'So you see,' the Mexican continued his dialogue about how the current payment arrangement was causing him problems. 'To get every payment in cash, in American dollars and quite low denominations means that we have to go to great lengths to limpio, sorry, clean the money. I need to pass this cost on, unless there is something you can do differently that would help?'
Geez, is this all this is about? Chuck thought. We could have settled this in a phone-call, or better yet the lieutenants could have re-negotiated instead. Still, it’s good to get out occasionally and maybe this guy doesn’t trust his lieutenant.
'What you ask is not impossible.' Chuck said. 'I can meet a reasonable increase in price; I could make a monthly electronic payment for non-existent premises, pay in precious metals and stones or a combination of any three. What would be your preference?'
The Mexican was stunned, this was going too well, and far too quick, he needed him outside for the exchange.
'I will think about it, and of course talk to my accountant. A toast I think.' As he ordered a round of Tequilas, he was pleased to see Chuck heartily tucking into his lunch. Good, he thought, at this rate we should be out of here at the right time.
When Chuck finished his lunch, it was with the addition of two Coronas and three Tequilas. The food and alcohol had reached his stomach giving him a sugar rush, followed by the invariable crash and the feeling of sleepiness that comes with it. Chuck felt happy and satisfied; the invitation to the car park for the formal exchange and cigar seemed OK to him. Need to watch my driving on the way back, he said to himself, bumping into another table as he was leaving the restaurant, don't want to be done for drunk driving! A snorting laugh escaped Chuck's mouth at that, but no one said anything.
The lieutenants had parked their cars next to each other. They retrieved the briefcases and handed them to their respective bosses. The bosses would make the formal exchange, shake hands, and have a cigar. The Mexican offered a light to Chuck who leaned his head over the flame and shielded it with his right hand; his left was holding the Mexican's briefcase. A voice boomed across the car park in English but with a distinct Mexican accent
'This is the police. Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head. Do it! Now!’
Chuck looked up into the Mexican's eyes, exhaling smoke as he did so and there he saw it, the look of relief on the Mexican's face. So, Chuck thought, you ratted me out. That's what this whole game was about.
Chuck had no illusions about being a hero, he could see at least thirty police officers now, all armed and knew there must be others on the rooftops. He knew it was over for now, next would be the legal game play and he knew he had the money for that fight. Mind you, he thought, remembering some of the criminal law he had studied along the way, if the drugs and cash were to disappear…I’ll have to pick my moment with care though.
20:52 06 November [02:52 07 November GMT]
Monterrey Town police station, Monterrey, Mexico.
The processing at the police station was predictable but depressing. Chuck was thinking hard and fast now, but somewhat impeded by the alcohol. They only have three things; he realised, the drugs, the money, and the Mexican, the Mexican I can deal with later, I need to get rid of the drugs and the money. He made a big fuss of needing the toilet, complaining of stomach pains, one of the officers and a sergeant escorted him to the toilet in an empty cell. The officer remained outside, the sergeant inside to ensure that only waste came out of Chuck.
'You speak English' Chuck asked in a confident but quiet tone.
'Si, I speak English' he replied.
'You know in the confusion the briefcases could be lost or mislabelled. That could easily happen.'
'Si, it could.'
'If that did happen it would help me a great deal and I would be very appreciative'
'How appreciative?' The Mexican sergeant slightly stumbling over the word.
'Enough so you could retire now, very wealthy. Think of it, lying on a beach, or on your yacht.'
The sergeant smiled, and unbuttoned his shirt.
'I don't like sand or being sea-sick' he said revealing the microphone hidden under his shirt. 'I don't even have the tape on me, its wireless. This way we all keep clean and people like you go to prison.' His smile turned into a big toothy grin and his eyes seemed to sparkle.
