“When they call it a racketeering offense, you sure can.” Poskanzer swiveled his computer monitor around so Danny could read the screen. “Take a look.”
A table of some kind. Words and numbers. “What is it?” Danny asked.
“These are the federal sentencing guidelines for RICO offenses. Racketeering, as they call it. Given the amount of money involved-fifty thousand dollars-and the fact that it falls under the category of narcotics-related conduct, you could get three hundred twenty-four to four hundred months in prison.”
Danny stared in mute terror. “I don’t even know how long four hundred months is.”
Poskanzer didn’t even hesitate. “Thirty-three years.”
He swallowed. “This is bullshit!” He tried to summon indignant outrage, but instead it came out like a plea. “This is total bullshit.”
Poskanzer bowed his head for a moment, as if praying or lost in thought. Then he lifted his head and said, “Do you remember that time we got onto the roof of Low?”
Danny nodded. “Roofing”-getting onto the roofs of campus buildings-was a venerable Columbia tradition. You had to pick locks and shimmy through windows, and there was always a chance of getting caught, which could mean being thrown out of school. But that just gave it an illicit thrill. In their freshman year, he and Poskanzer had once sneaked onto the roof of Low Library in the middle of the night. The view was spectacular. Far below, the quad twinkled and sparkled.
Danny nodded, wondered what his point was.
“That was cool,” Poskanzer said.
“It was.”
“I hated freshman year. My roommates were assholes. You were one of my few friends.”
Danny was moved. He’d had no idea. He nodded and smiled. “I’m honored.”
“Listen to me. I could take your money. I’d be happy to. Well, my firm would be happy to. But we’re friends, you and me, so I’m not going to lie to you. Fighting the US government is an incredibly expensive undertaking. We’d need a retainer of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, to start.”
“Jay, I don’t have that kind-”
“And they know that, believe me. The fact is, a competent defense may end up costing you a million, maybe even two million, by the time all is said and done.” Danny recalled one of the DEA guys saying something like that. “Also, it’ll tie you up for years. And then, like I said, the odds are way against you. You’d have a nine-in-ten chance of going to prison. For up to thirty-three years.”
“Jesus.”
“Look, if you were my brother, my dad, my best friend, I’d tell you to cooperate. But you’re also a single dad. You’re Abby’s only parent. You gotta think about that. You’d be ruining your daughter’s life. I mean, have you appointed a guardian for Abby?”
“A… guardian?”
“In case you end up in prison. In case you have to go away. Because that’s probably what’s going to happen to you. Unless you cooperate with them. You really want to spin that roulette wheel? I don’t think you do.”
“I don’t believe this!”
“Go get a second opinion, Danny. And a third, and a fourth. Ask any lawyer experienced in dealing with the feds. They’ll all tell you the same thing-only maybe they’ll soft-pedal the odds against you. Plenty of lawyers would be happy to take your money and bankrupt you. But I don’t want to do that. I’m advising you-as a friend-to cooperate. You want to fight, I’ll fight for you. But I can’t recommend that course of action, not with a clear conscience.”
“But… say I do cooperate. Then what happens to me?”
“You sign a deal with the government…”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Let’s say I do whatever they want. I become a confidential informant, or confidential source, whatever they call it. Wear a wire or record my phone calls with the guy. And let’s say this leads to Tom Galvin’s arrest. Then what happens to me?”
Poskanzer hesitated. “You… you’re a free man.”
“Have you ever watched any of those videos of the Sinaloa cartel beheading snitches with a chain saw?”
Poskanzer shook his head.
“If information I provide sends Tom Galvin to prison, and if he really is working for the Sinaloa cartel, who the hell’s to say I don’t end up in one of those videos?”
There was a long, long silence.
“I don’t think you have a choice,” Poskanzer said. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think you have a choice.”
Danny took the elevator down in a daze. He barely noticed the other passengers. Somehow he found himself in the lobby of the Hancock Tower and then out the revolving doors.
He had no doubt that Jay Poskanzer was giving it to him straight. If a lawyer like him-arrogant, brilliant, and with a chip on his shoulder the size of Nebraska-didn’t see any point in taking on the Department of Justice, what use was there in trying to fight a battle he couldn’t win?
Poskanzer was right, he was a single father. He had to think about Abby.
Standing outside the office building, blinking in the bright sun, he took out the business card that one of the DEA guys had given him and dialed the number.
PART TWO
17
Special Agent Yeager was holding a BlackBerry against his ear when Danny returned.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah.”
He glanced at Danny quickly, like he was a dead mouse his cat had just brought in. “Well, that’s not going to happen,” he said into his phone.
Yeager waved Danny in without looking at him again.
When the door clicked shut behind them, Yeager ended his call and stuck out a hand. He shook Danny’s hand with a paw like a broken-in baseball glove.
“You’re doing the right thing.”
Danny said nothing. Like I have a choice.
“Let’s get your signature on the dotted line so we can get moving,” Yeager said, guiding Danny down the hall. A burnt-toast smell lingered in the air as they passed a break room: microwave, small cube refrigerator, a Keurig coffeemaker, a jumbo box of coffee pods from a discount shopping club. Boisterous laughter came from behind a closed door across the hall. A staff meeting of some sort.
The agent with the shoe-polish hair, Slocum, was sitting at the table in the same conference room where they’d met before. This time he was sorting through a sheaf of papers arrayed in front of him like playing cards in a game of solitaire.
“Well, look who’s back,” said Slocum. “Have a seat. Get comfortable. This is going to take a while. We need to take a complete personal history.”
“For what?”
“For our debriefing report to headquarters,” Yeager said. “We gotta make a case for how we think you can help us.”
“What’s to debrief?” asked Danny.
“Standard procedure for all sn-uh, confidential informants,” said Slocum.
“You almost said snitches.”
“Old habit.” He smiled nastily.
“Kind of hard for me to be a snitch if I don’t actually work for the cartel,” Danny pointed out.
Slocum let out a long sigh.
After forty-five minutes and a stack of multipart forms, they’d finished the biographical questions. Then they asked him to sketch out a floor plan for Galvin’s house, or at least as much of it as he’d seen. They asked him to recall as many details about Galvin’s home office as he could: door placement, windows, how many computers, what kind of electronic equipment. Every single item on top of Galvin’s desk. Danny was quietly pleased at how much he was able to recall. The two agents took turns. One asked the questions while the other went for coffee or water or a potty break.
“Why do you need to know all this?” Danny asked at one point.