J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide (13 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Agent Armstrong got the phone call toward the end of the funeral mass.

“Where are you?”

He spoke softly, and then walked out the back of the church. Outside, he wouldn’t have to whisper.

“That wasn’t what you told me,” Armstrong’s eyes widened. His face turned red, and a bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. “You said you would meet me here and Collins and I would walk out the back together when the funeral service was over. That’s what you said. You told me —”

Agent Armstrong was about to lose his temper, but he calmed himself. He couldn’t lose sight of the ultimate goal. For now, Collins and his attorney held the cards. He had to salvage his reputation.

###

Quentin ended the call and placed the cell phone in his pocket.

“That was just about the greatest moment as a lawyer that I think I’ve ever had.”

Michael smiled. “I knew you’d like this job.” Michael looked around. “I mean, if I’m going to go down, I might as well do it with style.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, smiling and stretching out his legs.

Quentin had told Agent Armstrong that they had been waiting for half an hour, and that they were wondering where he was. When Armstrong said the same thing, Quentin had denied ever saying that they would meet him at Father Stiles’ funeral. Then, Quentin revealed the twist: He and Michael were waiting patiently for Armstrong and Vatch in the lobby at the FBI’s downtown headquarters.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get arrested in this town?” Michael folded his hands together over his stomach and closed his eyes as various FBI agents and investigators scurried past him, oblivious to the most wanted man in New York. 

###

It took a moment for Agent Armstrong’s heart to slow down after the phone call ended. This was his first major assignment. He was supposed to be the hero when this was done, and now he looked like an idiot.

Armstrong
watched the agents discreetly positioned on the street and in nearby cars, and he figured Gadd and Vatch couldn’t be too far away. Vatch, Armstrong thought, he’d never let me hear the end of it.

Then Armstrong decided he needed to create a plan of his own. He wasn’t going to take the fall.

###

Armstrong worked himself up. He took quick breaths. In and out, he purposely hyperventilated. If he was going to do this, he needed to sell it.

Once his heart rate had spiked, Armstrong called Gadd.

She answered, and immediately started questioning him about the blown operation.

Armstrong cut her off.

“Collins knew. His attorney called me and said he knew about the agents. He knew about the media. He knew that Brea and Brent Krane were here to give a statement to the media. He knew everything.”

Armstrong didn’t stop. If anybody was going to take the blame, it was going to be Gadd and Vatch, not him. It didn’t matter that what he was saying wasn’t true. It could be true, and that was all that mattered.

“I told you he wouldn’t show,” Armstrong continued. “I told you he clearly said that it could only be me. He wanted to turn himself into me after the funeral, but you didn’t listen. You didn’t trust me. So now he decided that he wasn’t going to show up.”

Armstrong stopped, and waited. Gadd was silent, as his full verbal assault sunk in. Gadd was clearly running a series of mental calculations in her own head, figuring out how to deflect the blame. That was what a politician did.

“I trusted the advice of Agent Vatch.” Gadd decided on her own defense. “He was more familiar with the case.”

The response from Gadd delighted Armstrong. A small victory in the bureaucratic war.  He waited another moment so that all blame was placed on Vatch, and then it was time for the victory lap.

“I might, however, be able to negotiate an alternative resolution.” Armstrong paused. He held Gadd in suspense. “They won’t like it, but I believe that it’ll get the job done.”

“And what is that?”

“Well,” Armstrong said. “Collins and his attorney will meet us at headquarters, but no cameras and no big show. Somebody just gets them and escorts Collins and his attorney back into one of our conference rooms. Then we go from there.”

“Fine,” Gadd said. “Makes sense.”

The phone call ended and Armstrong put the phone back in his pocket, smiling. The rookie agent came to play.   

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

A receptionist tapped Michael’s shoulder. “Mr. Collins?”

Michael opened his eyes and saw a young woman and a bulky man standing behind her. She was smiling, as trained, but the man was wound tight. He was ready to jump on Collins with the slightest provocation.

