All Richie had to offer up to counter these famous friends and assorted community leaders were three evidence tables piled with cash, weapons, bonds, property deeds, photographs of Lucas’s real-estate holdings and samples of heroin in their distinctive blue cellophane.
Lucas’s gray-haired old mother embraced him warmly, and the accused’s coolly confident eyes swept the courtroom, taking in his phalanx of attorneys, the jury itself and finally landing on Richie in his off-the-rack suit at the prosecutor’s table.
The two men’s eyes locked, and Lucas smiled, just a little, almost cocky but not quite, as if to say, Can’t you see what you’re up against, little man?
Finally at the end of his receiving line, Lucas brushed by the seated Richie and, over on the other side of the room, other side of the world, the defendant disappeared from view within the fortress of his multimillion-dollar legal team.
“Mr. Roberts...”
The omniscient voice almost made Richie jump. Somehow he got to his feet and out from around the table and turned to the jury, who were studying him like his new cheap suit was all the evidence they needed, and managed to speak without squawking.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Richie said. “Ladies and gentlemen...”
And he told them the story that he’d been living these many months.
After that first day of opening statements, Richie was led into the County Jail visiting room for a meeting he hadn’t expected to get. At a table not unlike the one in front of the bulletin boards in the squad bullpen, Frank Lucas sat across from his battalion of lawyers.
Lucas looked above half a dozen expensive haircuts to see Richie waiting behind wire-mesh. To no particular one of the lawyers, Lucas said, “Here he is... Let me talk to him alone.”
There was some muffled discussion on this point — which Lucas did not participate in, his eyes gazing coolly Richie’s way — and finally the pack of legal wolves took their briefcases and went.
Within seconds, Richie was seated across from Lucas. Finally the prosecutor’s new suit trumped Lucas’s jailhouse threads of T-shirt and brown trousers.
Richie, stone-faced, sat there letting Lucas look him over, the prisoner smiling that same knowing smile he’d worn in the courtroom.
Finally Lucas said, “I just heard something. I said I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t be true. Just some crazy-ass story from the street.”
Richie said nothing.
The half-smile dug a deep dimple in Lucas’s cheek. “You didn’t really turn in a million dollars you found in the trunk of a car, did you?”
Richie said nothing.
Lucas searched Richie’s face for a clue. Then he grinned. “I’ll tell you what happened to that money you were too pure of heart to take — it wound up in a buncha cops’ pockets.”
Richie shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe my ass. No, it did.” Lucas flipped a hand. “And all you did was give all that bread to them, for no good reason. For nothin’ in return.”
Richie said nothing.
Lucas shifted in his chair. “No, I take that back — you did get something in return — their everlasting, motherfucking contempt.”
Richie said nothing.
“So why did you do this crazy thing? Why give these other assholes all that money? What, you’re trying to prove you’re better than them? Hell, you’re not better than them. You are them.”
“I’m sure these philosophical ramblings would be of interest to somebody,” Richie said. “Just not me. You may have heard, I’m in the middle of a big case, so I have neither the time nor the interest to—”
“You turned that dough in because it was the right thing. That’s all. You’re a good boy and your momma raised you right. Why can’t you say that? Why’s that so hard for you?” Lucas’s grin widened but his eyes narrowed. “Question is, would you do it again?... I mean, that was a long time ago, my man.”
Richie said nothing.
Lucas shrugged, and his voice became damn near a purr as he said, “It’d be very easy to find out. Just tell me you’d like to participate in that little experiment, you know, give me an address, and a new car will be waiting for you... trunk loaded.”
“No thanks.”
“You think I’m fucking kidding?”
“No.”
The cool prisoner suddenly boiled over, eyes and nostrils flaring. “Who the fuck are you to say no to that? What, you think that impresses me?”
A guard had gotten to his feet, but Richie wasn’t reacting — the outburst was clearly over — and the guard sat back down.
And Richie remained impassive.
A few seconds ticked by before Lucas said, “Let me ask you something. Do you think by putting my ass in jail, things’ll change? You think you’re gonna stop even one junkie from dying? Because you won’t. And if it isn’t me, it’ll be someone else, probably some brutal prick who won’t be so goddamn nice and professional... With me or without me, nothing’s gonna change, except maybe for the worse.”
“I’ll just have to live with that,” Richie said.
Lucas’s eyebrows tensed. “You have any sort of case? Or just that idiot drives for my goddamn brother. Is Jimmy your case? ’Cause if Jimmy’s your case, him and that powder you confiscated? It’s not enough.”
Richie smiled, just a little. “Well, then. You got nothing to worry about.”
But Lucas was worried, clearly worried. The drug kingpin was not used to sitting across from a cop who didn’t want his money, on the one hand, and on the other refused to be one iota intimidated by the fabled Frank Lucas presence.
“My brothers won’t talk to you,” Lucas said, matter of fact. “My cousins’ll stay zipped. My whole family’s a bunch of deaf mutes, you’ll find. No one’s gonna get chatty but that motherfucking driver, and he’s an unreliable dope addict.”
“You think that’s all I have, Frank?”
“Yeah, I think that’s all you have.”
Now it was Richie’s turn to smile smugly. “Frank, I got a line of people stretches around the block and out the door wants to testify against you.”
“You’re talking bullshit.”
“Am I? Any of these names ring a bell? Tony the Bug. Benny Two-Socks. Carmine Camanetti.”
Lucas grunted a laugh. “Who are they? Buncha spaghetti-spinners I don’t do no business with. Don’t know them, they don’t know me.”
“Sure they know you, Frank. They’re the guys you all but put out of business. They sell dope for the Mazzano family, only not so much dope after you put your foot in their trade.”
Lucas was shaking his head. “This is who you got to stand up against me? Guys who don’t know me? Who got nothing to do with me?”
“They have everything to do with you, Frank. They hate you. The only thing they hate more is what you represent.”
“I don’t represent a goddamn thing.”
“Really? A black businessman like you? You think the Italians like to have black guys put them out of business? Make them look bad, make them look stupid?”
“They were born stupid.”
“Maybe. But they know, once your ass is in the slammer, their world can get back to normal. Things can return to how they were.”
Lucas was clenching his fists. His voice was softly menacing. “Look at me, chump. You looking? Can you tell by looking that it would mean nothing to me tomorrow if you turned up dead?”