Confidential Source Ninety-Six

by C. S. 96

  Deputy Barney and the lawyer reentered the room about ten minutes later. I said, “I’d like to talk to the agent or agents that have cases pending against me.”

  True to form, Deputy Barney didn’t show any type of emotion. He simply said, “I’ll get in touch with the gentlemen that were here yesterday.” He turned to walk out.

  Before exiting I asked, “Does Raul have a bail hold on him as well?”

  “No, he does not,” both Barney and Tim said simultaneously.

  I shook my head in disbelief. He could’ve made bail; there was nothing holding him here. All he had to do was wait it out and, as Tim said, the case, in all likelihood, would’ve been tossed and it would’ve been as if nothing happened.

  Reborn

  The very next morning I was visited by a customs agent I recognized as one of the men who escorted Raul to Detroit. Agent Chris Cristiana was a big man, about forty-five, blond, and he wore very casual clothes as if he’d been called out to do this interview while in the middle of weed whacking his lawn. He smiled, walked to me briskly, announced his name, and told me he was from the Salt Lake City field office. I’m not a small man, but when Chris shook my hand it was swallowed up in his killer grip. The agent pulled out a pen and a rectangular notepad that fit into the side pocket of his windbreaker. He then pulled out and unfolded reading glasses, and without looking up he said, “You’re either going to tell me a story that is true, one that I can verify and corroborate, or you’re not. If you tell me the truth and can help us in some investigations we’re working on you’ll be rewarded. If not”—he looked up at me—“you’re going to remain in this place. You roll the dice. If you're convicted, you’re looking at twenty-five plus.”

  I didn’t wait for him to ask any questions, which I could tell he found unusual. I just told the same story I’d told Tim Macinerny. I watched him carefully as he was taking notes just as fast as I spoke. The deeper I got into Mexico and the Beltráns, the more intense he became. Occasionally he stopped me, asking me to repeat a name, but for the most part he was fast and sharp. My statement took just over two hours. There wasn’t much conversation other than when he stepped away to get a coffee or water, and in those brief interludes I saw a very different person emerge. I was giving him gold and he knew it. He relaxed, letting his guard down, treating me like he would any of his colleagues. After all, we were in the same business, even if we’d once played on different sides.

  When I finished, he asked an unusual question, a question I was not expecting from a federal agent on a drug case: Did I know of any federal agents, border patrol, immigration, customs, DEA, or any cops anywhere in the United States that are dirty?

  “You mean corrupt agents or cops?” I asked.

  “Exactly. Have you ever, or do you know of anyone who has ever paid off a federal agent or cop anywhere, at any time?”

  I didn’t even have to think about that question. It was our job to stay away from cops and agents. If one cop or agent was on the pad, or was getting paid to turn a blind eye, it would just be a matter of time before he or she got sloppy and was caught. To save their own ass they might give up anyone—even their own family members—to stay out of prison. Cops don’t do well in prison. So we steered clear of law enforcement in any capacity, and the truth was that in all the time I’d been smuggling in the United States, I’d never heard firsthand of bribes being practiced with American agents.

  Chris stood up, shook my hand, and thanked me for the cooperation. We’d be in touch.

  “Listen, Chris. I want out of this filthy business. If you give me a chance, just one chance, I promise you I’ll help you in ways you never imagined.”

  His smile was wide and sincere. “I’m sure we’ll see each other tomorrow.” He walked out the door with much more information than he walked in with. I finally felt free, and I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I was going to take everything negative I’d ever been involved with and use what I learned about criminals to stop them from hurting people.

  I called Inez collect. I knew the stress I was putting her under and I wasn’t sure how she’d take the news that I was going to turn state’s evidence, essentially becoming a rat, which, once labeled, could give you an expiration date. I held my breath for a moment and then I told her exactly what I’d done. This was my chance to get out, and it meant not just getting away from the violence and despair that follows drug lords around, but doing so with the sworn protection of the federal government. I could simply walk away from this, but it was my intention to get out of the business altogether, and my testimony would solidify that for certain. I honestly didn’t know what her reaction would be, but she surprised me.

