The Plea, page 3
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
“Who was the informant?” I asked.
Stifling a grimace, Dell got off my desk, moved around, and sank into my chair with a sigh as Kennedy brought another cup from the kitchenette for Dell.
“Thank you, Bill,” said Dell, adding another dash to the hot mug from his hip flask.
“Since 9/11 the CIA has been targeting the heart of global terrorism—financing. For the past fifteen years I worked Grand Cayman, which is the Panama Canal for dirty money. We had a guy on our watch list—Farooq. He took orders directly from Gerry Sinton. We found out that Farooq, apart from being a corrupt banker and money launderer, also traded in online images of children. He got caught in April last year through an intercontinental police task force. Farooq was traced via a pedophile network, and when the local cops caught him, they found illegal images on his computer. In Grand Cayman that meant serious time, but more than likely he would be killed as soon as he set foot in jail. The firm relied on middlemen like Farooq to move the money, and if he turned snitch he could take them all down.
“So I decided to go talk to him in the George Town police station. Turn him into an asset. He’d been cut loose by the firm a few weeks earlier because Sinton had some whole new method of moving and cleaning the money; plus he was scared for his skin. He promised us the largest money-laundering operation in the world and even gave us some evidence. Some of the documents were just like the share agreement you’ve already seen, and some were old bank account statements to give us a taste of what he could offer if we gave him a new identity and a life someplace else. He was giving us Harland and Sinton.”
The coffee tasted bitter—old machine and no filters. I tried to focus on the man in front of me and watch for any tells. He looked relaxed, he made and broke eye contact naturally, his gestures were unrestrained, and he didn’t emphasize words or hide his mouth with his fingers.
“We were ready to deal, so we left the local police headquarters in convoy. Farooq never made it to the embassy. I don’t know who carried out the attack, but whoever it was operated with military tactics—took out the lead vehicle with an RPG, blocked the road behind. My lead analyst died in one of the cars. All I can remember is her screaming as she burned. I couldn’t get to her. Farooq was taken alive; the firm needed to know what he’d told the police.”
His eyes met the desk and stayed there as he said, “He told them everything. He wouldn’t have been able to hold out. We found his body—draped over the wall of the embassy. He’d been burned—head to foot—with acid. There were no fatal wounds, no signs of major trauma. We figured that he died of a heart attack or a seizure brought on by the pain of the acid burns. Imagine that—being in so much pain that the body simply dies.
“When Farooq died, so did the case. All the paper evidence led back to the lawyers who witnessed the agreements, with nothing to link the partners. Gerry Sinton took out the rest of the middlemen, and the firm started cleaning the money some other way. We got zip.
“We have one chance to get Harland and Sinton and it just fell into our lap yesterday. We think we’ve found a new asset. Your new client.”
“You haven’t told me who this guy is. Why he would make a deal?”
“He’ll make a deal. He’s just a kid. A scared kid. Yeah, he’s powerful, in his own way. But he can’t handle the prospect of a life sentence. He has information about the firm—key information. That’s all you need to know, for now. Get him on our side. I’ll make the deal.”
“What’d the kid do?”
“Fifteen hours ago he shot and killed his girlfriend. We’ve got the gun, we’ve got witnesses that put him at the crime scene, and we’ve got forensics. The whole package. What you have to do is get him to fire his current lawyers, get hired as his defense counsel, and force him to make a deal with me.”
“I’ll be disbarred. I have a massive conflict of interest. I can’t persuade a client to take a deal that benefits my wife.”
He acted like he didn’t hear me. “We want him to take a plea before the preliminary hearing. He has to be arraigned within twenty-four hours of arrest. He was arrested for murder this morning. He was interviewed, charged, and he’ll be on his way to Central Booking tonight. He has to be arraigned before midday tomorrow; that’s your clock—fifteen hours to bump the firm and steal their client. If you manage to get hired, the judge will likely set a preliminary hearing for the next day. I want him to plead guilty before the prelim, while the pressure is on and the DA is willing to deal; that’s the time when this man will be most vulnerable. Plus, it’s no good if we just get the evidence from this guy to nail the partners. We want the firm’s money. Take Bernie Madoff—biggest financial-fraud bust in history, but it goes down as a failure for law enforcement because they didn’t recover the cash. We want the partners and the money. To get both we have to move fast, before the money disappears. You do this, we make sure Christine walks away.”
