Above the Law

by J. F. Freedman

  “I can’t imagine they do, or they wouldn’t have allowed Jerome to be the agent in charge of busting Juarez. They never would’ve let him near Juarez. They’re sticklers on that kind of stuff.” I got a brew for myself. “Kim’s going to shit marbles when he finds this out. The whole Justice Department will. This is going to drive a hole right through that agency.” I took a long, sweaty hit. It went down good. At this moment, I was a happy man. “If….” I held a finger in the air.

  “If…?”

  “We get an indictment on Jerome.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance you won’t?” she asked, surprised.

  “I think there’s a good chance we will, but it’s hot a lock,” I cautioned her. “Let’s not break out the champagne yet, beer’ll do for now.” I leaned back in my swivel chair, the kind lawyers and newspaper editors favored fifty years ago: I like them, too, but they’re hard on your back. It was what had been available up here when we decorated.

  “In and of itself this is not enough proof that Jerome killed Juarez. He had plenty of other reasons for hating the guy, legitimate ones. And we know that he was ferocious on the subject of bringing Juarez in alive.”

  “Talking the talk and walking the walk are muy different,” Kate rebutted me. “You don’t think if Jerome had brought Juarez back alive, Juarez’s lawyers wouldn’t have used what happened back then against Jerome?”

  “How could they have?” I like sparring with people who think, it keeps me on my toes. “If anything, that’s confirmation that Jerome was zealous against Juarez even back then. Don’t forget, Juarez was already an established drug dealer when he hit the Stanford campus. What brother is going to sit by idly while his innocent little sister gets involved with a death merchant? They’d give him a medal.”

  “Jerome didn’t know anything about Juarez’s background,” Kate snapped derisively. “All that thickheaded mick knew was that Juarez was a greaser who’d knocked up his holier-than-thou sister, the family virgin. The war on drugs had nothing to do with it.”

  “You know that, and I know that,” I told her. “But Jerome could plead otherwise, that he had found out about who Juarez was, and that was his reason for beating his ass to a pulp and leaving him for the vultures to feed on. Not because he knocked her up and disgraced the family.” I laughed. “From what you’ve told me, that’s a hard family to disgrace.”

  Kate drank some beer. “I thought you’d be more excited.”

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong,” I told her, “I am incredibly excited. This absolutely points us in Jerome’s direction as the prime suspect.” I held up my hands like a crossing guard. “What I’m saying, though, is that this information, in and of itself, isn’t enough to go for an indictment. We might be able to get one, but it would be weak, and we probably couldn’t get a conviction. An indictment’s only a way station, Kate. I want a conviction.”

  I finished my beer, tossed the bottle into the trash can. “I want an airtight case. No leakage.” I grabbed up her notes. “Make copies of these. Just us for now.”

  “What’s my next step?”

  “Start looking at Sterling Jerome. Let’s find out what else there is in his ugly past. A couple more of these”—I handed her the notes—“and we’re off to the races.”

  Sheriff Miller poked his head into my office, carrying a manila folder in his hand. It was a few days after Kate had brought me her exciting news.

  “Got a minute?”

  “For you, Tom, anytime.” I was feeling expansive. Breaking a case can do that for you, and we were definitely onto something. “How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He took the chair across the desk from me, turning the folder over in his hands.

  “I know I’m not part of your investigation, but this is important to me, too. More important than it is to you, Luke. To you, it’s a job. To me, it’s…” He hesitated. “More than that. It’s a stain on my record that has to be wiped off.”

  “What happened out there that night was no reflection on you, Sheriff. You did everything you could to avert it.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should’ve been more assertive.” He was fighting for self-control, thinking back to the incident. His old weather-lined face was reddening. “It was my jurisdiction. Jerome had no right to shut me out like he did.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Then I asked, “Are you feeling the same way about me not including you in my investigation?” I knew he was, but I felt obligated to ask.

  “I’d be happier if I was part of it,” he admitted freely, “but like I’ve told you, I can understand why it has to be this way. Not being a part of it—officially.”

  The way he said “officially” perked my ears up. He was working toward something.

  “I have been nosing around,” he said. “Checking things on my own. Not getting in your way, Luke,” he added quickly, “I wouldn’t do anything unprofessional like that. But I have friends in law enforcement who lend a helping hand if I need one. Here in California—and back in Washington, too.”

  He opened the manila folder, took out a sheet of paper, handed it across the desk to me. “Follow up on this.”

  I glanced at what he’d handed me. It had been faxed from FBI headquarters.

  “We haven’t asked the FBI to come in on this.”

  I was peeved—I didn’t want my investigation going off the tracks. People out of the loop, freelancing on their own, no matter how well-intentioned, usually cause trouble.

  “I know you haven’t, and I apologize in advance for stepping on your toes, if I have,” he said. “But we’re all pulling on the same oars, aren’t we?”

  “I. hope we are.”

  “Then take that and follow up on it.” He pointed to the document in my hand.

