Law & Order (1990–2010): Season 3, Episode 10 - Consultation - full transcript

Detectives Briscoe and Logan investigate the death of a Nigerian woman, Kelani Amoda, who died soon after her arrival in New York City. She was a drug mule and had ingested packets of heroin but one obviously burst killing her and her unborn child. Her husband was already in New York and she had arranged a job with a Nigerian oil company's US offices. Her visa was sponsored by her tribal chief Ola-Gimja Nwaka who also holds diplomatic status in the United States. ADA Stone has every intention prosecuting Nwaka and receives some cooperation from the Nigerian Embassy's lawyer, Sir Idris Balewa. Stone's case is shaky however but Sir Idris has a solution for that.

(narrator) In the
criminal justice system,

the people are represented by two
separate yet equally important groups:

the police who
investigate crime...

and the district attorneys
who prosecute the offenders.

These are their stories.

[radio chattering]

(De Witt) You can
thank your luckies

your plane didn't
land four hours earlier.

It would have taken us that
long to get across the bridge.

(De Witt) 'Course we
could have splurged $2.50

and taken the tunnel.

Killing ourselves,
breathing that air.


Where'd you fly in from, honey?

Lagos, Nigeria.

Africa, oh...

That's about what,
10 hours on a plane?

What time is it here?

[truck honking]

Five minutes, it's tomorrow.

I can't keep my eyes open.

[De Witt laughs]

Jet lag, huh? It's a bitch.

Guy came in last
night from Paris.

Said the best cure

was a hot bath and
a bottle of cognac.


I visited my sister
down in Tampa.

Six-pack worked just fine.

[traffic rumbling]

Statue of Liberty?

Honey, you said Harlem.

No, this.

(De Witt) Oh, yeah, yeah.

Gets going like a blizzard
every time I cross a pothole.

[car thudding]

Just like that.

[De Witt laughs]

Thank you, Mr. Dinkins.


Now hold on, child.

Don't go having
your baby in my cab.


(nurse #1) Call the code!

(doctor #1) Clear the
hall! Come on, let's go!

(doctor #1) Here we come.

(nurse #2) Let's go
folks, here they come.

(doctor #1) Watch it.

(woman on P.A.)
Code Blue, E.R. 3.

(doctor #2) Watch your foot.

(nurse #1) Pupils
fixed and dilated.

(doctor #2) Bag her. One
amp Narcan. Starting C.P.R.

(doctor #2) Get E.K.G. leads on
her. I need a fetal heart monitor.

(doctor #2) Get her
intubated. One amp atropine.

E.K.G. hooked up. She's v-tach.

(nurse #2) Fetal heart rate 90.

(doctor #2) Get the
paddles. One amp Narcan.

[machine whooshing]

(nurse #1) Ready.

(doctor #2) Clear.

[machine thudding]

(nurse #1) She's v-fib.

(nurse #2) Fetal heart rate 60.

One amp Narcan. Get a blood gas.

[machine thudding]

(neo-natal nurse)
Fetal in bradycardia.

Call O.B., tell them to
prep for a crash C-section.

No pressure, no
pulse. She's asystolic.

[cardiograph flatlining]

(nurse #1) No response. Flat.

(neo-natal nurse)
Fetal heart rate zero.

One amp Narcan.

[cardiograph flatlining]

[doctor #2 grunts]

Still flat.

Fetal zero.

continues flatlining]

Okay, let's call it.

Patient and baby died at 00:33.

62 more days in purgatory,
then hello, Scarsdale.

People don't O.D. in Scarsdale?

Not on heroin, and
not in the back of a cab.

Oh, you prefer sleeping
pills and satin sheets.

Well, there's a difference.

Oh, sure, there is, Mike,

like when rich people
do it, it's a cry for help.

And people like us,
it's a social disease.

For Ms. Amoda, it's
an occupational hazard.

She's a smuggler.
Found these in her belly.

60 condoms filled with heroin.

One of them broke.

(Kanellos) Adult respiratory
distress syndrome.

4 ampoules of
Narcan. No response.

Nigerian, 20 years old.

Probably hoping her kid's
dreams would be American.

She had a kid?


[woman on P.A. chattering]

Scarsdale's looking good.

[phone ringing]

[Briscoe snorts]

All-weather radials.

Imelda Marcos never
owned a pair of these.

Miss Kelani Amoda.

[people chattering]

No, make that
Mrs. Born in Nigeria.

[phone continues ringing]

First time in the U.S.


Helps clog the drain.

Customs calls them,
uh, Nigerian swallowers.

$1,100 and a free plane ride.

You're talking $100,000
worth of heroin here.

Now, somebody's gotta
be holding the claim ticket.

