JL04 - Mortal Sin (22 page)

“What’s that have to do with you?”

“De La Torre’s the only one who could have stopped us. He held me up like a highway robber, but I greased his palm, so he’s on board, just like the Indians. Christ, I had everybody in my pocket except Tupton.”

Something was gnawing at me. “What about the legislature? You can’t buy ’em all, and I don’t see how you’ll get a gaming bill passed. You’ll be up against the unholy alliance of racetrack and jai alai interests plus the fundamentalist Christians. The hotel industry’s been trying to pass a casino law for thirty years and has never come close.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Jake. We don’t need a law.”

“Of course you do. Casinos are illegal in Florida.”

“You still don’t get it, do you? We don’t need permits. We don’t need impact statements. We don’t need zoning variances or business licenses or special laws.”

“You don’t?”

“Jake, why the fuck don’t you listen? We ain’t in Florida. This is Injun country.”

Nicky Florio explained it to me. By the numbers.

One: In 1962, the United States secretary of the interior approved the constitution of the Micanopy Tribe. Seventy thousand acres of land were now under the exclusive jurisdiction of the tribe’s general council. Tax-exempt land with some soggy farms and lots of alligators and not much the white man wanted.

Two: Florio began doing business with the Indians in the seventies. He built low-cost housing for them in hard-to-reach areas. He fished with the Tiger family and became friendly with council leaders.

Three: Florio purchased an option for a ninety-nine-year lease on ten thousand acres for the housing, commercial, and recreation ventures. The lease is boilerplate and all-inclusive, granting everything from construction and air rights to mineral rights. The tribe will get 10 percent of pretax profits. He smiled a pickpocket’s smile.

Ten percent of Florio Enterprises’ profits, Florio emphasized. But that company assigned the long-term lease to a holding company, which assigned its rights to a Cayman Islands Trust. Florio Enterprises only gets a management fee from the holding company. The real profits, hundreds of millions, will be passed through, and the Indians don’t get a cent of them.

A red cent, Florio said.

Four: The mixed residential-commercial town went off without a hitch. No permits needed, except from the tribe’s general council.

Five: the law.

“You ever hear of the Federal Indian Regulatory Gaming Act of 1988?” Florio asked.

“I don’t pay attention to statutes unless they have something to do with fender benders or burglaries.”

“The Act allows Indians to run the same gambling allowed by the state.”

“Fine. Open a racetrack or a fronton. Florida law doesn’t allow casinos.”

“Sure it does, Counselor. The churches hold Vegas night for charity all the time. It’s right in the law. How do you think we operate a bingo hall with cash awards? Because churches are allowed to. It’s the same principle.”

I thought about it. A loophole, Nicky would call it. But that’s what lawyering is all about, drawing parallels between your client’s quirky facts and those from a case that goes your way. Making analogies, sidestepping distinctions, taking exceptions and making them the rules, and in general patching holes in the water bucket that is your case.

“You’ll still face a court challenge,” I said. “The state attorney general or the racetrack folks or someone will want to keep you out.”

“I expect that. So be my lawyer. Give me an opinion. Who’ll win, and no bullshit about needing time to research it. Rely on your instincts.”

My instincts hadn’t been very good lately, but I gave it a shot. “You’ll argue that the state can’t allow a church to operate a casino, even one night a year, without letting the Indians do it full time under the federal statute. It would be discriminatory to bar equivalent gambling games on Indian land. The law is just one side of the equation, of course. Politically, the strength would be with the opposition. On your side, you’ve got a few thousand Indians who live in a swamp and want to lease you land for a casino. On the other, some big moneyed interests in horse racing, jai alai, and dogs will fight you every step of the way. Even the teachers’ unions will be against you, since the state lottery benefits education. I’d be willing to bet that you’d have a drastic effect on lottery revenues.”

“A forty to fifty percent decrease, according to our studies,” Florio said, “plus we’d cripple racing and jai alai within three years. Hell, we’ll hurt Vegas and Atlantic City, too. With no state or federal taxes to pay, our slots can increase the payoff and give a higher rate of return than anything there. On the games that have some room, we’ll give better odds.”

