He shook his head in doleful remembrance. “Unadulterated hell. Classic bad news. Everything that could go wrong, did.” Another head-shake. “Jerome got anxious and…” He trailed off, watching his smoke plume curl up to the ceiling.
“Did you have a good, clear feel for what was going on, when it was going on?”
He shook his head.
“I had a good feeling for it—good if you mean did I know what was happening. I’ve been in law enforcement my entire life, nothing much gets by me.”
“Of course,” I said deferentially.
“What you’re asking is, was I part of it, physically, did I have input?” The question was rhetorical—he answered it himself. “No. I was excluded. Me and my deputy. We were there strictly for show. So that later on Jerome could say we were, by the book.” Another head-shake. “But no, we were relegated to the sidelines.”
He picked his coffee up, took a sip. “It’s cool enough now.”
I drank from my own cup.
Miller squinted at me through the haze of his cigarette smoke. “This is official, right? You’re debriefing me. Everyone that was there that night is technically suspect. Which has to include me, doesn’t it?”
“Technically.”
“I understand, I’ve been in your position. Of course, I had nothing to do with Juarez’s death or anything up there that night.” He frowned, remembering a bad memory. “Jerome didn’t want to consult with me in the slightest. He would’ve been much happier if I had taken a pass, gone home to bed.” He dragged down a third of his smoke. “Which was too damn bad for him,” he said, the anger showing. “I could have helped him.”
“Give me a for instance.”
“I would have counseled him not to go in. The operation had been turned off, because the planes couldn’t land.” One last drag, then he stubbed out his smoke in a Harrah’s ashtray. “He wanted Juarez come hell or high water, and that’s all she wrote.”
“You weren’t where you could have influenced the outcome at all?”
“I thought going in after Juarez was a stupid idea, like I said. But once Jerome decided he was going to, I accepted it. I follow the chain of command.” He emptied his ashtray into the wastebasket under his desk. “I asked in on the action. I wanted to go in there with him. It is my county, after all,” he said, the memory of the snub still an annoyance.
I could picture the scene. The stubborn old lion, the equally stubborn young turk.
“What was Jerome’s response?”
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“So you were cut out.”
“Completely. You’ve been out there.”
I nodded.
“The hill that overlooks the compound. My deputy and I watched it from there.”
I visualized the hill he was talking about. It was at least two or three hundred yards from the compound interior. They had been exiled to Siberia, no question.
“You were up there the whole time?”
This time he shook his head no. “When all hell broke loose and the shooting started, my deputy and I ran down towards the compound. There were men trapped down there. We had to try to help them, at least provide some cover.” Anticipating my next question, he went on, “But we didn’t get far, because the DEA fired their shells into the house, and it started blowing up.” Another derisive head-shake. “Now that really was a dumb move. You had to figure something like that could happen. First explosion, I looked at my deputy, he looked at me, we turned tail and ran like hell.”
He finished his cup of coffee, refilled it halfway, added his drop of milk to it. “I’m as brave as the next man, but I’m not a fool.” He refilled my cup without my asking. “What can I do to help out here? I want to help, as much as I can.”
“I don’t know,” I told him candidly. “You won’t be part of the official investigation—I need to maintain my independent stance, and besides, none of the players live here, most of my investigating will be handled outside Muir County.”
He didn’t show any emotion, one way or the other. He merely nodded in understanding.
“But if I can think of a way to use you informally, I will. I value your experience, and you were there, you can provide us with an objective, first-person point of view.”
He nodded again. “Thank you Although I should say, I don’t think anyone can be objective about this kind of incident.”
There wasn’t much more for me to do with him.
“A couple more questions, Sheriff.”
“Shoot.”
“What kind of gun do you use?”
“Side arm?”
“Yes.”
“S and W .38. The old policeman’s revolver. I’ve had it since my days on the Bureau.”
“Did you fire it that night?”
He shook his head. “No.” He stared at me. “It was checked out by a member of the investigating team. It’s in one of your reports.”
“Right.” I didn’t remember that, but I didn’t doubt him. Anyway, a .38 wouldn’t have the velocity to power a bullet clear through a man’s head. And the bullet that had killed Juarez had been a 9mm., not a .38.
I reached for my briefcase. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”
I stood, offered my hand across the desk. He stood with me. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Garrison?”
“Luke. Sure.”
“How are you approaching this?”
His question threw me off balance. “How do you mean?”
“Here’s my question.”
He’d been building to this, but he hadn’t found the right opportunity. When I got up to leave, he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Here’s what I think. If I were investigating this. Which I’m not,” he hastened to add.
“Fire away anyway.”
He pulled his tobacco can out again. “I’d ask myself, who profits from Juarez’s being murdered?” He started rolling another toothpick-thin cigarette. “The reason I think that is, it isn’t enough that the sole motive for this killing was in eliminating a bad human being. Somebody had a reason to kill Juarez, other than self-righteous anger. Otherwise, whoever killed him would have simply apprehended him once he found him out there in the woods. Juarez was unarmed.” He lit his fresh smoke. “There was no reason to kill him just because he’d escaped.”
