Path to Justice

by Jim Dutton

“A drink at Days End neither guarantees happiness nor a good pun,” laughed Ana, and followed the drunk out the door. As she climbed into her old Porsche, Ana thought, She had to get a life— 36 years-old, divorced for three years, no children, and worrying about feeding Sneakers, her white pawed, grey cat.

  Ana grew up in Newark, New Jersey. She was one of the few Jews at her inner-city school. She put up with name-calling, having her lunch money taken, and being pushed around for years. It all ended one afternoon when Ana struck back during her geography class. Her main tormentor sat in front of her. When the girl made another religious slur, Ana responded by pulling the girl’s hair back, and while standing over her, pummeled her as she struggled to get up from her desk. It was well worth the five day suspension. And, it didn’t later jeopardize Ana’s scholarship to Columbia University.

  Pepe walked over to where the others were. Jerry asked, “What was that commotion over by the bar?”

  “Nothing, just some drunk management.”

  From work, Nick stopped off at Trader Joe’s, bought some frozen meatballs and mac ’n cheese, and drove to his one bedroom apartment in Pacific Beach. As soon as Nick unlocked the door, he went over to his tropical fish tank and liberally sprinkled the dry flake food on the surface of the water. The twenty or so Dalmatian Mollies went into a feeding frenzy. Nick had had tropical fish since college. He used to keep his tank filled with a variety of fish, but found it a lot easier to just have Mollies. They reproduced every three months or so, which resulted in a self-perpetuating fish ecosystem. Nick never had to go to the store to buy fish. They were the perfect pets. When you came home and walked back and forth in front of the tank, they followed you, almost like dogs. Unlike dogs, there was no clean up. And you could leave the fish for up to a couple of weeks by dropping long-lasting food cubes into the tank. Nick only worried about his sanity, when after a few glasses of Jack, he found himself talking to the fish.

  God, he missed his kids and Judy. But, at least here, Nick could eat mac ’n cheese, which was absolutely “verboten” in their family home. Judy ran a tight ship when it came to food, being both German and a nurse. Come to think of it, Judy ran a tight ship when it came to everything. The home was her domain. She had cast him out of her domain a few months ago. He was too tired and beaten down to fight it much. She was right, he was not home enough because of his work, and he drank too much. He was thinking of ways to get back into her good graces. He hadn’t come up with much yet.

  Nick felt it was a Boz Scaggs night. There was something for every mood he was feeling. He planned to start with, “Look What You’ve Done to Me” and We’re All Alone”, and move on to “Dinah Flo” and “Slow Dancer”. Nick put a couple of Boz’ CDs on the player, and turned up the volume. The stereo equipment was the only piece of property worth anything in the apartment. He did like the posters of his photographs that he had taken on his youthful world adventures. He had the Taj Mahal, in the early morning light— its beautiful ivory-colored dome shimmering in the reflection pools, with Buddhist monks walking beside the pools. Shots of a rainbow over Machu Picchu, a woman working in a rice field in Bali, a hunched over old woman in black, walking in a snow storm in Kashmir, and an owl flying right towards the camera lens, also adorned the off-white walls of his living room. Nick settled down, trying to get comfortable in one of his IKEA chairs, and sipped Jack Daniels over ice. He thought about the task force cases, knowing they needed a breakthrough to tie the money to one or more Mexican cartels.

  After his third glass of Jack, he fought off the urge to call his kids, Jake and Gabriella, who would be getting ready for bed. He knew they had soccer games coming up this weekend that he had promised to go to. Nick started to drift off in his chair. He roused himself, looked at his watch and realized he should turn in. He hadn’t even cooked the turkey meatballs and mac ’n cheese. That feast would have to wait for another night. He went to the kitchen and got himself a bowl of cereal, afloat in nonfat milk. Nick had been trying to lose 20 pounds for 10 years. It hadn’t happened yet. After gobbling up the cereal, he brushed his teeth, got undressed, and lowered himself to the mattress on the floor. Nick kept telling himself that he had to get a bed frame, if for no other reason than it was too tough to push himself up from his bed in the morning. Also, It was uncool for a 55 year-old man to be sleeping on the floor.

