by A. L. DeNova
Now fully awake, Carmen sprang from the soft bed, to silence the alarm. She was relieved she was alone, and sober. She could sort out her next move. She was in a place, and with a person, off-limits to JC and his family. It was deliciously bad luck. Jo Gemma, Josephine I. Gemma, officially was an Assistant United States Attorney, an American Federal Prosecutor.
While Mexican police, prosecutors and judges were routinely disciplined and murdered by the cartel, they had yet to touch the Americans. JC had been explained in very explicit terms: “That border means money, by crossing that border from our country into the Los Estados Unidos, our money, our profit doubles, triples and more as the product gains value - as soon as we cross that line. We kill their officials, and the border closes. They put the Marines, and every FBI on our border, which means our product does not move. No, we will not touch them in their country, but they better stay on their side. After Camerena, they get the idea,” JC had instructed her.
Carmen looked around the cozy room, into the misty summer morning. She saw a tidy lawn, a small vegetable garden, and a cascading fountain.
Like Tecate, San Diego was almost desert, but the Americans stole water, like they stole everything else. They filled their reservoirs, swimming pools, and saturated their green decorative lawns. The time had come to get something for herself. With a house full of snoozing women, came opportunity. Carmen’s time was now.
Carmen quickly pulled on Jo’s surf shop t-shirt and men’s polka dot boxers, and found rubber sandals. She slipped out the kitchen back door that led to the garden.
Gingerly, Carmen turned the knob handle of the back door, and glanced over her shoulder, to see that nothing had stirred. Her chest tightened. She closed her eyes, and prayed to Jesus and Mary. Jesus would help her hide that cocaine.
Better yet, she prayed to Jesus Malverde. She had placed that medallion, a hand-off from JC on Thursday night, down in the oil pit. The gold pendant was good luck and if her luck ran out, it was still 24 carat gold. She stepped outside to the wooden deck leading to the garden. The deck was spongy from age and termites. Silently, she closed the door. Carmen was adept and gentle. She navigated a rock path through the grass to the clapboard detached garage.
She entered through the side door to the garage. It offered a quicker alternate access. She checked the varnished brass knob, rickety after seventy-five years of use and pushed. The door moved, and Carmen let out a breath.
Carmen opened the door into a dark garage. Her heart slammed against her chest and reflexively she pushed her right hand over it to slow it down. “Chinga! Gracias” Carmen exclaimed. The Chevelle was still there. It was JC’s car. But possession is ninety-nine percent of the law, and now it was hers. He had abandoned her, the car, and the load. Was he dead, drunk or distracted? She didn’t know and at this point, she didn’t care.
Carmen unclenched her balled left fist and stared at the key she had brought with her. In the dark garage, she stepped carefully to the rear of the Chevelle.
She opened the trunk. Breathless, she pulled up the immaculate trunk upholstery and saw brick upon brick of densely packed white powder, wrapped tightly with silver electric tape. Carmen paused, listening to the stillness, to confirm there was nobody else around. She leaned down and pulled out a brick. “My parent’s house.” She said to herself, realizing the potency of this load. This one brick could pay for their house.
Carmen looked at the floor boards over the oil pit she had observed on Friday evening. Loose boards covering the old oil pit could provide a cache for the trunk’s kilos. The Jesus Malverde medallion would watch over it and keep it safe. She put the brick back with its fellows. With great precision, Carmen replaced the factory trunk upholstery. She quietly but firmly closed the trunk. She shook he head and said “Gringo flojo.” She could only hope. And pray.
Taking care not to flip-flop too loudly, Carmen paused on her return trip through the garden now dappled with the July morning lingering in fog.
In a corner near the orange California poppies, Carmen spied the mint and basil planted no doubt by Chef Rosie. She carefully twisted off a few sprigs of both, and put one and then the other to her nose. The smell of an unforeseen and unpredictable fortune.
Carmen moved into the kitchen through the back door. She looked around, perspiring. Still quiet, still dark. Carmen placed the herbs on the kitchen counter. She then bustled about the well-ordered kitchen to prepare a traditional Mexican breakfast for her hostesses.
