The Extraditionist

by Todd Merer

  Outside the courthouse, several jurors were clustered, saying goodbyes to one another. All they knew was that the case was concluded, and they glanced at me curiously. I smiled, mouthed, Innocent, and went on walking.

  Once in Val’s Flex, I opened my bank app. The $20 million was still there. Inwardly, I was both exhilarated and frightened about it.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Benn?”

  “Fine. Let’s go to the office.”

  Midday traffic on Fifth Avenue was horrendous, so rather than circling around, I told Val to drop me on the corner of Madison. As I neared my office, a man suddenly emerged from a parked car and blocked my path. He was bronzed and muscular and had Indian features. The Logui who’d guided me down the mountain. From his pocket—It’s a hit, I thought—he gave me a flash drive, the same brand of thumb as I’d gotten twice before in different versions:

  The first, given me by Mondragon, ostensibly to assist Rigo’s cooperation, had shown Rigo bribing General Uvalde. I’d passed it on to AUSA Barnett Robinson.

  The second, left for me by Stefania before she was murdered, was a continuation of the video of the bribe, but including Bolivar and Laura Astorquiza in the room. I’d disposed of it.

  The Logui drove off. In my office, I inserted the third thumb in my computer.

  Another video. Yet another version of the bribe. Sort of a middle between the first two: it included Rigo, Uvalde, and Bolivar but cut out before Laura.

  Clever Rigo. He’d given the version just showing him and Uvalde but held back the uncut video. Partly because he preferred negotiating piecemeal, partly to keep Mondragon from knowing he was unmasking Bolivar as Sombra.

  I went to the web and read a new blog I’d expected to find:

  Radio Free Bogotá

  Countrymen, rejoice, for at last we are free. The bandit known as Sombra is dead, and General Uvalde, his partner in crime, has finally been exposed as a corrupt traitor to the nation. Viva Colombia!

  Laura was some piece of work. Possessed of a pure brilliance. Obviously, she’d been Bolivar’s partner—and probably his lover—from the start, which was why she’d attended the bribe meet with General Uvalde, way back when the Sombra DTO was just a start-up. Its founding members were Uvalde for security, Rigo for financing, and she and Bolivar as the hands-on doers.

  A risky business, but she’d made it through and afterward wisely stayed in the background. She’d even created another persona: Laura Astorquiza, archenemy of narco-traffickers and corrupt cops. Which further unbalanced my state of mind.

  I knew Laura was complicit. So why didn’t she kill me, too? Was she after my $20 million? Or did she plan to let me keep the money as a quid pro quo for what she’d stolen, and for my silence about her?

  I didn’t know. It didn’t matter yet. Something else had to be dealt with first. I knew what it would be and how I would respond. So I leaned back and kicked my feet up and waited for my phone to ring.

  It wasn’t a long wait. I let it ring three times before answering, as if I hadn’t a care in the world. “Benn Bluestone.”

  “Barnett Robinson here.”

  “Just thinking of you, Barnett.”

  “We need to meet.”

  “We just did.”

  “Again.”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Today.”

  CHAPTER 96

  Before meeting Robinson, I went to Rikers. Billy had on an oversize orange jumpsuit. He saw me looking at it and shook his head. “I’m in the SHU on suicide watch. Can you believe that? Me, the man who has everything to live for?” He tried to laugh but began to weep.

  I sat with him awhile longer. When I went to shake hands with him, Billy collapsed into my arms. To my surprise, but apparently not to his, I stroked his head and kissed his cheek, then winked and left.

  I had uglier fish to fry.

  The conference room of the SDNY International Narcotics Bureau was occupied by the same cast of characters as before—Richard of CIA, the INB chief, AUSA Barnett Robinson, the SOD agent from DC, and the Russian spy posing as an attaché.

  “Read any blogs today, Bluestone?” the chief said.

  “I might have,” I said. “Any one in particular?”

  “Cut the crap. You know what we want.”

  “Could be. Do you know what I want?”

