by Marc Rainer
Carter went for what appeared to be a jog through the neighborhood, the real purpose of which was to determine if he was under any human surveillance sent to double-check the electronic rat he’d found on the car. After circling the blocks in front of and behind his residence and finding nothing out of the ordinary, he returned to the garage, started the Buick, and drove away.
August 22, 9:30 p.m.
Lynn entered the code on the electronic alarm, activating it. The little box chirped three times, indicating that all was now secure at Castle Trask. They’d had one of the control units installed in the den and the other in the bedroom, so that if the power was cut, they’d know from the lack of the monitor lights on the box. She glanced over at the couch across the den, where Boo lay stretched out over the lap of her husband, who was stroking the big dog’s head. Trask saw the amusement on her face.
“Why did this one decide to adopt me?” he asked. “You get the twenty-pound shadow, I get this monster.”
“She loves her daddy, and he loves her.”
“I think my whole lower half ’s asleep. No blood flow. Where’s Nikki?”
“Asleep on the pillow at the foot of our bed.”
“OK. Where’s the gun?”
“Loaded and ready in the headboard. You expecting another attack?”
“We have to be ready for one. I have to admit I don’t know what to expect at this point.”
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That whoever sent those guys was more concerned about having us killed with machetes than having us killed.”
“You lost me on that one.”
“Think about it. If your primary goal is to whack somebody, there are a hundred ways more certain to achieve that purpose than a machete attack. Guns are great, car bombs are, too. Chemical agents, poisons…Don’t get me wrong. I think we were supposed to die that night. I just think that the message was more in the machetes than in the success of the attack.”
“So the fact that it failed doesn’t necessarily mean that they—whoever ‘they’ are—will be back?”
“I don’t know. As long as we’re supposed to think we were attacked by members of one of the Maras, then the message has been received, even if we’re still alive and kicking. Or maybe they were trying to either kill us, or if we survived, get us thrown off the case as potential victim witnesses. You know, build in a conflict of interest.”
“You’re saying that someone else wants us to think the Maras are after us, but they really aren’t?”
“Look at all your research, Lynn. When MS-13 hits somebody, they leave calling cards all over the damn place. They wrapped the ambassador’s kid in a 76er’s jersey and carved every variety of the number thirteen into his flesh before they cut his head off. You drive into their turf, and they’ve spray-painted their little blue slogans on every wall in the hood. Don’t you think they would have tried to take public credit for this, even though it failed?”
“Maybe they were planning to tag our house after we were killed.”
“And maybe their new pledge class is made up of middle-aged goons who were going to get jumped in after this big assignment—a new cure for a midlife crisis. I don’t buy it. Maybe they did intend to graffiti the place up after they killed us. Who knows?” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll never walk again after I lose the use of both legs because this moose thinks I’m nesting material. Boo, wake up and move.”
The big dog climbed down from the couch, then sprawled at Trask’s feet, gazing up at him with powder blue eyes with a look that questioned why she’d been so cruelly banished.
“You’re so mean,” Lynn said.
“Shit,” he said, reaching down and stroking Boo’s back. “You’re OK, Boo, you just don’t realize that you’re not a puppy anymore.”
“Actually, she still is. She could grow a bit bigger, as young as she is.”
“Great. I’ll have to dig a septic tank in the backyard just for the Boo-poo. Have you seen the size of those mounds she drops?”
“They’re both wonderful dogs, Jeff, and worth every little bit of trouble they bring with them.”
He reached down and scratched the big black head again. “Come on, sentry,” he said. “I’m tired, and it’s time for you to take your post.” He headed for the bedroom, mentally humming a song by Lobo. “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo.” Way to go, genius. Try getting that one out of your head now.
August 23
At 2:45 a.m., Carter parked the Buick in the garage. He pulled the creeper out and reattached the GPS onto the car’s frame. His stakeout of the car wash had been a waste of time for once. All quiet on the Eastern Front, he told himself as he sank into the recliner.
At 3:17 a.m., Esteban Ortega lowered the handgun and sneered at the man writhing in pain on the floor of the car wash before him. Blood was running from the gunshot wound in the man’s left thigh down into the track slots between the brushes on either side of the wash area. Ortega bent down close to the man, whose forehead bore a “666” tattoo. Seven other members of the MS-13 stood by, grinning, insulting the victim, urging their leader on.
“You know you will die tonight, amigo,” Ortega said. “It is your misfortune that you are the only coward from Barrio 18 that we could find on the street. No matter; you are only the first, and there will be more. Two of my soldiers died here last week as the result of your attack. More were arrested and are sitting in jail. I will kill four of you for each one of us that falls.” Ortega pulled his shirt off, revealing a torso covered with the inked insignia of the MS-13. “This is what a man’s chest looks like. And I don’t want your worthless blood staining my shirt.
“I do have one offer to make you tonight,” Ortega continued as he pulled a large hunting knife from a scabbard on his belt. He held the knife in his left hand; the gun was still in his right. “You can tell us who ordered the raid that killed my soldiers last week, and where we can find the putas who did it. In that case,” he raised the gun, “you can die quickly. If you do not talk,” the hand with the knife went up, “you will scream instead.”