Redeemable for narcotics
one and felony murder.

Hey, she's got a
baby on the way.

The only person who's gonna
talk her into this is Mr. Amoda.

Cab must've been
taking her somewhere.

17 years, I delivered
three babies.

Got so I can tie the
innies and the outies.

But I never had nobody
die on me before.

The baby, too?

Poor little girl. She
wasn't but about 20.

She leave behind anything
besides a suitcase?

Yeah, unfortunately, and I
been cleaning it up all morning.

Did she say anything
about having a family?

Only about her baby.
Hoping it was a boy.

She got her wish.

[car door shuts]

One minute she's
taking in the scenery.

The next, her head is lolling
like she's making for a seizure.

I drove as fast as I could.

Where were you gonna take
her before the emergency room?

Let me see.

Uh, 126th and Broadway.

[train rumbling]

So, now what?

Home cooking.

You know, this used to
be Roscoe's Snack 'n' Chat.

You know, right around
the corner from here

is the first place I
saw Mose Allison.


I keep forgetting
when you were born.

[all chattering]

[door opening]

Yes, please. This way.

We just ate.

Anybody in here
expecting a young girl,

name of Kelani Amoda?

She is Yoruba.


The largest tribe in Nigeria.

Everyone here is Yoruba.

The name Amoda, very common.

And she is from Ilesha.

I know of three
Amodas from Ilesha.

You know of any
in this zip code?

Joseph Amoda. Uh,
we are very proud of him.

He's a very important
businessman with a thriving trade

on the corner of
42nd and Madison.

Thank you.

(Joseph) I have bakweli,
bakota, bambara...

Hey, this bakota would
be good for you, oda.


It is magical shield.
It will stop a bullet.

(Briscoe) We're more interested
in a member of your tribe.

Kelani Amoda.

She's very beautiful.

She flew in from
Nigeria last night.

She had a baby.

Ah, a baby? She was
blessed by Shango,

goddess of fertility
and thunder.

Yeah. Well, do you know
who the proud papa might be?

No. But if you find
him, just tell him

I'll be happy to shower
the baby with gifts.

We could bring him in.

And he'll sell us a watch before
he gives us the time of day.

You know, it seems like hubby
should be a little bit more concerned.

I mean, he sends for
her, she doesn't show...

Yeah. I don't know.

Wait a minute. He
sent for her, right?

So maybe he sent
her a plane ticket.


[phone ringing]

It was booked in Lagos,

through Transmission
Travel Services.

What about credit card numbers?


How can you be so sure?

Nigeria is an all-cash society.

So what does a pretty woman
like you do without a credit card?


(man) Excuse me, miss.

They always come in
when I'm ready to close.

[phone ringing]

Hey, suppose Kelani isn't the
only smuggler on the plane?

You think Transmission Travel
gives frequent swallower miles?

All I know is, 20 years
ago, two Cuba Libres

and I'd have the passenger list.

[phone continues ringing]

Maybe you ought to
order dinner for one.

[phone ringing]

Good morning.

Hey, Briscoe.

Two Cuba Libres?

Strawberry Daiquiri.


Nigerian Airlines Flight 850,
non-stop Lagos-New York.

13 passengers,
Transmission Travel.

Any common denominators?

No. But Kelani's entry form,
the employment question?

Monday morning she
would've been punching a clock

at Nigerian Petroleum
Distribution, Brooklyn.

Maybe hubby was planning
to pack her a box lunch.

(Marietta) So, I'm
the token American.

Makes me a sort of a
liaison to the community.

(Logan) Well, what
is it, Mr. Marietta?

No one reads the
help-wanted ads but Nigerians?

Well, they like to hire
from the same tribe.

[phone ringing] Yoruba?

I used to work the oil
rigs near Lagos in the '70s.

I learned to respect

the loyalty and work
ethic of the Yoruba.

(Logan) So, what?
If you want to work in

the wing-nut division
you dial 1-800-YORUBA?

For Nigerians,
this is a plum job.

We only bring over
highly-trained professionals.

technicians, engineers.

And a pregnant
20-year-old village girl?


Kelani Amoda.

A nutritional technician.
A cook for our cafeteria.

Americans can't make
tuna sandwiches?

Americans can't make
fufu and Jollof rice.

She'll be starting next week.

[phone ringing]

(Briscoe) Oh?

Uh, where's she gonna
be staying until then?

Uh, with her husband.
Babatunde Amoda.

[baby wailing]

[people chattering]

[door opening]

You Babatunde Amoda?


All right, you mind
opening the door, please?

[man speaking Yoruba]

You Babatunde Amoda?


All right, we'd like to
ask you a few questions.

My papers are in
order. I can show you.

