Killing Cortez

by A. L. DeNova

  Cordero tilted his head to the fluorescent light up above and whispered to his unseen benefactor and snorted the potent whiff of that precious Columbian elixir. With equal care, he removed appropriately enough the top sheet from the paperwork Heidi had handed him. He folded the paper in half then in half again and ripped the small square. With great care, he formed the paper into a cylinder and then into a straw. He tapped the white contents with meticulous care into his palm, and sniffed the powder up his flared nostrils. He licked his hand, and rubbed the residue into his gums. He threw the straw and small bag into the toilet and flushed.

  He laid down on his wooden bench, and smiled broadly. He knew the truth. He was the winning matador, he had slain the American justice system in the grand arena. This gift was the signal that $1 million dollars had been deposited in his account. That was for his family, for keeping his mouth shut and it was independent of the verdict. He too, enjoyed his job.

  * * *

  Jacobo and Jo walked together to Sushi Uno, one block from the courthouse. The restaurant which served cheap and plentiful food was jammed with a lunch hour crowd of clerks and cops. When the punk-rock waiter asked for their order, Jo ordered only tea. “The jurors are going to eat. We can be back in court in ten minutes. I will pay the bill if you have to run. Please relax, you are giving me a heart attack,” Jacobo said.

  I’ll try,” Jo said as the waiter dumped their small order on the large table. Jo grabbed a piece of eel rolls while Jacobo picked up a crunchy shrimp roll.

  “You have good taste,” Jo said, pointing a chopstick at his selection.

  “That is what the girls tell me,” Jacobo responded. “How’s the food,” he said.

  “Sweet and spicy, like you know, Carmen,” Jo commented between bites. “I just really hope this is eel and not escargot,” she added with genuine concern.

  Buzz, buzz emanated from below the dining table. Jo flinched. Jacobo, to determine the source of the electronic vibration, slapped his own right front pocket, but his pager was silent. Buzz, buzz, buzz persisted beneath the tables. Jo choked the sushi down and retrieved the small black pager.

  “Jacobo, I have to go. It is the court. Please pay the bill, I will pay you back.”

  Jacobo stood, and touched her hand, “Jo this one is on me, I will be there as soon as I get the check.”

  “I know you well, thank you Agent Sanchez.” She left Sushi Uno, and squinted out into the blazing sunlight. She walked quickly in the direction of the federal court house.

  She flashed her U.S. Attorney credentials at the court security officer and was admitted to the courthouse. Jo punched the elevator button and smiled weakly at the other elevator passengers. The elevator stopped, the doors pulled open, and Jo lunged forward, only to have her unfamiliar high heel fall into the crevice between the elevator floor, and the courthouse.

  It was a wide crack, which separated the elevator from the floor of the building. Jo could not move her foot. This was an unfamiliar event, as unfamiliar as wearing high heels. The doors began to shut.

  Jo quickly bent down, and lifted her foot out of the stuck high heel, and then pulled the shoe wedged in the gap between the elevator shaft and the floor of the courthouse. She grabbed the black, and now scuffed high heel. She hobbled forward, like a modern-day Cinderella. She grabbed the missing shoe so she could retain the pair for trial. But the level elevator was plummeting down, away from her destination. These were precious minutes, and she was imprisoned with no escape in an elevator traveling in the opposite direction. It did always seem that the more she hurried, the more some intermediate force intervened to impede her forward travel. The elevator slammed open. She had descended to the basement. She was six floors away from the verdict.

  She stepped back to allow the new passengers to have a place in the small elevator, in time to see the manacled Defendant shuffle in. He was dressed in a well-tailored, conservative suit, complete with a wristwatch, and set off by shiny leg irons, and matching cuff links, that were in reality handcuffs.

  “Counsellor,” the United States Marshall greeted Jo. He smiled as he saw Jo in her stocking feet, carrying her high heels.

  From the basement to floor five where Mack’s courtroom was a long smelly journey, like taking the local train from mid-town Manhattan to New Jersey, thought Jo, who had worked in NYC one summer in law school.