  I looked more closely at the page. It appeared to be a bank statement, from the Miami branch of a Colombian bank. Most Central and South American banks have big divisions in Miami. It’s the de facto financial capital of South America—many rich South Americans don’t want their money in banks in their own countries, their economies are too unstable.

  There were no names on the statement, just numbers: ID numbers and what might have been financial numbers, dollars most likely.

  “What is this?” I looked more closely at it.

  “Somebody’s bank account.”

  “I can see that,” I said with exasperation. “What about it?”

  “It might be worth your looking into.” He calmly sat across from me like an owl perched on a limb, scanning the ground below for his next meal.

  “Does this have anything to do with our investigation?” It had to, why else would he be giving it to me?

  “Check it out and then you’ll know,” he said, deliberately being enigmatic.

  “Tom.” I dropped the document on the desk in front of me. “Let’s not play games with each other, okay? If you’ve got something to tell me, tell me.”

  He got up. “I accept that I can’t work on this officially—I don’t like it, you know that—but you can’t stop me from nosing around on my own. I’m the sheriff, that’s my job. And I have friendships going back decades, friends in high places who believe in me.” He looked at me, to make sure I was get’ ting the drift. “Who knows? If I do it good, you might sign me on as part of the team. Officially. I prefer walking in the front door instead of the back, Luke.”

  He leaned down to me. “You’re missing a bet not using me, son. I’ve got a wealth of information stored in this old head, and contacts going back decades. If you truly want to solve this crime and bring who did it to trial, you ought to take advantage of me. I only want to help, that’s all.”

  He stood tall. “And I’m going to. Officially or unofficially.”

  The senior judge of the Muir County Superior Court, Cyrus McBee, had been assigned to our case. The local counsel for the big lumber companies before he was appointed to the bench, he was a team
player who knew what side his bread was buttered on. He found a friendly judge in Florida who issued a search warrant for the bank account, and I was on my way to Miami. I could have sent one of my investigators, but I had a feeling this was going to be big, and I wanted to see what was in that account as soon I could.

  I sat in a secure viewing room in the bank, reading the printouts the senior vice president had given me. My hands were shaking.

  I read the papers several times. Then I placed them in a manila folder, sealed it, put it in my briefcase. The vice president was mailing me a duplicate, certified mail, for protection. Exiting the room, I thanked him for his help and his time, went outside into the piercing Florida afternoon sunshine, got into the taxi the bank had called for me, and went directly to the airport, where I flew nonstop to Los Angeles, hugging the briefcase firmly to my chest the entire trip.

  My state airplane took me to Blue River. I drove to the condo. Bucky was already in bed, asleep. I gave him a soft kiss on his warm forehead, then joined Riva.

  “Did you have a productive day?” she asked.

  I told her what I’d found. I tell her everything, we’re not one of those marriages that separates work from the rest of my life.

  “That’s incredible. What are you going to do now?”

  “Bring Jerome into the grand jury. See if he has an explanation for this.”

  “What explanation could he have?”

  “His mother died, he won the lottery. I don’t know. I can’t prejudge the man, I’ve got to give him a chance to explain it.

  She laughed. “And then you’re going to hang him.”

  “No, honey. He’s going to hang himself.”

  “Did my information help you?” Sheriff Miller asked.

  “Immeasurably.”

  We were in my office again. He always came to my office. He was a stickler for protocol; I was senior to him in this, even though he was almost twice my age and had more experience.

  “Here’s something else for you.” He gave me the name of a business owner in the county who’d had transactions with some of the DEA agents around the time of the raid.

  “I’ll talk to him. This sounds good.”

  “That’s another reason you should be using me,” he said, pleading his case forcefully. “Local knowledge. None of your people know anyone here. Folks here aren’t going to talk to you, you’re outsiders, like the DEA was. But they talk to me, because I’m one of them. They seek me out. I listen to them, and I take them seriously.”

  He got up to go.

  “These people here are unsophisticated, I’ll be the first to say so. I know; I’ve lived in both worlds. But they aren’t stupid. Me, either,” he zinged me.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, Tom. You’re smarter than I’ve been on this. You’re making my case for me.”

  “Then make it official.”

  What could I say to that? He was right on.

  “You’re on the payroll. Officially.”

  We shook hands.

  “Is it too late to offer an apology for cutting you out?”

  His old face creased with an ear-to-ear smile. “It’s never too late for that. Besides, you don’t owe me one. You don’t owe me anything. I have to earn my stripes, like any other man.”

  “You’ve earned them, Sheriff. You’ve more than earned them.”

  “State your name for the members of the grand jury, please.”

  “Ralph Harrison.”

  Harrison was sworn in, took his seat. He was of medium height, built like a beer keg. I’d heard he was a committed iron-pumper. He looked like one; he had severe acne, one of the bad side effects of heavy steroid use. His truck, festooned with NRA bumper stickers, was parked outside. Someone had pointed it out to me as I entered the building. It was a massive old Ford, with three gun-racks mounted behind the seat, each supporting a powerful hunting rifle.

