Don't Lose Her

by Jonathon King

  Behind us, I heard the crackle of a radio and Duncan speaking quietly enough that I couldn’t make out the words. But when the other end answered, the volume was still up.

  “Building secure, sir—no one home.”

  The surveillance had been stepped up. The visual probes that slipped through any crack and under any door or window they could find had come up with nada. Listening devices got silence. Finally, the front warehouse door had been breached with a pair of bolt cutters and a handheld door ram. When we got there, the wood around the frame was splintered and a forensics technician was already dusting the knob and lock plates for fingerprints.

  While we walked, I told Billy and Duncan about the homeless guy on the roof of the warehouse across the street. Duncan dispatched a team.

  Then I gave them Yoda’s descriptions of the young man, the big Indian, and his entourage, and the mention of a woman with strawberry blonde hair in the backseat of the Chrysler.

  “Dye job?” Duncan said, just as I had thought. I shrugged my shoulders.

  Agents and crime scene technicians swarmed the downstairs office and open warehouse floor, and Billy and I stepped in just in time to hear a call from the second story.

  “Up here,” an agent called down to Duncan.

  When Billy and I followed the agent-in-charge up the staircase, no one stopped us.

  The room was about ten feet square and windowless, with a cot against one wall and a marine porta-potty in one corner. A single cane chair and a futon leaned against another wall. There were no bedclothes or towels, dishes or utensils, food wrappings or litter of any kind. It was as bare as possible. Billy stood in the middle of the space, closed his eyes, and breathed.

  “Sh-she w-was h-here, M-max,” he finally said. “In th-this r-room—I smell h-her p-perfume.”

  “Uh, Mr. Manchester,” Duncan said. “Before we make any rash …”

  “Sh-she w-was h-here, M-mr. D-duncan,” Billy said, cutting him off.

  “But perfume, sir,” the agent tried again.

  “Is unique t-to any w-woman wh-who w-wears it, Agent. And I have l-lived cl-close enough t-to m-my w-wife t-to know exactly how it smells on her, and th-that s-scent is st-still in th-the air.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Manchester,” Duncan pulled back. “We will have forensics go over the room for trace evidence, of course.”

  “You might put someone on the Dumpster outside as soon as possible also,” I said, rescuing the agent a bit. “The informant said the younger suspect tossed out stuff several times while they were here. It might give you some usable DNA.”

  “I’m sure they’re already on it,” Duncan said, but spoke into his radio anyway.

  I waited until Billy broke his concentration and told Duncan we were leaving. Perhaps it was because I was with the husband of the kidnapped judge that the agent did not object. I’d given him everything I knew, as I had always intended to do. But as before, I knew the clearances and protocols that the feds would have to follow in order to wrap this scene tight. Then again, I needed to move at a pace that kept me going forward, even at the risk of stumbling or of stepping on the out-of-bounds lines. Right now, there was no evidence that Diane was not alive, and that alone pushed me to keep moving.

  “Boundaries, Mr. Freeman,” Duncan called out as Billy and I made our way to the doorway.

  “You’ll know where I am, Agent,” I said, making eye contact.

  “Indeed we will, Mr. Freeman.”

  “Th-they’ve g-got a tr-tracking d-device on your c-car,” Billy matter­-of-factly stated as we walked away.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Th-they d-dispatched a d-dozen m-men t-to th-the Arenas tr-tree pl-plantation w-with s-search w-warrants.”

  “They’ve got to cover their asses, but we don’t. They’ll never find anything there but an older brother trying to make up for letting his sibling take the fall for riches neither of them deserved.”

  Billy’s Porsche was parked at the end of a line of federal Crown Vics, armored SUVs, and local squad cars. He’d come in with them after giving them the address. We were too far from the sequestered media to hear if they were calling out questions, but we both knew they were aware that he was here. Long-lens cameras would be aimed at anything that moved at the so-called command center, especially at anyone who looked like the aggrieved husband.