At 7:00 a.m., Carmen rolled Rosie and a snoring Jo from slumber. After a few forceful tugs, Jo looked up, and emitted guttural sounds. It was the smells of the kitchen that motivated her to rise from the living room couch. “Mm, smells amazing,” Jo said with her eyes still shut.
With some fresh gel applied to her pink flat-top, Rosie entered her kitchen. With surprise, Rosie saw that breakfast had been made by Carmen, eggs, tortillas, cheese, and fresh coffee. Jo joined them in the small dining room off the kitchen where Rosie was busy taking a large bite of eggs. Jo poured coffee into a large mug with ‘Stanford Swim’ emblazoned on one side and redwood tree on the other. “Ugh”- Jo exhaled and stared out into the garden. In her imagination, it appeared momentarily as a primeval forest. In the early mornings with the green ferns hanging and the manicured palms trees in the back, she half-expected small dinosaurs to be hopping about sharing sustenance with the local Jack rabbits and possums.
Jo turned back to the dining room as the fog of fatigue began to lift from her consciousness with each sip of strong coffee. She blinked bleary eyed from sleep and myopia. Jo squinted without her contacts, trying to bring Carmen’s face into focus. As she remembered, it was a sight that was worth seeing with clarity.
Carmen caught the sleepy prosecutor’s eyes and flashed a white, penetrating smile.
“You are dressed up. Not going surfing this morning?”
“I will be trying to surf through the waves of Justice,” Jo said. “Today, my wetsuit is a business suit. It is a humorless hobby and the judges just don’t take you seriously if you don’t wear the proper attire and have the right equipment.”
“Oh, Jo, you know you have the right equipment,” Carmen said, not missing a beat.
Swallowing hard, Rosie chimed in “And remember Jo, Carmen went surfing with us, and she’s inspected that equipment very closely.” Rosie laughed, her pink crew cut bobbing with her head as she convulsed in laughter to the point of tears.
“Nothing like enjoying your own joke, huh Rosie,” Jo remarked.
Jo sighed with dread. “I hate Monday mornings in federal court, and I really hate today! Judge Mack! He hates me because I won’t flirt with him. He is such a bully, he goes on these long insulting tirades.” Lowering the register of her voice, Jo mocked “Next time you have this typo, I will sanction you counsel. It will be a $500 fine!” Returning to her normal voice, Jo said “Give me a break Mack.”
Carmen asked “You are in court, this morning? With a Judge Mack? What time?”
“9:00 a.m. answered Jo, sighing again.
“What kind of court do you have?” Carmen asked. “Do you mean what kind of case, or hearing?”
Jo said. “And it’s a trial, a drug trial like pretty much all of my cases and trials. It is the only thing, I guess, my bosses see as crime. You know the War on Drugs, that Reagan declared and all that,” said Jo.
“I haven’t mentioned the trial, because I really don’t like to think about it unless I absolutely have to.” She looked at her watch, thinking of her Dad, Giacomo Gemma, who had presented it to her for her college graduation. He was a cop, actually a detective, in Chicago. “Actually, it’s because of today’s trial that I was out in Tecate on Friday and ran into you and your flat tire,” Jo said.
“This trial will go very fast. Judge Mack is a Jackpot for the Defense. He is out to set a new land speed record for fastest federal trial of all time. He does not care whether Justice is done as long as it is fast, all the evidence is marked, and all the witnesses
are subpoenaed and sitting on the hard benches in the court hallway,” Jo explained.
“Aren’t judges all the same, old, rich and conservative?” Carmen asked.
“Ah Judge Mack,” Jo continued, “with his insults, threats and sanctions, maybe a job as a bus girl or dishwasher is looking better and better. There would certainly be less verbal abuse, but I just could not match this lifestyle to which I have become accustomed, “Jo laughed, gesturing to the small, sparsely furnished bungalow she shared as Rosie’s roommate.
Jo slammed down her mug, now empty and stood up. “That’s it!” She said and theatrically unbuttoned her collared blouse. “Quick, give me a black t-shirt,” Jo said as she pumped a fist into the air. I am trading in my loafers for sandals, I am becoming a full time lesbian surfer.” Rosie just stared. Carmen did not know what to say.
