Chapter 15
During the summer of 1985, Maher continued to identify dealers for the DEA. He would ride with Uribe to a dealer’s house, recording the address and phone number. The he would give the information to Slavanki and Becker. But nothing seemed to happen.
“What’s going on?” Maher asked Slavanki one day. “Nobody’s getting busted.”
Slavanki told Maher that he was opening case files and “Idling” the dealers. Busts would come as soon as the files were complete.
“All we want to do for now,” Slavanki said, “is continue to identify dealers.”
In mid-August, Slavanki gave Maher $3,000, payment for information Maher supplied on a dealer named Julio. Maher was happy to get the money, to see that something was going on, yet nothing about the bust made any sense. Julio was a low-level dealer, something Maher had made a point of telling Slavanki.
“Why’d you bust Julio?” Maher asked Slavanki.
Slavanki didn’t respond. So Maher decided to check into Julio’s bust on his own. He drove into Queens and spoke to one of Julio’s friends. The friend said “cops” armed with a search warrant had burst into Julio’s apartment and discovered cocaine and cash.
“Cops?” Maher asked, frowning.
“Yeah,” the friend said. “NYPD detectives.”
“Are you sure?” Maher pressed.
“You don’t think Julio knows what a fucking NYPD detective badge looks like?”
Maher shook his head. NYPD? Julio’s friend related how the “cops” had threatened to impound Julio’s BMW if he didn’t cooperate, a threat Maher knew well. It was a DEA ploy designed to “flip” a suspect.
The incident sounded to Maher less like an NYPD bust than it did a DEA raid. Plus Maher couldn’t help but wonder why the DEA would be paying him for an NYPD bust.
By now Maher had solid sources inside the NYPD, so he dialed a number and asked two simple questions: Did the NYPD exercise a search warrant at such-and-such an address on such-and-such a date? And did the NYPD lock up a dealer named Julio? The answer was no to both accounts.
Maher hung up the receiver. So what about the badges? Of course! Maher thought. The bogus badges were used to conceal DEA involvement and make the big dealers believe the DEA had not invaded the territory. As Slavanki had intimated, the DEA investigation was in the intelligence-gathering, not the enforcement phase.
September brought with it the hint of winter. On a cool evening, much cooler than one might expect this early in the season, Maher and Uribe were cruising along in Maher’s Porsche.
“Why don’t you come to Florida with me tomorrow?” Uribe asked. “I’ve got to pick up a few kilos.”
Early the next morning, Maher met with Slavanki.
“Just identify the dealers,” Slavanki insisted.
Maher thought about that for a moment.
“I don’t mind identifying them,” Maher said. “But I don’t get paid until you bust them.”
Slavanki knew what Maher was asking.
“We’ll pay your expenses,” Slavanki offered.
“Expenses.” It was ambiguous enough word. But least Maher would be on a paid assignment, which made him feel more like a cop than an informant. Besides, the real money would come later, when the DEA finally pulled the trigger. This Maher’s territory increased. New York. And now Florida.
Maher drove home and told Beth he was going to Miami. She didn’t offer any protests. What’s she so happy about? Maher wondered. What’s she going to be doing while I’m in Florida? Fucking Richard? The thought gnawed at him all the way to Uribe’s apartment.
Uribe climbed into the Porsche, and they were off to Miami.
“You know how much cheaper a kilo is if I buy it in Miami and bring it back to New York myself?” Uribe asked.
“No, John. How much cheaper?”
“I save eight thousand dollars a kilo,” Uribe said. “Eight thousand dollars.”
“That’s great, John,” Maher acknowledged.
Maher made Miami in an incredible sixteen hours, stopping only briefly for gas.
Although Uribe had rented a house, he held his “parties” at a hotel, either the Fontainebleau or the Mayfair. This trip, Uribe had opted for the Mayfair.
Maher and Uribe checked into a large suite, and then they headed over to the dealer’s house in Miami Beach. When the dealer opened the front door, he was not happy to see a stranger.
