Miguel's Gift

by Bruce Kading

  “If Mr. Padilla was giving his voluntary consent, why was it necessary for one of the agents to cover his mouth in the hallway?” inquired Francisco’s lawyer.

  “You never know if a person will panic and decide to warn someone inside the apartment. It was just a precaution. He never gave any indication he was withdrawing permission to conduct the search.”

  “Are you familiar with the crime of perjury, Agent Hayden?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied calmly. The defense attorney asked several more questions about the search, getting nowhere, and the judge instructed him to move on.

  Francisco Padilla did not make a good witness. His testimony was emotional and defensive, in stark contrast to the agents’ professional presentation. The judge, a tired, cynical man of sixty-five who had grown bored with the drug cases that flooded his docket, looked down at the Colombians with unconcealed disdain and ruled there was insufficient evidence to find the search illegal.

  Having no reasonable expectation of success at trial, the attorneys quickly negotiated a plea agreement resulting in a sentence of ten years in prison, followed by deportation to Colombia. The word from Willis’s female informant was that certain Cali cartel members would be waiting for the brothers, who owed them several hundred thousand dollars.

  Charlie McCloud’s response was muted. Watching events from afar, he was as pleased as anybody about the Padilla bust. It sent a message to the DEA and the FBI who, by routinely stealing informants and eliciting information with no thought of returning the favor, had not endeared themselves to INS agents. But McCloud was skeptical about how Hayden and Kane had obtained entry into Padilla’s apartment. Colombian dope dealers, McCloud knew, weren’t in the habit of leading a team of agents into their stash house voluntarily. The Colombians’ vehement denials of having done so raised suspicions that were confirmed when McCloud was having a drink at McGinty’s. The Padilla bust came up in conversation with agents Al Winfield and Tim Reynolds, both of whom had participated in the seizure.

  “That was a nice bust you guys pulled off,” said McCloud.

  “Yeah, about time we got some good publicity,” said Winfield.

  “Sounds like Padilla made it easy to do the search,” McCloud offered mildly between sips of beer. A furtive glance passed between Winfield and Reynolds before Winfield said, “Yeah. The Colombians were stupid.” He then looked away and changed the subject a little too quickly. That was enough to confirm it for McCloud.

  Having observed the gladiator syndrome in other agents, and even in himself earlier in his career, he could see that it had arrived in force for Nick Hayden. McCloud was now troubled by what he perceived as Hayden’s metamorphosis from a smart, thoughtful agent to one diminished in stature, though the conventional wisdom in the office was that Hayden was one of the rising stars.

  During Hayden’s first year, he and McCloud had frequently gone out to lunch to discuss whatever minor problems Nick was having in area control, and how to prepare for exams he would have to pass as part of his training regimen. Their conversations had often veered into other areas of mutual interest, such as politics or literature. They had always had a similar code of ethics, but that appeared to have changed, and the relationship had become a bit strained. McCloud suspected that Hayden had come to think of his former training officer as being from the “old school,” disconnected from the realities and challenges of modern-day law enforcement.

  Hayden was well aware of his own evolution—his life was now almost completely consumed and defined by work. Confident in his abilities as an investigator and driven by a clear sense of purpose, he often worked late into the night, reviewing leads and planning operations. Outside interests had faded. It had been over a year since he’d been to the Veterans Hospital in Maywood. His romantic relationships were still limited to brief liaisons that never progressed to a more meaningful level. The city itself was his most steadfast companion, offering endless diversions.

  Though he’d assumed he would eventually finish law school, the thought of being an attorney had lost its appeal. Compared to this job, the work of lawyers appeared stuffy and tedious. The action was on the street, not in the courtroom; attorneys were there mainly to sort out the mundane details. Though the Kelso shooting still came to mind periodically, he knew that if he made further inquiries, aside from raising suspicion that could cost him his job, he might not get the answers he wanted.

  * * *

  Hayden hadn’t noticed McCloud’s door partly open as he strode down the hallway.

  “Hey, Nick, you got a minute?”