“I do not know who hit your men.” The man moaned, clutching his wounded leg. He looked up into Ortega’s face. “If I did I would not tell you. I will not help you kill my brothers.”
“A brave choice,” Ortega nodded, “but one with consequences.” He nodded to the others. “Hold him.”
The man screamed in agony as the knife began to carve.
“He makes too much noise,” Ortega shook his head. “We need something to silence him, and I do not want to waste one of our washrags. Remove his pants.”
Twenty minutes later, the body lay motionless.
“Put him in the truck,” Ortega said. “We will make a delivery later tonight.”
Two of the group dragged the body away by its feet leaving a wide trail of blood through the wash area.
“We need to clean this place up,” Ortega ordered. “Turn on the wash. My car is dirty. Bring it around.”
Chapter Thirteen
August 23, 9:00 a.m.
Trask sat at the table in the courtroom and read the file that Crawford had provided him regarding the school life of Armando Lopez-Mendez. There was nothing in it to amount to a lead in the murder. An average student doing average high-school stuff. No steady girlfriends or even close friends. Predictable. Kid gets jerked back and forth between the US and El Salvador every three or four years. Probably had no real idea who he was or where he belonged.
He closed the file and picked up another. The van from the retaliation raid. He was looking at the computer trace on the van’s vehicle identification number. Vincente Santos was the registered owner. He had also been the driver.
The MS-13 boys wanted a van for the raid on Bladensburg—needed it for the shooters in the back. Slide the door open and fire. You can steal a damned Cavalier anywhere, but vans are harder to come by. They’re not parked on every street like cheap compacts. Mr. Santos happened to have one, and he was in the club. Born in Los A
ngeles to Salvadoran parents. Tenth-grade dropout. Two fairly old prior convictions from California: one for burglary, one for dope. Served almost no time. The LA jails are like Lorton, too crowded. No one does the time they’re sentenced to serve. Verified MS-13 banger. Tats to prove he’s proud of it.
Trask picked up a copy of the daily court docket and looked at his watch. Almost time. The nine o’clock hearing was a probation revocation case in front of Senior District Judge Waymon Dean. The original case, the tax case, had been filed when Santos had gotten lucky with a lottery ticket, but had filed a fraudulent return in an attempt to get a refund on the sizeable withholding amount. The case had not been one of Trask’s, but he had volunteered to handle the revocation matter. That matter had become even easier when an FBI agent from the property crimes squad had handed him a CD with a recording on it.
“ALL RISE.”
The clerk’s call and gavel crack shook him out of his musings, and Trask stood as the old man entered the courtroom. Unlike some of the other senior judges, all of whom seemed to be pushing eighty, Judge Dean was still mentally alert and as physically fit as many men thirty years his junior. A tall, thin man with completely white hair and a matching, bushy moustache, he spoke with a pronounced Virginia drawl.
“Case 00425-01. United States v. Vincente Santos. Counsel, please state your appearances.”
“Jeffrey Trask for the United States, Your Honor. With me at counsel table is Special Agent Driscoll of the FBI.”
“Mitchell Clark for Vincente Santos, who appears in person and with counsel.”
Trask glanced over at his opposing counsel.
Haven’t seen this guy before. Looks like he just passed the bar. I wonder if he knows what he’s getting into with this client. Darren Regan had him at the initial hearing, and he’s in the morgue now.
“This is a final hearing on a probation revocation for Mr. Santos,” Judge Dean declared sternly. “My records, and my memory, reflect that Mr. Santos here is one of those who believe that the United States government doesn’t have the Constitutional authority to collect income taxes. Mr. Trask, I sentenced this defendant to probation, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I was not originally assigned to this matter, but that’s what the record reflects.” I could try and respectfully bust your chops for not locking him up when you had the chance, Judge, but there’s no point in doing that now, especially when the defendant’s going to push those buttons for me.
“My file,” Judge Dean said, “shows that despite that leniency, and some stern warnings to Mr. Santos, the probation office now alleges that the defendant has violated the conditions of that probation by associating with other felons and by refusing to report to his probation officer for scheduled appointments.”
The judge nodded in the direction of a woman in her forties, seated at a side table. Trask recognized her as Ruth Deavers, one of the probation office supervisors.
“There is a new and supplementary violation report, Your Honor,” Trask said. “The defendant is being charged in a new matter with aiding and abetting others in the possession of illegal machine guns, which we believe were about to be used in some local gang warfare.”
“What does your client have to say for himself, Mr. Clark?” The judge’s piercing blue eyes peered over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
“Mi…Mister Santos admits he…he acknowledges having had some contact wi…with others who have criminal records, Your Honor…” Clark stammered nervously.
“Take it easy, son. Is this your first hearing?”
Trask felt himself smiling as the judge glanced at him and winked.
The old guy does have a soft side—for this rookie, for the moment.
“Yes it is, Judge.” Clark managed to get the answer out without stuttering.
“Well, you’re doing fine. Were you appointed or retained for this case?”
“I’ve been hired by Mr. Santos.”