  “So you’re through with this business? You’re out of the life?” There was a slight pause. “Roman, I’m so happy and proud of you.” Her voice cracked.

  “Once I do this,” I said, “there’s no turning back, you understand that, right?”

  She said she’d been waiting for this for years.

  Same time next morning Chris was back, smiling broadly and shaking my hand. I took this as an indication that his meeting with his superiors had gone well. Under his arm was a stack of folders the size of a phone book. He dropped the enormous file on the desk with a thud. He got right to work, pulling out photos as if he knew the exact placement of each one. He started out slowly with the least shocking, but somehow I knew the visuals were going to get far worse. First came some one-on-one photos or garden-variety mug shots, then some grainy surveillance shots. He asked if I wouldn’t mind identifying some faces. I agreed.

  There had to be a hundred photos, and as he moved through each of them the macabre got worse and worse. Some of the photos were indiscriminate of gender, one eye opened revealing a milky unfocused stare, the other eye shut, obviously taken on a morgue slab, or taken in the field, like the desert, some back alley, or hanging off a bridge in Tijuana. Others, a rather gruesome sight, were of a decapitated head, some macheted to pieces: eyes, ears, lips, and nose removed, reminiscent of a carved-out pumpkin. The close-up photos of human depravity and the desecration one human being can impose upon another was too much to handle. They put faces on the dirty and dangerous business I was in. I forced myself to look at every photo. I wanted to burn all of that blood and desecration into my brain, my psyche. Of course I knew people were getting killed all the time: rats, thieves, swindlers, gamers, and informants—exactly what I was about to become. Most of the photos were players I could easily identify, at least the ones that weren’t totally hacked to pieces or burned alive. Many were men and women I’d sat down to dinner with, others I’d done business with, some I hadn’t seen in years, but for every photo of an intact body revealed, I had names and aliases; some I even had phone numbers and addresses on. I was getting a glimpse of the alternate future I’d so narrowly avoided.

  All of it reminded me how deeply involved I was, but also who my coworkers and friends were, because some of those still living surveillance photos facilitated some of those very dead photos. I gave Chris all I knew about these people, and with every name and organization I gave up I felt a little more encouraged because I was finally giving myself distance. For so many years I’d watched Tony operate with impunity, stepping over body after body, intimidating anyone who got in his way until death was the only option, all the while I was playing “businessman.” Now I saw, in vivid color, the business I was actually in. I was just as much a cog in a murder machine.

  I knew then it’d be my mission to do what I could to jam the machine, and my first step to doing it would be through Tony.

  Switching Flags

  After I finished handing Chris this treasure trove of information, the pitch for me to switch flags began. He explained a couple of things to me: First off, the information I supplied him the day before went over really well with his superiors, and today’s information helped debunk false intel. And then he said something I had already known—I’d ducked a bullet by getting arrested. Chris and a
task force of agents had been on us for nearly two years, and he promised it was just a matter of time before he had us all painted into a corner, with nowhere to go but prison. He didn’t tiptoe around the subject of flipping or switching sides; in a very straightforward manner he asked if I’d like to work with them, and if so, I could work off my case, which entailed me essentially doing what I had been dreaming about—cutting the head off the snake that was Tony Geneste. He also stated that once we decimated Tony’s operation, he was going after the Beltráns, along with other cartel kingpins both here in the United States and in Mexico—and he needed my help.