I shook my head.
“I’ll level with you, Eddie. This is how the CIA operates. We obtain an asset, control it, and exploit it. Your new client is that asset. We need to have him under control so we can use him. You’ll be well compensated. We know you can handle the pressure after that thing in Chambers Street. We can always push your buttons if we have to, Eddie Fly.”
The mob referred to me as Eddie Fly, my old pal Jimmy the Hat, in particular. When we were kids, after we were done sparring, we’d play stickball. I couldn’t match Jimmy’s swing—he was a three-sewer hitter—but I had fast hands that never missed a catch. Jimmy gave me the name Eddie Fly. After I went into the confidence game, the name stuck.
I thought of Christine and Amy. Professional oaths and all, I couldn’t let anything jeopardize my family. And from what Dell had told me, the client sounded guilty. Helping a guilty man fess up and make a deal to save my wife didn’t sound so bad after all.
“I have to tell Christine; she has a right to know.”
Dell shook his head. “You say nothing to her. The less she knows the better. What if she panics and lets it slip to one of the partners? She’d be dead and the whole operation would fail. Tell her nothing. You’re going to buy her a ticket out of this. That’s good enough.”
I saw the logic. I had no idea how Christine would react or if she would even believe me. I looked at Dell.
“Who is the client?”
“He’s your mark. You catch him as a client and get him to plead to the murder in exchange for a deal with us. He gets a reduced sentence, the firm goes down, we get the money, and you get Christine.”
Dell glanced at Kennedy.
“I need to stretch my legs,” said Dell. He got up from the desk, and I noticed a slight limp. He walked it out, rubbed his thigh.
“I didn’t get out of the hit on Farooq without scars, Mr. Flynn. I want that firm. They took my witness, my analyst. I will take them.”
He moved in back, and I heard him close the bathroom door. Kennedy leaned forward so Dell wouldn’t overhear us.
“The analyst who died in the Farooq hit—her name was Sophie. Dell’s protégée. And his lover. I hear they were a solid item. The real thing. He’s taking this personally. Cut him a break,” said Kennedy.
“He’s threatening my wife.”
“He’s doing his job. He doesn’t want to hurt your family. He’s giving you a get-out-of-jail card for Christine. You know it doesn’t matter if Christine intended to launder money or if it was just an innocent mistake. Fact is she signed the document and she didn’t perform due diligence first; doesn’t matter if the partners lied to her. She has no defense. Dell is giving her a way out of this.”
“You still haven’t told me who the client is and how he can bring down the firm.”
“He’s the key, Eddie. Or, rather—he’s got the key. We think it’s probably best at the moment if you don’t know too much about what this man has on the firm. But he’s the only one who can lead us to the money. It’s going to be a high-pressure couple of days. I know you’re good—that’s why we’re here—but we can’t take the risk of you letting something slip, even by accident. If the client thinks you’re playing him against the firm, he might clam up. Tell him you can get him a sweet deal. He just needs to talk to a couple of your contacts. We can take it from there.”
I heard Dell coming around the corner.
“Okay, how do we do it?”
Across the room I saw Kennedy visibly relax. The two agents I’d injured, too. Dell pursed his lips and nodded; a light seemed to ignite in his eyes.
“We can help you stall his lawyer tomorrow, before he comes to court. Buy you some time. After that you’re on your own.”
“And his current lawyers are…?”
“You bet. Harland and Sinton.”
PART ONE
THE SETUP
CHAPTER SEVEN
MONDAY, MARCH 16TH
36 hours until the shot
My dad once told me that in the con game there are two basic modes of operation: short cons and long cons. The short cons usually happen on the street or in a bar, they take between five minutes and five seconds to complete, and they’re low risk/low payoff. Long cons take time. It’s not unusual for a long con to take six months or even a year to execute. They involve detailed planning, scouting, preparation, lots of financing, and the high risk is balanced by the potential for a big payday.