“He has to wait outside,” the dealer insisted.
“Uribe started to protest. Maher stopped him.
“It’s okay, John,” Maher said.
While Uribe and the dealer conducted their business, Maher strolled to a Mercedes that was parked in the driveway. Maher knew that a dealer’s car was like his second home. So, making sure no one was watching from the house, Maher slid into the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment. It was full of credit card receipts for gas and oil. Maher took one of the receipts and stuffed it in his pocket. The dumb fuck won’t miss one receipt. Then Maher jotted down the dealer’s license plate number. One more DD “identified.”
The next dealer was more trusting. Maher stood to the side as the dealer counted the money Uribe had brought and Uribe tested the cocaine he was buying. The six-figure transaction took fewer than five minutes.
“It’s time to party,” Uribe said as they climbed into Maher’s Porsche.
When Maher and Uribe arrived back at the hotel suite, there were two girls waiting for them.
“Pick one,” Uribe smiled. “Or take them both.”
The girls sashayed into the bedroom, peeling off clothes as they walked. Maher followed.
The next morning, Maher and Uribe left the suite together and stopped by Uribe’s Florida home. It was a spectacular place. Three bedrooms, with a white marble entrance, a sauna, every amenity one could want. The residence sat on a landscaped half acre. And, of course, there was a large swimming pool.
When Maher met Laura, he could understand Uribe’s insecurity about her. She was five-foot-eight, with hair the color of sunshine. Her eyes were ocean blue. But she was not the fresh-scrubbed, All-American girl in a Florida orange juice commercial. Laura exuded sex, oozed sensuality like a Vermont maple tree oozes sap in autumn. She could have been the poster girl for a porn palace.
After spending the night at the house, Maher left Uribe in Miami and drove back to New York alone.
“When are you going to start busting these guys?” Maher asked as he handed Slavanki data on four more dealers.
“Soon,” Slavanki answered. “Very soon.”
For the next several months, Maher made frequent trips to Miami. Essentially Maher had begun playing the role of Uribe’s courier, bringing large sums of cash to Florida to pay for the drugs. Another service Maher provided was that of occasional chauffeur, swinging by Miami International Airport to pick up one of Uribe’s dealers. However, this was rare, since most dealers refused to fly in and out of Miami. And with good reason.
As with any port of entry – particularly a southern one – the airport was well staffed with U.S. Customs officials. But all Customs officials did not wear uniforms and examine baggage. Many were in plainclothes and wander through “profiling.”
“Profiling” is an iffy practice. For example, a cop spots a black man in a white neighborhood. The cop decides, based solely on the man’s race, that he fits the profile of a burglar. That is a form of “profiling.” It is not only race, it is blatantly illegal and is a violation of federal civil rights laws.
In the case of Miami International Airport, however, U.S. Customs official could profile anyone arriving or departing from the airport. And anyone they felt fit the profile of a drug dealer – Colombian, expensive clothes, etc. – was stopped and questioned. The difference between a neighborhood and an airport was its access. While a neighborhood was a public place, an airport was a “secured area.” This profiling was considered a legal means of maintaining airport security.
Fortunately for Maher, being a cash courier and part-time livery driver was the extent of his duties for Uribe. Uribe never asked Maher to transport cocaine.
On each subsequent foray to Florida, Maher “identified” three or four drug dealers. When the DEA hits these fucking guys, Maher thought, I’m going to be filthy fucking rich.
Another aspect of each successive trip was Uribe’s attempt to top himself in the party category. Three women. Then four. Then five. Once, Maher had six women in bed with him at the same time.
Unlimited supply of cocaine. Willing nymphs by the half dozen. What more could Maher ask for? The answer always came crashing down on him when the cocaine wore off.
Beth.