Collins smiled at them both, cool. “I wondered when you’d all be ready.”

The bulky man didn’t laugh. He stared at Collins, and then he looked at Quentin.
“You two can follow me.”

Michael Collins and Quentin stood up and followed the two back toward the front reception desk. There was a steel door. The man swiped a magnetic card through a slit in a black box that was fastened to the wall. A small green light flashed. The door’s lock clicked open.
The receptionist returned to her desk, and the bulky man waved Quentin and Michael through and to the right. He led them down a hall to a large conference room.

“Make yourselves at home,” he grimaced. “The others will be here soon.”

Michael and Quentin walked over to the long wooden table and sat down as the bulky man closed the conference room door. Although he wasn’t sure, Michael was confident that the man did not return to his office. His bulky host was likely standing guard in the hallway, his gun ready, just in case.

Michael looked around.

It was a standard-issue government office, complete with an American flag and two gigantic, framed pictures of the President of the United States and the Attorney General of the United States.  The two men stared down at him. The last time he had seen a conference room like this was with Jane Nance in Miami. They were there under different circumstances, but his feeling of uneasiness was the same.

Quentin saw what Michael was looking at and pointed.

“You like the artwork?” Quentin asked. “Not very creative, but certainly in the same spirit as the portraitist Chuck Close. Or maybe Chairman Mao, circa 1962?” Quentin’s expression and tone softened when he saw that Michael wasn’t playing along. “You doing okay?”

“Not sure,” Michael shrugged.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, and then Michael turned to Quentin.

“You think I’m doing the right thing?”

Quentin thought about prison. It was a place he never wanted to go, and a place where he was pretty sure Michael was headed.

“You’re doing the brave thing.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Michael said. “But it was a good dodge.”

###

Agent Armstrong and United States Attorney Brenda Gadd arrived about thirty minutes later. Michael noticed that Agent Vatch wasn’t with them, which made him as happy as he could be under the circumstances. But he knew that Vatch was somewhere nearby.

There wasn’t any small talk or introductions. Neither Armstrong nor Gadd sat down.

It was obvious to Michael what was coming, although he had, up until that moment, held out some delusional hope that he would ultimately walk away.

Armstrong placed a black digital recorder on the table and pressed the button on its side. Numbers appeared on the recorder’s small gray screen, counting the seconds.

“Michael Collins, I am now serving you with an indictment and placing you under arrest,”
Armstrong handed a small stack of papers to Michael.

Michael closed his eyes.

He let the words wash over him as he pictured himself back at Hut No. 7, a paperback in one hand and a Corona in the other.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Armstrong continued with the speech. He knew
that Michael knew his rights and did not need the recitation, but it was required. It was part of the dance. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”

Agent Armstrong paused. “Mr. Collins, do you understand these rights?”

Michael opened his eyes and nodded his head. “I do.”

“Would you like to waive your right to be silent and speak to us today?”

Michael looked at Quentin, and then looked back at Agent Armstrong. “No, I do not.” Michael attempted to muster a brave voice.

“As you know, I have an attorney and invoke my right to silence and to an attorney.”

Agent Armstrong nodded.

“Very well.” He looked at Brenda Gadd. It was as they both had expected.

Agent Armstrong then picked the digital recorder off of the conference room table and turned it off. The numbers that had been counting the length of the recording stopped, frozen.

Armstrong put the device in his pocket and asked Michael to stand up.

After Michael pushed his chair away from the table and stood, Armstrong put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. Armstrong gently turned Michael around.

“Please place your hands behind your back.”

A cold chill ran up Michael’s spine. A sickness settled over him as he complied with the request.

“Are the handcuffs really necessary?” Quentin asked, but his question was ignored.

Agent Armstrong tightened the cuffs. He led Michael out of the conference room and down the hallway. In the distance, Michael saw a freight elevator next to an emergency exit. That was where they were headed.

Quentin started to follow behind, but Gadd told him that he couldn’t.

