Frankie’s in his early thirties, his head is shaved, he has tattoo sleeves and more tats on his neck.
Malone rolls up his own sleeves.
Frankie sees it. “You gonna beat me up?”
“You remember a woman named Claudette?” Malone asks. “You sold her some shit today?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess,” Malone says. “You knew she was clean, because you hadn’t seen her for a while, right?”
“Or she went somewhere else,” Frankie says.
“You a junkie, too?”
“I use.”
“So you deal to pay for your own shit,” Malone says.
“Pretty much.” He’s trembling.
“You know why they put you in this particular cell?” Malone asks. “The video camera doesn’t reach. And you know how it is these days; if it’s not on camera, it didn’t happen.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Jesus isn’t here,” Malone says. “What you got is me. And the difference between him and me is that he’s a forgiving kind of guy, and I don’t have an ounce of forgiveness in my entire body.”
“Oh, God, did she OD?”
“No,” Malone says. “If she had, you’d have never made it to the house. Listen to me. Frankie, look up at me and listen—”
Frankie looks up at him.
Malone says, “I promised her I wouldn’t hurt you. So they’re going to cut you loose after I leave. But—listen to me, Frankie—next time you see her, you run, don’t walk, in the other direction. If you ever sell her dope again, I will find you, and I will beat you to death. And now you know that I keep my promises.”
He walks out of the cell.
Chapter 12
Isobel Paz, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, is a killer.
A fucking killer, Malone thinks.
Caramel skin, jet-black hair, red lipstick over a wide mouth and thin lips. Probably in her early forties but looks younger. Comes into the room in a black business jacket over a tight skirt and high heels.
Dressed to kill.
They’re back at the fucking Waldorf.
Paz made sure to arrive last.
Same thing with mob guys, Malone thinks. The boss is always the last to arrive at a meeting. Make the other people wait, establish the pecking order. These fucks are no different.
Old school, Malone stands up.
Paz doesn’t offer her hand. Just says, “Isobel Paz, U.S. attorney.”
“Denny Malone. NYPD detective.”
She doesn’t smile, either. Just smoothes her skirt and sits down across from him. “Have a seat, Sergeant Malone.”
He sits down. Weintraub starts up a digital recorder. O’Dell presents her with a cup of coffee like it’s his balls he’s offering up, then he sits down.
So we’re all at the fucking table, Malone thinks.
Now what?
Paz says, “Sergeant Malone, let me be clear. I don’t think you’re a hero. I think you’re a criminal who takes bribes from other criminals. Just so we understand each other.”
Malone doesn’t answer.
“I would just as soon put you behind bars for betraying your oath, your badge and the public trust,” Paz says, “but we have higher-value targets to go after. That being the case, I’m just going to hold my nose and work with you.”
She opens a file. “Let’s get down to business. You will have to make a proffer, during which you will admit to any and all crimes you committed up to this moment. If you lie, by omission or commission, any arrangement we make will be null and void. If you commit any further crimes that go beyond the scope of this investigation and do not have our specific approval, any arrangement we make will be null and void. If you perjure yourself in any sworn affidavit or in testimony, any arrangement we make will be null and void. Do you understand?”
Malone says, “I won’t go after cops.”
Paz looks over at O’Dell and Malone sees it—he didn’t tell her about that part of the deal. O’Dell looks across the coffee table at him. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“No,” Malone says. “There is no bridge that goes there.”
“Then you go to jail,” Paz says.
“Then I go to fucking jail.”
And fuck you.
“Do you think this is a joke, Sergeant Malone?” Paz asks.
“You want me to bring you lawyers, I’ll hold my nose and work with you,” Malone says. “You ask me to work against cops, you can go fuck yourself.”
“Turn off the tape,” Paz snaps at Weintraub. She looks at Malone. “Maybe you have me confused with one of your usual Southern District, prep school Ivy League dickwads. I’m a PR from the South Bronx, tougher streets than you came from, hijo de puta. I’m the middle child of six kids, my father worked in a kitchen, my mother sewed knockoffs for the Chinese downtown. I went to Fordham. So if you fuck around with me, you donkey asshole, I’ll send you to a federal supermax where you’ll be drooling your oatmeal inside of six weeks. Compréndeme, pu?eto? Turn the tape back on.”
Weintraub turns the tape back on.
“This tape will be filed securely and only accessible to the people at this table,” Paz says. “There will be no transcript. Agent O’Dell will summarize these proceedings in a report, which will be accessible only to authorized Southern District, New York State and FBI personnel.”
“That 302 could get me killed,” Malone says.
O’Dell says, “I guarantee its security.”
“Right, because there are no crooked feds,” Malone says. “No lawyer upside down on his house, no secretary whose husband is behind on the vig—”
Paz says, “If you know names—”
“I don’t know any names,” Malone says. “I only know 302s have a way of winding up in social clubs next to espresso cups, and that the reason there won’t be a transcript is so the bureau can put its own spin on what I’ve said.”
Paz sets down her pen. “Do you want to make a proffer or not?”
Malone sighs. “Yes.”
No proffer, no deal.
She swears him in. Malone promises to tell the truth, the whole truth . . .
“You’ve seen evidence of yourself accepting a payment for referring a defendant to legal counsel,” Paz says. “Do you acknowledge that?”
“Yes.”
“You also appear to be entering a conspiracy to bribe a prosecutor to fix a case on behalf of that defendant. Is that accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Is that called ‘buying a case’?”
“That’s what I call it.”
“How many times,” Paz asks, “have you ‘bought a case’ or facilitated in such?”
Malone shrugs.
Paz looks at him with disgust. “So many you’ve lost count?”
“You’re mixing two things,” Malone explains. “Sometimes I’d refer a suspect to a lawyer for a fee. Other times I would help approach a prosecutor to buy a case and get a kickback from the prosecutor for that, too.”
“Thank you for the clarification,” Paz says. “How many simple referral fees have you accepted from defense attorneys?”
“Over the years?” Malone asks. “Maybe hundreds.”
“And from prosecutors who’ve been paid off?”
“Probably twenty or thirty,” Malone says. “Over the years.”
“Do you deliver the payment to the prosecutor?” Weintraub asks.
“Sometimes.”
“How many times?” Paz asks.
“Twenty?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Paz says.