There is a third type of con: the bullet con. This is a long con that’s condensed into a short time frame, between a week and a couple of days. Speed is the key to it, and it’s by far the riskiest method of operation. There’s little time to rehearse, to plan, to prepare. Inevitably, you’re flying by the seat of your pants most of the way. No one chooses to execute a bullet con unless something incredible falls in their lap, something that’s too good to pass up, something irresistible: A rich mark who likes to gamble flies into town, but he’s staying for only a week, or a priceless painting is unexpectedly removed from its normally secure resting place for an emergency cleanup. That type of deal. Fast, complex, dangerous.
I heard old-timers call it a bullet con because it’s launched so quickly—like pulling the trigger. In reality, the name derives from the fact that if the con fails, the hustler can expect to eat a bullet.
On the morning before Saint Patrick’s Day, at eight fifteen, I began the first bullet con of my career. Like most good cons, it started small. At first a series of simple moves and gestures: hustlers’ tools to hook the mark, to make him worry, to make him sweat, before the hustler wades in with a golden ticket that is the answer to all of the mark’s problems.
That morning, as I walked into the basement holding area of the Manhattan Criminal Courts Building, I concealed a folded twenty-dollar bill in my right hand. The note was carefully creased in order to fit snugly into my palm. My footsteps echoed on the polished linoleum floor as I walked past the bars that separated me from the detainees awaiting their court appearances. I picked up my mark in my peripheral vision. He sat far away from the other prisoners, in the corner, head down and hands over his face. I looked directly at the detention officer with the shotgun cradled in his arms. He held the key to the pen that contained my mark and thirty other guys who were waiting for their arraignments.
Most of the men who’d found themselves in the pen that morning were there because of either drugs, alcohol, mental health problems, poverty, or gangs, and some of them no doubt owed their present incarceration to a combination of all of those things. The mark was different. Way different. He was the smallest guy in there by quite some way. He looked reasonably healthy, but just a little too thin. The orange jumpsuit hung off his bones. Somebody had already taken his shoes; I could see his white sweat socks. The guards always take away lace-up shoes just in case one of the prisoners tries to hang either themselves or somebody else with the laces. In place of their Nikes or Converse, they’re given black rubber gym shoes. The mark wore no shoes, so it was obvious that somebody in the pen had taken the shoes he was wearing when he was arrested; nobody in there would want to steal prisoner gym shoes. His unkempt curly caramel hair and wire-rim glasses made him look just a little ridiculous, just a little too far this side of geek to be cool, although I doubted if anyone had ever told him that.
If you’re a billionaire, people get real polite all of a sudden.
Neil, the detention officer known as the pit handler, heard me approaching and shifted the shotgun in his arms. To a defense attorney, the holding cage was an advertising opportunity. Guys watched who made bail, who didn’t, who got their trial date quickly and whether they got off. And guys sitting in that pen have a lot of time on their hands to talk. Neil had been a pit handler for twenty years. My old partner handled Neil’s divorce at a discount in exchange for Neil spreading the word to the regulars in the cage.
Goddamn it, how did that asshole make bail?
Eddie Flynn, that’s how.
The noise from the pen was a deafening cacophony of swearing, screaming, and drunken singing. With the usual commotion, no one would notice my conversation with Neil. I’d told him as much a few hours beforehand, and we’d worked out a little routine for my arrival that morning, something that would catch the mark’s attention.
I stopped in front of Neil and winked at him. He racked a shell into the twelve-gauge. That sound, that unmistakable crack and slide, is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. Even with my back to the cage, I could feel the stare from every prisoner. My right hand slid out to shake the officer’s hand. I shifted my stance to the left so the mark could see the move. My fingers opened wide enough for the billionaire to see the money change hands. Neil telegraphed the lift so everybody got a good view of him tucking the bill into his breast pocket. He opened the cage for me, a strictly forbidden practice, and I stepped into the shark tank. The only thing left to do was put my bait in the water.
