"It is sweet of you to offer," he told Libby, "but your friends should keep their place in line." He herded them back in line, and explained. "We'll be going by a route you won't want to take as it will be very slow. I'm sure you're in a hurry."
"No hurry," Dr. Mira Wang piped up. "We would like see your route."
Great. A friendly sightseer. And a tenacious one, at that.
"We can make suggestions and help you map out a route, but we'll be traveling without you this time, I'm afraid."
"Ansh, I'm getting ready to return your money," Libby warned. She looked him off and he retreated a step. She folded her hands as if addressing a choir. "You can ignore Anshel right now. He's gassy and embarrassed."
"I am not gassy," he maintained, as Dr. Wang gave him a studied look. He believed that her face said she suspected he might be gassy; he believed that her look confirmed a working diagnosis.
"Fifty thousand, headed your way--" Libby said.
Ansel gave in. "But I'll tell you what. Since you're visiting from another country I'm going to rearrange my schedule. We'll trade off driving, Herman and I. That way we can drive straight through."
"No good, straight through," said their companion, a man who must have been someone's father. His speech was almost free of accent. "I live in Chicago. We should get two motel rooms tonight and leave first thing tomorrow. Night-time traffic is very dangerous."
"Not any more than daytime," Ansel replied. "Afraid I must disagree with you, friend."
"Okay, then, we drive straight through. I driver number three."
"Do you men have licenses?" it occurred to Ansel to ask.
"International licenses. Very good."
He could think of no other possible ways to sidetrack Libby's display of United Nations goodwill.
"Full-size it is," he said, and stepped up to the counter for his turn.
“Full-size, mid-size, or economy?” the featureless face inquired.
“Full size. Fullest size possible.”
* * *
They made it as far as St. Louis by midnight, what with the traffic, stops and all. Libby said they should spend the night and Ansel pretended not to hear, taking the bypass around the city and increasing speed.
They traded places three times and used two different drivers, Herman and Ansel.
The women talked non-stop and decided to quit watching Oprah in favor of Ellen, stop looking for fulfillment through their children, and opt for the Fjords of Norway river cruise the next vacation. It’s just that Holy Land is too damn dangerous, they agreed. In fact, it looked as if the fivesome might be making that particular excursion as a group, possibly with a group rate.
Herman and Ansel shared very little; the father (it turned out he was Herman's father) said even less. From what little Herman had to share about his father, the old man was a foot soldier who stood alongside Chiang Kai-Shek at the siege of Shanghai and won some kind of meritorious battle ribbon the family still treasured. When Chiang departed China in 1949 for Taiwan, the father remained behind on the mainland, where Herman was born in 1950. From St. Louis to Oklahoma City, Ansel learned about the renaissance of midwifery in Hong Kong from Mira Wang, and heard enough from Herman on plastics injection processes to start his own toy factory upon return to Chicago.
* * *
Herman took the wheel in Elk City and Ansel struggled into the backseat, shut his eyes, and slept five hours. He took over at a rest stop between Amarillo and Albuquerque and Libby joined him in the front seat. They talked and drank coffee from a rest stop machine. Actually it wasn't bad and, with the hibernation in the back seat, he found himself now refreshed and alert.
His cell chimed west of Albuquerque just as they were leaving the mountains. The call was from Melinda. He could almost feel the anger even before he tapped to accept. But if he didn't let her through, it would only get worse.
So he accepted.
"I hate you," she said immediately. He could tell the words had been demanding to make their way to him.
"I'm sure you do. Uh--I'm with Libby and some friends on the highway just now. Can we talk later?"
"We could, but that never happens. Put Libby on, please."
"And I would do that why?"
"Because I want to tell her she's about to have a step-child. I'm pregnant."
"What!?"
"I told you we had to talk! You've got me pregnant and now you're fleeing the police? Cute, Ansel. Should I give them your cell number and let them geo-locate you?"
