Operation Greylord (4 page)

Nothing happened for three days, but on Thursday of that first week a black policeman serving in an elite suburban undercover narcotics
unit testified against a white dealer who had sold him narcotics. At our recommendation, the judge conducted the hearing in his chambers to keep the officer from being seen by drug pushers waiting for their cases.

Testimony established that the defendant had approached the officer and asked if he wanted some heroin, so there was no entrapment. Olson occasionally fingered his lip and then ruled that the officer had violated the rules against entrapment and therefore there was no probable cause for an arrest. Even though the Justice Department was sure Olson was crooked, the decision upset me. Undercover drug cases are the most dangerous of all police assignments, yet he might as well have slapped this officer in the face.

But Olson on the bench was nothing like Olson at leisure. I was one of three assistant state's attorneys (ASAs) assigned to a long, narrow office built into the side of his courtroom. The office—more like a hut—was not much more than an elongated closet, but dirtier. On the day after the entrapment ruling Olson took us to an Italian restaurant, and in his gritty baritone told us one delightful story after another. To him there was no such thing as justice; everything was just absurdity on both sides. I found myself almost forgiving him for ruling against the evidence. I'm sure that's what he had in mind by inviting me. Not that he paid the bill.

The undercover policeman's case was the first evidently rigged verdict I'd seen since my transfer from felony review, but my contact FBI agent, Lamar Jordan, told me we had no way of proving it. Even so, he asked me to copy the police report as the initial solid evidence against the judge.

Sometime later a fellow prosecutor, Brian Scanlon, told me that one day “Silvery Bob” Silverman and another defense attorney went up to him at different times while Olson was away and offered to split their fees with him if he would drop their cases.

“Did you do it?” I asked.

“Hell no,” Scanlon said, “but it's funny. Those guys wouldn't have done that if Olson was in to take care of them. When another judge fills in for Olson, the shysters come out of the woodwork.”

I had been trying to avoid my mentor, Mike Ficaro, even though he was so easy to get along with that his employees pulled pranks on him. I've heard they put fish in his water cooler and hid the chalkboard he used to keep score for convictions and acquittals. But that was before drug proliferation skyrocketed crime in the late 1970s and everyone was overworked.

As head of the criminal division of the State's Attorney's Office, Ficaro had a hand in most transfers within the State's Attorney's Office. Since he kept his eye on everyone working under him, I was afraid he might wonder why I had been taken from felony review without somebody clearing it with him. Catching up with me in a hallway that Friday afternoon, he asked, “So, Terry, what are you doing in Narcotics Court these days?”

The remark seemed offhanded, but Mike's girth was blocking my path and he gave me the same penetrating look that struck terror in defendants on the stand.

“I just decided it was time to move up,” I said.

“Don't lie to me, you said you never wanted to go back to trial work.” He kept standing in my way and waiting for an answer.

I had been specifically ordered not to mention my new role to Ficaro, but I was sure Reidy and Sklarsky didn't realize that Mike could see through me. I looked around to make sure no one could hear us and whispered, “You won't tell anybody?”

He shook his head, and as we walked a few feet down the corridor I told him what I was trying to do. Mike listened with his hands behind his back. When I finished, he asked if he could help.

“No, I don't think so.”

“All right, Terry. But remember, my office will be open any time you need it.”

Knowing that Ficaro was supporting me boosted my confidence. I would soon learn that he was helping me behind the scenes even though as part of the county system he would play no role in the federal investigation. In early June, just as I was becoming friendly with most of the court personnel, every court clerk and Narcotics Court bailiff was transferred to other assignments.

Although no money had been given to me, every day I expected to be found out. I was like someone who plugs in a lamp the moment a city has a blackout and thinks it is his fault. It turned out that Ficaro knew that the arrival of all these new clerks and bailiffs might induce fixers to take their money to me as Costello's friend rather than risk testing them.