  Hayden stopped just past the door. “I’m kind of busy, Charlie.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” said McCloud.

  Hayden walked into the room and stood rigidly behind a chair in front of the paper-strewn desk. “It’s been a hectic time, Charlie. You know . . . the Padilla bust and all. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Sure, we all have a lot to do,” said McCloud, leaning back in his chair. “Interesting piece of work, the Padilla thing.”

  “Yeah, it worked out well.”

  “You might not be so lucky next time.”

  Nick was momentarily taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Have a seat, Nick.” McCloud motioned toward the chair. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m not a trainee anymore, Charlie.”

  “Shut the door, would you? I’ve got something to say,” said McCloud bluntly.

  Hayden considered walking away but instead turned and closed the door. This conversation was inevitable; he might as well get it over with.

  “What’s bothering you, Charlie? Afraid we bent the rules a little to do something good?”

  “Sounds like you did a little more than just bend them.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Nobody said it. I’ve been around long enough to put two and two together.”

  “Come on, Charlie, I—”

  “Look, guys like Stark and the front office—they might encourage you to take these kinds of risks, but if you get caught, they’ll throw you to the wolves.”

  “I’m not doing it for them. It’s what I want.” He reluctantly sat down. “Things might be a little different than when you were on the street.”

  “You’ve been doing this stuff for four years, and you’re going to tell me what it’s like on the street?” said McCloud with a sardonic grin.

  “It’s a game, Charlie, and it’s gotten worse. There are wets on every street corner now, and they’re not afraid of us. A lot of them are involved in stuff like these Colombians, and we’re supposed to just sit back and let them do whatever they want? You try to win the game—however you can.”

  “So perjury is part of the game?”

  “Come on. It’s not like they’re innocent.”

  “And the end justifies the means? You’re supposed to be above that sort of thing.”

  “You’re giving me textbook stuff, Charlie. It doesn’t hold up in the real world.”

  “That’s been said by every gladiator cop who was too lazy and full of himself to do things professionally,” said McCloud. “I hear you were working with Kane. He doesn’t know where to draw the line.”

  “I can handle Kane. He has no influence on me. Besides, what we did with the Colombians was my idea.”

  McCloud held up his hands in a gesture of mild exasperation. “OK, but remember—when things are crystal clear in this business, you’re in trouble. I told you this gladiator syndrome is full of land mines. You start thinking you’re indestructible.”

  They stared coolly at one another for several moments, but each knew the other wouldn’t yield.

  “I’m only telling you for your own good,” McCloud said with a tone of weary resignation. “But you’re right—you’re not a trainee. So go ahead. You’ll find out the hard way. Do whatever you want.”

  “That’s good advice, Charlie. I will do what I want.” Hayden went out, closed the door behind him, and stoo
d in the hallway for a few moments. Then, with a disgusted wave toward McCloud’s door, he turned away.

  * * *

  Sam Payton was retiring and moving back to San Antonio. They’d already had a retirement dinner with his wife and family in attendance, but at the end of his last day his colleagues gathered at McGinty’s for a more casual send-off. When Hayden and Kane arrived, they found a circle of agents at a table in the corner. Payton, a heavyset, steady man, had an affable way about him that had made him one of the more popular agents in the office. He was now regaling his colleagues with stories about the old days in the Patrol and investigations, recalling the colorful characters he’d worked with.

  When the laughing subsided for a moment, somebody asked why Willis wasn’t there. “I saw him in the office putting in a request to stay past age fifty-seven,” said Payton. “That’s only two weeks away. They never grant those requests, but he says he’s got nothing to lose. He’s coming over later.”

  They all seemed to contemplate Willis for a few moments before Al Winfield posed a question: “Sam, what was the worst thing that happened during your time here?”

  “What kind of thing is that to ask on his last day?” said Kane, shaking his head.

  “No, that’s OK,” said Payton. “Let me think it over a second.” He took a sip of beer, as the others waited quietly.