"Now hold on, Mel. We can handle this."
"Handle what?" Libby asked, a comma of coffee on her chin. "Handle what, Ansh?"
"Tell her I'm pregnant. Ask her what you should do."
"Now hold on, Mel."
"Will you stop with the 'hold on Mel'?"
"We can work this out. For the record, I want this to proceed."
"What to proceed?" asked Libby.
"What to proceed?" asked Melinda.
"You know--the situation."
He was getting daggers from Libby. She reached for the phone and he jerked it to the opposite ear, next to the window.
"What shituation, Ansh?"
"You mean you want my pregnancy to continue? Or you want us--as in you and me--to continue. Stop talking like a spy! Give it up with the code! Tell Libby I'm pregnant! She'll understand, poor thing. No, don't tell her. You've already put her through enough."
"I have? How do you figure that?"
"You don't think her stroke was your fault? Got news for you buddy. That woman would never have had a stroke if it weren't for your little go-around."
"You know," he said, "we can discuss this later." It was time to cover his tracks. Hide the ball, that was it. "So you tell Coates that I'm going to be back next week and we can talk then."
"Don't you do this, you dick!"
"I don't care what Mr. Coates says! Tell him I'll be in next week!"
"You dick--"
He clicked END CALL.
Libby sat with her arms crossed on her chest. She was looking out her window, looking into the sunrise in the rearview mirror.
"What have you done to that poor girl, Ansh? Next thing I know, you'll be telling me she's pregnant."
"It was about a client."
"Client-shmient. She's pregnant, am I right? Just yesh or no, Ansh. You owe me that much."
"It was office stuff. Who's getting hungry?"
He studied his passengers in the rearview. They all appeared asleep. All except for the father, whose faraway look reminded Ansel of the Chiang Kai-Shek connection.
"So you really knew Chiang Kai-Shek? Do you want to talk about the retreat to Taiwan?"
The old man's faraway look never changed. Libby's face in the rearview was near field. Amazing mirror, he thought. His mind had settled down with the long hours of driving and for that he was thankful.
He kicked it up to 85 MPH and rubbed his chin. He flipped the rearview mirror's high beams deflector as the sun was beaming directly into his eyes from back behind in the east.
It was going to be a long day.
They should hit the Mexican border around sundown.
18
Chapter 18
Mexican Magistrate Judge Cesar Elvis Valenzuela was the son of a Memphis longshoreman and a first grade teacher named Claudia Esmeralda.
Judge Valenzuela was tall by Mexico standards, all of six-one. At forty-two, the judge reminded Thaddeus of a Mexican middleweight challenger at the MGM Grand. He was put together, graceful, confident and well-exercised. He also exercised his mind, reading four foreign language newspapers daily.
His face was angelic and he wore his hair short on the sides and long in the back--again, the middleweight fighter look. He was educated at the University of Sonora and possessed a law degree from Universidad de Guanajuato, a highly respected Mexican law school that gobbled up five years and an additional internship of two years. He was appointed to his post by the President of Mexico and ruled his court an
d his cases fairly. However, he also was willing to supplement his meager salary by the use of what he called "stipends" from prisoners. Which meant, basically, that for $5,000 Thaddeus could purchase an expedited bail hearing. He was quick to smile and, when he met Thaddeus that first night, shook his hand firmly and welcomed him to his court, a happy smile belying his dislike of American lawbreakers.
They met in the Judge's chambers behind the courtroom in Nogales. It was close to seven o'clock by the time the single guard arrived with Thaddeus and Burton in handcuffs and leg irons. Thaddeus' paralegal Christine Susmann had arrived from Flagstaff with the ten thousand dollars and was waiting outside the court, running the engine of her car, in hopes she would soon be able to transport Thaddeus back to the States. It was a hope based on very sketchy knowledge of Mexican law and legal process.
