Rosarito Beach

by M. A. Lawson

  “Your Honor,” Prescott said, “I will not stand for—”

  “Be quiet, Mr. Prescott,” the judge said. “Although I don’t approve of Agent Hamilton’s language, I want you to stop interrupting and let Mr. Davis speak.”

  —

  It took Jim Davis about ten minutes to state his case. First, he said, the judge had to recognize Caesar Olivera’s capabilities. He had thousands of people working for him in Mexico, had connections to every Hispanic gang in California, and, after twenty-seven years in the drug business, his net worth was estimated to be in the billions. But it wasn’t just his money and his manpower that were frightening, Davis said.

  “It’s his mind-set. He’s not intimidated by law enforcement. He’s not like the old-time Mafia guys who were afraid to kill federal agents, and he knows as long as he stays down in Mexico we’ll never get him.”

  In Mexico, Davis said, Olivera’s men had killed cops, lawyers, politicians, judges, and journalists who interfered with his operations. A year before, his people had attacked a Mexican jail with more than fifty men, using rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons to free a prisoner. Sixteen Mexican soldiers guarding the jail were killed.

  “This isn’t Mexico,” the judge said.

  Davis basically said Not yet. Since Tito Olivera had moved to San Diego five years before to manage his brother’s affairs in the United States, the murder rate in the Southwest had tripled. Most of the victims had been criminals connected to the drug business, but a few had been innocent bystanders. One journalist had been killed, and although his murder was unsolved, the motive appeared to involve an article he wrote about Tito. Furthermore, Jim Davis said, the DEA had recently obtained evidence that Tito had three San Diego Police Department detectives on his payroll.

  This statement had John Hernández leaping to his feet, demanding that Davis prove what he’d just said. “I’m sorry to blindside you with this, John, but the judge needs to know that Olivera has penetrated your department, because it’s relevant to this discussion. I’ll give you the names right after this meeting because you need to detain these men before Mr. Prescott can warn them.”

  Prescott opened his mouth to protest, but the judge said, “Not now, Mr. Prescott.”

  Davis continued. “What I’m saying, Your Honor, is Caesar Olivera has enough money to buy cops, and he’s already bought some. We also know he’s corrupted people at MCC in the past.” Davis then recounted the five incidents in the past year where MCC correctional officers had been caught passing contraband to inmates, and three of those inmates worked for the Olivera cartel.

  Now it was Warden Taylor’s turn to sputter, saying that just because a few bad apples had been found in his bushel it didn’t mean all his apples were rotten.

  “I appreciate that, Warden,” Davis said, “but the fact remains that Olivera has proven he can buy some of your people and he has an intelligence network capable of learning everything there is to know about how Tito is being guarded.”

  “Just cut to the chase here, Mr. Davis,” the judge said. “What do you want?”

  “The first thing I want is for everyone in this room to realize that Caesar Olivera will do anything to get his little brother out of prison. He will kill people. He will bribe people. He will kidnap family members of cops and prison guards. Even Your Honor’s own family isn’t safe, Judge.

  “Furthermore, I think it’s possible that Caesar may try to free Tito when he’s being transported from the federal lockup to your court for the arraignment or during the arraignment itself, and Marshal Walker may not be able to stop him.”

  “Horseshit,” Walker said, but Davis ignored him.

  “I think Tito should be arraigned inside his cell at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and I believe he should be arraigned as soon as possible. Like immediately after this meeting.”

  “This is absurd,” Prescott muttered.

  “I also believe federal marshals should be assigned to protect Your Honor, Your Honor’s family, the federal prosecutor, and the federal prosecutor’s family until after the arraignment. Now, I realize that you might decide to release Mr. Olivera on bail . . .”

  There wasn’t a person in the room, including Tito’s lawyer, who believed that Tito would be released on bail.

