Path to Justice

by Jim Dutton

  “What about coverage at the Turf Club?”

  “That was tougher. We had no problems finding agents who qualified for mucking shit, but being a waiter is another thing entirely. We screened the agents to see if any of them had made an honest living as a food server. It turns out that our very own Pepe worked his way through college as a waiter. Four other agents will be either waiters or busboys.”

  “What about surveillance of the limos and drop off point?”

  “We have agents at the VIP drop off entrance, with cameras. Also, there are agents in maintenance carts to follow the limo drivers to their parking spaces. We’ll have search warrants ready to search the limos. We just have to get a supplemental telephonic warrant at the time which will specify the identification information for the limos. A federal judge will be on standby to give the final verbal authorization.”

  “I know Ana is slotted to be enforcer Sanchez’ escort. What about the other two?”

  “I rather enjoyed that part of the process. We looked through the personnel files of the female agents between 25 and 35 years old. We found two great candidates. Knockouts and both very proficient in hand to hand combat skills. We threw in the perk of a gratuitous dress of their choice that met both weapon concealment and non-concealment needs.”

  “What sort of contingent plans do we have if any of this goes south?”

  “There’s a small private room off of the Turf Club. We could take one or more of them down inside that room. The hitch is—we’ll have to get one or more of them in there. All the female agents have toured the premises and will have earplug inserts and hidden microphones. All the rest of the agents will have the same communication devices.”

  “How are we going to coordinate taking down the rest of the suspects before they get wind of the track arrests?”

  “Puma Sorpresa is scheduled to run the fifth race—five furlongs on turf. The post time is at 4:10. We plan the arrests at about 3:45 when the drug bosses are viewing Puma in the paddock area. The horses for each successive race are kept in the stall number corresponding to the number the horse is wearing for the race. Sometime around 3:55, all the horses are brought out of their individual stalls and paraded around a small oval runway in front of the paddocks so the fans can see them up close before the actual race. The horses are then led out through a tunnel under the grandstands to the track. Three levels above, overlooking the area, is the Turf Club. Members of the Turf Club and our agents can view the paddocks from the Club’s balcony”

  “Okay, enough about the horse parade, what about the other arrest sites?”

  “Sorry, I digressed. I can’t help it—I love this track. We have eight other arrest locations. The warehouses in Otay Mesa, Salt Lake City, Missoula, Chicago, and Vancouver, as well as the offices of the two money laundering operations along the border, and college boy’s residence in Missoula. Agents at each location will be ready for a call around 3:45 p.m. that verifies the arrests have been made at the track.”

  “What about arrangements for booking our three jefes? You know I want them booked and housed at separate jails. That’ll keep them guessing and protect Sendow for awhile.”

  “This took some doing. Nobody likes the extra work of housing them at three separate jails nor does anyone like the transportation issues of the two who aren’t housed at the downtown San Diego MCC jail. One will be at MCC, one will be in Orange County, and one will be in L.A. They will be housed in single man cells, in isolation. They’ll be allowed one hour a day outside their cells for exercise and they’ll have no contact with other inmates.”

  “That’s great. We’ll see how long that lasts after their defense attorneys start weighing in. You’re going to be coordinating the take down from an office by the Turf Club. I’ll be listening in, but I have to be offsite. I don’t want to look like I’m too personally involved in the arrests. I’ll let you agents do your thing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mario got to the track right after the morning briefing—they had had a video hook up with all the agents at the eight off-sites. The gates open at 12:30 and the first race starts at 1:40. Mario went straight to the office of the head of security in the bowels of the track’s grandstands. He strolled through the large video bank room where several security guards were checking monitors. At the far end of the room, former FBI agent Sam Fuller’s door was ajar. Mario knocked and went in. Sam looked up from his computer. “What have you gotten me into Mario? You know how many things could go wrong with your plan? I have 40,000 fans, many are VIPS. Many don’t know a horse race from a rodeo. They just want to be seen. I can just see one of them taking a bullet. The headlines would read, Opening Day at Del Mar Turns into Wild West Day, Patron Shot.”

