Chapter 11
Although Maher tried to shake it off, he was deeply hurt by his experience in the Ciasullo case. The truth was, he had not been treated like a real cop, and it forced him to face the fact that he wasn’t a real cop. Disillusioned by what he considered shoddy treatment at the hands of suspicious NYPD chief of detectives, Maher had second thoughts about his undercover exploits. May I should just forget it, Maher told himself. Besides, there was something else that was troubling him even more than his future as a quasi-cop. His marriage.
Maher could no longer deny that something had changed between him and Beth. If could be written of as the inevitable fading of passion that often occurs when two people have been together for a long time. But Maher’s gut told him it was something more than that. At first Maher thought it was his undercover work. Beth had never really been comfortable with what he was doing. Then Maher wondered if it might be Beth’s career, which was on a rapid rise. In 1978 she had left New York magazine for a job as a circulation manager of Esquire. In 1980 she had helped launch a new magazine called Prime Time. When that folded after a year, Beth had joined The Economist as circulation director. Maybe, Maher speculated, Beth’s increasing responsibilities in her ever higher positions were sapping her energy. But he knew that wasn’t it either. While the distancing between them seemed to have begun at about the time Beth went to The Economist, there was another factor. A coworker named Richard O’Rourke.
After her first day at The Economist, Beth had returned home late. She was drunk.
“Where were you?” Maher had asked.
“Ohm” Beth had said with a giggle, “an accountant at the office took me out for a drink.”
“Who?” Maher demanded.
“Richard O’Rourke.”
Maher had felt a twinge. Not of anger. Not of jealousy. But of sudden loss. His intuition told him Beth was enamored with someone else. As the weeks passed, Maher became convinced she was having an affair. It wasn’t that Beth mentioned the name Richard often, which she did, it was the way she said the name Richard, the inflection she used, dragging it out: R-i-c-h-a-r-d. It drove Maher crazy, yet made him physically ill. Yet, when he finally confronted her, she denied it. But Maher knew.
Seeking a way to shut off his mind, to stop the images of Beth with another man, Maher turned his attention to drag racing. On most weekends he could be found at the “strip” on Connecting Highway. He once again set about modifying his Corvette, making the undisputed fastest car even faster. And he went back to his old mechanic, Larry Birnholz. Why not? Maher told himself. Larry doesn’t know I was an FBI informant.
As Maher and Birnholz worked on Maher’s Vette, Maher decided to tell Birnholz a variation of the Ciasullo story. I want this fucker indebted to me, Maher reasoned.
“I am an FBI informant,” Maher said one day.
Birnholz dropped the wrench he was holding.
“Look, Larry,” Maher said with a laugh, “I was never going to lock you up. Grand theft auto? You’d get ninety days, maybe less.”
BIrnholz, a look of terror in his eyes, was speechless.
Maher continued: “But when you took off that fucking cop, they wanted me to testify against you. I had no choice. They were going to subpoena me.”
Birnholz stared at Maher, his mouth gaping.
“But I refused to testify, Larry. I told them I wasn’t going to turn on my friend. Other wise you’d be locked up right now. And you know that as well as I do.”
“So that’s what happened,” Birnholz squeaked. Then: “Thanks, Kevin.”
“Forget about it Larry,” Maher said.
They returned to the job at hand.
Maher and Birnholz removed the LT1 engine they had dropped into the Vette two years earlier and replaced it with a 427-cubic inch L88 Big Block motor, which packed more than 550 horsepower. Total cost: $8,000.
Besides the automotive changes, Maher added creature comforts not often found in a race car. He tweaked the engine to idle at a thousand revolutions per minute instead of the standard twelve hundred rpms, which enabled him to run the air conditioning without the car overheating. And he installed a $4,000 sound system consisting of twelve-hundred-watt Blaupunkt radio and speaker array that included ten-inch woofers. The resulting sound was so big that when Maher sat in the Corvette and cranked up the volume, the hair on the back of his would part.
