by Jack Davis
Before leaving his apartment, Miguel made sure he had enough coke for him, his brown-eyed challenge and a reserve to last him, and maybe a friend or two, for the entire evening.
His plan of attack was simple: he would make small talk and then ask if she minded if he did a line. If she had just been afraid to do it in public, when he offered it in her own apartment, she would agree. If it was the whole I-don’t-do-drugs thing, he would say that was cool, then ask her if she had ever tried it. Depending upon her answer he would suggest that she should try it once, and if she didn’t like it, he would promise not to ever ask her again. He was sure he would be convincing in his virtuous speech about not forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to do, but he thought she would like it and that was the only reason he was offering it to her.
As it turned out the young lady’s virtue worked against Miguel in a way that would have significant consequences for more than just him.
With the exception of the tired Marines, the search warrant at Miguel’s apartment was carried out by a completely different group of agents than the ones who served the warrant at Chin-Lake’s house less than twenty-four hours earlier. It was also completely different in tone.
Before engaging the apartment manager, the agents listened at the door with a stethoscope-type device and heard nothing. Then they asked the manager, an older Dominican immigrant with only passable English, about the tenant. He said there was one man who lived in the apartment, alone. The knock was a formality. The manager used his master key to open the door.
It had been agreed that Greere and Swann would take the area where the computer was located and that Kruzerski and Murray would search the other areas. Since it was their case, it didn’t sit particularly well with the Marines that the electronics portion of the warrant was being handled by the senior squad members. Morley had made it clear that his assignments were not up for discussion.
All the evidence the team was looking for was plentiful and mostly in plain view. Before any of it was touched, a video of the entire apartment was taken. In areas where evidence was in the open, the video was followed up with still photos; easier for the AUSA to use in putting his case together. The cocaine residue on the coffee table led Murray to find more in the freezer ice tray. There were also three full baggies of marijuana partially concealed in baking powder boxes in the refrigerator. In the living room on the end table were credit card numbers and stolen identification information. The two packages that Miguel had picked up earlier that day were both opened and on the kitchen table. One had jewelry valued at $6,871.90, charged to Mr. Peter Sanford of North Port, Connecticut, while the other had clothing with receipts indicating that a Mr. Carl Reed of Rapid City, South Dakota, had purchased a pair of shoes and cedar shoe trees for $435.87.
The computer was in the bedroom. The evidence there was just as plentiful. The desk on which the computer sat had two sheets of numbers with corresponding names, expiration dates, security codes, and dollar limits. Inside the desk were additional sheets with numbers crossed off. These were the sheets provided to Anthony. Analysis of the paper, ink, and fingerprints would prove it conclusively.
While Greere gathered the evidence around the computer—discs, thumb drives and paperwork, Swann concentrated on the machine itself. Miguel was apparently more annoyed at how long it took for the computer to boot up than he was worried about people reading his email; his computer was on and not password protected. Swann took a video and photo of the screen before doing anything else. Next, he got information about the types of software being used and made notes on which versions were running. Then he deviated from protocol and poked around inside the files themselves. The lack of a password had convinced him that Miguel didn’t have any DOA programs running or any other surprises lurking in the hard drive. He was correct.
The information took no real talent to locate, and there seemed to be plenty close enough to the surface that it didn’t take any time at all to get a mountain of evidence.
After that, Swann unplugged it rather than powering it down. Then he removed and tagged all the peripherals that could contain information.
When Swann left the bedroom to tell the case agents what he’d found, they were starting to catalogue boxes of electronics and jewelry located in the two closets connected to the living room. With that evidence and the information about the drugs, Swann strongly recommended a call to brief Morley.
While Morley knew it was not the best way to run the case, based on the need for speed and the overwhelming evidence already found, he decided to arrest Miguel when he left his current location. There was enough probable cause and not much benefit in waiting any longer on this piece of the hacking puzzle. He instructed Kruzerski to have Swann and Greere take over at the apartment, while he and Murray responded to his location as soon as possible.
The arrest briefing was even more abbreviated than the one for the buy-through. The teams would wait until their subject got in his vehicle, thereby allowing a search of the car also. Since the car was currently parked and blocked front and back, the plan was for Morley to pull up next to the vehicle, blocking him in and making opening the driver’s door impossible. PJ would engage Miguel and distract him. While the suspect’s attention was focused on Morley, Kruzerski and Murray would come up on the passenger’s side of the car and affect the arrest. Everyone else would keep people off the sidewalk thirty yards in every direction.
Morley notified Kensington and Carpenter, not Brown.
Miguel exited the apartment more frustrated than when he had entered. The young girl had not given in on either sex or drugs. The heavy foreplay had given Miguel a severe case of blue balls. He was extremely agitated. He vowed to trick her, get her stoned and then fuck her. He walked to his car focused on coming up with a way to slip her the drugs in another form so she wouldn’t know what happened. She’ll thank me later. After all, it was the best feeling in the world; why would anyone not want to try cocaine? He sat for a second pondering the problem. As he put the keys in the ignition, he noticed someone else for the first time since walking out of the apartment.
