Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  The equipment moved along the conveyor belt for screening, then they were waved through the metal detectors. Outside, they were greeted by a cluster of taxi drivers shouting for their attention. They selected a late-model SUV and told the driver to hurry.

  The driver braked as they reached Chihuahua’s central plaza, presided over by the old cathedral. Brad jumped out, circled to the rear of the vehicle, and lifted his camera to his shoulder. The Gothic stone cathedral was just as Dawson remembered it from his visit a decade earlier. Pounded by the sporadic yet torrential rains of the desert, blasted by the wind, and baked by the sun, it was a formidable structure, with its pilloried façade and heavy stone walls supporting ornate twin bell towers.

  Sunlight glinted off a couple of hearses waiting at the side of the cathedral, not far from the church doors, the center piece of a convoy of gleaming Mercedes Benz, BMW, and Lexus cars, along with a few Land Cruisers and Range Rovers. The soaring strains of a church organ spilled onto the street and the small shady plaza that fronted the cathedral. The service was underway. Dawson tugged on the heavy wooden door of the cathedral, its brass handle worn smooth by the grasp of many callused hands.

  Inside, light streamed through the high stained-glass windows, lending an ethereal touch. Holy water was dabbed on foreheads, and hands made the sign of the cross. Men with silky shirts, dark blazers, and gold neck jewelry sat beside women in black veils, filling the pews that flanked the dark marble center aisle.

  Dawson leaned against the cold stone wall at the rear as the bishop spoke of El Guapo as a man who cared for people, a man who cared about his family and his community, who gave jobs to the poor and provided for the needs of many.

  Especially those who needed drugs. Dawson cleared his throat quietly as he jotted down the bishop’s remarks. He gazed at Anita, who stood nearby, and shook his head in disgust at the bishop’s pandering. The service moved from one droning song to the next, interspersed with chants and prayers scented by swinging incense burners. He felt strangely comfortable in this stone cathedral, much like the others he had visited in Europe.

  The service ended and Dawson followed Anita outside where Brad waited, hunched over his camera, which was now mounted on a tripod. In the crowded plaza, ice cream vendors were doing a brisk business, children happily licking their cones as the crowd watched the doors and waited. A dust devil danced across the plaza as the church doors opened and people spilled out.

  Pallbearers carried the caskets to the waiting hearses. Two men helped El Guapo’s widow, who struggled to keep her composure, nearly falling as she descended the worn stone steps. One of those at the woman’s side had curly black hair and a square jaw, looking like a men’s magazine model. The man stared at Anita for a moment, then veered from the procession and strode to her. He grasped Anita by the shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She did not flinch or turn her head. The man paused for a moment, looked into her eyes, then stepped back, resuming his place in the entourage. Tears trickled down Anita’s cheeks.

  * * *

  Anita stared distractedly at the passing desert as they drove back to the Chihuahua airport. “So, who was that?” Dawson asked.

  “Carlos Borrego.”

  Dawson had a sinking feeling. “The one who you reported was cooperating with the federales?”

  She nodded. “When I was young, we visited the Borrego house often. Carlos and I basically grew up together.” She bit her lower lip. “We vacationed with the Borregos in Acapulco. His sisters and brother would tease me and tell me that Carlos was in love with me. Since he was a little younger than me, I thought it was cute. I thought of him as a cousin, though, not a boyfriend.”

  Dawson wondered. Their families had been close, very close. As a lawyer for the cartel boss, Anita’s father was a keeper of secrets. But he had died. “You never told me what happened to your father.”

  Anita was silent for a long time before answering. “He died in a car accident. He was in the mountains. Borrego had a timber company. They were logging in Copper Canyon.” She swallowed hard. “He said my father was coming down the mountain when his car went off the road, rolled, and burned. There was nothing left.” She again wiped tears from her eyes. She stared out the window and fell silent. “There were questions about my father’s death,” she said, her voice cracking. “My mother and I always thought he may have been killed.”

