CONSPIRACY
A Bruce West Novel
by
RON SHARROW
Author of The Sword of Justice
Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2007 by Ron Sharrow. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express permission of the copyright owner. For further information, you may write or e-mail:
Ronald M. Sharrow
111 Desert Holly Dr.
Palm Desert, CA 92211
E-mail:
ronsharrow@aol.com
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. To the author’s regret, the descriptions of sexual activity are all pure flights of fantasy.
Published by Ron Sharrrow at Smashwords
Available in print through all Bookstores and on-line booksellers
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you wish to share it. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to www.Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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OTHER BOOKS BY RON SHARROW
The Sword of Justice ~ A Lawyer’s Revenge
Mistaken Identity
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In Memory of Hal & Sylvia
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PROLOGUE
Marriage and hanging go by destiny;
matches are made in heaven
Robert Burton (1621)
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11
When he jumped ship, Tariq Bandir Azzam became another of the more than twelve-million undocumented, illegal immigrants living in the United States. He left his home in the small coastal town of Latakia, Syria’s primary Mediterranean seaport, three hundred-fifty kilometers north of Damascus as a deck-hand on the Liberian registered freighter, Hajji Mohamed. The relatively small 97 ton merchant vessel was headed for the Port of Baltimore to receive a cargo of Chevrolet pick-up trucks assembled at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Dundalk, Maryland.
Before the cargo was to be loaded, the ship was scheduled for repairs to its hull at a dry dock in one of the Sparrows Point shipyards. The Universal Maritime Repair Corporation had been contracted to make the necessary repairs. While the outside repair crews worked on the ship, the ship’s crew was restricted on board and had very little to do. Tariq spent his spare time practicing his high school English with the workers as they made the repairs. He noticed that the immigration officials posted at the shipyard gates were fairly relaxed about checking the workers as they moved pretty much unrestricted in and out of the shipyard. He concluded that if he wanted to leave the ship undetected, he needed only to wait for the right opportunity to mix with a group of those workers as they were leaving the ship.
Tariq grabbed a hard hat and lunch pail that had been left unattended by one of the workers. During a shift change, disguised as one of the repair workers, he fell in with a group that was departing the ship and slipped unnoticed out of the yard into the neighboring community where he simply melted into the milieu.
He adopted the name Tony and wandered aimlessly for several blocks in randomly selected directions, having no clue where he was going or what he was going to do. He passed a restaurant that had a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. It was a minimum-wage job working in the kitchen which required no interaction with customers … it was a start. Tony asked the boss if he knew of a place where he could stay. One of the other kitchen workers said he had seen a Room for Rent sign in the window of a house around the corner and that Tony might want to check it out. The house belonged to Anna Worcziaski, a widow who had fallen upon hard times. The additional money she could earn by renting her spare bedroom was a badly needed supplement to her Social Security and the meager pension she received from the Steel Worker’s Union from which her deceased husband had retired.
So, in less than an hour from the time he jumped ship, he had secured a job in a popular seafood restaurant in Dundalk and found a fifty-dollar-a-week room within walking distance of his job. He decided that America was a great country. With his better-than-passable high school English, Tony quickly assimilated into the neighborhood, made some friends and hung out with a handful of the local ruffians.
About six months after his unauthorized departure from the Hajji Mohamed, Immigration and Naturalization Service agents looking for illegal aliens who might be employed by businesses near the shipyards caught him in their sweep of the area. He was arrested, charged and scheduled for the lengthy process of deportation. Tony somehow convinced Agent Kevin Foster of the INS that he was privy to a considerable amount of illegal drug activity among people with whom he hung out and would become an informant if they would allow him to remain free until his deportation hearing.
Thinking Tony might do the government more good on the street as an informant than if he were kept incarcerated, but primarily because of a shortage of facilities to house illegal aliens awaiting deportation, Agent Foster allowed him to remain free. He arranged for Tony to be interviewed by the Drug Enforcement Administration. The DEA agents, always alert to any possibility of obtaining inside information, agreed to use him as an unpaid informant and required him to report to them in person at least once a week.
During his first week as an informant, Tony gave information to the DEA which led to the arrest of a small-time drug dealer who was selling marijuana on the streets in East Baltimore. The dealer correctly assumed that someone in the neighborhood had squealed on him. Within hours of his arrest, he made bail and warned his compatriots that one among them could not be trusted. Since Tony was the new guy in town, not one of the regulars who were born and grew up in the streets of East Baltimore, it took little time before a cloud of suspicion cast its long shadow over him.
There were suddenly a number of compelling reasons for Tony to relocate. He was fearful of what the neighborhood punks might do to him when their suspicion turned to certainty. He had been unable to work since he was nabbed by the INS and owed nearly three weeks rent which he was unable to pay. To complicate matters further, Tony’s volunteer job as an informant was about to be terminated because he knew of no other illegal activity he could feed to his handlers from the DEA.
One day while loitering on one of the neighborhood street corners, he wandered across the street into a filling station and picked up a map of the City of Baltimore. That night, he unfolded the map on his bed to search for a new place to live. Tony studied the map intensely and settled on the northwestern suburbs of the city as the place to which he should relocate. The area was far enough from his present neighborhood to insure that he would not likely bump into any of the street hoodlums he now feared and he could reach the area by public transportation.