Getting a chunk of that lottery money yourself, Clark? Trask thought.
“Good, good.” The judge was smiling. “Now, what does Mr. Santos want to do here? Is he contesting these violations?”
“We are contesting the violations, Judge, although we are conceding…we are admitting some of the conduct in the probation report, but we…we just don’t think that they are really…we don’t think that they can fairly be called violations.”
The judge took off his glasses and started polishing the lens with a sleeve of his robe.
“Why don’t you tell me, Mister Clark…and take your time. But I need to understand how you think your client here can admit violative conduct without admitting violations. Did he, or didn’t he, have contact with other convicted felons?”
“Yes, he did judge, but—”
Good, kid. Admit what you have to admit.
“OK, just hold it there. And did he fail to report to the probation office as he had been ordered to do?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Hold it again. So now you tell me why you think those actions are not violations of his probation.”
This better be good.
“Judge, my client asserts that he has the right to associate with those who share his heritage under his constitutional rights of assembly and association—”
“As long as they are not convicted felons, Mr. Clark.”
The judge isn’t smiling now. Wait till he hears the recording.
“We are asserting, Your Honor—”
That’s an awful lot of asserting, kid. A bad buzzword to throw out too often. Especially to an old lion like Waymon Dean.
“We are asserting that the convictions of some of these individuals with whom Mr. Santos was associating were unfairly adjudged and that they may have been the products of ineffective assistance of counsel.”
“That’s for them and their defense attorneys to litigate, Clark, not you. Let’s cut to the chase here, son.” The judge turned his eyes toward Trask. “Does the evidence, Mr. Trask, show that these contacts were with other convicted felons?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Trask answered.
“Felons who weren’t just tax cheats?” The white eyebrows arched high over the glasses.
Here’s my trump card. Sorry, Clark.
“Your Honor, in addition to being the driver in what we believe was to be an attempt to murder members of a rival street gang, and in addition to chauffeuring four convicted felons in his van who were at the time in possession of fully automatic weapons, Mr. Santos seems to have been involved in the distribution of some stolen property. The FBI had a wiretap on the office telephone of one Richard Stevens in another investigation. That investigation targeted the fencing of stolen property. Mr. Stevens is yet another convicted felon, with convictions for receiving stolen property. We have a recording of an intercepted conversation between the defendant and Mr. Stevens. My file shows that a copy of this recording was provided to Mr. Clark last week.”
“What about that, Clark?” the judge asked.
No “Mister Clark” now. Grandpa’s about to break out the hickory switch, kid.
“I did get the disc, judge, but I haven’t had the time to listen to all of it yet—”
WHAT!? Clark, you dummy, you’re dead meat.
“And my client asserts that these conversations have been misconstrued—”
Again with that asserts stuff; you took your client at his word, Clark, and you’ll never do that again after today.
“Your Honor,” Trask said, fixing his gaze on the face of Vincente Santos, who was sneering at him. “I suggest that the Court allow me to play the recording of that conversation. I have listened to the entire conversation and think that the Court will have no difficulty ascertaining its true nature. It’s about five minutes long. Agent Driscoll can authenticate the tape.”
“Do you want Agent Driscoll to have to testify on that, Clark?” the judge asked pointedly. “Seems to me you said that your client has admitted talking to this Stevens.”
> “We’ll stipulate to the authenticity of the recording, Judge.”
Clark, you’ll never forget this.
“Let’s hear your evidence, Mr. Trask.” Judge Dean leaned back in the leather chair and started polishing his glasses again.
Trask cued the disc in the laptop on the table in front of him, and the voices of Vincente Santos and Richard Stevens began to resonate over the courtroom’s audio system. The first four minutes of the recording did concern the redistribution of certain personal property at a fraction of its retail value, but then neither of the speakers had actually purchased the property in question. It was the last portion of the conversation that caused Mitchell Clark to turn pale, Vincente Santos to start looking at his shoes, and smoke to appear from every orifice in the white-haired head of Judge Waymon Dean.
“How’s your probation goin’ Vincente?”
“That whole thing’s a crock, Rich.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You bet your ass. Same motherfuckers who think they can grab all my money think they can tell me how to live my life, what I can do, what I can’t do.”
“Yeah, I had to go through the same shit on my parole.”
“Right. This old judge I got, Mean Dean they call ’im, he’s a cranky, stupid old bastard. Thinks he’s king of the country. Goddamn feds. And this PO I got, Mizz Deavers, what a dried-up old bitch. Wants to screw up my schedule just so she can talk down to me every damn month. Fuck ’em. They’re not gonna tell me how to live my life.”
“You tell ’em, Vincente.”
Trask hit the stop button. He looked over at Clark.
I think the kid’s gonna hurl. He’s looking really green.
“Ruth, how much time can I give this guy?” The judge’s voice had dropped to a measured growl. The probation officer stood at her table.
“Your Honor, since there was no imprisonment time adjudged at the initial sentencing, all five years remain available to the Court.”
“Probation is revoked, and five years it is, Mr. Santos. You’re remanded to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons. You’ll have plenty of time to help prepare your defense for your next case. Court’s adjourned.”