  Pregnant pause. Robinson averted his eyes as if wanting to avoid watching me hang myself. The INB chief grinned as if he’d enjoy handing me the rope. But I had no intention of doing myself in. At worst, I was in for a licking, but I was going to keep on ticking.

  “You’re in a world of trouble as it is,” said the chief. “Grief happens when you withhold evidence from federal authorities.”

  “Grief’s good,” I said. “Cleanses the soul.”

  Robinson said, “What do you want, Benn?”

  “Long list. Let’s see. I want . . . not to be indicted. I want . . . not to be disbarred. I want . . . not to have to forfeit anything.”

  The chief’s laugh was a sneer. “You’re not getting anything, and in the end, you will confirm that Bolivar was Sombra.”

  I said, “I’m a big believer in everything being negotiable so long as the deal is fair. The deal I have in mind is more than fair. In return for no indictment, no disbarment, no forfeiture, I might be able to help you out.”

  “It’s true?” Robinson said. “Bolivar was Sombra?”

  “My impression is he . . . might have been.”

  “Shove your impression,” the chief said. “We have reason to believe Rigo gave you a full version of the bribe video.”

  “He did not,” I said. This was true. Stefania had given it to Prince Boris, who had given it to me.

  The chief snorted. “You might be able to help us out? Without the video, you can’t help yourself out.”

  “Actually, I can,” I said. “Way back when you were worried about getting into law school, a drug dealer named Noriega ran Panama . . . with the approval of the United States, because he kept things in line. Only Noriega got too greedy, so he was informed that he had a choice: he could take his ill-gotten gains and skip, or we were going to invade. He thought we were bluffing. We weren’t. We invaded Panama, and Noriega spent the rest of his life behind bars.”

  “So fucking what?” the chief said.

  “So a few years later, the same scenario occurred with the drug dealer who was president of Haiti. But he’d seen what happened to Noriega, so he took his loot and skedaddled to Gstaad. At the time, I had a client who had a ton of evidence against the Haitian, but since the problem ended peacefully, my guy received zero credit. He got shafted because the government didn’t want to publicize dealing with the corrupt general. To keep my client from shooting his mouth off, they isolated him in a SHU in a level-five penitentiary. He was unprotected there. Two years later, he was stabbed to death by a North Valley Cartel sicario. I still have the affidavits and videotaped statements of Colombian and Haitian authorities and conspirators. Confirming they stifled an indictment of a presidential family and its hangers-on for political expediency.”

  The chief pointed a finger at me. “You’re accusing employees of the United States Department of Justice of breaking the law?”

  I pointed a finger back at him. “Fucking-A, I am.”

  The chief’s face reddened. “Watch your words.”

  “If you don’t like ’em, don’t listen.” I turned to Richard, who until then had been expressionless. “In fact, one of the criminals still works in the Eastern District of New York. A certain, what’s the word? Prosecutoress?

  Robinson said, “I assume your client was Maximilian Barrera?”

  “Max. Brother of Nacho, CFO of the Cali Cartel.”

  “Ancient history,” the chief said.

  “History repeating itself,” I said. “Dated or not, the Haitian proof is going to the media, together with the timely video of Rigo bribing Uvalde, the esteemed Colombian antidrug czar our government recently made an honorary member of th
e DEA. The American public will see that we still let drug dealers operate, so long as they don’t make waves. The too-big-to-fail syndrome. Nice story, don’t you think?”

  “So you have the video,” the chief said. “You just obstructed justice, asshole.”

  I said, “The only obstructed asshole is in your cheap suit.”

  “Nice try, but no cigar. No one will buy it,” said the chief.

  “No one will have to pay a penny,” I said. “It’s going to be free. It’s going to be turned over during a news conference during which I am going to allege that the government made a deal to let Uvalde walk with our money so long as he keeps mum.”

  The chief said, “You’re making your situation worse.”

  Again, I addressed Richard, who seemed slightly amused. “Tell your colleague to shut his face, because he’s making his situation worse.”

  Heads turned as the Russian barked a laugh.

  “Why is he still here?” said the chief to no one in particular, none of whom replied.