  Nick let himself into his office about 8:30, feeling a little hung over, but not too bad. He avoided the common gathering room, full of bad coffee and idle chit-chat. Abbie C. buzzed Nick an hour later, saying there was a former Bakersfield PD detective on the line. Nick picked up the phone, “Nick Drummond here.”

  “Nick, this is Zack Reynolds. I retired from Bakersfield P.D. a few years back. I attended your CNOA money laundering class in San Francisco.”

  “I hope you weren’t one of those in the back, sleeping.”

  “No, I was sitting to one side, trying to make time with a cute deputy sheriff from LA.”

  “Well, Zack, it seems like you were using your time wisely. What’s going on?” Zack relayed what had happened in Yaak a couple of weeks before. “Do you and your buddy have pictures of the guys transferring duffle bags across the border?”

  “Yes, I can send you the photos by email.”

  “Thank you, and the white guy who said he was an accountant from San Diego, anything more about him?” asked Nick.

  “No, but we’ve a good frontal photo of him.”

  “Zack, hold onto everything, especially that Starbucks cup you found on the Canadian side of the border, and we’ll send over a Homeland Security agent from Spokane this afternoon to pick up the evidence and make a direct transfer of the photos from yours and Drury’s computers onto an USB-drive. At some point, if the case goes somewhere, you two will have to testify in court and lay a foundation for the photos.”

  “I know the drill Nick, no problem.”

  “We’ll run the photos in our facial recognition database, and hopefully we’ll get lucky. Thanks for calling Zack. The HSI agent should be at your home by two o’clock. We’ll keep in touch. Before you go, how did it work out with the L.A. deputy?”

  “Like it usually does, nothing.”

  “That’s what an old married man likes to hear, but not a newly separated one.”

  Zack chuckled, and said, “Welcome to my world Nick.”

  Nick retorted, “I have to go now. I don’t want your bad luck rubbing off on me.”

  Nick called Jerry into his office and told him about Zack’s phone call. “We need an HSI agent from Spokane to go to Zack’s house in Yaak by two this afternoon to interview him and his buddy, and to pick up evidence. I want to move on this, it could be the break we need.”

  Jerry responded, “It could take a Spokane agent until 2:00 to find Yaak on the map.”

  “You’re one of those tech guys. Ever hear of Google Earth or Mapquest? No excuses, just get it done, please.”

  “You got it Nick.”

  A few minutes after Jerry left Nick’s office, Nick heard the incoming email ping on his computer. It was from Zack, with a number of photos attached, several with four people standing by an old border crossing sign, with duffle bags, as well as photos of various tire tracks. Nick laughed when he saw that Zack had used the Starbucks cup as a measuring reference for the size of tire tracks. As he was studying the photos, another ping resonated throughout his office. Nick thought, the computer is calling me again. He opened the new email. It was from Zack’s friend, Drury, with a number of new photos attached. A few of these photos showed a white male with glasses, sitting next to a Latino with slicked back hair, in a small off-road vehicle. Others, of poorer quality, showed four men talking at the border. The last photos must be the ones taken from the motion camera, thought Nick.

  Nick called in Ana. “Can you run the photos of the people through facial recognition?”

  “Sure Nick, who do you think we have?
”

  “Maybe persons associated with a drug cartel, and a dirty accountant. Also, enhance their faces, print the photos out, and show them to the guys at DEA who are working the Mexican cartel drug cases along the border. You, Jerry and I will meet in the conference room at four and see what we have.”

  Nick tapped his pencil on the conference room table as he waited for Ana and Jerry to report in. Ana and Jerry burst through the door with papers in their hands. “What have you got?”

  Jerry replied, “An agent from the Spokane office was able to make it to Yaak by two o’clock. He’s interviewing Zack and Drury separately and collecting evidence. He’ll send the evidence by overnight Fed Ex and I’ll book it into our evidence locker. The agent will draft his reports tomorrow and hopefully get his Special Agent in Charge (SAC) to sign off on the reports right away. As soon as he gets the reports signed off, he’ll email them to us.”