It's not about your papers.

It's about your wife.


Kelani is in Ilesha. My village.

Your wife arrived here
two nights ago from Nigeria.

[speaking Yoruba]

Two nights?

Is she all right?

[sighs] I think you
ought to come with us.

[car honking]

All the village came
to our wedding.

Everyone thought I am blessed

because I could come to America.

I was saving money
to send for her

from delivering packages.

Did your wife ever speak
about knowing anybody here?


She could not know anyone here.

She knew only
people from our village.

So you didn't know that
she arranged for a job?

She must have written,
but the mails are so slow.

She is dead because
she so wanted our child

to be born in America.

[knocking on glass]

[door opening]

If this guy is a
heroin smuggler,

he better not quit his day job.

Yeah. He didn't even
spring for high-tops.

He's still kicking the
village dust off his feet.

[exhales] So, if hubby isn't it,

who borrowed Kelani's
stomach for 16 hours?

Well, last year,

my brother-in-law, the,
uh, junk-bond genius,

brought over a French au
pair for his spoiled rug rats.

The au pair needed two
sponsors on her I.N.S. form.

[computer keys clicking]

(Walton) I can't believe this.

Labor certified her for
native Nigerian dishes.

Employers get away with
anything on their ETA-750A and Bs.

Just tell us about the sponsors.

Well, let's see.
Immigrant visa file.

Admitted N.Y.C.,
employment based 3rd.

[exclaims] Fasten
your seat belts. EB3?

(Walton) How did an
EB3 get processed so fast?

Might have P.I.


(Walton) Political influence.
Let's see these sponsors.

Employer sponsor,
Philip Marietta,

Nigerian Petroleum Distribution.

[computer beeps]

[Walton exclaims] Well,
now here's some clout.

Letter of expedition to
the Embassy in Lagos

signed by a
Nigerian tribal chief.

Olagig-Gim-Ju Nwaka.

[computer beeps]

[clock chiming]

Oh, Chief Nwaka?


If we could go into
my sitting room.

Ignorance is at the
root of all tragedy.

Do you mind terribly, gentlemen?

It's one of the few
conceits I've retained

from my student days at Oxford.

[match striking]

Kelani. Kelani was just a girl.

She wanted more than anything

to be reunited with her husband,

in time for the
child's isomoloruko.

The child's naming ceremony.

[cars honking]

And you paid her way?

Wouldn't you, for your daughter?


Every Yoruba is
brother and sister.

As chief, I am, in a manner
of speaking, their father.

Boy, I'd hate to see
your Christmas list.

In Western culture,

goodwill is assigned a
value on a balance sheet.

With us,

generosity is a given
part of our nature.

Well, didn't it concern you

that she didn't stop by
to thank you in person?

My generosities are symbolic.

I have a staff that concerns
itself with particulars.

(Briscoe) Yeah.
Well, in the future,

you might think about getting,
uh, just a little bit more involved.

Every summer, the wife sends
my daughter up from Miami.

She stays a week, we
catch a couple of ballgames.

Now, she's 17 years old,

I'm at La Guardia
two hours early.

So, you think the chief's
generosity ends at the airport?


[car honking] Thanks.

The chief's got a resume.

What? V.P., Import-Export?

Two arrests, '87 and
'89. Grand larceny two.

Complainant, Bank of
Nigeria, North America.

Oh. Well, you're
gonna run drugs,

you need capital to invest with.

Charges were dropped both times.

Two C felonies?

Jeez, he should
still be on vacation.

[phone ringing]

In May, 1986, Mr. Nwaka
borrowed $250,000

for the purchase of
some diamonds in Nigeria.

Just like that?

No. He used the
diamonds as collateral.

Unfortunately, in January, 1987,

the bank discovered that
Mr. Nwaka had sold said diamonds,

and failed to repay his loan.

Bank robbery in
a suit and tie, huh?

So, uh, how come no conviction?

[computer keys clicking]

Uh, Lagos, the home office,
deemed the loan uncollectible

and converted
it to a charge-off.

Lagos apparently
found it more prudent

to withdraw from the case.

(Bako) Things have
changed in Nigeria, gentlemen.

In today's banking
climate, I can assure you,

Lagos would respond
quite differently.

Yeah. Once bitten.

So, why'd you lend him
money the second time?

Believe me, if we had known...

[computer beeps] In '89,

Nwaka used a straw man.

Some guy named Marietta.

[phone ringing]

[people chattering]

(Marietta) Hey, the
bank's not the only one

who fell for
Nwaka's smooth talk.

They cleared my record,

but it was me who
cleared my reputation.

So, does Chief Nwaka still
whisper sweet nothings in your ear?


Hey, hey, hey, listen.

