Shakedown (16 page)

"And I could work as a security guard for -three bucks an hour," he said sarcastically. "It'd be a great life."

"Leo knows I'm the one who set him up."

"Leo is a piece of shit. He's probably still in Nassau waiting for Ray and me."

"One of our deals could backfire," she said.

"Whatever happens, I'll handle it."

She turned to him. "I love you, Eddie," she said as a statement of fact.

Without slowing down, he reached out, pulled her close to him.

Back at the apartment, they held hands on the way up the stairs. Sands unlocked the door. They stepped inside into darkness. Playfully, Monica reached between his legs, pulled him close to her. Their tongues met.

John Novak, who stood near the door, touched the light switch. Sands whirled in a fighter's stance. Monica shrieked. Novak showed his badge. He kept a hand on his gun as Red Haynes shoved the door closed, frisked Sands efficiently.

"You people have a warrant to be in here?" Sands said.

Novak took his hand off his gun, reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a legal-size document. He handed it to Sands. Sands examined the paper. He read: "Search warrant for items relating to wire and mail fraud committed by Monica Brown." Sands showed the document to Monica. Her jaw dropped.

"What does this mean?" Monica said.

"We've completed our search," Novak said as he nodded to the kitchen table. "We found the telephone and banking records we were looking for."

'What is this all about?"
Monica said.

"It means we have evidence on the phone scams you've been pulling," Novak said.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Why don't we sit down?" Novak said. Sands and Monica looked at each for a moment, then quietly moved toward the table.

As Monica sat down, Novak noticed she was shaking.

They took seats at the table. Warily, Haynes leaned against the wall.

"Eddie's familiar with our operation," Novak said to Monica. "We're working a case on someone he knows."

"Just exactly what is this all about?" Monica said.

"Tony Parisi," Novak said.

"Tony Parisi?" Monica said. "I've never even
heard of
Tony Parisi. I mean, I've read about him in the newspaper, but I've never so much as-"

"Sometimes we get a little far afield in our investigations," Novak interrupted, "but some way or another things usually get back on track. Sometimes it depends on what's at stake ... what's at stake for those concerned." Novak was staring directly at Sands.

Monica fidgeted, picked at her face.

"Our main job is finding people who know Parisi ... potential witnesses, like Eddie here, who might be willing to testify for the government."

"Do you have an arrest warrant for Monica?" Sands said after a long silence.

"We didn't want to have an arrest warrant issued until we could talk with the two of you
.
But we have a solid felony case... a slam dunk."

"A case for what?"

"Fraud by wire," Novak said. "Monica scammed a nice old lady named Mabel Kincaid out of her savings. Because she used the telephone in the commission of the crime, it's a violation of federal law."

Monica fidgeted again. "So help me God I've never heard that name before in my life. And I swear I've never scammed anybody out of anything. I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Eddie, what is this?"

Sands maintained eye contact with Novak. "When I was a cop, sometimes I used to bullshit people into giving me information. I would tell them I had a case on someone when actually I didn't have shit."

Novak nodded at Red Haynes. Haynes, wearing a Cheshire-cat smile, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small tape player, set it upright on the table between the two men. He pressed the play button. There was static, then the sound of a phone ringing, the click of a receiver.

"Nevada Gold Mining Trust. Monica Butler speaking."

"This is Mabel Kincaid."

Monica folded her hands. "That was a perfectly legitimate investment opportunity," she said. "I can explain."

"Okay, you have a case," Sands cut in.

Haynes pressed the off button on the tape player. Monica bit her lip, turned to stare at the wall.

"They don't really care about you," Sands said without taking his eyes off Novak. "They're here to hammer me.

Neither Novak nor Haynes said anything.

Sands pushed his chair back, stood up. Haynes moved from his place by the wall as Sands paced a few feet. He stopped. "What happens now?" he said.

"We leave with the evidence ... and unless something happens to make us change our mind, next Wednesday, when the grand jury meets, we indict Monica. Three felony counts of fraud by wire. She'll have to do some time."

"And if I agree to testify against Parisi you'll forget about the case against her?"

"We can't make any promises," Novak said.

"That would be unethical," Haynes chimed in.

Sands folded his arms across his chest. "But if I testified, her case might suddenly be dismissed, right?"

Casually, Novak straightened his necktie. "That's a safe bet. A very safe bet."

Sands stared at Monica for a moment. He turned to Novak. "I need a few days to think about it."

Novak stood up. He nodded at Red Haynes. Haynes reached into his back pocket, pulled out handcuffs. He motioned for Monica to stand up.

"You're going to book her?" Sands said.

"That's right. You can let me know if you change your mind," Novak said. Haynes snapped handcuffs onto Monica's wrists, led her to the door. Novak picked up the evidence on the table.

"What's the bail?" Sands said.

Novak moved to the door. He stopped. "The bail hasn't been set," he said.

"I'll have you out as soon as the bail is set, hon," Sands said as Haynes led the frightened Monica past him and out the door.