  “Feel better Sam. You vented. There’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to arrest them in a controlled environment, away from people. If, at any time, it looks dangerous, we’ll call it off.”

  “Puma Sorpresa is No. 7 in the fifth race. I’m assigning the normal muckers, who handle stalls 7, 8, and 9 for that race, to other duties so your agents can step in. We have a table set aside for the cartel’s entourage in the corner of the Turf Club. Your agents will be the waiters and busboys for that area.”

  “Perfect. Thank you. Here’s a listening device so you can be tuned in to our communications. I’ll be coordinating the operation in the room you provided me, right next to the Turf Club. We really appreciate all you’ve done for us.”

  “No problem. I just hope I have a job when this is all over.”

  Mario looked snazzy in his tailored dark suit, multi-colored Jerry Garcia tie, and his contrasting white Panama hat. He could even be mistaken for one of those El Ricos except for the lack of a beautiful young señorita in a tight-fitting dress on his arm. He leaned against the iron railing of the Spanish tiled balcony of the Turf Club, watching all the beautiful people stream through the gates below him. Most of the women wore hats. Some were so extravagant as to be ludicrous. One hat was topped by a two foot tall swan and there were several Carmen Miranda imitations—a plethora of fruit adorning their hats. Here and there were elderly gentlemen in linen suits and hand carved walking sticks, with a woman less than half their age on their arm. Mario knew from his time in vice that high priced prostitutes did quite well on Opening Day.

  Opening Day had come a long way since Bing Crosby first greeted his Hollywood friends when the track opened in 1937. In those years, many of the fans arrived by train from Los Angeles. There was just a two lane road to San Diego then, no interstate.

  The Turf Club was beginning to fill up. The men all wore jackets as required for entry into the club. The dress code for women was quite a bit more relaxed and scanty. At least the ladies wouldn’t be cold in their revealing dresses in the 75 degree weather. The sun always seems to shine for big events in San Diego.

  Just after 1:00, an agent, monitoring the VIP drop off location, reported that Luis and Familia Chief Encinas were getting out of their limo with two bodyguards. Mario whispered into his hidden mike under his suit collar, “Showtime Ana for you and the other ladies. Luis and Encinas are walking in. You three and Lester should come into the club and be ready for the greet.”

  “We’re ready. We ladies all showered with disinfectant this morning.”

  Mario saw the agents and Lester walk through the club’s entrance. The agents were stunning. They captured the high priced call girl look with a strong dose of extra class, perfectly. Mario couldn’t help thinking they never looked this good at work. Male eyes turned towards them as they took over the room. More than one man thought, What in the hell are they doing with that loser? Lester didn’t look like he belonged on the same planet as the ladies. He was wearing an ill-fitted, nondescript suit, with his paunch covering his belt. At least for the time, Lester was the envy of every man in the room. The men’s lady friends, wives, and such, tugged at their sleeves, and the moment receded away.r />
  The three agents left seats between them at the table. Lester stood up and walked over to Luis and Encinas as they entered the room. He ushered them over to the table. Ana thought, the photos of Encinas didn’t capture his essence. He exuded an aura of confidence, and his steel grey eyes penetrated right through you. His wavy white hair offset his olive complexion. He had the look of a Spanish aristocrat. Señor Gomez-Encinas smiled and bent over to lightly kiss the back of Ana’s hand. “What a pleasure to meet you. Such a strong, attractive lady. Do I note some eastern European Jewry in your ancestry?’

  Ana responded with a demure smile, “You’re absolutely right. Romanian. I trust your expertise in lineage is matched by your expertise in horses today.”

  Encinas’ booming laugh preceded his light-hearted response, “A woman after my own heart, the business of horse racing is at hand.” He then leaned over to whisper into Ana’s hair over her ear. “At this moment I regret my infatuation with rubios. Maybe I’ll have the honor of encountering you again.”