After having sunk $12,000 into the Vette, Maher not only had the fastest vehicle in the area, he also had the most expensively appointed. Now he had to pay for all these modifications. So every weekend he would had up to Connecting Highway and wait for one of two types of drivers: someone who didn’t know him or his Vette, or someone who had gone off to modify his own car and had returned to the strip believing his could finally beat Maher. Maher didn’t care who showed up. He would bet $4,000, blast through a quarter of a mile, and pick up the money.
On one Friday night in the fall of 1982, a hotshot in a Camaro appeared. The driver was so certain his Camaro could take Maher’s Corvette that he spotted Maher a full car length.
When the Corvette and the Camaro were positioned at the starting line, the driver of the Camaro arrogantly motioned for Maher to move ahead a car length. With $4,000 at stake, Maher didn’t mind. He edged in front of the Camaro. A moment later, the signal was given and both cars revved up.
The torque of the Big Block motor in Maher’s Corvette (torque is the force an engine produces as turns) generated so much momentum that the car’s fiberglass body contorted to the right while the left wheel rose off the ground. For an instant, as the Vette wound up to sixty-five hundred rpms, it seemed frozen in time. Then, in an explosion of raw power, the car shot forward. Seconds later, it was over. Maher had won by ten car lengths, an incredible margin of victory in a quarter mile dash.
Maher screeched to a stop, climbed out of the car, and popped the hood. Dozens of people crowded around Maher’s Vette, pushing and shoving to get a better view. Among the mesmerized onlookers was a twenty-two-year-old Colombian named John Uribe.
Maher had met Uribe a year earlier when Uribe arrived at Connecting Highway in a stock 1978 Silver Anniversary Corvette/ At only 160 horsepower, Uribe’s care rarely won. Uribe regarded Maher’s Corvette – which by now had been featured in three national car magazines and a book about Corvettes – as the ultimate machine.
“Hey, Kevin!” Uribe shouted as he squirmed through the masses. “You put another engine in your Vette!”
Uribe finally made his way to the side of Maher’s car. He glanced at the Big Block, then looked up at Maher.
“What’d you do with the other motor?”
“I still got it,” Maher responded.
“Can I buy it from you?” Uribe asked, his eyes pleading.
Mahe smiled. John Uribe was a nice kid. It wasn’t his fault he was born into a family-run drug cartel.
Over the past year, Maher had often asked Uribe what he did for a living. At first Uribe would say, “Nothing.” Ultimately, after he felt he could trust Maher, Uribe had acknowledged that he was laundering money for the family.
“I take leaf bags full of cash out of the house,” Uribe had explained, “and I get the small bills changed into large denominations and money orders.”
“Doesn’t anyone at the bank get suspicious?” Maher had wondered aloud.
“No,” Uribe had said with a laugh, “I don’t do it myself. I’ve got a bunch of guys who go to banks all over the city.”
Then Uribe had offered Maher a job. “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars for every bag of money you change.”
Maher had declined.
Now young John Uribe, standing there by Maher’s new, improved Corvette and looking very much younger than his twenty-two years, was angling for an opportunity to have the second-fastest car at Connection Highway.
“I want you old motor,” Uribe pressed. “I want the LT1.”
“Sure, John. You can have it.”
Maher told Uribe he wanted $6,000 for the motor. Maher would not only install it, he would also throw in a myriad of extras, including a 400-turbo three-speed transmission, headers, and a heavy-duty radiator.
Maher contracted the job to Frank’s Sunoco Station in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. Every day Uribe would call Maher and check on the progress.
“Now this guy is going to make me the fastest guy at Connecting Highway?” Uribe would ask over and over.
“Second, fastest,” Maher always would correct him. “I’m the fastest.”
One day, as Uribe rattled on about what was being installed in his Vette, Maher mentioned that it might be a good to have an engine oil cooler.
“Yeah,” Uribe agreed. “I need that.”
“And what about a transmission oil cooler?”