  “I’d have to say the shooting of Frank Kelso,” Payton began. “Kelso was a nice fella—everybody liked him. And it did something to Buck Tatum. He wouldn’t talk to anybody about it—even me, and I was pretty close to him. When he retired, Tatum wouldn’t keep in touch with anybody. He left the area, and his wife didn’t want to go with him—divorced him. It was strange, his reaction. Cut himself off and went into hiding. And the trainee, Landau—he got fired and committed suicide a year later, right around the time Tatum retired and disappeared.”

  Payton’s eyes narrowed, deep in recollection.

  “Connelly asked me to pick up a copy of the police report and photos the day after the shooting,” Payton continued. “I don’t know how Kelso made the guy as a wet. He was from Argentina, but he looked like a typical, long-haired American guy. The report said he had blue eyes. Anyway, I always thought there was something that never came out—the way Tatum clammed up. And it never seemed right that Landau took all the blame. It was like a piece of the puzzle was missing—maybe more than just one piece. It’s a gut feeling. But I guess we’ll never know . . . just part of this business.”

  After a brief pause, somebody asked Payton to tell his favorite Joe Willis story before Joe arrived, and the gathering again turned lighthearted and jovial. But Hayden had backed away from the table. He quietly slipped out the door and into the night without saying a word to Kane, who watched him curiously.

  Hayden felt dazed as he walked slowly to the parking garage. He got into his car and drove through the Loop into light evening traffic on Lake Shore Drive, the lake looming dark and silent to one side, the city lights on the other.

  Though he had more than enough to deal with already, the uneasy feeling sent a clear message. He’d kept it all buried but now realized it was simmering just beneath the surface. With Payton’s suspicions about the shooting arousing such a visceral reaction, he knew he had no choice but to resume his search for the truth—even if it meant losing a job he’d grown to love.

  7

  The tiny Peruvian walked stiffly through the cold, swirling wind. When he reached the corner, he glanced sideways down Sheridan Road and noticed the door to El Palacio slightly ajar, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. He’d bought his share of drinks there over the last couple of years. Perhaps that would count for something with Chacon.

  Hernan Garza was covered in layers of clothing so that, like a cat with long fur, he appeared larger than he really was—five feet two and a hundred and twenty pounds. Sweaters and shirts were covered by an overcoat that fell to the tips of his black gym shoes. The coat was threadbare and badly frayed. With a blue knit cap covering his ears, he looked like a merchant seaman. He clapped his hands against the cold, stuffed them into his pockets, and headed toward the bar.

  Garza slipped inside, hoping to drift unnoticed into a darkened corner, but the door’s creak pierced the quiet. Chacon and Salvador Rico were standing at the bar, staring at him. Garza could tell from Chacon’s sour expression that he wouldn’t be welcome unless he were a paying customer. He pulled the scarf away from his face and addressed Rico in Spanish.

  “Mr. Rico, would you have a minute, sir? I would like to discuss something important with you.” Though he had never spoken with Salvador Rico, he’d heard plenty—a leader of sorts, and ruthless. There was talk of the killing of a rival in the document trade.

  “Important? Important to who?” asked Rico sharply.

  “Please, just a minute of your time, sir,” Garza pleaded.

  Rico had seen Garza at the bar—heard that he was a heavy user of alcohol and cocaine who eked out a meager existence as a small-time dealer. Had Rico been busy he would have dismissed him, but he found Garza to be an amusing, almost cartoonlike character.

  “Come,” said Rico, pointing to his favorite table in the corner.

  They sat down, Rico with his back against the wall. Garza pulled his cap off to reveal a matted shock of graying hair. He elaborately unraveled the scarf from around his neck and used it to wipe the melting icicles from his mustache. Rico sat watching him, captivated by his every move.

  Though he was only forty-one years old, Garza could have been mistaken for sixty. His florid cheeks were weather-beaten and pockmarked, his teeth riddled with brown stains. Garza laid the hat and scarf on the table and looked up earnestly, like a man eager to confide in his lawyer. “I have been hoping to meet you, Mr. Rico. My name is Hernan Garza,” he declared in surprisingly crisp Spanish as he held out his hand. Rico looked at it for a moment, then reached across the table and reluctantly gave it a quick shake.