The next morning with no fanfare, Tony bundled his few possessions into a matched pair of brown-paper shopping bags from Mars Supermarkets, walked a few blocks to a bus stop on Fayette Street and boarded the next bus into downtown Baltimore. Of course, he didn’t bother to say goodbye to poor Mrs. Worcziaski. He couldn’t pay the rent he owed her for his room and anyway he didn’t want to tell anyone why or where he was moving. Tony also didn’t bother to say goodbye to the agents at INS or the DEA.
Less than an hour after his journey began, with only one transfer from the bus to the subway, he reached his targeted destination. Tony disembarked from the subway train in the Owings Mills station which was conveniently located within a short walk of a very large regional shopping mall. The Owings Mills Mall was a good place to start the next phase of his life in America.
He landed a job working in the kitchen of the third restaurant he wandered into. By then, he had learned that he could supply an employer with a fraudulent social security number and since employers suffer no penalty, they would hire illegal aliens without checking the validity of the number. As long as withholding taxes were deducted from the illegal’s pay, the Internal Revenue Service turned a blind eye to this practice.
Posted on the community bulletin board located just outside the door to the restaurant, was an ad for someone seeking a roommate. Lenny Spencer, the guy who was looking for a roommate, turned out to be about Tony’s age. He also worked at the mall and lived not very far away. He moved to a new neighborhood, found a new friend, a job, a place to live and transportation to and from work all in the same day. And why not? That’s how it works in America. Things were looking bright.
It didn’t take very long, however, for Tony’s good fortune and the brightness of his future to tarnish. Four months into his employment at Ruby Tuesday’s, he cut his hand with a chef’s knife severely enough to land him in the hospital as an in-patient for four days. Because the injury occurred at work, it was believed that he was entitled to Workers’ Compensation benefits. Only one barrier lay between him and the benefits. He had no green card. Had the hospital known this before he was admitted, they would probably have left him to bleed to death in the waiting area of the emergency room.
~ ~ ~
When Tony applied for temporary-total disability benefits and the hospital applied to the Maryland Injured Workers’ Compensation Fund for payment of its forty-five thousand dollar hospital bill, a routine check of Tony’s social security number revealed that the number was fraudulent. Further inquiries led to the discovery that Tony Bandir was an undocumented, illegal alien. Not only were the benefits denied, but the claims manager at the Worker’s Compensation Fund notified the immigration authorities and gave them the address Tony had listed on his claim form.
By then, it had been nearly five months, since either the DEA or INS had heard from Tony. It should come as no surprise that no one from either of the two agencies had even noticed that he was missing. It wasn’t until after the call from the claims manager at the Worker’s Comp Fund that Kevin Foster contacted the DEA to inquire whether or not they had heard from Tony. At first nobody knew who or what Foster was talking about. But after some memory jogging, the DEA agents admitted that they had completely forgotten about Tony. Both agencies cast blame upon the other for their failure to keep tabs on the illegal alien who they now decided shouldn’t have been let loose in the first place. Neither agency wanted to accept the responsibility for finding him and placing him under arrest. After much denial and negotiation, Agent Foster agreed to dispatch an agent to apprehend Tony. The following day, Tony was arrested at Lenny’s apartment and brought in handcuffs to the INS office.
“Tony, what’s with you? You promised us information about crimes that were being committed. You promised to work as an informant, but you haven’t given us shit! You disappeared on us, didn’t contact us like you promised and went to work illegally. You think we’re going to just let you stay in this country because we’re short one Syrian immigrant?” Foster demanded angrily.
“You got that drug dealer. What about that?” Tony protested.
“Big fuckin’ deal … a lousy street peddler selling grass. That was months ago. We don’t need you for that. You are in violation of the Immigration and Nationality Act. We’re going to incarcerate you until you can be deported.”
“Just give me a little more time. I found somebody who is going to help me become a citizen,” Tony begged.
“Really! Just how is this person going to do that?” Foster asked skeptically.
“He told me if I marry an American citizen, I’ll be allowed to stay here.”
“Is that right? Is he going to find you somebody to marry, too?” Foster asked sarcastically.
“Yeah, I think so. He knows somebody in Washington who will help me.”
Foster’s interest was aroused. “Did he say who this person was?”
“No, just some guy he knows in Washington.”
“Who is this person with the Washington connection?”
“I met this old Syrian guy in the hospital. It’s his daughter’s husband.”
“I hate to disillusion you, but it doesn’t work like that. You don’t become a citizen by marring an American.”
“Are you sure?” asked Tony in disbelief.
“I’m sure,” Foster answered. “Wait outside my office for a minute. I’ve got to make a phone call.”
Tony went out into the hallway and sat on a wooden bench just outside of Foster’s office. Kevin Foster flipped through the pages of his Directory of Government Agencies and found the page he sought. He ran his finger down the page until it landed on the number for the Baltimore field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The phone was answered on the third ring. “Good afternoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Can I help you?”
“Yes, this is agent Kevin Foster of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. I would like to speak to someone about initiating an investigation. Can you connect me with someone who can help me?”
“One moment, please. I will connect you to Agent Peter Rogers.”
When Agent Rogers came to the phone, Foster related the conversation he just had with Tariq “Tony” Bandir Azzam and asked if the FBI was interested in pursuing what might be a fraudulent marriage ring involving somebody well-placed in the nation’s capital.