  I ambled over to him. He was a friendly witness, this wasn’t going to take much time. But it was another brick, an important one, in the wall I was building.

  “Would you tell us what line of work you’re in, Mr. Harrison?” I began.

  “I’m the owner of Harrison’s Gun and Supply, in Southridge.”

  Southridge is a one-block town in the northern part of the county. Once you get past Southridge, you’re in national forest and wilderness area. Some of the reservations are located nearby, also. If you’re going hunting, you go through Southridge. And you buy your ammunition and other supplies from Harrison’s.

  “Are you the largest gun and supply store in Muir County?”

  “One of them. Blue River Gun and Supply, in town here, is pretty big, too. We both do good business.”

  “Do you recall an incident in the area of Muir County known as the compound in the fall of last year?”

  “You mean that shoot-out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure, I do. Everybody round here knows about that. That was big news, for us.”

  “And later, did you meet any members of the DEA Internal Affairs team that was investigating that incident?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What were the circumstances of your meeting them?”

  “A bunch of ’em were going hunting up in the Fremont National Forest. They stopped in the store to buy their licenses and some other stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Ammo for their rifles. One of ’em bought a pair of boots. Knives and some other equipment for field-dressing their deer, if they got any. Hats, sunscreen. The usual stuff hunters buy.”

  “Any guns? Rifles?”

  “No. You can’t buy guns over the counter in California. There’s a ten-day waiting period.”

  “Even for federal agents?”

  He shook his head. “The law applies to everybody. No exceptions.”

  “But not to ammunition. Bullets.”

  “No. You can buy them right off.”

  I assumed everybody in the room knew this; hunting and fishing are the biggest recreational sports in the area. I was laying my groundwork, for the record.

  “Were you in the store when they came in?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did you sell them their goods?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you got to know them.”

  “They introduced themselves. We talked about how the hunting was going. A good salesman is polite and attentive to his customers.”

  “Did they ask you about that incident at the compound?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about it?”

  “I knew they were investigating it. I asked ’em if they’d come up with any leads.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They were working on it, but they couldn’t talk about it.”

  “Did you draw any conclusions from that, Mr. Harrison?”

  “That they hadn’t found anything.” He paused. “Let me put it another way. They weren’t going to tell me anything, was the way it seemed.”

  “You didn’t think that was out of the ordinary, though, did you? The police don’t normally talk to civilians about investigations in process, do they?”

  “Around here they will sometimes, but that’s ’cause everybody knows everybody, small towns don’t hold secrets. But I wouldn’t expect some federal agent who’d never met me before to walk into my gun shop and start blabbing off the top of his head.”

  “So as far as you were concerned, they were acting normally.”

  “Yeah. They were going after their deer and they were looking forward to it.”

  “You said you sold them ammunition for their rifles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you sell them ammunition for their handguns?”

  He laughed. “You don’t use a pistol to kill an elk. Least not around here. Maybe in the movies.”

  “Okay. I want to make sure I’m clear on this. They didn’t talk to you about the investigation they were in the middle of.”


  “No. They did not.”

  “Did they ask any questions?”

  “About their investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. They didn’t ask me anything.”

  “They didn’t ask if you’d seen, or noticed, or heard anything out of the ordinary, or suspicious, around the time of that raid?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay.”

  I walked back to my desk, consulted my notes for a moment, returned to the witness chair.

  “Well, Mr. Harrison, I’m going to. I have some questions for you about certain things you observed during that time.”

  “Fire away,” he said with no consciousness of irony.

  “Did you meet, or get to know in any fashion, any of the agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration who were on that raid?”

  “Yes. I met one of them.”

  “Do you remember when that was?”

  He nodded with certainty. “Yes, I do.”

  “When was that?”

  “Four days before that raid.”

  “Four days. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You remember the date that well.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because what he asked for was…kind of unusual.”

  “Unusual how? Did he want to buy something?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Ammunition.”

  “What’s unusual about buying ammunition in a gun shop?” I turned to the grand jurors. They were paying attention and seemed puzzled, like me.

  “He wanted to buy ammunition for an automatic pistol. Nine-millimeter. Full-metal jackets.”

  “So?”

  “Well, there were a few things that seemed weird to me. I had him pegged for a law officer of some kind. I didn’t know federal, state, whatever, but I figured federal, state cops don’t have the broomstick so far up their…” He glanced over at the women in the grand jury box. “Up their behinds. In my business you gotta know these things, ’cause sometimes they’ll set you up. You know, like send somebody in underage, or try to talk you into selling them a gun on the spot, without waiting the ten days the state requires, things like that. You learn how to read people. And I read him to be a cop.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I still don’t understand what’s unusual about a law enforcement official buying ammunition for an automatic pistol. They carry them. Why wouldn’t they want to buy bullets for them?”