by Bruce Kading
“Too bad that lizard Smith isn’t alive,” said McCloud. “That was a crime, what he did, literally a fucking crime. An investigation should be done to clear the record.”
But Hayden knew it was time to let it go. He’d learned the truth about the shooting and the circumstances that led his father to such an acute state of guilt and despair. And Tatum had been through enough.
McCloud reported that he’d spotted Alderman Francisco Campos outside Farber’s office a few days earlier.
“You guys took care of Campos’s problem with the merchants on Cermak and Twenty-Sixth Street,” said McCloud. “My guess is he’s persuaded Farber to back off again. If you guys keep going after vendors, prices will stay high, and Campos’s people won’t be happy—the wets or their employers. He wants to go back to the good old days—plenty of supply but no visible presence to annoy the business owners. Sweep it under the rug. In return he’ll hold off on bashing INS in press conferences for a time. That should be enough for Farber.”
“The vendors will come back,” said Hayden.
“All this publicity has changed things. The cops can’t just ignore these guys anymore. Campos might be able to have the cops keep them off the street with vagrancy laws or something, but the cops still won’t be able to work directly with INS. The document trade will keep going, of course, but in the shadows.”
“So the vendors go underground,” said Hayden disgustedly. “And nothing changes except appearances.”
“You think they care about anything but appearances? They’re politicians, for chrissakes! Appearance is everything. By the way, a couple of regional headhunters are in town,” said McCloud with an impish grin. “They’re going beyond the shooting, looking into the money angle—Rico’s money. Like maybe you and Miguel have it stashed somewhere. Stark’s directing them.”
“So Tom and I are just pretending to look for it?”
“They’re trying to understand what you did, and greed makes more sense to them than a concern for Miguel’s safety. They don’t trust what they don’t understand. Anyway, Stark doesn’t figure he can trust you, even though it was your case that’s going to make him the next director of investigations. Just make sure you don’t give him anything else he can use against you.”
* * *
The internal investigators from the regional office, derisively referred to as “headhunters,” made everybody in the office a little nervous. They spent two weeks in Chicago reconstructing the shooting scene and taking statements, and leaned heavily on Miguel, implying that if he “came clean” about Hayden, they could get him permanent legal status. To their chagrin he offered nothing but praise for the agent’s conduct. Responding to questions about his ability to shoot down Rico in the dimly lit office at El Palacio, Miguel explained that he had grown up on a ranch where guns were everywhere, and he had learned as a boy to fire accurately. It wasn’t as difficult a shot as they seemed to think. He assured them that Hayden knew nothing about the gun he’d retrieved from his car after Nick entered El Palacio.
The tape recorder fastened to Miguel’s body was downloaded and, to their disappointment, confirmed Hayden’s version of events. Baker checked the equipment and found that a damaged wire inside the receiver had cut off audible reception from Miguel. The regional investigators did perfunctory interviews with Kane and Hayden, who had already furnished detailed memos. The investigators informed Stark that Hayden had been negligent in not searching Miguel’s vehicle for weapons, but they found no other impropriety. They left Chicago on a cold, dreary day in November.
The next morning word swiftly circulated through the office about Joe Willis. The night before, Willis, alone in his apartment, had shoved his beloved .357 Smith & Wesson revolver into his mouth and blown off the back of his head. He was found outfitted in his old, dark green Border Patrol uniform. There was a collection of newspaper articles about the Rico case on a table next to Willis’s body. It was only two months since he had been forced to retire at age fifty-seven. Some were shocked, but others had seen it coming. The decibel level in the office dropped to a low hum for the rest of the week.
* * *
Richard Stark cleared out his inbox and half-listened to the morning radio traffic through the walkie-talkie behind his desk. He lit a cigarette, peered through the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the plaza, and tried to prepare himself for what promised to be an uncomfortable meeting.