  “Let’s talk in your car,” I said. “Then I gotta move.”

  Billy opened the Porsche with his remote, and I got in the passenger seat.

  “You s-said Indian b-back th-there,” Billy began, getting straight to it.

  “That came from the informant, a bit of a nutcase,” I said, “but too detailed for him to be making shit up.”

  “American Indian?”

  “Yeah, as in Chief in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

  Normally, Billy’s eyebrows would raise in perplexity when I delivered­ such information in an investigation. This time, he simply listened.

  “D-didn’t know American Indians w-were involved with th-the C-colombian c-cartels th-these d-days,” he finally said.

  “Back in the 1980s, the Seminoles’ reservation in the Glades was a favorite spot for dropping bales of marijuana and cocaine,” I said. “But the description of this Indian didn’t sound like a Seminole.”

  “S-seminoles and a variety of tr-tribes are d-doing a l-lot b-better in the f-field of l-legal g-gambling th-than drug importation,” Billy said. And, of course, he was right. Though it still wasn’t general knowledge among the public, there wasn’t a poor Indian in Florida anymore.

  The use of Indian land and the tribe’s unique standing as a nation within a nation meant that they could open a full-out casino on reservation land without control or permission of the U.S. government. Savvy businessmen and marketing moguls from Las Vegas had brought their knowledge to the Indians—at a price, of course—and turned the old no-tax cigarette stands, cheap roadside trinket huts, and side-show gator wrestling tourist traps into a multibillion­-­dollar industry. Every tribal member benefited whether he or she worked or not. Each member of a legitimate Seminole family was by contract awarded part of the casino profit, nowadays equal to about sixty thousand dollars a year per person. A family of four had 240,000 dollars in guaranteed income, no questions asked.

  But the businessmen behind that largess, the ones who ran the casinos, concert halls, restaurants, and other spin-offs, were profiting well beyond that. And although that much money and opportunity brings in the bright entrepreneurs, talented entertainers, merchants, and marketers who make the whole thing spin, it also attracts every moocher, shyster, hooker, dealer, and con man within range as well.

  Drugs in that environment? No doubt. Drug people with ties to a Colombian cartel dealing on the reservation? Not beyond possibility. But the “Chief” described by my informant could also just be a hireling, no more and no less.

  Billy looked up into his rearview mirror, in the direction of the massed media behind us, and then handed me a folded copy of the day’s Sun-Herald newspaper:

  Manhunt for Abducted Judge Expands

  By Staff Writer Nick Sortal

  In what has now become the largest manhunt in Florida and perhaps U.S. history, federal, state, and local law enforcement authorities have “pulled out all the stops” in the search for abducted Federal Judge Diane Manchester, who went missing Wednesday during a break in the extradition hearing of Colombian drug kingpin Juan Manuel Escalante in West Palm Beach.

  “We will scorch the earth in the search for Judge Manchester and the pursuit of any and all persons involved in her abduction,” said Florida Attorney General Thomas Mann during a briefing yesterday on the case that has shocked and outraged the justice system and the general public across the nation.

  “First and foremost, we are focusing on the safe return of Judge Manchester, and secondly o
n bringing those responsible to justice,” Mann said.

  “Law enforcement has pooled its resources and the level of cooperation among agencies is unprecedented.”

  Though acknowledging that no ransom demands have been received from those responsible, authorities have focused their investigation on the Colombian cocaine cartel known as Los Lobos, of which Escalante has been the titular head for nearly two decades. Escalante was lured to Florida last year in a federal sting operation and arrested in a high-profile raid at a Palm Beach mansion and charged with dozens of RICO Act violations. Known as the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act of 1970 and originally meant to fight Mafia-like organized crime, the RICO Act was broadly defined and has recently been used to deter the reaches of organized drug dealers and all their affiliates in the United States.

