The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

  ‘‘Bags and cups,’’ Stevie repeated, somewhat curiously.

  ‘‘At the LSOs—the Licensing Service Offices—it’s the laminates. The number of plastic laminates that go through each department.

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  These days the laminates have some printing embedded in the plastic to help cops sniff out counterfeits: Washington State Department of Transportation, it reads. That laminate validates the driver’s license. It’s very important to—’’

  ‘‘Counterfeiters,’’ she supplied.

  He glanced between the two women.

  ‘‘We’re listening,’’ Melissa said, beginning to jot down notes. She flashed a look to Stevie. Melissa’s eyes were hot black pinpricks of excitement. Stevie felt a rush of heat pulse through her. He said, ‘‘One of my responsibilities is to inventory the LSO laminates. Discards are tracked as well, so the numbers have to work out.’’

  ‘‘Counterfeit driver’s licenses?’’ Stevie said. ‘‘These connect to the container how?’’

  ‘‘Ask yourself why the state would have me counting laminates. Why bother? They cost the state two-point-six cents per laminate. Even at a few hundred, we’re talking three or four dollars’ worth.’’

  ‘‘Three or four hundred,’’ Melissa repeated, writing it down.

  ‘‘You lost me,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘The state’s waste of your manpower?’’ she asked, a little more interested. ‘‘Is that the story you’re pitching?’’

  ‘‘It’s the IDs,’’ Melissa said.

  ‘‘What’s the street value of a fake ID?’’ Stevie asked.

  ‘‘Now you’re catching on!’’ the man said. ‘‘What value would you put on a counterfeit driver’s license, Miss McNeal?’’

  ‘‘It’s Ms.,’’ she corrected. ‘‘I don’t know . . . Depends if it’s kids trying to buy cigarettes or illegals trying to buy their freedom.’’

  ‘‘It certainly does,’’ the man agreed.

  She reconsidered. ‘‘Two hundred?’’

  ‘‘Five hundred?’’ Melissa asked, when the sweating man only returned a grin to Stevie.

  ‘‘How about thirty-five hundred per license.’’

  Stevie spit some ice back into her tea. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Legal residence is the first step toward a work permit. A work permit is the first step toward a green card. The green card leads to—’’

  ‘‘Citizenship.’’

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  He grinned. ‘‘It’s a big story. See?’’ He said, ‘‘I have a name.’’

  ‘‘How much?’’ Stevie asked.

  ‘‘Five thousand,’’ he replied without hesitation. Stevie coughed out a laugh. ‘‘This isn’t Nightbeat. We’re not Hard Copy.’’ She returned, ‘‘Five hundred.’’

  ‘‘Maybe Ishould call Nightbeat.’’

  ‘‘It’s a long distance call,’’ Stevie said.

  She won a laugh from him. ‘‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? You wear it different on the show.’’

  ‘‘It’s not a show,’’ Stevie replied. She felt cold all of a sudden. She didn’t like the business of fans. ‘‘It’s a broadcast. It’s news.’’

  The man took a moment to consider the offer. ‘‘A thousand,’’ he countered.

  ‘‘Five hundred up front. Five hundred more if the piece runs.’’

  ‘‘You think I’m giving you my name? Some way to find me?’’

  Melissa said, ‘‘You’ve told us you are a state auditor. You think we can’t find you?’’

  ‘‘The condition of my cooperation is that you leave that alone . . . leave me alone. Leave me out of it.’’ He added, ‘‘Ihappen to like my job.’’

  Stevie repeated, ‘‘Five hundred if our producer goes along with it. Melissa here will bring you the money. You’ll provide her the name of the LSO employee with the bad laminate count. If we run the piece, you get a second five hundred. You want to call us and set up the meetings, that’s fine. Give me two hours to run it by my producer.’’

  ‘‘I’d rather deal with you,’’ he objected. ‘‘No offense,’’ he said to Melissa.

  ‘‘It’s Melissa’s story, not mine. I’m an anchorwoman, not a reporter. You let us do our jobs. You do yours.’’

  ‘‘You were the reporter did that container,’’ he reminded. Melissa said, ‘‘We like our jobs, too. Let us do them.’’

  He left the restaurant a few minutes later, trailing some bad cologne. t

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  They ordered food once he was gone.

  Melissa said, ‘‘You’re asking for five two-minute segments: a review of the container tragedy; this LSO expose íf it proves out; and a

  piece on the detention center and what awaits illegals who’ve been detained.’’

