Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (17 page)

“I got nothing to say to you guys.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Brigante, what we say to you may determine what happens to the rest of your life. Hear us out. Your future depends on it. I’ll be frank, we need your cooperation. We know they used you as a patsy, a fall guy. They probably threatened you to make you drive the car. No doubt your being a Puerto Rican made you expendable. Let the spic take the rap—they’re scum anyway. They’re going to let you hold the bag, Mr. Brigante. You’re not a mob guy; you don’t owe them a thing. You don’t necessarily have to be a witness, just talk to us— you help us, we’ll help you. You’ll be afforded complete protection. It’s not like before; we have special appropriations and facilities for this now. You’ll be in a special institution with all the comforts—you can have your family with you, you’ll lack for nothing. You don’t have to give us your answer now, just think about it. We’ll be back to see you next week.”

“Don’t bother, I won’t be here.”

“What? What do you mean you won’t be here?”

“I just got the word from my lawyer. The government’s dismissing the case against me—it was all a case of mistaken identity. I’m suing for false arrest.”

“You out of your fucking mind?” Mr. Gray blew his cool.

“No, you out of your fuckin’ mind comin’ in here with that okey-doke play of yours. Now don’t bother me no more.”

End of the roundtable. I stood by the door waiting to go back to the tank. The black narco came over—“You’re making a mistake, Carlito,” real soft-like.

“That was high gear, now you’re coming in low, right?”

“You got it wrong, bro—that was low before, I’m coming on strong. I ain’t no fed, I’m a city cop. Here’s where it’s at. This powwow right here is news inside already. You’re half a stoolie now. You won’t see me again so no point telling your lawyer, but they’ll be sending for you regular, here and to Foley Square. Even if you got nothing to say. The boys know when you got to go to court; any other time is suspect. Then we’ll cut the word loose on the street Carlito is a stool. You better come on in, bro, you gonna need a friend. Take a look at some of them eyetalian faces when you get inside. Later.”

Yeah, I was in great shape at West Street. Amadeo and his people weren’t talking to me or even to Rocco, not even to cuss Rocco out for being in my corner. That means they’re gonna whack him out, too. I felt bad for Rocco— one of his kids was in college, the publicity had hurt the kid. That’s why I’m always loose—can’t be worried about nobody else. Carmen, Rocco’s wife, was into West Street regular. She was a great broad, it was a goddamn shame. We been at West Street a couple of months when Rocco came up from a visit with his wife. His shirt was torn—I could see he’d been in a fight. I got shook up, thinking Petey A had made a move. “What happened, Rocco?”

“I had to deck some degenerate down in the visiting room.”

“What?”

“I’m talking with Carmen, when I look, this broad next to Carmen has her tit out and this guy next to me is jacking off—I broke his hole—cock-sucker—right in front of my wife he’s beating his meat.”

That’s what happens when you got guys locked up and they ain’t gettin’ no trim. Then we had a guy wanted to see a pussy—he was a boss, had bread, so he put up a hundred dollars for anybody to get his old lady to show her snatch in the visiting room. I know guys was there, this ain’t no bullshit. The broad was there in a short skirt with no drawers; when the guard wasn’t looking—zip— she flashed her box, now you see it, now you don’t—like the guy in the raincoat in the subway. The Joint makes a degenerate out of a man. Although I gotta admit some of the guys got a head start on the street.

W
E WAS GETTING READY FOR THE TRIAL
. I
WAS DOING A
lot of heavy thinking on what my trial strategy was gonna be. My lawyer, Dave Kleinfeld, was a good kid but jerky. I used to call him Mickey Rooney ’cause he looked like him, a little stump-jumper maybe five-two with fat mod ties. He didn’t have the dignity or the class my old lawyer Steinhardt had. That old bird Steinhardt would stand in front of a jury over six feet tall, like a Prussian colonel. He’d have these funny glasses without no frames that he’d hitch up on top of his nose. Then he’d take them off and start polishing them with a big handkerchief. “The crown never loses a case …” The jury was dry-humped from the giddy-ap. He was always talking about the
“immortal” what’s-his-face, like the “immortal Lord Coke” or the “immortal Bard.” It’s a goddamn shame he’s such a sorehead and I gotta go to bat with Mickey Rooney.
Pero no hay mal que bien no traiga
, because Steinhardt wouldn’t wanna do things my way, but this mini-lawyer gonna do what I tell him. We gonna run this trial my way. I will be heard, believe that, wops or no wops. So now here’s me, working out the knotty problems of a heavy case when Rocco delivers some bad news.