  Ana said, “I ran the photos through the facial recognition database and got three hits. “The purported white accountant is in fact an accountant, Lester Sendow. He has a one-person office in Mira Mesa, a few miles from our task force. His license was suspended for a year over his misdemeanor plea to receiving stolen property. This was a favorable plea bargain for him because it avoided a revocation of his license and significant jail time. He’d originally been charged with felony embezzlement of a client’s assets. That’s how his photo ended up on the database. Mr. Sendow seems to be the same person who’s the agent for service of process for L&M Freight and Recycle Yard, Hector Morales’ front companies.”

  “Wow!” Nick exclaimed, “Now it seems like we have something to go on.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” interjected Ana. The slick Mexican who was riding with Sendow in Yaak has been identified as Luis Hernandez-Lopez, one of the two lieutenants of the Familia Baja Norte cartel. He’s in charge of drug distribution and money collection. He’s 37 years old, and was busted 15 years ago in the states for a drug distribution charge. The third ID is 26-year-old Sergio Bustamante, an enforcer for the Familia. He has a long rap sheet for drug and violent crimes. Nick, there is another cartel link. Saladez, the owner of Numero Uno in Calexico, who gave couriers $80,000 apiece for the Sakias, is a known associate of the Familia.”

  “Great!” exhorted Nick, “Two of our money laundering cases are connected to the Familia.”

  “I know that Baja Norte Familia is rather new on the scene. Can you give me more information about them?” asked Nick.

  “Let’s get Pepe in here, he knows more about them,” responded Ana.

  “Pepe’s not here. He’s across the border checking out the Sakias’ business in Tijuana. Ana, just tell me what you know.”

  “Okay Chief. They have only been around for a few years. They’re moving in on the Tijuana cartel’s and Sinaloa cartel’s control of the drug and money flow across the border between San Diego and Imperial Counties, and the Mexican state, Baja California Norte. They saw their opening with the imprisonment and killings of many of their rival cartels’ leaders. The Mexican authorities are now focusing on the Zetas, the most violent and brutal of the cartels, headquartered in Nuevo Laredo, just across the border from Laredo, Texas. With the two cartels in this area weaker, and Mexican authorities elsewhere, it gave the Familia the opportunity to jump into the mix.”

  Nick queried, “I’m sure they just didn’t just appear out of nowhere?”

  “No, and that’s what makes them scary. Their leader, Mateo Gomez-Encinas, was a high- ranking member of the Sinaloa cartel. He recruited valued assets from the other cartels, promising more money and a “high tech” operation. The Familia, though smaller than other major cartels, is doing well.”

  “It would be quite a coup to make a major dent into an up and coming cartel,” said Nick, his voice resonating with conviction. “We’ve a lot to do. We need to focus on the Sakias and Morales cases, and we need to do a complete work up on the Familia. I will contact the Royal Canadian Mounties to set up a meeting to work out a joint surveillance of the Canadian border at Yaak. Get a good night’s sleep while you can. At some point eight hours of sleep will feel like a vacation.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pepe was getting bored. They had been surveilling the front of Sakias’ World Food Imports warehouse on Revolucion for two hours. Pepe’s old friend from the Baja Norte State Police, Nacho Gutierrez, had picked him up at the border in his government car. The car screamed undercover police car. Pepe sprung for lunch at El Potrero Carnes. Over chilaquiles (fried corn tortilla strips simmered in salsa) with eggs and beans on top, Nacho caught Pepe up on his three kids. Nacho wanted to retire from the state police, draw his small pension, and work in private security where it was safer.

  It looked like a slow business day for World Food Imports. Only a few people had come in or out of the front door. “How about circling around to see what is going on in the back of the warehouse?”

  “Sure Pepe. I can only give you 30 more minutes. I’m expected back.” Nacho drove to the back and parked on a small street that was lined with empty, boarded-up businesses. They had a direct view through stacked pallets of the warehouse’s loading dock. Pepe focused his camera on the back door, leaning over Nacho to take a photo. Suddenly, revved up motors and screeching tires filled the air. Pepe turned and saw two black S.U.V.s skidding to a stop on either side of their car, blocking them in. Pepe thought, Fuck, I don’t have a gun, I had to leave it at the border. That was his last thought before his eyes were blinded and his ears assaulted by horrific bangs and flashes of light. Pepe automatically doubled over below the front dashboard. He felt confused, had no equilibrium, and felt piercing pain in his ears. Both doors opened. Pepe turned and saw a hooded figure swinging his arm at his head. Pepe moved his head slightly, just enough to avoid the full brunt of the blow from a gun’s handle to the right side of his head. He went limp.