  “Yes, I have seen you. So what did you wish to discuss?”

  “I know you sometimes hire people, those who are familiar with the street . . . those who can help you. I am very discreet. I see and hear many things. Perhaps I could be of service to you,” said Garza, his glassy eyes taking on a hopeful glitter. Though it was an idea improvised to purchase a few moments of warmth, he suddenly realized it might have merit. He knew Rico had plenty of money.

  Rico studied him. Garza was not lacking in intelligence, though drugs and alcohol had obviously taken their toll. While Rico had no interest in a business relationship, he sensed that Garza, ubiquitous on local streets, possessed a wealth of information. Perhaps he could glean something useful.

  “You were working with Mario Duran, no? Before he got busted?” inquired Rico. Duran, also from Peru, had been a familiar presence at El Palacio until he’d been arrested a week earlier by the DEA for possession of two kilos of cocaine. The mention of Duran sparked an immediate reaction in Garza.

  “I did work with Mario, yes, but don’t believe everything you hear, Mr. Rico. There are men who lie for their own purposes.” Garza’s eyes were suddenly brimming with emotion. “You heard it was me who informed on Duran, didn’t you? It’s that filthy Colombian, Bautista, I tell you! He puts the word out that it was me, but Mario knows better—he knows I would never do such a thing.”

  “I did hear something about it,” Rico lied.

  “Bautista works both sides. He sells drugs and is an informant for the DEA and the state police. They protect him. Bautista made at least two thousand dollars for ratting out Duran. Plus he gets rid of a competitor.” Garza’s hands were desperately gripping the edge of the table.

  “How do you know this?”

  Garza turned and looked nervously around the bar, still empty except for Chacon. He then spoke in a whisper. “Bautista was the only one who knew about the two kilos besides me, but then he tells people it was me who ratted. He set me up!”

  “How do you know the federal agents pay t
hat much for information?”

  “It came out in court last year. The FBI paid six thousand to an informant after they got six kilos of cocaine. Do I look like I’ve got thousands of dollars in my pocket?” Garza leaned closer and smiled, revealing several gaps where teeth were missing. His reeking breath arrived in a sudden wave, prompting Rico to back away from the table.

  “I don’t want dirty money from ratting,” Garza continued frantically. “Bautista is holed up in his apartment with a lot of ‘coca’ right now. But even on Bautista I won’t squeal!”

  Rico listened intently, yet betrayed no more than casual interest. “Do you want a drink?” he asked.

  “Yes, perhaps a shot of whiskey.” Garza smiled appreciatively and began to salivate in anticipation.

  “Bring over a shot of whiskey for my friend,” Rico called out to Chacon. He looked back at Garza. “So, Bautista was working with the feds, eh?”

  “Yes, of course. I had to defend myself . . . tell people it was Bautista and not me. Now nobody wants to deal with him either. That is why he is holed up. People are afraid to deal with him.”

  “I see. Now I understand your side of the story.”

  Garza’s face broke into a smile at this apparent breakthrough. “If I wanted to make easy money, I would go to the cops about Bautista. But I have too much integrity to do that, even though he lies about me.”

  “Yes, I can see that—a man of integrity.”

  Chacon arrived with the whiskey and set it in front of Garza, who grabbed the glass with a trembling hand and immediately tossed the amber liquid to the back of his throat. His eyes twinkled, and he let out a pleasurable sigh. He took a moment to admire the empty glass and set it down on the table.

  “Listen, Hernan,” said Rico, “I don’t believe what they say about you. And I will let you know if I need you.” Rico dug into a back pocket of his slacks, pulled out a wad of bills, and peeled off a fifty. He reached across the table and stuffed it into Garza’s hand. “Here, take this,” he said. “But don’t tell anybody we talked. If you do, I will not be pleased.”