Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 12)

Chapter 12

Over the next three months, Maher met a number of drug dealers. In virtually every home he entered there were telltale signs of illegal activity. A scale. Residue on a coffee table. Ledgers. Stacks of cash or piles of plastic-wrapped coke. Kilo after kilo. Maher had no idea that there was so much cocaine in New York City.

Maher distanced himself from the actual distribution and sale of cocaine. If cocaine were being transported –even by Uribe – Maher made sure he wasn’t in the car. And since Uribe never charged Maher for coke, Maher was never engaged in a drug buy. It was, of course, a fine line, yet he was in a safer position that Uribe. Should the walls of the Uribe cartel crumble around him, the most Maher could be charged with was cocaine possession and whatever the district attorney could come up with regarding the changing of money. It wasn’t really laundering, Maher kept telling himself. Laundering involved the conversion of illegal money into legal assets. All Maher was doing was transforming illegal money into illegal money with a larger denomination. Maher felt reasonably safe from any prosecution that would lead to jail time. And there was no way he was going back to jail. That’s why, when Uribe once asked Maher if he’d like to get into dealing drugs, Maher made it clear that he wanted no part of sales or distribution.

“I’ll change money for you, John,” Maher had said, his voice firm, “but there’s no way I’m dealing.  No fucking way.”

“That’s cool,” Uribe responded.

The subject was never broached again.

Despite the convoluted reasoning and his propped-up bravado, Maher sometimes found himself getting scared. What if I do get caught? And what if I get a tough bastard of a judge and get sentenced to jail time? The scenario made Maher shiver. Maybe it’s time to quit. Maybe I should tell Uribe that I’m out. But Maher never seemed able to mouth the words “John, I ain’t doing this anymore.” And so he kept picking up trash bags full of cash – often as much as twenty thousand in a bag – and exchanging George Washington’s likeness for portraits of other presidents.

Most of the drug dealers didn’t mind when Maher accompanied Uribe. Maher met Jose. Carlos. Louis. Usmelia, Uribe’s drug-dealing girlfriend. They were all satisfied that if Maher were with Uribe, he must be okay. A few dealers seemed suspicious, but when Uribe vouched for Maher, they backed off. And then there was Hector Comancha. (Not his real name.)

Hector reacted violently the first time Uribe and Maher arrived at his Queens Boulevard apartment. He grabbed Uribe by the arm and took him to the corner of the room, where they screamed at each other in Spanish. Maher didn’t understand Spanish, but he got the drift of the conversation. Once in a while, Hector motioned toward Maher and shrieked “!Federale!” Each time, Uribe shook his head no. The confrontation ended when an exasperated Uribe exclaimed in English:

“You don’t like it, I’ll take my shit elsewhere.”

Hector threw up his hands in resignation. But, as first impressions go, neither Maher nor Hector had created a good one.

Before getting down to business, Hector pointed out his new large-screened television. It was one of the first large-screen televisions on the market, and Hector was proud of it. He also made much of his new gray marble table.

“Cost me six thousand,” Hector boasted as he lovingly ran his hands over the smooth marble surface.

Uribe and Hector set about negotiating a drug deal. While they talked, Maher noticed a large safe in the corner of the living room. At one point, Uribe, not Hector, went to safe and spun out the combination, opening to reveal several kilos of cocaine and stacks of cash. Maher found it odd that Uribe was the one who seemed in control of a safe in someone else’s apartment. So when they left Hector’s place, Maher asked Uribe about the safe.

“That’s my safe house,” Uribe said. Maher had heard the phrase “safe house” before – in spy movies. It was a place to hide. To Uribe, however, the term “safe house” represented a more literal description. As Uribe explained it, high-level dealers never kept cash and cocaine in their own apartments. Instead, they would find someone like Hector who would agree to the placement of a safe in their apartment. The residents of the apartment did not know the combination to the safe; he merely provided the space. For his trouble – and risk – the “safe keeper” was either paid in cash or, if he were a dealer himself like Hector, was given steep discounts on purchases.