Upon her arrival, Christine had met with the Mexican District attorney in Nogales. She learned several things, the most alarming of which was that in Mexico the judges also serve as adjuncts to the District Attorney and help the District Attorney put together cases against criminal defendants. She was also astonished to learn that Mexican law provided a presumption of guilt rather than a presumption of innocence as in American law. Thaddeus had two strikes against him and was still swinging away in the warm-up circle.
"That's right," Daniel Ortega of the DA's staff told her. "Down here you are presumed guilty if you are arrested. Your friend Mr. Murfee has been arrested on extremely serious charges. Smuggling a gun and possession of a firearm in Mexico could get him a sentence of thirty years in jail. Worst of all, the judge is helping our office in bringing charges."
Her sharp intake of breath was telling. "Thirty years? For having a gun?"
Attorney Ortega smiled. "No, madam. Not just for having. For smuggling."
"But when I read about the cartels down here it sounds like everyone is armed to the teeth."
"The bad guys are. But they are a problem that takes care of itself."
"You mean they shoot each other so no law enforcement is necessary?"
"Exactly."
"How much bail is usually required in these cases?"
"Oh, it could be twenty-five or fifty thousand dollars, U.S."
"We can do that."
"But these cases can take up to a year before charges are even filed. They can take a year to investigate. If there is no bail, your Mr. Murfee could remain our guest for many, many months while we investigate what happened here."
"Good grief."
"I know. Not good. Our law is based on Roman law and it is very unforgiving. If you know anything about the Roman church you will know that certain laws cannot be broken without terrible consequences. Mr. Murfee is presumed guilty of such a violation as we sit here. It will be very difficult for him going forward. You could call gun smuggling a mortal sin."
"Thank you for your time."
She had then proceeded on to the jail. She gave Thaddeus the upshot of what she had learned, speaking to him on a five-minute visit through the bars of his cell. She delivered the $5,000 bribe to him, which he handed off to a jailer. No receipt, nothing in writing, just gone. The alarm in the face of his usually placid paralegal rubbed off on him. He wondered if the five thousand would be considered yet another crime in and of itself. "We can only try," she said before the jailers escorted her out. He was left gripping the bars of the cell, white knuckles glowing in the dim light. He clearly was in a bad place. The other prisoners smiled among themselves. It was only a matter of time.
Now Thaddeus found himself in the judge's chambers, sitting cuffed and wearing leg irons. Across sat Judge Valenzuela. Burton slouched to his right, similarly restrained. The judge was peering through the lower portion of his bifocals, head tilted up and back, and his lips were seen to move as he read the incident report. Like most students of the law his eyes were weak from reading hundreds of thousands of pages in his studies. His blink rate increased the further down he read and Thaddeus could only hope it was unrelated to the crime charged.
He finally finished and tapped the report against the glass-top desk. "Interesting, Mr. Murfee. We will have to look into these very serious charges, I'm afraid."
"Can you give me any help?"
The judge shot him a severe look. Thaddeus could only assume the money had found its way into the jurist's hands and would hold some sway over him. Still, the look was unforgiving.
"Let me tell you how this works, Mr. Murfee. We don't want any unmet expectations here."
"Please do."
"Well, I should begin by saying, I am not your friend. I am part of the team that will investigate these papers and determine whether charges should be carried forth. Suffice it to say I am very disturbed by what I'm reading here. Some of this is very criminal in nature, hiding a gun beneath the dashboard of your car. And then attempting to bribe the border guard with $100. Just like you have attempted to bribe me with five thousand dollars."
There it was. Hanging in the air between them. Spoken, the bribe acknowledged, the legal effect of which dimmed his hope. Thaddeus strained against the handcuffs and came fully upright. He could feel Burton beside him slide further down into his chair. Thaddeus had the feeling that Burton was becoming aware he had joined the wrong team. He was trying to make himself as small as possible. Maybe even leach into the wood he occupied.
