Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  Because of his carelessness, everything had turned to shit. The photograph, taken as he sat beside the open graves of his wife and children, had been featured prominently in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution on the evening of the funeral. It was there for anyone to find and use to identify him.

  He shook his head. It was more than a careless mistake. He had been foolish. He could not allow that to happen again.

  59.

  An Advantage

  “There has been word from Monterrey.”

  “Word? Please be more specific, Alejandro.” Juan Manuel—Bebé—Elizondo flicked ash from the end of his cigar.

  His lieutenant, Alejandro Garza, stepped onto the hacienda veranda.

  “We have a man there, not a senior man, but one who helps arrange shipments and maintains our contacts with the Policía Estatal, that sort of thing.”

  Elizondo eyed Garza curiously. “It is not like you to avoid coming directly to the point, Alejandro. I assume this means the word you bring is not news that will be pleasant company here on my veranda as I watch the sunset over the Pacific.”

  “Our man has been killed,” Garza said, returning to his usual blunt method of imparting information. He waited a moment for Bebé to absorb the news and added as a point of clarification, “By a norteamericano.”

  Elizondo puffed the cigar until the end glowed cherry red, held the smoke in his mouth for several seconds then let it drift up and away into the as he considered the implications.

  “So, you think the one who killed our man is the one we have been waiting for?”

  “I cannot be certain yet.” Garza nodded. “But the man who did this matches the description.”

  Garza took a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table beside Elizondo. The picture of the American police officer, John Sole, had been downloaded from a story shortly after the murder of his wife and partner in Atlanta more than a year earlier.

  Elizondo took the picture in his hand and stared into the eyes. The police officer looked haggard, worn with care and grief. The photo image had been captured by a newspaper photographer as he left the funeral of his wife and children.

  “After so much time.” Elizondo looked from the picture to Garza. “You still think he seeks a way to have his revenge for the loss of his family.”

  “Time is of no consequence to a man like this.” Garza knew this because placed in the same circumstances he would have reacted identically and would be just as unstoppable. He shook his head. “And it is not revenge he seeks.”

  “What then?” Bebé looked up, curious as always to hear the thoughts of his enigmatic friend and partner.

  “Un ajuste de cuentas … justicia.” A settling of accounts … justice.

  “You think it is simply to balance the scales, a banker making sure that all the debits and credits are in their proper order and the bank account is in balance.” Now Bebé shook his head. “That seems so passionless.”

  “No, not without passion,” Garza corrected. “Justice is his passion. It is what molded him. He served in the U.S. Military, fought in a war, and was a police officer. All of these parts of his life molded him, leaving him to believe in only one idea.”

  “And that idea is justice, not vengeance driven by remorse, agony over the loss of his wife and children?” Bebé’s voice showed that for once, he doubted Garza’s assessment of the situation. “It is an interesting theory, Alejandro.”

  “It is important to understand our enemy,” Garza explained. “Vengeance is hot-blooded, thoughtless, and careless.”

  “And this man is not.”

  “He is not.” Garza’s eyes were intense as he tried to convey the seriousness of the point he was making. “His need for justice was brought on by his loss, but he will not be careless or rash. He made a mistake today, allowing himself to be identified and then killing our man, but he will not repeat it. I have known men like this. His planning will be cold and calculating. When he finally comes to us, he will be dangerous, perhaps the most dangerous enemy we have faced.”

  “I see.” Bebé Elizondo settled back in his chair as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final flash of orange across the water. He looked at Garza. “What are your plans?”

  “I am making inquiries. We must find him and take the initiative, and we must be equally calculating in our preparations.”

  Elizondo ran the lighter’s flame over the tip of the cigar that had gone cold as they spoke. “As always I leave these matters in your hands, Alejandro. Now sit here with me and enjoy the final afterglow of the sunset. After that, we will have some wine. Tomorrow you can determine how you will deal with our calculating seeker of justice.”

  Garza took the chair beside Elizondo’s, but he was not waiting for tomorrow to plan. He was already considering their options as Elizondo admired the sunset.

  A man driven by the need for justice would also be guided by a moral code, a sense of right and wrong. Garza’s only concern was to eliminate the threat at all costs no matter who might be harmed in the process. Right and wrong did not enter into his planning.

  If their enemy was calculating and cold, Garza was ruthless and unconstrained by any code of morality. In his mind, he had the advantage.

  60.

  No One Would Ever Know

  Sole had kicked in enough doors to recognize forced entry when he saw it. Isabella’s door hung half off its hinges, the frame shattered around the lock. His hand moved to the .45 still in his waistband.

  Pistol out in front of him in a two-handed combat posture, he nudged the door out of the way with his boot and advanced into the living room. He took a quick look to either side for threats and walked the few feet into the kitchen. Other than a chair turned over and the table pushed across the room, nothing seemed out of place, except the blood on the floor.

  Sole knelt and examined the blood. It was fresh, still damp to the touch. He rose and advanced into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The first was empty. He moved to the door at the end of the hall and pivoted quickly into the room crouching, ready to face the intruder.

