Two Suits - Franklin's Bennies Episode 10

Chapter 28: Two Suits

Early Saturday morning there was a knock on our door. I stumbled  down the stairway, tying the drawstring to my bathrobe, feeling the pain from the brews of the preceding evening with cousin Pat.

Through the porthole were two suits, staring straight ahead. I unlocked the deadbolt, leaving the chain guard hooked and peeped out. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Cleary,” one said, stepping up a little. He flashed an ID which looked official. “Agent McCabe, Department of the Treasury. “This is agent Kohlbane.” Kohlbane flashed his ID. He carried a large office type envelope. My boys in the sedan, although their car license said they were from the Department of Commerce? 

I checked the stairway. Nora had followed me downstairs, white terry cloth bathrobe wrapped around her. She stood several steps up, just down from the stairway landing. I opened the door halfway. 

“Can we come in?” McCabe asked. 

Nora moved down to the ground floor. She tightened her robe, as I opened the door. The Irish women I’d come to know, my wife included, were a brave lot and didn’t back down from threats.  

“Sorry to bother you so early,” Mccabe said.

Both men nodded cordially at Nora who for a moment stood her ground then retreated several steps back to the stairway. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” I said, far too gently for what really was a home invasion. The Cuckoo clock said 7:30.  

Both men looked around at our furnishings. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” McCabe asked.  

“It will be alright,” I said to Nora, as reassuring as I could.  “Why don’t you go back to bed.” She tightened her robe again and walked back up the stairs. 

I motioned the men into my small study and to seats in the high back chairs. I eased into my ergonomic.

McCabe sat. Kohlbane opted to stand and surveyed my wall, making note of my degrees, a college rowing photo with our Coxswain, Maggie, calling out commands, water splashing. 

McCabe was the older of the two, late forties, early fifties, and had taken some pains to knot his tie in a Windsor. Kohlbane wasn’t so finicky. His tie appeared to be more of the clip-on variety.    

“Mr. Cleary,” McCabe said.  “Again we apologize about the early hour. We are with the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network with the Treasury Department.” 

“Okay.” 

“You work at the prison receiving center. Right.” 

“That’s correct.” 

Kohlbane unstrung his envelope, still standing and handed two large photos to McCabe, who studied each for a moment, then said. “Do you know this man?” handing over one of the photos.  

It showed a digital picture, enlarged of a man, 50ish, speckled gray hair, getting into an Escalade SUV. He carried a briefcase. “No. Never seen him…” I said. “What’s this about?”

McCabe studied the second photo, and with a smirk, handed it over to me. “This will clarify what this is about.”

The second photo showed what appeared to be Franklin in the backseat of the car with the man. The picture I guessed was taken zooming into the front seat of the car.

Both men waited for my answer. Was IDing Franklin, if it was Franklin, any violation of any client to counselor privilege? The photo obviously was taken when Franklin was on the outside, before he came across my radar screen in the prison. “This second one looks like a client of mine,” I said, handing the pictures back to McCabe. “But I can't be sure.”  

“That’s what you call the criminals you see, clients,” Kohlbane said, chuckling. 

“That’s what we call them,” I said, biting back. “Sounds like that offends you, ”my patience, on edge.

“No, no… Just seems…”

“ Okay.” McCabe said. “We aren’t here to keep Mr. Cleary occupied all morning over semantics.  The second picture is of a Lennox Franklin, your client, let’s see Aka… Well,  there are too many to name… we believe he is connected to the party in this photo, a Ruben Weintraub.” McCabe again showed me the picture of the man getting into the car. “And you don’t know him?”

I shook my head, a… no. “ Sorry.” My stomach sank. This was likely the attorney, nicknamed Weinkill, Franklin’s lawyer, he called a shyster. 

“As I said, Mr. Cleary. There might not be a reason that you’d know Mr. Weintraub. He defended Mr. Franklin, badly I guess, before he was sentenced on his last charge. But, uh, we are investigating this man in a money-laundering scheme. And we believe your client, Mr. Franklin, might be connected in some way to Weintraub, other than just in a lawyer representing a defendant. Believe Mr. Franklin is serving a sentence under the mandatory minimum statute. Is that what you know to be true?”

