"But he wears a cross."

"Anyway, I don't know if you know how these things work. Okay, the U.S. Attorney gets his indictment from the grand jury. It comes down sealed, you know, and it's not going to be made public until the bust is made. So the U.S. Attorney takes his indictment to a federal judge, along with his arrest warrant, which he wants signed. Now this will usually go down on a Monday, you know, so they get the FBI guys out early on Tuesday morning, and they come for you, you know, they knock on your door about six, seven o'clock. Understand?" "No. I do tax work."

"Well, they come for you early so they usually find you home, you know, with your pants down, like in Russia. Capisce?"

"Why Tuesday?"

"Well, Tuesday is a good day for the news. You know? Monday is bad, Friday is bad, and forget the weekend. You think fucking Ferragamo is stupid?" I almost laughed. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. This is serious stuff, Counsellor."

"Arrests for murder aren't made to coincide with the news." Now it was his turn to laugh. Haw, haw, haw. He added, "Grow up" That pissed me off a little, but I let it slide, because this was interesting. I said, "But they could arrest you Wednesday or Thursday. Those are hot news days."

"Oh, yeah. They could. But they like Tuesday for the big fish. This way they can make the Wednesday papers, too, and maybe a little Thursday action. What if they came for you on Thursday and you weren't home, and they got you Friday? They'd be fucked, news wise."

"Okay. So they arrest you on a Tuesday. What's the point?" "Okay. So they pick you up, they take you down to Federal Plaza, the FBI office, you know, and they jerk you around there awhile, give everybody a good look at you, then they get you over to Foley Square, the federal court, right? And the FBI guys bring you in with cuffs about nine, ten o'clock, and by this time Ferragamo's got half the fucking newspeople in the world there, and everybody's shoving microphones in your face, and the cameras are rolling. Then you get printed and booked, blah, blah, blah, and at about that time is when they let you call your attorney." He looked at me. "Understand?" "What if your attorney is in, say, Cuba?"

"He ain't gonna be. In fact, I don't have to call him. Because he's coming over to my place for coffee about five in the morning for the next few Tuesdays." "I see."

"Yeah. So when the FBI comes, then my attorney is right there to see that everything is done right, that the FBI guys behave. And my attorney gets in my car with Lenny and follows me to Federal Plaza, then to Foley Square. My attorney is not in Cuba, or no place except with his client. Capisce?" I nodded. "Also, my attorney has a briefcase, and in that briefcase is cash and property deeds, and other shit that he needs to post bail for his client. My attorney will be given about four or five million dollars to post." "You're not going to get out on bail on a federal murder charge, Frank, not for any amount of money."

"Wrong. Listen carefully. My attorney is going to convince the judge that Frank Bellarosa is a responsible man, a man who has strong ties to the community, a man who has sixteen legitimate businesses to look after, a man who has a house, a wife, and kids. My attorney will tell the judge that his client has never been convicted of a violent crime, and that he knew the FBI was coming for him and was waiting for them, and came along peacefully. My attorney was a witness to that. My attorney will tell the judge that he knows Mr Bellarosa personally, as a friend, and that he knows Mrs Bellarosa, and in fact my attorney lives next door to Mr and Mrs Bellarosa, and my attorney is making a personal guarantee that Mr Bellarosa will not flee the jurisdiction. Understand?" Indeed I did.

"Okay. So now the judge, who does not like to grant any bail for murder, first degree, now he has to consider all this shit very seriously. By now, Ferragamo has been tipped by the FBI that Bellarosa knew he was going to get arrested that morning, and that Bellarosa has the cash on hand for bail, and that Bellarosa has a very high-quality attorney. So Ferragamo gets his ass into the courtroom personally and starts putting the pressure on the judge. Your Honour, this is a very serious charge, blah, blah, blah. Your Honour, this is a dangerous man; a murderer, blah, blah. But my attorney goes balls to balls with the U.S. Attorney and talks about bail not being unreasonably denied, blah, blah, and the charge is bullshit anyway, and we've got five million in the bag here, and I gave you my personal guarantee, Your Honour. John Sutter, of Wall Street, is putting his balls right on the table, Your Honour. Right? Now Ferragamo didn't expect this shit, and he's the one who's caught with his pants down. He's jumping through his ass to see that Frank Bellarosa doesn't walk. He's got a big hard-on about seeing me in jail with the melanzane. And that night he's gonna be home with his wife and friends having dinner, watching the fucking news while I'm in the slammer with a cork up my ass trying to keep the faggots out of my back door. You understand what I'm saying?"

Frank had a way with words. I replied, "I do."

"Yeah. And you understand that this is not going to happen, Counsellor. You are not going to let it happen."

"I thought you told me that Ferragamo wants you on the street after your indictment. So that your friends or enemies could kill you before your trial." "Yeah. You remembered that? So here's the thing. Ferragamo knows if he gets me in jail, we are going to appeal the bail ruling. Right? But this takes a few weeks. And the next time we come up in front of the judge, Ferragamo has told the judge on the sly that bail is okay with him. He winks at the judge and whispers in his ear. The FBI wants to follow Bellarosa. Right? This is all bullshit. The FBI has been following me for twenty fucking years and they ain't seen shit yet. So the judge winks back, and I'm sprung. But I've been in jail two, three weeks by that time. Follow? So Ferragamo puts the word out that I sang and sang in the slammer. That I'm ready to give up all kinds of people for a reduced charge. So now I'm dead meat. But listen, Counsellor, if I can walk out of that courthouse on the same day I walk in, then I got a chance to keep things under control. You understand?"

"Yes." I understood perfectly well now why it was me and not Jack Weinstein who was going to represent Mr Frank Bellarosa. It was John Whitman Sutter, great-great-great-nephew of Walt, son of Joseph Sutter the Wall Street legend, husband of Susan (one of New York's Four Hundred) Stanhope, partner in Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds, member of The Creek and Seawanhaka Corinthian, not to mention a High Episcopalian, a Yale graduate, Harvard Law, and a friend of Roosevelts, Astors, and Vanderbilts, and, incidentally, a friend and next-door neighbour to the accused – that very same John Sutter was going to guarantee personally in open court that his client, Mr Frank Bellarosa, was not going to skip bail. And that judge would listen, and so would every reporter in that court, and it would make every newspaper and every radio and TV news show in the tristate area, probably the country. The bastard was brilliant. He'd figured this out… when? The day I ran into him at Hicks' Nursery? That far back? Mr Sutter? John Sutter, right?

But of course, it had to be even before then. He had known who I was, that I was a lawyer, and that I was his next-door neighbour when he ran into me by accident or design. He had already seen in his mind this whole scenario that he had just laid out before me and had figured out how to survive before his enemies even made their first move. And what was even more impressive was that he had been reasonably sure that I was in his hip pocket even after I'd told him to buzz off a few times. It was no accident that this man was still alive and free after thirty years. His enemies – state and federal law enforcement agencies, rival Mafia bosses, Colombians, and other opportunists – were not lazy or incompetent. They simply were not up to the challenge of getting rid of Frank Bellarosa. I mean, there was a time when I wanted to see him in jail… maybe even dead. But I had mixed feelings about that now, the way I do when a shark is hooked. You hate the shark, you fear the shark, but after about two hours, you respect the shark.