by Sam Millar
Charlie lay sprawled out on the evidence table, like a corpse waiting to be dissected. Occasionally, he would smile to himself, then frown as if just coming to terms with the nightmare thrust upon him by Pat and me. Pat massaged his worry beads, occasionally placing them on the table, only to scoop them back up again to the safety of his hands. When our gazes met, they were those of strangers.
Tom? Well, Tom just being being Tom, nodding and smiling at anyone who glanced his way – including the FBI agents and prosecution. The smiles were not returned. His blasé, laid-back style infuriated them. A good kicking wouldn’t go amiss, said the expressions on their faces.
Reporters entered and left the courtroom, looking about, hoping for news. The prosecution and defence lawyers milled around each other, laughing softly, like old buddies reunited at the embarrassing wake of some person they had long forgotten.
* * *
On the third day, the announcement that the jury had reached a decision sent everyone scuttling back to their original seating positions. Gone were the smiles and jokes, replaced quickly by cool professionalism, leather briefcases in position, suits smoothed, ties firmly knotted, just like our stomachs.
We waited as the jury streamed in through the door, their expressionless faces impossible to read. Soon it would all be over. The denouement was at hand.
All of the tiny noises, which had accumulated into an annoying hum, suddenly filtered out of the room, leaving a profound silence in all our ears.
“Do you have a verdict?”
“Yes. We do.”
“What is that verdict?”
I slowly stilled my breathing and felt my skin tighten with tension. I knew what was coming next, and like a freight train in the night, there was little I could do about it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Thoughts From a Court – A Gathering
“Justice is only as good as the case that can be made, and in the case of the Brinks trial that ended Monday, the case wasn’t very good. No doubt prosecutors did their best with what they had, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t provide the key convictions and it didn’t provide the answers.
“Important questions remain about the January 1993 robbery. Not least of them is the whereabouts of the money – at least the remaining $5 million. Then there are the mysterious gunmen who took $7.4 million from the Brinks depot, along with Thomas P. O’Connor as hostage.
“The F.B.I. plans to continue pursuing answers in the Brinks case. That’s reassuring. But unless there is new and substantially stronger evidence, the culprits, whoever they are, might just get away with this one.”
Democrat and Chronicle, editorial
“There are at least two gunmen still at large who robbed the Brinks depot in January 1993.”
Times-Union, front page, after the verdict
“We felt bad about McCormack. He could have been out of there for Thanksgiving. But I have a question for Maloney: Do you think God dropped the money in to your suitcase?”
Juror, after the verdict
“We always liked him. He was a hardworking guy, straight and narrow.”
Donald Bruce, squad commander of the Rochester Police Force, speaking about Tom
“To me, the police officer who was taken as a hostage shouldn’t even have gone to trial.”
Bernice Cook, owner of $4.99 Cookery
“I’m just really stressed out. It’s been nine weeks, and I really don’t want to talk about it right now. Maybe I’ll want to talk about it another time.”
Dawn Holman, juror, after the verdict
“I felt there was sufficient evidence to get this case before a jury. That’s my duty.”
Christopher Buscaglia, federal prosecutor
“I wouldn’t characterise it as anything going wrong. It’s the nature of the system. It doesn’t mean the prosecutors did a poor job.”
Paul Moskai, FBI spokesman
“When you take on the United States government, it’s mind-boggling … to see the FBI just trooped in one after the other. It’s always nice to beat the government. In this case, more than any other, it was a close call.”
Felix Lapine, Tom’s defence lawyer, after the verdict
“Millar’s gambling arrests – brought up by Maloney’s lawyers – will be taken into account.”
Prosecutors, speaking ominously after the trial
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Execution (The Millar’s Song)
23 FEBRUARY 1995
No man can lose what he never had.
Izaak Walton
Maybe one day it will be cheering to remember even these things.
Virgil, Aeneid bk. 1, 1.187
Judge Larimer waited until only the sound of his power could be heard, taking control of the courtroom. I stood beside Tony, as he and Buscaglia glanced over the papers in their hands. He had assured me that I would receive no more than five years, but I still doubted him.
“It is a fact that you, you know, you were up to your eyeballs in this case, and I have no doubt of that.” The judge stared at me for a second before continuing. “The evidence here, in my view, was strong and certainly justified … Your attorney worked hard … this court and the prosecutor worked hard to make sure this trial was done to proper procedure, in, I suspect, a trial that looked quite different to those trials you faced over in Northern Ireland.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“Therefore, it is the judgment of this court that you receive the maximum allowed under the law, sixty months …”
Sixty months. I was relieved. I couldn’t complain about that sentence. How easily it could have been sixty years. But, of course, it wasn’t over yet. They still had two more years, before the Statute of Limitations ran out, to find another piece of the puzzle. Or a snitch willing to wear a wire.