  ‘‘Correct.’’

  ‘‘Ihave no problem with any of that, but if it leads to a bigger story—if Ican connect these counterfeit driver’s licenses to legal illegals, if Ican deliver the people behind it, Ineed to know you’ll stay with me, that no one’s going to push me out and steal it from me.’’

  ‘‘It won’t be me,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘That’s about all I can promise. As long as I’m a part of it, no one takes this from us.’’

  ‘‘Fair enough. And if it gets political?’’

  ‘‘I’ll run with this wherever it leads, wherever you take it, Little Sister. In the meantime, I keep the dialogue alive—the story alive—by interviewing anyone and everyone who’s a part of this: the INS, the cops, the detainees, whatever it takes.’’

  ‘‘And if Corwin doesn’t want it going that way?’’ Melissa asked.

  ‘‘What did we do when Su-Su didn’t want us doing something?’’

  Stevie asked.

  ‘‘Appealed to your father,’’ Melissa answered.

  ‘‘If Corwin puts up road blocks, I’ll take it over his head to New York. Ihave plenty of contacts left.’’

  ‘‘You’d do that?’’

  ‘‘I’m agreeing to do that. For this story, yes.’’

  ‘‘This story, or for me?’’ Melissa asked.

  ‘‘The story.’’

  ‘‘Because I—’’

  ‘‘Iknow your principles,’’ Stevie reminded, interrupting. ‘‘This isn’t a handout. Honestly. If it proves to have legs, and you want to pursue it, I’ll stick by you. You want to go undercover, I’m with you—

  but only if it’s exposure, not entrapment. That’s all I’m saying.’’

  ‘‘Then we’ve got a deal,’’ Melissa suggested, having never discussed her pay. ‘‘You get the story. Iget creative autonomy.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Stevie agreed, ‘‘we have a deal.’’

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  C H A P T E R 4

  LaMoiadeliveredthemedicalexaminer’spreliminaryreportonthe three Chinese illegals who had died in the container. The report, though scientifically stated, remained indecisive, an enigmatic confusion that did little to support the investigation’s pursuit of homicide charges for the three deaths. The illegals had succumbed to malnutrition and dehydration, ‘‘aggravated by symptoms consistent with those caused by a virulent strain of influenza, as yet unidentified. ’’ Doc Dixon’s emphasis expressed his unwillingness to draw firm conclusions—at least at the stage of the preliminary report. The prelim went on to say that the corpses had sustained postmortem contusions, likely the result of being tossed around at sea. Tissue samples were being forwarded to the Centers for
Disease Control (CDC), Atlanta, in an effort to identify the particular strain of flu. The extent of malnutrition and dehydration suggested to Boldt the possibility of filing charges of

  ‘‘depraved indifference to human life’’ against the captain and crew that had transported the container. This, in turn, might lead to plea bargaining and names of those responsible for the trafficking in human lives. A strategy began to reveal itself, not much different than a drug raid or organized crime sting. But more than anything, he also recognized Doc Dixon’s underlying interest and curiosity in the unidentified flu strain, and the memo’s carefully worded, intentionally vague language. Dixie was holding his cards close to his vest, buying himself time for that CDC report.

  For Boldt, the fastest way to the name of that ship, to the captain and crew, was the illegals themselves—the passengers—the nine women who had survived the passage and were currently being detained by the INS. 20

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  Fort Nolan was no longer an army base. Only its golf course had survived the budget cutting of base closures in the late 1980s. Congress could evidently see its way clear to losing a few hundred civilian jobs and a thousand infantry, but an eighteen-hole course was not to be sacrificed under any conditions. The result was that retired and active officers alike regularly shanked, hooked, pitched and putted only a hundred yards from former barracks that currently housed indigent Asians and Mexicans unlucky enough to have been caught and detained by the INS. The more fortunate among them found themselves in service as ground maintenance crew or caddies, enjoying a limited freedom, spending their days outside the razor wire and receiving the occasional gratuity.

  The base’s hasty remodel by the INS had come as a boon to the chain-link contractors in King County. Boldt pulled his departmentissue Chevy Cavalier to a stop at the guard gate. He and Daphne Matthews displayed their badges and stated their business. In the far distance a man wearing khakis and a lime green crew shirt made a nice chip shot onto the green. Attorneys and government employees came and went with regularity at Fort Nolan, but a pair of Seattle cops was clearly something new, for the guard studied their identification badges carefully and, asking Boldt to pull over inside the gate, made a phone call. They were provided an over photocopied map of the facility upon which the guard hastily drew directional arrows. Daphne navigated.