“Hey, you leavin’ the spot?”
Miguel looked in the direction of the voice. He’d barely noticed the man in the blue Mustang. “No, asshole, I’m gonna sit here an’ jerk off. I’m gonna leave, as soon as you move that piece a shit.”
“Fuck you; I was just asking.”
Miguel was furious. All he wanted to do was get to a club, do a few lines, and find something to screw. Now this asshole was giving him shit. He rattled off a flurry of curses in Spanish and English. To his surprise the gringo told him to go fuck himself again, put the Mustang in park and folded his arms.
Miguel saw red. He couldn’t get out of the Mercedes driver’s door, so still looking and swearing at the gringo, he slid over and opened the passenger door.
Before he could stop swearing Miguel was yanked from the car. Two sets of powerful hands threw him to the ground like a ragdoll and turned him over. Cuffs were on him within seconds. He heard a booming voice yell, “Clear!” then, “The car is clear!”
Miguel was turned to his back with the same relative ease as before and told that he was under arrest. His surprise couldn’t have been more complete.
His second surprise came after an agent with a Puerto Rican accent read him his rights in Spanish and English. Before he could say he understood his rights, the agent from the car that blocked him in gagged him with a white towel. He tied it off behind Miguel head.
“He tried to spit on me,” said the agent to his counterparts. They looked confused too.
On the ride back the two goliaths didn’t say a word. Then, the black one got a phone call. “So that’s why you gagged him.” The agent looked at Miguel. “You are so fucked.” He started to laugh. He whispered something to the driver who broke out in something more akin to a roar than a laugh. They were silent the remainder of the ride, occasionally looking back, smiling, and shaking their heads. “You’re fucked, a
sshole.”
It wasn’t until they reached the office that people started talking again. Miguel was placed in a holding cell, still gagged. After thirty minutes he was taken to an interview room by the two agents who had manhandled him out of his car. The Puerto Rican agent that had read him his rights was there along with the agent who gagged him. He was the one who started talking.
“Miguel, we spoke with your friend in the apartment. I know you speak English. So you can forget playing that game. I’m Agent Morley. You’ve really screwed up your life today. You had over four ounces of cocaine within a thousand feet of a school zone. You might not know it, but behind your would-be girlfriend’s apartment is Malcolm X Middle School. The possession of that much cocaine is a class A felony with a minimum of five years; trying to distribute within a thousand feet of the school adds another three years minimum.
“That means you’re going to prison for at least eight years…minimum…with no possibility of parole. Without us having to prove anything other than you had the drugs on you. And the young lady in the apartment has already given us a statement to that effect.”
The black agent spoke up, “You’ve just flushed your life down the toilet, asshole. You’re gonna spend the next eight years of your life bein’ used like a brown rubber fuck doll. It sucks to be you right now, don’t it?”
“Let the butt weldin’ begin!” exclaimed the large white agent.
The agent who had gagged him continued, “We also found enough information regarding credit card fraud in your apartment and on your computer that you are looking at another three to five years minimum on those charges. We are telling you this before we take the gag off so that you know we’re not bluffing. If you ask for a lawyer, we can’t talk to you any longer, and any possibility of a deal is over. Then we just put you in the system. You will not be released on bail because you are a flight risk. So basically, from today on, you’ll be in some type of cage until at least 2021, but probably 2030. All it does to us, is make us get the same information from someone else who will make a deal.”
The large white agent interjected, “We have your nuts in a vise, and we can start squeezing any time we want. You need to tell us exactly what we need to know. Not tomorrow, not next week, or the week after, now!”
“Do you want something to drink before we get started?” asked the Spanish speaking agent as he untied the gag.
Miguel answered in English. “Yes, thank you.”
“What would you like: soda, water, juice?”
“A Coke, please.”
“Okay, now that you know the situation, I’m going to leave you with agents Kruzerski and Murray,” said Agent Morley.
“I’ll be back with your Coke in a minute,” said the Spanish speaker as he and the other agent left the room.
Miguel felt far less comfortable with the two remaining agents. There was something familiar about having the other Spanish speaker there; it disappeared as he left the room. Now he felt alone. He was also starting to feel the first signs of withdrawal. He hadn’t had any blow since leaving his apartment and the stress was bringing the symptoms on much more rapidly than he had ever expected.
“Okay, Miguel,” the black agent’s southern accent made his name sound sarcastic. “Agent Kruzerski and I are your new best friends. We’ve been up working this piece-o-shit case since yesterday morning. We’re not in the mood for any bullshit. Do you understand?”
A quiet, “Yes,” was the response. Then came his third surprise.
“Good, now where’d you get the credit card numbers from?”
Miguel was sure the first question was going to be about the drugs. He was stunned and relieved when it wasn’t…initially.
