by Glenn Trust
The night had disappeared, vanished in a split second. Men in black battle dress swarmed aboard the Sara Jane. Backlit by the glare they were silhouettes, dark and foreboding.
They moved with practiced agility, jumping from two F470 CRCC, combat rubber raiding craft, bobbing in the water on either side of the trawler. Once the men in black were aboard the Sara Jane, the coxswains of the small boats backed off. A gunner on each trained an M-60 machine gun on the trawler, alert to any sign of resistance. There was none.
Tully Sams recovered and reached for the engine throttle, not sure what he would do, but pushed by the instinct to do something. A large man with DEA stenciled on his back, and a badge sewn on the front of his battle dress, stepped into the deckhouse. He placed a firm hand on Sams’ arm.
“You’re under arrest.”
Two others followed him in and pulled Sams upright and away from the controls. The shrimper’s head swiveled on his shoulders, stunned. In thirty seconds, his peaceful night on the big water under a canopy of stars had ended. There would never be another like it for Tully Sams. What remained of his life evaporated like a morning mist blown away by the sea breeze.
“Do not resist and no one will be harmed,” the large man in black said. “Tell your crew to submit.”
There was no need. Sams looked out to the deck. Hermie and Paco stood, offering no resistance, dejected and resigned to what was taking place. The black-clad invaders handcuffed and placed them into separate rubber boats.
Several figures descended from the trawler to the pontoon raft to examine the contents. A flurry of activity followed, the agents speaking in excited hushed tones into portable radios, arms waving and pointing to the contents of the sample bundle they had opened.
One of the DEA men came out of the galley, pushing Julio ahead. “Found this one with this.” He held up a satellite phone.
“Who did you call?” Gene Cusins, the DEA agent in charge, said.
Julio stared without speaking. His usual gray seagoing complexion was greener than Sams had seen before.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Sams said as one of the DEA agents pulled his arms behind him to ratchet shut the handcuffs around his wrists.
“Okay,” Cusins said turning to Sams. “Who did he call?”
“Shit,” Sams said, recovering a touch of his usual captain’s swagger. “Damned if I know. God maybe.”
“See if you can get a trace on it.” Cusins nodded to the one with the phone.
Two men pushed Sams back against the wall and held him there while the DEA boarding party searched the Sara Jane. On the radar screen beside the wheel, a blip appeared on the horizon five miles from the trawler’s radar antenna ten feet above the deck.
The Coast Guard cutter covered the distance in fifteen minutes. It took up position a hundred yards from the two assault boats, and lowered a dinghy to ferry John Sole, Bill Lance and Chuck Rayburn to the Sara Jane.
*****
Twenty miles away, Commander Tom Hunt in the Sea Sentry, flying high over the action, directed the second cutter to intersect the container ship that made the drop. Boarding a big ship at sea is always a risky proposition. The freighter’s crew significantly outnumbered the boarding party, and the possibility of illegal narcotics and men willing to defend against the boarders heightened the interdiction team’s caution.
The cutter’s skipper radioed the ship and advised the captain to heave to. The freighter’s captain ignored the order. A burst of fifty caliber rounds across the bow changed his mind.
Even Bebé Elizondo did not pay enough to risk a fight with an armed U.S. Coast Guard cutter. Besides the Los Salvajes cartel boss was sound asleep in his hillside hacienda, not bobbing around on the Atlantic with searchlights in his face. The captain wisely cut his engines and drifted, waiting for the inevitable.
The boarding party, led by a young lieutenant, found most of the freighter’s crew asleep. Those who weren’t in their bunks were watching a porn movie in the galley. Only the captain, a mate, and one of the cargo crane operators manned the bridge, an unusually scant duty list for a night watch on a big ship.
They secured the crew in their quarters and separated the captain and the other two prime suspects. Then the Coast Guard crew stood a security watch while a civilian pilot and five crewmen with freighter experience came aboard to take the ship into Brunswick.
The DEA agents who boarded with the Coast Guard questioned the crew. Most were bewildered.
The captain couldn’t talk fast enough, spewing out everything he knew about the drug smuggling operation. He had a fervent desire to continue to breathe and retain all of his body parts. Prison in a secure U.S. federal penitentiary was preferable to the other option—explaining the failure of their mission to Bebé Elizondo and Alejandro Garza.
*****
At the Sara Jane, a dinghy pulled alongside.
“Thought you’d want to see this,” Gene Cusins said as Sole, Lance, and Rayburn clambered aboard the Trawler. “It was your case.”
He escorted them to the deckhouse where Tully Sams stood, guarded by two DEA agents. They crammed into the small space, curious to see the old shrimper. He wasn’t much to see. Just an old man with a weathered face and rough hands, but the glint in his eyes was defiant. Recovered now that the shock of the DEA’s arrival had faded, he returned the stares of the men who crowded around him.
“What’s your name?” Cusins asked.