After polishing off a tall pile of eggs and tortillas, Rosie said,” Carmen, you known imitation is the highest form of flattery, so you got to lead me through this step by step.”
“Chilaquiles are simple, tomorrow I will teach you, Rosie,” Carmen replied.
“Eat your breakfast Jo, you need your food for your trial,” Rosie said.
Jo grabbed her pinstriped jacket and briefcase with United States Department of Justice gaudily embossed in gold on the front. Jo looked around, frantically “I need my Creds. I can’t get into the Courthouse without my Creds.”
Carmen questioned back, “Creds?”
“My United States Attorney Credentials. To prove I am the good guy, it’s in like a leather wallet with my picture in it.”
Rosie said dryly, “Try looking in your briefcase, zipper compartment on the inside.”
Jo followed directions, “Oh yeah, here it is, thanks Rosie.” “It’s already 7:30 a.m. I have to split. Just ask the courthouse guard where to find Judge Mack’s Courtroom. We should be picking a jury most of the morning. Trial starts at 8:30. He will seat twelve bodies as jurors, preferably they will be deaf, blind, and without a pulse. Ignorance of English is a big plus, they just need to reach a unanimous verdict either way, so he can log another completed trial and beat out his courthouse competition. He bet Judge Flynn he can get the record of the most jury trials presided over by a Federal judge in United States History!” Rosie shoved Jo to the red front door of their bungalow.
Jo turned, and looked right at Carmen, catching a peek of Carmen’s cleavage. For a moment, Jo lost her train of thought, distracted by the young woman’s stunning body. Jo recovered her composure and said, “The opening statements will probably start at 1:30 p.m. today, so see you then.”
Jo stepped out the front door, but before the door was closed, Carmen caught the opportunity to softly touch Jo’s neck and kiss her on the mouth. She whispered in Spanish, meeting Jo’s ear with her wet lips, “Buena suerte, Cariño.” Jo did not want to leave. She managed to shut the front door, breathing heavily. She jumped in her car and drove the two miles downhill to the U.S. Courthouse to prosecute yet another border crime.
17
Looking for A Girl
It had only taken a few days, but JC was finally where he wanted to be. He was in San Diego. But he still had not made it to the beach. On Thursday night, he expected to be at the beach in San Diego by 1:00 a.m. Friday morning. Instead, he was in San Diego, twenty hours later, but without the car, cocaine or Carmen.
Thanks to Mike at Discount Gas, he now had the name of the girl who moved the Chevelle with Carmen. He reviewed her name, it was Italian, Josephine Gemma. JC lived in a world of nicknames brimming with El Flacos, El Gordos, El Chiños, El Negros, El Blancos, El Vaqueros, and they all shared the commitment that they would go to their deaths before they would speak their true identity to the Americans. The continuity and sanctity of the family, of their wives, children, and cousins, counted more than this one human life. The money they made in the cartel would sustain the family until the final sunset.
Josephine Gemma was a name in San Diego. He had a full name and network and he had motivation.
He would trade everything for that car. He did not want anything to happen to Carmen. Not that he loved her. She was not wife material. She was no virgin, which is why she was so amazing in bed. After his meeting with El Chiño, it was obvious she had to be discarded. Perhaps, he would just let the cartel handle it for him, and he could feign ignorance and go to confession, along with all his other many sins. He didn’t owe her an explanation. Not that she would let him explain. Why couldn’t people just take things as they were? How come she never believed him about anything?
Explanations. Gringos wanted drugs. Mexico had nothing. Produced nothing. Nothing worked there, not the sanitation system, not food safety. Not the politicians, the police, nor Los Federales, the national police. Sure thing there were laws, but a crisp $20 bill in American dollars of course, was a hall pass that could make a lot happen, the best table in a restaurant, a speeding ticket forgotten, an underage prostitute procured, a counterfeit visa stamped.
JC smiled. His first one of the day. And then he wheezed in the closed Impala. If the system actually went through the bother of arresting you with a Mexican warrant, then release could be bought at a cost of about $5,000 depending on the family relationship and particularized greed of the officials. Prosecutors and judges were actually for sale.