  Despite her mishaps, Jo had beaten McJustice.

  The party could not start without her. She seriously hoped that Mack would at least wait a moment for the prosecutor and the main subject of the trial. The Defendant, Garuda, glanced right into Jo’s eyes, and smiled. Jo turned away. She did not feel lucky today, she always felt a bit oppressed in Mack’s courtroom.

  This defendant looked giddy, and looked like he was high on cocaine. Seriously, is this level of irony even possible? Jo pondered. “Ding.”

  The mechanical noises of the elevator signaled that the elevator had ascended and they had reached their destination. “Penthouse,” the Marshall said. The second Marshall held the elevator door open with his large forearm, and Jo deliberately stepped over the gap in the elevator floor and the courthouse floor, still in stocking feet.

  She stopped for a moment, to stoop and place her high heels on her feet, as the two Marshalls strode by with the Defendant, who craned his neck to smile broadly again at the young, not unattractive prosecutor. He would see her again on the street. He would remember that face and that name.

  Jo ran ahead, she was not going to be beaten by a man in chains. She pulled open the heavy doors into the courtroom. Did this door separate truth from reality, pretense from hard facts? She could hear the clink of the Defendant’s chains. She looked straight ahead, and saw a person on a raised platform, attired in a black robe, cloaked in authority. McJustice was waiting. He was not happy. He pointed silently at the wall clock, as if that meant anything, as his clock was not the correct time.

  Judge Mack then nodded at Heidi. “Well Miss Gemma, I see that you elected to attend the trial. The Court thanks you for your presence.” Jo noted, yup, he speaks of himself in the third person, always a sign of a tenuous grasp on reality “The jury has a question Counsel. Madam Clerk please call the case, and then read the question, “Mack ordered.

  She obeyed and read: “We would like to view the tractor trailer rig. We have questions after seeing the photographs.”

  Judge Mack loudly cleared his throat and then said,” Ladies, the jury would like to go on a field trip. Intrigued no doubt by both of your arguments and presentations, or maybe just plain confused, they want to see for themselves. Ms. Landwehr, what is your response?”

  “Fine with the Defense,” smiled Heidi. As usual, Heidi was all smiles, perfume, curtsies and pleasantries. Yes, she knew how to kill, and mortally wound with actions mistaken for kindness. “Rather than have the jury endure the journey out to Tecate, it is so hot, especially in July. Why not just ask our Government agents to bring the evidence- here for efficiency,” Heidi said in a light and playful tone. Heidi had last seen the truck in the impound lot in a highly dismantled state.

  “The Court hereby orders the Government to produce the tractor trailer rig forthwith, and by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow at the latest. The vehicle will be parked in front of the old Federal Courthouse. This way it will be a short walk, in sunlight to view the subtleties of the evidence.” And McJustice, was done.

  28

  Knockout

  Jo burst out to the hallway, she barreled directly into Jacobo, who had swung the courtroom door pulled by a courtroom spectator, a witness to the unfolding courtroom drama.

  Jo looked up, wobbling on her high heels, when Jacobo grabbed her firmly by the arm, and the scooped her waist with his other arm. He held her with real concern.

  Jo pulled away unnerved by her momentary vulnerability, and his closeness. She smelled his sweat and his aftershave. She felt his strength and gallantry. She did not want this man’s help. Though surely, he saved her this time from another hard,
painful fall.

  “What’s up counsellor,” Jacobo asked. “While you were enjoying lunch, the jury was up to its usual hijinks, thinking up stupid questions to waste our time, and defenses that not even Heidi thought of,” Jo said.

  Jacobo shrugged, unimpressed.

  Jo, continued, “The jury wrote a note to the judge and asked to see the tractor trailer rig.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jacobo said.

  “Judge Mack impartial arbiter of justice, immediately ordered that we have that behemoth of a truck here by 8:30 a.m. tomorrow.

  “It’s in Tecate, and I’m not sure it will even move If we can’t get that engine started, it will be quite the towing job.”

