“You’ll do this based strictly on ethnic or religious grounds, without any evidence that they’re in any way engaged in terrorist activities?”
“There’s no time for niceties, Mr. Winkler. No need for accusations and trials. The only hope for this country is to uproot them and return the balance in favor of non-Muslims.”
“But you’ll be ignoring their right to due process under the Constitution. Many, if not most of those you propose to ‘disappear’ would be U.S. citizens. Their constitutional rights don’t matter?”
“Mr. Winkler, there’s a time and place for constitutional rights, and this is neither the time nor the place. This is war. You may not realize it, because the nightly news intentionally focuses on petty crimes, murders, car accidents, and natural disasters. The real role of most of the media, as well as law enforcement in this country, is to give the population the impression that everything is under control, aside from these minor incidents. But in reality, everything is not OK. There’s a cancer in our society, and it must be removed.”
“And Representative Cruz is going to tell the Senate this is his plan?”
“Of course not. The policies will be implemented after he’s in place, over a short period of time, with no press. Quietly, behind closed doors. If questions are raised, we won’t respond. If formal inquiries are made, we’ll claim national security. That’s how you wage a dirty war, Mr. Winkler. Plausible deniability.”
“So why are you telling me all this? Personally, I’d be 100% against this type of plan. It’s disgusting. It’s the Dirty War all over again. Aren’t you concerned I may take it to the press? Or the government?”
“Mr. Winkler, you’re far too smart for that. You have little to gain, and much to lose. If one word of what I’ve said here today finds its way outside of this room, your beautiful wife will suffer dearly. I know you wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, would you? And of course we’ll deny anything you say. Who’s going to believe a lawyer on a death penalty case over a Presidential nominee trying to save the nation as Secretary of Homeland Security?”
“Mr. Banks—or Ramos—your organization, Tri-Continental Research, isn’t really a U.S. government entity, is it?”
“Of course not. I just said that to encourage you to take the case. Guttmann had millions of Montonero money. He stole it, and we want it. You’d better be successful in getting the stay of execution, because we expect to find out from him where the money is, and how to get it. You’ve taken our $500,000, and unless you want some really bad things to happen to you and your wife, you’d better get us that money.”
“Have you heard enough?” said Winkler, looking at his cell phone on the table.
“What?” said Banks, perplexed by the question.
The conference room door opened, and three men entered. The first wore a navy blue suit; the other two were uniformed ICE officers.
“I’ve heard it all, and recorded it as well,” said the first man, flashing his ID with a badge. “Mr. Banks, I’m FBI Special Agent Tom Gilmore, and I have a few questions for you. These gentlemen from Immigration and Customs Enforcement would like to talk to you as well. From what we’ve just heard, you may be charged with crimes involving misrepresenting your identity and relationship to the federal government, extortion, and a host of immigration and naturalization violations.
“We’ve also reviewed your application for naturalization, and you did not indicate that you had a prior name, that you were involved in overthrowing a government, and in torture. Your application for U.S. citizenship was clearly false and is punishable by imprisonment, fines, or deportation.”
“But there was a deal back then to overlook—”
“Tell it to the magistrate,” said the FBI agent.
Winkler followed them out of the conference room to the lobby, then asked the receptionist to see if Dan Dillingham could give him an update on the status of the petitions. It was Monday at ten thirty, and there was only a little over a day to go until Martinez’ execution.
CHAPTER 46
“DAVID, I DON’T HAVE A LOT OF GOOD NEWS AT THIS POINT.”
Winkler sat at his desk as Dan Dillingham started to run through his notes on an iPad.
“Nothing concrete from the U.S. Supreme Court. I spoke to the clerk this morning, and they reviewed the petition over the weekend but need some time to consider it. It’s unlikely they’ll be able to grant the petition on a timely basis. They’re very skeptical about what they perceive as a last-minute discovery of information in support of our case. They don’t want to encourage these types of petitions and feel some other court or administrative body should deal with it. But this is just based on off-the-record comments. Nothing official yet.”
”What about the White House?”
“Chief of staff says we won’t get any traction with the President. He’s likely not to respond at all. He doesn’t want to get in the middle of the death penalty debate and has too many supporters who would love to see any foreigner executed, even if they got the wrong guy.
“The 11th Circuit Court of Appeals faxed me a denial of the petition a few minutes ago. Just a one-liner. ‘Petition denied.’ I want to call them to ask for an explanation, but frankly it would probably be a waste of time, and we don’t have any of that to waste.
“Nothing yet from the Georgia Supreme Court, but I wouldn’t bank on a positive response. Although death sentences have been on a sharp decline in Georgia in the past few years, Georgia has carried out several controversial executions of defendants who would likely not get death sentences today. In some cases, there was even evidence that the defendant might have been innocent. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“What’s left, Dan?” asked Winkler.
“Federal District Court is still considering our petition. No word on when they’ll have a decision.
“We’re also waiting on the Dougherty County Superior Court Judge. We couldn’t file that one on Friday because we were a couple of minutes late. We filed this morning, but none of the judges were back from a judicial conference. Something about weather-related travel delays. The one judge who was supposed to be on duty was off hunting, not expected back in court until Tuesday.