“I need that too, don’t I, Kevin?”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
Mulitple spark discharge, special shield spark plug wires, water injection, special motor mounts, you name it, Maher sold it Uribe. At a profit, of course. The original $6,000 quote quickly ballooned to $10,000. But Maher didn’t feel guilty. Everything he was putting in Uribe’s Vette did in fact improve the performance. And besides, Maher thought, he’s a drug dealer with bags of cash. I’m going to bang him.
When the modifications were complete, Uribe showed up at Connecting Highway and blew every other car away. Except for Maher’s, of course. Even so, second fastest was a lot better than being the slowest.
Besides his new status at Connecting Highway, Uribe underwent another transformation. He no longer had the demeanor of a shy kid. He was flashing a lot of money. And he was showing up with a different leggy bimbo every weekend. At first Maher attributed this to Uribe’s sudden popularity as a winner at the races. Maher knew that winning not only built confidence, it also generated cash. Then, Maher realized that Uribe wasn’t just carrying thousands he was carrying tens of thousands. And he begun carrying something else.
Cocaine.
One night – a humid summer night in 1983 – Maher noticed a pretty brunette standing by the side of Connecting Highway. Uribe watched Maher watching the girl.
“That’s Julianne,” Uribe said. “I fucked her.”
Maher jolted back from some fantasy and looked at Uribe. Sure, he was a good-looking kid, but Maher didn’t think of himself as any less appealing. Still, Uribe was the one getting all the action.
Uribe pointed across the highway at a blonde.
“Fucked her, too,” Uribe stated without any real emotion.
Maher found himself wondering: How does he do it?
“You know how I get all these bitches?” Uribe said, reading Maher’s mind.
Maher raised an eyebrow. “How, John?”
Uribe slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag filled with white powder.
“I give these dopey bitches some of this and they’ll do anything I want them to,” Uribe said with a smile.
Uribe offered Maher the bag of cocaine. “A present for you, my friend.”
Maher hesitated. He had never done coke.
“Go ahead,” Uribe urdged. “Take it. Try it. You’ll see.”
Maher tentatively took the coke from Uribe and stuffed it in his pocket.
“There are two ounces in there,” Uribe noted. “That should last you for a while.”
Uribe handed Maher a tiny spoon. “Here. You’ll need this.”
Maher took the spoon and then slowly ambled over to Julianne. She looked even better than she did from a distance. High-helled boots. Black leather miniskirt. And a tiny white feather dangling from one earlobe. Julianne glanced up as Maher approached her.
“Wanna hang out?” Maher said.
Julianne shrugged. “You got any hits?”
Maher showed her the two ounces of coke Uribe had given him. Julianne’s eyes widened and she reached for the bag. As she held out her right hand, Maher noticed something. The fingernail on her pinkie was about a half inch longer than he other nails. And she had a tiny diamond embedded in it.
“This cost me five hundred dollars,” Julianne pointed out, holding up her diamond-studded fingernail.
The utility fingernail became apparent when the two of them climbed in Maher’s Corvette. Julianne dug into the bag and used her fingernail to scoop a small about of coke, which she quickly snorted. Maher, using the coke spoon, followed suit. He waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Cake ain’t so amazing, Maher concluded. What the fuck is everybody talking about? But a few minutes later, Maher took a second hit. And then a third. Now I see what everyone’s talking about. He was overcome with euphoria. Everything is wonderful. The world is fantastic. Suddenly his mind was firing like the multiple spark discharge under the hood of the Vette. And his thoughts mimicked his driving technique. Fast. Dangerous. Out of Control.
For the next hour, Maher and Julianne cruised Queens, snorting coke and listening to the radio with the volume cranked. Maher was giddy and felt totally uninhibited. Julianne seemed in the mood for anything. So when Maher found himself in front of the Kew Motor Inn on Queens Boulevard he whipped the car into the parking lot.