I didn't appreciate Mike's interference at the time, since bribery was so persuasive anything could set off rumors of an investigation. But I learned that greed was so addictive that not even this could stop the
bribery, and that Mike's transfer orders had given the stalled investigation just the push it needed.

Olson certainly didn't change his ways. An assistant prosecutor can expect to win at least three-quarters of preliminary hearings before an honest judge. But with Wayne Olson I lost eighteen of my first twenty. It took me several weeks to catch on that he was wordlessly urging me to start taking money from his lawyer friends if I wanted to get anywhere in my career.

But apart from developing an acquaintance with Costello and going to Jeans so that I might be accepted as one of the boys, there still was no change in my relationship with anyone in the building. But then as Costello and I were having lunch one hot July day, he ruminated about his time as a Chicago policeman.

“That's when I started taking dough,” he said, as I tried not to seem especially interested. He added that he and his partner would share ten or twenty dollars from motorists who ran a red light. “At first you say it's not right, and what happens if you get caught, but people don't care. The money wasn't all that much, but it was something. It makes being a cop okay, after all you got to put up with.” The money helped him attend John Marshall Law School at night. “I even took money from Silverman once.”

Oh my God!
He had just named the main lawyer I had been recruited for, Bob Silverman, the man suspected of single-handedly corrupting dozens of police officers, lawyers, and judges. Now at last I had something to report, and for the first time I wished I had been wearing a wire.

“That man is a gentleman, I tell you,” Costello said in admiration. “Ever see Bob in action? Terry, that guy's got class.”

Was Costello dropping hints that he would help me share the action? My hopes slowly deflated as I learned that he had mentioned Silverman only in passing. But it was clear now that all I had to do was make him comfortable and let his avuncular impulse take over.

“Everyone is dirty in Traffic Court, and I mean everyone,” he said over cocktails on another afternoon. “I can fix drunk driving cases there, but I got to go through somebody.” Since we both worked in criminal courts, there was no reason for Costello to tell me about Traffic Court in another part of the city—unless he was testing my reaction. I didn't ask for names, and hoped I seemed like an apt pupil.

As Jim explained the system, the cost of a DUI fix in the other building was usually three hundred dollars. Of that, the judge received two
hundred. The rest went to the bagman for conveying the money and possibly to the arresting officer. With the seduction of corruption, a grateful client was bound to pass the attorney's name on to friends. No one was bothered about letting motorists go free to drive drunk again. When a court system is too big, defendants aren't real. Only money is real.

Summer 1980

Over that summer Costello kept lacing his funny anecdotes with hints of dishonesty. He studied my expression as I laughed with him despite my disgust. Slowly the process of behaving as if I had sticky fingers was washing away my natural emotions. But I still set myself back with sharp fixer Bruce Roth. He was one of those people who had left the prosecutor's office because of all the money beckoning on the other side, and the FBI had told me to keep my eye on him. He lived in the Gold Coast neighborhood near the lake and hung out with flashy cocaine dealers.

After Olson granted a motion to suppress evidence against one of his clients, Roth opened a briefcase smelling of new leather and I could see copies of arrest reports among his papers. The only way he could have obtained those reports, with the names and addresses of witnesses, was by subpoenaing them from me or bribing a police officer.

“Where did you get those reports?” I blurted out.

“I subpoenaed them,” he said, with a look that told me: You know damn well how I got them.

“That's—” Even though I stopped short of adding “a lie,” it was too late. He knew what was on my mind.
What are you doing
, I asked myself,
you're supposed to get friendly with this guy
. So I changed my tone and said through a smile, “Hey, forget about it, Bruce, all right?”

He snapped his briefcase shut and left. Maybe Costello thought I might be ready to join the 26th and California bribery club, but I was sure Roth regarded me as just another head-in-the-clouds ASA.