“There’s something strange going on there. His clerk said he’s out hunting, but I found out from another person at the court—off-the-record—that the judge only decided to take the trip after he got wind of your impending visit with the prosecutor on Friday. Sounds to me like he doesn’t want to deal with our petition. I wouldn’t write him off, but whether we get to him in time is anyone’s guess.”
“So that leaves us with the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles, and the governor himself,” said Winkler. “The governor doesn’t have direct authority to grant a stay, but he may be able to exercise influence over the Board of Pardons and Paroles.”
“I was just on the phone with the clerk of the board,” said Dillingham, “and they’re extremely reluctant to consider this again. They just reviewed the matter and denied clemency only a few days ago. Now Martinez has new co-counsel, a new argument, and facts some think could have been known decades ago. Reluctantly, they’re calling a meeting of the board for tomorrow afternoon at two, but the fellow I spoke with wasn’t optimistic they could get a quorum on such short notice. If you ask me, they’re just going through the motions. They may well just let the clock run.”
“And the governor? Any luck there?”
“He’s on a trade mission to China. But I spoke to his chief of staff, who was inclined to take a pass. Even though Georgia prosecutors are seeking and juries are imposing fewer and fewer death sentences, the governor has still been in favor of the death penalty and takes great pride in every execution. His ‘tough on crime’ record may be what gets him re-elected.”
“Damn! I can’t believe it!” Winkler shouted as he ran his hands through his hair, staring out of his office window, shaking his head in disbelief. “We’re so close! We’ve got proof positive the wrong man is about
to be executed, and all the powers that be want to punt it over to the next guy. Isn’t there anything else we can do? Get the governor’s chief of staff on the line—and get me Armando Velasquez’ number as well! What time is it right now in China?”
Dillingham checked the world clock on his iPhone. “Beijing is twelve hours ahead of Detroit,” he replied.
Winkler was committed to pursuing every option. “It may be the middle of the night when we finally get him, but I’m going to set up a conference call with the governor and Armando Velasquez. It may be the only chance we have to avoid the State snuffing out a life without any good reason.
“I’ll do what I can overnight, then I’d like to take the executive jet down to the prison around ten tomorrow morning. I’d like to be there with Martinez—Guttmann—hopefully to bring good news but if not, then at least when his end comes.
“Have Emma call Maria Theresa and let her know I’ll swing by on my way from the airport to pick her up. Tell her we still don’t know if we’re going to be getting a stay of execution but that we’re hopeful.”
CHAPTER 47
IT WAS THE LONGEST NIGHT OF WINKLER’S LIFE.
He had several false starts with the governor’s chief of staff, who absolutely refused to allow a direct conversation with the governor. He eventually got Armando Velasquez on the line, and the governor’s chief of staff had the poor taste to suggest maybe it wasn’t really Velasquez at all, but an impostor. With the clock ticking on Martinez’ execution, that didn’t sit well with Velasquez. He made it clear to the chief of staff that the team was extremely important to the State of Georgia and he needed only a few minutes of the governor’s urgent attention.
Unfortunately, the governor was traveling with the trade mission in a remote area of China, with only sporadic cell phone service, visiting industrial facilities whose owners were considering setting up factories in the United States. By the time they were able to get the governor, his chief of staff, Velasquez, and Winkler on a conference call, it was late afternoon Georgia time. Winkler was already at the prison, in the warden’s office. Maria Theresa was waiting outside in the hall.
The governor understood the need to placate Velasquez, although there were no direct threats to abort discussions about the stadium lease or move the team to another state. While the governor didn’t have authority to grant a stay, he said he’d be willing to review the matter urgently with the Board of Pardons and Paroles. The message was subtle. The governor convinced himself he wasn’t giving up an execution, just recommending a thirty-day stay to investigate the new factual allegations. Velasquez seemed satisfied and dropped off the call.
The chairman of the Board of Pardons and Paroles was then conferenced in. In light of the new information, he agreed to grant the thirty-day stay in advance of the full meeting of the board. He felt confident that, in view of the governor’s support, the board would ratify this action.
The warden participated in the last part of the conference call but insisted he needed something in writing. A fax signed by the chairman of the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles arrived on the warden’s fax machine at 5:45 p.m. local time, just fifteen minutes before the scheduled execution.
The fax contained an order granting a stay of execution of up to thirty days to allow more time to examine claims from Martinez’ representatives that the inmate identified as Juan Velasco Martinez, prisoner number 74-762158, was not, in fact, Juan Velasco Martinez. The evidence would be reviewed at a full hearing to review the new claims, at the conclusion of which it may lift the stay and grant clemency, commute the sentence, or deny clemency. The governor would avoid any direct responsibility for the outcome.
CHAPTER 48
RESIGNED TO HIS FATE, the prisoner waited in his cell to be taken down to the execution chamber. Six o’clock came and went. He sat silently, somewhat anxious, but mostly numb, having lost confidence in the judicial system years ago. He didn’t have even the slightest hope that the stay would be granted. The delay, he thought, was probably due to some technicality in setting things up for the execution.