Once in the room, Julianne pulled off her miniskirt and blouse, then fell across the bed. Maher shivered slightly as he let his eyes caress her long, slender legs, which were now open and inviting. Those legs go from here to New Jersey, Maher mused. A momentary flicker of confusion hit him. Until that night, he had never snorted coke. And he had never cheated on Beth. Never even thought about it. Now he was high and about to screw a gril with a feather earring and one long fingernail. It seemed bizarre, surreal. Maher dug another spoonful of coke out of the plastic bag and snorted it up his right nostril. The curtain of confusion parted. And there was Julianne, waiting on the bed.
Maher undressed and slip on top of her. The world disappeared in a blaze of lust, and Maher’s emotions churned inside him like his mind was a blender. In the midst of it all it struck him that the last time he felt this kind of unbridled thrill was when he took the cops on a chase to the Catskills. What never seemed to occur to him were the consequences. Not then. And certainly not now.
Maher entered the house quietly and, as he usually did after a night at Connecting Highway, tiptoed to the bedroom. He looked at Beth, who was sleeping, and she seemed so angelic. How could I do this to her? Maher tortured himself. How could I fuck some dopey bitch? Then he undressed and slipped into bed. Beth stirred and wrapped her arms around his wrist.
“Did you win?” Beth whispered.
“Yeah,” Maher said. “I won.”
“That’s good,” Beth said with a yawn, then cuddled against him.
Maher felt waves of guilt. He ached for his mind to stop, longed for sleep. But Maher was about to learn a lesson about cocaine. The drug-induced euphoria dissolves long before the pharmacological effect of the stimulant wears off. And so he lay awake, wondering if he would ever be the same. Toward dawn, rationalization set it. What am I feeling guilty about? Beth’s fucking some guy at the office. Fuck Beth. Fuck her.
The following morning, as Beth made a pot of coffee, Maher brooded.
“What’s wrong, Kevin?” Beth asked.
“I tried cocaine last night,” Maher blurted out.
“You did?” Beth seemed only half surprised.
“It’s weird stuff,” Maher said with a sigh. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Of course you couldn’t sleep,” Beth noted. “Cocaine is a stimulant. Stimulants keep you awake.”
And that was the extent of the conversation. This was 1983. Cocaine was no big deal. Even doctors were shrugging off its potential for abuse and addiction.
Throughout the day, Maher found it difficult to concentrate. The effect of his first taste of coke. The remorse over his encounter with Julianne, whch even the possibility of Beth having an affair would not quell.
Later that night, Uribe stopped by the house.
“A present for you my friend.” Uribe smiled as he offered Maher a hit of coke.
Mahe shook his head no.
“Kevin,” Uribe said, “when a Columbian offers you a present, you must not refuse. It’s an insult.”
Maher accepted the plastic bag of coke and the tiny silver coke spoon from Uribe, then took a hit in both nostrils. He felt better immediately. Maher was learning lesion number two about cocaine: The more you use, the more you wanted.
Maher returned the bag of coke to Uribe, but Uribe handed it back to him. “This is for you, my friend. My present.”
The simple exchange would set the tone for their entire relationship. Maher would teach Uribe all he knew about Corvettes. And, in return, Uribe would offer “presents.”
“The reason I stopped by to see you,” Uribe explained, “is that I want you to put an LS-seven four-fifty-four in my Corvette.”
Maher’s eyebrows raised. An LS7 was even more powerful than the Big Block engine in Maher’s Vette.
“John,” Maher pointed out, “that’s a twelve-thousand-dollar conversion.”
“I’ve got the money,” Uribe countered.
“You’ll need to change a lot of trash bags to pay for it,” Maher said with a laugh.
Uribe did not laugh. The solemn expression on Uribe’s face confirmed what Maher always suspected – that Uribe had long since graduated from laundering cash to dealing.
Maher ordered LS7 engine and had a mechanic at Frank’s Sunoco drop it in Uribe’s Corvette. Then Maher transferred the Vette to his garage, where he performed additional modifications. Uribe would stop by every day to see how the conversion was coming. On afternoon, Uribe arrived to find Bobby working next to Maher. Bobby was now twelve years old and he loved learning from Maher, watching his “father”, the automotive alchemist.