For a ruthlessly ambitious man, Stark had a surprisingly difficult time executing decisions on personnel matters. It was one of the reasons he longed for higher office; let his subordinates handle the dirty work. He’d hoped the regional investigators would unearth something damning enough on Hayden to make it simple, but they had found nothing to warrant more than a slap on the wrist. Useless bastards! Connelly, still ostensibly in charge of the investigations branch, was now taking sick leave for weeks at a time without even the pretense of illness. He had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with it and had named Stark the acting director of investigations in his absence. This was useful to Stark, as District Director Farber would get used to him occupying the post.
Stark had his secretary call Hayden and Kane into his office. As the two agents took seats in front of his desk, Stark had the somber look of a man preparing to deliver a funeral oration.
“Well, you guys have done a hell of a job,” said Stark, forcing a weak smile. He glanced momentarily at Hayden and then fastened his gaze on Kane. “Even with a few unexpected problems, we did a good job of upsetting the flow of documents.” He paused, waiting for some agreement or expression of gratitude, but they remained silent, and this made him even more nervous.
Stark cleared his throat. “I want to tell you both what is going to happen as far as your permanent assignments, now that your detail is at an end. I’ve given this some serious thought,” he said gravely. He paused and ran a hand over his teal-colored silk tie. “Kane, you’re going to stay down here in fraud. Hayden, you’re going back to area control. I think it’s best for everyone concerned.”
Nick had prepared himself. He knew what it meant for his career. It wasn’t likely he would get another opportunity, certainly as long as Stark was in charge.
“Sir, why should Nick have to go back?” asked Kane. “He was more responsible than anybody for this case.”
“It’s a management decision, Kane,” he said acidly. “It’s not your concern.”
“With all due respect, it is my concern. He almost lost his life over this case, and now he’s sent back to area control? That’s not fair.”
“The last time I checked, Kane, nobody had appointed you director of investigations,” said Stark, his eyes smoldering with anger. There was dead silence for a few moments before he continued. “Anyway, it’s not like being in area control is some kind of punishment.”
Hayden began to feel like an object being argued over in a divorce proceeding. If Kane continued his noble defense, they might both be sent back to area control. Besides, he knew there was no way Stark would change his mind during this meeting.
“It’s OK, Tom,” said Hayden evenly. “I don’t mind going back.”
“It doesn’t mean he won’t be back at some point in the future,” said Stark, glaring at Kane. He let that concession hang in the air, where it soon fizzled.
“What about the task force, sir?” asked Hayden. “Will Tom and others still be working counterfeit documents?”
“Task forces are generally set up to resolve a specific issue,” Stark said, leaning back in his chair. He was starting to relax, thinking the worst was over. “You guys accomplished what we wanted. So, no, for now there won’t be anybody working documents. Kane will be working other things in fraud.” With two sets of disbelieving eyes staring back at him, Stark looked out the window and nervously fiddled with his tie.
So, it was true about Campos, thought Hayden. McCloud had guessed right. The alderman, who regularly trashed Farber and the INS, had gotten his way. They had made a
conscious decision to again ignore the problem, so long as business was conducted behind the scenes. And there would be no second-guessing from the regional office or headquarters. They were all quite comfortable with the way things were, taking their lead from a Congress that secretly applauded the ineffectiveness of the very laws it had passed. Hayden’s detachment began to dissolve. The absurdity of the policy—and its being openly defended—made him slightly nauseous.
“Let me get this straight,” said Hayden. “We just proved that the sale and manufacture of counterfeit documents is a multimillion-dollar industry, that the counterfeits are necessary so tens of thousands of illegal aliens in Chicago alone can circumvent the law, and you’re telling us nobody is going to do anything about it?”
“We have a lot of priorities around here, Hayden, and we don’t have unlimited manpower. You know that as well as anybody.”
“But, sir,” Kane protested, “if we don’t keep the pressure on in some way, it’s going to be completely out of control. There’ll be fights over turf. The media will want to know what we’ve done about it, or why we’ve done nothing.”