  “Thank God you’re here.” Isabella turned from the dresser where she was dabbing with a tissue at the blood still dripping from her lip.

  Sole thumbed the safety, tucked the pistol in his waistband, and crossed the room. She came into his arms and buried her head against his chest.

  “Isabella, what happened?” He wrapped his arms around her.

  “He’s gone,” she sobbed.

  “Who? The person who broke in?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “But that’s not what I mean. Sandy’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where? Why?”

  He pushed her away, holding her shoulders at arm’s length. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”

  There was a lot to tell, and for the next ten minutes, she bared her soul. Gradually, he pieced together the story and had a reasonably clear picture of what had happened and what had to be done.

  Sandy was in love with a girl named Jacinta, an illegal immigrant. Tom Krieg smuggled illegals in his trucks and had brought her over to be used and then sold. Sandy found out and went to take Jacinta away. Krieg wanted her back and was in a rage. He broke into the house, beat Sherm Westerfield, and slapped Isabella around. Then he stormed out.

  “Any idea where Sandy would have gone?”

  “No.” She shook her head and sobbed. “He hates me, but there’s something else you should know.”

  The time for secrets was over. She was dragging him into a quagmire, and he had a right to hear everything before he decided to wade in or not.

  She took a deep breath. This was the hardest part. “Krieg is Sandy’s father. We were in high school. I was stupid, got in his truck with him one night, and we did what kids do. I got pregnant. He wanted me to get rid of the baby, but I wouldn’t. Since then, he has threatened to take Sandy away from me to keep me quiet about things.”

  “Take him away, how? Courts do
n’t usually take a child away from its mother. Even Tom Krieg would have a hard time trying to prove you weren’t a fit mother.”

  “Courts wouldn’t have anything to do with it.” Her eyes watered and the tears began falling again. “He said he would do what I should have done before he was born … get rid of him. He swore I would never see Sandy again. I know him. He would do it.” She shook her head, her lip trembling. “I didn’t want to lose my son, so I kept quiet about everything.”

  Sole held her close. “You did what you had to do, Isabella. It may take time, but Sandy will understand that.”

  She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so ashamed.” She shook her head, sobs shaking her body. “So many people hurt. God knows how many … girls like Jacinta. I said nothing, and now, I’ve lost my son anyway.”

  Suddenly, she sagged against him as if telling him the truth had sapped the last bit of strength from her.

  “Stop blaming yourself. You’re one of Krieg’s victims. We’ll find Sandy. He’ll understand.”

  “You’ll stay then?” She looked up at him.

  “Not going anywhere.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, careful to avoid the bruised lip.

  A thought occurred to him, and he lifted his head up to look into her eyes. “Where’s Sherm?”

  “He left. Told Krieg that he wasn’t going to let him get away with it, that he would report everything to the sheriff, except we didn’t know who to trust, only you and Reggie Prince. I waited here for you, and he left to find Reggie Prince.”

  “We have to go.” Sole spun abruptly and led her from the room.

  ***

  Sherm Westerfield arrived at his shack, hoping to see Reggie’s car there, but he was nowhere in sight. That wasn’t unusual. Reggie came and went as he pleased, but he’d been around a lot lately. Sherm figured it was because of some trouble with the law back in Houston.

  Reggie never talked about it, and Sherm never asked, but it was pretty clear that Reggie lived on the dark side of things when he wasn’t around the shack. He didn’t begrudge him that and never pried, but he did offer a prayer for him now and again, especially when he hadn’t been around in a while.

  “Probably gone into Brownsville for some fun,” Sherm said as he stopped the truck in the dirt yard and got out.

  He stomped the dust off his boots on the porch and went inside for a cold rag and ice to hold against his swollen jaw, then headed back out to sit on a crate, drink a beer, and wait for Reggie. When he got there, they would go find Isabella and Bill Myers and try to come up with some sort of plan and figure which law enforcement officer or agency, if any, hadn’t been bought by Krieg. Then they could report things and end his smuggling operation and get help finding Sandy and the girl, Jacinta.

  When he returned to the porch, he found another vehicle pulled up in the yard. Sherm realized it must have rolled in slow over the dirt trail with the headlights off so he couldn’t see it approach.

  “Who’s that?” He said, leaning forward to peer into the dark.

  A dark figure stepped from behind Sherm’s truck.

  “Damn, you’re a big fella,” Sherm called out. “Come closer so I can see you clear.”

  “Close enough,” a deep voice replied in a rumbling voice.

  Sherm had no time to comprehend what happened next. Moving at twelve hundred feet per second, the nine 00 buckshot pellets from the shotgun peppered his face and chest before his brain registered the sound. It’s possible the exploding flash from the muzzle, moving at the speed of light, sparked a neuron or two somewhere down deep in his subconscious, but no one would ever know. Sherm Westerfield was dead.

  61.

  Focused

  A helicopter landing in such a small, out of the way village would typically have been an event of immense curiosity to the locals. Tonight the residents of Correlia huddled in their homes behind doors and windows they covered with blankets and sheets. No one wanted to see the visitor, or more correctly, no one wanted to be seen catching a glimpse of the person arriving on the helicopter.