  “Listen, Jacobo, it is already 1:30 p.m. Why don’t you go to Tecate now? Check out the tractor trailer rig, and see if we can get it out here by whatever means necessary. “

  Jacobo raised his thumb to show he had it covered. “I’m going to gather up all the photos from the initial seizure. No doubt, there are discrepancies between what the truck looked like on the day of arrest, and now, after the truck has been torn apart to find the drug load,” Jacobo repeated. “I am going to call the lot right now Jo, the impound lot, to tell them to expect me. I will get the truck and trailer here, even if I have to personally drive a tow truck. I will page you at 5pm tonight to give you a status.”

  “Jacobo, I will be at the office,” said Jo. “I will call you when I leave, and then next when I have the whole rig, parked in front of the old Federal Courthouse. We will get it here tonight, and then guard it. They just do not pay me enough for this,” Jacobo said. He thought the trial was over, and now these stupid questions.

  Jo reached out, and shocked Jacobo’s hand firmly. “Agent Sanchez, thanks for catching me. You are a good man. Take good care of my evidence Special Agent.”

  Jo picked up the yellow pad where she had placed it on the old carved courthouse bench. She walked towards the stairs. After this afternoon’s adventures, she was not going near those elevators in the heels she was wearing. She wanted the exercise. She took the door labeled exit, and chose the solitude of the staircase to the crowded courthouse elevator.

  Alone in the narrow stairway, she kicked off her painful shoes, and trotted down with a smile, like the endurance athlete that she was. She did not want to see Heidi until tomorrow.

  As she descended from the top floor to the street, she reviewed her own performance; she had given it her all. She was doing the best she could do, and usually that was good enough for a victory, for a guilty. Hopefully that would be good enough, and there she was on the ground floor, pushing open the glass turnstile door to the searing sunlight. She squinted, in the bright sun, ever reminded she was in a strange half-baked town with nothing but third-rate law schools. This created a bacteria-rich petri dish even in this dry border town.

  Jo stared down the city street. Somewhere up the coast, her raucous friends were catching a wave. Was Carmen with them? Now? Surfing with any one of those predatory lesbians she surfed with? This did not comfort her racing mind, but it served as a distraction from planning her presentation.

  Jo dug into a cardboard file box filled with all the evidence from the case.

  She glanced out the window to see Heidi emerge from the building she owned with her husband. Yes, a structure that drugs and crime had built, a truly impressive achievement.

  “Crime pays, and well” her father would never acknowledge this axiom.

  Was there something more personal, more critical to this trial for her? Jo was giving it her all. Heidi seemed to be laughing, flirting and smiling into a life of maddening ease, luxury and fun at society’s expense. She could not be mad at Heidi for profiting by the rules, exploiting the system that begged for exploitation. Not everybody could be an idealist.

  Jo grabbed the stack of photos and shoved them in a large mailing envelope. She placed the bundle in her briefcase. She saw that it was 5:00 p.m. There were waves to catch, and still a bit of summer to enjoy in San Diego, and maybe even some fresh sushi to taste. She had missed lunch again. She needed a break, after going all day in the courtroom. Maybe a clearer head would give her that final push she needed to go for victory.

  She shoved an office chair under the doorknob and closed the drapes on her ceiling to floor office window. With the practice of too many one-night stands, she ripped off her clothes just slowly enough to insure she did not shred her nylons, pop any buttons, or burst any zippers. Yet in less than 60 seconds, she was standing in her bra and panties, nearly naked Justice. She was many things to many people, but of all things, Jo strove to never be a hypocrite.

  She abided strictly to the sixty second rule which provided that, once sexual activity was begun, the clothes came off as soon as possible. She peeled off more than her work clothes, you shed her prosecutors’ skin, and became a civilian lesbian surfer pulling on worn jeans, flip flops and a loose-shirt. After a trial, she tired of the confrontation and arguments. She needed a job where she could get more hugs and accolades. She climbed down six floors of cement steps and out into the San Diego sunset.

  “Maybe,” she said to herself as she walked to her car,

  “Maybe I can just be kind to people.” She fumbled for her keys, those car keys in her jeans pocket, this is such a small town where who you know seems to be so much more important than what you actually do. Jo’s head was buzzing as she walked from the bright sun into the dark parking garage, descending deeper in thought, and down cement floors filled with fumes.

