Condemned (2 page)

The indirect proof that was slowly dragging Red ever closer to conspiratorial waters was, in part, recorded conversations of street level dealers who liberally seasoned their conversations with mentions of Red when they spoke to the Undercovers. Another part of the Government's evidence was subpoenaed records from Red's accountant showing that Red reported annual income from real estate and dry cleaning stores of approximately $125,000.00 after taxes. Add to that, Red's reluctant tailor was subpoenaed to testify that Red bought approximately 20 suits a year, each one costing two thousand dollars. The jury was shown a photograph of the building on Central Park West in which Red owned a condominium. The subpoenaed building manager testified that an apartment comparable to the one Red lived in, recently sold for one million two hundred thousand dollars. The monthly maintenance on the apartment was $3,000. Owners of two restaurants were subpoenaed to testify to the frequency of Red's presence in their establishments, the number of people who accompanied him, and the average cost of meals. Accumulated, the tabs were over twenty one thousand dollars—always paid in cash.

The Government produced evidence that Red didn't own a car, yet, he had regular access to six automobiles registered or tided in other people's names. His favorite was a sparkling navy blue Bentley convertible, worth $150,000, used only on mild sunny days. Then there was a Ferrari, also a fair weather car, and four other vehicles which were rolled out according to the weather and the season. The Government also proved that Red often made trips to Atlantic City and Florida using one of three private jet planes maintained by a private transport company at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. And plying the waters of the British Virgin Islands was a hundred and twenty foot yacht which Red—owner or not—used as his own for two months of every winter.

Piece by piece, evidence was unfurled before the jury that made credible the accusation that Red Hardie spent far more money than he declared to the I.R.S., money which, unless there was a legitimate source thereof, the Government was asking the jury to deduce was Red's share of the Brotherhood spoils.

Originally, nineteen people had been caught in the net of the Brotherhood conspiracy. To make the trial more manageable, and to be sure that their evidence against Red Hardie would hold water, the Government had split the defendants into two groups, testing their Brotherhood witnesses and evidence at a first trial against six street-level and three mid-manager Brotherhood Defendants two months ago. Before that trial even began, however, one of those defendants, a middle manager against whom the wire tap evidence was overwhelming—a man too softened by years of the good life to face jail—made a deal with the Government, pleaded guilty, a promise of a lower sentence dangled before him in exchange for his testimony against all the remaining defendants.

The Government was pleased with the test run first trial. All the defendants in that trial were convicted. The looming specter of the cooperating witness, added to the other evidence against Red and the defendants in the second trial, was daunting.

Money Dozier, the dark, thin man to Red's right, was reputed to be second in the Brotherhood command. Money's name was not a hyponym. It was a mother's attempt to give her son a distinctive name, a variation of Monty, his father's name. Money's mother had named a second son Monrey, and his sister, Monay. Money was ten years younger than Red, mirthless and taciturn. His face was rough, hair bumped, requiring him to remove his facial hair with liquid Magic Shave—which smelled like rotten eggs—instead of razors.

Money usually wore a dark three-button suit, the buttons always buttoned, a white shirt, a thin tie with a small, tight knot, and, outdoors, a dark, snap brim fedora.

“Well, Mr. Hardie?” said the Judge, narrowing her eyes to slits concentrated on Red.

“Does Your Honor want me to answer?” Hardie had a deep, sonorous, preacher'svoice.

“I was just wondering if you want me—at your expense, of course—to appoint a Government doctor to examine Mr. Leppard to determine if his nosebleed is a real ailment, in which case, a fine would not be appropriate. On the other hand, if Mr. Leppard actually absented himself this morning in the vain hope that delay shall gain some unidentified benefit for—” the Judge's voice trailed off.

Everyone in the courtroom struggled to hear the Judge.

