by C. S. 96
We continued driving on this deer path now tightly walled in on both sides with more thickets of pine trees and cypresses that somehow formed a canopy overhead, making it impossible to see below, even from a low hovering helicopter. I wondered if that was purposeful.
Suddenly there was a small clearing off in the distance and there it was, the federal joint task force I’d been the prime enemy of for the past two years.
I was expecting to come upon a grand old hunting lodge with stone walls and towering stone chimneys, pine beams, and a majestic A-frame slate roof, perched beside a mountain, but I was greeted by a ratty single-width trailer home; a step above would be the equivalent of a planning shack on any low-end construction site in the country. The only modern appendage it held was an impressive radar-type dish on its roof with about five other antennas of varying sizes.
The inside of this fabricated office was a step or two above its exterior. Three grim-faced men, each wearing his own pained expression of discomfort, sat in different corners of this barely sixty-square-foot room. Their “workstations” were makeshift desks that were built into the walls with two-by-fours and plywood. They sat in wooden banker chairs that seemed to have been liberated off a set from a ’40s noir film, which explained their pained expressions. They turned to the door simultaneously, stopped whatever it was that they were doing, and looked at me in stunned silence, the way a child would upon turning a corner in an aquarium and unexpectedly coming face-to-face with a shark.
Computers and walkie−talkie banks lined another entire wall with a large computer screen displaying dazzling real-time visuals of the city, something I’d never seen before. Man, are they ahead of the curve, I thought. The real question was, with all this high-tech gadgetry, why hadn’t they caught us?
At each man’s workstation were family photos, personalized coffee mugs, framed awards—the usual office clutter that is collected over an extended period of time. Wanted photos were hurriedly tacked to the walls.
A chill ran through me when I noticed the photos, pinned right in the center of the most prominent wall: grainy-to-high-resolution shots of every crewmember in my organization, displayed in a pyramid fashion. Tony was at the top, Hector just below, and then me, a clean shot sitting on a bench at Venice Beach, California. It scared the shit out of me because I remembered the exact day it was taken and who I was meeting there, another client from Los Angeles who owned a string of strip clubs. The crazy thing was, had whoever it was that took this photo stayed with the subject I met there, which I’m sure that person did, they would have seen that within fifteen minutes of that meeting he was handed six kilos of cocaine by one of my couriers. That’s when it really hit home how close I was playing it to the edge.
Below my photo was an array of most of the men and women who had ever worked for me. When I saw that, it was like I had to absorb all over again how solidly they had me within their sights. They were only biding their time. To the side of my happy family tree were the beginnings of another pyramid, quite bare in proportion to our organization, with only two photos side by side, Eliseo and Abel Beltrán, the murderous heads of one of the largest Mexican cartels to date. This group of federal agents had been trying to bridge a connection between my organization and the entire Beltrán Cartel, and then blow that bridge to smithereens. Now, they finally could.
Tim introduced me. “Gentlemen, say hello to Roman, our newest asset.”
A shorter man with upturned happy eyes, an unruly beard, long wildly curly black hair with flecks of gray, whom I’d soon find out was a retired Navy SEAL, stood up to shake my hand. He was a bundle of energy. “Welcome, Roman. I’m Mike Capella, DEA San Diego field office. Nice to finally meet you!” He started to laugh, turning to another man who was now lounging back in his squeaky chair, feet on the desk, toothpick sticking out of his mouth. He was about six feet tall with brushed-back black hair and not a strand out of place. He appeared to be a workout junkie as his arms were the size of a normal man’s thighs. He glared at Mike, flipping up his middle finger. Mike turned back to me and said, “That ray of sunshine over there is…”
Before Mike finished the introduction the man said, “I’m Pete Davis, U.S. Customs.” He moved close to me; he was not smiling, and yet he wasn’t trying to intimidate me. He continued, “Do I look at all familiar to you?” It seemed as though they were all in on this inside joke and that maybe I was the punch line. Wouldn’t be the first time for me, having had Tony as a boss. I would later learn that Pete had been one of the agents tasked with tailing Tony and me, and one day when I must have spotted someone following me, I raced away so quickly that Pete got in a wreck.