A woman flies in with
a bellyful of no-nos.

Nwaka pays her way.
You give her a job.

I make six figures plus bonus.

I like my co-op. I like my club.

I'm not a risk-taker.

(Briscoe) Yeah, well, maybe
somebody else around here

is a little bit more ambitious.

These people are
happy to be in America.

You guys are barking
up the wrong tree, here.

So, you'll gladly give us a
list of the happy campers.

Gentlemen, the
coffee's on the house.

You want cream and
sugar, get a warrant.

Just takes a phone call.

And something
called probable cause.

One lump or two?

[machines clanging]

[workers chattering]

[barge horn blowing]

You wanna try for a warrant?

I'd rather have a quicker fix.

Well, you want a list of
immigrant employees,

you can ask the employer.

Or you can ask Immigration.

[seagulls cawing]

[computer keys clicking]


Nigerian Petroleum's been playing
fast and loose with its E.T.A.-750s.

[phone ringing] Look at this.

42 new employees
just this month?

All of them E.B.3s.

engineers, technicians.

Like plenty of qualified
Americans can't rotate a gasket?

[snorts] How's this one?

Fabian Ayinde, certified as
a native sanitary engineer.

A janitor?

Educational background
to be provided later.

Swinging a mop.
Another lost art in America.

I will help you.
Please do not flog me.

Flog you? What's
he talkin' about?

Do not hit me with a cane.

[cars honking]

Oh, okay. We won't
flog you. This time.

(Briscoe) Now,
what do we get for it?

They said it was the only way.

Swallow the drugs, I
could come to America.

They told me it was safe.

She was so young.

Oh? You knew Kelani?

Every several months,
they send me back.

They told me I would have
to stay in Lagos for good

if I didn't find
other villagers.

My last trip, I met Kelani.

She would do anything for her
child to be born an American.

So you filled her with drugs
and loaded her on a plane?

No. That would be too dangerous.

I traveled the day before.

I waited for her
to arrive at a hotel.

Let me guess. 126th
St. and Broadway?

Who told you to do this, Fabian?

Mr. Marietta.

(Marietta) You must've...

What is this?

You guys can't
walk in here like this.

We came for the cream and sugar.

Come on, get up.

Philip Marietta,
you're under arrest

for conspiracy to
criminally possess

and sell controlled substances.

You have the right
to remain silent.

Anything you do say

will be used against
you in a court of law...

Conspiracy to smuggle
drugs. Murder two.

That's hardly
white-collar stuff, Jacob.

Aren't you a little out
of your neighborhood?

(Bloom) It doesn't matter
who's at the line, Ben.

A gutterball still
gets a goose egg.

I've represented Nigerian
Petroleum for the last 10 years.

Phil Marietta's good people.

After Kelani's funeral,

I'll submit him for a
good citizen's medal.

I'm glad to see you can smile

while your case
swirls around the bowl.

Fabian Ayinde gave
us a full statement.

Your client's up
to his earlobes.

A janitor?

This Fabian Ayinde has probably
changed his shorts six times

since you picked him
up. He's scared, Ben.

He'll say whatever
you want him to.

In view of what he said,

maybe Mr. Marietta
should visit his laundry.

Walk down any street in Lagos,

and someone will
sell you something.

These people are born
gonifs, it's in their blood.

Jacob, do you
expect me to believe

that Ayinde
engineered this alone?

You want Mr. Big,

he gladly gives you the
only white man he knows.

The only problem is,

Mr. Marietta had
nothing to do with it.

We'll see if the
grand jury agrees.

Just trying to save
you some time,

and face, Ben.

Thanks, Jacob.
I appreciate that.

(Schiff) Jacob Bloom.

[car honks]

I saw him get an insider
trading case dismissed

when the prosecution

had six volumes of
documentary evidence.

This is murder, Adam.

(Schiff) You think the
jury actually gives a damn?

All they'll see are poor African
people with funny names

and they won't know
what the case is about.

They'll go with the
attorney that they like better.

We have an eyewitness.

You have an accomplice.

That gets you into the theater,

but it won't let
you see the show.

You want me to release Marietta?

Until you get some
corroboration, yes.

When she arrived,

Kelani had heroin worth
over $100,000 in her stomach.

Now, who's gonna trust a
janitor with that kind of money?

There was someone
at the hotel with Fabian.

And Fabian conveniently
forgot to tell us who.

I already told the officers.

Did you tell them
everything, Fabian?

Yes, everything.

Mr. Marietta, he
sent me to the hotel

to meet Kelani and
collect the drugs.

Did he send you alone?

Yes. Alone.

If lying was an Olympic sport,

Jesse Owens would
be long forgotten.