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2
The bad thing about being a lawyer is that just about everybody hates lawyers, including most other lawyers. Even my mother tells everyone she meets that her son is a doctor, because she says, “It’s embarrassing for me to tell people you’re a lawyer; I want them to like you!” But there are some compelling reasons to be one. One good reason is that every day is always different from every other day. I wake up in the morning and all of the things that occur after I brush my teeth and drive to the office will be a surprise. Another good reason is that I can get dressed in a nice suit and wear expensive shoes knowing that I’m not going to get dirty or get my shoes all scuffed up at work. I seldom get dirt under my fingernails. I hardly ever have to lift anything heavy.
1Each day brings a new challenge, a new client with a new case, a different set of facts, a new cast of characters and a story I would never in a million years believe I’d live long enough to hear. Every new case also presents an opportunity for more money to invest in my inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness. I’ve been lucky enough to get my share of clients over the years and to accumulate the wealth and other trappings of success. I live on the twenty-first floor of The Mount Vernon Towers, a luxury apartment building in a two-bedroom and den, two and a half-bath condominium. It was lavishly appointed in traditional style furnishings by Alexander Baker, Baltimore’s premier interior-designer.
1Although the condominium is conveniently located to the Inner Harbor of downtown Baltimore and very near the building in which my office is located, I choose each day to cruise to the office in my fire engine-red, 500 SL Mercedes Benz convertible.
1I am a member of The Delta Pines Country club, an exclusive, members-only, private golf and country club. It boasts a magnificently-manicured eighteen-hole golf course, tennis courts, swimming pool, a health club with sauna, steam and whirlpool, a fully equipped gym, five restaurants, from a formal dining room to a casual outdoor grill and everything in between. Its members can take golf, tennis and swimming lessons or exercise with the assistance from the various professionals on staff. They can get a massage a haircut or a manicure.
1Fortunately, I am able to avail myself of the facilities and services several times a week and most particularly every Wednesday which has always been one of the most important days of my week. On Wednesday I play golf in a foursome of guys who have all been friends since we were little kids just learning to play the game.
1When we were all about ten years old, we lived in the same neighborhood near one of the city’s public golf courses. Bill Flanagan was the golf professional and he lived just behind the pro shop in a house provided for him by the city; he and his wife had no children. He sort of adopted all the kids and made golf an integral part of our lives. Every day after school, we would come home, drop off our books, grab our sawed-off golf clubs and head for the golf course.
1Most days, we’d hit balls on the driving range or practice chipping and putting. Often, a couple of us would gather in a field near the course and practice hitting lob shots into a bushel basket from fifty or sixty yards out. We’d bet a nickel we could hit the ball into the basket. But on Wednesday afternoons, Mr. Flanagan organized five-hole golf tournaments for us. He would award the winner a sleeve of Titleist golf balls which was a coveted prize. Those were the best balls; they cost seventy-five cents a ball, which was a sizeable fortune to a ten-year-old.
~ ~ ~
I1n my private life, unfortunately, no two days are ever the same either. The main difference between my private and my professional lives is that in my private life, the surprises often occur before I’ve even had a chance to brush my teeth. I never know when I wake up who I might find lying in bed with me. Sometimes it’s the woman I remember being with the night before, but just as often, I don’t remember anything about the night before and wonder, not only who this person is, but how she ended up in my bed. It’s very scarey!
1I’m afraid that my private life has not been quite as successful as my professional one. From the outside looking in, it would seem that I have everything. I am surrounded by the trappings of wealth, have a lucrative business, a nice home and a nice car. I’m rarely without a good-looking woman as a consort, but there is no one of any significance with whom I wish to share my toys and my economic advantages. It’s the old story of money not being able to buy happiness. Sadly the only happiness I have is what I am able to buy. Somehow, despite my inalienable rights, true happiness has eluded me.
1The institution of marriage failed to measure-up to my expectations. Perhaps my expectations were unrealistic, but they evolved from my observation of the extraordinary relationship enjoyed by my parents. They are completely devoted to each other and have created a happy and peaceful home full of love. It is a haven where one can escape from the daily pressures of life. I was totally unprepared for the realities of matrimony. So, for me, marriage was a Promethean nightmare.
1I haven’t given up on the idea of marriage, but I also haven’t made any effort to develop a serious relationship. Perhaps I have unconsciously avoided women of any real quality or at the very least, I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places. I guess one day I’ll meet a younger version of my mother with whom I can share my life. I know she’s out there somewhere. Who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll wake up and be surprised to find her lying next to me in bed. In the meantime, if you know someone who has a nice daughter or a sister who doesn’t hate lawyers, perhaps you could fix me up!
~ ~ ~1
The wrong places where I search for love include a number of local watering holes where the women are only a secondary benefit of the business I pick up from among the habitués of these fine establishments. One of my principal sources of new cases is The Bear’s Den, an ordinary looking neighborhood joint in a somewhat run-down, blue-collar part of town. It occupies the basements of two eighty-year-old row-houses. The thick, stone basement walls had been broken through to create the space.
1One enters this particular fine establishment by descending four or five steps from the sidewalk to a door several feet below the level of the street. Once inside, it is necessary to descend yet more steps from the landing inside of the door to the basement floor. Acrid smoke drifts upward in its search for an escape from the windowless edifice. A mélange of humanity stirs in the haze on the floor below to the beat of music blasting from a jukebox in the corner.