“The credit card numbers?”
“Yeah,” replied the agent, “the credit card numbers.”
Now was the first time Miguel thought about the credit card numbers, and more importantly the implications of telling the police where he had gotten them. His mind was suddenly swimming. The credit card numbers were from Alvaro, a real Latin King. He couldn’t give him up, that was out of the question. He tried to think. There must be some other way, something else that they wanted, perhaps the dealer who sold him the drugs. He gave it a try.
“I can tell you where I got the drugs if you can promise me I won’t have to testify.”
“We didn’t ask you about the drugs, did we?” said the black agent. “That’s the DEA. We don’t care about drugs—we want to know about the numbers. Where’d you get the numbers?”
Miguel’s initial confusion turned into an internal panic. He didn’t know what to do and he couldn’t think straight. The thought of ratting out his brother-in-law seemed horrific. Then again, what choice did he have? He was trapped. He was briefly saved when the friendlier agent came back into the room with his drink. Miguel looked at him almost pleadingly.
“How’s it going?” asked the agent as he opened the soda.
“Not good; he’s stuck on the first question, the easy one,” replied the white agent.
“Let me make it a little easier for him,” said the agent from Puerto Rico. “We’ve done some preliminary work on your machine and found that the numbers are coming from a Hotmail account in the name of J0za Cuerv0z. Tell us about Varo.” The agent set the soda down on the table. When Miguel reached for it, the agent pulled it away and said one word, “Varo!”
“He’s a friend from Cancun who sent me some credit card numbers.”
The agent shook his head. “Wrong answer! Let me help you get back on track. Varo is related to you. We’ve read emails between you two.”
“You’re right; he’s my brother-in-law, who lives in Cancun. He…” Miguel was going to continue when he noticed the agent holding the Coke shaking his head. The next thing he felt was intense pain in both shoulders. Two strong hands were digging in. The thumbs dug into the trapezium muscles in his back, while the four fingers were pressing in on his clavicles. The pain made Miguel slump as far into his chair as possible, then onto the floor. Still, the agent pressed.
Through the pain, Miguel heard the Puerto Rican agent say, “That’s another lie. The account comes back to a Mexico City ISP. We’re just about through giving you a chance to reduce your prison time, and my friends have been up for thirty-some hours straight. They don’t want to deal with your shit.”
The agent holding him down increased the pressure. To Miguel, the agent’s thumbs seemed to be cutting through his shoulders. All he could manage was a weak, “Stop.”
The pressure continued as the agent said, “Start telling the truth.”
“Okay! Okay! Just stop.”
The pressure lessened, but before he could say anything, the Spanish-speaking agent started talking again.
“We know Varo is your brother-in-law in Mexico City. His name is Alvaro, and your sister’s name is Maria.” Miguel was shocked at the level of detail the agents had.
The black agent spoke up. “Ya see, we don’t need you to arrest your brother-in-law.”
The Puerto Rican agent cut in again. “We already know enough to get an arrest warrant. We want you to fill in the blanks. We’ll know when you’re lying. Let’s hear the truth this time. If not, we’re still gonna arrest Alvaro; it will only take a little longer, and you’ll have nothing to trade for the next half of your life in jail.”
“Oh, and I’ll tell your brother-in-law you set him up anyway,” said the white agent.
To Miguel, it did seem like they already had everything they needed. What could it hurt to confirm things that they already know? His mind raced. They know about Alvaro. They’re going to arrest him. He’s in Mexico. He can buy his way out of an arrest for anything, let alone a crime about credit cards. Varo could even make the deal I’m making and give them whoever was giving him the numbers if he had to.
Yeah, he could do the same thing and he wouldn’t have a jail sentence of fifteen years hanging over his head. Besides, no one is going to look out me except me. Varo got me into this i
n the first place; now he could help get me out. There is no other option; Alvaro will understand…in time. He’ll see I had no alternative.
With the help of the agents, Orantes talked for over ninety minutes. He wasn’t as detailed as Anthony, but with prompting, he filled in all the gaps. By the end of the interview, Kruzerski and Murray were out on their feet. Morley met them in the hallway.
“Good job, guys. It sounded like he gave you just about everything he knew. Swann and Greere are looking at his machine and it all seems to corroborate what he was saying. I think he’s as malleable as he’s gonna get. I wanna use that.”
32 | Blinded by Love
Mexico City, Mexico 09/25-27/09
It wasn’t unusual for Alvaro to hear from his brother-in-law ahead of schedule. About every other month, Miguel contacted him with a request for numbers earlier than normal. So, he wasn’t concerned when he received an out of cycle email asking for more numbers.
The second email of the day from Miguel surprised Alvaro slightly. More for the subject than the timing. In it, Miguel indicated he would be coming home for a few days the following week, to visit. He said he would pick up the numbers when he was there and drop off the dead-card stock. Miguel asked Alvaro not to tell anyone in the family; he wanted to surprise them.