I knew that. It was important. I liked how the man was thinking.
“What else?” I asked, encouraging him to finish his thoughts.
“Well…why did Juarez try to escape in the first place?”
“Good question.” I’d thought it myself.
“Panic would be my guess. Those handcuffs aren’t too difficult to get out of if you know what you’re doing, which he surely would have. He finds himself free, takes a chance. It was scary out there, real warfare. That can screw up your head if you’re not used to it, which I don’t think Juarez was, he was one of those clever fellows who’s never in the direct line of action. He only came this time because the stakes were so high.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Anyway, he gets loose and bolts. Don’t forget, he’d been hiding in that meat locker, half-frozen to death, his senses wouldn’t have been as sharp as normal. If he’d had a clearer head, he would have stayed put. He’d have known the odds of escaping that way were the usual, slim or none. He would have waited until he was in jail and then his fancy lawyers would have sprung him. Remember, the reason for the bust evaporated. It was very dubious, as a former district attorney you know that. So Juarez could have shown good cause that he should never have been arrested.”
I was listening intently. This old man was on top of the game.
“What about the bounty on his head?” I countered.
“That’s legitimate,” he agreed. “But it’s an allegation. It would have to be proven in a court of law. Witnesses in cases like those often don’t show up. Sometimes they die mysteriously. Regardless, it could have been a difficult c
ase to prosecute. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I haven’t looked at that case closely.”
“Perhaps…” He checked himself.
Perhaps you should, was what he was going to say. But he didn’t want to step on my toes. He wanted to be my ally, to be brought in.
“Anyway, that’s all I have to say. I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”
He walked me to the door. “This is a crappy case, isn’t it?”
“Because of the players and the circumstances.”
He nodded in agreement. “I have my own grudge with Sterling Jerome. I think the man loves himself too damn much. But he’s a quality agent. They all are. They’re fighting the good fight.”
“I know.”
“Can you imagine what would have happened if the planes had landed, the deal had gone through, and those drugs would have gone out into the streets of America?”
“If the moneyman wasn’t Jerome’s man?” I asked. “If it was a real drug deal?”
“Yes. Which is how it works ninety-nine percent of the time. They ruin people’s lives. Now one of those pricks is dead, and the entire team of men who were there are under a cloud. No matter what happens, many of their careers are going to be destroyed.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Sometimes the bad guys win, and the good guys lose. I hate it when that happens,” he said.
I nodded silently.
“So that’s why I say, someone had a motive for killing Juarez. A sinister motive. Pursue that line. That way lies justice.”
Outside the office, I thought about what Miller had postulated. He was a smart man, a thoughtful man. Way above the caliber of a normal county sheriff, whose chief job is getting himself elected. This man was a true pro.
I was going to make use of him. I didn’t know exactly how, but he was too good a resource not to use.
Luis Lopez, Jerome’s informant, was being held in a tightly guarded, quarantined cell in Reno, the closest federal prison to Blue River. He had zero contact with any other inmates. He showered alone, exercised alone, ate in his cell. Always under the watchful eyes of guards. No one was allowed near him except for his lawyer; Juanita Montoya, his common-law wife; select members of the prison staff, such as the warden; and the team from the Federal Witness Relocation Program that had been assigned to his case.
Lopez’s new existence was almost completely established. In a couple of weeks he was going to be whisked from the prison and sent halfway across the country with his family to a destination known only to Jerome and a select few in the federal system, who could monitor his comings and goings and offer protection. Once that happened, Lopez would disappear into the fog, and anyone looking for him would be hard-pressed to locate him. Jerome would be zealous about that.
Louis Alvarez passed through prison security and waited for Lopez in a small holding room adjacent to the cellblock where the prisoner was being kept under tight watch. A few minutes later Lopez was escorted into the room. He sat down across the table from the detective.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the guard told Lopez.
“I won’t be needing you,” Lopez answered curtly.
The guard left them. Lopez turned his attention to Alvarez. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“You don’t know that,” Alvarez rejoined unflappably.
“Yeah, I do.”
Alvarez stared at the prisoner. “I could fuck you up good, ese.”
“The hell you could. I got protection. Pretty damn soon, I fly this cage, Columbo couldn’t find me then.”
Alvarez leaned back in the metal chair. This was going to be fun. He loved fucking with the heads of assholes who had attitude.
“That so?” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thin document. “You know what this is, shitbird?”
“The addresses of the motels in Bakersfield where your mother sucks cock.”
Alvarez grinned. “That’s in Fresno, and she’s the madam, not one of the working girls. You’re confusing her with your own mother, and your wife and your sisters.”
Lopez snorted through his nose. “I’m deeply hurt. In other words, fuck you.”
“My asshole’s too tight, even for your skinny two-inch dick.”
Lopez pushed back from the table.
“Where you going?” Alvarez asked, fighting not to laugh in the prisoner’s face.