Stark didn’t like being on the defensive, especially with two novices who didn’t understand the obscure wisdom and logic of the INS bureaucracy.
“We’ll worry about the media impact,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m not going to debate this any further.”
“It’s all right,” Hayden quickly offered. “We know you aren’t calling the shots on this.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized that Stark’s ego could not handle that sort of candor.
“No, you’re wrong, Hayden,” Stark declared. “I am calling the shots on this. It’s my decision!”
“I didn’t mean to suggest you aren’t in charge,” said Hayden. Stark searched Hayden’s face vainly for any hint of sarcasm.
After taking a deep breath, Stark tried to regain his footing by again praising what they had done on the task force, assuring Hayden that it was all but official that his shooting of Nieto would be declared justified. There might be some minor reprimand for not thoroughly checking Miguel for weapons, but it was “nothing to worry about.” Calm was momentarily restored. But there was one final matter.
“Oh, by the way, Hayden,” said Stark casually, “about Miguel Chavez . . . we obviously can’t use him as an informant anymore. You’d better take care of the paperwork.”
Stark had blundered headlong into a very sensitive area.
“I thought we might use him for intelligence purposes,” said Hayden calmly. “Not on undercover operations, but it would allow us to keep him on as an informant.”
“No. He’s damaged goods. If he does something unpredictable again, whether it’s undercover or not, we’ll look bad. We can’t take that chance.”
“Even if he’s no longer an informant, I assume we can keep him on a schedule of voluntary departure periods,” said Hayden, “so he and his family can stay here—for all he’s done for us.”
“No, we’ll have to move him,” Stark said, waving his hand dismissively.
“Yes, out of the Chicago area,” said Hayden hopefully. “That might not be a bad idea.”
“No, Hayden,” Stark replied, exasperated. “I mean out of the country! He’s an illegal alien, remember?”
Hayden felt a dangerous stirring.
Stark, aware he had struck a nerve, tried to soften it. “Of course, he won’t have to leave this week or anything. We need to keep him here until we have pleas from all our defendants. That should happen within a few weeks. Then we can give him a month or so to get his affairs cleaned up.” Stark’s eyes shifted nervously between Hayden and Kane.
Hayden spoke very softly, trying to check his anger. “Sir, this guy just put his life on the line and saved mine. This is how we take care of those who do heroic things—throw them on a bus to Juárez?”
“He’s an outlaw, Hayden, sort of like you,” bellowed Stark, now raging mad. “We can’t tolerate that kind of behavior, and we sure as hell aren’t going to reward it! He’s just another wet, as far as I’m concerned.”
By now Stark was leaning over the desk, his head thrust forward. With his eyebrows angled sharply to a point above the bridge of his nose, he looked like an enraged gargoyle. His silk tie was hanging down on the desk invitingly, within easy reach of Hayden, who grabbed the tie and jerked it firmly, pulling Stark from his chair, his forehead striking the glass desktop. Seized by a euphoric release of adrenaline, Nick leaned over the desk, pulled Stark upright by the loose folds of his shirt and was winding up with clenched fist to deliver a blow to the center of Stark’s face when Kane pulled Hayden by the shoulders and sent him spinning into the window blinds.
Wheezing and standing shakily on bended knees, Stark slowly righted himself, loosened the tie around his neck, and fell heavily back into his chair, gasping for air. A trickle of blood curved around his right eyebrow where he had come down on the glass.
Hayden disentangled himself from the blinds and was sitting on the radiator against the window, his hair askew, breathing heavily. Tom Kane stood between them with his arms spread out like a boxing referee, looking back and forth to be sure neither would initiate further contact.
Nick stared at the floor. Lashing out at Stark, the personification of everything wrong with INS and immigration policy in general, had felt good for a moment, but he already regretted it. He knew he had now blown any chance of getting Stark to alter his decision about Miguel, however unlikely that might have been. He also realized he was facing an eventual thirty- or sixty-day suspension.