Shit, thought Chuck, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck it, fuck it all. Now I'm going to have to put all of my faith in a fucking lawyer, with bribery charges added to my sheet. Chuck knew all too well that as his ship was inevitably going down, his lieutenant would rollover for the reduced sentence. Now, who could I rollover on...?
06:34 07 November [12:24 07 November GMT]
Federal Agente, Mexico City, Mexico
The Federal district attorney's office in Mexico City deals with the most serious of Mexican crimes and criminals. Chuck Holford was now in select, if not good company. His transfer was a routine affair, drug possession is not only a serious crime but also a federal one and Monterrey's resources being limited he was transferred to Mexico City to be charged and prosecuted.
This was not something that Chuck wanted, he would have preferred to stay in Monterrey; the transfer to Mexico City had made him big news and with it had removed any possibility of nobbling the legal process. He now had to rely on lawyers, which are a lot like nuclear weapons, he thought, 'cause if you have to use them you are probably already fucked.
He sat quietly in the interview room, his lawyer to his side as the agente entered the room with another man.
'This is Judge Manuel Espinoza,' the agente said, 'I am going to offer you a deal. Your lieutenant has done the right thing and cooperated. Now if you do the same then we could look at no jail time.'
Chuck didn't like where this was going, only one thing could be that important to offer this kind of deal.
'I want the Colombians.'
There it is, thought Chuck, the Colombians. Chuck had wondered if this was going to be on the table or not. He had thought a lot about this, a lot indeed. He had no love for the Colombians, nor did he bare them any malice. If it were a straight choice between him being in jail and them being in jail then he would prefer them to do the time. However, whenever he thought through a particular scenario, it always ended with him dying. His death was either violent and quick; car blowing up, drive by shooting, poisoned with arsenic in a restaurant or violent and slow with him being tortured for hours, possibly days becoming literally less of a man with each twitch of the knife. No, he thought, when it comes down to it the choice is years of prison followed by a nice retirement or months of fear followed by death. No choice, no choice at all.
'No.' Chuck said simply, 'No deal.'
14:17 07 November [20:17 07 November GMT]
Prisoner Transfer Bus to Reclusorio Norte Prison, Mexico City, Mexico.
The Mexican police officer had already picked up on Chuck's racism; it amused him to handcuff him to the black guy, the one who shot the robber, for the trip to the prison. He looked over at the back of the bus where the two of them were sat, Si, he thought, they seem to be getting along nicely. He laughed as he walked away.
The trip was not good for Leroy or Chuck. Leroy had tried to make conversation, but it had become increasingly clear that either this guy didn't like black men, or just him. He would bet that it's the former. Then again, Leroy thought, I'm probably not seeing him at his best or him me for that matter. The thing that was really troubling Leroy was that he couldn't, apparently, even protest his innocence. Leroy had shot the robber, he was in possession of an illegal firearm, and therefore the shooting was, de facto, illegal. This much had been drummed into him. I just don't feel like a criminal. I have done nothing wrong. Sure, given the time again I would do something differently, maybe wound the thief, rather than kill him. Anything to avoid this. He knew he wasn't going to get the time again. He was here on this bus, going to prison for at least a year before inevitably being found guilty of murder. For the journey, he
was handcuffed to a racist son-of-a-bitch too.
Chuck was having no better a time of it. The look in the eye of the policeman as he handcuffed him to the black guy really annoyed him. Not as much as being handcuffed to the black guy, but nearly. Very nearly. What made it worse was that the black guy, Leroy he called himself, kept trying to talk to him. Chuck made it very plain that he didn't want to talk, be pals, or become this fella's shower buddy. No sir, Chuck thought, no gays, no blacks and no Hispanics. Difficult, he thought to himself, as I am headed for a Mexican men's jail.
The main road gave out to a side road that lead the bus to the prison. Any last hope Leroy or Chuck had evaporated as they looked upon the site of the prison. It stood as a testament to criminal punishment. Not the type of prison where you go in with the expectation of coming out reformed. This was a prison to break the spirit, to overwhelm your physical stamina, to rob you of your individuality. A chill ran through them both as they shared a single thought. Christ almighty please help me; show me a sign, what am I going to do?