“Out of here.” Lopez turned to the door.
Alvarez shook his head. “Our meeting isn’t over until I terminate it.” He gestured toward the door. “Go ahead. See if they’ll let you out.”
Lopez hesitated. “In the meantime, let me acquaint you with this.” Alvarez donned his half-frame tortoiseshell reading glasses, started scanning the document. “The DEA is setting you up in the Federal Witness Relocation Program. You’re going to be relocated to Chicago, the north side. Nice neighborhood, good schools for your kids, about twenty-five percent upwardly mobile Latino, you’ll fit right in. The exact address is 12237 West Arlington Street, unit number eighteen. A three-bedroom condo, you own it, the deed is in your new name, which is Jaime Moreno. Your wife’s name is Julia. Your telephone number is 555-7387, area code 773. You have a job as a head line inspector with the Chicago Transit Authority, pulling down $52,500 a year plus benefits: health insurance, pension plan, sick leave, four weeks paid vacation a year. Not to mention the untraceable and untaxable half million you have in an offshore bank account, as a reward for your endeavors, courtesy of Uncle Sam. You drive a dark green, three-year-old Nissan Pathfinder, Illinois license plate number ACD498.” Alvarez dropped the document on the table. “And so forth.”
Lopez sank back into his chair. “How did you find all that out?” he croaked.
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, I know. And if I know, somebody else could, too.” Alvarez smiled at the prisoner. “You still have nothing to say to me?”
Lopez shook his head. Fucking federal bastards. Like they could really offer him protection. He should have known better.
“Ask away,” he said dully.
“Thank you,” Alvarez said crisply. He withdrew a few four-by-six index cards from his briefcase, put Lopez’s dossier back inside.
“When did you start soldiering for Reynaldo Juarez?”
“Forever. We grew up together. We were like brothers.”
“Cain and Abel?”
Lopez flushed. “I only turned against him because I had no choice. It was that or life without parole. He would have done the same thing if it had been reversed. And I would have understood.”
Alvarez didn’t comment on that lame justification. “How long were you in Jerome’s pocket?”
“About a year. Little more.”
“How often did you meet with him? In person, on the phone, whatever.”
“It was irregular. Whenever I had something I had to pass on, I’d leave him a signal and we’d get together. Usually it was over the phone.”
Alvarez looked at another card. “You gave Juarez’s entire operation to Jerome? Players, shipments, locations, buyers, the works?”
“I answered what he asked me,” Lopez said defensively. “I didn’t volunteer nothing.”
“You were paid. Handsomely.”
“It was risky business, man. One slipup…” He drew his finger across his throat.
Alvarez dropped the index cards on the table. He leaned forward on his elbows. “Somebody inside knew that raid was coming down, didn’t they? Somebody besides you.”
Lopez shook his head. “No. No one knew.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“ ’Cause I am. I was there. No one inside knew it was going to happen. Hell, right before I cut out we were all laughing and joking about how invisible we were. Believe me, nobody knew.”
Alvarez leaned back. “You can tell me, you know. It doesn’t matter now. Your brother is dead. B
ecause of you,” he added weightily.
Lopez held his ground. “No,” he protested firmly. “I did not kill him. They were going to take him alive. I wouldn’t have done what I did if I thought they were going to kill him.”
“On whose word?”
“Jerome’s, of course. He wanted Juarez alive more than anyone. He was running the show. It was a done deal.”
“Then how come the DEA ran into a firestorm? If Juarez and the others thought they were invisible, how come they were so prepared for an attack? Like they knew it was coming?”
Lopez shook his head. “That’s what I’d like to know,” he said, greatly agitated. “All I know is, it wasn’t one of us. Anyway, when the planes weren’t coming, I figured the raid was going to be canceled. Jerome pulled a fast one on me.”
Alvarez looked at the prisoner with contempt. “So you were working both ends of the street, weren’t you?”
“I had no choice. You get in that position, let’s see how you’d do.”
“Better than you did, I can guarantee you that.” Alvarez despised this piece of shit sitting in front of him. Not only a criminal, a dealer of suffering to innocents, but a squealer to boot.
Lopez slumped in his chair. “Are we finished now?” he asked plaintively.
“After you answer me this: Who told the people inside that compound that they were going to be attacked? Who could that have been? It would’ve been a lot better if that raid hadn’t been answered, you’ve got to know that. Those men who died, on both sides, they’d be alive.”
“Shit, you think I don’t know that? I was sick when that happened. Those men who died were my brothers, man. I went against them, but they were still my brothers.”
“So now I’m back to my main question—who did it?”
“One of the attackers, of course.” Lopez looked at his inquisitor like he was crazy not to understand that.
“But when?” This was a key question that was bewildering to the prosecution.
Again, a head shake no. “It had to be after I left. But exactly when, I couldn’t tell you.”
Alvarez thought for a moment. He started to ask the next question; then he thought better of it and didn’t.
Above the Law Page 20