  Chapter 18

  Rancho la Peña, New Mexico

  “You go to Chihuahua, and you come back with a story like this?” Frankel shouted. Dawson sat at the desk in the country club office, watching Frankel’s antics on his laptop video call. Frankel stood behind his desk, waving the newspaper. “We’re supposed to feel sorry for this guy and his family?”

  “It was his funeral, for God’s sake.”

  “He’s responsible for the death of thousands of people, Dawson. This is the kind of story where you write that the man’s burial marks the end of a bloody era, that many people pray the man’s passing will bring a time of peace. Got that?”

  Dawson shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. A decade of death, that kind of thing. But a sympathetic story once in a while won’t hurt. It may help get me access to the family, which I don’t have at the moment. You know how that works.”

  “You’re an investigative reporter. Do you remember how that works?”

  “There’s a television reporter here named Anita Alvarez. She grew up in Juárez and has deep contacts with the Borrego cartel. She’s got access that no one else has or can get. That’s why I need to tread lightly, at least for the moment.”

  “This is a crime story, not a goddamn soap opera, Dawson. You told me you wanted to investigate your father’s death. What happened to that?”

  “I’ve gotten a break on that, actually.”

  “What the hell is it?”

  “The Mexican government has a suspect in the killing of El Guapo.”

  “El who?”

  “El Guapo. The handsome one. That’s what they called Don Diego Borrego, the head of the Borrego cartel. The Mexican government wants the U.S. Justice Department to hand the man over to them so he can be put on trial for Borrego’s murder.”

  “Imagine that. Do the Mexicans actually put people on trial for murder?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does that have to do with your father’s death?”

  “I know the suspect. Rather, I know people who know him. He worked for my late father.”

  Frankel fell silent for a moment. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. You’re too close to this story, like I said before.”

  “Too close? I’ve never met the man.”

  “So how do you contact him?”

  “Don’t worry about it. This will be an exclusive.”

  “Well, it’s not much, but something. Who’s the suspect?”

  “Ernesto Fonseca.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Fonseca ran a gang in El Paso. Drugs. Murder for hire.”

  “Aren’t people like that supposed to be in jail?”

  “He was. Fonseca went to federal prison on murder charges about ten years ago.”

  “So, what’s the story?”

  “He got an early release.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  Frankel sighed. “Talk to him. Let me know how it goes.”

  “Of course.” Dawson signed off and leaned back in his chair. Fonseca and his gang, Los Ríos, shortened from Ríos de Sangre, or “Rivers of Blood,” had once struck fear into the hearts of people in this corner of west Texas. When he and Raoul were in high school in El Paso, thugs who claimed to be linked to Los Rios were beating the hell out of people for looking at them the wrong way. He and Raoul had managed to steer clear. Now he was going to interview the man who led them. In person.

  The interview had fallen in Dawson’s lap. When the news broke that the Mexicans wanted Fonseca, he remembered the name and called Garcia.
“Yes, that’s the one,” he had said.

  “So how do I find him?”

  “Call Viviana.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Unless she divorced me in the past few hours, yes. My wife.”

  “What does she have to do with Fonseca?”

  “She works for him.”

  “Are you jacking me around?”

  “No.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Your father did me a favor.”

  “A favor? My father? Back up. You’ve lost me.”

  “When Fonseca was released from prison, the feds contacted your father. Sam found him and a few of his men jobs at Rancho la Peña working on a construction crew. After a while, Sam helped Fonseca form his own company. I heard about it and called Sam. Viviana had experience keeping books. The rest is history.”

  “Convenient. A convicted murderer and gang leader. And your wife works for him? I guess that’s one way to keep tabs on the man.”

  “Don’t get weirded out by it.”

  “Don’t you worry about Viviana?”

  “Fonseca’s not stupid. Besides, he’s still on parole. Probably will be for life.”

