Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

  “Buenos días, Señor Strider. A pleasure to meet you.” Ramos took Jack’s hand in both of his. “Join me in my office for coffee.”

  “Thank you, but I have a problem. My wallet is missing. I had it five minutes ago when I paid the taxi driver. And then I gave some money to a little girl selling a painting on the street.”

  “Were there several kids, and did they crowd around you?” Ramos asked.

  The receptionist covered her giggles with her fingers.

  “I guess they did.”

  “Then you’ve just been introduced to street crime in Mexico City. Soon as they saw where you keep your wallet, one slipped in and—” He shrugged. “—you know the rest.”

  “I’ll go back down there right now.” Then his brain caught up with his anger. “But I have no proof, and the wallet is probably already blocks away. Damn it, that wallet has my ID, credit cards, money—”

  “My secretary will handle cancellation and replacements, including IDs, and I’ll send you ten thousand pesos. So, shall we have that coffee now?”

  No point in staying angry; time to get down to business, Jack told himself.

  After coffee was served, Ramos said, “We’re a young office, but we have some of the best lawyers in the city, twenty-six altogether.”

  “Having Justin Sinclair at the top of the letterhead must help with recruiting.”

  “Yes, everyone knows the firm is very successful in the U.S. But—” Ramos paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “—some older lawyers won’t join us because they disagree with certain of his actions when he was Secretary of State. I certainly understand their feelings.”

  “Certain actions?”

  “It was a long time ago, not worth going into. Naturally, I meant no criticism of Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Naturally.”

  Ramos changed the subject. “I’ve been told you’ll be working on the legal affairs of one American client doing business in Mexico. I regret Mr. Sinclair wasn’t confident that one of my lawyers could do the job, but—” He shrugged. “—that’s the way it is with foreign ownership.”

  Ramos had just taken two quick shots at Sinclair. So there was resentment on this end of the equation, distrust on the other.

  Ramos leaned forward and spoke more softly. “I’m afraid I have something unpleasant to tell you.” His eyes suddenly became hard. “One of your San Francisco partners told one of our lawyers about your father and the young girls he stole from Mexico.”

  Ouch. Simms had sent his vendetta south. Jack felt his face flush, but that was the only reaction he was going to let Ramos see.

  “What my father did was reprehensible, but I knew nothing about it. Maybe while I’m in Mexico I can do something to—”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Ramos’s tone was hostile.

  So much for the new beginning. Was this place going to be a another snakepit?

  Chapter 16

  June 25

  9:30 p.m.

  THE TROUBLED EYES and turned down mouth reflected in the bar mirror beside Jack’s table looked like they belonged to a stranger. But it was his own face, reflecting his aggravation after days of trying to pin down the lawyers from the Office of the Attorney General for Protection of the Environment—known as PROFEPA—to a meeting time.

  After each frustrating day of reviewing paperwork and generally spinning his wheels, he started the evening at Café la Selva, sitting alone among hip artist types who either had no worries or, if they did, blew them off after sundown. The server set down a generous shot of Zacapa Centenario, a rum aged for 23 years in oak barrels. After four days of experimentation, he could taste the vanilla, cloves and cinnamon, and appreciate the aromas of the different brands.

  As soon as the rum had begun to take effect, he walked down Calle Michoacan to Fonda Garufo, an Argentine steakhouse where he ordered dinner for a little ballast. The sidewalk tables were fenced in, and an armed guard stood at one end to protect patrons from thieves looking for prey. Toward the end of his meal, he noticed that his taste buds were no longer aware of the spices on the Redfish Veracruzano.

  After watching the parade of streetwalkers for a while, he moved on to Bar Nuevo Leon where foreign correspondents gathered to mix alcohol with gossip, sharing stories about exotic places.

  He sipped his Drambuie slowly, stretching out the night, delaying his return to his penthouse condo in La Condesa Colonia that S & S had provided for him.