Despite the fact that he was taking infidelity into the big leagues, a longing came through it all. There was still a part of him that ached for the feeling he had when he first had Beth in his arms. Maher wanted desperately to get back there, so desperately that he asked Beth to come with him to see his psychiatrist, Dr. Crane.
“Maybe we can work this out,” Maher said.
The look on Beth’s face wasn’t hopeful. Still, she consented to seeing Dr. Crane.
So, in addition to his required visits to Dr. Crane mandated by New Jersey Transit, Maher added another session each week for him and Beth. Week after week, they would discuss their marriage. And almost every week, the session came down to one issue.
“I don’t trust her,” Maher would say.
“Why not?” Dr. Crane would ask. “Do you have a reason not to trust her?”
Maher would then reiterate that he thought Beth was having an affair. Beth would deny it. And they were back where they started. Sadly, the marriage appeared to be over, although neither of them wanted to admit it.
On a solo visit, Maher broke down and cried.
“I love her, Dr. Crane,” Maher said sobbing. “I love her so much.”
Of course, if that were true, what about the coke whores? The answer was not simple. The operative word in the phrase “coke whores” was “coke”. Cocaine had turned these women into little more than prostitutes. And while Maher’s libido might have driven him at first, cocaine had rendered him incapable of stopping the pursuit of pleasure. It had made him the moral equivalent of a whore.
By the end of 1985, Maher had identified more than fifty Miami coke dealers and slept with at least that many “dopey bitches.” And Beth wasn’t slipping away anymore.
She was gone.
In February 1986, Maher’s anxiety attacks resumed. But rather than stop using coke – something he was physically unable to do – he underwent a heart catherization. Purple dye was shot into his veins, and he watched a television monitor along with the doctor. The dye moved through Maher’s circulatory system unimpeded.
“I see no blockage,” the doctor told Maher. “Everything seems fine.”
New Jersey Transit was notified by Travelers Insurance that Maher was fit to report to work, and in early March Maher received a certified letter to that effect.
If Maher went back to work he wouldn’t be able to make the trips to Miami, so there was a choice to be made. But Maher found the choice an easy one: He would return to the job. Even coked up, he knew the Miami Vice life he was living was a fantasy. Besides, he had identified so many dealers, he felt like a stockbroker who had acquired a large portfolio. Eventually the DEA would get around to making busts, and when they did, the dividends Maher would receive would be enormous. So he decided he would “retire” his imaginary badge once again.
Any hope of saving his marriage, however, seemed remote. He knew his marriage was little more than a façade. He and Beth had no made love for months, the passion squelched by infidelity. A year earlier, he had begun to avoid sleeping with her. Often, when the coke wore off, he feared he might have caught a venereal disease from one of the women. So he would make an excuse and stay up long after Beth had gone upstairs. Only when Maher was certain she was asleep would he join her in bed.
The return to New Jersey Transit was less difficult than Maher thought it would be. He didn’t miss the parties at the Mayfair and the Fontainebleau; rather, he felt relieved to have a reason to break away from the insanity of it all. But his return to work was not entirely painless. Beth was now making $75,000 a year. Maher was still at the same railroad job he held when they first met. His sense of self-worth as measured against his wife suffered from the comparison.
Over the next three months, Maher worked diligently at his job, dramatically lowered his cocaine intake, and began to emerge from the fog of the previous year. He felt good again, and actually was hopeful about the future. But on July, 1 1986, something thwarted Maher’s sense of well-being. A weed killer used by New Jersey Transit on the railroad tracks splashed into his eyes.
The irritation cause by the chemicals in the weed killer led to infection in both eyes. New Jersey Transit’s response was to order Maher to wear protective goggles. Maher protested, citing all the same reasons he offered the first time the goggles became an issue. New Jersey Transit stood firm. So Maher took a leave of absence while the dispute was turned over to union arbitrators.