Indeed, the fixers never trusted any of us. We assistant state's attorneys were mere obstacles to work around, and in Olson's court there was hardly any point in having us there. The process of law had become just a show for the witnesses. Time and again cases were thrown out because the arresting officer had been given twenty to fifty dollars to change his story. That's cheap for perjury, but some of those officers were appearing a couple of times a week, week after week. Since
“nickel bag” cases never made the news, no one kept track of how often police testimony contradicted their reports. Sometimes they wouldn't tell a blatant lie—they would fudge halfway and Olson would fudge on the other half.

There were some excellent defense attorneys working in the courts, and newcomers couldn't tell the skillful ones from those who bought judges. Bob Silverman, for example, was able to strut with assurance because he supposedly would not touch a case unless he knew he could put the fix in.

On a Friday that July, a veteran ASA called to say a friend of his was going to serve as the bar association attorney in the building. “Terry,” the veteran said, “make sure his clients don't sit waiting all morning for their cases to be called, and give him a break or two.” In other words, I was to bend over backwards to dismiss the charges or offer probation. Well, why not? I had to start doing small favors before fixers would trust me.

“I'll see what I can do,” I said casually.

The brand new defense attorney, let's call him Sammy, was tall, tanned, and wore a tailored suit, but he knew no more about court procedures than a high school student. After Olson handled his final case, I returned to the small office for the three assistant prosecutors assigned to his courtroom. While one of us appeared on a matter, the others would get some of their own cases ready. Our desks were just places to throw reference books on, and we seldom sat at them. Since our window was virtually opaque with dirt, we used it only for ventilation and as a platform for the telephone.

Defense attorneys would drop by looking for an ASA or to sit on the sill and use our phone for free. Only authorized court personnel were allowed inside, but letting them in was our way of staying friendly with the enemy, since many ASAs later crossed over. Police officers would come in before testifying to explain the arrest to us, and court officers hung around to discuss everything but work. So many people popped in that if you kept anything in a drawer it might not be there the next day. Yet we managed to handle up to a hundred and fifty cases a day.

I was stacking files when Costello stepped into the long, narrow room and mooched a call so he could check on his phone messages, and before long Sammy poked his head through the doorway to ask one of his dumb questions.

“Say, Terry,” he said, “do I need to file a demand-for-trial on the cases you dismissed for me?”

“Yes,” I answered, a little tired, “it's a matter of routine to keep my side from reinstating the case later.”

Overhearing us, Costello put the phone to his chest and asked with an edge, “What's up, Terry?”

Sammy had annoyed me so much that I muttered, “I'll talk to you later. I'm busy.”

But as soon as Sammy left, I had an idea: why not push my relationship with Costello a little? “I've helped this guy all day, and now he comes in here and asks me for more.” I sounded angry. “He must have made six hundred dollars in bond returns from cases I helped him with, and do you know what? He didn't do one thing for me. How do you like that?”

“What are you helping that Mork for?” That is, Costello was wondering why I helped a stranger and not him. He pulled out his wallet and tried to put two fifty-dollar bills into my hand. “Here, take this hundred. For all the favors you done.”

“Keep it, Jim.” I drew my hand away and stepped back as if trying to deny the moment. I was afraid someone might open the door and see him holding the money out. At the same time I told myself:
You're being stupid, this is what you were sent to Branch 57 for!

“Come on, Terry. Take it.”

“It's not necessary, Jim, you're a friend.” My hesitance might even have been in my favor, since Costello probably would have been suspicious if I were eager for a bribe.

“Just put it in your pocket and shut up, will you?”

Don't do this, Jim
, I thought,
can't you see I'm poison to you?
I had stopped regarding him as a fixer weeks ago, he was now a friend, and yet my fingers tightened on the money.

“Well, okay,” I said and pushed the bills into my pocket. “Have a good weekend.”

He waved and went out the door.

The rest of my filing seemed to take forever because my thoughts ping-ponged over whether to report Costello or find a way to return the two fifties. When I went down a short hall and turned to the block-long concourse linking the old courthouse with the new administration tower, a couple of prosecutors from the other Narcotics Court asked if
I wanted to go with them to Jeans, their ritual to end another week in the arena. I went along, but my heart wasn't in it.