1The Den, as it is affectionately called by the hangers-on, doesn’t really qualify as a neighborhood bar, because no self-respecting, blue-collar neighbor would set foot in the place. On week-nights people are four deep at the bar and the place is literally bulging at the seams. Interestingly, not one person in the joint, including Charlie and Bill, the bartenders, lives anywhere near the Den. Therein lays its attraction … it's safe! It would be highly unlikely to accidentally bump into an acquaintance from one’s real life.
The Bear's Den patrons are mostly married, but not to each other and live in Pikesville, an exclusive, upscale, upper-middle class, white collar, professional enclave on the other side of town. I hang out at the Den on Wednesday nights and am known by most of the denizens who seek me out to extricate them from the quagmire of their various legal problems.
So, you see why Wednesdays are really special … golf with my buddies in the afternoon and the Den in the evening. I can win up to six bucks on the golf course and usually pick up a couple of new cases at night. In addition, I’m always meeting potential new clients and more often than not, taking home one of the secondary benefits of hanging out in such places.
1There are other places where I also hang out for the same essential purposes. On Monday nights, there’s Louie’s, a trendy tavern in historic Fells Point. The area pre-dates the American Revolution by nearly one hundred and ten years. It is home to the oldest surviving residence in Baltimore built in 1765. The Fell’s Point shipyard built the Virginia, the first frigate of the Continental Navy in 1775 and the U.S.S. Constellation in 1797. That ship sits proudly today as a museum in the Inner Harbor of downtown Baltimore.
I can usually be found on the Thirteenth Floor of The Belvedere Hotel in the Mount Vernon neighborhood on Tuesday nights. On Thursday nights, everybody who is anybody hangs out at the Pimlico Hotel Lounge in Pikesville of all places. It’s odd that nobody from the other side of town hangs out there. It makes one wonder where the cheaters from those neighborhoods go to avoid being seen by the people they know. Each place has its own brand of characters with their own brand of troubles. And I’m always right there in the thick of things to come to their rescue or once again take home one of the ancillary benefits.
~ ~ ~
B1ecause of the places I haunt and the kinds of people I meet in them, my practice is rather generalized and I specialize in whatever kind of case happens to come into the office next. So I handle more than my share of divorces and custody battles which are my least favorite type cases. In those cases, good results are measured by the degree of unhappiness the parties are with the outcome. My clients never think the result was as good as they thought it should be and the opposing parties always think they got screwed. That is the measure of a good result. A happy party in a domestic case means someone did a lousy job.
My practice also generates a lot of personal injury cases … auto accidents, worker’s compensation, malpractice and products liability cases. These, for the most part, require the least amount of lawyer time and produce the highest per hour-rate of fees. The personal injury cases are the ones that pay the bills and buy the toys.
But, my favorites are the criminal cases. First of all, in theory at least, I’ve been paid up-front, so my income is not dependent on the outcome of the case as in personal injury cases where the fees are a percentage of the recovery and contingent upon the outcome.
1More important though and the real reason these are my favorite cases, is that criminal trials get my creative juices flowing and stimulate my mind. They afford an opportunity to climb into the heads of witnesses, dance with their minds and keep them off balance and to challenge and alter their recollection of events. It’s rewarding to toy with the minds of jurors and influence their thought processes. It is a challenge to create doubts where there are none, to twist the jurors’ perceptions of reality and mold the facts into the truth as I want it to be seen. It requires me to think on my feet and be a skilled extemporaneous speaker. It’s fun!
The dens of iniquity are not the only source of my business, however. I pride myself in doing a workmanlike job for my clients. I take my responsibilities to my clients seriously and demand perfection from myself. My clients, for the most part, appreciate the good job that I do for them and not only return to me for representation when they have future problems, but refer their friends, family and neighbors to me for help with their legal difficulties.
~ ~ ~
O1n this particular morning, I awoke and was surprised to find I was the only person in my bed. I actually remembered the night before and recalled that the bed was also empty when I got into it. Otherwise, I might have spent the better part of the morning searching for the missing person and trying to figure out who she was. I got up, stumbled into the kitchen, my least favorite room in the condo and brewed myself a fresh cup of coffee with the instant hot and a spoonful of Taster’s Choice decaffeinated instant coffee which I carried back to the bathroom to drink while I was getting ready for work.
I climbed into the shower, a place that harbors fond memories of Jennifer, who was one of last year’s secondary benefits from the Bear’s Den. The coffee was the perfect drinking temperature by the time I finished my shower.
1I donned an expensive Canali, medium-grey suit with a thin chalk-stripe, a white, narrow-collared shirt and scoured the closet for the perfect matching tie. I slipped my grey-stockinged feet into a pair of black ostrich, lace-up shoes, grabbed my Tumi briefcase and headed for the elevator that would whisk me to my red two-seated chariot.
We … me and my SL … sailed down the Jones Falls Expressway the few exits to Fayette Street, took the westbound ramp, traveled only four blocks and wheeled into the subterranean parking garage of the twenty story office-tower where the office of C. Bruce West, Esquire is located. Every man’s lawyer and friend, C. Bruce West … that’s me! I slipped into my assigned parking spot, walked a few steps to the elevator that would take me to the lobby of the building where I then transferred to the one that whisked me to the fifteenth floor.
