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“Unless we can have somebody on the Five Squad turn state’s witness, all we have on them is the testimony of drug dealers in the one case we really know about, what happened at the Howard Johnson motel last Thursday. Juries are funny, Jerry. If the defense brings in weeping cops’ wives and scared-looking kids in the courtroom, what a lot of jurors might decide is that ‘fuck the drug dealers, they got what was coming to them.’ ”
Carlucci’s face tightened, but he didn’t say anything.
“They’re going to look like good cops to the jury, Jerry,” Lowenstein said. “I went over their arrest records last night. Lots of good busts, lots of convictions. A couple of them got hurt. All that will have to be made available to the defense, and it can’t help but impress
a jury.”
“On that subject,” Mike Weisbach said. “The defense—”
“The goddamn FOP!” the mayor exploded. “I am unable to believe that one cop in five hundred wants his FOP dues used to defend scumbags like these!”
“They call that, Jerry, ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ ” Callis said.
Carlucci glowered at him.
“In this case, it’s moot,” Weisbach said. “ ‘Armando C. Giacomo for the defense, your honor.’ Manny does it pro bono; it won’t cost the FOP a dime.”
“Jesus!” the mayor said.
“When did you find that out?” Coughlin asked.
“About thirty minutes ago,” Weisbach said. “He called Sabara—I guess he heard they were picked up by Special Operations—and Mike passed him on to me. He wants to know where he can speak with them at half past ten.”
“How the hell did Giacomo get involved so quickly?”
“I think he calls the FOP and makes himself available when he has some free time,” Callis said. “All that does is reinforce my argument that unless we can get at least one of the Five Squad to roll over, the testimony of a couple of drug guys like Williams and Brownlee probably isn’t going to be enough.”
“If Manny Giacomo talks to any of these guys at half past ten, at ten forty-five, Vincenzo Savarese will have their names,” Lowenstein said.
“He’d get the names eventually anyway,” Coughlin said. “But I’d much prefer later than sooner. Maybe I can talk to him.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Denny,” the mayor said.
“I think it’s worth the effort. When I spoke to Savarese this morning, he made it pretty clear he intends to whack the guy who raped his granddaughter.”
“It would be nice, wouldn’t it, if we caught him doing that?” Carlucci said. “This scumbag would get what he deserves, and we’d have Savarese on premeditated murder.”
“The philosophy of that aside, Jerry,” Lowenstein said, “Savarese wouldn’t whack Prasko. And he would be in church with the archbishop when one of his thugs did.”
Wohl saw that Carlucci was going to angrily respond to that, and jumped into the conversation:
“There was some good news from Harrisburg,” Wohl said. “Matt Payne got into the safe-deposit box they were using. Got a statement that Calhoun, Timothy J., was the only one with access to the box, in which there was probably forty thousand dollars—maybe more—and a gold Rolex that Baby Brownlee says was stolen from him last Thursday night.”
“And?” the mayor asked.
“That may be enough to convince Calhoun that the thing for him to do is roll over,” Wohl said. “I told Payne to get Calhoun back here as soon as he can, and to take him directly to Jason Washington.”
“Who is where right now? Washington, I mean?” Carlucci asked.
“South Detectives,” Coughlin said.
“Doing what?”
“Trying to pick the right moment to let Prasko know what he did to the girl, and what Savarese is going to do to him unless he can hide out in some nice safe federal prison.”
“I thought we had the guy he locked up in the NIKE site? An eyewitness to the rape? What happened to him?”
“I told Washington to wait until we saw what happened in Harrisburg,” Wohl said. “Then we let Prasko know we have the money, maybe a rolled-over Calhoun and Ronald R. Ketcham, who saw him rape the girl.”