  Judge Manchester, though a relative newcomer to the federal bench, had extensive experience in drug-related criminal cases as a prosecutor for the Southern District of Florida for many years. Escalante’s attorneys were fighting to have him returned to Colombia while federal prosecutors were fighting that extradition and demanding that he face the RICO charges here in the United States where, if found guilty, he could face more than fifty years in prison.

  The extradition case was in its first week when Judge Manchester was abducted off the street in West Palm Beach only a few blocks from the federal courthouse during a lunch break. Eyewitnesses told police that an unmarked white van screeched to a halt on SW 14th Street about 12:15 last Wednesday and an unknown number of assailants pulled the judge into the vehicle and sped away. Despite the fact that private building and traffic cameras caught part of the abduction on video, the license plates of the van were found to be stolen and the vehicle has yet to be recovered.

  Adding to the concern over Manchester’s abduction is the fact that the forty-three-year-old judge is eight months pregnant with her first child, according to family members.

  “My daughter is a pregnant woman who was only performing her judiciary duties as an officer of the court. This is an assault not only on her but on the foundation of the justice system in these United States,” said Manchester’s father, Charles McIntyre, a retired Florida Supreme Court justice who pleaded for his daughter’s release.

  “She cannot change the laws of the United States and was only hearing the case as an arbitrator of law,” McIntyre said. “To harm her will make no difference in the outcome of the Escalante case and the charges against him. Such an outrageous act guarantees nothing but additional criminal charges to be brought against those responsible.”

  Judge Manchester’s husband, William T. Manchester, a lawyer and investment manager known for his exclusive clientele list and also his pro bono work with underprivileged and minority clients, could not be reached for comment. The interracial couple was married two years ago in a private ceremony, which was controversial in the realms of high society in exclusive Palm Beach. In interviews, friends of the couple who asked not to be identified said the judge was in the late third trimester of her first pregnancy.

  “They are a beautiful couple and were extremely happy together and thrilled over the pregnancy despite all the racial innuendo slung around by the backbiters in the old Palm Beach set,” said one woman who claims to be a close friend and associate. “This just has to be devastating for Billy.”

  William “Billy” Manchester is a black lawyer from Philadelphia with only professional rather than generational entrée to Palm Beach society as an investment specialist, while the McIntyre family has familial ties to the community spanning several generations.

  Sources in law enforcement say that the State Department has been working back channels with the Colombian government in an effort to find out if Escalante’s myriad connections in that country can be persuaded to assist in gaining the release of the judge.

  Though the abduction, and sometimes killing, of judges and journalists in Latin America is not uncommon, this is the first time that an American judge has been physically threatened in connection with the powerful drug cartels.

  Law enforcement officials say they have scoured all ports of entry and egress in both South Florida and Colombia in the event that Judge Manchester’s abductors try to smuggle her out of the country. The investigation continues to focus on the drug cartel connection.

  Yet in a statement released yesterday through his lawyers, Escalante denied any knowledge of the abduction and asked any and all who were involved to free the judge.

  “If anyone from my native country is involved in this, it is without my knowledge or permission. This will not help change the fact that the U.S. government is denying me the legal right of extradition back to my homeland. My people are not so stupid.”

  In the meantime, law enforcement continues to follow several leads in the abduction, said Attorney General Mann, who asked that anyone with information on the case call the federal hotline listed below.

  I folded up the paper and put it on the floor. “Nothing new there,” I said. Billy remained quiet and didn’t move, even to start the car.

  “D-diane’s f-father is c-considering a r-reward f-for information.”

  “Bad move. Brings out the nuts and they’ll be swamped with bullshit sightings and useless leads.”

  “L-leads are hard t-to c-come b-by,” Billy said, nodding his head in the direction of the command center. “L-look how quick th-they jumped on th-this one.”

  “I’m a little surprised myself, considering where it came from.”

  Billy didn’t flinch at the self-deprecation.

  “I’m c-concerned about th-the f-full f-focus b-being on the c-cartel’s involvement,” he said. “Wh-what d-did you f-find with the l-list? Anything?”