“How’s everything going?” Uribe asked.
“Getting there,” Maher replied.
Bobby was busy cutting and splicing heavy-duty spark plug wires. In the process, the stiff cables had cut his fingers. His hands were bloody.
“You’re fingers are bleeding,” Uribe reacted.
“It’s the wires,” Bobby said with a shrug.
The following day, Uribe showed up with a $1,500 Kawasaki dirt bike, a helmet, and knee pads.
“A present for you Bobby,” Uribe said.
Maher was so touched by Uribe’s display of concern for Bobby that he gave only a passing thought to the source of Uribe’s funds. John’s all right, Maher convinced himself as he watched Bobby test out the new motorcycle.
For the next week, while Maher worked on Uribe’s Corvette, Uribe over and over asked the same question: “When you finish, I’ll have the fastest car at Connecting Highway, right?”
“Right,” Maher responded each time. “But like I told you, with this configuration, you won’t be able to go Porsche hunting on Long Island.”
Porsche hunting on Long Island was a pastime of an elite group of Corvette owners who had designed their cars for both speed and distance. Stock Corvettes would always win a quarter-mile dash against a stock Porsche, while a stock Porsche would consistently beat a stock Corvette over distance. On the open highway, Porsche drivers would sneer at Corvette drivers, then kick their car into high gear and spend the next few minutes watching the Vette fade away in the rearview mirror. Those Corvette owners who had built hybrid vehicles like Maher had, loved to cruise the Long Island Expressway, pull up next to the Porsche, then watch the shocked expression of the Porsche driver as the Vette roared away. But Uribe didn’t have dreams of Porsche hunting. He only wanted to be king of the universe he knew: Connecting Highway.
Whe the modifications on Uribe’s Corvette were done, Uribe tested his new machine at the Connecting Highway strip. As Maher had promised, nothing could touch the “Silver Bullet.” It seemed Uribe had gotten what he asked for: Supremacy in the quarter mile at Connecting Highway. Of course, he had yet to race Maher.
One Friday night, the inevitable contest was set up: Maher versus Uribe. Uribe – with the greater horsepower – had the edge. But driving experience triumphed over horsepower, and the student was unable to beat the master. Maher won by half a car length. Uribe was miffed. He had paid all that money for an LS7 – the most powerful engine you could put in a Vette – and still finished second place. Uribe stared at Maher. The look in Uribe’s eyes said: Maybe you didn’t do everything you were supposed to.
“Hey, John,” Maher offered. “Let’s go again.”
This time Uribe won.
“Congratulations,” Maher said when it was over.
“A present for you,” Uribe said with a smile, holding out a bag of cocaine.
Over the next several weekends, Uribe racked up victory after victory. But the glory was costly. One night, he blew a transmission. Another night Uribe burned out a torque converter. Still another race cost Uribe a rear end. Uribe was just beginning to understand how expensive a hobby drag racing could be. And Maher had begun to realize that Uribe’s drug dealing was not fueling the hobby, the hobby was fueling the drug dealing. Uribe was dealing more and more drugs to keep pace with the repair bills and the constant upgrades that would allow his Corvette to maintain an edge. While Maher didn’t believe he had been the cause of Uribe’s change of occupation by introducing Uribe to the bottomless pit of vehicular modification, he did feel that he had hastened the transition.
Once, in an attempt to justify his dealing, Uribe told Maher, “Did you know that if one drug dealer in the United States gets busted, two hundred and fifty Columbian farmers don’t eat?”
The bit of clever propaganda provided a raison d’ etre for a legion of Columbians who were perhaps only months removed from staring poverty right in the face.
In mid-1983 the house at 83 Jefferson street in Wood-Ridge that Maher had been renting was sold, and the new landlord declined to renew the lease. So Maher and Beth found a place in Waldwick, a town about ten miles away. But almost immediately upon moving in, there were problems. Bobby missed his friends in Wood-Ridge. Beth missed her neighbors. Maher missed his local gas stations and auto parts stores. Even Samantha the German shepherd seemed depressed. So Maher and Beth decided to look for a house to buy in Wood-Ridge. They were doing well financially, and it seemed time they owned a home. But they had to save enough for a down payment. Maher stopped pouring money into his Corvette. And, with the prospect of a real home in the future, he started spending less time at Connecting Highway and more time with Beth, Bobby and Samantha. The only thing still threatening his future was his cocaine habit.
One evening in December 1983, Maher returned home from work. Before getting out of his car, he took a hit of white powder. He was bolstered by the rush and strode into the house. Suddenly he felt excruciating chest pains and staggered to the sofa. Falling onto it. Beth rushed to him.
“Kevin! Kevin! What is it?”
As Beth ran to the phone to call an ambulance. Maher stopped her.
“Beth. I’m all right. I’m feeling better.”
Maher recovered enough to get to the dinning room table.
“Tomorrow,” Beth insisted, “you’re going to see a doctor.”
Maher took the next morning off and stopped by to see a doctor in Waldwick. A few days later the tests came back.
“As far as I can tell,” the doctor said, “there’s nothing wrong with you. It could have been an anxiety attack. If I were you, I’d take some time off.”
“Would you write a note to my job?” Maher asked.
“Of course,” the doctor agreed.
That afternoon, Maher walked into the office of the New Jersey Transit (formerly known as Con Rail) and informed them he needed to take an extended sick leave, doctor’s orders.
A month later, Maher’s allotted sick pay expired and he was put on full disability, which was not full pay. So when Uribe stopped by one evening and renewed an offer Maher had previously declined, this time it seemed more appealing.
“Why don’t you change a little money for me,” Uribe asked. “Life I told you before, I’ll give you five hundred dollars for each bag of small bills you change into large denominations.”
When Maher didn’t answer immediately. Uribe pressed: “It’s easy. You drive around to different banks and change two, three hundred at each bank. That way no one gets suspicious.”
Mahe still didn’t respond. He glanced out the window at Bobby, who was tossing a stick to Samantha. The money would help, Maher thought.
“Sure,” Maher said finally. “Why not?”
Among the people Maher met at various Corvette gatherings at Astoria Park, where care owners would congregate and show off their cars, was a cop named Vincent Caldera. Caldrea drove a 1983 Monte Carlo Super Sport, and since Maher was the man when it came to automotive modifications, Caldera would often ask him questions about improving performance. As they got to know each other better, Maher told Caldera about his work as a confidential informant. Caldera then confided in Maher about something he normally didn’t discuss.
“I’m on a modified assignment,” Caldera told Maher one day.
The term “modified assignment” was euphemism. Those on “modified assignment” were being disciplined in some way. Caldera’s case, he was assigned to traffic detail.
“What the fuck do you do,” Maher asked.
Caldera explained that a year before, he was of-duty and driving along in Queens when a taxi cut in front of him and almost hit his car. Caldera pulled his car up beside the cab and flashed his shield, but the cabdriver pressed the accelerator and raced away. Caldera pursued the cab until it got stuck in traffic.
“So,” Caldera said, “I jumped out of the car and, with a shield in one hand, drew my gun. I approached the cab and pointed the gun at the fucking driver.”
Maher was loving every minute of the story.
Caldera continued: “A passenger in the back of the cabe screamed at me: ‘Hey! You can’t pull your gun on him!’ So I pointed the gun in the backseat and said: ‘Shut the fuck up!’”
Maher laughed. “That’s great, Vinny.”
Caldera was stone-faced. “The guy in the back was a former U.S. Congressman.”
“Fuck!” Maher reacted.
“The bastard filed a complaint and I got modified assignment. Now I hear they’re thinking of firing me.”
Maher shook his head. “Look, Vinny, I know people at the district attorney’s office. Let me talk to them.”
The following day, Maher spoke with Harkins. Unfortunately, there was nothing Harkins could do. When Maher told Caldera, he shrugged.