“I think that is true.” I said. 

McCabe pulled out his cell phone. “Clock says the morning is getting along. Don’t want to take up any more of your time. But did your man ever discuss it, or did you ever hear the name Weintraub?”

I surreptitiously scooted the letter Franklin had given me under some mail.  “I don’t remember the exact name of the attorney. But I recall Mr. Franklin not being satisfied with his legal service, if I am not mistaken.”   

“Can’t say as I blame him” McCabe said. “Let me ask you this. Did your uh, client, uh ever…?”

I put up the hold-on signal. “Probably best that I don’t comment on anything else that Mr. Franklin, or anyone said. Confidentiality. You gentlemen understand, I am sure.” 

McCabe  and Kohlbane stared at me. “We can get a subpoena, Mr. Cleary.” 

“I realize that. But I am just following DOC protocol, regardless whether the man is an inmate, or not.” 

McCabe placed the envelope for my keeping on my desk next to the mail which covered Franklin’s letter. “ We’ll let you get on with your day then, Mr. Cleary.” 

McCabe got up. Kohlbane, who had hung out by the wall where the tributes to myself hung, leaned against the door jam, stepped up toward McCabe and me. I didn’t offer a handshake and neither did they. “Glad we got the virus behind us. Some say, another one’s on its way,” McCabe said.

I followed them to the door. 

“One last thing Mr. Cleary,” McCabe said. “Your wife is here on a visa, is that right?” 

Chapter 29: The Feds Have Just Visited

I confirmed the agent’s question with just a smile, closing the door as they stepped onto the sidewalk, wanting to bite back, “what does that have to do with any investigation.”

I headed back to bed to try and soothe Nora, but met her sitting on the stairway landing. She had heard McCabe’s questions.   

“What does my visa have to do with anything Peter? …Who are those men? What do they want with you?” She was as frightful as I’d ever seen her, which meant this was the first time. Losing her father early and having to work from a young age to help support her mother and sister had given her resilience.   

“They are just cops. Trying to be tough guys,” I said. “They wanted to know about one of my clients at work. That’s all. Not to worry.” I pulled her up from the stairs. And gave her a hug. “I won’t let anything happen to our happy home.” 

She wept a little, saying she had everything she’d ever wanted in our house and me. I chuckled, saying I’d not make her choose between the two. 

Somewhere in the late morning, the topic of children came up, with Nora throwing out that she was not getting any younger. And neither was I. I realized the psychology of it all. When a threat or loss comes about, in the case of the visa, a possible expulsion from the country, the human psyche seeks to establish certainty. And having children is often perceived as the groundedness needed. 

At noon, after inviting myself over, I drove to cousin Pat’s. He was the only person I could confide in about Franklin and now the visit from the federal boys. On the way up to his apartment I met Colleen, his on again off again significant other, on her way down. 

“Don’t you two get started too early, “she said about our get together at the Hoffenhaus pub, the preceding night. “He is still recuperating.” 

It appeared that she and cousin Pat were comfortable with each other. I had noticed a late model black beamer parked just across from Pat’s apartment building the Allegro. Knowing that Colleen was well-to-do, I expected it belonged to her. 

As her story went, she was widowed from a very much older army colonel and was left with a small pot of gold. I knocked, then let myself in. Pat greeted me still in his bathrobe. His cat, Pig and a Golden, Laddie, greeted me. “You moved. Weren’t you down the hall the last time I was here?”

“Moving up,” he said. He coaxed the animals back toward the kitchen with food.  “Sit.” 

I took a seat in a wicker rocker. 

“Anything to drink?”

“I met your girlfriend on the way up. She told me not to let you imbibe.” 

“Good advice. All I have is water anyway.” He handed me a can of LaCroix. “Excuse me while I get decent.” 

On the wall about the room was a picture of the university’s columns, a painting entitled ‘Winter Visit’ of a native American on horseback staring up at a scaffold of the dead, snow falling. And paintings of bears in a forest, and a mountain lake, with moored boats by a dock. 

“Where’s your Doors of Dublin, picture?” I called out. 

“It’s in the bathroom.” 