Maher grew despondent during the weeks the arbitration process dragged on. It seems like every time I try to have a normal life, something happens to fuck it up. But there was another thing that always seemed to happen whenever Maher was spun out of his quest for normalcy: John Uribe would reappear with his “presents” and his promise of wild parties. August 1986 was no exception.
“Too bad about your job, man,” Uribe said showing up at Maher’s house unexpectedly one afternoon. Then, holding out a bag of cocaine: “A present for you my friend.”
“I thought you were in Miami,” Maher said as he snorted a little coke.
“Let’s go back there right now,” Uribe said, his voice hyper. “Come on, Kevin. Let’s go to Miami.”
Maher shrugged. “Why not?”
Sixteen hours later, at eight o’clock the following evening, Maher exhausted from the long drive, slowed his Porsche to a stop in front of the Mayfair. A short elevator ride, and Maher was back at one of Uribe’s parties.
Maher looked around the suite. He recognized eight dealers. And coke whores were everywhere. Black. White. Blond. Brunette. Tall. Short. Maher smiled. He’d have a few drinks and a couple snorts. As Maher made his way to the makeshift bar that was set up on a side table, he turned and looked right into a pair of incredible brown eyes.
She was brunette. Long, perfectly shaped legs poked out of her leather hot pants just as provocatively as her braless breasts strained against her low-cut blouse. She was sitting in a huge leather chair with her left leg over an arm of the chair and her right leg thrusted straight out and to the right side. Maher could see she wasn’t wearing panties. As he stood there gaping, she slowly kicked her left leg, flipping a high-heel shoe up and down on her toe.
“I’m Beverly,” she said sweetly. “Beverly Merrill.”
Maher collected himself. “I’m Kevin Maher.”
Beverly smiled. “You’re Kevin Maher?”
“Yes,” Maher said, frowning.
Beverly laughed. “John’s told me all about you. You’re the guy who had six girls at one time.”
Maher didn’t know what to say. What could he say?
Maher and Beverly looked at each other. Maher was thinking: She’s beautiful. I hope she’s not just another coke whore.
Suddenly Maher felt a hand on his elbow. It was Uribe.
“Kevin I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“I’ll be right back,” Maher told Beverly as Uribe led him away.
“I’ll be here,” Beverly said seductively.
Maher and Uribe stopped in a corner of the suite.
“Man,” Maher said, looking over his shoulder at Beverly, “she’s hot!”
“Yeah,” Uribe said, “but I want to warn you.”
Maher’s heart dropped.
“Be careful what you tell her,” Uribe continued. “She just got busted for extortion, kidnapping, and possession. She’s out on ten thousand dollars bail.”
Maher smiled. He had expected to hear worse.
Uribe noticed Maher’s grin. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yeah, John, I heard you.” Maher turned and stared at Uribe. “What happened?”
“Some rich kid from Buffalo owed a dealer twenty-five thousand. The kid kept saying he didn’t have the money. But the DD knew the father was some rich old fuck, so the DD grabbed the kid. Beat the shit out of him for three days. Didn’t feed him. Kept telling the kid that if his father didn’t send money, he was going to kill him.”
“What did Beverly have to do with it?” Maher asked, already making excuses for her.
“She was there, man,” Uribe said with a sigh. “She was there through the whole fucking thing. She was partying with the DD for a month straight.”
“How’d they get busted?”
“”They took the kid to a pay phone and made him call his father. They told the old man, send money now. So the old man wire money Western Union.”
“Real smart,” Maher said with a laugh. “The old fuck called the cops. Right?”
“Yeah. The FBI followed the DD and Beverly back to the house. Then the cops burst into the place, firing.”
Uribe paused.
“They killed three German shepherd puppies,” Uribe said with a sigh, his voice dripping with disgust. “Fucking cops shot three puppies. They didn’t have to do that.”
Maher and Uribe stood in silent vigil for a moment. Then they both stared at Beverly.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Uribe said. “Maybe she’s a good girl. But she’s out on bail, man. Facing time. That’s why I told you to be careful. The fed are going to try and turn her, I know they are.”