1The elevator doors slid open and I stepped into the reception room of the suite of offices I share with three other lawyers. Our suite occupies the entire floor which is really not a big deal. The top floors of the building are rather narrow and the suite is only about eighteen-hundred square feet. We have a beautiful conference room, a well-equipped law library, a combination file and storage room, four spacious and elegantly furnished private offices and the reception area which is large enough to comfortably accommodate our secretaries, all of the necessary office equipment and a tastefully appointed waiting area for the clients.
Kelly, who has been my secretary almost since I first went into private practice, greeted me with a big smile as I got off the elevator. She is captain of the watch, the protector of the fortress, confidant, straight man, office manager, receptionist, bookkeeper, paralegal, messenger, chauffeur, confessor and whatever else may be demanded of her from time to time.
She is happily and comfortably married to a super guy and has two adorable little kids. She's one of seven children from an Irish-Catholic family whose parents taught their children by example to adhere to an almost extinct work ethic. If the job is from nine to five, get in at eight-thirty and leave at six. If the work isn't done, take it home with you; when you have a good job, work there until you die. If your boss is under fire, stand in front of him to take the bullets. That's Kelly … dedicated, loyal, honest, committed, protective and dependable. Whoever said a dog is a man's best friend, couldn't possibly have known anyone like Kelly. Her desk is situated just outside of my office door.
“You’re looking fresh and dapper this morning,” she commented. “No action last night, huh?”
“I needed a rest. Do we have any real coffee?”
“Just brewed a fresh pot, I’ll bring you a cup. Your messages are on your desk. Do you remember Kim Steiner?” she asked, as she headed for the coffee-maker.
“Yeah, wasn’t she that cute little gal who worked for the FBI? The one that got rear-ended leaving the Bear’s Den last year? We got her a good settlement, didn’t we? What about her?”
As she handed me my coffee mug, Kelly replied, “She called just a few minutes ago. Said she needed to speak with you. It sounded as if it might be important. You may want to call her first.”
“Will you get her for me, please?”
No sooner had I flopped into my leather desk chair, when Kelly buzzed me on the intercom, “Kim on line two.”
I pressed the blinking button on the phone, raised the receiver to my ear with my left hand and skillfully raised the coffee mug to my lips with the right hand.
1“Hi, Kim, how are you? How’s your neck?” I asked between sips.
“I’m doing pretty good … the neck is fine. Dr. Wheaton fixed me up like new.”
1“I’m happy to hear that. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly call for myself. It’s my father. He was arrested the day before yesterday by the FBI.”
“What did he do?”
1“I don’t know. He refuses to discuss it. My mother and my brothers are all upset. I thought the best thing would be for him to just get a lawyer to handle it,” she said rather dejectedly.
“Don’t you still work for the FBI?”
1“Yes, but I haven’t been able to find out anything. Nobody will talk to me about it and apparently it’s something that has been in the works for some time. I’ve been kept totally out of the loop.”
“Well, do you want to bring him down to the office? I’ll have Kelly make an appointment for you.”
“He’s not going to want me to come with him. I think he’s too embarrassed about the whole thing and doesn’t want any of us to know what it’s about. I’ll make the appointment for him and tell him how to get to your office. His name is Joseph … my mother calls him Joey, but everyone else calls him Joe. Do you think you’ll be able to help him? How much do you think all of this going to cost? We don’t have a lot of money.”
“Well, let’s get him into the office so I can talk with him and find out what it’s all about. You were a good client, so I won’t charge him for the initial consultation. When I know more, I’ll be able to tell what needs to be done and about how much that should cost.”
“Thanks a lot Bruce,” she said with a sigh of relief.
“Don’t worry too much about it. I’ll get Kelly on the line to make an appointment for him. I can see him most any time that’s convenient for him. Hang on a second.”
I placed the call on hold and hollered out to Kelly to pick up the phone and 1make an appointment for Joe Steiner.
“Why don’t you use the intercom?” Kelly hollered back. “I know you understand how it works!”
“It’s easier to just holler,” I replied. “I’ll save it for when we have clients in the office. I don’t want to wear it out prematurely … one day we’ll really need it and it won’t work.”
~•~•~
3
At two o’clock, after I had returned from my leisurely two-hour lunch, Kelly buzzed me on the intercom and announced the arrival of Joseph Steiner.
“Bring him right in,” I told her.
I stood and walked around my desk to greet him as Kelly ushered Mr. Steiner into my office. I reached for his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Sir. Please … have a seat.” I offered nodding toward one of the two chairs in front of my desk. “Can we get you anything to drink, a cup of coffee, tea … water?” I felt like a stewardess on American Airlines.
“Coffee would be great … thank you. Please call me Joe … that’s what everybody calls me, except my wife; she calls me Joey … cute, huh?”
As I recalled, Kim was a cute, light complected blonde. She must take 1after her mother I reasoned, because I don’t recall her looking anything like her father. He was rotund and had a dark, swarthy complexion. His heavy, dark, stubble-beard was well beyond a five o’clock shadow and it was only two o’clock. He sported a head of thick, black, unruly hair that hadn’t been bothered too much by a comb in recent times and he was wearing ill-fitting clothes. The buttons on his shirt were threatening to pop off with his next deep breath. He was sweating and obviously nervous and uncomfortable.