  A rough hand grabbed her, as Jo was walked down a staircase. She was held her by her throat. A husky voice laughed in accented English: “Where is she?”

  “What?” answered Jo, trembling but holding it together. Pops, the detective had prepared her for this, but the big man held tight.

  The attacker continued jeering “Carmen-Yes?” Jo did not respond. “Where is she?” The burly man said. JC stood silent in the shadow of the steep stairwell and nodded yes, to the much larger man. He cold cocked Jo in the face, and she fell unconscious to the parking garage floor. Nonchalantly, Contreras and his friend strolled out to the sunlight once again, and slowly slid into the backseat of the waiting black Chevrolet Suburban.

  Jo sat up, disoriented. It was dark, and her head hurt. Jo blinked to clear her eyesight in the dim surroundings.

  The home telephone rang. A voice shouted out from a few feet away “I’ll get that!” A woman’s voice shouted. Jo looked around. She was at home, in her own bed, apparently, hours having elapsed. She had no memory of getting home, of going to bed of anything. In a moment, she remembered the questions in the parking garage stairwell, and the sudden burst of pain. “How? “Why” was her only thought.

  She felt the softness of her worn white satin sheets, that of late, had experienced more than a taste of nocturnal gymnastics. She identified the silhouette of her coffee mug on her rickety wooden bedside table. She glanced at her window, with the opaque curtains, and yes it looked to be very dark outside.

  Rosie, round and wide, called from the hallway into Jo’s bedroom. “How y’all doing, counsel?” Rosie drawled.

  “I’m alive, I guess,” came Jo’s all too uncertain response. “Did anybody call?” Jo added.

  “Are you expecting a message from the Lord?” Rosie said.

  Still lying in bed, Jo plopped her head back down on the pillow. “Rosie,” she whimpered.

  “Jo, you need to get yourself a safe job, like gang detective or fire fighter, these desk jockey jobs are just too dicey.”

  Jo sat up again. Rosie walked towards her and turned on the light at the bedside table.

  “Let’s take a look at that head of yours,” Rosie said. “They found you in the parking garage sprawled out, with a nasty, well Jo, you got quite the blow to your head. The Doctor said to watch you, and to bring you in the morning. You were conscious when I came to get you around 7 p.m. Remember?”

  Jo shook her head, “No,.” But Jo clearly remembered the moments
right before. The rough hand, the questions about Carmen. And when she woke up, she remembered feeling in her jeans front pocket. There was a number, a local number and the name: “Jacobo.”

  Jo got up on one elbow- so far so good. She found a small scrap of paper written from a yellow legal pad with a number very neatly written on it. She squinted and read the name Jacobo, in clear block letters.

  In her t-shirt and underwear, Jo shuffled to the rotary telephone hanging on the kitchen wall. Her head was spinning a bit, and her mouth was dry, but her athletic reserves carried her the fifty feet from her bedroom to the telephone.

  Jo had the yellow sheet clenched in her left hand, and read the numbers as her temple throbbed. She dialed the number on the paper. “Hey Sanchez, it’s me.”

  “Duh,” came the answer. “My wife is sleeping alone again tonight, thanks to some crappy AUSA who is running my ass off.” “Ha, ha such a comedian,” Jo responded flatly.

  “Josephina,” Sanchez said in his deep voice “the engine turned. Yeah, we got some help from an old grease monkey named Mike. He said he’s always happy to help the Good Guys. The hundred dollars we gave him was all the incentive he needed. Anyway, we’ll be driving this land ship across the desert to San Diego tonight. I just wanted to confirm that with you, McJustice’s evil plan to scuttle our prosecution has once again been foiled.”

  “I sure appreciate your overtime work Agent Sanchez,” Jo said earnestly.

  “Are you being snide again?” Sanchez said.

  “I guess, you can call that unrecognizable sincerity,” Jo replied. “I can lose my habitual Chicago sarcasm.”