A week later, Uribe and Maher stopped by Hector’s apartment again. Maher trying to be friendly, greeted Hector.

“Hey! Hector! How ya doin’?”

Maher who was carrying his car keys, tossed them on the marble table as he entered the apartment. Hector exploded in rage.

“You motherfucker! You scratched my table!”

Hector got in Maher’s face. Uribe stepped in and pushed Maher and Hector apart.

“Hey,” Uribe said with a laugh. “You guys cool it, okay?”

Maher and Hector stared at each other. Maher held his ground. Hector backed off. But Maher’s emotions churned. I’m going to bang the fucker. I’m going to lock up this little bastard.

Maher grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Maher told Uribe.

Maher exited the apartment, slamming the door as he left. Once outside, he paced on the sidewalk and fumed. He walked over to where Hector’s car was parked, took a pen out of his pocket, and wronte down the license number on a book of matches.

Maher fumed all the way home. Fuck this. Fuck changing money. Fuck hanging out with dope dealers. Suddenly it hit him. And he knew exactly what he had to do.

Maher rushed into his house, pulled a phone book from the closet, and looked up the number of the Drug Enforcement Agency. He dialed the number. After explaining to a receptionist that he needed to talk an agent, Maher’s call was put through to the duty agent at the time, Tom Slavanki.

“Agent Slavanki. How can I help you?”

“My name is Kevin Maher. I’m a confidential informant.”

“Are you registered with us?”

“No. But I’ve worked with the NYPD and the FBI. And I have got some information you might be interested in.”

Maher offered Detective Tom Harkins as a reference.

“Why don’t you come in tomorrow,” Slavanki suggested. “Twelve o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” Maher said and hung up the receiver.

Maher fell back on the couch and thought about all the drug dealers he knew. I can put a dent in the New York City cocaine business. And the truth was, he could. And I can put that little fucker Hector in jail. He could do that, too.

The next day, at twelve noon, Maher entered a high-rise building at 555 West 57^th Street and proceeded to the twenty-eighth floor, where the offices of Drug Enforcement Agency Group 43 were located. He was directed to a large open room lined with desks. Agent Tom Slavanki was sitting at one of the desks. Slavanki was more than six feet tall, blond, and blue-eyed. Maher thought he looked like a German.

“Hi,” Slavanki said as he stood to greet Maher. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

(Slavanki had called Harkins earlier that day, and Harkins had characterized Maher as the “ultimate informant to the point of being reckless.” Then Harkins added a few words of caution: “If you don’t have a long of experience working with informants, you’re in for an awakening. You might think you’re the dog wagging the tail, bit with Kevin, the tail wags the dog.” Harkins offered a bit of advice: “There’s only one way to work with Kevin. Let him think he is running the show.” Finally Harkins told Slavanki that Maher always acted on instinct. “He won’t work with anyone he doesn’t trust.”)

Maher took a seat across the desk.

“You guys pay?” Maher asked abruptly.

“Yes. We pay.”

Maher leaned in on Slavanki. “I just got screwed by the NYPD.”

“Detective Harkins told me what happened.”

“I’m doing this for pay, just like you are. I don’t have some charge I’m trying to work off, no court cases pending, no sentence to reduce. I don’t want to be jerked around. I want to be paid.”

Slavanki smiled. “You won’t get screwed here. I guarantee it. You do right by me and I’ll watch your back like you were my own brother.”

Maher pressed. “When do I get paid? On arrest or on conviction?”

“Forget all that,” Slavanki said. “This is going to be like a business.”

Maher challenged him. “Even if there is no court case, I get paid.”

Slavanki had the right answer. “You bring us cocaine, you bring us arrests and seizures of money, you’ll get paid.”

“How much?” Maher fired back.

Slavanki paused a moment before answering.

“A thousand dollars per kilo of cocaine up to ten per case. Three thousand dollars per arrest up to five per case. And twenty-five percent of all cash seized up to one hundred and twenty-five thousand per case.”

Maher thought about all the dealers he had met over the past year, all the kilos of cocaine he had seen, all the cash that was stacked in endless rows.

“I could be rich in six months,” Maher exclaimed.

