by Glenn Trust
“Yes, yes, a minute,” Rivera muttered, pulling out his cell phone for the hundredth time, hoping from some call from his men. “One of the joys of being a young man. A pee that lasts only a minute.”
A small sandy trail led into a grove of pines. Guzman turned off the road, drove in a hundred yards and pulled to the side. “I’ll be quick.”
“Yes, yes.” Rivera scrolled through screens on his smart phone searching for a missed call or text message. “I know only a minute.”
Guzman smiled and walked from the big SUV they had rented at the Tampa airport. Stopping twenty feet away, he turned and faced the car. Rivera saw him standing there, not peeing and wondered what he was doing. The smile was gone from Guzman’s face, replaced by a look of…what…resignation…regret. He looked at the ground, not moving.
“Hello Ed.”
Rivera looked to his right, startled. “But…”
“No buts, Ed…Eduardo…Patron…Jefe…” The man with the gun smiled into the Cuban’s startled face. “Miss a call?”
Eduardo Rivera made no reply. He turned his head and looked through the windshield at Guzman, still staring at the ground, ignoring what was happening at the car. He must be aware, he thought. He knows what the American wants. Rivera opened his mouth to call out. The bullet entered behind his right ear and exited above his left eye taking a large piece of skull and part of his eye with it.
Ramon Guzman looked up into the smiling eyes of Roy Budroe. He retrieved his bags from the rental car, trying not to look at Eduardo Rivera’s mangled face and to control the shaking of his hands.
Budroe’s smile broadened at the look of fear on Guzman’s face. He let it remain there for a few seconds before he spoke.
“Don’t worry, Ray. I’m not going to kill you, at least not yet. You passed a test. Let’s call it an initiation, like joining one of your college fraternities. We’re going to be partners, again.” The smile was back. “But you will be a very junior partner. ¿Comprendes?”
Guzman nodded.
“Good. Let’s get moving.” He motioned Guzman towards the entrance of the dirt trail where he had parked an old Chrysler. He had traded for it with an old man at a bar outside Valdosta the night before, after leaving Jake Beery lying on the road in Meacham County.
The old man would be very unhappy when he was stopped and surrounded by police driving Roy Budroe’s Cadillac a day later. Guns drawn, the officers pulled him out of the car and put him on the ground in handcuffs. It didn’t take long for them to realize that he was not Budroe.
Investigators were able to determine that Budroe had headed west on I-10. The Chrysler was found in a used car lot outside Mobile, Alabama. The owner said that a heavyset man in the company of a well-dressed Hispanic man had traded the Chrysler, and paid cash for a minivan with low miles. They got a hell of a deal according to the used car salesman.
The trail went cold after Mobile. It would be several weeks before the minivan was found at another used car dealer on the outskirts of Houston. Picking out an old rusted pickup, Budroe made an even swap, the minivan for the truck. That night over beers, the salesman figured he was the best used car trader in Texas and bought a round for the house.
Stopping in San Antonio, Budroe had the four-wheel drive pickup serviced completely. He wanted no mechanical problems. Breaking down on the next leg of their journey could have devastating results.
Taking back roads, they moved southwest from San Antonio. They crossed the border into Piedras Negras in the Mexican State of Coahuila at Eagle Pass, Texas. The heavyset American and his Spanish-speaking companion said they were going down to Mexico for some fun and relaxation. Budroe winked at the border agent who looked at their passports indifferently and then handed them back. Robert Milton and Ramon Guzman did not show up on any list of persons wanted, or to be detained. They were no one of interest. He motioned them on with a nod, and Budroe pocketed the false passport he carried routinely, for occasions like this. Such a precaution was unnecessary for Guzman, at least on this trip. He was unknown to authorities.
Driving south, they made their way to Mexico City. Guzman’s Spanish, even with its distinctive Caribbean accent was a handy thing, Budroe thought. He figured he would have to pick up some Spanish so that he knew what Guzman was saying. His trust only went so far. For now, they were linked at the hip.