  “Doubtful so far,” I said, sparing Billy the details on the Arenas brothers and what was left of Giovanni Maltese, hating to admit my failure to come up with a single solid lead.

  “Any luck on tracing the owners of the warehouse back there?” I said instead.

  I knew it would be one of the first things Billy did when I’d given him the address. He’d get the landowner records and trace them through the state files. The feds would probably get to it later.

  “Sh-shell c-corporations. B-but I haven’t g-given up on f-finding the pr-principals’ n-names.”

  “The witness on the roof said the Indian opened the front door with a key. So it wasn’t just someplace they broke into. They had a plan.”

  Billy nodded.

  “Could be an old drug stash house.”

  Billy nodded again. Something was germinating in his head, but he’d wait until he’d run it around a bit to share what he was thinking. Billy was not an admirer of brainstorming.

  “D-despite my entreaties to every c-contact I have in S-south America, I c-can’t f-find a s-single t-tie or s-substantiated rumor that Escalante’s p-people are in this,” he said again, without emotion or inflection of frustration or dissatisfaction; he was just stating fact.

  “If he’s p-pulling the st-strings, th-then he’s d-doing s-so with only a small group of tr-trusted affiliates. And as you and I know, M-max, s-something th-this b-big is a very d-difficult th-thing to d-do without s-someone slipping up and t-talking, f-for pr-profit or advantage.”

  I knew the feds were offering every drug-indicted detainee they had in custody a deal of a lifetime for information. I knew that they were squeezing any and all suspects with anything short of water­boarding—and maybe even that—to get a line on Diane’s whereabouts.

  The conundrum, of course, was the fact that no demands—not ransom or pardon or waiver of extradition—had yet been asked for by those responsible. What do you give kidnappers if they don’t ask for anything? How do you determine motive if no desires are aired?

  Who took Diane, and why?

  “All p-possibilities,” Billy said. “Remember: F-follow the m-money?”

&
nbsp; His comment made no sense on the face of it. Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. He didn’t look up.

  “Judge Krome, the one you m-met in the c-courthouse hallway. He’s n-never sp-spoken to m-me b-before th-this. N-now he c-calls me every d-day, asking f-for updates. I d-did s-some research. He’s hearing a c-casino c-case. It appears he has b-been d-denying wh-what w-would n-normally b-be observed as r-routine extensions t-to th-the pl-plaintiffs.”

  The answer didn’t do a thing for my eyebrows.

  “T-two d-days ago, it appears he w-was f-forced to g-give th-them another d-delay or r-risk ethics c-committee scrutiny.”

  “And there’s money involved?” I said.

  “M-millions. If a ruling is m-made b-before a st-stipulated d-deadline in th-the pl-plaintiffs’ c-contract w-with Indian c-casino p-people, th-they w-won’t have t-to p-pay up. If it’s l-later, th-the b-bill is due.”

  “And who’s paying attention to this now?” I asked, not sure that Billy should be, but his mind works on more levels than mine.

  “Only m-me. I ch-checked every b-big-m-money tr-trial going on in th-the c-courthouse.”

  “OK. And how does this tie in with Diane?”

  “I frankly d-don’t know, M-max. I’m drawing wh-whatever th-threads I can.”

  “We need a break,” I muttered, hating to fall back on that old saw.

  “Th-that’s th-the r-response from the authorities, and th-their st-stated answer t-to th-the question of wh-what t-to d-do n-now. W-wait f-for a br-break in the c-case, th-they s-say.”

  Or for bodies, I thought, keeping that image to myself. I’d been there too often, starting investigations only after bodies had turned up.

  “But I can’t wait,” I said, to myself as much as to Billy.

  “N-neither c-can w-we. And p-perhaps w-with th-the Indian, you have g-given m-me another thread to w-work w-with. I’ll g-get t-to it.”

  He was dismissing me and I got out of the car.

  “R-remember th-the tr-tracking device, M-max.”