“Slow down,” Slavanki said with a laugh. “If you do it right, you could make a career out of this.”

Maher mulled over what Slavanki said for a moment, then frowned.

“Agent Slavanki, I have steady job with New Jersey Transit. I own my own home. I have a child. I do not want to be uprooted and relocated.”

“Don’t worry,” Slavanki said. “You won’t have to be a witness.”

“If I am not going to be a witness, how are you going to make the arrests stick?”

“For now,” Slavanki insisted, “all I want you to do is observe and get the information to me.”

“Then what?” Maher pressed.

“At some point,” Slavanki answered, “I’ll sear out a warrant.”

“Isn’t my name going to be on the warrant?”

“No. Just your CI number.”

Maher still wasn’t convinced.

“But if you go in the next day, the guy will know I was the one who told you.”

Slavanki had an answer for that as well.

“A warrant is good for fourteen days. We’ll wait the full fourteen days if we have to. The legal work will read ‘on or about such and such a date SCI number such-and-such observed cocaine residue, large amounts of money, and, based on his observations, a search warrant was obtained.’ They’ll never know it was you.”

“And another thing,” Maher said. “If I do this there’s one dealer I don’t want arrested: John Uribe.”

Slavanki leaned back in his chair. “We will not take off John Uribe.”

Maher felt in control. Slavanki seized it back.”

“I’ve got a couple of conditions, too. You can’t be selling drugs or engaging in any illegal activity.”

Maher seemed uncomfortable.

“Occasionally I have to take a snort,” Maher confessed. “When a Colombian offers you a present, it’s an insult to refuse.

Slavanki looked away for a moment, his lack of response neither condemning nor condoning the “occasional snort,” as Maher characterized it.

“Any other illegal activity you have in the past or are now currently engaged in?” Slavanki asked.

Maher told Slavanki he had been “changing money.”

Again, Slavanki responded with silence.

“So where I do sign?” Maher asked.

Slavanki took Maher to the next room, where Maher’s fingerprints and photographs were taken. The Maher filled out paperwork and became registered DEA informant number 000128.

“Now what?” Maher asked.

“The next step,” Slavanki said, “is to ID all the suspects. We can’t make an arrest until each suspect is identified, whether it be through police or immigration records.”

Slavanki stressed that the DEA had a policy of checking with all federal bureaus and appropriate local police departments to ascertain whether the suspect was the subject of another investigation.

“Just like the FBI,” Maher said, showing off his knowledge of procedure among federal agencies. And then: “can give you one guy right now: Hector.”

“Hector who?”

“Comancha. Hector Comancha.”

“You got an address?”

Maher gave Slavanki Hector’s address on Queens Boulevard. And then he pulled out the matchbook with Hector’s license plate number on it.

“Here’s the license plate number on his car.”

Slavanki was impressed.

The ID cam back immediately – not because Hector had a record, but because he had taken a police test two years earlier.

Maher shook his head. “The little bastard wanted to be a cop.”

Maher told Slavanki about the safe.

“Last night I saw a large amount of cash several kilos of cocaine in the safe.”

“Okay,” Slavanki said. “I’ll get a warrant.”

Slavanki started for the door.

“Agent Slavanki?”

Slavanki turned and faced Maher.

Maher finished his question. “Don’t you have the power to seize property?”

“Yes,” Slavanki said. “If it was acquired with drug money.”

Maher smiled. “Hector has a new television and a marble table. Can you do me a favor and seize those things along with the safe?”

“Sure, Kevin,” Slavanki said. “We do that anyway.”

The following day, Maher met with Slavanki again. Slavanki introduced Maher to Agent Jerome “Jerry” Becker, with whom Slavanki had been teamed. Becker was five feet, nine inches tall, with brown eyes and red hair. The tall, blond Slavanki and the carrottop Becker were referred to around DEA Group 43 as “Tom and Jerry.”

“We want to start a list of dealers,” Becker said. “Addresses. License plate numbers.”

“I don’t know the addresses offhand,” Maher said shrugging. “But I can take you there.”

