For African Americans, however, Assembly Point retained a special significance. Many had been raised within earshot of envious conversations about the Point, the better life lived there, and the events—the country club golf, the debutante balls—that were otherwise alien to African-American life. A large number of black folks of means still refused to consider residing anywhere else.
Sherm Crowthers was one of them. His house on Broadberry was a mammoth redbrick Georgian, replete with white columns that supported a portico three stories above the circular drive. When Evon and the rest of Sennett’s company arrived, it was only a few minutes shy of midnight, but Stan and McManis had agreed to proceed. Not only timing, but tactics, compelled them. They wanted these men at home, unaware and literally undressed, in the bosom of their families, close to the comforts from which they would be exiled in the penitentiary. This was one of many hardball maneuvers Stan had learned while he was at the Justice Department in D.C., supervising prosecutors around the country. After indictment, Stan loved to swoop down on white-collar defendants—presumed innocent by law—and lead them off in handcuffs before waiting cameras. He called it a deterrent. Despite the howls of protests arising from the defense bar—me included—the Court of Appeals continued to tolerate these harsh techniques as if they were wartime necessities.
Robbie had been directed to the remote shadows of the front lawn, while the remainder of the party continued to Sherman’s front door. The Crowthers household was thrown into an uproar as soon as Sennett touched the doorbell. A dog bayed and lights filled several windows. Finally, the porch’s overhead lamp snapped on and a voice boomed through the heavy oak door, demanding to know who was there.
“It’s Stan Sennett, Judge Crowthers. The United States Attorney for this district. I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”
“Stan Sennett?”
“The U.S. Attorney.”
“What kind of emergency is this?”
“Judge, why don’t you open the door so I can discuss this with you without waking your neighbors. I’m standing right under the light and you’ve got a security eye in that door. I know you can see it’s me.”
“And who-all is that with you?”
“They’re FBI agents, Judge Crowthers. Please open the door. No one here will hurt you.”
At that, the latches and bolts were quickly slapped back. Looking no smaller to Evon than he did on the bench, Sherm Crowthers loomed barefoot on his threshold. Behind the front screen, he had a chromed pistol in his right hand. He wore boxer shorts, decorated with small red emblems, and a sleeveless undervest taut over the vast hummock of his midsection. His eyes were somewhat watery, so that it appeared he might have been drinking. At the sight of the gun, Evon had changed her position. Beside her, Clevenger opened his coat and put a hand on the holster over his hip.
“You think I’m scared of you?” Crowthers asked Stan, clearly inflated by rage. “That what you imagine, Constantine? I’ll have tits ’fore I’m scared of you.” Sennett, assessing the situation—and mindful perhaps of the pistol—chose not to answer. “Now what kind of damn emergency is this, six minutes of midnight?”
“Judge, you know, I’d feel just a little more comfortable if you would put down that firearm. Would you mind doing that?”
“Hell, no, I’m not doin that. I’m standin in my own home. It’s six minutes to midnight. You a bunch of damn intruders, whether you’re the U.S. Attorney or not, and I got a permit and registration and a constitutional right to this pistol and you can go head and check that. Now speak your piece and get.”
Evon had gradually crept up close behind Sennett to look at the gun. Crowthers was waving it around, but eventually she recognized it, a Beretta 92 SBC double-action semiautomatic. He’d dropped it to his side after telling off Sennett and she could finally see what she’d wanted to: the extractor was flush with the slide and no red was showing, meaning a round was not chambered. She whispered to Stan that the gun wasn’t ready to fire, reminding him it might yet be loaded. Sennett made fishlike circles with his mouth while he thought things over, then pointed to her briefcase for a document.
“Judge,” he said when he had it, “this is a federal grand jury subpoena which requires your appearance tomorrow morning downtown.”
Sennett held the white sheet right up to the screen so Crowthers could read it. He’d calculated correctly that this would alter the momentum somewhat.