  The SOD agent harrumphed. “We don’t take kindly to threats.”

  “Please wait outside, Mr. Bluestone,” Richard said.

  I waited outside the conference room. A little later, the Russian emerged. He winked at me as he left the waiting area. I wasn’t surprised Ivan was no longer included in the loop. Probably he’d been invited to participate because Sombra’s polar route skirted Russian territorial waters. But now his presence was no longer necessary, and the government—meaning Richard—had decided that Ivan had seen enough federal inner workings.

  Another few minutes, then Robinson emerged.

  “Here’s what we can do for you,” he said.

  “No. First, tell me what you want.”

  “We get the Haiti material, along with your sworn statement that you will never reveal any of it. We also get the video that includes Bolivar, aka Sombra.”

  “Now, what can you do for me?”

  “No prosecution for the escape and the events surrounding it, but you resign from the bar. You forfeit your fee for Bolivar.”

  “Maybe. I’m still waiting to hear from her.”

  “Who?”

  “The fat lady. I hear she has a nice voice.”

  “Don’t screw around, Benn. This isn’t negotiable.”

  “Everything’s negotiable, Barnett. Let’s go inside.”

  The analyst was sitting in the lead chair where the INB chief had been. The chief was now exiled to the far end of the table, looking miserable.

  “Your deal is rejected,” I said. “I repeat my offer. No prosecution for anything. I keep my ticket to practice. I keep my money. Before you reply, another factor to consider: There’s a congressional hearing on drug-war funding next month. You want to close the door on Sombra and tell the legislators how the forces of justice have once again prevailed. But the video just showing Rigo and Uvalde doesn’t do that. Neither does the video including Bolivar, because that doesn’t prove he was Sombra.”

  “Go on,” Richard said.

  “You need confirmation to prove Bolivar was Sombra. Like a statement by another participant that they knew Bolivar was Sombra. Trouble is, no way Uvalde will say so. But Rigo might.”

  “On tape?” asked Richard,

  I shook my head.

  “In writing?” asked the chief.

  I shook my head.

  The chief shook his head as if he’d never encountered a schmuck like me. But Richard was still interested. “What do you have, Benn?”

  “Maybe Rigo’s statement was recorded.”

  “Maybe? Okay. How is his voice verified?”

  “Softball. Rigo’s made personal calls from jail. I know and you guys pretend not to know that when it comes to big guys like Rigo, all his calls are recorded. Compare his personal calls with his recorded statement, and you’ll get a voice match.”

  “You have a statement?” asked the chief.

  I ignored the chief. Looked at Richard. “Deal?”

  “I’ll have to make some calls,” said Richard. “Excuse us, please.”

  This time my wait was longer. Finally, the conference-room door opened, and Robinson motioned me within.

  I went to learn my future.

  CHAPTER 97

  “The government requires you to agree to strict confidentiality,” said Richard.

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “Eastern District AUSA Kandice Kauffman,” said the chief. “An ambitious prosecutor, you’d agree?”

  “I’ll give her that. With an asterisk.”

  “Care to tell us about her?”

  “Tell you what? That I don’t like her, don’t respect her, don’t trust her. Never have and never will. Enough?”

  “Specificities?” said the chief.

  News flash! So politics were in play. By lucking out with the North Valley Cartel takedown, Kandi had established herself as a star prosecutor. Along the way, her imperious manner had rankled a lot of people. The SDNY feds were team players who didn’t like stars. They wanted Kandi out of the picture. They wanted Sombra to be their takedown.

  I wished I could help them. Reveal that Kandi had withheld the Pimms discovery to ensure convicting Bolivar, who’d in turn flip. I guessed Kandi wasn’t sure Bolivar was Sombra, but she was positive Bolivar could give up Sombra.

  It was so tempting.

  Divulging Kandi had again withheld discovery material would end her career. Deservedly so. But how to dishonor Chaz Scally and get Kandi booted without throwing Nelson Cano to the wolves?

  As if reading my mind, the SOD agent said, “What about Agents Cano and Scally?”