He's scared, Don.

25-years-to-life will do that.

My guess is that prison
is the least of his fears.

(Fabian) That is the truth.
I've told you all I know.

That hotel...

The Chestnut Arms.

Do you remember
what room you were in?


Can you spare Briscoe and Logan?

Well, we're talking
126th St. here, Counselor.

I don't think Fabian's partner
used the Platinum Card.

Actually, I was hoping
that maid service

hadn't reached
the third floor yet.

You got it.

[phone ringing]

Not one of Mr. Clean's
scheduled stops.

What's with all the powder?

You guys are throwing around
more dust than Mount St. Helens.

Hey, my apologies to Leona.

But a transient
flophouse like this?

I got 45 lifts off
the bureau alone.

Most of 'em ancient history?

Hey, try the T.V.
People like to watch T.V.

[men on radio chattering]

This must be the
honeymoon suite.

[phone ringing]

[water gurgling]

Somebody's living
a charmed life.

You've got something?

Michael Kano.

Prints all over the No-Tell.

Michael spent the better
part of the last three years

getting his high
school diploma by mail.

Home address, Attica.

Assault with a deadly.

Got paroled about
eight months ago.

I saw that hotel.

I'm sure Mr. Kano's not the first
ex-felon to check into Room 392.

Yeah, but how many
ex-felons born in Lagos

you suppose spent
the night in there?

Here's the parole
officer, Ms. Bononi.

91st and Broadway.

Nine out of 10
make my job a snap.

Six weeks after release,
they're back in the hole.

I guess mama's cooking
doesn't match Mr. Cuomo's.

And Michael Kano?

Exceptions make the rule.

Gainfully employed
last six months.

$400 a week. I
should be so lucky.

Where's he working?

[phone ringing] Drives a limo

for some hoity-toity
businessman from Nigeria.

Birds of a feather. Ola-Gim...


You know him?

If he needs more
people, tell him.

I got hundreds.

Sure. Maybe I was in that hotel.

I spend the nights
in lots of hotels.

I got lots of lady
friends, okay?

Was one of them
named Kelani Amoda?

Never heard of her.

What about Fabian Ayinde?

Oh, right. Africans.
We all know each other.

You're better off without
the wiseass, Mr. Kano.

Look, I've been rehabilitated.

I do legitimate work.

(Turner) And we're all
very proud of you, Michael.

And Mr. Stone, I have a
4:00 with Judge Silverman.

How about skipping the dance
and cutting right to the song?

Well, how about, uh,
conspiracy to import

and sell narcotics, topped
off with felony murder?

How about one piece of evidence?

Your client was
employed by Chief Nwaka

who sponsored the immigration
of a known drug smuggler.

Your client's prints were found

at what would have been the drop

had the smuggler
not died en route.

File it under small
world, Counselor.

(Stone) There's not a
coincidence, Ms. Turner.

Now, if your client confirms...

Look, they spin the
wheel, my name comes up,

I get the honor of
representing Mr. Kano.

Do I like him? Too soon to tell.

Do I think he's
telling the truth?

Not my business to delve.

And will I cut a deal
when all the state has

is a couple of pink elephants?

Not on your life. We'll talk.

Nwaka, Marietta, Kano. I put
them together in a courtroom,

a jury can't help
but connect the dots.

It's the Supreme Court of the State
of New York, not Romper Room.

You're gonna need a lot
more than a No. 2 pencil

to establish conspiracy.

(Robinette) The evidence
against Kano is circumstantial.

Against Marietta, unreliable.
Against Nwaka, speculative.

The conspiracy is
a house of cards.

The slightest breeze, and
it all comes tumbling down.

Only no little piggy has
started huffing and puffing.

Pity the poor janitor.

He had the least to gain,

and he's the only
one that loses.

No. One person had nothing
to gain yet lost everything.

Babatunde. Right.


Now he's got
nothing left to lose.

So maybe he's got
no one left to protect.

Chief Nwaka is an honorable man,

or he could not
be a Yoruba chief.

We have reason to believe
your chief is using his people.

The way he used your
wife, to smuggle heroin.


Chief Nwaka's family
is great and powerful.

They built schools
in our villages.

He would never do this.

You know Michael Kano?


He works for Nwaka.

Your wife would have given
him the heroin when she got here.

[police siren wailing]

Kelani only came to
America because she thought

that was what I
wanted for our child.

She is dead.

My son is dead.

If I knew anything,
I would tell you.

Now go.

I will not join you in
insults to my chief.

Listen to Babatunde
for half an hour,

you'd think Nwaka's
a martyr for the tribe.

Did he convince you?

$1,500 Italian suits.

Not exactly a robe and sandals.