“You can meet Mr. Collins at the federal courthouse where he’ll make his first appearance,” she said.

Gadd pointed in the direction of the reception desk.

“I’ll see you out to the front door. It’s sort of a maze in here.”  

Silently, Michael and Armstrong continued by themselves. They walked down the hallway until they reached the elevator. They stopped and Agent Armstrong pressed the button. Behind the heavy elevator doors, its mechanicals hummed.

“This is a beautiful sight.”

Michael didn’t turn around. He knew who it was, and he wasn’t going to take the bait.

“Come on,” Vatch said. “Cat got your tongue? I wanted to take a moment to reminisce about all the good times we —”

Agent Armstrong interrupted. “I think Ms. Gadd was clear that I’m handling the transport.”

“Hear that, Mr. Collins?” Vatch hissed. “Looks like you might’ve made a friend.”

“I think that’s enough.” Armstrong pressed the elevator button, again, hoping that it would arrive a little faster. A second passed that seemed like an eternity, and then the elevator bell rang.

“I’d watch your back, Armstrong,” Vatch said as the elevator door opened. “You’re playing out of your league, here.”

Armstrong and Collins went inside the elevator. Armstrong pressed the button for the basement, and the doors started to close. Michael thought that would be the end, but Vatch couldn’t resist one more shot.

“And Collins,” Vatch’s voice rose. “I correct myself. Armstrong’s not your friend. You haven’t got any friends anymore.” His tongue flicked. “Remember that while you sit in jail. I give your girlfriend two days before she flips.”

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Michael sat in the basement holding cell of the federal courthouse, imagining a different life. He could have continued at Wabash, Kramer and Moore. He could have made partner. He could have married a woman that was content to live in a big house, take care of a few kids, and spend his money while he was working seventy or eighty hours a week. In other words, he could have been just like the thousands of other depressed, unhealthy, workaholic lawyers who populate the outer-ring suburbs of every major metropolitan area in the country.

That could have been his life, Michael thought, could have been.

For the first time, Michael actually wanted to be a schlub. It sounded nice, driving into the office at five in the morning to avoid traffic and avoid any interaction with the family and their problems. It seemed to be a far better alternative to his current surroundings.

Michael
looked around the dark room. It was gray cinderblock. Metal benches were bolted to the floor around the perimeter.  Large fluorescent lights hung down from the ceiling, but still too high to reach.

There were about twenty people waiting to be processed. Michael stood off to the side. Nobody in the room talked. They just stared at a large, flat-screen monitor bolted on the wall. The screen had the time, date, and a list of three names. It dictated who needed to be transported up to the courtroom and in what order.

Michael watched as three names disappeared, replaced by three new names. A half-hour passed, and the names changed again. This time, he was on the bottom of the list. It was his turn.

He walked to a white line painted on the floor underneath the monitor.  Since he was the last name on the list, Michael lined up behind two other men in custody. The elevator doors opened, and the man at the front of the line was led inside. The doors slid shut, and he disappeared.

Five minutes later, the elevator returned. The second man was led inside and disappeared up the shaft.

Eventually it was Michael’s turn.

The elevator doors opened. Michael stepped inside the polished metal box, and the U.S. Marshal instructed Michael to stand with his back against the wall. Then the U.S. Marshal turned a key and pressed a button.

The doors closed.

As the elevator moved upward, Michael saw his reflection in the stainless steel. He almost didn’t recognize himself. Wearing an orange jumpsuit and his hands cuffed behind his back, Michael stared at the image. He was different now. He looked like a criminal.

###

A door opened. Michael was escorted out of the small, back holding room on the tenth floor and into the courtroom.  The benches in the back were full. Michael scanned the room for Andie’s face. She had to be here, thought Michael, starting to panic when he didn’t see her.

He walked toward Quentin and stopped, still scanning the crowd.

“Mr. Collins,” The judge coughed. “The important stuff is happening up here.”

Quentin put his hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“You have to look at the judge, Michael.”