On the small coffee table were two books with classic red bindings  on the Collected works of Flaubert, another on Emerson’s Essays. Despite my cousin’s easy manner and what some might conclude perpetual jostling, he was an academic; not of high-brow variety, published in the slew of academic journals, but a Ph.D never- the-less, in Rhetoric and Communication. His area was becoming extinct before his eyes, he’d said.

“Ah. Better,” he said, returning, dressed in slacks and a jersey shirt, popping a can of the LaCroix, then sitting in one of two chairs at the dining room table. “ So. I am guessing… there are matters troubling my young cousin?” We didn’t get much of a chance to talk last night at the pub.” 

The weakest part of me wanted to scream out, “I am scared. The Feds have just visited, threatened Nora with deportation and…” But I began slowly, laying out what had just happened with the boys in suits and working backwards about why they visited me in the first place. 

Pat listened, as I related the abruptness of my recent morning visit by the agents of the Treasury department; first to my quandary about the left picture of Franklin and attorney Weintraub, then, finally about the letter outlining how to get Franklin’s money he took from other drug dealers and how oddly prison officials were lurking around my office seemingly wanting me to shed light on what might be. 

After I finished he said, “Wow! I thought you came by to discuss the information I left last night about Tomasso. But it seems your Franklin has nothing to do with him.” 

“I haven’t even looked at the information. Sorry. But…” 

“No problem. I have a copy of my colleague’s Leon’s information. Don’t you bother with that. I know Tomasso and time permitting, I will look into it.”

He continued. “My young cousin, it appears you have some choices to make. And I am guessing you are asking me what avenue to take.”

“I suppose I am.”

“As to your Mr. Franklin, of course the easiest and likely the safest thing to do is, nothing. I mean from what you’ve said, no one knows about the letter given to you by this guy, except you and Franklin. And throwing it away pretty much disavows you of any knowledge of all that, these… you said Department of Treasury agents, want from you.” 

I nodded correct, again. “And he’s now at another prison. So, forget about it,” Pat said.

“You can be a good counselor and tell your boss. Her name is…?”

“Maria.” 

“Tell Maria, and let her handle it. Of course you will have to make up some way the letter landed on your desk, since it's several weeks after the fact… And once you tell her, expect all the powers-that-be to get involved. It’s my guess that’s how the prison system works, especially since what you’ve said is that some persons in charge of the prison have already been snooping around your office. 

“Or, you can…” Pat smiled devilishly, tilted his head and said,   “Or you can find out what lies behind that wall in this Franklin’s…”

“I think it is his aunt’s house or apartment.” 

For a moment we sat with that thought. I finished my water. “But understand, as I am sure you do, that once you go exploring… well curiosity…”

“What is it?”

“Can backfire.”

“….Ultimately, ask yourself what’s in it for you. And for Nora… The federal boys intimated that you better watch out, if you know something, because Nora is here on a visa. All pretty risky.”  

“I guess, on the one hand,” I said, “I feel bad for this guy, Franklin, who while he is criminal and admits to being one, did get railroaded by an all white jury and sent down for the maximum for really nothing more that having contraband, really residue of cocaine in his car. I have always told these guys as their counselor that once you step inside the circle of crime, don’t expect honor among thieves and or… And I guess that applies to getting a fair and just sentence too.”

“Not your problem. But here you go wanting to help one of them.” 

Part 2 

Chapter 30: Gil

The Fall was winding down. Halloween came and went. Nora and I had a half-dozen little visitors. She dressed in a costume she’d kept from the character she’d played in Donegal’s Titania, Queen of the Fairies, MidSummer Night’s Dream. I just put on a clown nose I’d dug out from my belongings from earlier days.The tikes gladdened at getting Hershey’s.

Since our visit by the federal boys and my talk with cousin Pat, the conversations at home had surfaced more than once about starting a family. I had told cousin Pat about Nora’s mild urging in that direction. 

“Don’t wait around for everything to be in place,” he said. “Or you might wind-up a lonely college professor living in a small apartment on  a college campus with a dog and a cat.”

Nora had been on birth control, something she was at odds with given her strict catholic upbringing. But she’d consented to it, saying, since she was in America.  “But it’s not natural or healthy, Peter,” she’d reminded me many times. And when the time was right, she said she’d hope to go off it. 