Pat received a few months less than the sixty, and threatened to go on hunger strike. I felt bad for him, but advised him it was senseless even talking that way. Fortunately, after cooling down and talking to his family, he decided against the notion. As for Charlie and Tom, both were found not guilty. Charlie went back to New York, hoping to return to teaching; Tom returned to work, though not, it should be mentioned, at Brinks.
Two more years. I had no choice other than to wait, and hope my luck would hold out. Two more years.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Millar’s Crossing
JUNE 1996
You heard it here first. Sammy Millar, the stone-faced former IRA man whom the FBI believe was the mastermind in the 1992 Brinks robbery in upstate Rochester, New York, has been told he can return to his native Ireland, in spite of the fact that about $5 million of the $7.2 million is still missing.
Editorial in New York’s Irish Echo
I, for one, know of no sweeter sight for a man’s eyes than his own country …
Homer, The Odyssey
It was sixteen months after the verdict. I was still counting down the days, hoping the federal five-year limitation would run out. The FBI continued relentlessly and actively to pursue any leads. The robbery was still high on their priority list, though new information was scarce. Every now and again, the prosecution would make a request, through my lawyer, hoping I was still open to some sort of deal. Their offers were politely refused.
“Kill someone in this god-awful country, and it’s forgotten about in weeks – if not days. But steal the government’s money and they’ll hunt you down until every drop of blood, sweat and tears is removed from your body.” The jailhouse sage giving me this uplifting insight was a lawyer – at least he used to be, until he was caught laundering money for some shady people in New Jersey. His stomach was quite large, from having sheltered so much good food and wine, though it had to be said, he was seeing very little of that here. He was doing fifty years, because he had refused to “get down first”. His former partner had had no such qualms.
“I pray to God each day that the cock-sucker gets cancer in the face. But first his wife and kids …�
�
As one can imagine, he was bitter at having received such a harsh sentence for a “white collar” – non-violent – crime.
He was not the sort of person you wanted to have a conversation with if you were feeling down, as it always eventually turned to the subject of his ex-partner. “That mother-fucker, telling me each day how we were going to beat this, provided we stayed united; all the time he’s rattin’ to the Feds. The mother-fucker.”
He spat something from his mouth, shaking his head like one of those little dogs in the back of a car, before continuing the conversation. “I know what you’re thinkin’, Sam. This guy’s a lawyer, he should have known better – and it’s true. But we’d been friends for thirty years. Can you imagine? Thirty fuckin’ years, and he sticks it to me. If his mother was still livin’ on this Earth, I’d pray to God to give her cancer, before his wife and kids …”
The only reason I was listening to him was because of the baseball game in progress, between the prison inmates and visitors from a nearby prison. It had been a good game, both teams fairly even, and a few home runs had been hit across the electric fence. Each time a ball went sailing into the air, past the watchtowers and over the wire, sending the Canadian geese squawking for their lives, a massive cheer would erupt. It was as if the ball were one of us, escaping like an angel in leather.
“Yes. You take those fuckin’ cock-suckers’ money and they will hunt you down like a dog,” reiterated the lawyer, just in case I hadn’t heard him the first ten times. “You should have killed somebody instead. I know I should’ve, starting with that cock-sucker, then his wife and kids … maybe his mother …”
I needed to get away from Mister Depression as quickly – and diplomatically – as possible. No point in offending someone who might be able to help with some sticky part of the law at a future date.
I was saved by my cellmate, a Derry man, who was waving frantically from the top of the hill.
“Got to go, Peter. Mickey wants me. I’ll see ye later.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hold your place, Sam. There’s plenty of time left in the game.”
“That’s great. See you in a wee while,” I lied, racing up the hill as if being chased by a gang of Orangemen.
“You’ve made legal history,” Mickey said, as I reached the top. “You’re on the front page of the Irish News.”
“Are you ballsing about?”
“Read for yourself. You’re on the way home.”
He handed me the newspaper and I read it. Re-read it. Then studied it again, wanting to believe, but doubting every word the ink had formed:
Exclusive: US Jail Move of Belfast Man Marks Legal History
A Belfast man, Samuel Millar, is to be the first person transferred from an American prison to serve the rest of his time in a prison in the North …
The story went on to give the facts behind the case, and how members of the SDLP – but principally Martin Morgan, the local councillor in my area of North Belfast – had worked behind the scenes to persuade the American Justice Department to assent to my transfer back to the North of Ireland.
… Mr Millar will be home by October.
And pigs will fly, I thought, handing the newspaper back to Mickey. I didn’t believe a word of it, wouldn’t until I smelled the inside of an airplane somewhere over the Atlantic.
Even though I knew other people were working to try and secure my release – including Paul D McGuigan, a lawyer from Fife, Washington, who had been relentless in his “harassment” of the Justice Department, bombarding them with legal questions and papers on my behalf, never taking a penny for his services – all reasoning questioned the probability of it.