“They got the scissors out of the barbershop—the contract is down; it’s to be one of your own people, a Cuban or P.R., that’s all I got—watch your ass, Carlito.”

Now I’m seein’ red rats. Mother’s twat, just when I gotta concentrate on my case I gotta worry about a pair of scissors in my chest. I could snap up and get sent to the federal bughouse in Springfield, Missouri, or I could refuse to come out of my cell. But I decided to grab the bull by the balls—I yelled out like a crazy man all over maximum security, “I know there’s a motherfuckin’ Latino in here with a pair of scissors for me. Well, I’m waiting for you,
maricón
, whoever you are, but have two sacks with you, one to bring and one to take back.
Hijo de puta, me cago en tu madre
,” etc. You can’t beat Spanish for cursing. Everybody said Carlito’s gone crazy but somebody got the message—the hacks found the scissors two days later and they weren’t in my back. If I ever had a son, his name would have been Rocco. Would have been funny, a Puerto Rican kid named Rocco, but that’s how I felt about the guy. He was a man.

11

A
LL THE SHADOWBOXING AND GYM-FIGHTING WAS OVER
. We was all going in the main arena in the main event. Trial, baby, trial. A heavy mother going down, ain’t nobody in Foley Square to pay traffic tickets. There was so many lawyers they was stumbling all over one another, bunch of hooples. They had scads of papers and thick folders, meanwhile they didn’t know what the hell they were doing. The only one with a good rap was Albert Freidman, Mickey Connors’ lawyer. He used a lot of fancy words and would ask for side-bar conferences every five minutes, but he was the pilot fish and the rest would go along with him. Right away I told Mickey Rooney, “Be cool, low-key—don’t mix me up with these gangsters; I’m here on the fly, like caught up in the web on a hummer—you make that clear to the jury. You supposed to get me a severance; you screwed that up. And where’s my Spanish interpreter?”

“I told you, Carlito, that is ridiculous; you were born in New York and you’ve lived here for forty years—how could you not speak English?”

“So what? I been forced to live in the ghetto, ain’t I? A man could live his whole life in the Twenty-third Precinct and never speak no English. You gotta keep me apart from these criminals one way or another.”

The jury panel filed in. Ugh, what a bunch. Look to me like they all worked in the post office, had friends in law enforcement, and had been victims of crime. Yeah, we were in great shape. The lawyers was making a big fuss about what kind of jury was needed. The Irish is all cops, the Jews is getting mugged by the dope addicts, the Blacks ain’t gonna favor no white defendants dealing dope in the ghetto. They ain’t no Latinos in the jury panel. What do we got to get them? An Eskimo jury? Goddamn lawyers. Then they’re all psychiatrists—this juror walks with a gimp, he’s mad at the world—this juror looks like a fag, he might go for me or Rocco—this juror sounds like a boss, he could take over the jury, but in whose favor? Like that. Well, after all this noise about the jury we ended up with the hanginest bunch of mothers in history. Lucky they didn’t convict the bailiff and the marshals, too.

So now we got the jury picked. Mr. Ass-ley Scott starts his opening. Good Godalmighty damn, I ain’t never heard so many lies and slander.
Calumnia!
Then he started talking about deals I never heard of and shit that was brought in when I wasn’t even on the street. “A sinister conspiracy encompassing far-off places and persons
all intertwined in varying degrees of complicity and participation with one avowed purpose—to bring in the white death to our borders.” I told little Dave, “You better have somethin’ good to answer that bunch of bullshit.” Then I heard Scott mention about a Jorge Betancourt being picked up by Interpol in Europe and the international combine that had been smashed that supplied 99.9 percent of the junk coming into America. Shee-it. Amadeo like to vault six feet in the air. The jury saw this and said, “Hmm….” I said to myself, no matter what lies they say about you, be cool, be blasé, like Shit, is that all you got against me? ’Tain’t nothin’. Then after winding through all this jive he got to me, like least but not last.

“In the presence of an army of agents and a helicopter, this brigand, Brigante, took possession of the vehicle which contained two hundred kilograms of heroin. And then, with this contingent of law-enforcement officers in his van, he took off with the vehicle. A more bold and audacious flight has never been recorded. The chase was climaxed by Brigante driving into the Holland Tunnel the wrong way where he crashed into an oncoming vehicle. The resultant fire destroyed much of the contraband, but we will introduce into evidence at a later time—subject, of course, to His Honor’s ruling—a full ten kilograms of this most dangerous drug which was salvaged. This seizure marks the culmination of an investigation the development of which has taken years. I will, in my presentation, put together for you all the parts, piece by piece. The mosaic will be complete at the end, I promise you.”

