“Except it didn’t remove the profit motive; it just shifted it.”
“Where?”
“To law enforcement. They get to keep a lot of the stuff,” said Danny. “Sure, there’s a general fund where it’s supposed to go to remove the temptation, but there are ways around it. Few people realize how many top public officials are driving around in sporty luxury cars that were originally bought with cocaine money.”
Brook stopped writing. “That can’t be true. Where’d you hear all this?”
“From the newspapers. The ACLU wrote an editorial. Doesn’t anybody read anymore?”
“Not really.” Brook put pen to paper again. “And the ACLU will never win a popularity contest in this state, or any other.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” said Danny. “But I learned something else. A certain percentage of drug defendants had good lawyers who got them acquitted on the smuggling charges, then won appeals to get their seized property back. The police lost their stuff. So unscrupulous officials figured they had a better chance of keeping the forfeited goods if they just let the drug dealers go and never charged them. What criminal who just got a free walk on hard time is going to come back and appeal a forfeiture?”
“This is actually happening?” asked Brook.
Darkness descended over Aventura. Shouting down on the street outside the law office. Colored lights and screeching tires.
“You do the math,” said Danny. “An incident begins with a trafficker getting pulled over, and it concludes with the criminal driving away, and the cops keeping all his money. That’s like a bribe.”
“Technically it’s extortion,” said Brook. “But I have to be honest: This is painful for me to listen to.” She tilted her head toward the photo on the wall. “My dad was a firefighter, and both his brothers wore the badge, along with a bunch of other relatives and neighbors. None of them would ever conceive of this conduct.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
“Didn’t say that,” replied Brook. “Despite what you may see in movies and on TV about the Blue Wall of Silence, the one thing good cops really hate is bad cops.”
“Then you’ll call this family I know?”
“Except for a single detail,” said Brook. “What’s drug-smuggling forfeiture have to do with migrant workers?”
“Think about it,” said Danny. “Besides drug dealers, who else will never come forward to appeal a seizure?”
“Illegal immigrants,” said Brook, beginning to nod. “I can connect the rest of the dots. Since these workers don’t have bank accounts, every time they move on to the next town, their life savings are in the car. All a crooked department has to do is look for a vehicle full of poor Latinos packed to the roof with all their possessions . . . Uh, but . . .”
“There a problem?” asked Danny.
“The case has a drug angle that the city’s attorneys are sure to exploit, and that’s way outside my field.” Brook picked up the phone. “I need some expert advice on case law, and luckily I know just the attorney—”
More yelling outside. Sirens. A swirl of colored lights shone up into the law office.
Brook stared at the ceiling. “Is this a disco?”
“It doesn’t look like all those colors are from emergency vehicles,” said Danny.
Then the screaming became so loud it could no longer be ignored.
Brook hung up the phone and went to the window. “What on earth is going on out there?”
The others joined her, looking at a fire truck and several police cars. Curiosity got the best of them, and they trotted down the stairs into the parking lot.
“Excuse me, Officer,” said Brook. “I work late hours upstairs. Is there anything I need to be concerned about?”
The officer watched as two Korean women were loaded onto stretchers. A half-dozen others sat on the curb in handcuffs. “Apparently they figured out how to use depilatory lasers as handheld weapons.”
Chapter 11
Negotiations
The TV trucks began arriving on an otherwise quiet neighborhood street in southern Sarasota County. Reporters clamored for information as officers kept them back behind the ropes.
A female correspondent held a microphone out to a sergeant. “You’ve got to give us something.”
“All I can say at this time is that there’s a standoff, but we have our best negotiating team inside.”
Inside: Rog sat tensely in a straight-backed chair, staring down the barrel of a gun. “W-w-why won’t you let me leave?”
“Because we haven’t gotten our free pizza yet,” said Serge. “Everyone knows if you take a hostage, you get free pizza. I didn’t make the rules.”
Coleman toked a roach. “And free drugs, too.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “One of the reasons they give you free pizza is to lace it with phenobarbital so you’ll go to sleep.”
“The key is to know your tolerance,” said Coleman. “And mix it with uppers.”
Serge pulled out a notepad. “Rog, what’s your pleasure?”
“Huh?”
“On your pizza?”
“I really don’t care.”
“Okay, you can pick off the stuff you don’t like . . . Coleman?”
“The usual.”
Serge grabbed the phone. “We’re ready for our free pizza . . . Two large pies, the works on one, extra phenobarbital on the other . . . Crust? Let’s go with garlic-butter this time . . . No, we don’t want to add wings or a two-liter bottle of Pepsi to make it a combo . . . Okay.” He hung up. “They said up to an hour because of traffic.”
More whimpering. “I just want to leave.”
Serge aimed the remote control at the TV. “You don’t like Route 66? But it can be enjoyed on so many different levels. Frankly, I can just watch it with the sound off and appreciate the magnificent period black-and-white footage of our tragically lost landmarks. Let’s fast-forward!” Serge hit a button on the remote. “Here’s Guy Lombardo’s famous Port O’ Call Resort in Tierra Verde, where Tod hooks up with a female powerboat racer while showing model homes in a new development . . . and that’s the old Tampa Fronton in 1963. Look at what a tiny street Dale Mabry Highway was back then, and check out their rooming house on Bayshore Boulevard, where the guys befriend a jai alai player who’s actually a Cuban dissident. The show really hit its intellectual stride when they got to Florida . . . And here’s the Nautilus Motel in Cape Coral from the episode where Linc is taken hostage. Isn’t that ironic?”
“Please let me go.”
“You’re dwelling.” Serge walked to the window and picked up the phone again. “I see you all have Dunkin’ Donuts coffee out there. Bring two to the door immediately. I don’t care if they already have spit on the rim. Either ask for volunteers to give theirs up or pick a couple guys who aren’t carrying their weight. Later.” He hung up again and snapped his fingers. “Earth to Rog? You’re fading out.”
“I really want to surrender now.”
“Okay, okay,” said Serge. “Then negotiate it.”
“How?”
“Well, one of history’s best negotiators for my money was former U.S. senator George Mitchell, who hammered out the breakthrough Good Friday Belfast peace accords in 1998. You know his most brilliant tactic? He’d gather everyone together, and his only ground rule for the first day was that nobody could discuss what they were there to discuss.”
“I’m confused,” said Rog.
“Pure genius!” said Serge. “Imagine mortal enemies meeting for the first time, and there are hundreds of dead relatives on both sides. In stand-up comedy, they call that ‘a tough room.’ So Mitchell said bullshit on how it’s been done before: We’re going to talk about our kids and sports and movies and how we suspect that all weather forecasters, regardless of race or creed, are just making the shit up. I think they also got free pizza. Then, on the second day, they’re now pals: ‘You know all this killing-each-other stupidness that’s been going around?’ ‘Yeah, what’s the deal with that?’ . . .”