Maher smiled again. No, John. The feds aren’t going to turn her, I am.
“Listen,” Uribe said, “I’ve got to do a little business. Come with me.”
Maher hesitated and looked at Beverly.
“She can come, too,” Uribe said.
Maher, Beverly, and Uribe went downstairs.
“Can I drive the Porsche?” Uribe asked as the valet pulled up with the car.
“Yeah, John,” Maher replied, laughing. “You can drive the Porsche.”
Uribe got behind the wheel, and Maher got into the passenger seat. Beverly slid onto Maher’s lap.
Uribe sped through the streets of Miami, ultimately whipping the Porsche into the parking lot of a club in Coconut Grove.
“Look, baby,” Uribe said, “me and Kevin have a little business. We’ll pick you up later.”
Beverly shrugged and got out of the car. Uribe sped away.
“You like her, huh?” Uribe said.
Maher didn’t respond.
Uribe concluded a quick cocaine transaction, then stopped back at the club to pick up Beverly. Then the three of them returned to the Mayfair.
A few snorts and a couple of drinks later, Maher and Beverly were in bed. The sex was explosive. When it was over, Maher held Beverly in his arms and had the strangest thought: this is a good person. She has no morals, but she’s a good person.
Maher and Beverly emerged from the bedroom at about 2:00 A.M. Uribe was gone.
“Where’s John?” Maher asked one of the dealers.
“He went out,” was all the dealer knew.
An hour later, the phone rang. Maher let it ring several times, unsure whether he should answer it. Finally he grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?”
It was Uribe on a cellular phone.
“Kevin. Listen.”
Maher heard a whooshing sound.
“John, what is that?”
Uribe laughed. “That’s what it sounds like when you hold a cellular phone out the window of a Porsche going a hindered and ten.”
“What Porsche?” Maher demanded.
“Your Porsche,” Uribe answered.
“How did you get my fucking Porsche?” Maher screamed.
“The valet parking guy gave me the key,” Uribe answered.
Maher howled. “John. Goddamnit! You bring my Porsche back right now!”
Uribe laughed.
“John! You got one hour to get back here!”
Click. Uribe hung up.
An hour passed. Uribe did not return.
Maher and Beverly stayed up the rest of the night talking.
“I can help you,” Maher said at one point. “I work with the FBI.”
Beverly was stunned, and her body language changed. She edged away from Maher.
“I can help you,” Maher repeated. “Trust me.”
Beverly moved back near Maher and placed her arms around him. I’m in love, Maher thought as he lost himself in her embrace. I’m fucking in love.
The next morning Uribe called.
“Don’t go near my car,” Maher warned him. “Leave it parked.”
The tone in Maher’s voice shocked Uribe.
“Sure, man. I won’t touch the fucking thing.”
“Where the fuck are you?” Maher demanded.
Uribe gave Maher an address on Biscayne Boulevard.
Maher and Beverly took a cab from the Mayfair to Beverly’s apartment, picked up Beverly’s 1979 Cadillac El Dorado, and then drove to Biscayne Boulevard to meet Uribe.
Maher walked around the Porsche, kneeling down often to look under the body.
“Brake dust on the fucking wheels,” Maher said with a sigh, disgusted. “I bet you burned out my brake rotors.”
Maher, Uribe and Beverly climbed into the Porsche and drove to a near by garage. Eleven hundred dollars later – a $600 brake job and a $500 pair of Pirelli tires – and the Porsche was as good as new.
The next day, in an effort to keep Uribe away from his Porsche, Maher took Uribe to a car rental agency that specialized in exotic cars.
“Let’s get a Lamborghini,” Uribe suggested.
“How much for the Lamborghini?” Maher asked the clerk.
“A thousand a day and a dollar a mile,” the clerk answered.
Maher smiled. At 150 miles per hour, the dollar a mile would cost more than the rental charge.