“Hello, who is this?” the Judge said into the phone. “This is Judge Ellis in the Federal District Court. Do you have a patient by the name of Thomas Leppard, who presented himself in your E.R. this morning with a nose bleed?” The Judge looked up again at Hardie. “Perhaps it's better you not say anything, Mr. Hardie. I do not, in any way, want either of us to do or say anything that would fuel another point for appeal—if there be need for an appeal, of course—

“Who is this?” the Judge said into the phone again. “Dr. Acquista? This is Judge Ellis. I am sitting in the Federal Court, courtroom Eleven D, ‘D' as in Dangerous”—her eyes veered toward the audience for an instant—“at Five Hundred Pearl Street. I want Mr. Leppard here in twenty minutes.” The Judge paused to listen. “I didn't ask for a medical dissertation, Doctor! We—the jury, the prosecutors, the defense lawyers, some forty people—are all sitting here, in the midst of a most important trial. And I want Mr. Leppard here. Now!”

The Judge listened. “If you continue, Doctor, I will dispatch the United States Marshals to your hospital, and they will escort both Mr. Leppard and yourself here to respond to two issues: one, why this trial is being delayed, and, second, why you personally should not be held in contempt of court. I do hope you have a good lawyer, Doctor.”

Money's eyes shifted toward Red. His outwardly quiet composure masked a cold, extremely efficient assassin who disposed of competitors or victims with a cleaver merely for the tactile enjoyment of the blade separating the victim's neck from his shoulder. Years ago, both he and Red had worked for the older numbers kings of Harlem. Red's cool, suave presence made him a man to whom men and women were attracted. The old leaders had adopted Red, grooming him to be next in line to run the operation. Dark and cold, Money was not as affable or sociable as Red, but he brought qualities that ensured harmony and peace in Red's reign.

After New York State established official daily Lotto games, which considerably reduced the Brotherhood's gambling take, discipline and order in the ranks had allowed Red to direct a seamless shift from running numbers into the distribution of marijuana, and, eventually, into harder narcotics.

Judge Ellis returned the phone receiver to its cradle. She rested her head against her high backed chair. The silent atmosphere in the courtroom was alive, almost bursting with barely harnessed energy. The media people, anxious to report the latest turn of events to their editors, were stuck fast on the edge of their seats, ready, yet unwilling, to leap to their feet, lest they miss something.

“I'm going to chambers,” the Judge said, rising. “I'm going to arrange for a doctor to examine Mr. Leppard. Meanwhile, everyone is to stay right where they are to await Mr. Leppard and Dr. Acquista.”

“All rise,” Trainor ordered as the Judge exited.

By the time those in the courtroom half rose, the Judge swept down from the long bench and disappeared into a corridor that led to her robing room.

Selwyn Rabb, a New York Times reporter, was already moving along the rail that separated the audience from the well of the courtroom until he was as near to Hardie as he could get. “What do you think is going to happen now, Red?” Rabb called over the rail. Other reporters sidled closer.

“I just hope Mr. Leppard is okay,” said Red.

“Are you hoping for a mistrial in case he can't continue?”

“I'm just hoping he's okay,” he repeated.

“What about the possibility of a mistrial?”

“That's for the Judge and the lawyers.” Hardie turned toward Money Dozier who was now standing beside him.

“Things don't stop taking funny twists, do they?” Red said softly to Money. “No way she's going to let anything happen to stop this disaster from falling on our heads.” Money shook his head. “Worst thing, they know everything that's going on, almost before we do. There's a snitch, a rat, somewhere amongst us.”

Money had a facial tic. When he spoke, his eyes turned upward, his eyelids fluttering, showing the whites of his eyes. “You know who it is, Mr. Red?”

Red shook his head. “I've been thinking about it right from the time the Government told the lawyers there was a bug in the Sports Lounge. I can't figure out who it is.”

Awgust Nichols, Red's nephew, his ex-wife's sister's son, thirty two years old, with glasses and a thin pencil line moustache, was seated in the audience, watching the proceedings. Nichols was Red's accountant, the one from whom D.E.A. Supervisor Michael Becker had seized all of Red's financial records after personally serving the subpoena at Red's office in hope of seeing the look on Red's face when he did. Unfortunately, Red wasn't in when Becker arrived.

Anton Taylor, tall, powerfully built, dark skinned, one of the street level, toiler class defendants—whose hand to hand drug sales to a black Undercover established the necessary underpinning for the conspiracy—stood in his place at the defense table. He made eye contact with Awgust Nichols, then walked toward the rail.

