by Mark Wheaton
“They were going to break ground a few years ago,” Father Arturo explained. “Then the La Familia Cartel went to war against about everybody. The state was thrown into chaos. What business wanted to be exposed to that level of violence? They were the darkest years of our lives. But slowly order has returned.”
“The cartel was eradicated?”
A beneficent smile, free of condescension, spread across the priest’s face. “The head of La Familia was killed, and the cartel somewhat disbanded. But no, Padre. Not eradicated. A new governor was elected. New understandings were reached.”
Luis didn’t need clarification. Father Arturo changed the subject by pointing to a church spire rising over the nearby buildings. “That is my home. That is San Elias Nieves.”
The church was a modest affair compared to St. Augustine’s or, really, any of the cathedrals in the Los Angeles diocese. But compared to the other buildings on its own block, it more than did its job, drawing the eye and inspiring awe with the skyward reach of its spire. The façade was plain, save two statues tucked into niches, one of Jesus Christ and the other of the Virgen de Guadalupe. The outer walls were white and the roof pinkish tan, with rows of Spanish tiles. Over the large double wooden doors was a tympanum carved with the image of the Last Supper.
“It’s beautiful,” Luis said.
“Thank you,” Arturo replied, beaming with pride. “We like to think that it serves a real purpose for its community here. There was once an older cathedral on this spot, but it fell into decay. There was talk of moving the rebuilt church elsewhere, but it was your great-uncle who insisted it stay in the center of town. We are part of our parishioners’ daily lives this way, not a Sunday destination only. And now, with the school almost built, we can do even more.”
Luis was impressed. A new hospital, the Coca-Cola plant, now a school. He’d understood a great deal of the Mexican drug war was fought in the states directly below the US-Mexico border—most over smuggling routes and territories impacted by sales to El Norte. Way down here in Michoacán it seemed miles away.
Father Arturo pushed Luis across the narrow street to the front of San Nieves. Rather than approach the double doors of the chapel, however, he wheeled Luis around to the side. Luis heard hammers at work and the buzz of a circular saw. Father Arturo took out his cell phone and presented a photograph. It was of the foundation of an L-shaped building about the size of San Nieves’s basilica being smoothed by craftsmen, thick beams and wooden trusses arranged at regular intervals to support the second-floor eventual roof.
“This is two months ago. Two weeks before your father arrived, in other words. Keep it to one side of your mind.”
“All right,” Luis agreed.
Father Arturo pushed Luis down the alley between the church and the neighboring building. When they came around back, Luis gaped. The building he was looking at was almost complete. The framing of both levels was done, and walls were going up at the far side. There were pipes for bathrooms and water fountains. Two water heaters were in place. Windows, ready to be installed, leaned against a rear wall. In the middle of all of it was Sebastian, directing workers as he stood on a ladder, soon to return to work himself.
“My goodness,” Luis said, surprised.
“We had a plan that we would finish half, cover it to wait out the summer rains, then finish it in the fall. The addition of your father’s hammer and knowledge means that it will be completed in time for students in the fall. The community believes he’s some kind of angel, and the support to christen the school in honor of his namesake, San Sebastian, has been total.”
Luis almost couldn’t believe his ears. His father, the drunk. His father, the man who left. His father, who heard voices that couldn’t possibly be God.
His father, the savior.
“Dad!” Luis called out.
Sebastian grinned and came down the ladder. “Welcome! You like it?”
“It’s amazing,” Luis admitted.
“He works like a demon, up early and stays late,” Father Arturo enthused. “We can barely keep him supplied with wood, he builds so fast. We have to take up another collection.”
“They’re predicating early rains this year,” Sebastian said. “God wants us to hurry. Would you like a tour?”
Luis admitted that he would. Father Arturo and Sebastian went to lift the wheelchair into the school, but Luis shook them off.
“Let me walk in,” he said.