  How had he wound up in Mexico, his bright future jerked away? Was representing Palmer Industries the first step on the slippery slope to becoming the kind of lawyer he detested? Maybe Peck had started going bad just like this, sacrificing his principles to pursue a goal he considered worth it. Everyone chases something, not watching their footing, not noticing what they step in—or on. Would that happen to him?

  Before he could come up with any answers to his questions, a very tan gringo walked in, tilting slightly off center, a few sheets to the wind. He scanned the room, obviously looking for someone. Spotting a free chair at Jack’s table, he came over.

  “Hey, mate, mind if I fill this chair for a couple of minutes until my friend shows up?”

  Jack nodded that it was okay. He wasn’t in the mood for bar chat, but the newcomer was. In a syrupy Louisiana drawl he talked about a favorite restaurant and Mexican women.

  “I’m a freelance pilot based in the Copper Canyon. Lots of action up that way.” He tossed a card on the table that read, “Gano LeMoyne” and bore a photograph of a P-51 Mustang fighter.

  “That your plane?” Jack asked, to be polite.

  “Just for air shows. I have another one for deliveries. If the money’s right, I’ll deliver anything, absolutely, positively anywhere.”

  After a few minutes of conversation, Gano saw his friend arrive, shook hands with Jack, and walked away.

  Jack was relieved not to have any more company. He had to figure out an ethical way to stay in the law business and get back on track for the Supreme Court of the United States, or SCOTUS as most lawyers called it. If he couldn’t do that, he’d say “to hell with you” to Sinclair and go sailing in the Caribbean, which would be a one-way trip for his career. If he pissed off the elders of the law tribes, they’d never let him back in.

  Impulsively, he left Bar Nueva Leon and walked back to his La Condesa neighborhood, inhabited by rich pseudo-hippies and home of the local bureau of the New York Times. He’d heard it called the Greenwich Village of Mexico City. When he reached the entrance to the condo he still felt restless, so he kept walking until he was in a low-income colonia where he stopped at a tiny open-air restaurant under a grove of dusty elm trees. As he sat enjoying a Bohemia beer, a wiry man wearing a pair of sunglasses walked slowly up to his rickety table.

  “Pardon me, señor. You are American?”

  “Yes. California.”

  “I lived in California for many years,” the man said in heavily accented English. “I picked grapes near Fresno. Maybe we could talk for a minute? I hear so little English in this colonia.” He pulled off the dark glasses.

  “Please sit. Have a beer?” Jack turned to wave for service.

  “No, señor. No beer. Thank you.” He sat tentatively in the other chair. His khakis were bleached white. The red and green stripes on his shirt were faded. His eyes were deep set, cheekbones sharp. Hard to tell if it was Indian blood or . . . hunger.

  “My name’s Jack Strider.” He stretched his hand across the table.

  “I am Luis-Felipe Ibanez. In California they called me Lou.” The way he said “Lou” made it clear how he felt about the Anglo nickname.

  After listening to some of Luis-Felipe’s experiences in the semidesert of southern California, Jack asked, “These people,” he gestured at the men and boys standing in groups near the side of the road or idly
kicking a scuffed soccer ball among themselves, “how do they earn a living, pay for food and a place to stay?”

  “No real jobs around here. Some have never had a job. Others get paid, not much, for breaking their backs for a few days. Some have sisters who go to the border to work in maquilas and send money home. But now some women forget their families and save up to get into the U.S. Then their families go hungry, maybe nothing but beans and some corn.”

  What a contrast with the States with its safety net of homeless shelters, public housing, food banks, Medicaid, welfare, and the rest.

  Luis-Felipe went on. “Some turn bad. That one,” he said, barely nodding toward a hawk-faced man in a flashy L.A. Lakers warm-up jacket, “comes here to hire mules. They make a delivery for him, they get five dollars. They get caught, they go to jail. He doesn’t even bail them out.”

