Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  Garcia turned. “What are you thinking?”

  “When Fonseca ran his gang, he had a partner. A guy named José Reyes.”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “What ever happened to him?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Can you find out? He may know something.”

  Garcia reached for his phone, and using his thumb, swiped the face of the phone several times. The screen glowed. “I can find out right now.”

  Chapter 37

  Rancho la Peña, New Mexico

  Garcia dropped Dawson off at 2:00 a.m. He stood in the driveway of his stepmother’s house and watched as the lights of Garcia’s vehicle disappeared around the corner. The air stirred, still warm from the day. He looked up at a three-quarter moon and thought about the vastness of the night sky. What little creatures we all are. In the distance a coyote yipped and howled. Then a couple more joined the first.

  Inside, Dawson went to the built-in bar, poured himself a stiff drink, and slumped into the curved leather couch. He sat with his briefcase under his arm, patted it, and took a deep swallow from the glass, then set it on the coffee table. He pulled his laptop from the briefcase, lifted the lid and turned it on. He checked his files. A dozen or so had been opened, but not deleted. Thank God. He scrolled through each, opened them up, and read carefully. They could have copied his hard drive. But so what? It was mostly notes, which wouldn’t make much sense to anyone except himself, and a year’s worth of stories that had already been published in the Herald.

  If the files had been copied, they’d have been turned over to someone. Who? Serna? Again, his chest tightened, and the ache of his ribs returned. At least his laptop was intact, unlike his body. Everything ached. He was dead tired. He touched the scab at the back of his head. Pain shot through his skull. He let the pain subside, then fished his notebook out of bag and flipped through the pages. What have I gotten myself into?

  That same thought was on his mind late the next morning when he pushed open the door to the country club office, holding a large paper cup of black coffee. He pulled out his laptop, set it on the table, and flipped up the top. He was getting far afield from his quest to find his father’s killers. Or am I? Garcia had touched a nerve, but he was right. He had not gotten into this business and come back to El Paso to quit now, not on the verge of a story that could expose the stink and ugliness that gurgled along the border. It might even do some good.

  Dawson picked up his phone and called Frankel.

  “Please tell me you’re not in that Mexican jail anymore,” Frankel said.

  “I’m not in that Mexican jail anymore.”

  “You okay?”

  “Nothing that a couple of days’ rest and a handful of ibuprofen won’t cure.”

  “What the hell happened?

  “Honestly, I don’t know. They pulled me over. Knocked me around a bit. Next thing I knew, Garcia was there.”

  “I told Butler and the other top brass about it.”

  “The Mexicans had my computer for a while. It may have been compromised.”

  “Jesus. What was on it?”

  “My stories, my notes. The usual.”

  “Crap.” Frankel fell silent. “I guess we’ll just have to live with it. Be careful. I’ve told you that before.” He paused. “What are you working on?”

  “Madsen’s family has roots deep into Mexico.”

  “It’s been brought up before. So what?”

  “It’s important because he’s been calling for more and better border security.”

  “What he calls the illegal immigrant invasion. And?”

  “Madsen’s great-grandfather took his Mormon family to Mexico in the late 1800s. But the family returned to the U.S. to escape the Mexican Revolution.”

  “Go on.”

  “I interviewed Madsen’s cousin. Madsen is in touch with the Mexican side of his family. They have big farms and orchards.”

  “So, what’s the angle?”

  “The trucks that the Madsen family uses to get their produce into the U.S. were the ones caught in the cartel raid at the Rancho la Peña warehouse a few days ago.”

  “Really?”

  “The trucks were loaded with drugs as well as fruit and vegetables.”

  “Can you tie it to Madsen?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Maybe that’s why he keeps his distance.”

  “But I can say that the violence at the border has hit Madsen’s extended family—the Mexican part—very hard. It will force Madsen to talk about his relations with the family and their farming business.”

  “Madsen’s Mexican relatives victims of cartel drug violence? Good stuff, Dawson. It’ll make Page One.” Frankel paused. “Was it worth getting beat up in a Mexican jail?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Dawson hung up. It was a story that would keep Frankel off his back for a while. He would tell Frankel about the rest of it later—his encounter with Serna and the upcoming meeting with Reyes.

  After three hours, he scrolled to the top of the story he’d just written.

  COLONIA JUÁREZ, Mexico – This quiet Mormon community of productive farms and orchards in northern Mexico has become ensnared in the mushrooming drug cartel violence along the U.S.-Mexico border.

  The farmers here include the relatives of Micah Madsen, the U.S. senator from New Mexico who is leading public opinion polls in his bid to become the next president.

  Trucks identified with this community, but reportedly owned by businesses controlled by the infamous Borrego cartel, one of Mexico’s most dangerous, were found recently to be carrying both farm fresh produce along with illegal narcotics.

  The narcotics were the apparent focus of a recent raid at the Rancho la Peña commercial warehousing project in southern New Mexico by suspected members of a rival drug cartel, who took the drugs and an unknown quantity of automatic weapons after killing five men.