I started by getting his personal information … his middle name, address, phone number, age and social security number to help put him at ease. I learned that he was fifty-six years old, but he looked a lot older. He owned a small retail store in Washington, D.C. and drove the forty-four-mile trip from his home to work each morning and then back home again each evening, six days a week. Kim was his oldest child. His middle child, Sam, worked with him in the store. The youngest child, Harvey, was a senior in high school. His wife’s name was Sarah. Both Joe and Sarah were from families of Syrian Jews who emigrated in nineteen thirty-one, right around the time things began to heat up before the Second World War. They were both first generation Americans.
“How did you end up owning a store in Washington?” I asked.
“I was a salesman for a small-appliance distributor and the owner of the store was one of my customers. He died and his widow offered to sell me the store cheap. It was a good deal, so I bought it.”
“That’s some schlep every day isn’t it?”
“I already had the house in Baltimore; the kids were in school here. Their friends were here, so I do what I have to do.”
“You have to fight the traffic on both beltways, twice a day? It must take you two hours each way.”
“It’s not that bad. The store opens at ten, so I leave about eight-thirty. I catch the rush-hour traffic on 695, but I’m only on the Capitol Beltway the short distance to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway which takes me to New York Avenue into downtown D.C. I close the store at six, so most of the rush-hour traffic leaving Washington has cleared out and by the time I reach the Baltimore Beltway, it’s clear. So it takes me about an hour and a half to get to work and a little over an hour to get home.”
“So, Joe, Kim tells me you’ve gotten into some kind of mess with the FBI. What’s it all about?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ve heard plenty of stupid stories. What exactly have they accused you of?”
“It’s a long story,” he began. “It started when my father-in-law had a heart attack about three or four months ago. He was taken to Baltimore County General Hospital where they put him in a semi-private room. He was in bad shape and in fact, he died about six weeks later.”
“Does this have something to do with your father-in-law?” I asked.
“Well, indirectly,” he continued. “My father-in-law was from Syria and he spoke Arabic. While he was in the hospital, a young Syrian kid who had cut his hand really bad at work was placed in the bed next to him. They were able to talk with each other in Arabic and became sort of friendly. The kid also tried to make friends with us whenever we were in the hospital.”
Joe took a sip of his coffee and continued with the story. He appeared to be a little more relaxed as he related the tale. “The family went to visit my father-in-law every day, mostly in the evenings, after I got home from the store. Each time we went there, this kid would start making conversations with us. It sounded like he wanted us to adopt him.”
“Do you speak Arabic?” I asked.
“No … why?”
“You said he spoke Arabic with your father-in-law. Did he also speak English?”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” Joe responded. “Actually, his English was pretty good. All those kids learn English as a second language in high school.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I commented to him about his English and that’s what he told me,” he explained.
“How old was this kid?”
1“I guess he was in his early twenties, close to Sam’s age.”
“What was his name?”
“He told us his name was Tony, but that’s not a very Syrian sounding name.”
“What kind of things did he talk to you about?”
“He told us that he was a sailor on a merchant ship and jumped ship while it was in dry dock out at Sparrows Point in the shipyard. He got a job working in the kitchen at a restaurant somewhere in Dundalk. I don’t know the name of the restaurant. that’s how he cut his hand … working with a sharp knife in the kitchen of this restaurant.”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of strange?”
“What?”
“That he would get injured in Dundalk and end up in Baltimore County General, all the way on the other side of the county?”
“Never even thought about it … I could’ve sworn he said the restaurant was in Dundalk. Anyway, he kept telling us how much he liked it in this country and how he wanted to become an American citizen. He asked me if I knew of any way he could stay here and not have to go back to Syria.”
“What did you tell him?”
1“I told him he should marry an American citizen … then he could stay here.”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“I didn’t know … It’s what I thought, but I found out it’s not so simple. Well, like I told the kid, I knew this guy in Washington who I thought had done it that way …you know … married a citizen.”
“So what else did he talk to you about?”
“He 1 said he didn’t know anybody in this country. He kept telling us how lonely he was and asked if he could come to our home after he got out of the hospital and maybe have dinner with us. He hoped he could pal around with Sammy and maybe even go out with Kim. He wanted to be like part of our family.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Well what was I supposed to say? I felt a little sorry for him and I said it would be okay if he called us after he got out of the hospital.”
“So, did he call?”
“Well, my father-in-law was released from the hospital, but he was too sick to go home, so he came to stay with us where Sarah could take care of him and he wouldn’t be alone. He was there, I guess about a couple of weeks and we got a call from this Tony.”
“What did he want?”
“I never talked to him. I’m tired when I come home from work. I don’t want to talk on the phone. I just want to sit in my chair in the den, have a couple of shots of bourbon and watch television. But, Sarah talked to him.”
“Did you find out what he said to Sarah?”
“Yeah, she said he started out asking about how her father was doing and said he’d like to come and visit him, because he was the only person he knew who he could speak with in Arabic. Then he more or less invited himself over and showed up when we were ready to sit down to dinner. We couldn’t very well eat without inviting him to stay and have dinner with us.”
“What happened while he was at your house?”
“The little prick starts telling us that he is afraid he’s going to get caught by the immigration people and sent back to Syria. He was asking all kinds of questions about if we knew how he could stay in this country or if we knew anybody who could help him.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Well, like I told you, I like to come home, have a couple of drinks and watch TV. This particular night, I guess I had more than just a couple of drinks. I’d say I got myself good and shit-faced, which really ain’t nobody else’s business anyway. I was in my own house, for Christ’s sake and I can do whatever the hell I want there, right?”