"My hope was that the court would see I'm able to pay bail. That was the full intent of the money given over to my guard."
"Nonsense. It was a bribe. I have received the funds and deposited them in an evidence bag. It will go into your file and will form part of the case against you. My guess is, we'll find your fingerprints on some of those hundred dollar bills. Now. Why don't we discuss how to lessen the impact of your sins?"
"Please, let's do."
The judge waved the guard away, who left and closed the door behind.
"Five thousand dollars is nothing."
"It is?"
"You will need twenty-five thousand dollars for me to give this case the full attention it deserves. And another fifty thousand for bail."
"Seventy-five thousand. I can have it here tomorrow or the next day at the latest."
"Excellent. Now why is this other gentleman with you?"
Burton looked down at his manacled ankles. His face said anyplace was better than here.
"This is Burton, my cellmate. I was hoping to pay his bail too, as I thought he could help me with my real purpose in coming to Mexico."
"Which is?"
"I'm looking for a man, to help him and his family move away from the border."
"This man is your friend?"
"No. He is my client."
"I understand you're an American lawyer. You practice in Flagstaff?"
"I do."
The judge nodded. "We would certainly know where to come get you if you jumped bail."
"Yes. But that won't be necessary. I will appear. And I will serve whatever sentence the court issues against me for the gun."
"Do you wish to plead guilty now? Is that what I'm hearing?"
"No, Your Honor. I should get a lawyer before getting into that."
"You are right. We will wait on a plea. If charges are even filed."
"So my bail is fifty thousand and the court fee is twenty-five thousand?"
"Yes. Cash only, no checks."
"Where do we pay it?"
"To me. Come into my office when you're ready. I will get the papers together tomorrow."
"Thank you, Judge."
"Thank you, Mr. Murfee. Now you have a good night in that cell of yours."
"Hopefully it will be the last one."
"Hopefully."
"And Mr. Burton?"
"Marijuana possession is it?"
"Yessir," Burton managed.
"Five thousand bail. No court access fee."
"Thank you, Your Honor," Thaddeus said. "We'll bring eighty thousand tomorrow or the next day, latest."
"Good night, gentlemen.
Guard!"
There were back in their cell at 8:15. The imprisoned crowd had surged and now there was no room on either bench. Thaddeus and Burton took a seat on the floor, side by side, where they would try to catch a few winks overnight.
Christine was on her way to Tucson. She would process a withdrawal at a Bank of America first thing in the morning. Then the doors to the cell would magically part, once the bribe and bail were paid up.
Thaddeus was counting the minutes.
By midnight he dozed and awoke an hour later, cold and disoriented. A new prisoner was being introduced into the cell. It appeared to be another American. The newcomer's eyes had to adjust to the dark cell, so he stood at the door that closed behind him and blinked for several minutes, adjusting.
When he could make out the numerous occupants he recognized Thaddeus as a fellow traveler, an American. He sidled over and plopped down beside him.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
Thaddeus side-eyed him. He was an odd-looking man with a flinty profile, sharp nose, sharp chin. He bobbed his head in an odd way, as if keeping time to an eccentric internal meter.
"Name, please," the man followed up.
"Thaddeus Murfee."
"I'm Ansel Largent. Know any good lawyers?"
"American or Mexican?"
"Both."
"Well," Thaddeus whispered, "we should talk in the morning. We're getting some very nasty looks from our friends trying to doze."
"Excellent," said Ansel Largent. "Now I wonder where Libby has been taken."
19
Chapter 19
Under orders from the Tijuana Cartel's young boss, Enrico Rodriguez organized a corporation under Canadian laws. It was chartered with headquarters in the Canadian Province of British Columbia and its name was Eastern Star Lines, Ltd.
Over a four day period of time, Enrico received four text messages, each from a different mobile device. He was sure they were one-use phones and didn't bother taking note of their callback numbers for he was certain they would have already been discarded or destroyed or both.
The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 8