“Gimme that here,” said Crowthers and reached outside. He snapped the paper from Sennett and rang the screen shut, locking it before he bothered to study what he’d been given. He took only a second to do that, and opened the screen again, tossing the subpoena, which he’d grabbed into a tight ball, outside the cone of light on the front porch. It landed somewhere in the row of low yews that fronted the perimeter of his brick home. “Ain’t no subpoena served after midnight gone require somebody to be somewhere at 10 a.m. You know that and I know that. So now you done your business, go on.” He pointed again with the Beretta and stood back to close the door.
Sennett stepped forward to grab the screen’s handle but, considering the pistol, resisted the impulse to pull the door open.
“Judge, if you have an objection to a subpoena, then you better take it up with Chief Judge Winchell in federal court in the morning. You and I both know that. And frankly, Your Honor, when you go on trial, I don’t think the jury is going to think very highly of a sitting judge treating a lawfully issued subpoena as a piece of rubbish.” At the words ‘trial’ and ‘jury,’ Sherm had briefly allowed his head to fall back, revealing the full bushy depths of his gray mustache. “Judge, you’re about to be indicted for racketeering, extortion, bribery, and mail fraud. By my calculations, the sentencing guidelines will keep you in the penitentiary for about eight years. And we came here because I wanted to talk to you before it happens. Now may we come in the house?”
“I hear you fine where you are, Constantine.” Somewhat more subdued, Sherm eyed everyone else on the porch. At a signal from McManis, Clevenger had stepped into the bushes. Equipped with a rubber glove, he was placing the balled subpoena in a plastic evidence envelope. “I don’t know a damn thing about any kind of racketeering or bribes. Or whatever else you say.”
“Would you like to refresh your memory, Judge? We can play you a recording? It’s right here.”
He waved at that point, and Robbie, with his hands sunk deep in his pockets, emerged into the light. He looked only a little less unhappy than he had at Skolnick’s. He did not come all the way to the porch. He’d undoubtedly seen the pistol and had had his fill of guns for one day. He stood about twenty feet from the stoop, just close enough that Crowthers could tell who he was. And then, as he had at Skolnick’s, he opened his jacket and his shirt.
Crowthers said nothing at first. And then his craggy, smoke-stained teeth made a brief appearance as he bitterly smiled. Sennett again offered to play the tape.
“I don’t need to hear nothin, Constantine. I knew exactly what that lowlife was up to.” He looked toward Robbie through the night, assailing him with savage eyes. “Goddamn fool that I was,” Sherm quietly added.
“Judge, that’s your option. There are a lot of things we want to ask you. But the most important is to know where the money goes after it gets to you. Because we’re very certain all of it doesn’t remain in your hands. And if you’re willing to cooperate with us, right now, right here—”
Crowthers gave his big head a single solemn shake.
“You’ll hear from my attorney in the morning. There idn’t nothin else to say now.”
“Judge, I can’t make you the same deal tomorrow. You have to do it now. You’ll pay a high price for protecting your friends—”
Crowthers, facing all of this—the grand jury, trial, the penitentiary—laughed out loud. He even put the pistol down on a side table near the door.
“Listen, I don’t have friends, Constantine. Never have. I got a wife and a sister and a dog and that’s it. I don??
?t owe nothin to anybody else and I don’t expect anything from them either. That’s how it is.”
“Then help yourself,” Sennett implored, raising his voice for the first time.
Crowthers laughed again. He appeared sincerely amused.
“Is that what you call it? ‘Helpin’ myself? You know where I was raised up, Constantine? Down in Dejune, Georgia? I used to pick walnuts for two and a half hours, before I walked to some shabby single room school they’d set aside for the nigger-folk, and most days I didn’t have very much to eat, virtually nothin except those nuts, which my momma naturally enough was always beggin me to leave alone. And then after—” He stopped himself, suddenly drawing up both large hands, the pale palms exposed.