“What do you figure?” Taylor murmured over the rail to Nichols.

Nichols glanced toward Red at the defense table. “She's not going to declare a mistrial because somebody's nose is bleeding.”

Taylor shook his head. “Every day it's something else.”

“Things'll fall into place soon. I'm going to make an appointment with those Russians, maybe for tonight.”

“I thought we were going to the Yankee game tonight,” said Taylor. “They're playing Seattle. Good game.”

“I'll tell them to meet us at the Flash.” The Flash Inn was an Italian restaurant at the head of Macombs Dam Bridge that spanned the Harlem River separating the Bronx from Manhattan. The food at the Flash was better than good, the atmosphere quiet.

A.U.S.A. Dineen, standing at the prosecutor's table, arched his back to stretch. “What do you think?” Dineen said turning to Geraghty. At the end of the court session yesterday, Geraghty was on the witness stand, and was scheduled to be cross-examined this morning by Hardie's lawyer, Thomas Leppard.

“About Leppard?” Geraghty was of medium build with flat, dark hair, and blue eyes. “A crock of shit. Phony as the day is long.” He had been born in Queens, but having been raised by a mother and father with thick County Kerry brogues, there was the slightest touch of Ireland in Geraghty's inflection.

“Look at these people,” Dineen said, scanning the defense tables. “Hardie and Dozier communicate just by looking at each other.”

“Like wops without hands,” said Geraghty. He thought a moment. “They're scared of the dark, you know?'

“The wops?”

“No, the jigs. What do you think of this idea: we put them all in a dark room, the wops couldn't communicate because they couldn't see each other's hands, and the spooks'd all be too scared of the dark to move. We'd knock crime in New York on its ass with only a dark room.”

“You scare me,” said Dineen. Geraghty chuckled. “Taylor and that accountant are awfully chummy,” said Dineen, looking toward the audience. ‘You sure the accountant's clean?”

“According to the Boss, he's clean. And you know what a hard-on Becker is. He says the accountant is an ambitious little fucker, jealous of Red, but basically harmless.”

“That gorilla Taylor he's talking to isn't harmless.”

“Yeah, but his thick skull was the best thing that happened to us in this case,” said Geraghty. “His selling nickel bags and becoming friendly with Castoro was all Becker needed to start the Brotherhood on the road to the Can.”

“You want to play a little handball at the A.C. tonight?” Dineen asked.

“Can't. The Boss scheduled me for some Bumper Lock tonight.”

“He puts you on surveillance duty even when you're the Case Agent, and you've got to be in court every day?”

“I'm indispensable.”

Several months before, and now throughout the trial, Supervisor Becker had assigned members of the squad to a nightly Bumper Lock or obvious surveillance of Red Hardie. Bumper Lock surveillance teams, on foot or in vehicles, tailed the subject so close that they were intentionally obvious. It wasn't done to ensure that the subject wouldn't run away. Becker knew Hardie wouldn't run. It was to be annoying, disabling, to make Red a goldfish in a bowl. Becker's hatred of drug dealers, particularly blacks, who, like Red, earned enormous income and were accorded respect and admiration in their community, was so intense that he insisted that Bumper Lock be maintained every night, even though its only purpose was to annoy Red.

“Actually, tonight I got a special assignment—I've got to follow the tall black Senator around.”

“Galiber? Why is the D.E.A. interested in Galiber? He's a lawyer, for Christ sake.”

“He's introducing a bill up in Albany to legalize drugs.”

“Becker has you following a State Senator around because he introduced some bullshit bill to legalize drugs, that hasn't got a prayer in hell.”

“It's an election year. The Senator's up for re-election. The Boss figured that maybe we put a tail on the guy every few days, we might come up with something his opponent could use against him. That'd get the bill shit-canned pretty quick.” Geraghty stretched, turning slowly to observe the defendants in the courtroom. He turned back to Dineen. “If Leppard's nose bleed is real and we break early, maybe I can beat your ass in a couple of handball games before I take to the road.”

“You beat my ass? Just for that, if we play, I'm not going to let you have a single point.”