“What the hell have you done to us, Ben?”
“The purpose of this meeting”—James Nardozzi, the U.S. Attorney, stared across the table, focusing on Mel—“is for you and your client to fully understand the seriousness of the charges facing him. And to determine a path of action that would be in his best interest. As well as the best interest of his family.”
The conference room in the U.S. Attorney’s office at Foley Square in lower Manhattan was glass-paneled and narrow, its white walls decorated with photos of George W. Bush and the attorney general. Booth and Ruiz were seated across from Mel and Raab. There was a stenographer at the far end of the table, who looked like a prim schoolteacher, taking everything down. Raab’s family was sequestered at the house, which was now cordoned off and being guarded by the FBI.
“First, Mr. Raab believes he has done nothing wrong,” Mel was quick to reply.
“Nothing wrong?” The U.S. Attorney ruffled his brow as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“Yes. He denies ever knowingly being part of any scheme to launder money or defraud the U.S. government. He’s never once concealed any monies he’s made from these transactions. He’s even up-to-date in his taxes on them. Whatever business took place between Mr. Kornreich and Mr. Concerga was totally without my client’s consent.”
Special Agent Booth looked back at Mel, surprised. “Your client denies knowing that Paz Export Enterprises was a company set up to receive altered merchandise intended to launder money for the Mercado drug cartel? And that his actions did not serve to aid and abet these felonies when he introduced Paz to Argot Manufacturing?”
Raab stared nervously at Booth and Ruiz. Mel nodded at him.
“Yes.”
The U.S. Attorney sighed impatiently, as if this were wasting his time.
“What my client does admit to,” Mel explained, “is that he may have been foolish, if not even a bit misguided, not to suspect that something was afoot given the regular and generally lucrative result of Mr. Concerga’s business. But the mere acceptance of payment doesn’t constitute knowledge of who the end user was or what the finished product was being utilized for.”
Special Agent Booth scratched his head for a second and nodded patiently. “As Mr. Nardozzi explained, Mr. Raab, what we’re trying to do is give you a chance to keep your family together—before we go at this another way.”
“The RICO statutes very specifically state,” Mel said, “that a suspect must willfully and knowingly contrive—”
“Mr. Kipstein,” Agent Ruiz cut Raab’s lawyer off in midsentence, “we know what the RICO statutes state. The man we introduced your client to yesterday is a special agent of the FBI. Agent Esposito identified himself as a business acquaintance of Luis Trujillo. Your client offered to do business with him in the same manner he assisted in the altering of gold for Paz. That’s money laundering, Mr. Kipstein. And conspiracy to commit fraud.”
“You set my client up,” Mel was quick to charge. “You lured him into an illicit act. You put his life, and the life of his family, in danger. That’s entrapment. It’s more than entrapment. It’s reckless endangerment in my view!”
Booth leaned back. “All I can say is, maybe your view’s a little cloudy over there, Counselor.” He had a face like someone concealing a winning poker hand.
Booth nodded to Ruiz, who reached inside his folder and came out with a cassette. “We have his voice on tape, Mr. Kipstein. Your client has made six visits to Colombia in the past eight years. Do you want me to play what was said?” He slid the tape across the table. “Or can we just get down to the business we came here for today, which is saving your client’s life?”
“Be my guest,” Mel Kipstein said.
The agent shrugged and reached forward for the recorder.
Raab put his hand on his lawyer’s arm. “Mel …”
The lawyer stared at him.
Raab always knew that one day this would happen. Even when he pretended every day that it would never come. That it would go on forever.
They had his relationship to Argot, the monies he’d received. They had his voice on tape. The RICO statutes only needed to establish a pattern of racketeering. Just the knowledge alone of such activity would be enough to get a conviction. Under the kingpin statute, they could put him away for twenty years.
He knew. He always knew. He just wasn’t prepared to feel so empty inside. He wasn’t prepared to have it hurt so much.
“What is it you want from me?” He nodded dully.
“You know what we want from you, Mr. Raab,” Booth replied. “We want you to testify. We want Trujillo. We want your friend. You tell us everything you know about Paz and Argot. We’ll see what Mr. Nardozzi is willing to do.”
They laid out in a very matter-of-fact way to Raab how they were going to seize his assets. The house. The bank accounts. The cars. They wanted him to turn on everyone—including his friend—otherwise they’d toss him in jail.
“Of course, if that bothers you, we could just do nothing.” Ruiz shrugged with a gloating smile. “Let you hang out on the street. Go about your business. Tell me, Mr. Raab, after what happened last night, how long do you think you’d last like that?”
Raab pushed away from the table. “All I did was buy the gold!” He glared at them. “I didn’t steal anything. I didn’t hurt anybody. I put two people together. All I did was what a thousand people would have done.”
“Look,” Mel said, his voice betraying a tone of desperation, “my client’s a well-respected member of the business and social community. He’s never been implicated in any crime before. Surely, even if his actions inadvertently assisted in the commission of a crime, it’s a stretch at best, these charges. He has no information you’re seeking. He’s not even the person you really want. That ought to count for something.”
“It does count for something, Mr. Kipstein,” Agent Booth replied. “It accounts for why we’re talking to you, Mr. Raab, and not to Harold Kornreich.”
Raab stared at him and touched Mel’s shoulder. It was over. No more. He suddenly saw all the consequences crashing in on him like the girders of a building caving in.
“You’re cutting out my heart, you know.” He stared at Booth. “My life, my family. You’ve killed it. It’s all gone.”
The FBI man crossed his legs and looked at Raab. “Frankly, Mr. Raab, considering last night, I think you’ve got even bigger things to worry about than that.”
“We’re talking about the matter of your personal safety,” Agent Ruiz cut in.
“My safety …” Raab suddenly turned white, flashing back to the events of the previous night.
“Yeah, and that of your family, Mr. Raab.” The agent nodded.
“I think it’s time we explain a few things.” Booth opened a file. “There’s a war going on right now, Mr. Raab. A war of control—between factions of the Colombian drug cartels. Between those operating in this country and those back home in South America. You’ve heard of Oscar Mercado—”
“Of course I’ve heard of Oscar Mercado.” Raab blanched. Everyone had.
Ruiz pushed a black-and-white photo across the table. The face was gaunt