It took work, but Luis managed to get to his feet and enter the schoolhouse under his own steam. The lot on which they had to build wasn’t very large. The classrooms themselves, however, were each a good size and could accommodate at least a couple dozen students.
“There are six classrooms per floor,” Father Arturo gushed. “The lower grades will be two-year. A kindergarten and first grade taught together, a first and second, a second and third. The upper grades will be alone. We are hoping to put together a scholarship fund so that those who do very well will be able to continue classes at St. Javier, the Jesuit high school in Uruapan.”
“You’ll need a number of teachers,” Luis said.
“Is that an offer, Father Chavez?” Father Arturo quipped. “But yes, we already have the first three in myself and visiting Fathers Ponce and Feliz. There’s enough housing at our temporary rectory, an apartment building about three blocks away, for all of us. Your father is staying with us there now.”
“And who pays?” Luis blurted out without thinking.
Father Arturo didn’t seem to mind, however. “The diocese in Morelia and then the archdiocese in Mexico City have been most helpful in providing for the teachers. The building is financed by our congregation, and we’re hoping ongoing costs are supplemented by student fees, which we hope to keep at a minimum. We also hope that the archdiocese might favor us with at least some partial scholarships for those students most in need.”
Luis looked from Father Arturo to his own father and back again. Who was he to say his father didn’t hear the voice of God? God was clearly working through both men, and their passion and verve were as impressive as they were contagious.
“You’re a force to be reckoned with, Father Arturo,” Luis said.
“Thank you, Father Chavez. From what your father tells me, so are you. Perhaps, as you continue your recovery, you could come to San Elias Nieves and celebrate a Mass. It would be a blessing to us.”
“I would be honored.”
Father Arturo beamed, then seemed to remember something. “I can’t believe I forgot this,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I was at San Juan Diego for a reason.”
He handed a ziplock bag to Luis with a crumbling piece of paper inside. Luis opened the bag, unfolded the slip, and discovered a christening notice. The date was March 24, 1965, the location was El Tule. The name was Sandra Trueba, his mother.
“She was christened by your uncle in this very building,” Father Arturo said. “And on the feast day of Saint Catherine of Genoa. How wonderful is that?”
Luis glanced to his beaming father.
Wonderful indeed, Luis thought. It’s all wonderful.
First thing in the morning Michael made his way to the law firm of Wasser, Lustbader, and Rafson. Situated in a downtown skyrise, Wasser, Lustbader was one of the largest corporate firms not just in Los Angeles but in the entire Pacific Rim. This was almost not to be, however, as they’d suffered through a solid two decades of being the go-to firm for hospitals, pharmaceutical companies, and medical equipment manufacturers fighting malpractice suits that resulted in endless billable hours but little in the way of growth. The partners were content to grind their junior associates down to nubs as long as they were paid their dividends and bonuses, but didn’t blink as these same associates quit to form more nimble, expansion-oriented firms capable of taking Wasser, Lustbader’s business out from under them.
That is, except for Paul Ravet.
During the late seventies and early eighties, as Japanese economic power rose
around the Pacific Rim, Paul Ravet looked farther east and believed China could be next. One of the rare men in American corporate culture who didn’t look down on the Chinese, Ravet saw what was coming: a nation poised to rapidly industrialize and potentially do the same to the United States across multiple marketplaces that Japan had done with cars.
At the time China wasn’t interested much in talking to a Los Angeles–based corporate attorney. The government didn’t favor Chinese investment in American firms and didn’t welcome American interest in their own. Ravet understood. America had spent much of the twentieth century misunderstanding China, both over- and underestimating the authority of its leadership and its supposed subjugation by Moscow.
Conveniently, Ravet didn’t care for politics. He saw several companies already using Chinese labor in the tech sector and knew Americans couldn’t be far behind. So he began petitioning the Chinese Ministry of Commerce for trade permits, customs information relating to double taxation, and reciprocal law accreditation. He went largely ignored. When he finally received a rejection, he celebrated it as a form of acknowledgment.