Maher and Becker rode the elevator down to the garage where Becker’s car, a Chevy Camaro Z-28, was parked.

“Nice car,” Maher observed.

“Fastest car in Group 43,” Becker boasted.

“The Porsche was seized in a drug bust,” Becker explained. “The group supervisor uses it now.”

Maher smiled. Big paydays. Fancy cars. I’m definitely in the right place.

Maher and Becker climbed into the Camaro and went hunting for drug locations.

“That’s Carlos’ house,” Maher said as they slowed on a Queens street. He pointed to a brownstone.

In another section of Queens, Maher motioned toward a small four-story building. “That’s Louis’s apartment,” Maher said. “And that’s his car. The BMW with Florida plates.”

Dealers would often register cars in Florida under phony name to thwart, or at least delay, being identified.

Becker jotted down Louis’s address and the license plate number of the BMW. Maher imagined that he was Becker’s partner. Agent Kevin Maher. Me and my partner are going to bank these motherfuckers.

Maher and Becker returned to the DEA offices in late afternoon with a list of a dozen addresses and license plate numbers.

“Nice work,” Slavanki noted as a perused the list.

Maher shook Slavanki’s and Becker’s hands.

“Good working with you guys,” Maher said, then walked out of the DEA offices with the jaunt of a federal agent.

A few days later, Slavanki, Becker, and several DEA agents waited outside Hector’s apartment. Hector emerged at about 8:00 P.M., climbed into his car, and drove away. The DEA agents then swooped into the apartment and seized the safe, the television, and the marble table. As they were leaving, they taped a search warrant on the door. The warrant itemized what had been confiscated.

The seizure proved to be a good one. Inside the safe were $64,000 and eight kilos of cocaine. Based on the pay scale that Slavanki had previously outlined, Maher’s payday would be $24,000-$1,000 each for the eight kilos of cocaine, and $16,000, which represented 25 percent of the $64,000 seized.

When Hector returned home an hour later and saw the search warrant on the door, he panicked and drove to Uribe’s house, where he found Maher and Uribe sharing a hit of coke.

Maher had called Uribe earlier and said he was stopping by. Indeed, Maher knew Hector would run straight to Uribe after the DEA seizure, and he didn’t want to miss the fun.

“Look at this,” Hector screamed, waving the search warrant in the air. “They raided my fucking apartment.”

Maher fought back a smile. And they took your fucking marble table, didn’t they?

“They took my fucking marble table,” Hector said with a moan.

Maher stared at Hector. And they took your fucking television too, didn’t they, you little fuckhead?

“And they took my television,” Hector said gasping.

“The safe!” Uribe screamed. “What about the safe?”

“They took it, man. They took the fucking safe.”

Hector – holding his head with both hands – paced in a little circle.

“I talked to a lawyer,” Hector said. “He wants a ten-thousand-dollar retainer.”

Uribe stared off for a long moment. Then: “I’ll have the money for you tomorrow. Where you gonna be?”

“I had my girlfriend rent a room at a hotel on the East Side,” Hector said.

“Beep me tomorrow,” Uribe told Hector, “and we’ll arrange a place to meet.”

Hector, a little calmer than when he arrived, scurried out the door.

Uribe looked at Maher: “What do you think?”

Maher could barely contain himself. This’ll teach that little prick to get in my face.

“You gotta do something,” Maher said. “Otherwise he’ll rat you out the minute the cops pick him up.”

“So I should give him the money?”

“No. Don’t give him the money. What if his attorney gets him to rat you out? You wouldn’t know until it’s too late.”

Uribe was angry. What was left? A contract hit on Hector’s life?

Maher offered the perfect solution.

“You’ve got a lawyer, don’t you, John?”

“Yeah. One of the best.”

“Okay, tomorrow when Hector beeps you, show up with your lawyer’s business card. That way, if Hector is going to flip, you’ll know right away.”

Uribe relaxed.

“Good idea, Kevin.”

The next morning Maher and Uribe met Hector at the corner of First Avenue and 57^th Street in Manhattan. Uribe handed Hector a business card.