"I know what you're doing," Sands said.

"You can ask around about me," Novak said. "I'm known as a man of my word. If you testify truthfully in front of a grand jury, Monica walks. That promise won't be written down in any report, nor will I ever admit to having made it. But it's exactly what will happen."

"I don't know much about Parisi anyway."

"Then why not take the stand and say just that?"

"Because once I begin to testify you can get me for perjury. I know that game," Sands said.

"Not if you're telling the truth."

"The cemetery is full of federal snitches," Sands said.

Novak shrugged. "And the penitentiary is full of prisoners," he said. Then he left.

Eddie Sands, feeling clammy and slightly nauseated, watched through the window as the agents led Monica past a streetlight to a sedan. At the sink, he turned on the faucet, filled a glass with water. He drank, set the glass down on the countertop. In his memory he felt Monica's hands wrap around him from behind.

TWENTY-FIVE

The next morning, Sands sat in Courtroom Three at the federal courthouse. At the defense table, Monica conferred in low tones with the on-duty federal public defender, a fragile-looking young man with a wispy beard and spectacles. Elliot sat at the prosecution table.

There was the sound of a buzzer.

A husky bailiff wearing a shiny blue sport coat with a U.S. marshal's badge affixed to the breast pocket stood up. "All rise." As those in the courtroom came to their feet, the chamber door opened. The judge, a well-groomed woman whom Sands remembered as a defense attorney trying cases at the county courthouse when he was with the police department, entered the courtroom.

"This United States District Court is now in session," the bailiff said. "The Honorable Lorraine C. Traynor presiding. Please be seated."

The judge took the bench. Sands sat down.

Judge Traynor referred to some papers in front of her. "Case Number 95756, Monica Brown, for the setting of bail," Traynor said.

The public defender stood up. "Lyman B. Kabekoff for the office of the public defender present as counsel for the defendant Brown, your honor."

"Good morning," Traynor said.

The prosecutor stood up. "Ronald Elliot for the government, your honor."

"Very well," she said without looking up from the papers in front of her. "The court has reviewed the financial statement prepared by the defendant, her arrest record, and an affidavit signed by FBI Agent..." She referred to the affidavit in front of her. "Uh ... Agent Novak," she said, "which reflects the probable cause for the arrest. Mr. Kabekoff, would you like to be heard?"

Kabekoff rose. "Your honor, the recommendation of no bail in this case is not based on any facts which tend to show that this defendant will not make all of her required court appearances. I submit that the defendant is a longtime resident of this community and has never been convicted of a felony crime."

Judge Traynor turned to Elliot. "Mr. Elliot."

Elliot stood up. "Your honor, the government stands by the recommendation of no bail. This defendant is involved in a scheme to defraud the elderly and others of their life savings. She was the subject of an investigation concerning a similar crime six years ago and apparently has not changed her ways. The government considers her a danger to the community, and because of her obvious access to false identification, which she uses to perpetrate her schemes, she is a definite flight risk."

Kabekoff asked to be heard again. Judge Traynor nodded.

"Your honor, this is the same litany we always hear when the Organized Crime Strike Force appears at a bail hearing. This defendant is not a danger to anyone, and, in fact, has a history of making all her court appearances.

Judge Traynor removed her eyeglasses. "Does the government have anything to add?"

Elliot stood up. "This defendant uses various false identities, your honor ... business fronts, mail drops," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Elliot," she said. Elliot sat down, folded his hands.

"Very well," she said. "The court finds that the government has not made a sufficient showing to prove this defendant a danger to the community. Thus, the government's recommendation of no bail is denied.... But it also finds that the defendant has access to false identification, is not regularly employed, and has an arrest record which reflects sophisticated fraud activity involving the use of counterfeit documents and business fronts. These factors lead the court to deem the defendant a potential flight risk. Therefore, a corporate surety bond is considered appropriate."

Taken aback, Kabekoff rose slowly from his chair.

"Bail is set in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars' corporate surety," she said. "The clerk will call the next case."

"Thank you, your honor," Elliot said. The bailiff moved toward Monica.

Kabekoff sprang to attention. "Your honor. May I be heard, your honor?"

"Do you have something
new
to add to the case at hand, Mr. Kabekoff?"

"Your honor. Five hundred thousand dollars?"

"Do you have anything new to add to this matter, Mr. Kabekoff?"

"No. No, your honor."

"Then this matter is concluded. The clerk will call the next case."

As she was led toward the door to the holding area,

Monica's eyes were on Sands. Sands moved toward the rail. The bailiff opened the door to the holding area, ushered her inside.

Sands hurried to the courtroom door, caught up with Kabekoff. "I want you to appeal that bail," Sands said.

"I knew there was something fishy as soon as I saw a Strike Force attorney standing there for a routine bail setting," Kabekoff said. "But five hundred thousand dollars? Outrageous! They're trying to squeeze her for information."

"I want you to appeal," Sands said.