  Jack knew there were plenty of that type in many low-income neighborhoods in the States, vultures who preyed on despair and addiction. He stared hard at the L.A. Laker fan as if that would let him know how he felt.

  “I have no right,” Luis-Felipe said quietly, “and it shames me, but I have a favor to ask.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Water. One liter to take with me? Where I live, we have none.”

  “Good Lord!” Jack shook his head in disbelief.

  Luis-Felipe stood. “I have offended you. I’m sorry.”

  “No. No. I’ll get plenty of water.” He waved toward the bartender and placed the order.

  When the plastic bottles of water arrived at the table, Luis-Felipe examined the neck of each.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Sometimes this man sells water that came out of the tap, not pure. It makes everyone sick. These are all right because he knows I will check the seal. Now Señor Jack, you must leave here. The later it gets, the more dangerous it is, especially for outsiders. Con muchas gracias.” He touched his heart with his right fist, picked up the bottles with wrinkled hands and walked across the road with dignity.

  Luis-Felipe hadn’t wanted conversation. It had been about water from the start. Jack realized the man had no choice.

  He watched Luis-Felipe disappear into a cluster of one-story, mud-brick dwellings. Thinking about the man’s dignity, Jack was ashamed that he’d just blown enough money on liquor in one night to pay for water for a large family for weeks.

  When he looked back, he saw the hawk-faced man in the L.A. Lakers jacket staring at him with a scowl.

  Chapter 17

  June 26

  1:30 p.m.

  THE ROCKY START with Ramos at the S & S office had made Jack decide to do as much of his work as he could in the study of the condo. Reviewing the dozens of files he’d asked Tom Montana to send from the Palmer plant in Juarez had been a colossal waste of time. What he needed was solid information he could use to form a framework for a defense against PROFEPA and a basis for negotiations. What Montana had sent were boxes of files that included many duplicates and no index. He had no way to tell if they were even authentic and, of course, Montana hadn’t sent any he didn’t want Jack to see. It was a fiasco.

  Montana claimed the existing violations were trivial. “They wrote up one of the restrooms,” he’d said. “A white glove inspection in a toxic waste treatment plant? They just want to nail us.”

  Jack wasn’t convinced. In their video conference, Montana had blamed the investigation on a jealous competitor or bribe-seeking bureaucrats. Now he admitted violations and brushed them off. But would the government really try to shut down such a big player in Juarez for penny ante stuff?

  Evaluating the list of infractions alleged by PROFEPA was slow going because they were in technical Spanish. One infraction stood out: an allegation that the plant didn’t possess some of the equipment needed to treat certain types of waste it accepted. How would Montana explain that away? Tucked away at the end of the list was a time bomb. PROFEPA retained the right to amend the list, even at the Hearing. The PROFEPA lawyers were probably holding back some of their ammunition. Smart move. With what Montana had sent him, he couldn’t construct a defense.

  His research had shown that the lead PROFEPA lawyer, Roberto Alvarez Nunez, had finished in the top ten percent of his law class at Escuela Libre de Derecho, a school known for intellectual students who excelled in oral argument. After graduation he joined PROFEPA, where he’d been ever since.

  His associate, Linda Santiago, had a magna cum laude B.Sc. in microbiology from UCLA, and had earned honors in law school. After three years with the highly-regarded firm of Marquez, Alonso & Correa, she’d opted for public service with PROFEPA. She was also chairperson for the Mexico City Sierra Club.

  Neither seemed likely to take a bribe or be conned by an angry competitor of Palmer’s. Nor would they be pushovers in a Hearing. They could turn out to be Palmer Industries’ worst nightmare.

  JACK STOOD ON his condo balcony, looking down at Avenida Argentina. “I finally got the PROFEPA lawyers to agree to meet with me, but not until the first of next week,” he reported to Justin Sinclair on the phone.

  “They’re jerking us around,” Sinclair roared. “I won’t stand for it.”