“I reckon you already know that,” Sams replied evenly, attempting to lift one of his handcuffed arms to his breast pocket and the pack of cigarettes. He turned his head toward Cusins. “All you big men standing around, I ain’t goin’ nowheres. I’d like to have a smoke one more time, out here on the water.”
Cusins nodded at the agents. “Let him have his smoke.”
They removed the cuffs, and Tully Sams pulled the cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, reached for his lighter on the dashboard beside the wheel, and lit up. His hands were steady, no sign of nerves.
John Sole smiled. The old man had balls. Saltwater in his veins and sand in his voice, he was resigned to what would happen next.
“How long have you been doing this, Tully?” Bill Lance asked.
“This? Oh, I been shrimpin’ most of my life, since I was old enough to go out.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Sole and Lance exchanged smiles. The old man wasn’t giving in, even when they had him dead to rights.
“Running cocaine in,” Lance clarified. “How long you been doing that?”
“That what’s in those bundles?” Sams’ eyes widened innocently. He nodded at the raft where they black-clad DEA men still swarmed, securing it for transfer to the cutter. “Just found it bobbin’ around out here on the water. No idea it was … what was that you called it? Cocaine?” He shook his head. “Shit that’s illegal, ain’t it? Damn. If I’d a known that, I’d a steered a different course.”
“And your crew?” Cusins asked. “Where’d you pick them up?”
“Hermie and Paco? They’re good men. Found ‘em in Brunswick just hangin’ out. Said they needed work, so I put ‘em to work.”
“Uh huh.” Cusins was smiling now too. You had to respect the old fart. “And the other one? The one with the satellite phone. We will trace the call … find out who was on the other end … maybe your boss, James Sillman.”
“Sillman?” Sams nodded. “Yeah, I work for Sillman Shrimp. Out here looking for Royal Red Shrimp … for a new customer.” He shook his head. “But I haven’t seen or heard from the senator in quite a while.” He smiled. “I’m just a little fish, so to speak.”
After that, the atmosphere in the cramped deckhouse was congenial. The questioning ended. There was no reason to press the issue now. They had the trawler, the crew and the captain with a billion dollars of cocaine tied alongside.
Tully Sams smoked his cigarette and then another while the DEA secured the cocaine and tied the raft off to be towed behind the cutter.<
br />
Back aboard the cutter, John Sole made a call. It was time to go after the big fish. Travis answered on the first ring.
“We’re good to go.”
“How much?” Travis asked.
“About five thousand kilos.”
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah. Rayburn says street value after being cut and pushed down the pipeline could be close to a billion.
“Jesus.” Travis gave a low whistle. “How’d it go down?”
“Uneventful. They surrendered without a fight.”
“Perfect.” Travis grinned. “You know what that means.”
“Yep. Say hello to the senator for me when you cuff him.”
Sole almost wished he hadn’t won the coin toss. The arrest of a senator, especially one who sent a man like Tully Sams out to do his dirty work, would be more than satisfying.
“Will do.”
Travis ended the call and rang the judge they had on standby to sign the arrest warrant they had prepared for James Jadyn Sillman. This time it wouldn’t matter if he answered the door or not.
54.
Examples
“Esto es maldito estúpido.” This is damned stupid. Esteban Moya mumbled as he dozed with his head resting against the window.
With a snort, he jerked himself awake behind the wheel of the rental car. His eyes darted around. Where was he? Then he remembered.
He cast a sideward glance to the right without turning his head. Had he spoken loud enough for Alejandro Garza to hear?
If he had heard, he gave no sign. Garza remained focused on the building they had been watching since … since when? Moya couldn’t remember. He’d been up since the morning of Garza’s arrival. His body craved sleep.
Since fleeing the parking garage after Bettis’ murder, all they had done was watch the high-rise where Sillman lived. Watching for what? Sillman would never come out, and if he did, it would not be alone. This was muy estúpido.
“There,” Garza said, pointing.
A car turned from Peachtree Street into the parking garage of the high-rise. It was a Ford Crown Victoria, same color as the detective car that had been there earlier in the day. Was it even the same day? Moya was no longer sure.
A moment later, another car, same make and model but a different color followed it into the garage. A marked Atlanta Police unit brought up the rear.
“What do you think it means?” Moya ventured.
“Soon,” Garza replied.
The phone in Garza’s pocket vibrated. He answered at once, without checking the number first. “Sí.” His eyes never left the building as he pushed the phone tight against his ear.
Moya tried to hear what was being said. The words were unintelligible, but he could tell that the caller was shouting, delivering the message with machine gun rapidity. Someone was very unhappy. It had to be Elizondo. No one else in their right mind would speak in that manner to Garza.
Seconds passed while the shouting on the other end of the line continued. When it ended, Garza spoke. “Perhaps it would be better to wait, not respond so soon. This is not Mexico. Such action here might have …” For once Garza paused, selecting his words with care. “Might have adverse effects.”
The voice on the line rose abruptly so that Moya clearly understood Bebé Elizondo’s instructions.