“No,” he said emphatically, “no, I’m not goin on like that. You’ve heard all these stories. Everybody’s heard em now. Any black bastard over the age of fifty in a pool hall can tell you these stories. Only I’m not just woofin. This here happened to me. And to my sister. My mommy and granddaddy. And I’m not tellin you this to break your heart, Constantine. I know better’n that, and wouldn’t care to have your damn sympathy anyway. No, I just want you to know one goddamn thing: you never gone do worse to me than I’ve already had done. And I haven’t come all this way—from Georgia and totin those bags of nuts bigger than I was, and bein so hungry I sometime ate beetles I found in the road—I ain’t come from there to have some posse of white men—and you ain no better,” he added to Clevenger, who was black, “I ain come from there to have you-all tell me what I gotta do ’fore you do something awful to me. You do what you’re gone do. But there is no one in this world can stand on my doorstep tellin me, ‘You gotta.’ And surely not some pissant, stick-up-his-ass Greektown greaseball who can’t even look in the mirror and remember that’s all he really is.”
Crowthers glowered briefly, then reached to his side and took hold of the slide on the pistol. The sharp click of him jacking a round into the Beretta was weirdly distinct in the midnight silence of the quiet neighborhood. Everyone on the porch reacted at once. McManis yelled, “Gun!” and more or less smothered Sennett, flying with him toward the bushes. Clevenger hit the sidewalk and rolled to his belly, scrambling to get hold of his weapon as he whirled around on the concrete. Behind her, Evon could hear the change and the keys in Robbie’s pockets jangling as he fled. The best trained, she had simply stepped out of the light and dropped to her haunches, leveling her weapon with both hands. She had a clear line on Crowthers, brightly backlit by the handsome slate foyer of his home, but she saw at once there would be no need to shoot. Crowthers had bent his face close to the screen with a broad mirthful expression as he surveyed the chaos he’d created. Once he’d taken sufficient enjoyment, he slammed the front door so hard that the brass knocker rattled back and forth. From inside, as he snapped all the latches and chains and bolts in place, they could hear him laughing, a sound that went on for quite some time, even after he’d shut off all the lights and left them there in the dark.
41
THEY WERE BACK IN THE CENTER CITY AT about 12:30 a.m. and went up to McManis’s conference room to talk over where they were. Sennett was unexpectedly paged. It turned out to be the City Desk at the Tribune. They had the story: government mole in the courthouse. Tuohey had figured a way to spread the word to his cohorts without risk. Stan had about ten minutes before the 1 a.m. deadline on the late edition to decide how to respond. He settled on no comment, hoping the paper didn’t have enough confirmed information to run the story. If so, the Petros investigators would get one last day to operate with the advantage of surprise.
At 1:10, the reporter, Stew Dubinsky, called back. They were going with their story. Stan had known Dubinsky for years and concluded this wasn’t a ploy. After talking it over with McManis, Stan went on background with Stew. Sennett’s goal was to make it sound as if Petros was already a staggering success. Thousands of hours of tape, he said. Dozens of undercover encounters with an enormous array of courthouse personnel. No comment on how high it went, but judges, plural, were sure to be indicted.
The group—Stan, McManis, Evon, Robbie, Tex, and Amari—sat around the conference table skulling things out until nearly two. There would be calls tomorrow from defense lawyers feeling around. If somebody out there was frightened enough, he might make an anonymous proffer hoping for immunity. Things could break from any direction.
By now it made no sense to go home. Robbie called again to check on Rainey, then went up to his office to sleep a few hours on his sofa, something he had often done during trials. For almost everybody on the team, it was the second straight night with little or no sleep, but Evon was still running on adrenaline. Twice within twenty-four hours, she’d had a gun in her hand, ready to fire. You didn’t come down from that fast. She volunteered to go upstairs with Robbie to stand guard. She was ready to talk, but he waved to her from the couch and with that fell backward, appearing to succumb to sleep in descent.
At 4:15 she made coffee in the office kitchen and brought a cup back for each of them. It seemed unimaginable that she’d lived six months without caffeine, while she’d been playing Mormon. Robbie was awake, just setting down the phone when she opened his door.
“Rainey?” she asked.
“Mort. I wanted to talk to him before he read the papers.” He hadn’t put on his shoes yet and took an instant to study his toes. She asked how Morty had taken it.
“Shock? Disbelief? I told him to hire a lawyer, you know, cause he can have some trouble with his license, but he seemed more worried about me.” He was by himself momentarily, smiling contentedly at the thought of Mort. “He knows he’ll be okay anyway, if the story is coming from me.” He looked up at Evon after he’d said that, but she was too tired to probe.
