Page 33 of Maddy's Justice

“Yes, in fact, I’m looking forward to a couple of days away from here,” Labelle replied.

“I wish you’d let me come with,” Dale said.

“I need you to deal with that other thing,” Labelle said. “There’s plenty of security on the island. We’ve been over this. Now, move on,” Labelle firmly told him.

“Yes, sir,” Dale said as he turned right off Lake Shore Drive onto East Chestnut.

Their destination was the 54-story office/condo Cardiff Building a block away from North Lakeshore Drive. Dale drove the car into the underground parking and parked it in their reserved spot.

James Labelle was the almost billionaire founder of Labelle Commodities, LLC. He had started off on his own as a small commodities broker after stealing two dozen clients from his first employer. That was thirty-years ago when he was in his mid-twenties. Over the years, the business had expanded to become a full-service investment banking firm. It had grown and made James Labelle quite wealthy the Chicago way, mostly through political corruption, insider trading and legal and illegal bribery. James Labelle had made a lot of people a lot of money along the way, including the man he was about to meet.

“Don Costa,” Labelle exclaimed to the main guest awaiting him in his office suite. “Always a pleasure.”

“Please, James, how many times do I have to tell you, between us it’s, Sam Costa,” his guest, an Italian gentleman of Chicago replied.

Samuel “Sam” Costa was the head of the Chicago Cosa Nostra or, as the movies and newspapers liked to call it, the Mafia. At age 62 he looked anything but the stereotype of a mob boss. In fact, he looked like what he thought of himself, a successful businessman. No shiny suits or big cigars. Hair cut nicely but not styled. Well-dressed but not gaudily. What brought down Gotti was his insistence on a flashy lifestyle. Gotti practically begged the Feds to come after him and they did until they finally got him. Sam Costa was determined he was not going to die in prison.

With him were his two most trusted advisors. Vincenzo “Vincent” Parisi, Costa’s number two and most reliable consiglieri and Sam’s favorite nephew, Alex Miller. Yale Law graduate and formerly, Alessandro Molinari. Sam’s brother-in-law, Pietro Molinari––may he rest in peace––changed Alessandro’s name when he was a young boy for just this purpose. To Americanize him for the family business.

The fourth man with the Costa entourage was Nestor Aamador, a senior partner of Stafford, Hughes from the firm’s Chicago office.

Upon entering the suite, there were two steps to take down into a sunken, 300 square foot living room, stylishly furnished with matching white couches and armchairs surrounding a glass table. There was even a gas fireplace in the corner. No one could claim James Labelle did not live well.

Overlooking this area was his workspace for what little work he still did. In it he had a replica of the Oval Office Resolute desk. On the desk was a double monitor PC. Behind the desk was a magnificent view of Lake Michigan.

What James Labelle mostly did was to oversee the information flow. For that, he had another, less plush office next door. Inside were eight information managers. They would cull through the inflow and pass on the useable information to a staff of a hundred brokers and sales force employees in the room on the other side of Labelle’s office. This would be used to buy and sell. Most of the information was illegally obtained, but Labelle was among the untouchables of American finance. It was all very well-oiled, efficient, and quite convenient. It was also part of one of the most reliable money laundering services in the world.

His four visitors all returned to their seats while Labelle acted as host and made sure their coffee cups were full. When that was accomplished, Labelle joined them. For the next forty-five minutes, while Sam Costa sat silently listening, they discussed business coming out of Mexico, South America and through the Isla Cantador connection. Costa himself would never say a word during such discussions. His voice was not going to be on a federal wiretap admitting to anything. In fact, every word being spoken in this room was being recorded but not by the FBI. If Sam Costa knew that his host was doing it, James Labelle’s swimming ability would be put to an extreme test twenty or thirty miles out on Lake Michigan with fifty pounds of weights locked onto his legs.

“What a fabulous view,” Costa said to no one in particular. He was standing behind Labelle’s desk looking out at Lake Michigan. From here, the forty-first floor, looking North, the view was fabulous. Especially now that spring was in full bloom and the boats were out on the water.

“It is,” Labelle replied as he stepped up to his guest from behind. “I wish I had more time to enjoy it. Every year, when the sailboats go out, I tell myself to get on mine more often.”

“Uncle,” they heard Alex Miller say, “we really need to go.”

“Always a pleasure,” Labelle said shaking hands with Costa.

“Yes, of course,” Costa replied.

TWELVE

“I took Dylan in today and he pleaded to the first-degree possession charge, Melanie,” Marc said into his phone.

He was in his office, windows open, feet on the desk charging Stafford, Hughes four hundred fifty bucks an hour for this call. Sure, it had nothing to do with their case, at least this part, but what the hell, they can afford it.

“I heard,” Melanie replied. “How did it go?”

“Well, he’s completed the first part of the process. He had an evaluation done and he was accepted into the Drug Court program. Now it’s up to him,” Marc said.

There was a knock on his door and Connie entered. He waved her forward and she took one of the client chairs.

“Connie just walked in,” Marc told Melanie.

“I was wondering,” Melanie said, “could you fight the arrest?”

“Sure, I read through the police reports. But, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t request admission to Drug Court and fight the criminal case. Yes, there are always little things you can go after the cops for on an arrest. Except this one looks pretty solid or, at least the lies the cops wrote down in their report were. The charges were gonna stick.

“Taking the plea is the first step. Accepting responsibility. That’s why he has to plead to it,” Marc said.

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