Al Harding stood up and grabbed my hand to shake it as he introduced himself. He was about my height, a little over five feet, ten inches, early forties, with an angular face and short-cropped black hair. He said, “Nice to finally meet you in person. Now that we got that out of the way, let me get down to business. Right now you’re our only priority—your family’s safety as well as yours is paramount to us. We are well aware of the danger you’re in. You should remember that, too. But above all, you should remember that this is your shot to redeem yourself. You mess this up, you’re not getting another.”
I nodded my head, all of the butterflies in my stomach suddenly disappearing. All of these men seemed really professional and sincerely interested in what I had to offer them. They didn’t know it yet, but I was going to build them a bridge that would lead them not just into the Beltrán Cartel, but also into the belly of their even more ruthless rivals, the brutal, infamous Fuentes Cartel.
Undercover
The four agents sat listening around me as I broke down my whole life for them, the way I had for Chris in Utah. I’d given them everything I’d been a part of for the past ten-plus years. Safe houses, organizational protocol, names of all our workers here in the United States, Mexico, and farther south. They’d had a large case file on us, but nothing compared to the nuggets of actionable intelligence I was giving them now. Our routes, their own gaps in security, how we were getting the drugs across the border, and, most important, all of the safe houses in Detroit, California, and New York where Tony kept his cache of drugs, weapons, and money he always claimed he didn’t have on hand. As I previously explained, Tony was the tightest and cheapest man on the planet. I knew he had a war chest of money stashed in New York, so when the time came—and it would—he’d be able to buy his way out of the most egregious bails.
I gave them all the details about how we operated with the Beltrán Cartel: who was getting the drugs, grow fields, plantations, jungle cook houses, “soup kitchens”—the locations where their workers, some as young as ten years old, would disintegrate bodies in hundred-gallon drums filled with hydrochloric acid or simply dismember a torture victim and bury the remains in a mass grave. Unfortunately, there were many soup kitchens in Mexico—and the fact that I’d contributed to their prevalence was one of the hardest things I had to—will always have to—live with.
I gave them the Beltráns’ organizational hierarchy from the lowliest couriers up to the analysts and lawyers who supported the brothers. As I talked, one of the agents checked the mini tape recorder twice to make sure it was working properly.
When I finished, Tim quietly stood up, moved to a desk, and unlocked a battered black metal box, pulling out an envelope and handing it to me. There was still a pall of silence in the room as I’m sure the agents were suddenly realizing I was a game changer for them. I opened the envelope up and inside was $1,000 in cash; it was a good-faith payment for the information I’d given to Chris in Utah.
Tim said, “While you’re working off your case, any seizure we make, whether it’s cash or narcotics, based on information you give to us or any case you’re working on directly, you’ll receive 10 percent of whatever the street value is. That cash is just a taste of what’s to come.”
I reiterated to Tim and the rest of the men in the room exactly what I’d told Chris—that I just wa
nted to work off my case and get out of this shitty life forever.
We talked about potential ways of getting to Tony and then working our way into the Beltráns’ organization. I knew getting to Tony would be easier than getting me into an actual buy with the Beltrán brothers, though I didn’t voice that opinion; however, if anyone could come up with a tangible way in with my help, it was these guys because they had money, time, and, most importantly, the unwavering will to decimate the Beltráns’ multibillion-dollar organization.
We wrapped up and my overall impression of this first meet exceded all of my expectations. I knew that I’d made the best decision of my life by flipping and working with these men. For the first time in years I felt alive, capable, armed not with one of the Glocks Tony kept stashed at his safe houses, but with a real purpose.