  “. . . and if he is, I can’t do anything about that. But if Mr. Olivera is remanded, I believe he should be placed in some facility that can literally fight off an army. I think if Tito is allowed to remain in the Metropolitan Correctional Center until his trial, the citizens of San Diego will be in grave danger and Caesar Olivera will eventually free his brother.”

  “My people can protect the citizens of San Diego,” John Hernández said.

  “John, how many cops do you have?” Before Hernández could answer, Davis said, “You have less than twenty-seven hundred people in your department and a third of those people are administrators, desk jockeys, and lab rats. Caesar Olivera could double the number of street cops you have with Mexican and California gangbangers. He’ll pay them whatever they ask, and he’ll arm them better than your police force.”

  “What’s your point, Mr. Davis?” the judge asked.

  “My point, Your Honor, is that with Caesar Olivera you might see something you’ve never seen before in this country: a group of thugs armed as well as U.S. Army soldiers, with no regard for human life, mounting an attack against the Metropolitan Correctional Center, blasting their way inside, and killing every correctional officer in the place to free Tito Olivera.”

  Before John Hernández or the MCC warden could object again, Judge Foreman said, “So what do you propose, Mr. Davis?”

  “I propose that Tito Olivera be placed in the brig at Camp Pendleton until his trial and that his trial be held at Camp Pendleton as well.”

  Camp Pendleton, as every person in the room knew, was a Marine Corps base forty miles north of San Diego that covered one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres. It had a population of more than one hundred thousand people, of which forty thousand were active-duty marines. Camp Pendleton was the headquarters of the First Marine Division and the elite First Marine Expeditionary Force; there were M1 Abrams tanks and Cobra helicopters there. In other words, it was a place with considerably more manpower and firepower than the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and the marines were not overweight jailers armed with batons.

  “I object, Your Honor!” Lincoln Prescott shrieked. The other attendees all responded with some variation of You gotta be shittin’ me!

  The meeting went on for another five minutes, Lincoln Prescott making a pointless speech about the rights of the accused, the warden of the Metropolitan Correctional Center voicing his umbrage about accusations that his officers couldn’t keep criminals incarcerated in his jail, and the chief of police once again challenging Davis’s “outlandish assumptions” about what Caesar Olivera might do. The only one who didn’t protest was U.S. Marshal Kevin Walker. He just sat there rubbing his big chin, apparently mulling over everything Jim Davis had said.

  Kay figured that Judge Foreman might take a little time to come to a conclusion, but he didn’t. He said, “Although I believe Caesar Olivera may have the capability suggested by Mr. Davis, and may intend to take some drastic action to free his brother, I refuse to let the legal institutions of the United States cower in fear. As I said, this is not Mexico. Mr. Olivera will be arraigned tomorrow morning in my courtroom as scheduled, and you people will all do your jobs to make sure that happens.”

  As a result of Benton Foreman’s refusal to cower, eighteen people would die.

  —

  The press conference went about the way Kay had expected.

  Jim Davis gave a very terse, very formal statement regarding how Tito Olivera had been arrested for killing one Ronald “Cadillac” Washington, how DEA agents arrested two of Mr. Olivera’s men, and how Leon James was shot and killed. He
stated that Mr. Olivera had been a “person of interest” for some time regarding his connections to narcotics trafficking in California. He made no mention of Tito’s big brother.

  The first question asked was: “Is it true that Kay Hamilton, the DEA agent who killed Marco Álvarez in Miami, was the agent who arrested Tito Olivera?”

  This question may have surprised Davis, but it didn’t surprise Kay. Half an hour earlier, she had called the reporter who asked the question—and told her that she should ask it. The reporter was a good-looking redhead who anchored the local news on Channel 8, and Kay had leaked information to her in the past when she thought it might do her career some good. She occasionally had drinks with the reporter as well.

  Davis responded to the question by saying, “The DEA does not release the names of DEA personnel involved in arrests.”

  But the cameras focused on Kay, and she knew the following morning the papers would discuss her killing Marco Álvarez and three of his men in Miami, and how twenty-seven people were eventually convicted thanks to her efforts.