Scott sat down behind his mountain of papers, books, and exhibits. He had a new air in front of the jury, did ol’ Ass-ley, he wasn’t going around glaring and staring anymore. Now, with the jury digging him, he was very amiable, like he was walking on soft-boiled eggs. In other words, Hey, folks, I’m a nice guy, I ain’t gonna hurt nobody if they don’t deserve it—I wouldn’t kid you. If a juror wanted to see an exhibit he’d float through the air to bring it over. And he’d be smiling at them, and bowing and scraping when they would file into the courtroom. Another dry-bumper, just like Steinhardt—they’re all in the same bag.

I says to Mickey Rooney, “I want a dynamite opening, Dave.”

“We’re going to waive the opening, Carlito.”

“You crazy, Dave? The best offense is a good defense, or some shit like that. Now you jump off first, you be best.”

“You don’t understand, Carlito. The opening is to state what we’re going to prove. What are we going to prove? We don’t come in until the tail end of this case, I say we lay low, out of sight, out of mind, until we hear the evidence—then we formulate our attack. Why should we reveal our hand to the U.S. Attorney?”

“Now, hold the phone, counselor, you ain’t talkin’ to no Eighth Avenue pimp here. I been around courtrooms all my life—I was in trials when you was still suckin’ hind titty. I been in the old magistrates’ courts, the special sessions, the general sessions, the criminal court, the supreme court—shit, I had a paternity case in the family court. And I near always been a winner, in spite of my
lawyers. So don’t be sounding me about what you is or you ain’t gonna do. You’re gonna do it my way, that’s where it’s at, y’dig?”

“I dig, Carlito, and you better get yourself another lawyer. I’ve had it with your bullshit; I can’t take any more of it.”

“What a nerve—consider yourself discharged,
ab initio!
”

“Aba who?”

“You got the message, buzz off!”

Dave called for a side-bar conference and told Judge Rossi that me and him was at an impact or somethin’ like that. Ol’ Gaetano got all shook up. He crooked his eyebrows at me, like, I knew you’d be trouble, you cock-sucker. Then he excused the jury.

“Stand up, Mr. Brigante. Let us get something straight at the outset. I do not tolerate any undue delays in my courtroom. There will be no dalliances here of any variety. I am well aware that disruptive tactics may be on your mind. If they are, dismiss them, for I shall deal summarily with you. Now this trial is going to proceed in orderly fashion and I will suffer no nonsense. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor, you sure do. And I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“I have been apprised that you are a somewhat impetuous individual. So I am warning you I will tolerate no outbursts from you.”

“Your Honor, I’m surprised that you been apprised of that. That ain’t me. I got all the respect in the world for
this court, as God is my witness. But I’ve fired my lawyer.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“I don’t want Mr. Kleinfeld, he’s uncompetent. And furthermore he has lost confidence in me.”

“In you?”

“Yeah, in me.”

“But this is preposterous. This trial has commenced. Mr. Kleinfeld is your lawyer. Bring in the jury.”

“Wait a minute, Your Honor. I’m ready to proceed, but without Kleinfeld. I will be my own lawyer.”

“Does this man have a record of mental illness, Mr. Scott?”

“Not that I know of, Your Honor.”

“I ain’t crazy, Your Honor. I got a right to a lawyer of my own choosing and I choose me. That’s the Guido case.”

“The who? This is absurd. All right, Mr. Brigante, you will act as your own attorney. Mr. Kleinfeld, you will continue to sit by Mr. Brigante’s side to assist him in any legal question that might arise and you shall be prepared at all times to resume your original role as lawyer for the defendant, should he decide to desist from his, er, irregular conduct. Am I understood by all?”

“Yes sir.”

“Proceed to bring in the jury.”

I
ALWAYS KNEW
I’
D GET THERE
. C
ARLITO
B
RIGANTE, MEM
ber of the bar. Ha.

So the trial went ahead. They had everything. Scott tracked the junk from Don Jorge Betancourt to Canada, New York, and Florida. Undercover narcs, customs agents, Interpol cops, motel clerks, hotel clerks, all kinds of people Scott put on the stand. I didn’t hear my name mentioned yet, but I’d jump up and object regularly.