  Madsen, who has strong family ties to the community, said he was “deeply disturbed” by the violence. “Americans can no longer ignore the growing violence along the border. Making it safe will be among my top priorities if the American people see fit to make me their next president.”

  Dawson sat back. That would do—at least for a day.

  Chapter 38

  Juárez, Mexico

  Dawson drove one of his father’s late model crew-cab pickups down the street of a scruffy Juárez neighborhood of one-story painted concrete-block homes. The truck was one of three his father had used to move between construction sites and the country club, and, with his car now who-knows-where, he needed transportation. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving the sky a dusky blue. Garcia told him he’d learned that Fonseca’s right-hand-man, José Reyes, had been an informant inside the Borrego cartel and was now on the run. His cover had been blown, and Reyes was now in a DEA safe house—as plain a house as could be found in Juárez.

  Dawson slowed, looking at his notebook and then at the houses. He stopped at one with a small dirt yard spotted with sprigs of dried grass. He parked at the curb and climbed out. After scanning the neighborhood—no one seeming to pay any attention to him—he locked the truck and walked to the screen door. He took a deep breath and rapped on it.

  He glimpsed a movement to his left and froze. A snarling pit bull rounded the edge of the house from the shadows. The dog leapt, its maw wide open. Dawson jumped. The dog’s head snapped backwards just short of his leg, as it reached the end of its chain. The pit bull landed with a thud. Dawson’s heart pounded, and he sucked in a breath to calm himself. The dog scrambled to its feet, lunging against the taut chain.

  The handle to the inside door turned slightly and the door opened, revealing an automatic pistol grasped by thick fingers. The door opened slowly. A beefy man with a thick beard, cropped hair, and an empty shoulder holster strapped across his bare chest was vaguely visible through the screen.

  “Glad you got that chain,” Dawson said, his heart pound
ing.

  The man pushed open the screen door and shouted “Callaté!” to the dog, then returned his gaze to Dawson.

  “I’m here to see José.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Kyle Dawson.”

  The man motioned for Dawson to stay put, then disappeared inside. He stood at the door while the dog continued to growl and groan, but less enthusiastically. He’d met with sources like this dozens of times, carefully arranged encounters with the Taliban in Afghanistan, or with Sunni militia leaders in the suburbs of Baghdad. But this time he had a creeping sense that he’d screwed up. In Iraq and Afghanistan, he’d always worked with fixers, usually local journalists who were critical to any foreign correspondent and who were well-paid for their knowledge and the risks they took. They knew people. They knew people who knew people. They knew the officials who had to be contacted to get from here to there. They knew the drivers with the vehicles to get you where you had to go. They had the phone numbers of the Taliban commanders. They’d ask the questions and arrange for the interviews in safe places.

  Like public cafes. Well-lighted places. With armed guards who stood behind sandbagged entrances and frisked you. Even with those precautions, it was easy to get anxious and get sloppy. Too hungry for a story meant too willing to take risks. Better to lose a story one day and be able to find another the next. Rule one was to go with somebody, preferably your fixer. Rule two was to let people know where and when you were going. If you didn’t return, they’d know where to start looking.

  He felt like he’d screwed up this time. He was alone. Shit. He stared at the pit bull straining against the chain, slobber dripping from its jaws.

  The beefy man returned and waved him inside. He holstered his gun and raised his hands for Dawson to stop and spread his arms and legs. The man patted him down while Dawson scanned the clutter: tequila bottles and beer cans covered a coffee table. Empty pizza and takeout Mexican food boxes spilled out of a plastic trash bag in the corner. The man finished, then motioned to the back of the house. Dawson stepped past the simple living room furniture and paused at the back door. He pushed it open and stepped onto a couple of pumice blocks that formed a step.

  A man who looked about fifty sat at a shadowy plastic table under a cloth awning. He motioned for Dawson to come and sit. Dawson moved closer, uneasily, then dragged a plastic chair from beside the table and settled into it. The man wore an undershirt and a shoulder holster with an semiautomatic pistol. His thick oily hair, aviator sunglasses, and drooping mustache were lighted by a solitary back porch bulb. He waved toward the door. Dawson turned back to the door where the man who’d frisked him stood scowling. The man disappeared inside.

  “You’re José?” Dawson said.

  The man nodded.

  Dawson drew his notebook from his back pocket and flopped it on the tabletop. He pulled out his tape recorder and flicked it on, staring for a moment at the small red light. He struggled to suppress his nervousness. Relax. Reyes was not threatening. The man at the door was armed but bored. The dog was the worst. They probably beat the poor thing. Focus. He remembered his mantra. Get in. Get the story. Get out.

  “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “Garcia says you’re okay.”

  “I’m investigating the deaths of my father and Don Diego Borrego. As I understand it, you worked for the Borrego family, correct?”

  Reyes lifted his sunglasses to his forehead, revealing baggy, lizard-gray eyes that looked at Dawson’s recorder, then at him. “Is that what you want know?”

  Dawson swallowed hard. He didn’t know where to begin, really, because he didn’t know what Reyes knew. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. He should have talked this over more with Garcia. He’d violated rule number three: Know what you want. And for God’s sake, know if your source actually has the information you need. He drew a deep breath. “Yes, I want to know who killed my father. And who killed Don Diego Borrego.” He gazed at Reyes. “And are the murders connected?”