“That’s why you’d be such a threat,” I agreed, “and I don’t have to tell you that the courts are moved by political realities. If the attorney general decides to sue, you could be tied up for years. The state could argue that you’re the real operator of the casino, not the Indians, so the whole setup is a sham. Your response is that the state has no legitimate concern how the profits are divided or who runs the gambling. In fact, the judicial inquiry must be limited to the narrow question of whether casino gambling is permitted under state law. If so, no state or federal court has the power to inquire further. The Indians can allow casino gambling on their land, and it’s simply none of the government’s business.”

Florio was beaming at me. “Gina was right about you. You’re smarter than you look. Anything else? Anything you need to know?”

“I don’t understand what Carlos de La Torre and the sugar industry have to do with this.”

Florio showed a sour smile. “The Indians foolishly gave up a piece of their sovereignty to the Water Management Board. They signed a damned compact. No new development in land covered by the board’s jurisdiction without board approval. Part of the move was to help the tribe’s image after the big-game fiasco.”

My look told him I didn’t understand.

“The Indians were going to bring in lions, tigers, elephants, and let the yahoos blast them out of the saw grass for five thousand bucks a pop. No way the state could stop them, but the public furor made ’em back down. Then the tribal council agreed to submit all plans that will affect the environment to the Water Board, and to abide by its decisions. It’s a binding compact. The board doesn’t do anything without the sugar industry’s approval, and that means Carlos de La Torre. All he cares about is water for the cane and money for his pockets. But I’ve got him covered, and a damn good thing, too. The board meets next Tuesday, and that’s when we submit our proposal.”

“You’re going to make the casino plan public?”

“It has to be done, sooner or later, but that’s what I meant about timing. The papers won’t have anything about it beforehand. Most meetings, it’s just some tomato farmers feuding with the cane growers and your usual assortment of fruitcakes from the Audubon Society. The board meets in a school gym up in Belle Glade on the edge of a cane field, in case the commissioners forget who pays the freight. There’s an agenda item that simply says, ‘Micanopy land-use plan.’ We’ll have the vote recorded before the newspapers go to print. So I’m not worried about Big Sugar or the Water Management Board. But you tell me, Jake. What about the state cabinet?”

“The governor will ask for an AGO, an attorney-general opinion, as to the legality of the planned casino. The attorney general is Don Russo, but he hasn’t read a law book in thirty-five years. Either he’s on the golf course, or he’s taking his secretary to Sanibel Island at taxpayer’s expense. He’ll turn to Abe Socolow as the local state attorney.”

“Socolow’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Jake?”

“‘Friend’ is maybe too strong a word. We’re adversaries, have been for years. Let’s just say we have a healthy respect for each other.”

“C’mon, Jake, you’re too modest. You’ve been involved in his election campaign.”

“I’ve endorsed him. That’s all. Me and a thousand other lawyers.”

Florio helped himself to the scotch bottle. “I’m a supporter of his, too. Contributions strictly legit. All reported, none above the legal limit. The guy’s a straight arrow.”

Florio was right. Abe Socolow had been appointed acting state attorney when Nick Wolf was indicted for playing footsie with major drug dealers. Before then, Socolow had been chief of the major-crimes division in the office. A working prosecutor, not a paper pusher or a politician, Socolow had a messianic drive to rid the streets of murderers and other hoodlums. He looked like an undertaker but was seldom as cheerful. He was long and lean, sallow and mean. And honest.

“Look, Nicky, if you’re thinking of bribing Abe Socolow, you’ve been out in the sun too long. The guy’s untouchable. He’ll indict you. He’ll set you up and sting you with TV cameras popping out of the ceiling.”

“I wouldn’t even consider bribing Mr. Socolow,” Florio said, solemnly.

“Good. For a moment, I was afraid you—”

“That’s
your
job, partner.”

“H
E GAVE YOU A MILLION DOLLARS?” CHARLIE RlGGS ASKED
, his bushy eyebrows arched in disbelief.

“Cash. In fifties.”

“Goodness gracious!” Charlie’s hand trembled and he slurped conch chowder through his mustache. “And where have you stashed the loot?”

When he gets excited, Charlie tends to talk like a B movie. “I stashed it in an old Dolphins’ equipment bag that I liberated from the locker room about a thousand years ago. The bag is sitting in the trunk of my antique Oldsmobile about thirty yards yonder.”