“This is your lawyer,” Uribe said.

“Wait a minute,” Hector reacted. “I told you. I already have a lawyer.”

“This is your lawyer,” Uribe repeated.

Uribe’s eyes were narrowed and suspicious. Hector’s eyes were widened and full of fear.

“Okay,” Hector relented, “I’ll go see this lawyer.”

A day passed, and the lawyer called to tell Uribe that Hector had not contacted the office. Uribe was concerned. Maher fueled the fire.

“I told you about that little bastard,” Maher said. “He’s probably sitting somewhere ratting you out right now.”

But Hector was not informing on Uribe, he was hiding in a hotel room trying to summon up a little courage. On the third day following the DEA seizure, Hector finally went to see Uribe’s lawyer. And after meeting with Hector, the lawyer called Uribe.

“I spoke to the lawyer,” Uribe told Maher. “Hector came in.”

“Just watch him closely,” Maher warned.

Four days passed before Hector surfaced again at the lawyer’s office. In a tense meeting, it was decided that Hector should surrender. So the lawyer dialed Slavanki, whose name was at the bottom of the DEA search warrant.

The lawyer identified himself and then told Slananki: “I’d like to make arrangements for my client to surrender.”

Slavanki waited a beat before answering. “What makes you think we are planning to arrest your client?”

The lawyer was stunned. “Are you saying you have no planes to arrest Hector Comancha?”

“None whatsoever,” Slavanki said and hung up the receiver.

Indeed, Slavanki was happy to have the cash and have the drugs off the street. Arresting Hector was meaningless at this stage of the investigation into the Uribe family. But now Hector had a serious problem that was for more consequential than if he were facing a jail term. Maher put it most succinctly.

“If they don’t want to arrest him,” Maher told Uribe, “maybe there was nothing in the safe. Of else he’d be at Twenty-six Federal Plaza right now being arraigned.”

“He didn’t have the combination.”

Maher shrugged. “What? A hundred gees’ worth of coke and cash won’t buy you a safecracker?”

Uribe began to take long, measured breaths. Maher piled it on.

“The only other reason they wouldn’t arrest him would be if Hector was cooperating.”

“I’m going to talk to Tia,” Uribe said.

Maher savored his revenge. That little fuck is in big trouble now. Tia’s going to have him killed.

As fearless as Maher was, he was terrified of Uribe’s Aunt Maria. She had the coldest eyes Maher had ever seen. No drug dealer, no street punk, no hired killer had such compassionless, vacant eyes. She’d kill you as soon as look at you, Maher had thought when he met her.

Maher suddenly felt sorry for Hector. All Maher had wanted to do was teach Hector a lesson. He certainly didn’t intend to get him killed.

Hector, demonstrating little sense, dropped out of sight. Maher and Uribe tracked down Hector’s girlfriend. She related how a trembling Hector stopped by the hotel room to say goodbye then went directly to the airport, where he boarded a plane for Puerto Rico.

Maher’s first collaboration with the DEA had been an unqualified success.

“I still don’t like what you are doing,” Beth said when Maher spread dozens of hundred dollar bills across the dinning room table. “I worry about you.”

“Slavanki and Becker are going to look out for me,” Maher insisted. “So there’s nothing to worry about. And if I do this for a year – just a year – we’ll be set for life.”

Beth didn’t argue. She knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Maher fanned the stack of hundred dollar bills.

“Now we can buy a really nice house,” Maher noted. “And now that I’m making all this money, I can buy a Porsche.”

Beth half smiled. So much for being set for life.

Maher and Beth contacted a realtor who showed them a house in Wood-Ridge at 30 4^th Street. A wood frame house built in the 1920s, the exterior was vinyl blue siding trimmed in white vinyl. The interior was filled with dark wood – molding, windowsills, door frames. There were two bedrooms downstairs and one large bedroom upstairs.

“This could be Bobby’s room,” Beth said as they toured the second floor.

There was a detached garage about fifty feet from the residence, a perfect home for Maher’s Corvette. And there was a land around the house – a half acre. Samantha the German shepherd would like that.