Then one day a shipment of Brazilian oil destined for the Chinese port of Qingdao ended up in Long Beach mired in the kind of red tape only an American lawyer could cut through. Ravet was contacted by a Chinese government official, helped free the oil, and extracted a high fee for his services. Another request followed a few months later. Within a few years he personally oversaw the visit of the California governor to Beijing and opened even more trade avenues.
Paul Ravet was also Michael’s mentor for the handful of months Michael had gone into the private sector after completing law school. Though Michael was one of many first-year associates who resigned from Wasser, Lustbader within only the first few months, he’d already earned Ravet’s trust and respect. As he rose in the DA’s office, he kept in contact with Ravet, relying on him for advice now and again.
But now Michael presented himself at Ravet’s office at seven in the morning without an appointment. This went so against the grain that he knew he risked offending Ravet’s sensibilities. He also had no choice.
“He’s prepping for a big meeting in Shanghai all day,” Ravet’s second assistant, Caitlin, told Michael. “You can probably ring him early next week.”
Michael took a seat. Caitlin didn’t make eye contact with him for the next four hours. Finally, after a brief intercom exchange, she rose, nodded his way, and escorted him through Ravet’s door.
Ravet didn’t look up from his tablet as Michael entered. Michael indicated a solid-gold ox standing at the corner of Ravet’s desk.
“That’s new?”
“From a group in Taipei,” Ravet said. “Turns the heads of the PRC types when they see it, but it’s good for them to know I’m playing both sides.”
Michael didn’t want the lecture on Chinese-Taiwanese business culture Ravet seemed poised to deliver and decided to be direct. “Are you acting counsel for Charles Sittenfeld?” Michael asked.
Ravet raised an eyebrow.
For the murder-for-hire charge, Sittenfeld’s defense was being handled by Leslie Radden, a safe choice given the gendered charge. But Michael knew that wouldn’t include whatever charges or noncharges the CIA would have whisked Sittenfeld out of the country to discuss. There had to be at least someone in Sittenfeld’s circle being consulted on this, too.
“Weren’t you fired?” Ravet finally asked.
“My official notification reads that I’ve been suspended.”
“So who do you work for now? Don’t tell me it’s Justice. Aren’t they tired of all the interagency sniping?”
“So that’s a yes?” Michael asked.
Ravet put his tablet down, leaned back in his chair, and studied Michael for a long moment. “What do you want, Michael?”
“I want Charles to stand trial as an accessory to the murder of Naomi Okpewho and Carrie Meallaigh. Barring that, I want him to give up his third party. There’s a cartel connection—”
“Is there?” Ravet said, cutting him off, as if to suggest Michael was entering dangerous territory.
“There is, but Charles hid his hand well. He never did anything that could prove a link between himself and those making billions off narcotics. The problem is we’ve got this Byzantine maze he’s constructed. We know who is on one end and who is on the other, but have no clue as to the Minotaur hiding within. I want to ask him who that is so that I might go after them.”
“With the full authority of the Justice Department, the FBI, and the Office of the District Attorney of Los Angeles?” Ravet added mockingly. “And what do you have to offer him? Immunity at trial?”
“I found his money.”
Ravet smirked. Then the smirk faded. “What are you saying?”
“I have a pair of associates who do what Sittenfeld does. Only, they’re better than him in a couple of ways. They called me up this morning, talking about a third party that hides behind all these randomized account numbers. They can’t get to that guy, though, so they decided to go after Charles himself. It turns out he has exactly 348,972,450.23 dollars spread across multiple accounts in—that cliché of all clichés—the Cayman Islands by way of three shell companies in Delaware, two in Nevada.”
Michael waited for Ravet to consider this. “You can’t get at it, Michael,” Ravet retorted. “I don’t know what you’re threatening.”