Popo, pronounced “po-po,” a junkie client of mine, greeted me with a sullen tilt of his head. Originally from LA, Popo was a professional snitch, and he’d moved out here when Fresno got too hot for him. He looked pretty good for a guy in his situation. His jeans were ripped up one side and his wifebeater bore a multitude of food stains. He smelled of old shit and cigarettes. A thick glaze of sweat covered his emaciated torso. The sweats marked the early onset of heroin withdrawal. Popo wore cheap slip-on sneakers so that he could keep his own footwear when he was arrested, which was a regular occurrence. His real name was Dale Barnes. That was the name he always gave to the cops—but he snitched so often that he earned the street name Popo, which stood for “police.” The origin of the word is unclear, but it seems to have started out in California; those beat cops that patrolled side by side on bicycles with “PO” as in “Police Officer” stenciled on the back of their T-shirts. From the back they read “PO PO.” For a snitch, a name like that wasn’t good for business.
Popo spoke through cracked and bleeding lips. “Where you been, lawyer man?”
He sounded a little pissed off with me, just as we’d arranged.
“Buying you breakfast,” I said, and I handed him a sack I’d concealed beneath a case file. I sat down on the bench on Popo’s left. Popo was the closest prisoner to the mark, who sat a couple of feet to Popo’s right, on the end of the bench. After I’d spoken to Neil earlier that morning, he’d put me on the phone with Popo and I’d told my client to get cozy with the geeky-looking white guy. With trembling fingers, he opened the sack and began devouring a burger. I let him eat. He offered the other burger to the man on his right. He declined. I thought then that they made an odd pairing. They were both twenty-two years old, were both born in the same city, both lived in the same city, and were both cooling their asses on the same jail bench, and yet they could’ve just as easily come from different planets. One from Planet Rich, one from Planet Poor.
The man sitting to Popo’s right was the mark—David Child. He owned the fastest-growing social media network in history—Reeler. In the three years since its launch, it had made David Child a billionaire and made Facebook look like Myspace. Hardly a month went by without some story about Reeler, or David, making the headlines. With his head folded into his chest, his hair slick with sweat, I almost didn’t recognize him. Up close he didn’t strike me as the kind to get involved in anything underhanded. He looked straight. But then again, a lot of straight guys are capable of murder. The kid was a genius, but I couldn’t figure out his connection to Harland and Sinton. He was a client of the firm, but what else connected them? Kennedy said this kid was the only one who could lead them to the money. I had no idea how yet. I looked at David and Popo sitting on the same bench. Crime was a great leveler.
“So how long dis time Eddie?” said Popo.
I sucked air through my teeth. Not something that any client wants to hear.
“Well, we don’t have a three-strike rule here, but considering you’re on something close to your forty-third strike, I’d say, half hour, forty-five minutes tops. By that time I’ll have persuaded the prosecutor to drop the charges and you’ll walk.”
As I’d told a persistent offender and junkie that I’d have him out within an hour, I heard a snort of laughter. David’s head turned, and he stared at me. I deliberately avoided any eye contact and kept my gaze nonchalantly on my client.
“I told ya, Eddie’s the man,” said Popo, turning and sending a friendly jab into David’s shoulder. “Better not be longer, Eddie. I got places to be,” said Popo.
“I’ll do my best. I’m not a miracle worker. I should have you out before ten thirty, but I’m not promising anything.”
He smiled. The truth of the matter was that Popo got arrested every other Sunday night. That was our arrangement. He got caught a couple of months earlier for a robbery and was looking at some serious time. His only option was to cooperate with the police, and with my help he made a deal. If you’re a paid informant you have two payment options: $63.60 per week, or the state will pay for a legal representative of your choosing at a maximum of one hundred and fifty dollars an hour. This new pilot scheme, which paid for a private lawyer as opposed to the normal charitable or partially state-funded alternatives, was designed to ease the burden on the public defender and the other, overworked legal-aid schemes and avoid conflicts of interest for the public defender’s office. It was not uncommon for the public defender to simultaneously represent both the snitch and the guy he’d ratted out. While it was a good idea, in practice most guys just took the $63.60.
