Operation Greylord by Terrence Hake Read Free Book Online Page B

operatives kept it in the small of their back, but to me it seemed too easy for someone to put a hand on it.
    After a little experimenting, I decided to wear the recorder under my left arm. But checking the contours of my shirt in the bathroom mirror, I thought I might as well be wearing a sign reading “Watch out, mole!” Off went the shirt and I tried again, this time with a T-shirt underneath. I felt a little silly as I moved this way and that in front of the mirror, butat last I became convinced the bulge would go unnoticed—as long as no one suspected me.
    My next worry was about the machine itself. I had installed two new AA batteries, drawn the recording tape along its path, and turned the reel until the tape was taut. But there was no way to test whether I had threaded it correctly because the device had no playback. As I started my car, I thought about the way the tape had kept sliding under my nervous fingers and wondered what would happen if I gave the FBI more than two hours of blank tape? Well, it was too late now.
    Thirty-five minutes later I was entering the courthouse with the peculiar feeling that everyone was staring at my armpit. Finding Jim Costello hustling clients in the stubby first-floor corridor as usual, and hoping I sounded like a prosecutor cooperating with fixers, I suggested, “How about we meet at the cafeteria for lunch?”
    Costello might have talked like a high school dropout, but he was sharp in the cynical way ex-policemen often are. Suppose his delay in answering meant he could recognize my pose for what it was? Even if nothing happened to me or my family, that might turn Operation Greylord into a fiasco.
    â€œYeah, Terry,” Costello said. “I’d like that. I’ll see you up there.”
    After a court recess, I went through the annex corridor and rode up an elevator to the second-floor cafeteria. The large room resembled a glass and stainless steel waiting area, with just a soft background of voices even at busy times and its wide windows overlooking the gloomy Cook County Jail complex.
    Costello and I moved from the stack of plastic trays over to the grill line. We both ordered cheeseburgers and fries. I switched on the Nagra as sweat crawled down my back. We took a seat and the always-talkative Costello hardly said a word. Since I had invited him, he must have been waiting for me to explain why.
    â€œHey, Jim,” I said, “thanks for the hundred. Really, it came in handy over the weekend.”
    â€œDid you take your girlfriend out?”
    â€œWe had a nice dinner and went to a movie,” I lied. “Thanks again.”
    â€œDon’t mention it,” Costello said.
    â€œAnd for the lunches you buy me.”
    He made an “it’s nothing” gesture, and the conversation died.
    Hoping he could not sense my apprehension, I hinted that I was curious about the mechanics of payoffs. Since this was Costello’s favorite subject, he soon recalled his first days in the building, when he learned he could buy clients by getting their names from court clerks and deputy sheriffs.
    â€œKnow how I found out? I went back and gave the guy ten bucks, like a tip. ‘What’s this?’ he said, like I insulted him. ‘Come on, come on,’ he said, ‘it’s a third of the bond around here.’”
    â€œThe bailiff told you that?” I asked, to clarify the reference for the tape.
    â€œYeah, like it’s written down somewhere. Jesus, a third. I’m the one with the law degree, I’m the one who does all the work, but he gets a third. But you make enough if you keep at it.”
    Trying to prod him into saying more, I hopped around subjects until I got around to a prosecutor who refused to drop charges against one of Costello’s clients. “Hey, Jim,” I said, “I’m sorry he gave you a hard time about SOL-ing that case.” That meant having charges stricken with leave to