16:35 07 November [22:25 07 November GMT]
Cell 148B, Block D, Reclusorio Norte Prison, Mexico City, Mexico.
The door to their cell slammed shut, its iron bars sealing them off from hope. It had amused the guards to house Leroy and Chuck in the same cell, the guard on the bus having related his story to them with great mirth.
Their trip through the prison processing system was at least fast and efficient, if not at all pleasurable. This was due in no small part to the smell. The smell followed you everywhere and permeated everything including, it seemed, your skin. Less than an hour within its walls and they both knew they smelled of the prison. The stench of strong cheap disinfectant trying to hide the years of accumulated shit, both rodent and human, plus the blood, sweat and urine of desperation and abandonment.
The prison was crammed, more than ten thousand packed into the space provided for less than half that number. However, it did dawn on them, when the rules of the place were being explained in broken English, that they had access to the one thing that could really help in this place. Money. Everything it seemed had to be paid for by the prisoners themselves. Rent on the cells, food, medical care, such as it was, bedding, toiletries, the list went on and on. Moreover, they could buy things on top, like a television. It didn't take a genius to realise that this meant three very important things. Firstly, they could make their own lives in here the best they could be. Secondly, bullying shouldn't be a problem as they could pay off the right people. Thirdly, the guards themselves would probably be open to providing specific services for the right fee.
They looked at their cell. The walls were dirty, had lost most of their paint exposing the plaster beneath and this produced a confused pattern of light and dark. There were things living in the cracks in the walls and the gaps between the walls and the floor. Some of the things just grew, others burrowed or hid there, waiting for the darkness to come.
Chuck sprung up onto the top bunk of the bed. So, Leroy thought, it’s like that. You snooze, you lose. This is not going to go well. I think my first priority is to get out of this cell, or get this guy out.
Leroy looked at his mattress. The combination of boot-prints and stains were not inviting. No pillow, no blanket either. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and sighing to himself stretched out to lie down, interlacing his fingers behind his head, so it didn't touch the mattress.
18:00 07 November [00:00 08 November GMT]
Cell 148B, Block D, Reclusorio Norte Prison, Mexico City, Mexico.
Leroy woke with a start. He opened his eyes and to be confronted with a pair of feet, dangling in front of him, their racist owner on the bunk above. The cell door opened, and a single word reverberated through the block “Afuera!” once, twice, three times. Outside, thought Leroy, he remembered that as one of the instructions. Leroy swung himself upright as far as he could, and climbed off his bunk, as his cellmate descended from above to join him. Chuck stared at Leroy, barely hiding any of the contempt he had for him. He turned and headed for the open cell door, stepping through to stand on the landing. Leroy stepped out and joined him, automatically standing to attention.
'Movimiento!' Move, Leroy translated to himself. All the prisoners on their floor turned to face the central staircase and slowly walked towards it. The procession lead them down to a large room full of prisoners sat at tables eating. The smell of the food mixed with the smell of the prison, was almost too much for them to bear. Leroy's stomach convulsed sending bile up into his mouth burned his throat on its way up, then again when he had to swallow it. The taste left in his mouth at least distracted him from the smell for a few moments.
The effect on Chuck was worse. The assault to his senses, plus the nightmare he had had during his brief sleep, took him back to his lowest days of using. He remembered climbing into a large refuse bin outside the back of a fast food restaurant, both to get out of the rain and to get something to eat. The smell of the rotting food was no greater than his own smell he had realised. The dim light in the refuse bin allowed him to see a half burger in front of him, he picked it up, finding it heavier than he expected. The explanation was a large brown rat hanging off the underside of the burger. Chuck had grabbed the rat, and thrown it out of the bin. He didn't even think about the rat as he ate the burger.
