.

  “No. Of course not. I appreciate it, really.”

  Eventually, all the men were out. I couldn’t – and nor could anyone else – believe the prosecution team were letting us get away with it. Maybe they had the same plan, believing that women would be more sympathetic to them. Whatever the reason, when the twelve women were finally selected, the newspapers give the fact their undivided attention, making the Feds look foolish.

  They had walked into the trap set by Tony and the other lawyers.

  Trying to regain some lost ground, the prosecutors quickly asked the judge to review the choices the lawyers had made in selecting an all-female jury – had men been discriminated against? After a closed-door session, Judge Larimer said he had extensively reviewed the selection, and found no basis for the Feds’ concern. The all-female jury would be sworn in the next day, and the trial, almost two years in the preparation, would commence.

  A last meeting with Tony prior to the trial brought me some big news. “Ten is the max you can get. But you will more than likely be given about eight years, if you’re found guilty. Now this is the last time we discuss this. I’m going in there to win – so are you. I don’t want to hear any more about doing time. Agreed?”

  Eight years? I doubted if he was telling the truth. I could handle eight years, but I knew it would be more in the region of sixty. I tried not to think about dying in an American prison, but I had to be realistic. I put my smiling mask back on, and shook his hand.

  “I appreciate all that you’ve done, Tony, irrespective of what happens.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep. I want you to be looking your best for tomorrow.”

  He smiled, and I wondered what was behind it. Did he know, deep down, what I was truly heading for? Soon it would all be over.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The Trial Begins

  11 OCTOBER 1994

  If it takes 100 witnesses to prove your case, you don’t have one.

  Lawrence Andolina, New York Lawyer, commenting on the trial

  Barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.

  Mark Twain, A Curious Dream

  There wasn’t a seat to be had. The courthouse was packed. The Press were allocated a certain number, and our families and friends all tried to squeeze into a few more. The remainder went to that breed of morbid people who have nothing in their lives except the expectation of someone else’s demise, the perverse voyeuristic high gained from observing the fallen. You would have found these same people during the French Revolution, sitting with their knitting needles at the guillotine.

  FBI agents were trooped in, conveyor belt-style, non-stop, by the prosecution. Impeccably dressed, they strutted down the centre aisle with the confidence of actors receiving Oscars. They read carefully from notebooks, in which they had logged our movements over a ten-month period.

  I tried to keep my thoughts elsewhere, knowing what the future inevitably held. I wasn’t going to sit there in self-mutilation, humiliated by all the mistakes I had made. Instead, I had gone fishing in the Waterworks in Belfast. I think my father was there, eating a big, thick strawberry-jam sandwich, giving me the thumbs-up. ‘Chin up, son. Don’t let them get you down.’ I returned the thumbs-up, smiling.

  Tony nudged me. “You’ve got to pay attention,” he hissed. “And stop sitting there with that silly grin on your face. The jury might think you’re not taking this seriously – or that you’re laughing at them.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Where are we at?”

  “They’re testifying about McCormack. About the sheet with all those amounts of money on it, allegedly in his handwriting.”

  The sheet contained figures from an essay Charlie had written years ago in Fairfield University, for an accountancy class. In a strange twist of fate, the figures he had written all those years ago were almost identical to the amount of money taken from Brinks. This was enough to have hi
m arrested by the Feds on a conspiracy charge. It didn’t help that the essay was titled “For the love of money”, and jokingly signed “Jesus Christ Millionaire”.

  Of all the people at the table, Charlie was the one I felt sorry for. He didn’t know what was happening to him. Every now and then, his parents would glare over at Pat, ice in their eyes. Who could blame them? Not me. They probably felt the same way towards me also. I would, if it he were my son.

  “I would like to call special agent …” The prosecution had an embarrassment of riches in the form of federal witnesses. They weren’t just regular FBI either; these were the elite, “special” agents. The unfuckingtouchables. They knew what they were up against, and must have sent only the best to capture us.

  The jury was becoming hypnotised by repetition of the word “special”.

  Special agent this, special agent that. You could see some of the women blush each time a special agent glanced in their direction. Suddenly, the prosecution wasn’t looking so daft after all. They could beat us at our own game, with new, special rules being brought in by the special bucket load.

  It was then, just as the tide was turning in the prosecution’s favour, that Tony decided to burst all our bubbles.

  “Special Agent Stith, you claim in your testimony that my client refused to enter the elevator after you were so kind as to open the door for him. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The questioning of Stith lasted for about forty minutes. Just as he was about to leave the stand, Tony asked, “All agents of the FBI are titled ‘special’, regardless of rank or experience. Isn’t that true?”