“This is the house we want,” Maher announced.

The next day, Maher and Beth went to the Boiling Springs Bank and applied for a loan as Mr. and Mrs. Edward Maher. Maher chose to use the name and social security number the FBI had arranged for him following the Hand bank robbery because neither would show a felony conviction. When the loan was approved a few days later, Maher and Beth went to see an attorney James Lappin, who was handling the closing.

Maher and Beth looked at each other.

“We’re not actually married,” Beth said. “We’re common law.”

Lappin reacted. “The loan was approved based on the fact that you were married. Since you’re not married, it could effect your eligibility.”

“I can’t see where that matters so much,” Maher said.

“You lied on your application,” Lappin said with a sigh. “There’s a good chance you won’t get the loan.”

Maher and Beth were crestfallen.

“Of course, you could get married,” Lappin said, laughing.

Maher and Beth looked at each other. Why not get married? But then they both realized why not.

“My husband is contesting the divorce,” Beth said.

Beth gave Lappin the full story of her hired-killer husband. Lappin’s eyebrows raised more than a few times.

“Since he’s in prison,” Lappin offered, “why don’t you try abandonment?”

It was almost too obvious a solution.

In mid-May, Maher stopped off at DEA Group 43 and told Slavanki that he had been making rounds with Uribe and had compiled a list of unpublished phone numbers used by dealers. (Whenever Maher stopped by the dealer’s house, he would ask to use the phone. Before making an actual call, he would dial 958, which was a code used by telephone repairmen to determine if they were on the correct line. That code returned a recording that announced the telephone number.)

Based on what Maher had observed in various apartments, a conservative estimate yielded a potential payoff well into six figures. Maher felt like a cop again. And he was going to get rich. What could be better? What could go wrong?

But something did go wrong, and it had nothing to do with the DEA. Maher returned home one eveing to a ringing phone. He grabbed the receiver. It was Frank DelPrete.

“Kevin,” DelPrete said, “I need to talk to you.”

DelPrete arrived at Maher’s house an hour later and brough Maher up to date on what had turned out to be five-year struggle to bring Molese to trial for the triple murders in Fair Lawn. DelPrete explained that Molese had been convicted of fraud in New York two years earlier, served his time, and now had been extradited to New Jersey to stand trial for the triple murders in Fair Lawn.

“The trial is scheduled to start on June fourth,” DelPrete said. “If you’re willing to testify, I think it would help the case against Brian Molese a great deal.”

Maher didn’t hesitate. “Sure I’ll testify against the fucking baby killer.”

Then – like a hammer to the side of his head – Maher was stuck with a realization: The grand jury testimony was sealed. The testimony in the trial would be public record.

“I’d like you to get together with the prosecutor,” DelPrete said.

“Sure,” Maher answered, his voice flat. “Let me know when.”

DelPrete handed Maher the transcripts from the grand jury hearing.

“I want you to study these transcripts before you meet with the prosecutor.”

Maher nodded and took the transcripts from DelPrete as he left.

“What was that all about?” Beth asked as she entered the room.

Maher explained the situation to Beth, adding: “When I testify against Molese, it’s bound to come out that I’ve worked as an informant. Uribe hears that, I’m dead.”

The smart thing to do would be to decline to take the stand and continue to work with the DEA. But Maher couldn’t countenance the possibility that Molese might get away with murder. Even when Maher factored in all the money he would lose if he stopped working with the DEA, it didn’t tilt the scale. In Maher’s mind, the deaths of Alice Molese, Marcia Ferrell, and Harold Ferrell had to be avenged. He would testify. As far as Uribe was concerned, Maher decided he would handle the problem the way he always handled a problem: head-on. And then Maher walked out of the house and went in search of John Uribe.

Maher drove around Queens telling himself over and over that Uribe was a friend and that somehow he would make Uribe understand. After stopping by Uribe’s house and cruising by his favorite hangouts, Maher finally spotted Uribe’s Silver Corvette under the Triborough Bridge in Astoria Park. Maher rolled his Vette to a stop and climbed out. Uribe was standing a few feet away.