  “They’re jerking us around because we have no leverage.” He spoke in a calm, measured voice, suppressing his desire to tell Sinclair to get a grip on himself. Sinclair’s posturing must have worked somewhere, maybe when he testified before Congress, but it would get them in trouble when dealing with low-level bureaucrats in Mexico. Sinclair was letting his determination to protect Palmer Industries cloud his judgment.

  “Listen carefully, Jack. There are about ten days until the Hearing. Don’t let them get a temporary injunction to shut down the plant between now and then. This is why you’re there, for Christ’s sake.”

  He held his tongue again. “Look, they didn’t want to meet, but I got that done. Then I got them to agree not to move against the plant before meeting with me. That took another twenty minutes. If I had either a cooperative client or some facts on my side this might be a little easier.”

  “Well, that’s something. Just so you’ll know, I’m working the political angle, but it’s very risky. That’s why I want you to show the PROFEPA lawyers that Palmer is ready to fight them in court. They’ll cave. They’re flunkies with no personal stake in this. Make sure that Hearing never happens. And remember, if paying a fine will end this, agree to it.”

  “What’s the upper limit?”

  “One million.”

  “Pesos? That’s more than eighty thousand dollars.”

  “One million U.S. dollars,” Sinclair said. “If that plant is shut down, the company will be in breach of dozens of contracts, liable for huge damages and penalties. Get them to name their price. We’ll pay it.” He paused, then spoke in a more conciliatory tone. “Jack, your future is on the line. Be someone I can count on.”

  Sinclair hung up before Jack could answer.

  Jack stared across the avenue at Parque Mexico. Why was Palmer willing to pay a million bucks to make this go away? He had a strong feeling that if he ever found out, the answer wouldn’t make him happy.

  Chapter 18

  June 30

  2:30 p.m.

  THE PROFEPA conference table consisted of two large panes of scratched glass resting loosely in a black metal frame. It looked as if it had served for decades somewhere else until, nearing the end of its useful life, it filtered down to the lowest rung in the bureaucratic ladder—PROFEPA. In contrast, the art on the walls was inspired: hand-woven wall tapestries whose abstract designs brought forests, meadows, and mountain peaks into the room.

  He took a seat, pulled his notes from his briefcase and gave them a quick review. He didn’t have facts on his side, and he sure as hell couldn’t count on getting sympathy for his client. He had to rely on common sense and goo
dwill to end this conflict short of legal warfare. The PROFEPA lawyers would be reasonable, as would he. He could make a deal.

  A neat stack of files across the table caught his attention. The label on the top file read “PROFEPA v. Palmer Industries, Injunction, Abstract and Brief.” He smiled to himself at the old ploy of “accidentally” leaving in plain sight what appeared to be documents ready to file with a court. The idea was to intimidate the opponent. Nice try, guys.

  At that moment, the two government lawyers walked in. After completing introductions and receiving coffee from the receptionist, Alvarez asked him politely how he liked Mexico City.

  When the chitchat continued past the usual time given to pleasantries, Jack understood that they were waiting for him to take the lead. Either it was a trap or they were so confident that the meeting was meaningless to them.

  When Alvarez finished a story about jailing the owner of an auto repair shop caught dumping dead batteries into a lake, Jack said, “Sounds like he deserved punishment, but let’s talk about someone who doesn’t. That’s my client, Palmer Industries. Speaking hypothetically, if Palmer stipulated to certain infractions, you’d be willing to give them time to correct the problems, isn’t that right?”

  The two lawyers looked at him without expression, waiting for him to go on. He didn’t like going ahead without feedback, but they gave him no choice.

  “In addition, my clients might be willing to pay a reasonable fine if you will assure them that PROFEPA won’t seek an injunction against the company.” He smiled and stacked the papers in front of him. “Both sides get what they want.”

  “And what amount of fine would your client consider reasonable?” Alvarez asked.

  “I think they might consider anything up to a half-million U.S. dollars.”