"I will. But I have five other cases to handle today before I get around to the paperwork. And I must tell you, this judge said the right things to make the bail stick."

"Shit," Sands said.

"Didn't you use to be on the police department?" Kabekoff said as Eddie Sands left the courtroom.

The street was one Eddie Sands was familiar with.

He climbed out of his car and moved briskly down the sidewalk, past dingy storefronts-an office of a lawyer who, Sands knew, dealt a little cocaine to supplement his income, a professional debt-collection agency whose employees used phony names when dealing with the public, a twenty-four-hour-a-day marriage chapel whose fly-specked bay window displayed a soiled, heart-shaped satin pillow resting on a stand, a Western Union office that reportedly did the largest money-order business of any in the world.

The office next door to the marriage chapel had burglar-alarm tape around the perimeter of its bay window and flaking gold letters which read "Joey Giambra-Bail Bonds." Sands opened the door, entered. The tiny office, which had nothing in it except a desk, a gray metal filing cabinet, a couple of chairs, and an oversized racehorse calendar on the wall, smelled of stale cigar smoke. The place was the way Sands remembered it. Joey Giambra, a diminutive middle-aged man with a waxy stayed-up-all-night complexion, was sitting at the desk.

"Eddie Sands. I used to be with the department."

Without standing up, the expressionless Giambra gave Sands a weak handshake. "I remember you," he said. "Intelligence. Your partner was Ray Beadle." He nodded to a chair. Sands sat down.

"I've got a problem," Sands said.

"Most people do who come here."

"The FBI arrested my wife on a humbug ... something about a fraud. It's a nothing deal. But they set a high bond on her because they're trying to squeeze me.

"How much are we talking about?"

"Five hundred thou."

"Five hundred? Which judge set it?" he asked, his loose false teeth making a clacking sound.

"Judge Traynor."

"She doesn't set 'em like that very often." Giambra's lack of expression changed into a sardonic smile. Using his thumbs, he pushed his upper dental plate back into position.

"I'm told you're the only bondsman in town who can handle a bond that big."

Giambra picked up a pen and a pad of paper. "How much cash you got?"

"Thirty-five grand."

Giambra noted the amount on the pad. "How much property?"

"No property."

"No property? Cars?"

"No cars."

"Jewelry?"

Sands shook his head.

Giambra set the pen down. "Looks like we're about four hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars short of collateral."

"I didn't come here to talk about any fucking collateral. My wife is in jail and I want her out."

Giambra tore off the sheet of paper, crumpled it, then threw it into a wastebasket. "Can't risk it," he clacked.

"I was a cop in this town. You've seen me around for years.

"If I post a yard and your old lady decides not to show up for trial I'm outta business."

"You have my word she'll show up. You can ask about me. The people know me."

Giambra stood up, adjusted his crotch. "If Eddie Sands is solid with the people, then he should have no problem getting a cosigner for the bond. Or you can wait for an appeal. Bonds get lowered eventually."

"I want her out. I want her out right now."

Giambra's wax mask made an expression that meant he had heard it all before, a thousand times. "I bet it's strange for you to be on the other side like this. I mean, after all the people you arrested."

Sands stood up as his anger welled. Joey Giambra stopped smiling as Sands moved closer to him. "Nothing personal," Giambra said. "You know how it is in this town. One day a guy's a headliner, the next day he's a friggin' lounge show. Nothing personal."

Without saying anything, Eddie Sands turned away.

"If you get something together, come back and see me," Giambra said.

Down the street at the modern twelve-story building that was the Las Vegas City jail, Sands showed his driver's license to a deputy sheriff, filled in a visitors form. The deputy pointed down a hallway to a door marked "Visitors." He made his way into the room. There were nine fixed metal stools facing a bulletproof glass partition. Only one was not occupied. He sat down and waited.

About fifteen minutes later Monica came to the window. She sat down across from him. Her hair was matted and she wore no makeup. As they picked up telephones, he noticed that the green prison gown she was wearing was fully two sizes too large for her.

"Are you okay?" he said and immediately realized that the question sounded stupid.

Rather than answering his question, she just stared blankly at him. Her chin quivered. She ran a hand through her hair, took a deep breath in order to compose herself "Can you get the bail lowered?"

"It'll take some time," he said.

Monica covered her eyes for a moment. She wiped tears.

"
Murderers
don't get bonds that high."

"The feds are doing this to make me talk," Sands said.

Monica Brown took a Kleenex from the pocket of her smock. She wiped her nose. "I know this sounds crazy, but I want to ask you a question."

"Go, hon."

"Is there anything you can give them?" she said. "I know you could never be a snitch or anything like that, but isn't there some information you could give them about Parisi that could have come from somewhere else?"

"Answering one question leads to answering another. It would never work."

"I can't sleep or eat in here. This place is full of dykes."

"I'm gonna get you out," he said.

"Please don't do anything crazy to get me out of here."

"I want you to relax, hon. I'll have you out of here in a day or two."

"I love you, Eddie."