This caused Willy the Lion for the first time in his adult life to consciously violate the regulations—which of course have the force and effect of law—of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
For obvious reasons, a warden should not be in charge of the incarceration of a prisoner to whom he is related, or who has committed a crime against the warden, or a member of the warden’s family.
Ordinarily this poses no problem. Such a prisoner is assigned to a prison where the warden has never heard of him.
The problem here for Willy the Lion was that if ever anybody deserved to spend twenty-three hours of every day for the rest of his life in a cell furnished with a poured-concrete bed, a sink and toilet, a television screen providing educational and religious channels only, and windows that permitted a limited view of the sky, it was the miserable Mexican sonofabitch who had murdered Clarence.
Sending Félix Abrego to any other prison would give him a better life, and he did not deserve a better life.
On the other hand, if Abrego were incarcerated at ADMAX, Willy the Lion would have to leave. He could not see the justice in that. Why should he have to give up being warden of Florence ADMAX? Not only had he earned that job, no one could handle it better than he could.
So he said nothing.
If he got caught, he would watch Abrego being sent in shackles somewhere else, or he would retire.
And until something happened, Abrego would be treated exactly like every other prisoner a judge had sentenced to life without the possibility of parole and sent to Florence ADMAX.
Assistant Warden (Administration) Kurt Grosch, a stocky, nearly bald fifty-five-year-old, stood in the open door of the warden’s office and waited to be noticed.
Willy the Lion finally looked up from a thick sheaf of paper on his desk, saw Grosch, and raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve got something I thought I better show you, Warden.”
Leon waved him in.
“What have you got, Dutch?” Leon asked.
What Grosch had was an Order to Transfer Prisoner, signed by Kenneth L. Brackin, deputy director, U.S. Bureau of Prisons, ordering the transfer of Félix Abrego, register number 97593-655, from Florence ADMAX to La Tuna Federal Correctional Institution in Anthony, Texas.
“This has got to be a mistake, Dutch,” Willy the Lion said. “La Tuna is a country club.”
“I know. So what do I do?”
“Nothing. I’ll call Brackin and get him to tear this up before Waters hears about it. Waters would shit a brick, and Brackin’s a pretty good guy.”
“What do I tell the Marshals?”
“What Marshals?”
“There’s four of them, and they more or less politely ask that we hand this guy over to them as soon as we can fit that into our busy schedule. Like right now.”
“Today’s Wednesday,” Leon said. “The next JPATS flight is next Monday, right?”
The Department of Justice operated several Boeing passenger jets to move prisoners between Bureau of Prisons institutions and—primarily—illegal aliens about to be deported to the border. It was commonly known by the acronym JPATS.
“The Marshals aren’t using JPATS. They have a DOJ jet, a little one”—he searched his memory—“a Gulfstream. At Butts.”
Butts Army Airfield served Fort Carson, Colorado, a short distance from Florence ADMAX.
“What the hell is going on here, Dutch?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Willy the Lion reached for his telephone and punched in a number from memory.
“Director Waters, please, Warden Leon calling.”
After a moment, Waters came on the line.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Director . . .
“I’m fine, thank you. Yourself? Dorothy and the kids?
“I’m really sorry to bother you, but something has come up. Four Marshals have shown up here in a DOJ Gulfstream with a transfer order signed by Ken Brackin moving a life-without-parole prisoner named Félix Abrego to the La Tuna facility in Texas . . .
“Is there a problem? Yeah, there’s a problem. This guy Abrego murdered three DEA agents. Why is he being transferred to one of our more comfortable country clubs?
“Because the attorney general said so? Jesus Christ, Harry, what’s he thinking?
“I understand. Well, if it’s out of your hands, it’s out of mine. I’ll send Mr. Abrego on his way.”
He put the handset into its cradle and looked at Grosch.
“You heard that, Dutch?”
Grosch nodded.
Leon shook his head in disgust. “Waters said, ‘The question is not open for debate,’ and that this is one of those times when I have to smile and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Jesus, what the hell?”
“Give Abrego to the Marshals, Dutch, as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leon watched as Grosch left the office, and then rose from behind his desk and walked to the door, called “No calls, Doris” to his secretary, and then closed the door.
He knew what he wanted to do but had learned it was always better to think things over for two or three minutes when he was really pissed.
He took off his wristwatch and laid it on the desk in a position where he could see the sweep of the second hand. He watched as the hand made three revolutions.
Then he went to his laptop computer, clicked on his address book, found the name he wanted, and punched the number in his personal cell phone.
“Roscoe,” he said into the phone a moment later, “this is Bill Leon, the warden of the ADMAX prison in Colorado. Do you remember me?”
[THREE]
Apartment 606
The Watergate Apartments
2639 I Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1615 18 April 2007
Roscoe J. Danton, of the Washington Times-Post Writers Syndicate, and John David Parker, the newly appointed director of public relations of the LCBF Corporation, had tested their theory that the President’s firing of his press secretary was now old news and that it was therefore safe for Porky to move about Washington without having to dodge the White House Press Corps by having a drink at the Old Ebbitt Grill.