Well, maybe if he dresses
like the Dapper Don,

he instills the
same sort of fear.

Or gratitude.

Nwaka did sponsor
Kelani's immigration.

Which certainly means he
aided a narcotics smuggler.

Criminal facilitation?

Maybe the chief
would rather deal

than get his suit dirty. Hmm.

Yeah, tell me about it.

Last year, I went out with a
girl who lived in one of these.

Four floors, 20 rooms.

Yeah. Bedroom, bathroom.
The rest of it's a waste.

Yeah, well, she wanted to experience
life on every floor, in every room.

So, what?

You got as far as the downstairs
foyer and called it a day?

Hey, we discovered an attic
they didn't know they had, pal.

Party time.

[cars honking]

Hi, there. Hello.

Ola-Gim-Ju Nwaka?


You ought to get 25 years
just for making me pronounce it.

You're under arrest

for criminal facilitation
in the second degree.

You have the right to remain...

You are making
a terrible mistake.

You have no idea
what you're doing.

Sounds like my second wife.

Criminal Facilitation two?

I'd actually be upset, Ben,

but you did provide
the perfect escape

from one of the most
deathly dinner parties.

Get your things, Chief.

I don't think you
understand, Marion.

Your client is under arrest.

You didn't tell them?

I thought it best to wait
until you advised me.

(Marion) Mr. Nwaka is
not only a Yoruba chief,

he is Trade Consul for the
Federal Republic of Nigeria.

Bone up on your
international law, boys.

My client's immune.

No one's immune from
drug smuggling charges.

(Marion) He sponsored
a Nigerian citizen's move

to the United States, period.

Not only is that not a
crime, it's his consular duty.


[paper rustling]

[phone ringing]

[phone continues ringing]

Send your written apologies
to the Consulate, Ben.

[door shutting]

We bag him, you kick him.

Next time, save us the trouble.

Nwaka's a Nigerian Trade Consul.

Once he asserted his
diplomatic immunity,

we had no choice.

(Briscoe) Trade Consul.

Those kind of jobs usually
come in a barrel labeled "pork."

Legitimate or not, the
Consulate is backing him up.

Maybe you ought to
send 'em an 8 by 10

of Kelani and her baby.
Maybe they'll reconsider.

Hopefully they'll be impressed
by an order from the World Court.

(Logan) The United Nations?

Come on, all those clowns
know how to do is double-park.

(Briscoe) Okay. Say you
pull the umbrella on Nwaka.

What's to keep him from
hopping the next flight back home?

Nothing, except our
extradition treaty with Nigeria.

(Briscoe) Right. So, in
other words, a little grease,

and the chief gets to sleep in
his own bed for the rest of his life.

You want him back for
another chat, give us a call.

[people chattering]

[door slamming]

What I want

is Nwaka out of his Armanis
and into prison blues.

I checked the World
Court's calendar.

This week, they're
meeting in The Hague.

I doubt if the States
would pick up the airfare.

How about carfare?

They're reconvening here at the
United Nations, end of the month.

Oh, if we keep the
balls in the air till then...

[phone ringing]


Yeah. Adam wants us.

So, Det. Logan and
Briscoe subsequently are...


[door opening]

[phone ringing]

Assistant District Attorneys
Stone and Robinette.

(Schiff) Sir Idris Balewa,

Legal Attaché for
the Nigerian Embassy.


Sir Idris is in town
from Washington

to address his
embassy's concerns

over Chief Nwaka's immunity.

Then I'm sure you
understand, sir,

I am prepared to
challenge that immunity

under the terms of
the Vienna Convention.

And you'll lose.

Mr. Nwaka's appointment

guarantees him
protection from prosecution

for all but, um, grave crimes.

He aided in the importation
of controlled substances.

(Balewa) Criminal
Facilitation two.

A C felony.

Resulting in the death of a
mother and her unborn child.

Murder is as
grave as it gets, sir.

And if you could prove intent,

I'd drive him to the
courthouse myself.

(Balewa) Uh, gentlemen,

I'm here to defend only the
principle of consular immunity,

not the criminal actions
of a profligate Yoruba chief.

(Balewa) In the tribe,
there's nearly 1,600 chiefs,

and Mr. Nwaka is
a source of shame.

A playboy, and now
apparently a criminal.

I'd like to think we have
common ground on this.

My government wishes to see
all drug smugglers prosecuted.

I could call Undersecretary
Watkins at State

and ask them to
withdraw certification.

Nwaka's deported,
you try him in Nigeria.

In Nigeria he's still
the son of an oba,

a king.

(Balewa) The evidence would
have to be more compelling

than that which
I've reviewed here.

(Robinette) The problem is

Michael Kano, our best
potential witness, refuses to testify.