  Encinas then turned and greeted the long haired blonde knockout, his lips again just grazing her hand. Ana breathed a sigh of relief, he had whispered into the ear that had the inserted communication device. She thanked her ancestors for her thick hair.

  There were no such subtleties with Luis and the Hispanic agent. He was already sitting next to her with his hand on her upper thigh.

  Champagne flowed, gourmet tidbits were nibbled on, and small talk flourished. Every so often, one of the bodyguards would leave his post to make bets for the table. Mario was getting worried about whether Sanchez would show up. He was supposed to have been there by the second race. After the third race, an agent reported that Sanchez and his bodyguard had just arrived at the VIP entrance. Mario let all the agents know. The three female agents showed no signs that they had heard.

  Expecting Sanchez, Ana was looking at the door when he entered. He was dark, with a brooding face, held up by the thickest neck Ana had ever seen. His facial scar, lighter than the rest of his skin, stood out more in person than in his photographs. His eyes had a wild look—constantly flashing around the room. Ana could see how he earned his nickname, El Toro. Fortunately, Sanchez was more of the Spanish aristocratic school in his treatment of women than Luis. He took Ana’s proffered hand in both his hands, slightly bowed and said, “Encantado, Señorita”.

  Lester steered the conversation to the fifth race and Puma Sorpresa. Luis and Encinas talked of their dear friend, the owner, and how they expected to make enough cash on the race for them all to have an unforgettable evening. Both Luis and Encinas already had more than enough cash in their wallets for everyone to have an unforgettable evening. But that was besides the point. Encinas and Luis were looking forward to going to the paddocks to personally check on Puma before the race. Sanchez said, “I’m not much for horse racing.” Glancing at Ana, “I much prefer beautiful women and vintage wine. We’ll stay here while you inspect the horse.”

  Ana felt her heart dropping. We can’t have them split up. We need to take them all down at the paddocks. She looked at Sanchez with bedroom eyes and murmured, “I think horseflesh can be sexy. Think of all that power and thrust of a finely tuned animal. Why don’t we join them?’

  “I don’t need the feel of horseflesh to perform.” He moved closer to Ana so his legs were pressed up against hers. “We will stay.”

  Ana placed her hand on Sanchez’ shoulder as she stood up. “Fine, I need to freshen up, have a vintage Cab for me when I come back.” She headed for the restroom. She spoke into her microphone, “Did you hear that Mario?”

  “Yeah. We can still take down the two at the paddocks. Any ideas?”

  “Sanchez is feeling amorous. You know that private room off of the Turf Club? When the rest go to check out the horse, I will suggest a quick fuck in the private room. I’ve never known a man who could refuse that.”

  “You may be right but that could be dangerous. You’d be on your own for a short time. We’d have to first take down the bodyguard outside the private door, and then bust inside.”

  “I can handle myself. You have Pepe and the rest of waiters take down the guard.”

  “I don’t like it, but all right.”

  A bottle of 1988 Cabernet Sauvignon awaited Ana as she returned to the table. Sanchez met her eyes, “A waiter was good enough to aerate the Cab so we don’t have to wait to taste one of Napa Valley’s finest offerings. It’s said to be profound, velvety, with long legs. Not unlike yourself.”

  Ana smiled and swirled the wine in her glass to bring out the bouquet. She put her nose close to the top of the glass and breathed in deeply. “Excellent, Mi Carido, I know I’ll enjoy this.”

  Encinas said, “We will leave you two wine connoisseurs alone to enjoy the fruits of the land. We’re going to visit Puma.” All the rest of the party except Sanchez’ personal bodyguard left the table.

  Ana took her time sipping and savoring the vintage Cab. “I like a wine with age. The maturity and richness of the wine is fully released.” She placed her hand on Sanchez’ inner thigh, rubbing it gently back and forth. Sanchez’ stoic look began to crack. A soft glint came to his dark brown eyes and a hint of a contented smile came to his lips. His body was coming alive. In a low, sultry voice, Ana whispered in his ear, “I hope you don’t think I’m too forward, but I want you to take me. Powerful, sophisticated men act as an aphrodisiac to me. There’s a private room that can be locked along the far wall.” She lightly caressed his ear with her tongue before leaning back and locking her eyes with his.