After the border crossing, airport immigrations and security in Mexico City were a piece of cake. They flew first class, arriving at Luis Munoz Marin International Airport in San Juan. Guzman had suggested that they fly to Trinidad, Rivera’s base of operations, and argued that he could take over Rivera’s operation there on behalf of his partner. Budroe had no illusions about Guzman’s motives. Aware that Rivera had extensive assets on Trinidad, he was reluctant to turn Guzman loose in a place where he could organize those assets against Budroe.
“Don’t do me any favors,” Budroe had laughed. “Maybe I’m just a redneck from the country, but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”
Budroe decided on Puerto Rico as a temporary base, far enough away so that he could disappear for a while and close enough to the States to begin to reorganize. They checked into a resort hotel outside San Juan and made themselves comfortable.
There were arrangements to be made. Funds to access in offshore accounts, new identities, and more permanent headquarters, all were on Budroe’s to do list. He may not be able to return to Georgia, but Roy Budroe was far from finished with his criminal enterprise. And Guzman was the perfect assistant, as long as Budroe didn’t let him out of his sight.
Sitting with Guzman in the hotel’s lobby bar that evening, Budroe made a call.
“You know who this is?”
Lonna MacIntyre recognized the voice immediately. Yes.” She knew better than to say more.
“You run things, Go legitimate. Clean it up. Make Davies think he won.”
“Okay.”
“Any word on the chief deputy of Pickham County?”
“He’s still around.” Lonna hesitated, and then added. “Boss is not.”
“Right.” Budroe said nothing for a moment. Mackey around and Stimes was not. Budroe had no doubts about what that meant. “I’ll be in touch. You just mind things there. This isn’t over.” Budroe ended the call and sat back in the leather chair looking out at the setting sun, thinking.
****
The chartered jet, paid for by the governor’s office flew the girls to Atlanta. Governor Bell was making the most of the successful conclusion of the undercover operation. With the Attorney General’s pending investigation of Shaklee and Mackey in the background, he needed as many trump cards as possible.
Juanita Lopez was met at the general aviation terminal at the Hartsfield - Jackson airport by her parents. Manny and Anita Lopez beamed at their daughter, throwing their arms around her, drowning her in their kisses and tears.
Gina Sanchez stood beside Ricky waiting. When Juanita was able to break loose from her parents, she reached out to Gina and held her close. Standing together sobbing they said nothing for a while. After some minutes had passed, Juanita whispered in Gina’s ear.
“I am so sorry, Mama Gina. So sorry,” She sobbed. “I loved Bobby so much.” There was nothing else to say.
Seeing Ricky Sanchez standing near, his eyes wet with his own tears, Juanita extended her arm. He moved closer and the three embraced, not wanting to break contact, not wanting to lose the last memory of Bobby and all that he was, all that he could have been.
When the embrace did end, the Lopez family took their daughter home, all thoughts of celebration subdued by their shared grief for Bobby Sanchez. Gina and Ricky Sanchez drove home together. Ricky made a supper of scrambled eggs for his mother and then put her to bed with two sleeping tablets her doctor had prescribed. The lack of sleep since the death of Bobby was wearing on her health. She was aging by the day, in front of Ricky.
Waiting until his mother had drifted into a fitful slumber, Ricky Sanchez picked up
his jacket and went out. He had an appointment.
Wheeling the Camaro through streets damp from a light rain that had begun falling in the afternoon, Ricky stared vacantly at the tracks left by the wipers on the windshield as he drove. Pulling into the lot of the small bar on Moreland Avenue, he cut the engine and sat for a moment. A large black man stood at the door watching him through the rain-streaked glass.
Ricky walked up to the front door, the red neon signs in the shape of topless girls in the window casting a pink glow over everything. The black bouncer at the door looked pink, Ricky looked pink, and the twenty-dollar bill he handed the bouncer looked pink.
The bouncer nodded and opened the door. The man waiting for him at the bar did not turn as Ricky sat beside him and ordered a beer.
“How is Hernando?”