  I shrugged. “What about them?”

  “They were working the Bolivar case. No secret they were investigating you as well. Scally’s disappeared.”

  A chill went down my spine. Scally had bullets in him that had been fired by my Mustang—which lay next to his body. If Filly’s pyramid were unsealed, I was consigned to history. But if that were in the cards, it would have happened already, and I’d be having this interview with my hands cuffed behind my back.

  “Check the drunk tanks,” I said.

  The agent showed me a photograph of the bulldog. “Recognize this car?”

  I nodded. “It resembles a car used by a man named Nathan Grable.”

  “Care to comment about Natty?”

  “Not part of our understanding, is it?”

  “What about Jillian Sholty?”

  I shrugged.

  Richard said, “Evgeny Kursk?”

  I shrugged.

  “One more question, Mr. Bluestone,” the SOD agent said. “Agent Scally was last seen on the afternoon of July Fourth. He was with Agent Cano.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Getting there. Like Agent Scally, Agent Cano then went missing. Unlike Agent Scally, Agent Cano was soon found. He was shot to death. Your thoughts on that?”

  Whoa. I had plenty of thoughts on that. Cano hadn’t been a player in the game until he’d turned on Scally and Kandi by giving me the 3500 material. The only person who had motive and opportunity to kill Cano was Scally. But Kandi was as guilty as Scally. If she hadn’t conspired with Scally to hide the 3500 material, none of this would have happened.

  Richard said, “Was Cano dirty, Benn?”

  “Nelson Cano was cleaner than anyone in this room.”

  I looked around at the assorted suits: some honest and some not so honest, all engaged in a war that couldn’t be won and shouldn’t be fought. I thought of Groucho Marx’s joke about not wanting to join the kind of club that would accept him as a member.

  Everyone was waiting on me.

  The SOD agent was a high-ranking cop, with the good intentions and failed oaths that entailed. The INB chief was an ambitious asshole who would climb the Main Justice ladder. AUSA Robinson would put in his five or six years as a keeper of public morality, then go off to a big firm to defend Wall Street thieves and corporate polluters. Richard was a cold-blooded bastard who toy
ed with people’s lives, trading and sacrificing them without a second thought.

  That left me.

  I had blood on my hands and blood money in my bank account. My whole life had revolved around a dirty war that had cost so much in lives and treasure, a futile chase-your-tail exercise during which I’d lost my one true love.

  I was as guilty as Scally, or Bolivar, or Kursk.

  But with a difference: I could redeem myself, and in the process honor a good cop named Cano. But going that route meant losing all. It had been my obligation as an attorney—an officer of the court—to reveal I possessed the 3500 material as of the moment it was given to me. My secretly holding on to it was a violation of that obligation, as well as an obstruction of justice. If I admitted it, I’d lose my leverage and torpedo my deal.

  This was my moment to choose.

  Who am I?

  I looked out the window. The view was of 500 Pearl and the MDC and the upper-story pedestrian bridges that connected them, architectural contrivances I’d always thought of as rat mazes, funneling cooperators from jail to inquisitions to ultimate fates. What a fucking system I’d been a part of.

  The time had come for me to decide: Stay, or go?

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “let’s renegotiate.”

  The renegotiation went smoothly. When I explained what my new proposal entailed, the government took the old deal off the table. The new deal was simply a matter of give and take.

  I gave them Rigo’s taped statement that Sombra was present at the bribe, the version of the video that put Bolivar—but not Laura—at the scene, the Haiti material and a sworn statement never to divulge it, and the 3500 material Kandi had withheld.

  Additionally, and most reluctantly, I gave up the $20 million I’d received for Bolivar’s case. This requirement came from Richard, and my first instinct was to bargain. But I didn’t. Strangely, I felt . . . relieved.

  The final part of our agreement sprang from my verbal request. I whispered it to Richard. He nodded agreement. I wasn’t surprised, although what I asked was out of line and illegal. But I knew if the price were right, everything was for sale.

  Just follow the chains of command and demand: