The governor and Hector had resumed their side conversation as Madison gave me instructions. That seemed consistent with a governor who didn’t sweat the details. I guess that’s how it had to be. But it made me wonder how much Governor Snow knew about what was going on around him. Rick Harmoning, the union guy, for example. The governor seemed generally aware that Harmoning had put in a request for jobs for his friends in the Snow administration, but did he know that there had been a straight-up exchange of jobs for the union endorsement? I didn’t know, and I didn’t have proof of that yet.
And I wasn’t sure how much I cared. I wasn’t on the same program as my federal friends, Chris Moody and Lee Tucker. I wanted to know who was behind Greg Connolly’s murder—and what was almost my own murder, had I not narrowly escaped during that fun-filled interrogation. That, in turn, would probably tell me who killed Ernesto Ramirez, too. Same people, I assumed, working with Charlie Cimino.
And yes, as much as I didn’t relish being a snitch, I didn’t mind having a hand in exposing corruption at the highest levels of state government. Putting an unqualified judge on our supreme court? Buying union endorsements with jobs and appointments? Shaking down pro-choice groups in exchange for a veto of an abortion bill? I could live with helping the federal government on that score.
But here, I thought, was the difference: I didn’t care if the investigation netted Governor Snow. I wasn’t counting heads, trying to rack up defendants for an indictment. I wanted to know who had me put in that room, naked down to my boxers, to interrogate me; who ordered the murder of Greg Connolly and left him with his pants down in a park; who had Adalbert Wozniak and Ernesto Ramirez taken out. If it was Snow, then so be it, I wanted him to fall. But Chris Moody wanted the governor for political ambition. I just wanted the truth.
“Governor,” I said, “Judge Ippolito wanted me to tell you that he’d be honored to sit on the supreme court.”
“Ippo—Ippolito.” The governor gave me a blank stare initially. It was one I was seeing on him a lot. He looked at Madison. “Gary Gardner’s guy?”
Madison nodded. “We can talk about that later,” she said.
He took that comment under advisement, then nodded himself. It wasn’t hard to see how this worked. Madison was protecting her boss. Everything was stopping at her. The governor would stay above the fray. I was back to my question: How much did Governor Snow really know? He hadn’t even recognized George Ippolito’s name.
The limos pulled up to the Ritz-Carlton. Again, we were in the city, where the governor’s family lived, but he was staying in a hotel. The governor and Madison climbed out of the limo into the cold, fresh air.
Hector signaled to me. “We’ll be right in,” he said to the governor and Madison.
Then he turned to me. “I want a word with you,” he said.
78
HECTOR WAS ON HIS SECOND SCOTCH IN THE LIMO,
which, combined with a number of beers at the event, lent a rim of redness to his eyes and an easing of his posture. It seemed to put him in a bad mood, as well, if I was any good at reading people.
“What’s this stuff you’re talking about? Jobs for Rick Harmoning and this judge who says hello to the governor?”
Again with this dance. Hector, out of the loop and wanting in. Me, wanting to keep Hector out of the loop to protect him. “How come the governor stays at the Ritz instead of sleeping in his own bed?” I asked.
Hector seemed annoyed by the question, swatting at it like he would a buzzing fly. “He’s in campaign mode. She knows he needs to focus. I doubt she misses him much. But hey,” he said, returning to his subject, “what about all this stuff you’re talking about?”
He swallowed the remainder of the scotch, refilled, and stared at me.
“Look, Hector, they tell me these things in secrecy. I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“Secret from
me
? Who got you here, Counselor? You forget that?”
It was partly the booze talking, and Hector had had plenty. But alcohol typically lays bare true emotions, deep insecurities. Hector wanted to be a player again, and he took any secrets as the ultimate sign of disrespect.
“I do what I’m told,” I repeated, which felt like a cop-out, especially coming from me. I tended to be something of a contrarian, and Hector knew that.
Hector held out his hands, like he was displaying himself to me. “You think I’m just some peon? You know I’m going to be the first Latino lieutenant governor?”
I drew back. “You’re not running for lieutenant governor.”
“I’m not
running.
” He looked away in disgust. Then he leaned into me. “Mickey Diedman’s going to win guv lite, and when Barack or Hillary becomes president, Carl’s going to get Mickey on the federal bench and appoint me as the replacement.”
All of this was news to me. Having become more attuned to politics of late, I was certainly aware that a downstate county prosecutor, Michael Diedman, was running for lieutenant governor as a Democrat and appeared to be the favorite. It was not exactly an unusual path from county attorney to federal judge. Had some deal been struck?
“Wow, that’s great,” I said, only because Hector’s ego seemed to be suffering and I thought it was what he wanted to hear.
“Yeah, so tell
that
to all those assholes in there. Madison, Peshke, Mac—you think any of them have ever been elected to
anything
? No, they don’t have the balls. They just stay behind the scenes while we go out there and take the fucking hits. Then they look at me like I’m some fucking puppy dog they have to pat on the head.” He squirmed in his seat, really working himself up now. “Who do you think Carl listens to more than anybody? They think I’m just a fly on the wall but who does Carl listen to the most? Who tells him what to do?”
“You,” I gathered.
“Me. Fuckin-a right, me.” He patted his chest. “You see me tonight? You think I can’t work up a crowd like he can? I’m going to be the first Latino lieutenant governor and then I’m going to be the first Latino
governor
. They think I’m just some brown face they can parade in front of the Mexicans? Fuck them. Fuck all of them.”
“Hector—”
“Look at what
I
got for my public service. I got fucking indicted, that’s what I got. I didn’t do anything different from anyone else. But me? The Latino politician? No, the Latino, they can’t have
him
in power. They have to take
him
down.”