Freddy Ortega spoke without looking at Ricky. “Not good, Ricky. Not good.” He sipped a beer. “He killed some skinhead. Looks like they gonna find him guilty for knifing an asshole that would have cut him into pieces just for being alive. He’s in Fulton County now, but he’s a three-time loser. He loses in court, they send him to Reidsville for the rest of his life.” He placed the bottle down on the bar and looked straight ahead. “Or they will move him to Jackson and kill him. He knows it. We all know it.”
“I’m sorry Freddy.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Ricky. Hernando is my brother, but he’s mean. We all knew it would come to this. It’s killing my mother though.”
Ricky nodded. He knew about a mother’s pain.
“And his family? Wife and children. He has three doesn’t he?”
“Yes, three. Lorena is a good mother, but it’s a struggle, alone with no man, no money.”
Sitting side by side at the bar, they sipped their beers without speaking for several minutes. Ricky paid the tab and stood up. “Does he know where they are?”
“Yes. He see’s them around.” Freddy nodded. “Don’t worry about anything, Ricky.”
Walking back out into the damp, drizzle, Ricky looked at the raindrops sparkling pink in the neon lights. The color was wrong, as if the world was out of balance somehow. It had been out of balance since Bobby was killed. Maybe he could bring things back into balance a little.
****
It was a good day. The sun was out. They could use the outdoor rec area in the Fulton County lockup. Darren Tuxton was going to shoot some hoops.
It was not his first time in the Fulton County Jail, but it might be his last. When he left here after trial, he knew that he would end up in Reidsville until he was a very old man or maybe for life. Being complicit in the death of Dale’s two dumb jock friends, was one thing, but selling a girl, that was something else. The whole slavery thing…human trafficking they called it… dominated the press.
Human trafficking, like they were selling dope, or stolen cars or some shit and not people. Even Darren thought the term was bullshit. The news on the television had it right. They were selling people, girls. That was slavery, and the fucking governor was making sure that no one forgot about it. His lawyer was not excited about their chances in court. Neither was Darren, but at least he didn’t have to face that crazy ass motherfucker, Ricky Sanchez.
He walked out onto the asphalt where a small group had gathered with a couple of basketballs. They were tossing the balls at the goal, bouncing them off the backboard. None seemed to make their way through the rim. Shaking his head derisively, he knelt to lace up his Nikes. Spics. What did they know about b-ball?
Looking up at the sun that had suddenly disappeared, he saw the circle of men around him, close, facing out away from him. After the bright afternoon sun, it felt dark and suddenly cold inside the circle. One of the Hispanics that had been throwing balls at the hoop knelt beside him.
“Hi, Darren,” he said smiling. “Ricky Sanchez wanted you to have this.”
Hernando Ortega’s right arm moved rapidly. Thick and muscular, he was a prison body builder, lifting weights for years in the various lockups and prisons he had inhabited and survived. The needle sharp point of the filed toothbrush sank into Darren's side as if it was greased with hot butter, and then again three more times in quick succession.
Standing quickly, Hernando moved away with the group of men in the circle before the blood pooled, and he got it on his clothes. He wiped the little blood on his hands on Darren’s shirt as he stood.
The first blow had pushed the toothbrush through Darren’s lower back rupturing his spleen and puncturing his intestines. The next three were higher, piercing his lungs and aorta, and finally lodging in the left ventricle of his heart. Darren Tuxton was dead before the first correctional officer made it to his body.
The subsequent investigation revealed that none of the eleven men on the basketball court saw anything. The security cameras pointed at the court, had recorded the men standing in a circle, all dressed alike, all of about the same size, all looking at the ground, not showing their faces. Then the men did a sort of shuffle dance, squatting and standing moving in and out. It looked comical, but it was effective. There were ten men in the circle, but eleven on the court afterwards. It was impossible to tell which had knelt beside Darren and taken his life.
It seemed Darren Tuxton was miraculously killed by an invisible avenging angel. At least that was the joke among the inmates.
Dale Tuxton, skilled position player and criminal mastermind, heard about his brother. He was moved that day to isolation. He never played basketball again or did much of anything except hide in his cell. He never wanted to.