“So then, what did you tell him?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I repeated what I told him in the hospital.”
“What, that he needed to marry an American citizen and that way they couldn’t deport him?” I asked.
“Yeah, so he asks if I know anybody that he can marry. Do you believe it?”
“Did you know anybody that would marry him?”
“What? Are you kidding me? What did I want to get involved with this little shit for? He was a real pain-in-the-ass. Then he asks me if I can find out for him what he needs to do?”
“So, what did you tell him he needed to do?”
“I wanted to get rid of him, so I told him I’d talk to my guy in Washington.”
“Whom did you know in Washington that might know something about the immigration laws?”
“The guy I was talking about … Gus Panos. He’s a Greek guy that owns the coffee shop next to my store. I thought he was an immigrant and he married a U.S. citizen so he could stay in the country. I figured if the kid kept pestering me, I’d ask Gus what the kid should do or maybe even have the kid call him.”
“So then what happened?”
“Sarah’s father passed away about three weeks after he came to stay with us. This Tony actually called the house while we were sitting Shiva and went on about how he really didn’t want to be sent back to Syria … asked me if I talked to the guy in Washington yet. Well, every day this Tony called to see if I talked to my guy in Washington. I told him he was out of town and I couldn’t get hold of him, but he’d call the next night and insist on talking to me. I didn’t want to talk to him. Sarah would holler to me that he was on the phone and I’d tell her to tell him I wasn’t there. I’d tell her to tell him he should call me the next day at the store.”
1“Did he call you the next day at the store?”
“Yeah, he called me at the store and I told him I had some information, but I left it at home. Then he’d call me at home and I told him that I made a mistake that it was really at the store. And this kept going on practically every day.”
“So did you ever talk to Gus?”
“Eventually I asked him how he managed to stay in the country. He told me that he got some kind of special card and that you have to live here for … I forget how many years.”
“A green card,” I interrupted.
“Yeah, that’s it … a green card. And he told me all this stuff he did to become a citizen which didn’t have anything to do with marrying somebody who was a citizen. That’s how I found out it isn’t so easy.”
“So what did you tell Tony?”
“I kept making up stuff to get rid of him. So I told him that I talked to my guy in Washington and that he said it would cost ten thousand dollars to arrange this and for him not to call me anymore, not until he had the ten thousand in cash. I figure this kid could never come up with that kind of money and that would be the end of it.”
“Apparently, that wasn’t the end of it, was it?”
“Are you kidding me? About a week later he calls one night and says to me that he’s got the ten thousand; could he bring it right over?”
“So what did you say?”
“At first, I didn’t even know what the hell he was talking about. I didn’t remember even telling him about the money. I figured it was over and completely forgot about it. I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. How the hell could this kid come up with that kind of money?”
“So what did you say to him?”
“I acted like I didn’t believe him at first. Then he convinced me that he really had the money. So, I told him not to bring it to me, because I didn’t have a safe place to keep it. I told him to hold onto it and I would check with my guy in Washington about what he should do next.”
“What did you do next?”
“I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t figure out how I was going to get rid of this kid. Well, the next day this woman I know in Washington came to the store … she drops in about once a week and we’re like friends … I mean … we have lunch sometimes. She came into the store to have lunch, so I told her what was going on and asked her if she had any ideas about how to get rid of this Tony. I asked her if she could think of anything to help me blow him off once and for all.”
“What’s this woman’s name?”
“I hate to involve her in this, but she was also arrested, so I guess there’s no way I can keep her out of it. Her name is Rita Cummings.”
“How old is she?”
“She’s in her thirties.”
“And what kind of work does she do in Washington?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think she sells cars.”
“So, how do you know her?”
“I’ve known her a few years … met her in the coffee shop next door. We’re sort of friends. She comes into the store … sometimes just to talk and sometimes we go out to lunch.”
“Sounds like you’re screwing her about once a week too, aren’t you?” I said with a big grin on my face.
“It’s not exactly like that. We’re not having an affair or anything like that … I’m an old man. I’ve been married to Sarah forever; I’ve got three kids and a nice house … I love my wife.”
“So what do you do … pay her for the sex?”
“Well, no. I don’t pay her money for the sex. I give her a couple hundred bucks every now and then, but not for the sex … just to help her out … I mean I don’t want you to think she’s a hooker or anything like that.”
“Okay, so did Rita have any ideas about offing this Tony?”
“She suggested that I arrange for her to meet the kid in a public place somewhere in Washington. Then she’d tell him that she used to arrange marriages, but that you can’t do it that way anymore and he should find some other way to stay in the country, maybe call one of those immigration lawyers who advertise on television.”
“What did you think of that idea?”
“Frankly I didn’t give a shit what she told him, as long as she could get him off my back. So I thought what the hell … I’d try anything.”
“So what happened next?”
“The kid kept calling and I told him I was working on it. Each time he called, he wanted to come to the house and bring me the money. Then one night he just showed up at the door. He walked into the den and pulled out this wad of money and said, ‘Here Mr. S. I don’t think you believe me. Here’s the money.’ ”
“So what did you do?”