Everyone assembled again at 4:45. Driven by Amari, the surveillance van swept into the garage beneath the LeSueur, and Sennett, Evon, McManis, and Robbie jumped in. They’d just parked across the street from St. Mary’s when Tuohey and Kosic arrived at the foot of the three tiers of cathedral stairs. Rollo looked down the street, a cigarette hanging from his lips, while Tuohey headed upward deliberately, his pace and posture suggesting he would pray with special determination today. Several vehicles from Joe’s surveillance crew circled on the avenues.
Summer had not yet arrived and even spring was frittering. It had been less than forty overnight and the smoke of the furnaces kicking in wisped away above the roofs, carried off against the livid hues of first light. The large redbrick church was narrowly imposed on a triangular piece of land. The adjoining streets, largely untrafficked, angled off beside St. Mary’s, the big buildings set back from the pavement and all but vacant at this hour. An arid beauty arose from the quiet avenues in these last few moments of repose. This was the city, thousands of souls nearby in slumber. The race, the journey would begin again soon.
Rollo walked alone. He was cold. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, striding briskly toward Paddywacks, where Milacki would meet him as Plato opened the doors.
As soon as Kosic was clear of the church, McManis gave the signal and the first car pulled up abruptly at the curb beside him. The agents surrounded Rollo, pointing back to the van. The idea was to get him inside, where they’d planned an elaborate show-and-tell. But Kosic just threw his hand at them and resumed walking.
The van followed him along the curb, but he refused to look over. Finally, Sennett disembarked. Stan had to hustle to catch up with him. Evon watched through the bubbled window. Kosie wouldn’t stop as Sennett spoke to him. Finally McManis alighted and trotted up to the pair. He touched Rollo’s sleeve, and although Kosic shirked him off violently, he halted when McManis spoke. He seemed to recognize Jim somehow and finally appeared taken aback. Apparently, they hadn’t yet realized the intricacy of the government’s deceptions.
McManis had left the van with the torn note Rollo had written at Attitude and with some of the bills on which his prints had turned up. They were all stored in clear p
lastic envelopes, edged in tape that said EVIDENCE in red. Jim was careful not to let Kosic touch any of this. Instead, he stood a few feet away and displayed each item, holding it by its upper corners, looking like a streetside vendor outside a shrine. Sennett was talking all the time. Evon could not read his lips but she knew the pitch anyway. Rollo was dead. Deader than dead. There were stiffs in the graveyard who were lively by comparison. They had taps on his phone. Surveillance. Rollo had just a few minutes to make a decision that would control the rest of his life.
Finally, as the coup de grâce, Sennett motioned to the van and both Robbie and Evon stepped out to the curb. Feaver, this time, seemed robust. He winked at Rollo and threw up one palm in greeting.
Kosic’s eyes, as always, were daggers of malice. He said one thing to Sennett.
“Suck my dick,” he told the U.S. Attorney and resumed walking, bucking his arms like chicken wings to warm himself. Sennett called threats down the street. He was going to convict Kosic, then immunize him. He’d jail him for perjury or contempt if he lied or remained mute. Kosic would do time, then more time. Rollo had two choices: a lifetime in the can or putting it on Tuohey. His number was up.
Thirty feet on, Kosic finally wheeled. But he directed nothing to Sennett. It was Robbie on whom he focused, his dry face wrenched by anger. Kosic pointed the black nail, then threw out his hand at groin level, twisting his wrist violently in the air. It was not clear if this was a wish about what he’d done the last time he saw Robbie at Attitude, or a threat for the future, but it was certain he did not mean well.
MY PHONE RANG at six-thirty that morning. I picked it up in the kitchen, rushing to grab it before it wakened Patrice, who’d just returned again from Bangkok. It was Sennett. I’d already seen the headline on the Tribune on my doorstep. GOVERNMENT MOLE NABS JUDGES.
Stan received my congratulations with little enthusiasm. The atmosphere of manic secrecy had finally lapsed; there were no code words or subverted tones. Stan sat in the United States Attorney’s Office after an exhausting evening and gave me the lowdown on what had transpired last night in a weary but forthcoming fashion.