Stark pulled a handkerchief from his desk drawer and was dabbing the cut over his eyebrow. For several moments there was only the sound of Hayden and Stark breathing heavily. Finally, Stark spoke. “You’re a fucking lunatic, Hayden,” he croaked. “And we can’t afford to have lunatics around here.”
Hayden thought of Willard Smith . . . of Joe Willis. Their brand of lunacy had always been tolerated. Then his mind shifted to Miguel, who’d been pulled into this mess, performed heroically, and was now being betrayed. Nick knew he had to do something creative—and be damn quick about it.
* * *
Connie Salinas took the bus into the Loop, walked to the INS office, and asked to speak to Special Agent Tom Kane, who had been mentioned in newspaper stories about the investigation that led to the shootings at El Palacio. She now felt a compelling need to tell the truth about her deceased former husband, Marcos Ortega.
The receptionist immediately phoned Kane, who was at his desk in the fraud unit. “There’s a woman here who says she has information about a guy named Marcos Ortega,” she said.
Kane pulled Ortega’s file, went to the reception area, and introduced himself. Connie was wearing a black leather coat over a beige pantsuit. She was now thin and pale, her hair cut short and combed back in a masculine style. Kane led her down the hallway to one of the windowless interview rooms. The small room, with only a table and two chairs, was lit by an overhead fluorescent light.
Once they were seated, it was Connie who asked the first question. “Are you Catholic, Mr. Kane?”
“Yeah, I’m Catholic. Why?”
“I was told a few weeks ago that I have cancer . . . pancreatic cancer,” she said softly. “I have maybe six months to live. That’s what they say, anyways. I don’t want the radiation treatments or chemotherapy.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kane.
Connie pulled a tissue from the purse on her lap and dabbed her nose with it. She suddenly seemed very far away.
“I am sorry about your illness, Ms. Salinas, but what did you want to tell us about Marcos Ortega? Did you know he was involved in selling counterfeit documents?”
“No, I didn’t know anything about that until I read the stories in the newspaper,” she said.
“So what’s the connection between you two?”
“We were married, me and Marcos. That’s how he got his immigration papers.”
As Kane started leafi
ng through the file in search of a marriage certificate, Connie reached into her purse, casually pulled out a revolver, and placed it on the table.
Startled, Kane grabbed the gun and her purse. The gun was an old, blue-steel Smith & Wesson .38-caliber snub nose. With a flick of his wrist, Kane rolled out the cylinder to find it was not loaded.
“What the hell else do you have in here?” he growled, as he rifled through the purse. He found nothing but tissues and a wallet.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He had her stand up with her hands against the wall, opened the door, and called out to a secretary to get a female agent who could do a pat-down. Connie patiently cooperated with the search before resuming her seat.
“So, why’d you bring the pistol?” asked Kane, still a bit rattled.
“That’s the gun that shot Marcos Ortega,” she said.
“Yeah? And who pulled the trigger?”
“Me. I killed Marcos.”
Though she didn’t seem like a violent person, she exuded a grim, take-it-or-leave-it attitude that he found credible. She didn’t care whether he believed her or not. He left the interview room to search out an evidence envelope and tape recorder. For a moment he considered cuffing her to the chair but decided it was unnecessary. She wanted to be there. He came back, slipped the gun into the envelope, and placed the recorder in the middle of the table. Kane read the Miranda rights to her, and she signed the waiver. Her story tumbled out with a minimum of questions.
“I was stupid and thought I loved him, but he left me before we even lived together. I figured I’d have him deported, but the officer said they can’t. That shocked me. My father woulda killed Marcos if I told him. But I was ashamed to even admit how stupid I was, and I didn’t want my father to go to jail for something that was my fault. I just wanted to keep it all a secret, so I didn’t fight it and I let Marcos pay for a divorce.”