“We found it. We could steal it,” Michael said. “We could make it look like it was being seized, then remove it, then close the accounts. By the time it was done, he’d have no legal recourse to get it back either.”
“You are describing a serious crime, Michael,” Ravet said, getting to his feet. “You need to leave.”
“Okay, okay,” Michael said, heading for the door. “By the way, you have a couple of accounts in the same exact bank as Sittenfeld, almost as if you advised him on where to keep his money if he wanted it safe. If he has hit squads going after people who could put him behind bars, what do you think he’d do if he found out his lawyer’s former associate was responsible for the heist that cleaned him out? Murder-for-hire seems to be his thing.”
“Now you’re fishing,” Ravet said. “You couldn’t possibly go after the money.”
“No, but his wife could. Or the CIA. I’ve heard the Austrian government is angry with him for some reason. Could tell them even. Pretty sure Sittenfeld, wherever he is, is thinking once he’s done with CIA he’ll happily retire somewhere with his third of a billion dollars. I wonder who he’d start ratting on if he suddenly knew that nest egg was gone. How many people, how many governments, have been introduced to him over the years by—I don’t know—persons like yourself in ways that might interest CIA? His ability to do business has functionally been destroyed. I wonder what happens to all those others now?”
For the first time in a long time Michael was in his element, and he was relishing it. He watched his former mentor’s expression change as the older man mentally examined his dwindling options.
Ravet stared angrily at Michael. “CIA can’t know.”
“I’m fine with that,” said Michael.
“You’d have ten minutes to speak to him,” Ravet said. “Not a second longer.”
“Still not hearing anything I’d object to.”
“And if you touch that money or anyone else’s money, it won’t be a junkie with a machine gun that comes after you next time,” Ravet said icily.
Michael paused. “Amazing what you can get accomplished when you threaten not someone’s life but their social standing and lifestyle, ain’t it, counselor?”
XIII
There was no reason that Luis could determine why San Elias Nieves should have a spontaneous feast that night, but he got the sense that the congregation was overdue. It had started small, a dinner that would take place in the small yard between the construction site and the rear of the church, where a courtyard had been proposed. Then one of the volunteer construction workers called a neighbor about
bringing pork. Another rang up his wife, who called her sister about making carnitas and morisquetas. A third texted his bandmates and asked Father Arturo if dancing was appropriate.
“‘Rejoice in the dance, both young and old together,’” Father Arturo had replied.
Somewhere along the line it was decided that they were honoring Sebastian Chavez for all his labor, and then everyone was invited.
Knowing he wouldn’t be allowed to duck out, Luis returned to the hospital to rest for the afternoon. His doctor came by in the early evening to see if his extracurricular visit to San Elias Nieves had done any damage.
“You’re in good shape, Padre,” the doctor said. “Will I see you at the church dance later?”
Now it was a dance?
“I believe so,” Luis said.
“Great. My wife is already cooking. You should’ve seen the clinic we had before Father Arturo built this hospital.”
“He built the hospital?” Luis asked.
“Well, not him personally, but he knew there was a real need in the community. So he set about raising the funds. Took him three years, some help from the archdiocese in Mexico City, but primarily he got the money from the community.”
Like the school, Luis thought, surprised the impoverished community could sustain the perennial layout.
“The church can do a lot when it puts its mind to it,” Luis said.
“That it can,” the doctor replied.
Luis fell asleep for a couple of hours, waking when his father entered.
“It’s already started,” Sebastian said. “Parishioners filed over even before sundown. People brought chairs. A couple of benches and some boards became a stage. There’s more food than I’ve seen since I’ve been down here.”
Luis thought about his congregation at St. Augustine’s. There were several congregants whose social life revolved around the church, so this wasn’t so unusual to him. What did stand out was the entire community helping out. Los Angeles was many things, but united when it came to a citywide religious preference it was not. Being in a town, however small, that was universally Catholic was a first for Luis.
