“I didn’t keep records.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Paz says. “So roughly twenty. I want names. I want dates. I want everything you can remember.”
So this is crossing a line, Malone thought. If I start naming names, there’s no going back.
I’m a rat.
He starts with the oldest cases, giving them people he knows are retired or have moved on to other jobs. Most prosecutors don’t stay in the job for too long, but use it as an apprenticeship to get to the more lucrative defense bar. This will still jam them up, but not as bad as the guys still on the job.
“Mark Piccone?” O’Dell asks.
“I took money from Piccone,” Malone says. Because what the fuck, they all heard it.
“Is that the first time?” Paz asks.
“Did it look like the first time?” Malone says. “I’d say I’ve referred Piccone probably a dozen times.”
“How many times have you taken payoffs to prosecutors for him?”
“Three.”
“Were they all with Justin Michaels?” Paz asks.
Michaels is small potatoes, Malone thinks, why all this for little routine shit? Michaels isn’t a bad guy—he’ll take money on lowball busts that aren’t going anywhere anyway, but he’s stand-up on the assaults, the robberies, the rapes.
Now they’re going to jam him up.
No, Malone tells himself, now you’re going to jam him up.
But fuck it, they know anyway.
He says, “Two of them were with Michaels.”
“Which cases?” Weintraub asks. He’s angry.
“One was a dope case, a quarter key of coke,” Malone says. “Guy named Mario Silvestri.”
“That motherfucker,” Weintraub snaps.
It draws a wry smile from Paz.
“What was the other one?” Weintraub asks.
“It was a dogshit gun charge on a smack slinger named . . .” Malone says. “I don’t remember his real name, his street name was ‘Long Dog.’ Clemmons, maybe.”
“DeAndre Clemmons,” Weintraub says.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Malone says. “Michaels jacked up the chain of evidence, the judge threw it out in the evidentiary. You want the name of the judge?”
“Later,” O’Dell says.
“Yeah, later,” Malone says. “And I’ll bet that somehow won’t make it into the 302.”
“So Silvestri and Clemmons,” Paz says. “And now Bailey.”
“You weren’t going to get convictions on those guys, anyway,” Malone says, “so what difference does it make if someone other than drug dealers made a little money for a change?”
“Are you really trying to justify this?” Paz asks.
“I’m only saying that we fined these skels a few grand,” Malone says, “which is more than you could have done.”
“So you distribute justice,” Paz says.
You’re damn right I do, Malone thinks. More than the “system” does. I distribute it on the street when I beat some creep who’s molested a child, I deliver it in the courts when I “testilie” about some heroin dealer you’d never convict if I didn’t, and yeah, I deliver it when I fine these motherfuckers some money you’d never get out of them.
He says, “There’s all kinds of justice.”
“And I suppose you donate this money to charity?” Paz asks.
“Some of it.”
Every now and then he takes an envelope of cash and mails it off to St. Jude’s, but these motherfuckers don’t need to know that. Malone doesn’t want their dirty hands touching something clean.
“What else have you done?” Paz asks. “I need full disclosure.”
Jesus shit, Malone thinks.
It’s Pena.
This has all been a setup for Pena.
But do you think I’m going to volunteer it? Malone thinks. You think I’m some junkie skel in the interview room who’s going to go for anything just to get well?
“If you ask questions, I’ll answer them,” Malone says.
“Have you ever robbed drug dealers?” Paz asks.
This is about Pena, Malone thinks. If they know anything, they’ll press on it. So keep it short, don’t give them an opening. “No.”
“Have you ever taken drugs or money that you haven’t vouchered?” Paz asks.
“No.”
“Have you ever sold drugs?”
“No.”
“You’ve never given drugs to an informant?” Paz asks. “Legally, that constitutes selling.”
I have to give her something, Malone thinks. “Yes, I’ve done that.”
“Is that a common practice?”
“For me, yes,” Malone says. “That’s one way I garner the information that gets me the arrests I bring to you.”
And have you ever seen an addict suffer? he thinks. Seen one jones? Shake, cramp up, beg, cry? You’d fix them, too.
“Is it common practice among other cops?” Paz asks now.
“I’m speaking for myself,” Malone says. “Not other cops.”
“But you must know.”
“Next question.”
“Have you ever beaten a suspect to obtain information or a confession?” Paz asks.
Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve whaled the living shit out of them. Sometimes literally. “I wouldn’t say ‘beaten.’”
“What would you say?”
“Look,” Malone says, “maybe I’ve slapped a guy. Shoved him into a wall. That’s about it.”
“That’s all?” Paz asks.
“What did I just say?” You ask but you don’t want to know. You want to live on the Upper East Side or in the Village or up in Westchester and you don’t want the shit leaking into your nice neighborhoods. You don’t want to know how that happens for you. You just want me to do it.
“What about other cops?” Paz asks. “What about your teammates? Are they in on selling cases?”
“I’m not talking about my teammates.”
“Come on,” Weintraub says, “you expect us to believe that Russo and Montague aren’t in on this with you?”
“I don’t have any expectations about what you believe or don’t.”
“You make all that money by yourself?” Weintraub says. “You don’t cut them in? What kind of partner are you?”
Malone doesn’t answer.
“It’s unbelievable on the face of it,” Weintraub mutters.
“The proffer requires full disclosure,” Paz says.
“I already made it clear,” Malone says, “I won’t go after cops. Here’s what you got now, chica. You got one defense attorney for capping, you got one cop for bragging he can buy a case. You can get Piccone disbarred, you can take my shield and maybe put me inside for a couple of years, but you and I both know your bosses are going to look at that and ask, Is that all we get for our money? You’ll look like an asshole.
“So now let me tell you how it’s going to go,” he continues. “It’s as simple as ABC. Anyone But Cops. I’ll get you Michaels. I’ll get you a few defense lawyers and a prosecutor or two. I’ll even throw in a couple of judges if you have the balls. In exchange for that, I walk. No jail time, I keep my shield and gun.”
Malone stands up, walks to the door and puts his fingers to his mouth and ear, like Call me.
He’s waiting for the elevator when O’Dell comes out.
It must have been a quick meeting.
“All right,” O’Dell says. “We have a deal.”
Yeah we do, Malone thinks.
Because everyone can be bought.
It’s just a matter of finding the right coin.
Claudette’s sick.
Nose-running, body-shaking, bone-aching junkie sick.