He took another long sip of his fresh drink, his hand trembling. I’d heard this angle from Hector on occasion, this racial thing. I had my doubts; I thought federal prosecutors were equal-opportunity hunters when it came to politicians. But then again, I was a white Catholic boy. I’d never walked in his shoes. And the persecution complex is a natural reaction when the government comes after you, justly or otherwise. It stops being about what you did to get their attention; it becomes how bloodthirsty they are in their quest to catch you.
“Joey Espinoza fucked you,” I said again, letting him gain momentum, because I sensed something here.
“Joey Espinoza.” He had a physical reaction to the name, spilling some of his drink. “Let me tell you something about Joey Espinoza. I mean, now that it’s over.”
I steeled myself. I didn’t know what was coming next. And I couldn’t control it. I had a recorder in my pocket that would pick up this entire thing. I’d been trying to protect Hector from the feds out of a sense of loyalty to a former client. But I had a number of puzzle pieces that I hadn’t fit together yet, and one of the biggest was Joey Espinoza. FeeBee or not, I needed to hear this.
“I mean, you’re not my lawyer anymore, but you’re still my guy. I mean, am I right or am I wrong? Are you my guy?”
That, of course, was how someone like Hector saw the world. It was like a damn
Godfather
movie, kissing the ring, pledging fealty to a master. Hector didn’t need to know that our conversation would be protected by the attorney-client privilege. In fact, he was going to tell me something that he
wouldn’t
tell me when I was sworn to professional secrecy. No, where he sat, being his “guy” was a more sacred bond than being his attorney. He just needed to hear me say it.
“Of course, I’m your guy,” I said.
79
“YEAH, YOU PROBABLY ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW.”
Hector chuckled, drained his drink, and reached for the decanter for another refill. He was pretty far in the tank by now, and it had loosened his tongue considerably.
“This fucking guy, Joey,” he said. “You think that guy could spell his name without me?”
Actually, I did. Espinoza had always seemed like a smooth operator. That didn’t necessarily require a high IQ, but he seemed intelligent enough from my observation.
“He couldn’t come up with an idea like the Cannibals. You think he could figure out something like that?”
“It was your idea,” I said.
Hector took a drink and licked his lips, took a breath. “I didn’t think they were going to muscle people. I figured they wouldn’t have to. Just them asking would be enough.”
That stood to reason, I guess. A gangbanger wouldn’t have to come out and explain the consequences of noncompliance. A simple request for a monthly street tax—or political contribution to Hector—followed by a sinister grin, would probably get the job done.
“And if anything ever blew back, you could just deny it,” I said. “Chalk it up to the Columbus Street Cannibals exercising some street advocacy, without your knowledge.”
He smiled at the summary. He wasn’t going to come out and say it. “And all I asked was that Joey set it up. He couldn’t even do that.” He wagged his finger at me. “I gave that kid everything. Shit, I’m
still
giving to that cocksucker, even after what he did to me.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I had an idea. “You mean Charlie giving Joey’s wife a job. I saw her at Charlie’s office once.”
Hector nodded. “Six figures,” he said. “Six figures and all Lorena does is show up and polish those long fucking nails of hers. The job is hers until Joey gets out.”
“But why?” I asked. “Why do that for Joey?”
“Because Joey sticks his nose—hold on.” Hector reached into his pocket and looked at his cell phone. “Ah, shit. Hang on.” He opened his phone and lowered his voice.
“Dame un minuto, querido. Te veré pronto.”
Hector closed the phone and placed it in his suit pocket. “Ah, I’m drunk.” The momentum had broken. I just had him on the verge of an explanation.
“Don’t leave me hanging, Hector,” I said, as he began to move toward the limo door.
“I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” he said, grunting as he bent down to step out into the cool night air. Since I was his “guy,” that meant I was supposed to accept that decision without comment. “C’mon, Carl wants us up there.”
Dame un minuto, querido,
he’d said to whoever had called him.
Te veré pronto.
My summer studying in Seville hadn’t gone for naught.
Give me a minute, dear. I’ll see you soon.
Hector had been talking to someone he cared about.
“Vámonos,”
Hector called to me.
I pulled up alongside him and we got in the elevator. I didn’t get what I wanted, but at least now, I’d have an opening in the future to raise the topic again.
Peshke answered the door to the suite when we knocked, talking in his earpiece to someone and holding a glass of champagne in the other. The governor was out of his suit, wearing an oxford and blue jeans. The governor pointed at me when I walked in. “Jason, quick—the center fielder for the ’seventy-six Yankees?”
“Mickey Rivers,” I said.
The governor waved a hand toward Brady Mac. “That’s one of the easiest questions ever. I mean, that was before free agency changed everything, Mac.”
In one corner of the suite, Madison Koehler and Charlie Cimino were having a more serious conversation. Madison seemed to be dishing out and Charlie receiving. I couldn’t imagine about what; Charlie had largely relegated himself to the sidelines since his brush with law enforcement. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and motioned me toward him.
“Madison and I were just discussing that some of the contractors we contacted about contributions haven’t ponied up yet,” he said. “We were thinking another phone call from you would be in order. Remind them of their commitment and their nice fat state contract that they want to keep.”
It was true—some of the contractors still hadn’t paid the extortion money to preserve their current contractual relationship with the governor’s office. But the vast majority of them had, and given how spooked Charlie had become after learning that Greg Connolly was wearing a federal wire, and his subsequent decision to lie low, I figured we would let those few stragglers go.
I guess the little charade that we’d orchestrated with my visit to the U.S. attorney’s office with Charlie’s handpicked lawyer, Norm Hudzik, had convinced Charlie that the feds had no idea what he and I had been up to. That, and his overall greed and desire for maximum credit with Governor Snow, made him eager to squeeze every single dollar of campaign contributions out of his schemes.