Just a few steps from the rear of the courthouse, Umberto’s Clam House was put on the map years ago when Colombo family kingpin Joey Gallo was shot to death in the middle of his lunch, his face slamming straight down into a plateful of spaghetti alle vongole.
“Suit yourself, Pat. I prefer Midtown myself. Mercer and Ryan were planning on lunch at Sparks Steak House,” I said. I knew he’d catch the reference to Big Paulie Castellano, who took six bullets to the head on his way in to a holiday dinner on East 46th one snowy night. “Fine dining and murder often go hand in hand. Ellen, do you have the indictment ready?”
Restaurants and mob murders. Maybe that’s what Gina Varona had been so defensive about last night.
“Yes,” Ellen said. “I’ve got a copy for each of you.”
Four pairs of legal eyes in the room should guarantee that there were no errors. Date and time of occurrence in the county of New York, victim and perp named, and the precise tracking of the penal code definitions that would stand up to a defense motion to inspect and dismiss. We spent the better part of the next hour scouring the document to catch every possible typo and correct two minor substantive errors.
“Will you take Ellen with you to the grand jury for the foreman’s signature?” Pat asked me.
“Sure. Then we’ll file it in the kitchen,” as the busy court clerk’s office was known, “and be ready for the arraignment at three. I assume you want Ellen to stand up for the bail application in front of Donnelly?”
Ellen grimaced. “Ugh, she’s so tough.”
“But she’s smart and she’s fair. We couldn’t ask for a better judge.”
Once the indictment was filed and Mohammed Gil-Darsin was formally charged as a felon, the case would be moved to a higher court-New York State Supreme-and his lawyer would be able to renew his bail application in front of this judge.
Mercer’s cell rang and he walked to the window to answer it. We all paused and looked over at him. “What news from France?”
He listened again while Ryan Blackmer raised his eyebrows. Then Mercer pointed at the TV screen mounted on the wall.
I got up and flipped the dial to CNN.
“Breaking news,” Mercer said. “About Gil-Darsin.”
We were between cycles, and the reporter on-screen was covering an earthquake in Indonesia that locals feared might trigger a tsunami. The lead story would come up again on the half hour, and we were all riveted to the screen.
Six minutes later, a young American journalist stood in front of the gates of the American Embassy in Paris, adjusting her earphones.
“It’s late afternoon here, Anderson, and we’re just getting word that the furor about Mohammed Gil-Darsin, the head of the World Economic Bureau, is about as fierce as the storm that’s brewing in the Pacific Ocean.
“Executives of two business firms are under investigation for their alleged role in a prostitution ring that officials believe has been linked to the brilliant but controversial WEB leader known to the world as Baby Mo. The Ivorian-born French resident is now incarcerated in the United States on charges of sexual assault unrelated to today’s stunning news.”
“What else do you know at this time?” Cooper asked.
“There goes my last chance of slowing this case down,” Ryan said. “You guys win. I guess bail’s a no-brainer at this point.”
“To be clear, Anderson, the early reports carry no suggestion that Gil-Darsin was an organizer or key figure in the criminal enterprise of this prostitution ring, or controlling it in any way. However, the government is looking into rumors that Baby Mo hired some of the women employed by the network, as escorts-or for sexual encounters.”
“In France? Are you saying this happened in France?”
“In this country, actually, it’s not illegal to trade sex for money. Soliciting or trafficking in prostitutes, however, is against the law here. This matter was uncovered in a luxury hotel in the city of Lille, where a business firm is alleged to have provided women to the prominent men under investigation, some of whom have been named today. These women were imported, if you will, from Belgium and Germany and the Netherlands.”
“Hence the trafficking charge. And what’s the connection to the United States?”
“The answers aren’t all in yet, Anderson, but it’s apparent that in some instances, corporate funds of some of the businesses engaging in this enterprise are involved. One of the first arrests today was of a high-ranking local police official in Lille, who literally flew to Washington, DC, with one of the women, when engaged by another World Economic Bureau bigwig, to have her take part in what are being called ‘sex parties.’”
“Mohammed Gil-Darsin is expected to appear before one of New York’s toughest judges later today. How does his name figure in this newest scandal?”
“Too early to know for sure, but it’s believed that texts from Baby Mo were intercepted by investigators, in which the disgraced leader tried to hire women in the past-mostly Belgian-to be flown to meet him in New York, in Washington, and at a recent WEB conference in San Francisco, for the purpose of sexual activities.”
“Thanks for bringing us-”
Mercer grabbed the clicker from me and turned off the television. “Well, I’ll bet Byron Peaser is doing a happy dance right now. This will put new steam under Blanca’s sails.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in Lem Howell’s shoes, going in front of Judge Donnelly with this just off the wires,” Ryan said. “And on the outside, poor Lem’s probably got to deal with Mrs. Baby Mo, too. That must be one unhappy broad.”
“You know the French,” Pat McKinney said. “Anything goes. She’s probably copacetic with the whole thing.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. As an American involved with a Frenchman, the mores and attitudes of his countrymen had always remained foreign to me. The first news image of Kali’s screams piercing the air like a wounded animal had become embedded in my mind. “Madame Gil-Darsin is African. She only lives in Paris.”
“Well, if I were Baby Mo,” Ryan said, “I’d be thrilled to bunk down at Rikers Island for a couple of weeks, rather than face the wrath of the missus. Order in some takeout, get a delivery of a stack of classic DVDs, do a bit of jailhouse lawyering to stay safe when he’s on his cot. I’m just sayin’…”
“I think, Alex, that we’d better tell Battaglia about this,” Pat said. Then to the rest of the team, “Give us fifteen minutes with the Boss.”
Rose was surprised to see McKinney and me arrive together. “Go right in.”
The district attorney was on the phone with his stockbroker when we entered. He ended the call abruptly and asked what had brought us back.
Pat McKinney outlined the story about the possible involvement of MGD in an international ring of businessmen and call girls.
“Looks like I made the right call about indicting him this week, don’t you think?” Battaglia said, jamming another cigar between his front teeth while he reached for his lighter. “How’s this going to play with Judge Donnelly?”
“She’s not likely to be budged by uncorroborated rumors,” I said.
“So gather some facts before three o’clock. Give her something to work with. Get your whole team on this, Pat, do you understand? And, Alex, I want you to write an op-ed piece for me to submit for tomorrow’s Times.”
“On a pending case?” I had written for Battaglia before. There were days I thought I could nail his voice with more accuracy than my own, but I’d never considered doing it when a charge was active before the court.
“Pending my ass. Steer clear of the instant mess. Make it a grand riff about power and dignity, race and class, about giving women access to the system, no matter who the offender is-one of those speeches you do all the time for the ladies who lunch and their charities. What did Leona Helmsley call folks like Blanca? The little people. Make it about the little people-I mean, say it more tactfully than that-having a day in court against the rich and famous, against men in high places.”