a) there was probable cause for belief that an individual was committing, had committed, or was about to commit an offense covered by law…
b) there was probable cause for belief that particular communications concerning that offense would be obtained through such interception…
c) normal investigative procedures had been tried and had failed or reasonably appeared unlikely to succeed or to be too dangerous…
d) there was probable cause for belief that the facilities from which, or the place where the communications were to be intercepted were being used, or were about to be used, in connection with the commission of such offense.
In each of Carella’s applications yesterday, he had cited probable cause. His petitions had been granted in every instance. But Corcoran was saying…
“Judges are a lot more malleable since 9/11. Before then, to get a court order for a pen register…”
“That’s a sort of reverse caller-ID,” Endicott explained.
“Yes, I know,” Carella said.
“We record the numbers dialed
“Yes, I…”
“…you had to show probable cause. Now, you just go in and say the information will be relevant to an ongoing investigation, and by federal law, a judge is required to approve the order. Relevant, can you believe it?”
“Makes it nice,” Endicott said.
“Makes it simple.”
“Anyway,” Endicott said, “since you’d covered only the landline carriers, we went ahead and obtained additional court orders for the wireless companies, too. These computers you see around the room…”
Carella counted four of them.
“…tap into our central computers down at Number One Fed. If our boy uses any of the seven mobile-phone providers servicing this city, we’ve got sophisticated links to all of them, and we’ll triangulate in a second.”
Carella nodded.
He didn’t know what “triangulate” meant. He said nothing.
“Want to try your new toy?” Corcoran said, and handed him the receiver on the green phone.
Carella put it to his ear.
He heard the phone ringing on the other end.
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Hawes.”
“Cotton, it’s me. Just testing.”
“Testing what?” Hawes asked.
ON ONE WALLof Bison’s conference room down the hall, the company had set out a generous buffet consisting of orange juice (or grapefruit juice), croissants (plain or chocolate), Danish pastries (cheese or jelly), bagels (plain, onion, or poppy seed), smoked Norwegian salmon, cream cheese, butter, jellies and jams in a wide variety of flavors, and coffee (either full-strength or de-caf).
The four men seated around the huge rosewood conference table had helped themselves to the sideboard goodies and were now leisurely enjoying their morning repast before getting down to business. They were in a jocular mood. They had a lot to be happy about.
Barney Loomis’ plate was brimming, as usual. He demolished his breakfast with obvious gusto now, listening to the chatter all around him, but not distracted by it in the slightest. Gulping down the last of his onion bagel heaped with salmon and cream cheese, he washed it down with the last of his “hi-test coffee,” as he called it, and began the meeting abruptly by asking, “Did you see those marchers outside? They’re labeling Tamar a racist! What’s wrong with these people, anyway?,” never once realizing that referring to the black protestors as “these people” might in itself be considered a trifle racist.
“Controversy never hurt anybody,” Binkie Horowitz said.
As Bison’s Vice President in charge of Promotion, he had checked all his people before this morning’s meeting, and was confident that the only thing that could possibly hurt them now was if the kidnappers actually killed Tamar Valparaiso, bite your tongue.
“I’m not so sure,” Loomis said. “We lose the black market because of those jackasses marching out there…”
“We won’t lose the black market,” Binkie said, “don’t worry.”
Short and slight, narrow-waisted and narrow-shouldered as well, he resembled a harried jockey whipping a tired nag across the finish line. Leaning over the table, his brown eyes intense, he said, “We are not at this very
“Tell that to the good Reverend Foster,” Loomis said, going to the sideboard and pouring himself another cup of coffee. “He’s a national player, he’ll be all over cable television in a minute and a half.”
J. P. Higgins, Bison’s VP in charge of Video Production, had been silent until now. Truth of the matter was that he was nursing a hangover this morning, having partied too strenuously aboard the
Dressed this morning in sweater and slacks and wearing a blue beret he thought made him look debonair if only he had a mustache, he turned to Binkie Horowitz and, seemingly suddenly inspired, asked, “Any chance we can get more cable stations to show our video?”
“Why not?” Loomis said from the sideboard, and while he was just standing there, fixed himself another bagel with salmon and cream cheese. “If Foster’s going to join the talking heads, then maybe they’d like to lead in with our actual goddamn video! Let it speak for itself. Hell, that video isn’t about
“That’s a good point to make to the radio stations, too,” Harry Di Fidelio said. “A good talking point. ‘Bandersnatch’ isn’t about race, it’s about rape. Race, rape, they almost rhyme, in fact. What they call a slant rhyme.”
Dressed this morning in a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a blue tie, Di Fidelio lacked only laced black shoes to blend right in with most of the FBI agents down the hall in Loomis’ office. Instead, unaware that he might be emulating the fashion preferences of a former U.S. President, he was wearing brown loafers with the blue suit. His socks were brown, too, but that’s because he was color blind.
As Bison’s VP in charge of Radio Marketing, Di Fidelio was constantly on the lookout for ways to convince the deejays that they actually had something to
“Rape or Race, we could say,” he suggested, and spread his hands on the air to spell out the words. “Rape or Race.
“That’s not bad,” Binkie said. “Rape or Race. We fight fire with fire. Go head to toe with Foster or anyone