I was staying here for the remainder of my time, and no amount of pressure would change that. I was simply torturing myself. I had to be realistic, and reality said I was odds-on for more charges. The hourglass was running out for the prosecution. They were in the sadistic habit of waiting to the very last hour the limitations allowed, before hitting you with a new charge. Even if they had little or no proof, it would be worth it – from their point of view – to see you remanded for a few more years in some county jail – not forgetting a steady diet of diesel therapy.
Two days later, I was summoned to the governor’s office. I expected to see some smiling face from the prosecutor’s office, hitting me with new charges. Instead, the phone was handed to me by the uncomfortable-looking governor.
I reluctantly took the phone, and a mysterious woman’s voice at the other end informed me that President Bill Clinton was sending me home, irrespective of protestations from the FBI.
I knew it was an elaborate trick, hoping to spook or break me, setting me up for a fall.
“Thank you,” I replied. “And you have a nice day too.” I placed the phone down gently on its cradle and walked calmly from the office, feeling acid burn my stomach. It would only be a matter of time before the diesel therapy began again. Probably this week.
I shuddered at the thought, dreading what lay ahead, tasting the diesel in my throat, along with the spam sandwiches.
* * *
Later that same week, a reporter from the Washington Post asked for an interview. He was doing an article about an upcoming trial concerning an armoured car robbery, and wondered would I be willing to give him an “insider’s” view. The questions would range from the mundane: what makes a person want to rob such a place, knowing the risks? (Answer: The money, stupid); to the more sinister: how long did it take for you to load all the money into the van, on the night of the robbery?
The request, coming at such a late stage in the game, coupled with the tone of the questions, only helped to confirm my suspicions that the Feds were setting me up. I declined the interview, and waited for the diesel therapy to commence.
The next day’s newspaper confirmed my suspicions.
‘Brinks Case Reopened,’ claimed the headline.
‘Nobody, obviously, thinks that it’s totally solved,’ said Dale Anderson, supervisor of the FBI. ‘We certainly would be interested in talking to anybody who would have information about it.’
* * *
Two days later, at about four in the morning, it happened.
“Pack up, Millar. You’re being moved to MCC [Manhattan Correctional Centre]. What fits in the bag goes; what doesn’t, stays.”
Memories of the bad old days in Fed pick-up trucks came flooding back, laughing at me, singing, We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when … I could almost smell the fumes dancing in my nostrils, see the faces of the Feds with their told-you-so grins, taste the dreaded spam sandwiches lounging in my throat, waiting to be thrown up.
Six hours later, I occupied a cell at the reception in MCC. Outside, I could see the yellow cabs zipping in and out of the New York traffic, and it broke my heart. It had been years since I last saw the Great City, and all the memories – good and bad – were still there, like a painted shadow that had never fully dried.
If I were on the roof, I would have been able to see the street where we had the first casino, operating 24/7; Queens was just across the East River, and I would have seen my apartment, the store I once owned, a few neighbours …
“Are ye goin’ to give us any trouble on the plane, Millar?” asked a voice from behind the closed door, breaking my daydream.
The voice was rough Ulster, mixed with mellowed disdain. It was familiar, but I failed to put a face to it.
“Ye don’t want to answer? Maybe ye want to stay here? Is that it?”
The door opened and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Had the Pope been standing there in the nude I wouldn’t have been as shocked.
He was surrounded by six American guards and three other screws from the Kesh. He had aged terribly – which lifted my spirits a bit – but the old nastiness was no longer as keen. It was as if, like the rest of us, he had become a bit wiser with time. The white shirt of promotion he was wearing probably helped.
“I’ve told these boys there’l
l be no trouble from ye. Behave yerself and ye’ll be treated correctly,” he said, believing he was John Wayne.
“Not like on the Blanket, eh?” I answered, the cockiness returning.
Ape Face flushed, but he bit his lip. “We’ll be back tomorrow mornin’ to get ye. Try not to be goin’ anywhere.” He laughed, but no one else did.
The Americans couldn’t understand a word he said. One of them asked me later, “Was that Gaelic, you guys were speaking?”
I couldn’t sleep that night, so I just paced and paced. I was still wondering if it was a trick, or perhaps, the diesel therapy was causing me to hallucinate? Had Ape Face really been there?
Outside the cell, the night hummed with traffic and people going to cafés and bars; the smell of coffee filtered in to me, and I swear I could taste it in my mouth. I thought I heard Bronx Tommy telling me, “Watch it kid, these cock-suckers will try anything.”
Then the darkness slowly melted, revealing the most beautiful rising sun I had ever seen. It warmed my face, and my stomach felt calm for the first time in a long time. Something told me that everything was going to be just fine.
Au revoir et prendre soin
And so, a final farewell and thank you to all those people and non-people for helping to make my life a lot brighter and more meaningful, especially in the dark days of fucked-up adolescence.