Chuck was brought out of his daydreaming by a large hand pushing his shoulder; he spun round to have a go. He had to look up quite a long way to the guy, so he said nothing just turned back to face front and began walking. He caught up with Leroy in front, making his way to be served.
11:09 08 November [17:09 08 November GMT]
Exercise Yard, Reclusorio Norte Prison, Mexico City, Mexico.
Leroy stood in the yard, having selected his target. One of the guards from D Block stood watching the prisoners. Leroy walked as close as he dare then said in a loud voice, 'Permission approach, Boss?' in his best Spanish.
'Si.'
Leroy knew that this guard spoke some English, but he wasn't sure how much. Just to be safe, Leroy asked if the guard spoke English.
'Usted habla inglés?.'
'Yes, I speak English. What do you want?' the guard replied.
'I would like' Leroy began, 'some nice things for my cell; new mattress, soap, toothpaste and' he paused slightly before continuing, unsure as to the response he would get. 'I would like my own cell or my cell just for me.' He could see that the guard had caught his meaning, the pigeon English had obviously worked.
The guard pulled out a small notebook and looked at Leroy 'What Cell Number?' he asked.
Leroy told him. The guard wrote down some other notes, Leroy presumed they were his requests for the new mattress and toiletries.
'It cost much.' the guard said, watching for Leroy's reaction.
'How much?’ Leroy asked, immediately aware that he shouldn't just say OK.
'This much.' The guard wrote the figure down on a scrap of paper and passed it to Leroy. Leroy read it, looked at the guard, and then nodded.
'You have own cell after evening food.' the guard said as he walked off.
‘Thanks.’ Leroy said to no one in particular.
18:44 08 November [00:44 09 November GMT]
Cell 270B, Block D, Reclusorio Norte Prison, Mexico City, Mexico.
The new cell was a world away from the old. Clean, well painted, with a new mattress and a bag of toiletries on the bed. There was even a pillow and a blanket. An extra charge no doubt, but Leroy was grateful. The best thing about it was the absence of another prisoner. That thought made him feel a little guilty. In such a crowded prison, a cell to himself would mean another was overcrowded. He hoped they were compensated for their sacrifice. He relaxed on his new mattress in his new cell and vowed to make the best of his being here, starting with learning to speak Spanish.
18:50 08 November [00:50 09 November GMT]
Cell 148B, Block D, Reclusorio Norte Prison, Mexico City, Mexico.
Chuck returned to
his cell, pleased to note that the bunk bed was gone and with it his cellmate. Good, Chuck thought to himself, the money I promised that guard was well worth it. He lay on his new mattress and thought about his life, his mind wandering to his cat Trouble and how much he missed her. His lawyer had been in touch with Mrs Grainger, who was happy to look in on Trouble as she was retired. The thought of Trouble becoming more friendly with his neighbour and starting to forget who he was brought tears to his eyes, he sobbed a little to himself, quietly, but the more he thought about it the more the tears came until he was sobbing uncontrollably. The emotion of his capture and incarceration was all too much. The only real thing he had in his life was a cat called Trouble, and he missed her, terribly.
8 Circus City
18:46 27 October [15:46 27 October GMT]
Central Bus Station, Moscow, Russia.
The bus pulled to a stop, jerking the passengers slightly. Natasha was fast asleep, had been now for hours, Solomon gently woke her. 'Come on sleepy head, it's time to get off the bus.'
'Where...where are we?' Natasha asked.
'Moscow.'
They had a short wait in the cold Moscow air, Solomon shivering not at the cold but at the thought that they could be under surveillance. The first she would know about it would be a hand on her shoulder, or the shout of an armed Militsiya. Reunited with their luggage they left the confines of the bus station making their way to Shchyolkovskaya, the metro station next door, which they took to Paveletskaya and where they walked to the Paveletsky train station to get tickets for the train to Volgograd.
Dark Matter Page 13