Insansa. Living death.

Testifying against a chief,

Kano would be
banished from the tribe.

Though I imagine Mr. Kano
shows more loyalty to his wallet

than to his tribal identity.

He shared in the fruits
of Nwaka's corruption,

but another man went hungry.

You mean the janitor.

[cars honking]

Nigerian Petroleum
must be very happy

with the shine on their floors.


They posted bail for Fabian.

Released last week.


That's a lot of collateral
on an immigrant janitor.

Depends on how
much you have to lose.

(Marietta) That's our policy.

Company takes care of
its own. What can I say?

If you've been
tampering with a witness,

you've picked yourself
up a felony charge.

Mr. Stone, I issued a check.
I haven't seen the guy since.

Fabian doesn't
work here anymore?

Our lawyer told me the
brass didn't particularly like

the idea of a felon
on the payroll.

So you fire him.

Which to Immigration means
you revoked his sponsorship.

And the I.N.S. put him on a
plane back to Lagos for a trial.

My guess, he's probably
digested his last meal.

There's a death penalty?

Ah, they don't coddle
drug smugglers in Nigeria.

If he's lucky,

by now he's hanging from a tree.

If you'll excuse me.

Convenient. Now all
we have is Michael Kano

and the curse of insansa.

Insansa was described
as living death.

Maybe Kano prefers
it to the real thing.

[phone ringing]

I'm supposed to be at
Rikers in 10 minutes.

But then, I'm also supposed
to be in court right now.

And no offence,
but I don't have time

to play Monty
Hall with you boys,

when all you have is some faded
fingerprints on a hotel television.

Perhaps you should
consider dismissing this case.


Who do I kiss first?

(Balewa) The case
will be dropped,

so that Mr. Kano
can be deported.

He'll be tried and
punished in Nigeria

for conspiracy to
smuggle narcotics,

and felony murder.

(Balewa) You see, Miss Turner

our culture is not as
enlightened, perhaps, as yours.

An eye for an eye
is still a way of life.

This is extortion.

I don't have time to play
Monty Hall either, Counselor.

(Balewa) I will arrange
the transit papers.


I will not die for him.

"Docket Number 622083.

"People v. Ola-Gim-Ju
Nwaka and Philip Marietta.

"Conspiracy to distribute
narcotics, first degree.

Felony murder, second degree."

How do you plead?

Not guilty, Your Honor.

And Mr. Nwaka, how do you plead?

Your Honor, my
client doesn't plead.

Counselor, are my ears
getting a wax build-up?

My client enjoys
consular immunity

under the Vienna Convention
on Consular Relations.

Which allows prosecution

for grave crimes such as these.

Mr. Sebalius, this
is no parking ticket

your client's wiggling out of.


Your Honor, Mr. Marietta
holds an interest

in a company with
numerous foreign assets.

Chief Nwaka has a
diplomatic passport.

Considering the
high risk of flight,

we ask that both defendants
be held without bail.

(Bloom) No bail?

Your Honor, it's unjust
to penalize Mr. Marietta

for the nature of his
legitimate business.

I agree.

We'll only penalize for
his illegitimate business.

$1 million cash, bail.

No assignment of assets.

Mr. Nwaka, the same for you.

The State requests
both defendants

surrender their
passports to the court.

So ordered.

And gentlemen,

don't leave home without 'em.

Where's my client
gonna get $1 million?

Should've opened an
IRA, like everyone else.

You know damn well he
won't last a day in prison.


He'll be spending the
rest of his life there.

Suppose we tell you
what you want to hear?

He gives us Nwaka,
we cut his stay to 15.

That's a hard sell, Paul.

And that's as good as it gets.

[people chattering]

Draw up the papers.

(Marietta) It started
with diamonds.

There were poor people in Nwaka's
tribe who'd come to this country

just for the price
of the airline ticket

or the promise of a
job in my company.

They were our first swallowers.

(Marietta) It was
a perfect plan.

If we went bust,
he'd take the fall,

and hide behind his
consular immunity.

How long did you
smuggle diamonds?

A year or so.

But Nwaka figured,
"steal an inch, steal a mile."

We switched to heroin
maybe two years ago.

It was easier to sell, and the
numbers were a hell of a lot bigger.

Are you familiar
with Kelani Amoda?

I never met her.

But your name appears as a
sponsor on her immigration papers.

Nwaka finds them in
Lagos, fills them with heroin.

I just give them jobs
when they get here.

Thank you. No further questions.

[siren wailing]

Who is Fabian
Ayinde, Mr. Marietta?

He was a janitor in our company.

Was he one of
your swallowers, sir?


Where is Fabian now?

