Death's White Horses: A Jeff Trask Crime Drama (Jeff Trask crime drama series Book 3)

by Marc Rainer

  Once the door was closed, Carter pulled the DVD from his jacket pocket. "You both need to see this. It's the surveillance video from the racquet club office. Once Adipietro entered his guilty plea, I didn't see any harm looking at it. Bear, advance the timer to just before the seven minute mark."

  Doroz took the disc and inserted it into his desk computer. The image flickered to life on the screen, showing an empty office at first. Doroz fast-forwarded the video, resuming normal speed when the timer indicated six minutes and fifty seconds.

  The video was from an elevated corner angle looking across the room toward Adipietro's desk. The club owner was sitting at his desk at first, then looking up as two people entered the room. A man and a young woman, both with their backs to the camera, stood talking with Adipietro, who remained seated at his desk. After about twenty seconds, Adipietro reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small, clear envelope.

  "Freeze it there and zoom in," Carter said.

  Doroz followed the directions. A close-up view of Adipietro's hand showed that the little baggie contained a white powder.

  "Now back out and push play," Carter said.

  The video resumed. The man with his back to the camera handed the heroin to the woman. He shook hands with Adipietro, then the couple turned to leave and faced the camera for the first time.

  "That's Janie Heidelberg!" Trask exclaimed.

  "Yes. And look at her escort," Carter said. "Zoom in on his face, Bear."

  Doroz enlarged the frozen image of the man's face. "Holy shit," he said.

  Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  December 3, 2012, 9:00 a.m.

  Trask sat with Ross Eastman in the waiting room outside the senator's office. Trask was holding a laptop computer.

  "Are you sure about this?" Eastman asked.

  "I made the man a promise, Ross. He is the girl's father."

  "I suppose there's no other way."

  Heidelberg opened the door and waved them in. He waited for them, and shook their hands as they entered the office.

  "Amazing work, you've done, Mr. Trask. Working around our extradition problem as well. I fully expected the new government in Mexico to be raising hell about your capital case against Dominguez, but they haven't made a sound."

  "I don't think they care to protect any members of the Zetas, Senator," Trask said.

  "I see. I understand you have some more personal updates for me?"

  Trask put the copy of the disc in the laptop.

  "Before I show you this, Senator, understand that without the cooperation of Joe Adipietro, we could not introduce this into evidence at any court proceeding. We think it was taken by a surveillance camera in his office. When we executed the search warrant on that office, the holes in the wall from the camera mounts were visible, but even the camera had been removed, We found the original of this disc in Adipietro's safe deposit box at his bank.

  "Our rules of evidence require the authentication of a photograph or film by someone with personal knowledge of the scene. That witness would have to testify that the scene shown was accurately depicted by the photograph or film. Without such a witness, this has no evidentiary value."

  "You're saying you'd have to cut a deal with Adipietro."

  "That's correct, sir, and he's told us he's not willing to testify, even if we offered him one."

  "I see."

  Trask looked at Eastman, who nodded. Trask walked to the side of Heidelberg's desk and played the video. The old man leaned forward, concentrating hard on the computer screen, and shaking his head. Trask stopped the video.

  The senator sat back in his chair, stunned, his hands over his face.

  "Has anyone outside your investigative team seen this?" he finally asked.

  "No sir. I promised that you'd be the first to know."

  Heidelberg nodded. "Thank you both. I'm very grateful for all your efforts. If you'll please excuse me now?"

  "Of course," Eastman said as he and Trask stood.

  Waldorf, Maryland

  December 5, 2012, 7:05 p.m.

  "It's the committee's last hearing session before the Christmas break," Trask said.

  The television was again tuned to C-Span. The Senate Foreign Relations Committee was still trying to hash out some last minute funding for the troops in Afghanistan.

  "I can't believe he's sitting there so composed, knowing what he knows now," Lynn said.

  Heidelberg, the chair of the committee, sat at his usual center spot, flanked by Senator Graves, the ranking member of the majority party, and Senator Anderson, the minority's ranking member. Heidelberg gaveled the session to order.

  "I'd like to thank all the members of the committee for coming to what I honestly believe to be an equitable and bipartisan solution which will guarantee that our brave men and women in the field in the Afghan theater of operations will receive everything they need to complete this vital mission," Heidelberg said. "And I'd like to also take this opportunity to personally thank some individual members of the committee for their critical contributions to the crafting of this compromise."

  "Do you think he'll just spring it as a political torpedo?" Lynn asked. "The guy is up for re-election this year isn't he?"

  "He is, and that's certainly one strong possibility," Trask agreed.

  "And now for the true architects of this agreement," Heidelberg said. "Senators Graves and Anderson, the ranking members of this committee, who set aside all political concerns in order to reach the goals of this committee. Gentlemen, I'd like to shake each of your hands."

  "Incredible," Lynn said, shaking her head.

  Heidelberg stood and first turned to Graves, giving him a hearty handshake, smiling for the camera, and then slapping Graves on the shoulder. He turned to Anderson, again mugging for the camera during the handshake, and reaching for what appeared to be a playful hug with his left hand around Anderson's shoulder. Once that hug was made, however, Heidelberg never let go, and his right hand was suddenly holding a gun to Anderson's throat.

