Part 9 (2/2)
As he emerged from the PATH station into the concourse itself, he noticed Jeff Morrison walking toward him with another guy he didn't know. The concourse was a maddening place, with people streaming in every direction simultaneously, so Jeffrey couldn't even be sure the guy was with Morrison. That's why it didn't seem strange when Morrison walked right up to him smiling. What did seem strange was that the guy walking next to Morrison was holding a gold badge out in front of him.
”Jeffrey Pokross?” the guy asked, and Pokross didn't respond. ”I'm Special Agent True Brown of the FBI. This is Special Agent Joe Yastremski.”
The guy with the badge was pointing right at Jeff Morrison of Thorcon Capital when he said this, and Jeffrey Pokross suddenly understood everything.
December 1996
The holding cell next to the fifth-floor magistrate's courtroom in the Southern District of New York is a pretty antiseptic place. There are no windows. The walls are pale gray-blue concrete and there's about enough room for one dozen defendants. That's what you are when you're in that room-a defendant. You might be a drug dealer from the projects, a terrorist from the slums of Egypt, a lawyer gone bad or-as was the case this morning-a busted stockbroker. It didn't matter. You were a defendant. At least you weren't an inmate, yet. That was still only a possibility because when you sat outside the magistrate's courtroom, waiting for your turn, you were still considered merely charged with a crime. Not convicted. Just charged.
This distinction was on Cary Cimino's mind when he saw Jeffrey Pokross sitting at the other end of the cell. It was a pretty unusual sight, seeing Jeffrey there under these circ.u.mstances. It made it seem more real, tougher to ignore. The whole scene didn't seem right. Cary always pictured jail cells full of people like Snoop Dog or Humphrey Bogart or Jimmy Labate. Tough guys. Not like this, a cell full of stockbrokers. A cell where your cellmate is named Jeffrey Pokross.
”This is your fault,” Jeffrey hissed, and the two of them began screaming at each other until a marshal came and told them to shut up.
Cary decided merely to glower at Jeffrey, who glowered back approximately the same amount.
As far as Cary could tell, the charges filed against him seemed somewhat vague. It appeared he had violated some specific provisions of the United States Criminal Code regarding securities fraud. Specifically he had bribed brokers to hype stock, and received bribes in the form of hidden commissions. Cary couldn't decide whether this was serious or not. He certainly did not enjoy sitting in the holding cell inside federal court, but the complaint he'd been shown seemed laughable, as if they were charging him with having too many parking tickets. What they were charging him with was as common a practice in the over-the-counter market as any.
Cary also tried unsuccessfully to remember who'd introduced him to Jeffrey Morrison of Thorcon Capital. Cary was aware that he was the one who had put Thorcon with DMN, but he couldn't really blame himself. Thorcon seemed so real. Jeff Morrison talked the talk. How was Cary supposed to know the guy was FBI?
That was certainly his reaction when the FBI had first knocked on his door at 6:30 a.m. that morning. At first he couldn't figure which broker turned him in, but the more he thought about it the more Thorcon seemed the likely suspect. It was too perfect. Jeff Morrison was too willing to help out. If only Cary had hesitated, but then why would he? The guy was just another broker with a deal. That was the way Wall Street worked, wasn't it?
Jeffrey was led out of the cell first for his appearance before the magistrate, and then it was Cary's turn. As he stepped out into the courtroom, he was confused.
Usually the uniforms of life make it easy to tell who is who and where you are in the food chain. You can tell the real estate broker selling the house is the woman with the floppy hat and clipboard. The manager at the Kmart wears the short-sleeve b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt and clip-on tie, while his minions wear ludicrous matching smocks emblazoned with the Kmart logo. Here in the courtroom, some distinctions were obvious. The judge wore a black robe and sat above everyone else, letting everybody know who was in charge. There was one guy dressed in a pale blue jumpsuit with laceless rubber-soled shoes. His hands were cuffed behind him and he had two big guys in suits sitting next to him. Cary guessed that he was a real criminal and the guys next to him were marshals. Beyond these two, it was tough to tell who was who.