  Sanchez, short of breath, breathed in deeply. He murmured, “I’m always at your service. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.” Ana stood up, took Sanchez’ hand and led him towards the private room door. The room was small, with a couple of chairs and a computer on a desk. Sanchez turned to his bodyguard. “Stay outside, we won’t be long.” Sanchez locked the door from the inside. “Not that voyeurism wouldn’t add to the excitement, but I don’t think the stuffy Turf Club could get over it.”

  “Señor, did you ever see the Godfather movie where Sonny took her right against the wall. I have always wanted to reenact that scene.” Ana moved into him, kissing his neck and pulling both of them back towards the door. Her back was against the door as she unfastened his belt. Sanchez’ eyes were glazed, his hands fondling her breasts. She arched her back and moaned, using a hand to unlock the door. She gasped, “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “I can’t wait any longer was the cue for the other agents. Pepe and three other waiters moved towards the bodyguard. One had a tray with glasses. The first waiter, with the glasses, distracted the bodyguard as he tried to push around him, saying, “Sorry sir, it’s so crowded in here.” A DEA agent, known as “Iron” for his weight lifting fetish, was behind the bodyguard. He put his bulging forearm around the bodyguard’s neck, clamping down on the guard’s carotid artery, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. In seconds the guard would be unconscious. In an involuntary reaction to the carotid hold, the guard’s hands came up to his neck to try to release the hold. One of his arms knocked the tray over, glasses shattering on the floor.

  Sanchez heard the noise and leaped back from the door, pulling up his zipper. He grabbed a 38 from his breast pocket and pointed it towards the door. He yelled, “Falcone,” the guard’s name.

  Falcone didn’t hear his boss call his name. His three or four seconds of consciousness were over. He slid to the ground. Two of the agents tended the guard while Pepe led another agent through the door, guns drawn. Ana stepped to the side and yelled, “Federal agent, you’re under arrest” as she chopped down with all the strength of her right arm and upper body on Sanchez’ gun hand. The gun was knocked from his hand, bouncing on the floor. Sanchez leaned to pick it up when Ana gave him a vicious kick to the outside of his right knee, tearing cartilage. Sanchez slumped to the ground as Pepe kicked his gun out of reach and the other agent c
uffed him.

  Mario ran into the room and looked around. Ana was standing over Sanchez. “ICE agent Ana Schwartz. You’re under arrest for drug trafficking, Continuing Criminal Enterprise and conspiracy to murder. By the way you disgust me. You’re definitely not my type. I’m a beer drinker.”

  Mario immediately reported to Jerry and the rest of the agents at the paddocks that Sanchez and his bodyguard had been neutralized and to proceed with the other two arrests. The agents and the track security force took Sanchez and his bodyguard from the Turf Club to a service elevator. At the service bay below, two police cars were waiting to transport Sanchez and his bodyguard to Los Angeles.

  In the back of stall seven, Luis was running his hand down the flank of Puma Sorpresa. Luis and Encinas had spent the last couple of minutes admiring the two year old filly. A track official had taken the owner out front to the parade ground to talk to him. Besides the muckers, only Sendow, the two Familia heads and their bodyguards remained inside the stall. The three muckers, who were cleaning the stall, were invisible to them, with their grimy coveralls and horseshit on their shoes. The muckers pulled their Glocks out of their overalls in unison. Three more agents rushed in from the front of the paddocks with guns drawn. Multiple voices said, “Federal agents, you’re under arrest, hands on top of your heads.” The two bodyguards made movements towards their coat pockets. The agent facing them yelled, “Gun!” Two of the muckers brought their guns down on the backs of the heads of the bodyguards. They slumped to the ground and the gun wielding muckers cuffed them.