  Reyes pulled a Marlboro cigarette from a pack sitting on the table beside a yellow tin ashtray. He put the cigarette in his lips, flicked a gas lighter, and held the flame to it. He dragged deeply, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Fonseca killed your father.”

  Stunned, Dawson tossed his pen on his notebook, and jerked upright, his stomach knotting. It was not what he wanted to hear. His mind circled back to the fact that Fonseca was out there, having escaped the shootout in the Rancho la Peña warehouse. If Fonseca had killed his father, it meant that Sam was involved in this business up to his neck, just as he had feared. Sam had pissed off the wrong people. “Fonseca pulled the trigger?”

  Reyes coughed, deep and rasping, cleared his throat, then spit into the darkness. He drew in a wheezing breath. “Does it matter who pulled the fuckin’ trigger?”

  “Sam was executed,” Dawson said softly, straining to keep his fingers from shaking so he could jot legible notes. “But why?”

  “A lot of people were angry at him.”

  “What for? What did he do?”

  Reyes exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Ever hear of Operation la Peña?”

  “No.”

  “But you know about Ernesto Fonseca, right?”

  It was Dawson’s turn to nod. “He was let out of prison because the DEA wanted to use him. They wanted someone off the books. ”

  Reyes tapped the cigarette on the lip of the overflowing ashtray and took another deep drag. “It takes fire to fight fire.”

  Dawson picked up his pen and rolled it in his fingers. “As in fight the drug cartels.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “With Fonseca out of prison, the DEA would need a legitimate cover,” Dawson said. “That’s where my father and Rancho la Peña came in.” He tapped his pen on his notebook. “You were Fonseca’s partner, from way back. The feds put you and Fonseca on death row, and some of the others in jail. Then they cut you a deal. What kind of deal?”

  Reyes turned the cigarette in his fingers and watched the smoke spiral upward. “They took us out of prison and trained us.”

  “To do what?”

  “The dirty work. Honduras, Guatemala, Colombia, and Mexico, of course.”

  “You were part of this?”

  “I came back across the river and joined Borrego. I was a hit man for him. I was the DEA’s man inside the Borrego cartel.”

  “Operation la Peña was supposed to get inside and take down the Borrego cartel?”

  Reyes nodded. “Instead, Fonseca and the rest of them began to work with Borrego, not against him. They got rich.”

  “The rest? Who are you talking about?”

  “Your father was among them. But also some big people, way up there.”

  “How far up?”

  “About as far as you can go.” Reyes took a deep drag, exhaling through his nose.

  The White House? Hardly. Congress? More likely. With 535 members of Congress, the odds were that there were more than a few bad apples, Dawson thought. But this was New Mexico and Texas. It greatly narrowed the possibilities. And then there was the bureaucracy. And law enforcement, local, state, and federal. Too many players, Garcia had said. Damned straight.

  “No one can know we met,” Reyes said, mashing his cigarette butt in the ashtray.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “If anyone finds out, people you know will die.”

  “People I know have already died.”

  “It’s just the beginning.”

  “Fonseca killed my father,” Dawson said, trying to keep it all clear. “But it was Fonseca who was working with Borrego?”

  Reyes nodded. “They got stupid. They started moving drugs and weapons for the Carrillo brothers as well. When Borrego found out, he went nuts.”

  That made sense, Dawson thought, as ugly as it was. The Carrillo brothers were the Sonora cartel, Borrego’s biggest competitor. “The shootout a few weeks ago at the Rancho la Peña border crossing,” he said. “Borrego hit Fonseca because Fonseca
was moving drugs and money for the Carrillo brothers. Borrego didn’t want anyone else involved.”

  Reyes nodded.

  “So why kill my father?”

  “He was gonna talk.”

  Dawson remembered that his father had contacted the U.S. Attorney General’s Office.

  “So Fonseca killed my father and then struck back for the shootout at the border crossing by killing Don Diego Borrego.”

  Reyes nodded again. “Fonseca thought he was cleaning house. But he went too far. He only made bigger problems.”

  Dawson stared. “The raid at the warehouse. That must have been Carlos Borrego retaliating for his father’s murder.”

  Reyes nodded.

  Dawson scribbled a few notes, his hands now steadier, then gazed at Reyes. “Why are you talking to me?”

  “I’m a dead man walking.”

  “Why is that?”

  “When Don Diego was killed, his son Carlos took over. Now Carlos is cleaning house. That means me. Garcia has promised to protect me.”

  “From Carlos?”

  “And others, too.”

  “Who?”

  “There are people in the U.S. who want this these problems to go away. Like nothing ever happened.” Reyes took a deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “The problem being Operation la Peña.”

  “But it’s too late now. It’s been going on for so long. Too many people are involved.”

  “Do you have any proof of this?”

  Reyes shrugged. “Ever heard of Alfonso Alvarez?”

  “The father of Anita Alvarez, the TV reporter.”