Free Bum Rap by Paul Levine Page B

last bite of my empanada and drained my coffee. “You know what I’m thinking, George?”
    “I have a pretty good idea.”
    “You want Nadia Delova to testify and so do I,” I said. “But the federal government sure as hell doesn’t.”

-15-
    Nadia and the Feds (Part Three)
    One week before the Gorev shooting . . .
    O ffice of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida
    In Re: Investigation of South Beach Champagne Clubs and one “John Doe”
    File No. 2014-73-B
    Statement of Nadia Delova (Continuation)
    July 7, 2014
    (CONFIDENTIAL)
    ----

    Q: [By AUSA Deborah Scolino] So it’s agreed then? You will work with us.
    A: [By Nadia Delova] Do I have a choice? You will send me to jail otherwise.
    Q: Can you come up with a reason to meet with Nicolai Gorev in private?
    A: He has been shortchanging my pay. But he does that to everyone, and we talk about it all the time.
    Q: Anything else, then?
    A: He is holding my passport. I will say I need to go home. Mother is sick.
    Q: Will he believe that?
    A: Maybe not. He knows I hate my mother. I will think of something.
    Q: Can you get him to discuss the business?
    A: Yes. Business is all he ever discusses.
    Q: Do you have any questions for me?
    A: When this is done, can you keep me from being deported?
    Q: I promise to use my best efforts. But I have to be honest. It won’t be easy.
    A: What if I was married to an American?
    Q: A sham marriage won’t help.
    A: No sham. A man has asked me to marry him.
    Q: Congratulations.
    A: Spasibo.
    Q: Just play your role, Ms. Delova, and I’ll do everything possible to help you.
    A: I am afraid of Gorev.
    Q: Just act naturally. Give him no reason to suspect you.
    A: He has instincts. Like a rat. Maybe I should take a gun.
    Q: No. We cannot approve that. Do you understand?
    A: [No response]
    Q: Ms. Delova. I’m serious. No gun.
    A: I understand. Now, show me this wire you want me to wear.

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    Giving Men Hope
    T hree days after my breakfast with Detective Barrios, I was headed ba ck to Miami Beach. It was just after 9:00 p.m. as the old Eldo rumbled east on the Julia Tuttle Causeway, the high-arcing bridge that connects midtown Miami with the Beach. I had a dandy view of the mansions of Sunset Islands as I reached the Beach side; then I swung onto Arthur Godfrey Road and headed toward the ocean.
    Since my investigator Sam Pressler had failed, the job of getting into Club Anastasia had fallen to me. A cleaned-up, dressed-up version of me. With luck, I’d get in. With skill, I might strike up a conversation with a B-girl who was a friend of Nadia’s. With both luck and skill, maybe I could get a clue to her whereabouts.
    I was tuned to the sports radio station, where callers wailed and moaned over LeBron James’s decision to leave the Miami Heat for the Cleveland Cavaliers. Honestly, some of these people sounded positively suicidal. Then about ten minutes of commercials for a nudie bar they called a “gentleman’s club,” a shooting range that featured machine guns, and a mail-order firm selling male enhancement pills. The station clearly knew its demographics.
    I know I should listen to NPR and get a twenty-minute feature about a Rumanian viola player who performs Hoffmeister’s etudes backward . . . and, by the way, send us some money. But I’ve been listening to sports talk radio—the septic tank of broadcasting—since my playing days.
    Now the radio callers were complaining about the Dolphins, and my thoughts drifted back to broiling Sunday afternoons in what I still call Joe Robbie Stadium. As a pro, I made up for my lack of skill and speed with effort and sweat. I was never late for a meeting, I worked harder than the guy next to me, and I played hurt. Same thing at the University of Miami Law School, night division. I never cut class. I studied harder than the guy next to me, and I played poker with the smart scholarship kids.
    As a lawyer, I break as few rules as possible, and just as in football,