“Got someone who wants to see you,” said the guard as he unlocked the cell and swung open the door. He put handcuffs on the prisoner and guided him down the hallway to the same room Winkler had used for the contact visit a few days before. The guard sat the prisoner down at the table, and Winkler entered the room, Maria Theresa Romero at his side.
“I’ve got some great news,” said Winkler. “The Board of Pardons and Paroles has granted our petition for a thirty-day stay of execution and will do a complete review of our allegations. With the evidence we have that you’re really Ricardo Guttmann, it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be released.” Winkler slid a copy of the faxed order over to Guttmann, who eyed it with disbelief.
“You’ll see it still refers to the matter of Juan Velasco Martinez, but it’s crystal clear now you aren’t Martinez, but Ricardo Guttmann. I think the hearing will just be a formality. You should be out of here within a few days.”
“It’s not true…I don’t believe it.” Guttmann closed his eyes, and his body began to shake.
“Yes,” said Winkler. “Everything I’ve said is true. It took a lot of work, and good luck, but we’ve convinced the powers that be that they made a terrible mistake.”
“This is overwhelming. I can’t thank you enough. It’s all a blur, all these years, and yet no memories of what happened before I found myself in this terrible place.”
“We’ll get help for you, counseling and therapy, and maybe some of those memories will come back. For now, I want you to take a deep breath, because what I’m going to tell you will also come as a great shock: You have a daughter—this beautiful woman—a daughter you never got to know, and who didn’t know you existed either. I’m pleased to introduce you to your daughter, Maria Theresa Romero.”
“Are you for real?” asked Guttmann, clearly stunned by the revelation.
“It’s a long story, but it’s the truth,” replied Winkler.
Maria Theresa got up from the table, went over to Guttmann, squeezed his hand, and both of them shed a tear.
CHAPTER 49
WINKLER FLEW BACK TO DETROIT late that evening. Working from home the next morning, he contacted Emma for the Swiss account number and password she’d obtained from Mrs. Weinman, the rabbi’s widow.
Winkler then spoke with Klaus Wehrli, the Swiss banker. The current value of the account was almost $10 billion, invested in a diversified portfolio of marketable securities. Technically, Guttmann could assert control over the account but, under the circumstances, Winkler agreed it would be best if the Commerz Bank started a court action to determine the rightful owners of the funds.
Winkler would discuss the options with Guttmann; however, he expected Guttmann wouldn’t be up for a fight over this money. Frail and suffering from years of imprisonment, he’d probably just be happy to live out his remaining years in freedom. In all likelihood, depositors and creditors of Guttmann’s failed banks would have a first claim, with any surplus transferred back to the government of Argentina.
Winkler was satisfied with the results of his efforts, having given a man his life back and reunited a father and his daughter. He asked Emma to convene a celebratory luncheon with Dan Dillingham and Afzam to toast their victory. Emma was to join them as well. Winkler’s wife, Eve, was traveling back to Detroit from New York and would arrive at Detroit Metropolitan Airport around six. He would pick her up, and they’d stop for dinner on the way home.
Winkler arrived at the Detroit Club a little before noon. It was the right spot to celebrate a major event such as this. Built in the 1880s, the majestic red brick private social club was one of the oldest in Detroit and had been one of the most prestigious in the country. The high ceilings, fine woodwork, classic paintings, and oriental rugs all spoke to a kind of elegance from a bygone era, missing from today’s clean lines and modern design.
The Detroit Club brought back decades of memories o
f high-level business meetings with bankers and lawyers, high-stakes negotiations, and gatherings of politicians and foreign diplomats. It had also been the site of years of law firm holiday parties with one hundred or more guests, before the firm outgrew the space of the Club’s main dining room.
Dan Dillingham and Emma arrived right at noon, but Afzam wasn’t with them.
“Won’t Afzam be joining us?” asked Winkler. “His efforts were largely responsible for our victory!”
“David, I don’t think so,” said Emma. “He’s tied up with the transition. I didn’t get a chance to tell you—”
“What transition? What are you talking about, Emma?”
“Big changes are happening at the firm. Not exactly a merger, but the firm is splitting up. The Litigation Group was being wooed by another law firm, and the Transactional Group by yet another. What I understand is that there couldn’t be a merger of our firm into another firm. There wasn’t one firm that wanted to take on all our practices, so those two groups have split off into two other firms. It was all hush-hush.”
“When is all this effective?” Winkler asked.
“Today, as I understand it. The movers are at our building right now. They’re all lined up around the block. It looks like a traffic jam at the Ambassador Bridge!”
“I didn’t see any e-mails about this. And I wasn’t advised of any Management Committee meetings either.”
“Just one meeting, this morning. They came around and pulled everyone into the conference room and explained what was happening. It’s a done deal.” Emma was visibly shaken. The firm she’d been a part of for decades was imploding before her very eyes.
“Dan, where do you stand with all this? Are you going with the Litigation Group?” Winkler asked, confused. Dillingham was very close to being made a partner, and he was clearly a litigator. How did he have time for a lunch on moving day? Winkler thought.
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