Mike Lawson - Dead on Arrival

‘Yeah, but I’m okay with the Queens D. A. Right?’

‘Yeah. You can go back to fencing for Tony Benedetto until they catch you for doing it.’

Danny shook his head. ‘Look, man,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t like me and Marie planned to fall in love. It just happened. One of these days, maybe you’ll find it in yourself to forgive us both.’

DeMarco stared at his cousin for a minute.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ he said and walked away.

‘I need to talk to Pugh alone,’ DeMarco told Patsy Hall.

‘Sorry,’ she said, shaking her head sadly, as if she meant it. ‘But I can’t allow that. Anytime anybody talks to Pugh, I want his lawyer and our lawyer in the room.’

One of Hall’s agents stuck his head into her office at that moment. ‘Patsy, Dick Garner’s on the phone. Line four. He wants to talk to you.’

Richard Garner was the top man at the DEA, and Hall was several rungs on the ladder below him. She had heard Garner speak a couple of times when he gave one of his sappy pep talks to motivate the troops, but she had never spoken to him.

‘I didn’t know catching Jubal Pugh was that big a deal,’ the agent said.

Patsy Hall punched a button and picked up the phone on her desk. ‘Mr Garner, this is Agent Hall.’

All DeMarco heard was Hall’s side of the conversation, which consisted mostly of yes, sir .

At one point, while she was listening, she looked over at DeMarco.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said again. ‘May I ask why? …

‘Yes, sir,’ Hall said one more time before hanging up.

Looking at DeMarco she said, ‘Mr Garner says I’m supposed to let you do anything you want. You wanna tell me what’s going on here?’

‘Sorry, Patsy, I can’t,’ DeMarco said. ‘At least not yet.’

Hall stared at him. ‘You screw up my case against Pugh, and I’m gonna get a nightstick and beat you to death. I swear to Christ I will.’

Pugh was dressed in an orange jumpsuit. At DeMarco’s request — at this point, all DeMarco’s requests were being granted — the manacles were taken off Pugh’s hands. They were seated in an office, not an interrogation room. DeMarco was seated behind the desk of whoever normally occupied the office; Pugh was in a chair in front of the desk. A DEA agent was posted outside the door, and the door was closed.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Pugh said. ‘And why wasn’t my lawyer allowed to be here?’

DeMarco didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared at Pugh’s unshaven face. With his pointed nose and weak chin, Pugh reminded DeMarco of a badger or a wolverine — one of those critters that makes up for its lack of bulk with pure viciousness.

‘I’m the guy who set you up, Jubal,’ DeMarco said. ‘I’m the guy that got Danny DeMarco and Tony Benedetto to cooperate with the DEA. And I’m the guy who’ll make Danny DeMarco testify against you.’

Pugh didn’t say anything.

‘You’re going to be convicted for manufacturing meth, and the judge is going to give you the maximum sentence permitted by the sentencing guidelines. He’s going to do this because he’ll be pressured by some people in Washington. Those same people in Washington are also going to promise to make him a federal judge with a lifetime appointment if he does what they want. So it doesn’t matter if you’ve got the ghost of Johnnie-fuckin’-Cochran for a lawyer, Jubal, you’re going to jail.’

Pugh blinked once.

‘You’re fifty-eight years old right now,’ DeMarco said. ‘If you’re not killed in prison, you’ll be seventy-eight or eighty years old when you get out. By then you’ll most likely have prostate cancer or colon cancer or whatever diseases afflict old men. You’ll be on death’s doorstep when you get out of prison.’

Pugh blinked again.

‘Now look around you,’ DeMarco said. ‘You’re not in an interrogation room. There’s no one-way mirror, no video camera in the ceiling, no tape recorder. It’s just you and me.’

‘Maybe you’re wired,’ Jubal said.

DeMarco shook his head. ‘I don’t want what I’m going to tell you recorded.’ He paused. ‘If you can give me what I want, I can keep you out of prison. Your property’s going to be auctioned off and your bank accounts are going to be frozen and all the money you have will be placed in the U.S. Treasury. But you get to stay out of jail — if you can deliver.’

‘So what is it? What do you want?’

‘I know ,’ DeMarco said, though he really didn’t, ‘that your people forced three American Muslims to commit acts of terrorism. I know your guys — Donny Cray and that asshole Randy with the prison tats on his knuckles — killed Reza Zarif’s family, his wife and his two kids, and made him fly that plane at the White House. I know your people abducted Mustafa Ahmed’s niece to force him to blow up the Capitol. Mustafa’s niece saw the tats on Randy’s hands. And I know your guys also killed the Capitol police officer who shot Mustafa, to make sure he wouldn’t talk.’

‘That’s all bullshit.’

‘No, it’s not all bullshit, but if it is … well, then too bad for you, Jubal. You go to jail for twenty years. You see, you’re a malignant piece of shit but right now you’re a small problem. Because of what you’ve done, Muslims in this country are being persecuted and a very bad law is about to be passed. So right now, getting you to admit that al-Qaeda wasn’t behind these attacks is more important than putting your ass in the slam.’

Pugh tried to keep his face immobile but his lips twitched. Like a badger in a cage, he’d just seen a way out.

‘And we’re pretty sure you didn’t personally kill anybody,’ DeMarco said, ‘which is the reason you’re getting a break, but you have to testify against the people who did.’

DeMarco didn’t really know that Pugh hadn’t killed anyone, but he was guessing that Pugh wouldn’t have taken the risk. And even if he had killed someone — even if Jubal Pugh had pulled the trigger that had killed Reza Zarif’s kids — DeMarco was telling Pugh that he could blame their deaths on the people who worked for him.

‘Somebody has to swing for these crimes,’ DeMarco continued. ‘So you have to give the FBI enough information to convict your pals, Jubal. If you can’t do that, no deal.’

‘Is that it?’ Pugh said.

‘No. You also have to give the Bureau the guy who hired you. We know there’s a middleman, an organizer, a guy who’s been giving you directions. And we know someone very rich hired the middleman. We want those two people, Jubal. If you can’t deliver the middleman you’re of no use to us. As bad as you are, we really want the people behind these crimes.

‘And keep something else in mind,’ DeMarco said, before Pugh could interrupt. ‘Why do you think this middleman came to you? He didn’t pick you because he thought you were some sort of genius. He came to you because you’re the perfect patsy. You’re the head of a hate group, at least that’s what your Web site says, and this guy chose you because if by some chance we figured out that these Muslims were being coerced, and if we traced it back to somebody, that somebody would be you. And Jubal — going to jail for manufacturing meth is one thing. But if you don’t cooperate and we can prove you were an accomplice to murdering two kids, you’ll get the death penalty.’

Pugh sat there, saying nothing, studying DeMarco’s face.

‘I want this in writing,’ Pugh said at last. ‘And I want the document looked at by my lawyer, so if I do what you want, you won’t be able to screw me later.’

DeMarco nodded. ‘We can do that. But I need to know, right now, the name of the guy who hired you.’