  Dawson accepted Garcia’s explanation—for the moment. He’d called Viviana and she’d set up the interview. But it didn’t sit right with him. Fonseca’s release from prison was implausible. The working situation with Viviana was murky. Most puzzling was why the Mexican government would accuse Fonseca of killing Borrego. It had been rumored that Fonseca and Los Ríos had worked for the Borrego cartel in El Paso as enforcers and were running drugs across the border before they went to prison. It made no sense that Fonseca would cut off the hand that had once fed him.

  An internet search told him that Fonseca had been convicted of multiple murders—revenge against a rival gang that had killed his wife and young son. Texas has the death penalty, so Fonseca and his lieutenants sat on death row behind several hundred others who faced the same fate. Then suddenly, it seemed, Fonseca and his men were off death row and out of prison, supposedly having turned their lives around. And ended up working for his father. It was a hell of story.

  * * *

  “Viviana, thanks for doing this,” Dawson said, eyeing the interior of her black Cadillac Escalade.

  Viviana cranked up the air conditioning, having insisted that she drive. Like her husband, Raoul, she was a fitness devotee and looked younger than her thirty-six years. Jeans, cowgirl boots, polo short with the Fonseca company logo. The time she spent taking care of herself had paid off. On top of it all, she had a disarming charm that made her immediately likeable. “No problem.” She smiled, seemingly pleased she could help Dawson with a scoop.

  “Nice ride,” he said, sensing that she wanted to show it off.

  “It belongs to the construction company. But Ernesto lets me drive it. A bit over-the-top.”

  “But you don’t say no to driving it.”

  Viviana shrugged. “He’s been good to me. I keep the books. Ernesto takes care of the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  Viviana smiled weakly. “The construction, you know.”

  “Maybe I should be interviewing you instead of Fonseca.”

  Viviana glanced at him, then back at the road. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “I may need to, at some point,” he said.

  They rode in silence. Viviana, the wife of a DEA special agent working as a bookkeeper for a former death row inmate, a former drug smuggler, and convicted murderer? The more he thought about it, the harder it was to believe. He decided not to pester Viviana for answers. Maybe she was helping her husband and the DEA keep an eye on Fonseca. Maybe not.

  “Ernesto normally doesn’t talk to reporters,” Viviana said, breaking the silence. “Avoids them like the plague. But I told him that you could be trusted.”

  Trusted? He sucked in a short breath as his chest tightened. “That was nice, but I’m not sure what that means.” The word could be the kiss of death for a journalist. That meant keeping secrets. Sitting on information, valuable information that could hurt people, usually politicians, and destroy reputations and careers. In the news business, what you didn’t write was often as important as what you did. Hazard of the business, a hazard that he disliked intensely.

  It was okay if he’d made an agreement to be trusted, Dawson thought, but it was not okay for someone like Viviana to say it. She was not the one to be making deals on his stories. He had no choice but to let it slide this time. His Fonseca interview would let Anita know she wasn’t the only one in town who could come up with an exclusive. He smiled at the thought.

  Fonseca lived near Rancho la Peña, in the Mesilla Valley, a lush farm and fruit belt that sat atop the vast Rio Grande underground aquifer that fed water to acres of thirsty alfalfa, cotton, chilies, almonds, and fruit trees.

  Viviana swerved off the paved road and onto a long, curving graveled drive that led to a stucco mansion set amid an irrigated pasture populated by a half-dozen grazing horses. They hurried to the heavy wooden door and rang the doorbell. It opened, revealing a man in jeans and a dark polo shirt embroidered with the Fonseca company logo.

  The man nodded, calmly saying “Viviana,” as if he was greeting the maid. He narrowed his eyes and looked Dawson up and down, but said nothing as he stepped back and waved them inside. Dawson was struck by the flourish of tattoos that covered the man’s arms, some creeping up his neck just above his collar.

  The house had a cathedral ceiling and stone tile floors, its walls decorated with desert landscapes hanging between mounted heads of game animals. Several other men with similar polo shirts and tattoos glanced warily as Viviana guided Dawson to a large, open recreation room with a bar and a six-sided poker table. The loud crack of pool balls drew their attention as a couple of Fonseca’s men casually played pool.