“What did I do? I was in the den, sitting in my chair, having my bourbon and he shoved it toward me. I pushed his hand away and said, ‘Jesus Christ put that away. I don’t want it.’ I told him, ‘Hold onto it until I can make the arrangements.’ Then he asked me how much longer this was going to take. I told him to stop pestering me or I was going to just forget the whole thing.”
“Did he stop pestering you?
“Well, I was so shook up about him bringing that money to the house, that the next day I called Rita and said you got to help me out with this before I go crazy. She said she’d give it some more thought and call me back.”
“Did she figure something out?”
“She called me back later in the day and gave me a phone number. She said it was the number of a payphone on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Nineteenth Street in Dupont Circle. She said to give him that phone number and tell him to go to Washington and call it at exactly twelve o’clock the next day. She would be waiting for the call. When he called, she would agree to meet him someplace close by and then she would tell him that he couldn’t become a citizen that way anymore … and that would be the end of it.”
“Okay, so what went wrong?”
“Nothing went wrong. She went to the phone booth the next day and waited for his call. At twelve o’clock, two FBI agents grabbed her on the street near the payphone and arrested her. At the same time, two agents came to my store and arrested me. And that’s all I know.”
“What did the agents tell you about why you were being arrested?”
“They said I was under arrest for violation of the immigration laws. I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. You know Kim works for the FBI, for Christ’s sake. I asked Kim to see if she could find out what it was all about, but nobody’ll tell her anything.”
“Does Rita have a lawyer representing her?”
“I’m not sure. She said she was going to get one, but I haven’t talked to her in the last couple days.”
“What do you suppose happened to the ten thousand dollars?”
“I know I never touched it. Rita never even got to see the kid, so I guess he still has it. I’ll bet that little prick told the FBI he gave it to me. That’s probably what happened. I’ll bet they finally caught up to the little bastard and he told them some tale about me taking his money. So what do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. You have the papers that the FBI agents gave you when you were arrested?”
“Right here,” he said as he handed me the copy of the charging document. “The guy also told me when I was ready to talk, to give him a call and handed me this.”
He handed me a business card from the Federal Bureau of Investigation with the name and contact number for Agent Peter Rogers. I skimmed the documents and determined that he had been charged with conspiracy to violate Title 18 of the United States Code, Section 1546(a). “At this preliminary stage,” I said, “I think that a conference with the lead agent would probably be a good idea. If you’ve told me everything that actually happened, I can’t imagine that the government would proceed to trial with this thing. Of course, at this point I don’t know what that section of the code involves, but I will research it and see if I can get a better understanding of what the hell they’re talking about.”
“Do you think I should tell my wife about Rita?”
“No. I wouldn’t do that just yet. Let’s wait and see what happens.”
“So how much is all this going to cost me?”
“I frankly don’t see this as being very serious. I’m going to estimate that to do the little bit of research I talked about, to arrange a meeting with the FBI agent and go to that meeting, won’t be more than a thousand dollars. I would really be surprised if it went beyond that.”
He asked me if a check would be okay. I though better of asking him if he thought the Pope was Catholic.
~•~•~
4
M1r. Steiner left the office and I went into the library to check out Title 18, Section 1546(a) of the United States Code that Joe is alleged to have conspired to violate. Section 1546(a), concerned the illegality of sham marriages for the purpose of avoiding the regulations required to gain permanent resident status in the United States. The penalty for conspiracy to violate that section of the code was five-years imprisonment and a two hundred-fifty thousand dollar fine.
Interestingly, I found out that the only effect of marriage by an immigrant to a U.S. citizen is to shorten the time required to obtain a green card by excluding the person from the numerical quotas. The green card still would not become permanent and the road to permanent resident status was a long one. I gathered the notes I had taken during my meeting with Steiner and gave them to Kelly to create a case file. I also gave her the FBI business card and asked her to see if she could track down Agent Peter Rogers.
It was already past four and as I suspected the chance of finding a government employee still working at this hour was slim. As I predicted, Agent Rogers had already left for the day. Kelly said she’d try again as soon as I got in the next day.
The day thus far had produced two professional surprises … Mr. S and Frank Valente who got nailed for driving while intoxicated last week after he left Louie’s at two in the morning. My private life hadn’t even begun and I was looking forward to the surprises that awaited me at the Pimlico Hotel later that evening.
~ ~ ~
That evening, the Pimlico Hotel generated a couple of nice surprises too. I got there about ten o’clock and ran into Carl, one of my divorced friends who happened to be stuck with two dates. They were roommates, who it turned out lived just down the street from my apartment in one of the brownstones on Saint Paul Street. Both girls were about twenty-something. The one that my friend was putting the moves on was a dynamite looking brunette with an outstanding body named Maureen. Her roommate was an interesting-looking, skinny, red-head named Donna. She was a bit tall for my taste, but had a cute freckled nose and sumptuous, pouting lips.
Carl was looking for a way to separate them so he could capture Maureen and spirit her away to his castle. He prevailed upon me to entertain Donna for the rest of the evening and since she lived so near me, take her home. Normally, I would have had no objection to this arrangement, but as luck would have it, Kim Steiner was also there. I hadn’t seen her since I settled her accident case and I would have liked to spend a little time talking to her. I readily admit that my interest in her was not limited to her father’s welfare.
1She was a lot prettier than what I remembered. She was a tiny little thing … I’d guess no more then five feet, maybe a hundred pounds, had short curly strawberry-blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, a great smile and nice straight teeth.