Charlie shot a glance into the parking lot and back to me again. When he tries to act inconspicuous, Charlie looks like a man trying to act inconspicuous. Beneath the bushy beard, his face was beginning to color. Either he was holding his breath or they put too much Tabasco in the chowder. We were sitting on the front porch of Tugboat Willie’s, a ramshackle fish joint behind the Marine Stadium on the Rickenbacker Causeway. With the February boat show on Miami Beach and the art show in Coconut Grove, it was just about the only place you could eat outdoors that wasn’t mobbed with tourists in Bermuda shorts and Hooters’ tank tops. “More than a mouthful,” according to the slogan on the back.

Charlie looked from side to side, then lowered his voice. “You should sequester the,
ah-chem
, cookies in your safe-deposit box.”

“Huh?”

“A million cookies.”

“Oh, I get it. You afraid I’ll eat them?”

“No, lose them.”

“Can’t put them in the box,” I said. “My safe-deposit box is about as thick as a goal-line stripe. You knowhow much room a million in cash takes?”

Charlie made a
shushing
sound with a finger to his lips.

“To give you an idea, my old equipment bag used to hold all the shoulder pads for the offensive line, and it’s jammed full. We’re talking twenty thousand fifty-dollar bills.”

“Okay, okay,” Charlie whispered hoarsely, glancing nervously at two boaters at the next table. The men were chomping dolphin sandwiches—fried fillets with mayo and onions on white bread—oblivious to our discussion, though Charlie doubtless imagined them fugitives from Interpol.

I was scooping smoked fish spread onto saltines and nursing a beer. “Sometimes in the movies, a guy opens a briefcase, one of those three-inch Samsonites, and there’s supposed to be a couple million bucks inside. No way.”

A pouting waiter in a Florida State T-shirt, a kid with a ponytail and one earring, brought Charlie’s yellowtail snapper, broiled well done, and dropped a plate of stone crabs in front of me. Maybe I’m just getting old, but the young today seem to slouch and sulk more than we did.

When the waiter retreated to the kitchen, Charlie whispered, “You’ve got to go to Abe Socolow at once. lake the money to him.”

“That’s exactly what Nicky Florio wants me to do.”

“You know what I mean. Tell Socolow everything. Testify in front of the grand jury.”

“What for?”

“To indict Nicky Florio, of course.”

“For what, or did I just say that?”

“Jake, what’s wrong with you? For murder and attempted bribery.”

Charlie’s fish was getting cold. A breeze was blowing from the bay, and the palm fronds clattered against each other. At least we weren’t getting a whiff of the sewage plant from nearby Virginia Key. “As for murder,” I said, “Socolow’s got no jurisdiction. It didn’t happen in Dade County. Hell, it didn’t happen in any county. It’s Micanopy territory.”

“The
locus delicti
,’” Charlie muttered.

“The tribal police have investigatory powers, and the federal courts have ultimate jurisdiction if there’s a case. But there’s a big problem, Charlie. No body.”

“No
corpus delicti
,” Charlie said.

“Now I could go under oath and tell Abe I witnessed this murder, and then helped dispose of the body….”

“Accessory
post facto.
”

“But there are three witnesses who’ll claim I’m lying or hallucinating….”

“Ah, the
dramatis personae.
”

“Charlie, do you think you could stop that?”

“
Deo volente
, God willing.”

“Even if the feds can find the place, and some sophisticated canoe maker like you can find a splotch of blood or a tooth at the bottom of the slough, my word won’t be good enough.”

“Why not?”

I dived into the stone crabs. The claws hadn’t been thoroughly cracked, and I was using a cocktail fork like an ice pick to dig out the meat. “For the same reason I can’t blow the whistle on the bribery. The million bucks came from Rick Gondolier’s safe. He skimmed it from the bingo hall. At least that’s what Florio says. Now I show up, blabbing that Florio’s trying to bribe Abe Socolow, but if Abe is dirty, he’s already in Florio’s pocket, and he’ll tip Florio that I’ve pulled a double-cross. If Abe’s honest and looks into my charges, Florio will claim that Gondolier and I stole the money, then had a falling-out, after which I killed him, and to save my own hide I—”