  “Roman, before I make any official offer I need to hear you say that you are willing to work for us.” Chris pulled out a microrecorder, snapping it on. He laid it on the desk in front of me. He continued, “If what we’re offering you is something you’re not willing to do, then you can simply decline and I’ll walk out of here like we’ve never met before. Before I leave, I’ll talk with the judge and your arresting officer as well as the prosecutor’s office; hopefully that’ll give them cause to go easy if you’re sentenced. So, here we go, you ready?” I agreed and Chris spoke into the recorder, stating his name and government status, my name, the date, where we were, and what I was charged with. He then said, “Roman Caribe, are you willing to work with the United States Attorney’s Office Western District and all its law enforcement apparatus in an effort to combat ongoing crimes that you are knowledgeable of and others we might assign to you as a confidential informant or confidential source of information?”

  I didn’t even think about what I’d be doing or how dangerous a job it might’ve been. I just wanted out, a new life, and possibly a new identity for my wife and kids. I knew about the federal witness protection program, WITSEC, and if need be that would keep my family from becoming collateral damage. I lowered my head so there could be no mistaking my answer or my voice, “This is Roman Caribe. I understand the question clearly, and I’m willing to work as a confidential informant or a source of information for the government or whatever capacity they deem me worthy of.”

  Chris smiled and gave a little fist pump as he snapped off the recorder, placing it in his briefcase. He said, “Okay, let me explain to you how this works. I’ll need a few days to work out all the details, but basically you and your attorney walk into court where you’ll need to plead guilty to the charges of criminal possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell, first degree, conspiracy to commit a felony, crossing state lines in possession of a controlled substance with the intent to sell, first degree, and racketeering.”

  All of the crimes he rattled off were the equivalent to murdering a cop—there isn’t a higher charge you could be hit with. The racketeering charge is where they could go after Inez, her money, and living arrangements. They could take our home from her, the cars, furniture, and jewelry, anything of value because all of it was purchased with illegal money garnered off of a criminally organized enterprise. If I screwed this up, I was putting her back in the ghetto in downtown Los Angeles, where in the year before I’d met her she’d learned to survive.

  Chris looked at me for a long moment. He was waiting for me to agree; he had to because I had to be in this 100 percent.

  “I need you to tell me you understand what I’ve said so far,” he said.

  “I understand exactly what you’ve said.”

  “Good. Once you plead out, your case is going to be sealed. Now you must understand that this isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. You have to work off your case.”

  He told me that I’d have to bring in some “big” numbers, at least four or five times the amount of cocaine I was arrested with, which amounted to between 120 and 150 keys of cocaine. He also said, they don’t work in piecemeal, a key here, and a key there; they wanted weight and needed me to pull that weight within two years. “Do you have the guns or horses to pull that kind of weight?” he asked.

  It was a ridiculous question, but I wasn’t about to call him out on any of it. From that jail cell I could’ve made a sixty-key buy or sale, and after following me and Tony’s operation for two years he knew that.

  Chris then explained that the charges won’t go away until they were satisfied that I’d paid my debt back to the U.S. government, and if I got into any trouble, like getting caught double dealing, or getting back into the game, I was going to get the maximum sentence.

  “What is it?” Chris could tell something was wrong.

  I was worried about Raul—about what he could do when he found out I’d cooperated. I’ll be a dead man, I told Chris, and my family will not be safe. Not from Raul, not from Tony.

  “Calm down, Roman. We have it covered. Raul’s on the other side of this complex in general population. The word is that you’re still acting the tough guy and that there is a bail hold but your lawyer is working on it.”

  “How could he possibly know that?” I asked.

  Chris smiled. “We had one of our undercover agents go in on a drug charge. His cover is he got busted and was remanded in here with you for two days.” I was learning how brilliantly cagey the DEA could be. Chris said the undercover told Raul that “you said your lawyer thinks you both have a tainted case and you’ll both be out soon. He also gave Raul a message from you: ‘Stay strong and don’t say anything, we’re going to beat the case.’ So now he’s walking around in there like he’s Tony fucking Montana. The assistant U.S. attorney knows this case is weak behind the faulty arrest, so they’re going to have the charges dropped on Raul. And in reality it’s just a matter of time before we get him solid in another case, with your help of course.”

  I asked, “What about Tony and the rest of the crew? What do I tell them?”