  Pepe slowly came back to consciousness. He didn’t know how long he had been out. His arms and legs were bound, a gag was in his mouth, and a hood was over his head. He had a crushing headache and his ears still ached. Pepe knew he was in a vehicle, lying under something. He was being jostled about. Pepe rolled around, trying to feel for Nacho. Nacho wasn’t there.

  The road was getting bumpier. Pepe could smell the dust in the air. For a few minutes there was a terrible stench in the air. He heard seagulls squawking. Maybe a dump?

  Minutes passed and the vehicle stopped. Pepe was dragged out onto the ground. Strong hands grabbed him and he was dragged along a path. He heard a door open. He was pulled up steps onto some type of a floor. Another door opened and he was flung to the ground. The door closed.

  For what seemed like hours and hours, Pepe laid in complete darkness under a hood. His head throbbed with pain. He thought, I have to stay awake. I have to stay alive. I want to see my family again. I can get out of this somehow. Pepe fought the doubt creeping in. Deep down he knew it was unlikely that he would survive this. He prayed for the first time in years. He thought about his years as an altar boy and the hours he spent praying on his knees on the cold stone floor of the village church.

  A hooded man came into the room, removed Pepe’s hood and gave him some water. Pepe was so parched he could barely speak. “Where, where is my friend Nacho?”

  The man answered Pepe with a slap to his face. “Don’t talk. It isn’t your concern what happens to that pig.”

  “Chacal” (Jackal) felt good about himself as he watched television in the living room of the safe house above the Tijuana dump. He had led the team of six who had penned the cops in their car, blasted them with stun grenades, hogtied them, and brought them in separate cars to the safe house. His team had gotten rid of the two S.U.V.s they used in the kidnapping. There were two old pickups out front that could be used to haul produce, materials, or bodies around.

  Chacal’s source in the state police had told him that there was an all out manhunt for the tw
o officers. The Norte-Americanos were exerting extreme pressure on Mexican law enforcement to find the California agent. Chacal waited for his boss’ call.

  Nick tried to reach Pepe on his cellphone in the afternoon. Nick had expected Pepe to be back in the office by 4:30. After working 20 years together, both knew that Pepe would check in if he was delayed. Pepe didn’t answer Nick’s multiple calls. Nick checked with the rest of the team—no one had heard from Pepe. Everyone thought it was strange.

  Nick called his old friend, Bea Kowalski, the United States Attorney for the Southern District of California. “Bea, this is Nick. I have a missing agent, Pepe Cantana, who was surveilling a business this afternoon on Avenida Revolucion with Baja Norte state police officer Nacho Gutierrez. The business is World Food Imports, housed in a warehouse. We suspect it’s a money laundering front for the Baja Norte Familia. He should have been back an hour ago, or at least checked in. I have worked with him for 20 years. Pepe is very dependable.”

  “Nick, it has only been a short time. I’m sure he is okay. He’s probably having a cerveza with his Mexican colleague.”

  “Bea, I know my agent. He would have checked in. Something has happened. I can feel it.”

  “Okay, I know your feelings and how they have worked out in the past. What do you want me to do?”

  “I know the DEA has a few agents working with the state and federal police in Tijuana. Can you contact them and send them out to World Food Imports right away?

  “Will do. I will let you know as soon as we hear anything.”

  “Thank you. I owe you one.”

  Nick was counting the minutes from the end of his conversation with Bea. Forty minutes later his cell rang. “Nick, bad news. The government car Pepe and Nacho were in was found on a back street behind the World Food Imports warehouse. Pepe’s cellphone was on the center console. Four expended stun grenades were just outside the car. Federal, state, and city police have been instructed to do a complete sweep of the area.”