JC sighed with satisfaction. Mayors could be persuaded. He had read in the American newspapers that it was actually the Mexican Attorney General that ordered the execution of the American Drug Enforcement Agency Special Agent Enrique Camerena. And that was the top law enforcement official in his country, it trickled down and became more insidious at the very local level. As he knew through practice, all politics were local, and in his experience, corrupt.
Laws were enforced only on those who did not already possess the key to their own escape: money and connections. As the nephew to the jefe in the organization, JC had taken a risk by crossing such a large load himself. That was one of two ways to move up in this business. The other way was less desirable. He was not blood thirsty, just as he was not risk adverse. He did not wish to make a career of killing, no judgement, just not his personal taste. He ran loads, instead.
He scraped by unprepared school, and never read anything, except Esquire Magazine, in English, so he could learn the important things, like what watch and shoes to buy and how to impress girls. He had a good natural ability with numbers and organization. Most importantly, he had a great memory and no imagination.
These gifts manifested early, when as a seven-year-old he would welcome his grandpa picking him up at school in Chula Vista and driving him to the Greyhound Racetrack at Caliente.
“You are my luck, Juan Carlos,” his grandfather would tell him. He had a full name then, as opposed to the initials that the Cartel bestowed in place of his Christian name. With some guidance from his grandfather, young Juan Carlos would choose the winning greyhounds and whippets.
The Impala came to a stop and Jose´ firmly escorted JC out of the backseat and onto a dark parking lot. A blood orange sunset dipped over the long pier to the West. As JC’s eyes adjusted to the light, he spent a half a second in a sense memory, enveloped with his grandfather, and his weekly training for manhood.
For his fourteenth birthday, he learned the truths about the family business. He learned how each advantage had been in fact, planned by a series of family, marital, and geographic connections. JC at last, understood why his parents had made meticulous arrangements to make sure he was born in the United States. Now, knee deep in recovering his lost cocaine load, it all started to make sense.
His mother, born and raised in Tecate, Mexico, made sure to hire an American doctor so that all of her children were born in a San Diego hospital. She learned early in her marriage, the precepts of the 14th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which bestowed “all persons born in the United States…citizenship.” This was his family’s most unfair advantage, easy access to market. JC’s family had no intention that they would live
in the United States, pay taxes there, or indeed abide by any one of their ridiculous laws.
For JC, America was a vacation destination, and of course, a business hub. By blood, allegiance, passion, and language, JC was one hundred per cent Mexican.
JC was bilingual, having paid attention to his schooling in San Diego, at least to the playground, and soccer field conversation. In his family, had work was rewarded abundantly. JC craved status more even than pleasure.
Riding in the smoke-filled car with Nacho, he knew that reputation in this business as in all things on this earth, was everything. In San Diego he was a criminal. In Tecate, accessorized with voluptuous girlfriends, and a wallet thick with a stack of twenty dollar bills, he was respected. And so, he was a modern-day Robin Hood, in song if not in truth. Mexican radio stations blasted the narcocorrido songs celebrating the heroics of his very own family business.
As a U.S. Citizen, he could pass back and forth across the border. With $100 in Tecate, JC was somebody. In San Diego, he was just another young Mexican, exploitable and expendable. JC did not like that. He didn’t like the way Nacho treated him either. Once he found that Chevelle, Nacho would have to stop smoking when he was around, or he would face the payback. For now, JC gasped for oxygen.
As an American citizen with roots in Mexico, he straddled two countries, two languages, two cultures, two consciences. JC did not feel like a citizen of America. When he was in San Diego, it was almost always business. He had never been farther North than South Central Los Angeles, in the city of Compton. He had gone there for a delivery.
* * *
Contreras and Nacho led the way into the loud, smoky, and crowded bar and grill.
Glancing behind, Nacho motioned that they were going up the steep wooden stairs in the rear of the restaurant. At a table with his back to the wall, facing a large window which framed the entire expanse of the Ocean Beach pier, JC caught site of the unmistakable bulk of Eduardo Chin. He was seated, but at 6’3” and 290 pounds, he was a presence that could not be mistaken nor ignored.