It was after ten in the evening when I returned home. I noticed all of the lights were off in the house, save for our bedroom, which meant the kids were asleep, our nanny had left for the evening, and Inez and I could be all alone. I couldn’t wait to tell her about the meeting. I was certain she’d been waiting in subdued horror for me to call—I hadn’t been able to do so all day because the agents told me to refrain from using any burners or the new phone they handed to me, except to reach them, and only then with specific instructions. Tony had PIs, computer whizzes, and cell phone techies on his payroll, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to think he might be able to listen in on one of my calls
The new phone was a direct link to any one of the team members, all with aliases, as well as a stored emergency number to the San Diego field office operations desk (F.O.D.)of the DEA. If someone were to find the phone—Tony, for instance—and call any of the numbers saved on it, including the F.O.D., the person on the other line would seem like an old friend of mine and play along. After a minute or so they’d call the person out on the other end, saying, “Hey, wait a second, this isn’t Roman. Who are you? Did he lose his phone again? Guy’s always losing shit!” This would alert them that I might be in trouble. If I were calling in a normal situation, they’d speak in the same conversational tone until I read out my code name, C. S. 96 (Confidential Source 1996, 96 being the year I was starting my undercover work), which I’d been given that evening.
When the agents were calling me, and began talking in friendly conversation, I’d read out my code to verify that it was me on the other end and I was free and clear to talk—or if I wasn’t, I’d continue the casual banter. As arduous as it might have seemed, this protocol could never be breached. It was a matter of life and death.
Inez had come out to meet me at our doorstep, and she buried her head in my chest. She let go, right there for all the neighbors to see. No one other than the two of us existed in the world at that moment. I suppose it was the finality of it all, or so she hoped, years and years of pent-up anxiety, a feeling of betrayal and probably rage at what our lives had descended into.
For the first time that I could remember, she had full faith in me. But I also knew that if I were to ever go back on my word, she would without question leave me, and maybe some fear inside her that Tony’s game would seduce me again added to the intensity she was feeling.
Later that night Inez was lying on the bed holding a pillow tightly against her chest. She was watching me run her bath in our master bathroom. She said, “What about Tony? What if he finds out about today? He’ll kill you, Roman. He’ll kill you.”
She had a point. Even with all my planning with the agents, I sometimes feared what could happen if things went sideways. I explained how much Tony did frighten me, but that if I lived in fear of him I’d never escape his toxic pull. We talked about everything that had happened to us until it felt like there was nothing else to say.
Would he know that I’d given him up the moment his stash houses were raided? That’s what Inez was convinced of, but I wasn’t so sure.
I explained that Tony and Hector were both stealing from each other—and ever since the Beltrán brothers had confronted us, we knew about Hector’s skimming, so it seemed likely Tony’s suspicions would lie with the man. Yes, Tony had also been skimming off the top without Hector knowing it, and if Hector found out there would be a minor war between those two, and Hector might be angry enough to plunder Tony’s stash houses himself or tip the police off out of spite and have them do it.
I wasn’t in the clear, but I did have some cover.
Inez sat silently, looking intensely into my eyes. I could tell she was trying to gauge how sincere I was or if I were simply telling her what she wanted to hear. She knew me well enough to know I’d try, but she also knew how I was never much good at hiding my feelings from her. She wrapped her arms around me in relief. “Roman, I’ve been so worried, you have no idea. Please promise me you’re going to take precautions, promise me you’ll be safe!”
I kissed her gently. Nothing would come between us again. We were safe, and I was almost out of this life for good.
She continued nervously, “And these men, you trust them with our lives?”
It was a very good question. I knew they had the wherewithal to protect me, but what I didn’t know was how much they would invest in it. The best way that I could protect myself was to prove my value to them.
It was late, after eleven at night, when we were escorted by two customs agents through their base of operations at the San Diego border crossing. They seemed annoyed to be pulled off their cushy jobs watching video feeds from the dozens of cameras on the causeway. I’d never been inside the gigantic facility before, though had passed by it many times wondering what went on inside. The irony of my actually being invited into this building without first being shackled in handcuffs was not lost on me.
We moved through a large enclosed walkway similar in fashion to the Jetway tunnel between the airport gate and the actual plane.