The holiday season was approaching. Despite a festive spirit in the free world there was no yuletide feeling behind the prison walls. Charity groups, like the Presbyterian Mothers, visited the chapel and sang songs and Father Dowling and his nuns from a local parish brought in their own brand of the holidays, but it was a somber time for most men; especially for those, like Franklin, who were serving long sentences.  

Since Franklin’s departure for the prison down south the Sergeant hadn’t visited me. Maria hadn’t bothered pestering me either about whether there was more to Franklin’s story than I had shared. No more men in suits with government ID’s had visited Nora and me at home since that the Treasury men showed. So no news was good news. But I still had an undone feeling about Franklin and had kept the letter hidden under stacks of papers in my home desk drawer. I hadn’t visited Wanda’s eatery to fill her in, knowing the less conversation with her the better, at least about Mr. Franklin.

It was Friday and I had asked for the day off again. Boss Maria was always accommodating, providing I was caught up. And I usually was. Plus, I worked my share of on-calls. Mostly on-call related to suicides, suicide attempts, or alleged rapes. Sexual assaults had been cracked down on in the prison. 

I’d dropped Nora off to do her volunteer work and headed to our small downtown to have a coffee and a donut. Three Glories was one of many such eatery’s located on what was called the Strollway, mostly catering to university types. The University was winding down on classes for the upcoming break. 

A young coed served me vanilla cream coffee with a blueberry muffin. I took a seat in the back and opened up a book on Cognitive Therapy by Arron Beck. I had made my way to the chapter on automatic thoughts when the other chair at my small table was pulled out. 

A 50ish, Columbo-type guy asked if he could sit. I nodded OK. Puzzling. He scooted in, looking around at the other tables, signaling whatever he was going to say needed to be hush-hush. More puzzling. 

He laid an ID on the table. It read “FBI” in large blue letters. A credentialing number was in the upper right corner in black lettering with a signature written up one side. A passport-size photo appeared on the lower half of the ID. On the other side of the black billfold ID was a gold badge with bold US engraved, along with the Federal Bureau of Investigation on the badge. A small, typed paragraph was signed by the Bureau’s director. 

“Mr. Cleary?”

“Yes.” 

“Gil Cummings.” 

“Peter,” I said. 

No handshakes.

He put his ID back in his coat pocket. 

“Sorry to bother you on this beautiful morning. Beautiful for this time of year anyway.”

“Tis.”

“I won’t take up too much of your time.” He stopped while one of the young clerks picked up dishes from a neighboring table. When she made her way back to the kitchen he continued. “I know you have talked to boys with the Treasury Department. Let me apologize for them. Don’t know why they even bothered you. 

“I believe you have or have had a client at the state prison, a Lenox Franklin who these Joe’s talked to you about. My concern with this Franklin is not with him, but his attorney, a Weintraub in Kansas City. Known as Weinkill in drug circles. 

“The Treasury boys  might have told you that the government is building a money laundering case against Weintraub. But we haven’t been able to penetrate his operation.” 

Cummings checked around again for any listeners. “Because Weintraub’s clients are, how does one say, the underclass? And mums the word with many of them. Hard for us to connect him to any illegal doings.”  

He leaned into me some more, blue eyes, Basset Hound sad.“Mr. Cleary, I am looking for an in to get to this piece of shit. I am on my last hoorah so to speak.

“I am not out to rake over Mr. Franklin. Seems you have a soft spot for him.” How did he know that? “And this Weibtraub hung him out to dry with the sentence the man got. But anything you can help us with well… let’s just say the FBI would be grateful.”

My stomach churned. Two academic types sat at the table behind us. Agent Cummings leaned back, checked the little menu as if he might order, then moved in still closer to me across the small table. “Just wanted to make contact with you. One last thing. Did those boys who visited you ever spend any time in your house or car?” 

I was about to answer, but he put up his hand. “I’d check out the places in your house they sat or visited. And look for a little square or round cylinder-like gizmo. If you get my drift… Think about it, Mr. Cleary.”

He got up, shook my hand and handed me his card, which had his name, telephone number with the bureau’s information. I carefully put it in my jacket.  

He gave a cursory smile, then left as quickly as he’d sat down without giving me time to ask follow ups or what he meant by little round cylinders.