Specifically, it was tough to tell the lawyers from the clients. Most of those arrested were stockbrokers, and most had been arrested on their way to work. They still wore their suits, which made them look just like the lawyers paid to defend them. The difference was that none of the stockbrokers had ties or belts or laces in their shoes. The marshals frowned on suicide attempts while in United States custody.
Cary wasn't quite sure what to expect. His experience with the court system until this day was limited. He'd once had a beef with a guy over money owed on a parking s.p.a.ce. He'd been parking his Mercedes there, and an attendant also let him leave his motorcycle. Then the owner started claiming he owed back rent. Cary spirited his car out of the garage, and then tried to get his motorcycle. When they guy threatened to kick his a.s.s, Cary returned with one of Jimmy Labate's friends and a gun. The guy let him take the motorcycle and then called the cops.
That case had been settled in state court without anything going on Cary's record. This was different. This was federal. Cary calculated how much money he would have to spend on lawyers.
His lawyer, Michael Bachner, was as experienced at criminal defense as any lawyer doing regular work at the Manhattan Federal Court. He told Cary not to sweat it, and arranged with the prosecutor for his release on low bail bond-$50,000, with no cash down. He just had to get two friends or family to cosign the bond by the following week. He did have to surrender his pa.s.sport and would have to ask the government's permission to travel outside the New York City area, but otherwise he was free to go. This wasn't serial murder or racketeering or even narcotics. This was obscure white collar crime, and difficult to understand at that. When he was finished filling out all the paperwork, getting his mug shot, cleaning the fingerprint ink off his fingers, Cary decided he would call up DMN first thing and make an appointment with is codefendant, Jeffrey Pokross.
Jeffrey agreed that a sit-down in a setting other than the holding cell in Manhattan Federal Court was a not a bad idea.
The two met at DMN's Hanover Square office and went over their respective complaints. Jeffrey, too, had been released on low bail. Jeffrey's lawyer was telling him the same thing Cary's was-the case is a joke. They'd fight it and win. The more they discussed the situation, the better Cary felt.
The two men tried to figure out how many people they knew of the forty-four who were picked up by the FBI in the bust. They recognized about a dozen names. That indicated to them that whatever they were allegedly doing on Wall Street was hardly unusual. Three dozen strangers were doing the same thing. Jeffrey argued that spending money on a good lawyer was a sound investment. They would surely walk away from this without any trace of criminality on their record.
Cary felt Jeffrey knew what he was talking about. He'd spent a lot of time around people who'd actually been to prison, so he could talk about strong cases and weak cases. Jeffrey said all the feds had was the FBI undercover, Morrison, and maybe some taped conversations. They'd still have to show that Cary and Jeffrey actually knew they were breaking the law when they made deals with Thorcon Capital. That wouldn't be so easy. Surely the charges would be dismissed. They just had to be. The Wall Street boom was just beginning to really take off, and Jeffrey and Cary did not want to be left behind.
Certainly not by a little arrest.
October 10, 1996
Again and again Warrington was trying to get Cary on the phone. No answer. He'd just seen a headline float by on CNBC about a bunch of brokers being busted, and though there weren't any names given, there was one troubling mention-Thorcon Capital.
The news reports were brief because the story was considered hardly worth mentioning. The reporters on TV didn't even seem to understand why anybody had been charged with a crime. It all seemed so inconsequential. And best of all from Warrington's perspective was the fact that there was no mention of people like Jimmy Labate.
Mostly Warrington was trying to remember precisely what he'd done with Nick Vito down at Thorcon Capital versus what he'd talked about doing. He couldn't really remember but he wasn't that concerned. Why should he be? He hadn't been arrested. If he'd done something truly illegal, surely they would have picked him up with the forty-four others mentioned on TV.