  Kay figured that she’d had a pretty good day. Maybe she’d treat herself to a couple martinis and a steak at Morton’s.

  9

  Raphael Mora watched as Caesar Olivera spoke quietly with Tito’s lawyer.

  They were in Caesar’s home office at Caesar’s Sinaloa estate; the desk Caesar sat behind had once belonged to Archduke Maximilian of Hapsburg, Emperor of Mexico from 1864 to 1867. The telephone was not an antique; it was encrypted. Caesar ended the conversation by saying, “Thank you, Mr. Prescott,” and gently placed the phone handset back into its cradle.

  Mora knew the calmness Caesar was displaying was a façade. He knew that Caesar was so angry about the idiotic thing his brother had done that he wanted to take the phone and beat it on his expensive desk until it shattered—but he also knew that Caesar would never do that.

  Raphael Mora had worked for Caesar Olivera for almost twenty years, and he remembered how Caesar had been when he was younger. He watched him beat three cousins to death one time by smashing their faces with a claw hammer; when Caesar was finished, his face was so covered with blood it looked like he was wearing a wet, red mask.

  Caesar had willed himself to become a different person. Now he rarely raised his voice. He prided himself on remaining unemotional, logical, and coldly analytical no matter how he might feel about a situation. He had little formal education, but he read extensively; he particularly liked to read management books, because that’s how he now thought of himself: as a CEO.

  Caesar was forty-five years old. He was a handsome man, although not as handsome as Tito. And unlike his younger half brother, Caesar looked Hispanic; he and Tito had different mothers. His hair was thick and dark, his nose prominent, his chin blunt. His eyes were so dark they looked black. And where Tito was tall and slender, Caesar was five-ten, with a deep chest and the muscles of someone who might have spent a lifetime doing manual labor. Mora knew that Caesar Olivera had never done manual labor; the muscles were a genetic gift, further assisted by a personal trainer.

  Caesar also no longer personally executed those who had disappointed him in some way. These days, he and his wife frequently dined with Mexican politicians and celebrities; he had a philanthropic organization in his wife’s name; wings in hospitals and buildings at universities bore his name. People in the Mexican army, the federal police, local cops, politicians, and judges worked for him and protected his interests and his investments. And nobody—at least nobody in the Mexican media—called him a drug lord. He was simply a well-connected businessman with vast real estate holdings and controlling interests in many legitimate companies.

  “Does Prescott have anything new?” Mora asked.

  “No,” Caesar said. “He just called to tell me that three San Diego detectives have been taken into custody but they never had any direct contact with Tito.”

  Caesar looked away for a moment, and again Mora had the impression he was struggling to control himself. “Do you think Juan knew what he was going to do?”

  Juan Guzmán was nominally Tito’s second-in-command, and when Tito went north to run Caesar’s U.S. operations, Caesar had forced Tito to take Juan with him. Juan was older than Tito—about Caesar’s age—and he was an experienced man and not a hothead. His job had been to mentor Tito, keep him out of trouble, and keep Caesar informed of what Tito was doing. Juan had obviously failed—and failed badly.

  “No, sir,” Mora said. “I spoke to him right after Tito was arrested. He knew Tito was upset about your order to buy out Washington. His pride was hurt, and he thought he’d failed you. But Juan had no idea he was going to do something so foolish.”

  “And the woman? Was she a DEA informant?”

  “It would appear so,” Mora said. “Tito told Prescott that she knew the DEA agent who arrested him. She called her Kay. He said only three people in his organization knew of his meeting with Washington: the woman, and the two men he brought with him to the meeting. He’s certain the two men didn’t talk to the DEA about the meeting. Juan vetted the woman, of course, when Tito started sleeping with her, and he saw nothing that gave him any cause for concern. She was who she appeared to be: a beautiful, not-too-bright party girl. Juan reviewed her cell phone records periodically and never saw any indication she was talking to anyone at the DEA.”