  All the paperwork would read that the case was tossed on an illegal search of the RV. Plus, Chris suggested, I’d have Raul corroborating the story. “If Tony has another deal set up right away,” Chris said, “call me or the field agent in San Diego, and memorize everything. You’d be surprised how many guys leave places like this with agents’ cards on them. Pocket litter is the first thing they’re going to check for no matter how legit your story is. Then they’re going to check your phone, which you might as well dump now. Say it got broken during the arrest. If they find one business card or number on your phone that reads back to a field office… well, do I really need to scenario that one out for you?”

  They had all the bases covered, but they didn’t know Tony like I did. Once you were arrested you were suspect, period.

  I told Chris that I had been waiting for an opportunity like this for many years and that I was not going to let them down.

  Chris laughed and said, “We know that. We’ve been on you for two years. We’ve tried to get UCs in, bugs, surveillance, the whole round-robin, and we couldn’t get near any of you.” He stood and shook my hand. He looked me in the eyes for a long moment. “I do believe that you fell ass backwards into this business, and I believe that you want to help us and turn your life around, but you’re the only one that can do it. Now’s your chance.” He moved to the door and left.

  It took about a week to get everything solidified; my life had completely transformed in the few weeks I’d been there. I was a different person—or I was trying to be one—and it felt good. I was given all of my personal items back and Deputy Phil Barney walked me across the building to the courthouse. There was a court clerk; a tired-looking, older uniformed officer; my attorney, Tim Macinerny; and the judge, a short man in his late sixties who looked like he’d just stepped off a John Deere tractor. The clerk read the charges, and the judge quickly asked, “How do you plead?”

  Tim said, “My client pleads guilty, your honor.”

  The judge took a minute to review the paperwork, looked up, and said, “Case temporarily dismissed.” With that he slammed the gavel, stood, and exited into his chambers.

  Tim shook my hand and wished me luck.

  Deputy Phil Barney nodded his head; he was a man of very few words. “Make
the best of this, son,” he told me. “You don’t get chances like this but once in a lifetime.”

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  Freedom

  Raul and I were released simultaneously at 11 A.M. He hadn’t seen me yet, though I was watching him carefully as he retrieved his personal items from the property clerk’s office. Raul, as usual, was acting the fool. Dancing around like a marionette with a busted string. To me he looked high. I assumed he scored a bag of meth or cocaine in gen pop, as no prison is without its own drug network. He was mocking the cops and aides, who had by all accounts treated him fairly. That’s when I moved to him. He hugged me and began screaming, “Ahhh, Primo, we did it. No walls can hold us down. We’s Batman and Robin, these fools didn’t know who’s they was dealin’ with!”

  I grabbed him, pulling him close to me. I hissed into his ear: “Listen to me, you little junkie prick. If you say one more word in here or on that bus ride home I’m going to snatch the life out of you. You think your troubles are over, you’re fucking mistaken because you lost this load. And when Tony finds out how you lost this load, your brother Hector is going to have a really tough time convincing Tony not to do what he promised you he was going to do before we left. So shut your motherfucking mouth and let’s get out of here before they start asking questions about how you got high. We clear?”

  He calmed down and did as told, received his personal belongings, dropped his head, and walked out quiet as a mouse.

  We were driven to the bus depot with two tickets to Los Angeles. The RV was still remanded by the sheriff’s office and it would take two more days to get processed out in order for us to drive it back, and I wasn’t waiting for it. Inside that RV was the last place I wanted to be. It was the beginning of the physical separation from the life. I did get back all the money Tony gave me before we left, so we weren’t totally beholden to the $20 the Sevier County clerk’s office gave us for the trip back. I was actually looking forward to this long bus ride back. It would give me time to reflect, but to also prepare my story for Tony’s firestorm of questions that was sure to come. He would not be happy about the seized drugs, but this one was on him, and we both knew it. I closed my eyes to try and sleep but I was too anxious about what I was about to do.