“Okay,” Maher said, “we’ll take it.”
Because Uribe was careful never to leave a paper trail of any sort, Maher whipped out his own American Express cared and charged a $5,000 deposit. What do I care? Maher mused. The DEA is paying my “expenses.”
Later that night, coked out of his mind, Maher steered the Lamborghini into the parking lot of the club just a little too fast, hit the curb, and did a three-sixty. Maher laughed. Uribe didn’t. Something was wrong. Uribe’s head was pushed down onto his shoulder.
“John, you alright?”
“Wait a minute,” Uribe said. “You fucked something up.”
“What’s wrong with your neck?” Maher asked.
“I don’t fit too good anymore in this seat. Did I grow?”
Maher jumped out of the Lamborghini, got down on his hands and knees, and looked under the car. The curb had hit the Lamborghini just under the passenger seat and pushed the frame up about four inches.
“Fuck! The frame is bent.”
Uribe climbed out of the car. “Maybe they won’t notice it when we take it back.”
“I hope not,” Maher said. “Or there goes five fucking grand.”
Maher found Beverly inside the club, and they wound up spending their third consecutive night together. With each glance, each kiss, each embrace, each passionate union, he was getting more and more hooked.
The next morning, Maher and Uribe returned the Lamborghini. No one at the car rental agency bothered to check the frame. The clerk gave Maher the American Express receipt with the five-thousand-dollar deposit, and Maher tore the receipt into pieces.
“That comes to seventeen-hundred dollars,” the clerk said as he handed Maher the rental charge to sign. “A thousand for the day and seven hundred miles at a dollar a mile.”
Maher climbed into his Porsche, dropped Uribe off at his house, and headed north to New York. It was the first time he had left Miami reluctantly, the first time he had a reason to stay.
Beverly.
As he always did upon his return to New York, Maher stopped by DEA Group 43 and handed off the information he had accumulated in Florida. Slavanki mentioned matter-of-factly that the DEA had conducted raids in New York. He handed Maher a payment of $18,000 in cash.
“Who’d you hit?” Maher asked as he flipped through the money.
“You’re better off not knowing,” Slavanki responded.
“When are you going to start busting dealers in Florida?” Maher pressed.
“You’re better off not knowing,” Slavanki said again.
Maher shrugged. Then: “By the way, I need you to help me with something.”
Maher discussed Beverly’s situation with Slavanki, insisting she was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. Maher also bent the trust a little about one of the dealers.
“Beverly Merrill was instrumental in helping me identify that dealer,” Maher fibbed, picking one at random.
“Okay,” Slavanki said with a sigh. “Let me see what I can do.”
While Maher was busy bouncing back and forth to Florida, Beth was taking “business trips” as well. With Richard. Beth also was beginning to develop a passion for golf. Richard was a golfer.
At the end of September, Maher traded his ’84 Porsche for an ’86 model. The price was $54,000. Maher got $34,000 for the trade-in on his old car and laid out $24,000 in cash. The day after buying the new car, Maher hit the road for Florida.
During the month of October, Maher made five trips to Miami. He and Beverly partied with Uribe on a grand scale, renting expensive cars. A Ferrari one trip. A Lotus Turbo Esprit the next. They rented speedboats. They rented lavish hotel suites. About the only thing Maher and Uribe bought were guns.
Maher chose two weapons for himself: a .25 caliber Berretta, which was basically a small “pocket gun” and a nickel-plated, five-shot Smith and Wesson .38 essentially a “detective gun.” Uribe opted for an Uzi, which was the weapon of choice for terrorist.
The transaction was almost as easy as buying a suit. All Maher had to do was produce a Florida driver’s license. The he gave his American Express card to the clerk.
Of course it wasn’t Maher’s money. Part of his arrangement with the DEA regarding “expenses” was that the DEA paid his AMEX bill.