In Lagos, I suppose.

You suppose?

But you arranged his
deportation, isn't that right?


And isn't it also true that
you arranged his deportation

after he implicated you alone
in the smuggling operation?



Maybe once or twice a month,

I would meet someone
at a hotel in Harlem.

For what purpose?


I'd wait until, you know...

Till they passed the condom.

(Stone) Which
condoms were those?

Condoms filled with heroin.

(Stone) And what did you do?

Brought it back to Chief Nwaka.

Did Mr. Nwaka tell you to
meet Kelani Amoda at the hotel?


What happened?

She never showed.

Thank you.

How long have you been employed

as Chief Nwaka's
chauffeur, Mr. Kano?

Eight months.

Immediately prior to
that, where did you work?


Credibility, Your Honor.

Overruled, subject
to connection.

Answer the question.

I didn't. I was in Attica.

Isn't it true that you had six
years remaining on your sentence,

had you not been
released on parole?

(Kano) Yeah.

And isn't it also true that your
involvement in narcotics smuggling

is in direct violation of
the terms of your release?

I guess so.

So, if my addition is correct,

you'll be spending a
minimum of 56 years in prison,

isn't that right?


Why not?

I cut a deal with
the prosecutor.

(Sebalius) And
what was that deal?

I testify against Chief Nwaka,

and I do only 15.


It would be nice if one of
your witnesses had an iota.

Well, this is a conspiracy
to smuggle drugs, Adam.

You can't expect
a busload of nuns.

We can, from the
other side of the court.

Nwaka's got 10
character witnesses.

Six of them are members
of the Nigerian Parliament.

Uh, and we've got
Larry, Moe and Curly.

You don't come up
with direct evidence

linking Nwaka to the drugs,

next week, he'll be eating
chocolate soufflé at 21.

I would still be tending
my brother's cattle in Ilesha,

but Chief Nwaka's generosity
brought me to America.

Did Chief Nwaka ask
you to smuggle drugs

in exchange for your
plane ticket to America?


Chief Nwaka is an
honorable Yoruba chief.

He even helps the bad
people who now try to harm him.

(Sebalius) How so?

Chief Nwaka gives
them rich jobs.

His driver, Kano, now
has his own apartment

because our chief pays
him over $400 every week.

The SOB's been lying.

You're protecting Nwaka.

That makes you
part of the conspiracy.

You're going to prison, sir.

My wife is dead.

How can you say I smuggle?

(Robinette) Then why'd you lie?

You told me you didn't
know Michael Kano.

I knew if Kano was involved,
it would dishonor my chief.

Your chief killed your wife.

No. Chief Nwaka only helped us

as he helps his other children.

He brought my wife to America.

He facilitated all
the arrangements.

What kind of arrangements?


Chief Nwaka told her she need
only do what Fabian Ayinde,

a man from a neighboring
village, told her to do.

That is what the letter says.

Why didn't you give
this to the detectives?

The mails is very
slow from my village.

Sometimes, a postcard
takes many weeks.

This letter, I received
only last Tuesday.

Kelani just mailed
us our conviction.

[phone ringing]

Babatunde, Fabian Ayinde
already admitted to us

that he made Kelani
swallow the heroin.

Kelani's letter now
ties your chief to Fabian.

Your Honor, I
respectfully submit

that if Mr. Nwaka
hasn't appeared by now,

he's not gonna appear at all.

Mr. Sebalius?

He's only 45 minutes late.

I'm sure there's been
some sort of accident.

My secretary's
calling all the hospitals.

Not to worry, Counselor.

They have doctors in prison.

Bail is forfeited.

Bench warrant issued
for Chief Nwaka.

The FBI traced Nwaka to JFK.

He already had a
three-hour jump on us.

You alert Immigration?

His diplomatic passport
must've greased the runway.

He's on an Aero Nigeria 747.

Already cleared U.S. airspace,
and halfway home to Lagos.

Thought the judge
revoked his passport.

He did.

Only the Nigerian Embassy
issued him another one.

Papers signed by
Sir Idris Balewa.

That son of a bitch.

(Stone) It was a con.

You pretended to help us,

and when the fire got too hot...

No, Mr. Stone. I
was helping you.

And I certainly
want to thank you

for raising the temperature.

You see, in my country,

Nwaka could never have
been convicted without this.

The testimony of your witnesses

will assure the
chief's conviction.

His crime was committed here.

He should be tried
and punished here.

And what?

Live out his life playing
squash in an American prison?

Your justice is not our justice.

Nwaka thought nothing
of purchasing others' lives.

He should be made
to pay with his own.

"Give me your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free"

$4 trillion debt.

Unemployment. Banks failing.

We don't know how lucky we are.