  "Oh my God!" Lynn gasped.

  "Everyone stay back," Heidelberg warned, backing away from the table with his hostage. "No one else needs to get hurt today. No one but the rattlesnake I'm holding who ate dinners in my home, called himself my friend, and then poisoned my little girl."

  Trask heard screams from the television, and saw staffers running for the wings of the table as Heidelberg backed up toward the wall.

  "I'm sorry, Hugh. I never meant that to happen, you've got to believe that," Anderson whimpered. "I loved Janie. I really did."

  "Shut up!" Heidelberg growled. "She was less than half your age, Bob. You used her, and you fed her the heroin that killed her, you son of a bitch. I've sent a video to the media. It shows you giving her the dope."

  The first shot that Heidelberg fired traveled upward through Anderson's lower jaw, entered his skull through the soft palate, and exited the top of his head. The second shot traveled a similar route through Heidelberg's own brain. The C-Span feed suddenly went black.

  Trask stared at the blank screen and shook his head. "It just never stops."

  555 4th Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  January 30, 2013

  Trask looked up from his desk when he sensed someone standing in the doorway. "Hello, Digger." He remained seated.

  "I would have thought that by now you'd have called, Jeff. I think you owe me an apology. I also think you got a good man killed, and I'm not happy about that."

  Trask leaned back and stared at Graves for a moment.

  "I'm a United States Senator, dammit!" Graves shouted. "The least you could do is stand up when I come into your office!"

  "I'm comfortable where I am, Senator," Trask said. "You're welcome to have a seat if you like."

  Graves stood a moment longer before snorting and then dropping into one of the modest chairs facing Trask's desk.

  "Can I get you some coffee or something?" Trask asked
.

  "You are insufferable, Jeff. Still no apology?"

  "I don't owe you one, Digger. I was doing my job, that's all. If it's any consolation to you, I was very happy that you weren't the one on that video."

  "That's comforting." The sarcasm was heavy in Graves' voice. "I am not at all happy about the way you've handled this whole thing."

  Trask had had enough. He leaned forward in his chair. "Get this straight, Senator. I am not at all happy with your conduct in this whole thing."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "The fact that you still don't have a clue makes my point. You guys are sent up here to represent the people, then all of a sudden the rules that we poor mortals have to obey just don't apply to you anymore. You stick your nose in an investigation when you don't have any dog in the fight, expect to be briefed every morning like you were a Wing Commander monitoring aircraft availability, and lean on a good man like Ross Eastman, threatening his job if the speed of the process doesn't tickle your fancy. I don't think it's any coincidence that all that pressure stopped once I carved you out of the updates with Heidelberg."

  Graves eyes hit the floor for a moment.

  "You've forgotten some of the trial tactics I taught you, Digger. Never let the other side see you flinch."

  "I just cared about the girl, Jeff."

  "I don't doubt that. But you tried to use your position to manipulate me, and to manipulate the process. Hell, even Hugh Heidelberg couldn't let the system work in the end. I can't say that I wouldn't have done the same thing in his shoes, but it just frosts me to watch you guys hamper the hell out of us with every restriction or rules change that you think might help your next election effort, and then toss every rule in the book aside when it suits you. Where do you stand on mandatory minimum sentencing, the one good tool we've got left in our toolboxes? I see that all you experts in the senate are talking about discarding them."

  "I think there are problems with them. We've got too many folks in jail—"

  "Folks? You think we walk around looking for 'folks' to throw in the can? Hells bells! We generally have to wait for the little darlings to graduate from the state systems first where nothing happens to them until they've committed four or five felonies. When they finally get to this system they hardly resemble 'folks,' Digger. They're as hard as they come, and we don't have the luxury or time or assets or—thanks to you clowns on the Hill—the money to waste processing poor little 'folks.' You need to take a reality pill, my friend, or at least talk to somebody who doesn't share your little ivory tower. You know where I work, what I do, but you've never called me or anyone else in the trenches to discuss the issue because all the answers reside up there on Olympus."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way. There are important matters that you can't understand unless you're exposed to them on a much broader scale."

  Trask looked at Graves for a moment, shaking his head. "You can do me a favor, Senator."

  "What?"

  "Get the hell out of my office."

  555 4th Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  November 15, 2013, 5:20 p.m.

  "Are you ready to go?" Ross Eastman stood in the doorway to Trask's office.

  "As ready as we can be. Trial starts Monday."

  "J.T. Burns represents him?"

  "Who else? He's the default appointee of the defense bar whenever we try and go for the death penalty."

  "He's good at it. I don't think any of his defendants have been sentenced to death, have they?"

  "Nobody has been sentenced to death in this town for decades. It's a little different this time, though."

  "All the aggravation evidence?"

  "There's certainly that. It's not every day that you have literally hundreds of murders to throw at the defendant at sentencing. I think that's had an effect on Burns as well."

  "What kind of effect?"

  "I don't think J.T. likes his client very much."

  Eastman nodded. "Good luck."

  "Thanks, Ross."