****
The envelopes arrived usually on a Sunday, handed to her in church after mass by a friend of a friend of a friend. She never knew where they came from. The amount inside varied from several hundred dollars to thousands sometimes around the holidays or when it was one of the children’s birthdays.
Lorena Ortega never asked questions. Asking questions might make the money in the envelopes stop. She accepted it gratefully. It was hard raising children alone, with no man.
She wondered sometimes what Hernando had done, but never asked on visits to Reidsville. Everyone knew it would come to this, that he would spend the rest of his life in prison. Everyone knew he was mean, but Hernando was a good provider.
****
Standing to the right and slightly behind Governor Jesse Bell, Bob Shaklee was more than a little uncomfortable. Bell had called the press conference to reveal the successful operation the Office of Special Investigations had conducted, breaking up the human trafficking, sex slave ring.
He went to some length to describe the leadership of Shaklee and the courage and dedication of the OSI team. They were professionals, tasked to hunt down the worst criminals plaguing our society. They were protectors of the rights of the citizens of Georgia. They were heroes.
Special mention was given to Andrew Barnes, formerly of Atlanta Homicide. As the lead undercover officer, Barnes had been in jeopardy throughout the operation. He had almost lost his life, protecting the abducted girls. The State of Georgia and its citizens were fortunate to have men like Andrew Barnes in their service.
Moving to the contributions of George Mackey, the governor explained how Mackey had uncovered the involvement in the ring of Boswell Stimes, a corrupt Pickham County deputy. It was Stimes who had beaten and tortured Andrew Barnes.
The governor further described how Mackey had tracked Stimes during his attempt to escape and then, at great risk to himself, had attempted to subdue Stimes, a powerful man, in the dark, alone in the swamp. Unfortunately, Stimes would not submit to the arrest, and the confrontation had led to his death. But we were fortunate and grateful to George Mackey for his courage and willingness to put himself at risk to bring about justice, for the girls, their families, the people of Georgia and for Andrew Barnes.
The governor’s statement ended. There was time for a few questions from the press. The governor recognized a reporter from the newspaper in Tilts County, his lifelong home before his rise in stat
e politics.
“Governor Bell, isn’t it true that Agent Shaklee and Chief Deputy Mackey, members of your OSI team are currently under investigation and possible indictment by the Attorney General?”
Bell smiled and nodded at the reporter, a long-time acquaintance and friend. The question had to be asked. Bell had known the question was coming and had agreed to allow this reporter to ask it.
“Yes, that’s true.” Bell shook his head sadly, the smile fading from his face. “It is also true, Jerry that politics sometimes brings out the worst in people.” He looked around the gathering, staring firmly into the cameras, flashes going off in rapid succession as he paused. “As you know, Attorney General Swain is planning a run for this office in the next election. I hope his motives are more honest than that, but I have to say that to attack the character and to dirty the names of these heroes at a time like this does raise the question, doesn’t it?”
“What question is that, Governor?” The reporter followed up without being recognized by the governor. Others in the room thought it seemed scripted.
“The question is simple. Is the Attorney General’s investigation part of some effort to sully the reputation of this administration, of my office and those appointed by me to do this great service for the State of Georgia?” He sighed. “I find it very sad.” Looking around the room, he said. “Next question.”
The press conference lasted another thirty minutes. Bob Shaklee fielded a number of questions about the undercover operation and investigation. He answered almost all of them the same way. “The investigation is ongoing and prosecution of the case is pending. The details will be revealed in court. Not before. No Comment”
The questions moved to how Shaklee had chosen his OSI team. Most of the reporters were satisfied and understood.
The governor was hoping that Shaklee would relent and provide a few dramatic details once the cameras flashed in front of him. Jesse Bell had seen the camera effect before, coaxing statements from people who were disinclined to speak. But Bob Shaklee was not other people. As he had promised, he did not comment on the specifics of the undercover operation or the pending investigation into his review and findings in George Mackey’s shooting of the killer in the north Georgia Mountains.