After a 3 day waiting period, Maher and Uribe picked up the guns and drove to a machine shop where Uribe knew a gun expert. Uribe paid the man $500 to make the Uzi fully automatic. By nightfall, Uribe was carrying a very powerful assault weapon.
“You did what?” Slavanki screamed into the phone when Maher called him from Miami. “You bought Uribe an Uzi?!?”
There was a long beat of silence, during which it probably occurred to Slavanki that the DEA had just bought a drug dealer an assault weapon. Slavanki was furious.
“Uribe didn’t have enough cash on him,” Maher explained, “and I was standing there with my American Express.”
Maher pointed out that he made sure Uribe registered the gun in his own name.
Slavanki was not soothed. So Maher attempted to deflect Slavanki’s anger with a little humor.
“Look at it this way,” Maher said. “If anything happens, at least we have a serial number.”
It was a joke of course, but it hit the core of the DEA conundrum. Federal drug enforcement was an extraordinary nasty business and it demanded a plan that was equally nasty, even if it meant allowing dealers with assault weapons to operate freely. While the NYPD sting might last a few weeks, the DEA was forced to think in terms of years. And while the NYPD’s objective was to battle crime within the boundaries of New York City, the DEA;s mandate was to stop drug trafficking on a nationwide scale.
Over the ensuing months DEA officials knew that there would be a host of cocaine casualties, deaths that could be prevented by arresting dealers as soon as they were identified. Yet, by taking short-term action, the DEA efforts would suffer in the long term. The DEA wanted the generals, not the foot soldiers.
Even Maher was nothing more than a soldier to the DEA. Or, perhaps more accurately, a fighter pilot. He would fly his missions to Miami and return with surveillance information. Slavanki and Becker most certainly had reservations about using Maher and permitting dealers like Uribe to roam around with an Uzi, but these reservations were offset by an overriding objective: stop drug trafficking. The objective was noble even if the methods were sometimes not so savory.
The conversation turned to Beverly. Somehow Slavanki had managed to work out a deal for her on the condition that she plead guilty to extortion, which carried a five-year sentence. When Maher protested, Slavanki explained that in federal court you cannot cop out with a stipulation of no time. Unlike state courts, where the whole deal, including the sentence, is worked out in advance, federal pleas require a bit of faith. The accused agrees to plead guilty without any guarantees. Then, after the plea, the federal court decides whether jail is warranted.
At Maher’s urging, Beverly agreed to lead guilty to extortion. Prior to entering the plea, she met with a probation officer. She did not make a good impression. At the November trial, the probation officer stood in court and recommended “Half custodial and half noncustodial.” In other words, he felt Beverly should serve two and half years.
Beverly squirmed as the judge looked at the U.S. attorney and asked if had anything to say before the sentence was passed.
“We have nothing to say, Your Honor,” the U.S. attorney said.
This made Beverly even more nervous. But Maher understood enough about courtroom procedure to know there was an unwritten rule between U.S. attorneys and judges. Had the U.S. attorney wanted Beverly to serve time, he would have said so. By saying nothing, it was a signal to the judge that the prosecution preferred a sentence with no incarceration.
“Beverly Merrill,” the judge proclaimed, “you are sentenced to five years probation.”
Maher and Beverly hugged tightly. She stared into Maher’s eyes in the dreamy way someone would regard a hero.
Maher and Beverly left the courtroom and went to Beverly’s apartment, where she packed. Maher had arranged for Beverly to serve her probation in New York. And he had arranged a place for her to live: with two go-go dancers in Queens. The way Maher looked at it, this got Beverly out of Miami, where she was likely fucking somebody; and in New York, Beverly didn’t know anybody, which suited Maher just fine. Even better, Maher’s dancer friends could keep an eye on her.
And so it was that Maher found himself in New York on a crisp November night in 1986, with several new acquisitions. A nasty coke habit. A sexy but morally questionable girlfriend. A mean, jealous streak. And a gun.
It was not the most stable combination of elements.