“Thanks for trying,” Caldera said. “But I think I have it solved.”
“How?”
“I know this lawyer,” Caldera said, “who represents somebody big in the department. He says he can guarantee me my job back.” (Caldera’s lawyer represented a high-ranking law enforcement official who cannot be named.)
“That’s great,” Maher observed.
“Problem is,” Caldera added, “he wants twenty thousand. In cash.”
Maher knew what that meant. Bribery.
“Promise me you won’t say anything about this, Kevin,” Caldera said. “I just want my job back, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Maher assented.
Since Caldera didn’t have the money himself, he called his father. Then Maher, Caldera, and Caldera’s father drove to a bank and withdrew twenty thousand in cash. Next stop was the lawyer’s office, where Caldera delivered the bundle of currency.
A short time later, Caldera was reinstated.
Maher had promised Caldera he wouldn’t do anything or say anything about the payoff. He would keep that promise. Even so, Maher deposited that information in his memory. A former U.S. Congressman. A high-ranking law enforcement official. And twenty grand. No a bad deposit.
In January 1984 Maher was feeling well enough to return to work. However, when he reported for duty, he was told by the assistant supervisor, Moe Sykes, that he had been taken “out of service.”
Maher was furious. He had done everything he was supposed to do, filed every bit of paperwork.
“William French’s orders,” Sykes said.
French was Sykes’s supervisor.
“But here are the test reports from my doctor,” Maher said. “And the forms I filled out.”
Sykes was unsympathetic. Maher would have to go to hearing if he wanted to be reinstated.
“Show the paperwork to the hearing officer,” Sykes said.
Maher started to say something. Sykes cut him off.
“William French’s orders,” Sykes said.
On January 24, Maher appeared at a New Jersey Transit hearing.
“I hear you’ve been taking off a lot of work,” Maher responded. “I’ve been sick.”
Maher handed the hearing officer a stack of various letters, test results, and forms. Sykes enter the room as the hearing officer was reading Maher’s documentation.
“There is no case here,” the hearing officer said. “Why didn’t you give these notes to your supervisor?”
“When I tried to give them to him,” Maher said, pointing at Sykes, “he said give them to you.”
The hearing officer looked at Sykes. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” Sykes replied. “Bill French already took him out of service.”
After chiding Sykes, the hearing officer reinstated Maher, ruling that Maher would be paid for the days he was prevented from working.
“I want you to go to a company doctor,” the hearing officer said, “to maker sure you’re able to return to work.”
On February 9, Maher was examined by a New Jersey Transit doctor, and it was discovered that Maher couldn’t see out of his right eye.
“I was shot with a BB gun when I was kid,” Maher explained.
Maher reported to work on February 16, and Sykes handed Maher a pair of goggles. Sykes explained that there was a regulation that required anyone with impaired vision to wear protective eyegear. The pertinent regulation, Rule 15, read as follows: “An employee blind or practically blind in one eye must wear protective goggles at all times while on Company property.”
“Let me guess,” Maher said with a sigh. “William French’s orders.”
Sykes nodded.
Over the years Maher had adapted to his impaired sight by making use of his peripheral vison. The side shields that were part of the goggles prevented him from doing that.
“I can’t wear these things,” Maher told Sykes. “I’ll get hit by a train and get killed.”
“You have to wear them,” Sykes insisted. “William French’s orders.”
Mahe was getting sick of hearing those words: “William French’s orders.” It was beginning to feel like harassment.
Maher left work and went to his eye doctor, David A. Kaplan, who agreed that it was more dangerous for Maher to wear the goggles than not to wear them.
Presented with a letter from Maher’s doctor, Sykes said: “Go to our doctor, and if he concurs, we’ll exempt you from the rule.”
On February 27, Dr. Bernard Sarn, a New Jersey Transit physician, concurred.
Maher was allowed to resume work without goggles. Word around the lot was that the supervisor was definitely not pleased. Neither was Maher. And from that moment on, Maher decided he would watch William French very, very closely.