  A solidly built man in his mid-forties, of average height with thinning hair and a thick mustache, strode into the room. He extended a hand to Dawson. His arms and neck were covered with tattoos as well, and he wore pleated pants, cowboy boots, and a black polo shirt with the same company logo.

  “Ernesto, this is my friend, Kyle Dawson,” Viviana said. “As I told you, he’s with the Washington Herald.”

  “I believe I went to work for your father when you were in Iraq,” Fonseca said. “He spoke of you often. Please sit.”

  Fonseca was more articulate than Dawson had expected. Dawson settled onto a couch, while Fonseca sat facing him, his arms resting on the swollen arms of a low-back, overstuffed leather chair. Dawson put his small digital recorder on the gnarled wood coffee table, then flipped to a blank page in his notebook.

  “So, you’re a friend of Viviana and Raoul?” Fonseca asked.

  Dawson nodded. “We’re related. Raoul is my cousin.”

  Fonseca stared, letting a stiff silence hang in the air.

  Dawson felt nervous, intimidated, and fought to tamp down the feelings. He had interviewed Iraqi militia leaders and Taliban commanders. There was no reason to be nervous now. Yet Dawson took a deep breath, realizing he still labored under his teenage image of this man. “I appreciate your willingness to talk with me. There’s been a lot of violence along the border lately, which is what I’m writing about. I’m also looking into why my father was killed and who did it.”

  Fonseca gazed at Dawson and nodded. “It was a terrible thing. Your father was very good to me. The police need to find his killers.”

  Silence again hung in the air. Dawson cleared his throat. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so let me ask, why does the Mexican government want to extradite you and put you on trial for the murder of Don Diego Borrego?”

  Fonseca frowned, closed his eyes for a moment, and shook his head slowly as if trying to awaken from a bad dream. He opened his eyes and stared at Dawson. “It’s ridiculous! It shows that the Mexican police can’t deal with their own serious problems. So, they look across the border and make false accusati
ons.”

  Dawson considered Fonseca. The man was clearly smart. It should not have surprised him. Such things had happened before—a young man of exceptional intelligence rises out of a barrio wracked with poverty and violence and creates a criminal enterprise. In another world, he might have been a corporate exec. Maybe. Dawson refocused on what Fonseca had said and nodded as he jotted notes. “Who do you think killed Borrego?”

  “The Mexicans should ask Hector Carrillo.”

  “The head of the Sonora cartel?”

  Fonseca nodded. “He’s wanted to control Juárez for years.”

  Fonseca was stating the obvious, Dawson thought. “Why would the Mexican government call for your extradition without proof that you were involved?”

  “Ask them! I left the life of crime a long time ago. The Mexican police are dredging up ancient history.”

  Ancient history? Although Fonseca and his Los Ríos gang had been minor players compared to the Borrego cartel, Fonseca had been taken off the streets and locked up. It was a small victory for law enforcement. Fonseca, said to be the cartel’s most ruthless enforcer, had been removed from the mayhem of the Juárez–El Paso plaza. What had been accomplished? Pulling Fonseca from the mix had only made others stronger. Now Fonseca was out of prison, having reformed. Reformed? Had his likely dreams of leading a criminal cartel been squashed? Dawson doubted it.

  “So, you’re innocent?” Dawson asked.

  Fonseca nodded. “I worked with your father for many years building houses and warehousing here at Rancho la Peña. Life has been good.” Fonseca gestured to his surroundings. “Why would I put all of this in jeopardy?”

  Indeed. “So you traded in a life of crime for a construction company. That’s a dramatic change, isn’t it?”

  Fonseca looked at Viviana. Irritation crossed his face as he ran a hand over his thinning hair. “There were opportunities afforded to me and my friends here when we were in prison. Along the way, we picked up valuable skills. We have put them to good use.”