“Do it now! Tonight! They stole my shipment. They will pay!”
Garza offered no further argument. “It will be done.” He pocketed the phone, his eyes focused on the building.
Moya waited for some explanation. When none was forthcoming, he spoke. “What is it? Who was that? Elizondo?”
“Who it was, is not your affair. Our assignment has changed.”
“What does that mean?”
“They stopped and took a shipment. Your man on the boat managed to get off a message on the satellite phone.”
“Who? Who took a shipment?”
“The police … DEA … others. It does not matter. The feeling is that there must be an example. This cannot go unpunished.”
“Feeling? Whose feeling?” Moya shook his head. “You said we don’t make examples here … that it is different here. Examples are dangerous and accomplish nothing. This is what you told me.”
“Our instructions have changed.”
“You saw. There are three cop cars with Sillman now … detectives. We go running off wild like that, and we’ll be the examples who …”
Garza turned his head. The warning in his eyes was plain. Esteban Moya’s words hung in mid-air.
“Tonight,” Garza said. “We complete the assignment. You will help.”
55.
Crime and Punishment
Randy Travis stood in the hallway outside James Sillman’s penthouse. One DEA agent, two Major Crimes detectives, and a uniformed officer accompanied him. Everything would be handled by the book, although no one was quite sure what the book said about locking up senators. The consensus was that the arrest of a senator merited sufficient witnesses to document the event, and they were taking no chances.
The building security director, Jimmy Cutshaw, met them with a master key to the condo. At first, they thought the key might be necessary. Travis rang the doorbell followed by three sharp raps on the door to identify themselves and announce their presence.
“Senator Sillman, open the door. This is investigator Travis, Atlanta Police Major Crimes Unit.”
There was no response. Travis repeated the process, ringing, knocking, announcing their presence and demanding entry.
Cutshaw had the master key in the lock when they heard shuffling behind the door. Shadows moved behind the door’s peephole. Someone peered out at them. Then the deadbolt drew back in the lock, and the door swung wide.
Red-eyed, perspiration soaking through his shirt, Sillman shrank back from the officers like a scolded puppy.
“James Jadyn Sillman, we have a warrant for your arrest. You are being charged with trafficking narcotics.” Travis added the Miranda Warning before Sillman could respond. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.”
Travis paused before asking the required final questions. Everyone present could confirm that he accorded Senator James Sillman all the necessary legal protections during his arrest. “Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
Sillman nodded and slumped against the wall. Travis thought the look on his face was one of relief.
“Do you have anything you would like to say at this time?”
Sillman stared at him, brow wrinkled in confusion, dazed and disoriented. “Say?” He shook his head. “No nothing to say.”
The senator wore only a tee shirt and boxers. The sour odor of whiskey and sweat hung over him. Two detectives held his arms and walked him to the bedroom to put on a fresh shirt and trousers.
In the penthouse living room, Travis noted a Colt Model 1911 .45 caliber pistol on a table beside a leather chair. The chair faced a bank of windows. The window drapes were pulled tight. Except for a dim light in the corner, the room was dark.
Travis retrieved the pistol, removed the clip and ejected the round in the chamber. It appeared the senator had been expecting someone else at the door, someone more threatening than a group of law enforcement officers.
Sillman came from the bedroom between the two detectives. Travis held up the pistol.
“Any other weapons here?” he asked.
“No.” Sillman shook his head. “Only that one … it … it was my father’s.”
“We’ll be keeping it for safekeeping,” Travis said, placing it in a plastic evidence bag he took from his jacket pocket. “Were you expe
cting someone else?” he asked holding the bag up before Sillman’s eyes.
“No, I was just …” Sillman shrugged, his mouth closing shut as if trying to cut off any words that might escape.
“Sitting here in the dark, windows covered, pistol at your side. Seems like you were ready for trouble.”
“I was just … nervous.” Sillman muttered, barely audible, choosing his words.
“Nervous? Why?”
“Why?” Sillman shook his head like a man waking from a deep sleep. “I mean … you know … with the murder and all … Wilson Bettis.”
“A mugger killed Bettis. Right?” Travis raised his eyebrows in mock curiosity. “You afraid of being mugged here?” He looked around the interior of the penthouse and nodded at Jimmy Cutshaw. “With security all around?”
“I … uh …” Sillman shook his head one more time, a final reminder to himself to shut the fuck up before he said something he regretted, something Alejandro Garza would make him regret. “Like I said, I have nothing to say to you.”
They escorted the senator down to the parking garage. Twenty minutes later, Travis was filling out the book-in sheet and working on his arrest report. It was time to call his partner and share the good news.
Sole answered immediately with a question. “Get him?”
“Got him,” Travis said nodding. “The good senator is cooling his heels in an interview room.”
“Still wish I could have been there to see the look on Sillman’s face. Say anything?”
“Nope. Not verbally at least, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man as terrified as the senator. He was relieved that it wasn’t someone else at the door.”