“Hey, Kevin,” Uribe said, happy to see him.

Uribe made his usual offer.

“A present for you,” Uribe said, holding out a plastic bag of coke.

Maher held up his hands in gesture of refusal. Uribe seemed vaguely hurt. Maher didn’t care.

“I gotta tell you something,” Maher said.

Uribe sensed Maher’s anxiety and became anxious himself.

“what?” Uribe asked, his voice rising. “What do you have to tell me?”

“You and I have been friends for a long time,” Maher said. “And you know there is nothing I would do to hurt you or your family.”

Uribe’s face morphed in fear. Something was very wrong.

Maher paused for a moment, then went on.

“There’s something about me you don’t know. I haven’t told you this up to now because if you or any members of your family had been arrested, you’d think I was involved.”

Uribe laughed, “You’re a cop?!”

“I do undercover work for the FBI,” Maher stated somberly. “And I work for the cops as an informant.”

Uribe staggered back a step. He stopped laughing.

Maher reached into his pocket and produced court transcripts from the grand jury hearing case against Molese. He flipped to a page and held it so Uribe could see.

“The man on trial is Brian Molese,” Maher explained. “He killed a baby. He needs to be convicted.”

Maher related the sad tale of Alice, Marcia, and Harold, but Uribe wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the bottom section of the transcript.

DA: Have you ever been an informant here?

Maher: Yes.

“Oh man, no!” Uribe finally said, his hand pressed to his forehead. “I can’t believe this! No, Man! I can’t believe this!”

Maher grabbed Uribe by the shoulders. “Look. John. If I wanted you and your family locked up, you’d be in jail by now. Don’t you see that?”

Uribe stepped back. He looked at Maher for a moment, then looked away. Maher tried to reestablish eye contact, but Uribe refused to look at him.

“I’m being straight up with you, John,” Maher said. “Man to man. Whatever you do, don’t go back and tell your aunt, because she’ll kill me.”

Uribe, his diverted, started toward his Corvette. Maher followed him.

“John!”

“I gotta go, Kevin.”

“John! Listen to me, will you? I’m not going to do anything to hurt you.”

Uribe jumped in his Silver Corvette and cranked the engine. Maher ran up to the open car window.

“John. Will you stop a minute?”

Maher leaned down, his face even with Uribe’s profile. Uribe stared straight ahead, still refusing to look Maher in the eye.

“I gotta go, Kevin. I gotta go.”

Uribe pressed the accelerator, and the Vette almost catapulted down the street. Maher stared at the taillights until they disappeared into the night. Please, John, Maher thought, desperately hoping to float a telepathic message into the ether, don’t go run to Tia. Do whatever you want, but don’t go running to Tia.

When Slavanki had emphasized the importance of identifying suspects and for the various federal law enforcement bureaus to be in constant communication with each other, Maher wasn’t paying much attention. Yet because of the open lines of communication among bureaus, a parallel U.S. Customs investigation of the Uribe family provided the DEA with critical piece of information. Customs officials had bugged Maria Uribe’s home and were in the process of taping conversations between Maria and her dealers. So when John Uribe burst into his aunt’s house, the electronic ears of U.S. Customs were listening.

Custom officials first heard Uribe scream something in Spanish about a meeting with “Kevin.” And then came the following exchange, also in Spanish:

MARIA: I knew he was a fucking cop.

URIBE: He’s not a cop.

MARIA: I want that motherfucker dead.

URIBE: (agitated): No! No! Please.

MARIA: He’ll ruin our business. He’ll take everything I own.

URIBE: No! Don’t do it!

Then came the sound of a rotary phone being dialed. As the dial clicked around with each number, Uribe continued pleading with his aunt.

URIBE (crying): Please, Tia! Don’t do this.

Tia ignored him. Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. Pause. Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. Pause. Finally the last digit of the phone number was entered. There was a tense moment of silence, during which John Uribe could be heard crying, gasping for breath between sobs. Then Maria Uribe, speaking slowly into the receiver, ordered the immediate execution of Kevin Maher.

Cop Without a Badge (Chapter 11)

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.