All the while walking through this sarcophagus-like passage, I was starting to sweat, concerned with where they were leading me. What if it was all bullshit? What if there was a double-cross at play? Was Tony trying to get me jacked by the feds on a false tip the Beltráns planted to try to get him jacked by the feds? If so, there could be nothing inside those tires but air. I was nervous, and the embarrassment I’d feel was insurmountable. However, I looked back upon my early days in Tony’s operation when I was a smuggler, and channeled that demeanor. Always look in control; you’re meant to be there.
I pushed the potential clusterfuck this might turn into out of my mind and moved with purpose and determination.
We reached a door at the far end of the tunnel and one of the agents entered the code into its keypad. A small indicator light went from blinking red to steady green. The customs agent twisted its wide metal handle and the door opened with a whoosh, like an airlock being released. We were on the outside.
Facing the five of us was a garage the size of two football stadiums, filled with a massive display of every moving vehicle known to man. From waterborne vehicles to airborne, there was an array of helicopters, boats of all sizes, yachts to Jet Skis. There was, from my quick estimation, about ten what appeared to be submarines—yes, as in underwater submarines! Beyond that there were thousands of cars of every shape and model. And all I had to go on was that the car was a black Nissan Sentra, a little beat up.
All four men turned to look at me as if I’d suddenly received a battlefield promotion from lowly private to general. I was definitely in way over my head, but what I did have that could potentially narrow down this hunt was the alleged date that this particular car was jacked on, carrying alleged cocaine in its tires—something, by the way, I’d never heard of before, and I’d been doing this a long time. How do you get kilos or bricks of cocaine, twenty in total, into tires filled with combustible air? I pulled out my little notebook and gave the customs agent the date Tony had given me. The agent checked it against a manifest, a crease deepening on his forehead. There was no black Nissan Sentra on the list of impounded vehicles.
I said in as assert
ive a voice as I could muster, not easy under the present circumstances, that it was a midsize car that looks like a Nissan Sentra. “Remember, this one will have damage.”
The customs agent looked at the manifest one last time and pointed toward the area that corresponded with the date in question.
We split up and began our search, shining our flashlights from car to car. There were rows and rows of them, each of us checking a section. After every half hour that passed with no hits on the car, my nerves frayed a little more. It wasn’t the pure embarrassment of failing to come through for my new colleagues that worried me most but what Al Harding had said during our first meet at the base in Ramona: I had to prove to these guys that I was worthy or else they’d leave me like the agents who had dropped Raul. And where would I retreat to if I couldn’t work off my case? Where would that leave my family?
I was thinking of all of this, my last nerve just about fried, when I heard one of the customs agents call out with a touch of pessimism, “Guys, I think I might’ve found something!”
My heart started racing, please God, please let this be the car. We pounced on the vehicle simultaneously, and sure enough it wasn’t a black Nissan Sentra, but a black Nissan Altima.
One of the customs agents radioed for a tow truck to meet us at the location. That was the longest five minutes of my life. I could see that Harding and Dowling were sweaty, dirty, exhausted, and embarrassed for bringing these two guys out into this potential nest of nothingness. What was even worse, not once did either of my teammates look at me, I’m sure for fear of revealing how they really felt: twenty kilos in car tires of all places? Why did we ever listen to this extremely imaginative bonehead?
The largest tow truck I’ve ever seen pulled up. I was feeling unsteady on my feet, my nerves all but beaten down, my body dehydrated and fatigued. A short, heavy civilian driver, about thirty-five, wearing dirty coveralls and a San Diego Chargers ski cap despite the humid ninety-degree air, jumped out of the cab like Field Marshal Rommel alighting from a Panzer tank and teeming with excitement. He pulled a pair of dirty beige leather gloves off his belt with an imperious tug that bordered on comical. “All righty, fellas,” he said, “whatta we got tonight? Guns, drugs? A body welded into the undercarriage? I did bring my blowtorches this time.”