Michael nodded, and, as he turned, Michael saw Andie and Kermit in the far back corner of the room. The sight of them made Michael feel better, although he didn’t know why. 

“
May we now note our appearances for the record?” The magistrate judge leaned forward, writing down the names of the various attorneys as they introduced themselves. Writing down the names was simply a habit. It served no discernible purpose. All of the appearances would be recorded by the court reporter, and they were also simultaneously entered into the court’s computer system by a court clerk. But it made the judge feel like he was in control, so writing the names down was just something that he did.

The magistrate judge wasn’t going to handle Michael’s case. The trial would be assigned to a Federal District Court Judge. The magistrate, one step lower in the judicial hierarchy, was simply processing the initial appearances and hearing preliminary arguments.

“Have you received a copy of the complaint and indictment?” The judge peered at Quentin over a pair of thick glasses that rested on the tip of his nose. The glasses looked like they were purchased in 1978. They were so out of style that they were now back in style.

“We have, Your Honor.” Quentin handed Michael a packet of paper. “Let the record reflect that I’ve handed my client another copy of the complaint and the indictment, and we waive a formal reading of the complaint and charges.”

The judge nodded. Nobody ever asked the court to read the complaint in its entirety and on the record. In fact, if a defense attorney did, their client would pay dearly for wasting the judge’s time.

“Very well.” The magistrate judge turned to the prosecutor. “As for release pending trial?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” United States Attorney Brenda Gadd stood. Usually these preliminary hearings were handled by a fairly low-level Assistant United States Attorney, but Michael Collins was a priority. Brenda Gadd wanted the judge to know that this was not an ordinary case, and so she came to the hearing herself.

“We believe that Mr. Collins is a flight risk.” Brenda Gadd looked over at Michael Collins. Her eyes narrowed, making it clear that she had no empathy for him, and then she looked back at the judge.

Once upon a time, she was considering a run for the United States Senate. Her arrest and prosecution of Michael Collins nearly five years ago was going to show how tough she was on white-collar criminals, especially lawyers (who very few voters held in high esteem). But Michael Collins had evaded arrest and prosecution. Her nascent dreams of being Senator Brenda Gadd faded away. She’d never forgiven him, and perhaps she was also looking for a political comeback.

“He has no permanent residence in New York. He has no family that we are aware of, and he has been living abroad for several years.
Therefore, we’re asking that this hearing be continued for three days to allow for the defendant to be interviewed by pre-trial services and evaluated.”

The magistrate judge laughed, leaning back in his seat.

“Evaluated? You’ve been investigating this case for years, what’s left to evaluate?”

Gadd was used to the give and take, and the judge’s sarcasm didn’t rattle her.

“I think it’s appropriate.” Gadd paused and looked down, as if carefully considering the judge’s concern. “Of course, we have a lot of information regarding Defendant Collins, but the ordinary procedure is to go through a pre-trial services interview.”

A pre-trial services interview would also give her a little free discovery,
an opportunity to probe into Michael’s life.

The judge turned to Quentin. “Mr. Robinson?”

Quentin looked at Michael, not quite sure how to read the magistrate judge’s mood. He then looked at the judge. He said, “I’d also like a little more time to prepare for the argument as well, Your Honor. Mr. Collins does have a house that he is renting in New York and he turned himself in. That shows stability and a willingness to appear at all court hearings, which will be verified and assuage any concerns that the court may have about my client.”

“Very well.” The judge turned to the clerk. “Set a hearing for three days. The defendant shall cooperate with the PTI.” 

The judge wrote the information down on his notepad. The hearing was over within minutes. Paper shuffled.

Brenda Gadd gathered her things and left. Michael stood still as Quentin put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. Quentin whispered something in Michael’s ear, but Michael was in a fog.

His first court appearance was over. There was no drama. There were no surprises. He was just another widget being processed through the law factory.

Michael bowed his head, and started walking back to the transport elevator.

Reality came.

He wasn’t going home this time, Michael thought, he was going to spend his first night in jail.