There had been half a dozen members of that elite body in the bar refreshing themselves after Mr. Clemens McCarthy’s afternoon briefing. Only two of them had even acknowledged Porky’s presence with so much as a nod.
Porky was indeed yesterday’s news.
That test had told them that it was safe for Porky to go back to his apartment in the Verizon, which had the added benefit that he would no longer be Roscoe’s roommate.
It wasn’t that Roscoe didn’t like Porky. Surprising to both of them was the fact that they had become quite close since President Clendennen had ordered Porky off his helicopter and Roscoe had offered him a ride home from Langley. But Porky’s presence in the apartment obviously prevented Roscoe from entertaining overnight female guests.
As Roscoe thought of it, he was a lover, not an exhibitionist.
So after having a second Bloody Mary in the Old Ebbitt, they had taken a cab to Roscoe’s apartment in the Watergate so that Porky could pick up his things.
The phone was ringing when they walked in.
“What the hell was that all about?” Porky asked when Roscoe had hung up.
“I was about to say I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“That would be a lot funnier if I hadn’t heard it before,” Porky replied.
“But then I realized you’re sort of a probationary member of the Merry Outlaws,” Roscoe went on, “so I guess you get a pass. That was J. William ‘Willy the Lion’ Leon. He’s the warden of the ADMAX prison in Colorado.”
“And?”
Roscoe told him what Willy the Lion had told him.
“So what are you going to do?”
Roscoe consulted his cell phone’s address book and dialed a number.
“Roscoe J. Danton of the Times-Post for the att
orney general . . .
“Well, I’m sorry he’s not available at the moment. When he becomes available, will you be good enough to tell him I tried to call him before I went on Wolf News to tell J. Pastor Jones’s three million viewers the attorney general’s version of the story I’ve got that he personally just moved a guy doing life without parole in Florence ADMAX for killing three DEA agents to a country club in Texas . . .
“Yeah, I’ll hold for a minute.”
Roscoe met Porky’s eyes.
Porky grinned knowingly as Roscoe, then said: “And how are you this afternoon, Mr. Attorney General?
“What have I got? I’ll tell you.”
He did so.
“You know I can’t tell you where I got that, Mr. Attorney General. That would be what they call revealing a source. I don’t do that . . .
“Whether you find it hard to believe or not, Mr. Attorney General, I know it’s true. I even have the prisoner’s name. One Félix Abrego . . .
“Will I do you a favor? That depends on the favor . . .
“Yeah, as a favor, you’ve always been straight with me, I can sit on this for a couple of hours—say, until Andy McClarren’s Straight Scoop goes on Wolf News at nine—while you get to the bottom of this. Let me give you my cell phone number.”
He broke the connection and turned to Porky Parker. “Whatever it is, Porky, I just touched a nerve.”
“Do you have to call me ‘Porky’?”
“If I didn’t, I’d have to kill you,” Danton said.
“Oh, shit,” Parker replied.
[FOUR]
1625 18 April 2007
“Warden Leon.”
“This is Stanley Crenshaw, Warden Leon. I’m glad I caught you.”
“You just barely did, Mr. Attorney General. I was about to call it a day.”
“Warden, have you been talking to Roscoe Danton?”
“To who, Mr. Attorney General?”
“Roscoe Danton. Roscoe J. Danton. The Washington Times-Post reporter. The one who’s always on Wolf News.”
“Oh, yeah. I know who he is.”
“You have been talking to him?”
“No, sir, Mr. Attorney General. I was trying to say I know who he is. Has he been trying to talk to me? I’ve been in the office all afternoon. Is something wrong?”
“What do you know about the transfer of Félix Abrego from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility in Texas?”
“Oh. Now I understand. So there was a mix-up.”
“Excuse me?”
“When that transfer order came in, I thought there was something not quite kosher, transferring someone like Abrego from here to a country club like La Tuna, so I called Director Waters and asked him. He assured me that everything was hunky-dory, that you had personally authorized the transfer, so I told my assistant warden to turn the prisoner over to the U.S. Marshals you sent out here.”
“And when will this prisoner actually be transferred, Warden Leon?”
“He’s on his way to the La Tuna facility as we speak, Mr. Attorney General.”
“Warden Leon, if Mr. Danton or any other journalist calls you out there, don’t be available. Refer them to me. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t answer any questions. Don’t say anything at all.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Attorney General.”
[FIVE]
1635 18 April 2007
The attorney general began his conversation with the director of Central Intelligence with no preliminaries whatsoever.
“Frank, Roscoe J. Danton just called me, and after I was very nice to him—damn near groveled at his feet—he gave me until five minutes to nine to explain why Félix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to that country club prison in Texas. Otherwise, at nine tonight he goes on Wolf News—on Andy McClarren’s Straight Scoop—with what he’s got.”
“I wonder how he found out,” the DCI mused.
