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“Even though the police have in their possession the gold Rolex one of your crooked pals stole from Baby Brownlee.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me talk,” Giacomo said reasonably. “Please don’t interrupt my chain of thought.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“I could probably even manage to convince a jury—especially after we marched all your character witnesses to the stand—your parish priest would stand up for you, wouldn’t he, Officer Prasko?”
“Absolutely. I’m sure Father—”
Giacomo held up his hand to silence him.
“I could probably convince a jury that Mr. Ketcham was doing the same thing the drug dealers were doing. I mean, after all, what’s the difference between them excep
t the color of their skin, right?”
“Ketcham is the man they say I stole money from?”
“Yes, he is. They say you stole twenty thousand dollars from him. So does he. He also says you handcuffed him to the toilet in his motel room and then raped his girlfriend.”
“That’s absolute bullshit!”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m sure I could convince a jury that an outstanding police officer such as yourself isn’t capable of committing the crimes the police say you did.”
“That’s a weight off my shoulders to hear you say that, Mr. Giacomo.”
“What you have to worry about, you despicable asshole, is what Vincenzo Savarese is going to do to you.”
“Huh?”
“The girl you made suck your cock, you contemptible pervert, is Vincenzo Savarese’s granddaughter. The only reason you’re alive at this moment is that the cops got lucky and got to you before Savarese did.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Giacomo.”
“You stupid piece of shit!” Giacomo, his face red with fury and disgust, shouted. “You’re not even smart enough to know when to stop lying, are you?”
Armando C. Giacomo stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door behind him.
He walked directly to the Coke machine against the wall and fed it some money.
Coughlin walked over to him.
“That was quick,” Coughlin said.
“I’m very good, Denny. You know that. I presume you have a stenographer on call?”
“Over there, reading the Daily News,” Coughlin said, nodding toward a middle-aged Latin woman sitting in a chair.
“I’m going to give that piece of slime a couple of minutes to ruminate on what his alternatives are, and then I will go in and offer him your deal. I would be very surprised if he declined it.”
“Thank you, Manny.”
“Between you, me, and the Coke machine, Denny, it posed a problem of personal morality for me.”
“How’s that?”
“My personal inclination was to get him off—and I really think I could have—and then let Vincenzo . . . what would almost certainly have transpired, transpire. Six years in a federal country club doesn’t strike me as a fair payback for what he did to that girl. I know her.”