Finally he got through to Cary and he was surprised by how calm the guy was. Cary told him Jeffrey Pokross and Todd Nejaime and a few other guys he knew from Monitor had all been picked up in one big sweep. He described getting fingerprinted and photographed and appearing before the judge, and he made it sound like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. There he was with all these real criminals-drug dealers, gangsters, money launderers. He was released on $50,000 bond and didn't have to put down a cent. As Cary saw it, the whole thing was ridiculous. He made it clear that after his initial shock at being arrested by an agent of the United States government, he and Jeffrey had decided there was no way any of these pathetic charges were going to stick. Cary made it clear to Warrington that he and Jeffrey were going to fight and they were both going to win.
Warrington was more than a little upset. Mostly he wanted to know all about Thorcon Capital. Was the whole thing an FBI sting? Yes, it was, Cary said. From the World Trade Center office to the receptionist answering the phones to the plastic flowers in the corner with the bug inside, the whole thing was a production of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Everybody there was an undercover FBI agent. It had shut down the morning of the arrests. Cary had worked his deal with a guy named Jeff Morrison, who was really Special Agent Joe Yastremski.
Warrington got a sick feeling his stomach. What was Nick Vito's real name?
He couldn't figure out why Cary had been picked up and he hadn't. It must have been a different scenario, a different fact pattern. Cary's arrangements with Jeff Morrison must have been different than Warrington's deal with Nick Vito. What had he said to Nick? What had he done? The Discovery Studios deal had collapsed and Warrington had never actually wired any shares to Nick under any of the circ.u.mstances they'd discussed. Was discussing something illegal itself illegal? Or did you actually have to do something? He had no idea, but Cary told him he had nothing to worry about.
That sounded pretty good to Warrington. He decided not to give Thorcon Capital another thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
February 12, 1997
The s.h.i.+ny black cars pulled into the parking lot at the pier in the far end of Brooklyn. It was dark and the wind whipped in off New York Harbor. This was miles from Little Italy. This was Canarsie, which is an Indian name, though there hadn't been too many Indians in the neighborhood for a while. Two groups of men exited the black cars and greeted each other in the parking lot before turning and heading into a restaurant called Abbraciemento's.
The restaurant was perfect for a sit-down. It was located on a pier that jutted out into the swirling mouth of New York Harbor, a no-exit cul-de-sac that allowed patrons to sit with their backs against the water and see anybody coming into the lot. It was not A Tree Grows in Brooklyn A Tree Grows in Brooklyn or or a.r.s.enic and Old Lace a.r.s.enic and Old Lace or even or even Dog Day Afternoon Dog Day Afternoon Brooklyn. It was a part of Brooklyn that hadn't found its way to the silver screen, and probably wouldn't anytime soon. Brooklyn. It was a part of Brooklyn that hadn't found its way to the silver screen, and probably wouldn't anytime soon.
The receptionist at Abbraciemento's was accommodating in every possible way. Both groups of men were ushered quickly to a corner table where there was enough room for the Bonanno crime family of New York to sit across from the Genovese crime family of New York. It was time for a little gangster detente.
Robert and Frank Lino were there with a six foot four inch a.s.sociate named Eugene Lombardo. They were there to represent the interests of the Bonanno group. Representing the interests of the Genovese group was Ernest Montevecchi and two of his a.s.sociates. n.o.body called him Ernest. Everybody called him Butch. The matter at hand was simple: who gets what on Wall Street.
When Robert Lino first showed up on Wall Street as a silent partner at DMN, Jeffrey Pokross had promised that only a handful of wiseguys knew about the money to be made there. He'd mentioned Philly Abramo and claimed the other families were clueless. That was true, as far as it went, and for a time it was one golden opportunity after another for the up-and-coming organized crime family named after the disgraced boss Joe Bonanno. It was surely a way for the only Mafia family in history to allow an FBI agent to infiltrate its ranks to recover its good name in the underworld. Wall Street was the hills of California in 1849, and it was all theirs. This was, for a time, good news for Robert Lino. Robert Lino was convinced he'd found El Dorado, and so he enthusiastically convinced his captain and cousin, Frank, to get involved in the Wall Street miracle.
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