  Trask took the elevator down to the parking garage and hopped into the Jeep. As he nosed out into traffic, a rare Washington snow storm began dropping flakes onto his windshield.

  He headed southeast on the Indianhead Highway, and opted for a rural road to connect with Maryland 5 into Waldorf. He rarely took this road, but was all too familiar with it. He paraphrased Frost's poem as he made the turns. Driving through the woods on a snowy evening. When he pulled over at the spot, the snow had already covered the ground. He turned the engine off, but didn't get out of the Jeep; he just fixed his eyes on the spot about fifty yards into the pasture. That's where we found poor Juan Ramirez buried.

  The sterile, quiet flakes began to thicken the blanket of white on the ground. Trask started the engine again. For I have promises to keep. He pulled back onto the road. And a murderer to put to sleep.

  E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse

  Washington, D.C.

  November 27, 2013, 9:00 a.m.

  "Call your next witness, Mr. Trask," Judge King said after the jury had filed in.

  "Frederico Alcantar, Your Honor," Trask said. Randi Rhodes nodded in the back of the room, and walked out to relay the signal. The witness would appear shortly.

  While he waited, Trask mentally reviewed the trial so far. He had presented a lot of things in reverse order, setting the stage for this witness, his smoking gun for the case. Kathy Davis had testified about her findings regarding the deaths of the prostitutes. Roscoe Briggs had testified about getting the dope from Adipietro. Aurrichio, the broker, had testified about his arrangements with Dominguez, the rodent-faced defendant who wasn't helping his own cause by sneering at every witness who took the stand.

  Aurrichio had concluded his testimony by relating how Dominguez had proudly shown him the video of the truck exploding at the convenience store. That testimony was followed by all the crime scene technicians, and by Kathy Davis, making a second appearance to discuss the causes of deaths of the seventeen who died at the scene.

  The witness appeared at the doors in the rear of the courtroom, and walked down the center aisle, past the spectators, through the gate, and stopped in front of the courtroom clerk. He raised his hand.

  Good. Just like we practiced. He's ready.

  "Do you promise that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" the clerk asked.

  The witness waited for the interpreter to translate the English into Spanish, then nodded and spoke. "Si."

  Trask stepped to the lectern in the center of the room while the witness stepped into the witness stand and took his seat.

  Trask spoke a little more slowly than usual, giving the interpreter time to make notes as required. He waited for the Spanish spoken by his witness to be converted to English by the translator before moving to the next question.

  "State your name, please."

  "Frederico Alcantar."

  "Where were you born, sir?"

  "In Hidalgo state, Mexico."

  "If I could direct your attention first to the date of August 22nd, 2010, do you recall where you were and what you were doing on that date?"

  "I was taking a bus, trying to get to the United States."

  "Why were you coming to America?"

  "Trying to find work."

  "Did you have permission to enter the United States?"

  "No. I was going to try and come across the border illegally, without permission."

  Very good. No hesitation. Admit the bad stuff, be candid about it. Dilute any potential cross examination. Very credible.

  "Did you make it to the United States?"

  "No."

  "Tell us why you didn't make it to the border."

  "The bus I was traveling on was ambushed. Everyone was ordered off the bus and taken to an old building on a farm."

  "What happened there?" He's doing fine. He's the star, now. The prep work is paying off. Here
comes the devastation. Keep it matter of fact. Help him stay in control.

  The young man dropped his head. He looked straight at Dominguez, who was sneering again. The witness pointed at him. "That man and the other Zetas who were with him shot us."

  "Do you know that man? His name?"

  "Yes. He is Ramón Dominguez. All the Zetas called him El Ratón, The Rat."

  Trask glanced at Dominguez. The mention of the nickname angered him, and his sneer grew meaner. Good. He looks even more like a rat now. A very mean rat.

  "How many were in your party that day, traveling on the bus with you?"

  "More than seventy."

  "How many survived?"

  "Only me."

  "After that experience and your recovery, what did you decide to do with your life?"

  "I decided to do whatever I could to fight the Zetas."

  "Was there someone who helped you to do that?"

  "Yes. Captain—I mean Major—he was promoted—Luis Aguilar. He was a marine."

  "How did he help you?"

  "He personally trained me. He put me through the same kind of training that the rest of his marines went through."

  "Why did he do that?"

  "Our plan was to make it appear that I was a marine deserter, to make it credible for the Zetas to accept me as a deserter."

  "How long did you train with the Major?"

  "For five months."

  "And did he provide you with a new identity?"

  "Yes. Identification papers, enlistment papers, all that."

  "And what was your assumed name on these papers?"

  "Miguel Espinoza."

  Trask directed the witness through all of his knowledge of the heroin conspiracy, through the poppy fields in the mountains of Colombia, the processing station on the stolen hacienda, and the packing of the drugs into the load vehicles. He asked Freddy about the one trip he had made to the broker's ranch in Laredo, about the laughter shared between Lazcano and Dominguez when they planned and then celebrated the truck bomb, and about the role Vicente Dominguez had played in the conspiracy.

  Freddy described his undercover role, how he worked his way up into the Zetas' inner circle, and how he provided information to Aguilar by phone when he could.