  “How did they get to her?”

  “Juan doesn’t know for sure, but he suspects it might have been through her brother. He was arrested five months ago, and when he was released on bail, he ran and it looked as though he’d fled to Canada. Phone records show that he called his mother periodically from Vancouver, and Juan thought he was hiding there, probably living off some woman, until he decided it was safe to come back to the U.S. But now . . . well, Juan doesn’t know, but he suspects the DEA is hiding the brother and they used him to force the woman to cooperate.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. The DEA disappeared her right after Tito was arrested. I’ll find her.”

  Caesar nodded. Of course Mora would find her.

  An organizational chart of the Olivera cartel would show that Caesar had no second-in-command. His organization was relatively horizontal, with a number of men and women who would be considered senior vice presidents in a traditional company and all reported directly to him. Some were responsible for specific geographical areas in Mexico and South America and they managed drug trafficking, human trafficking, prostitution, and weapons. Others were specialists. A woman—a Harvard MBA—managed all of Caesar’s financial affairs; she had more than a hundred people working for her in Mexico. One man was responsible for transporting Caesar’s major products—people and drugs—both into and out of Mexico; another man was responsible for his physical security, the security of his homes, and his family. This person had technical personnel working for him who dealt with encryption, computer security, and electronic surveillance countermeasures.

  Raphael Mora was, for lack of a better term, Caesar’s intelligence officer and wartime consigliere. And Mora was more than a goon with a gun. He’d been in the Mexican army when he was younger, a graduate of Heroico Colegio Militar, Mexico’s equivalent of West Point. He’d also received training at the United States Army War College, the Strategic Studies Institute in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, as well as training with U.S. Army Special Forces at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, before coming to work for Caesar Olivera.

  “Well, do you have a plan for freeing my brother?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mora said. He had begun developing the plan an hour after Tito was arrested. He told Caesar what he had in mind.

  “I leave for San Diego in half an hour,” Mora said, “and I’m taking a couple specialists with me, but I’m going to have to rely on a local gang for manpower. The gang leader seems bright enough, but I’ll have to trust his judgment to pick a decent crew. I don’t have time to screen his pe
rsonnel.”

  “Does Tito know what’s going to happen?”

  “Yes. We got to a guard quickly and he gave Tito a cell phone. I’ve told Tito what to expect, and he understands the risks.” Mora hesitated. “Sir, I’m assuming you understand the risks as well.”

  “I do,” Caesar said. He didn’t bother with threats about what he would do if his brother was killed or seriously injured during the escape attempt.

  “Is there anything we can do to force the judge to release Tito on bail?” Caesar asked.

  “No. Marshals are protecting the judge and his immediate family, and we have less than sixteen hours.”

  “If you fail tomorrow, where will Tito be held pending trial?”

  “As Prescott probably told you, the DEA wants to put him on a marine base, but he thinks that’s unlikely to happen and he’ll be held at MCC, San Diego. Obviously, it’s going to be extremely difficult to get him out of there, but we’ll have at least a year before his trial to work out a plan. Prescott will make sure we have at least a year.”

  “And if there is a trial?”

  This was typical of Caesar Olivera. He had a Plan A—free Tito before his arraignment. He had a possible Plan B—free him from the Metropolitan Correctional Center before his trial. But he wanted a Plan C.

  “The video is the problem,” Mora said. “Prescott hasn’t seen it yet, so we don’t know exactly what it shows, but once Prescott sees it, he’ll decide if it can be impugned. I will, of course, investigate methods for destroying it and any copies that are made. However, and as I’m sure you know, that may not be possible. The evidence against Tito will be well protected; they’re not going to leave it sitting in a cardboard box in an evidence locker. There are also three witnesses to the killing: Tito’s whore and his two men. They’ll all be dead before the trial. Once a judge is assigned and a jury is impaneled, we’ll start looking at those people to see who can be influenced. But, sir, we don’t want this to go to trial. So, shall I proceed?”