The attorney general of course had already given that question a good deal of thought. After talking with Warden Leon, he had decided it wasn’t Leon.
Then who?
His suspicions finally settled on the U.S. Marshals he had sent to Florence ADMAX. For one thing, since they were transferring Abrego, they knew about it. For another—the U.S. Marshal Service was the oldest federal law enforcement agency; it had been founded in 1789 and its members had an unfortunate tendency to regard themselves as the Knights Templar of federal law enforcement—they often tattled to the attorney general on what they thought of as less than pure activities of other agencies. Since they couldn’t tattle on the man himself who had ordered Abrego’s very questionable transfer—the attorney general—they had gone to Roscoe J. Danton.
Who would certainly recognize a damn good story when one was dumped in his lap.
“I have no idea,” Stanley Crenshaw said. “All I know is that he knows, and is about to go on Wolf News and tell the world. What do I do?”
“I just had a thought,” Frank Lammelle said. “I’m not supposed to know that Abrego is going to be swapped for Ferris. The President told you and Natalie Cohen, and maybe Schmidt, but I guess he doesn’t think I have the need to know. That raises the question ‘Did he tell Montvale or Truman Ellsworth?’ Keep that it mind when you’re talking to him.”
“Okay, so I’m telling you now. And now that you know, what should I do?”
“Are you sure you want to tell me, Stanley? Clendennen’s liable to consider that a breach of trust.”
The attorney general considered that for a moment.
“Okay, I didn’t tell you. Who did tell you?”
“If I answered that, that would be a breach of trust.”
“Shit,” the attorney general said, and broke the connection.
[SIX]
1645 18 April 2007
“The President’s line, Agent Mulligan.”
“This is Stanley Crenshaw, Mulligan. Is the President available?”
“Does the President expect your call, Mr. Crenshaw?”
“Please tell the President I have to speak to him.”
“I’ll see if he’s free.”
A moment later, there was another voice on the line.
“This is Clemens McCarthy, Mr. Crenshaw. The President is not available at the moment. He asked me to take a message, and he’ll try to get back to you.”
I’m the attorney general of the United States. When I call the President, I want to speak to him, not his goddamn press agent.
“Actually, McCarthy, we might not have to bother President Clendennen with this. This is really in your area of responsibility.”
“What would that be, Mr. Crenshaw?”
“Roscoe J. Danton called me just now and gave me until five minutes of nine to tell him why Félix Abrego is being transferred from Florence ADMAX to the La Tuna facility near El Paso. Otherwise he says he’s going on The Straight Scoop with Andy McClarren at nine with what he’s got.”
“And what does he think he has?”
“That the convicted murderer of three DEA agents is being transferred to a minimum-security institution.”
“How does he know that?”
“I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I know, and asking what I should do about Mr. Danton.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Twenty seconds later, the President of the United States barked: “What the hell is going on, Crenshaw?”
The attorney general told him.
“I want to know who told that sonofabitch Danton about the transfer!”
“I have no idea, Mr. President.”
“Well, some disloyal sonofabitch obviously did, and I want to know who.”
“Mr. President, I have no idea.”
“Goddamn it, you should! You’re the attorney general; you’re in charge of the FBI. I don’t care what you or Mark Schmidt have to do, just find out what disloyal sonofabitch did this to me.”
“Yes, sir. And what would you like me
to say to Mr. Danton, Mr. President?”
The President considered the question for a long moment. “I’m going to let McCarthy handle that,” he said finally. “But you and Schmidt get your asses over here right now. McCarthy might need you.”
The President hung up.
[SEVEN]
1650 18 April 2007
“Good afternoon, Madam Secretary,” the DCI said. “And how were things in sunny Meh-hee-co?”
“Why does your ebullience worry me, Frank?” Natalie Cohen replied.
“The problem of swapping Colonel Ferris for Félix Abrego may be solved. I just got off the phone with Stanley Crenshaw. He is probably at this moment telling the President what he told me.”
“Which was?”
“Roscoe J. Danton gave him until five minutes to nine tonight to explain why ol’ Félix has been transferred to the La Tuna Country Club, otherwise he goes on The Straight Scoop with Andy McClarren and tells the world.”
Cohen didn’t reply.
“I take back all the unkind things I ever said about devious diplomats,” Lammelle said. “That was pure genius.”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“Well, Clendennen can’t send Abrego to Mexico now, can he?”
“How did Danton find out?” she asked.
“What is that, ‘credible deniability’? Your secret is safe with me, Natalie.”
“I didn’t tell Danton, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.”
“Then who the hell did? That’s a very interesting question, Natalie. Who knew besides Stanley and me? And possibly Mark Schmidt?”
“I was not taken into the President’s confidence in this matter. I heard it from Schmidt. Do you think Schmidt told Roscoe?”
“No. That would be committing career suicide,” he said. “And he likes being director. That leaves Stanley, and that doesn’t make sense. Did Montvale know? Or Truman Ellsworth?”
Covert Warriors Page 25