  Prying into cartel business was unhealthy. Whatever was happening in the shack where Juan Galdo lived with his mother was between them and their cartel visitor.

  The rotor continued to spin overhead as the engines wound down. Alejandro Garza stepped out and walked calmly to the man waiting beside a car at the edge of the landing field. Two others, one large and bulky, the other lean and muscular, both in floral shirts, followed him out and took up positions on either side. Each held an automatic rifle and had a pistol tucked in their waistband.

  “He’s waiting for us,” The man said and opened the passenger door to the car he had driven.

  Garza said nothing and took a seat. The men with him glared at the man who had driven the car and then climbed into the rear seat. When they were in, the driver scurried around to the other side and climbed behind the wheel.

  It was a short drive, and no one spoke. They covered the mile from the field to the little house at the other end of the village in a few minutes. When they arrived at the shack, a police officer from Monterrey, off-duty but in full uniform, met them by the door.

  “He is inside, waiting for you.” The officer smiled politely and nodded.

  Garza nodded at the two security men. “Wait here.” He looked at the police officer and added, “You too.”

  The officer’s face showed his disappointment, but he remained stationed by the front door. The security men moved to either side of the shack, weapons in their hands, peering out into the night.

  Garza nodded for the driver to open the door and lead the way inside. Juan Galdo sat at a small table by the wood stove in the main room that served as living room, kitchen, and his bedroom. Across from him was Gustavo, the fumble-fingered security man who had not been able to protect Bernardo from the North American.

  “Are we alone?” Garza asked the driver.

  “Si señor, absolutamente.”

  “And his mother?”

  “She is with a friend at another home in the village. No one else is here.”

  Satisfied, Garza nodded and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, removed a piece of paper and unfolded it. He placed it on the table in front of Juan.

  “Is this the man?”

  Juan stared down at the image on the paper. It was the same image Bernardo had shown at the cantina.

  “Sí, sí. That’s the fucking gringo that killed my cousin.” Juan looked up to see Garza watching him and then looked away again, muttering, “I thought he was going to kill me too.”

  “Did he threaten you? Shoot at you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that, señor.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he wanted to sell cocaína for Los Salvajes.” Juan was becoming nervous. He had to swallow hard to get the words out. “You must understand, sir. I thought he was serious. I thought this would be a good thing for Bernardo … and for you.”

  “Don’t be afraid. You acted correctly. The fault is with those who should have stopped him.”

  Garza turned to Gustavo whose perpetually red face was almost purple. “And you? Is this the man who came to the cantina?”

  Gustavo extended a trembling finger and turned the picture toward him as if it might bite him. “Yes, sir. That is the man who came to the cantina.”

  Garza reached down, picked up the paper, and nodded. “Very well.” He placed an envelope on the table in front of Juan. “Open it.”

  Juan opened the flap and peered inside then looked up stunned. “Gracias, señor. Muchas gracias.”

  “There are twenty thousand Mexican pesos in that envelope, the equivalent of a thousand US dollars. Pesos will be easier for you and your mother to spend. If I gave you dollars, someone would cheat you out of their value. Do you understand?”

  “Sí señor. Esto es muy excelente! Gracias, gracias.” Yes, sir. This is very excellent!

  “You understand what this means?” Garza nodded at the envelope.
>
  “Yes, I think.” Juan was leery.

  “It means you work for us now, and that you will not speak of our meeting, of what happened in Monterrey, you will not say a word to anyone, no matter who asks.”

  “Yes, yes.” Juan nodded fervently. “I understand.”

  “Good.” Garza turned to the door. Over his shoulder, he called to Gustavo, “You come with us.”

  The blood drained from the bumbling security man’s face, changing it from purple to white. He rose and moved numbly to the door, giving a desperate backward glance at Juan, who ignored him as he cradled the envelope to his breast.

  Outside, Garza handed another, smaller envelope to the police officer who thanked him profusely and extended his hopes that he could be of service in the future. Then he walked to the car.

  The back seat was crowded, with fat Gustavo seated between Garza’s oversized security men, but the drive was short. As they exited the car, one of the security men led Gustavo to the waiting chopper where the rotor was spinning and the engine warming up.

  Garza asked a final question of the driver. “He will be there?”

  “Yes.” The driver nodded. “Everyone is to be there. Those are the orders.”

  “Good.”

  Garza turned to the helicopter without another word. As it lifted from the field, the driver squinted into the whirling dust cloud it left behind. A smile played across his face in the dark. He envisioned a prosperous future, with more envelopes, much larger than the one Garza had given to Juan, stacked in neat piles in front of him.

  Alejandro Garza sat quietly in the helicopter, scanning his phone for messages and making meticulous notes on his calendar. Somewhere over the Sierra Madre Oriental, the two guards stood up, opened the side door, and tossed a pleading Gustavo out.

  “Shoot me!” he begged. “I don’t want to die like this! Shoot me!”