  ‘‘Shouldn’t John be with us?’’ Daphne asked. ‘‘In fact, shouldn’t you be at the office and John be here?’’

  ‘‘He’s lead. He gets the joy of the paperwork,’’ Boldt replied.

  ‘‘Are we in denial of our rank, Lieutenant?’’

  ‘‘Hill and Idisagree as to the job description,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘Let’s just leave it at that.’’

  ‘‘Will she leave it at that? Would you have tolerated Phil Shoswitz in the field?’’

  ‘‘It’s different.’’

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  ‘‘Why? Because it’s you, not Shoswitz?’’

  ‘‘Exactly.’’

  ‘‘Have you heard the term bullheaded?’’

  ‘‘Are you familiar with the word experience?’’ he fired back at her.

  ‘‘Icertainly am. And my experience,’’ she said, intentionally cutting him, ‘‘is that both you and Hill are bullheaded. Something’s got to give there—and she’s got rank on you, Lieutenant.’’

  Boldt pursed his lips and pulled up to the curb. She shot a look at him that could have caught a bush on fire.

  t

  The interview room, plain and bare, contained two long metal tables with Formica tops surrounded by metal chairs with worn plastic cushions. On the wall hung framed portraits of the president and the regional INS director, Adam Talmadge. The interpreter was a JapaneseAmerican woman in her forties who stood five feet tall in shoes with heels and dressed with a simple elegance.

  The detainee was young and silently defiant. Her head and eyebrows were shaved, lending her an otherworldly look. She wore overwashed denim pants and a thin denim shirt with no bra. Her blue rubber sandals slapped the gray cement floor in a steady, insistent rhythm. An aide delivered four cups of tea.

  Boldt cupped his hand and whispered to Matthews, ‘‘Do you recognize her?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Daphne answered. ‘‘But Ionly saw photos.’’

  ‘‘Yeah? Well Iwas there, and she . . . Idon’t know.’’ Boldt went through the formalities of introductions. Through the interpreter he attempted to explain that the police had no interest in pressing charges against this woman or any of her companions. Then, pen ready, he said to the interpreter, ‘‘Please tell her we need the name of the ship that transported the container.’’

  The interpreter told him, ‘‘You’ll never get that out of her. To give you that would put not only her at risk, but her relatives here and at home. Perhaps agent Coughlie should brief you before—’’

  ‘‘Translate the question, please,’’ Boldt said, interrupting.

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  ‘‘Wait!’’ Daphne interjected, catching the interpreter’s warning eye. She whispered into Boldt’s ear.

  He shrugged and deferred to her saying, ‘‘Go ahead.’’

  Daphne addressed the detainee, ‘‘You paid a great deal of money to be brought to this country. What if we could get that money back for you, erase that debt?’’

  Boldt wrote on his pad where Daphne could read it: smart. The Chinese woman replied through the interpreter, ‘‘Yes. We pay money to be brought America. We in America. Yes?’’

  ‘‘She’s an illegals poster child,’’ Boldt mumbled. Daphne tried another tactic. ‘‘What if we arranged for you to remain in the United States legally? Would you help us then?’’

  The interpreter interjected, ‘‘Iwill not be party to this kind of sham.’’

  ‘‘What sham?’’ Daphne argued.

  ‘‘The Service will never agree to such a deal. Have you spoken to Agent Coughlie? Of course you haven’t! Brian Coughlie never makes such deals.’’

  Boldt inquired, ‘‘Then how do they obtain information from these people?’’

  ‘‘Listen, I’m only the translator, but I’m telling you: I’ve never offered a deal to any female detainee. It just isn’t done. The operating premise is that the women don’t know anything. They are rarely, if ever, even interviewed. The male detainees, the various gang members occasionally rounded up—the coyotes—they’re a different story. But in terms of the women, Fort Nolan is nothing but a big bus terminal, with all the buses headed home.’’

  ‘‘All the more reason she should cooperate with us,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We’re giving her a chance to be heard.’’

  ‘‘But you don’t control their destiny, the INS does. Agent Coughlie does.’’

  The subject’s eyes ticked back and forth between her interpreter and Boldt, who was beginning to dislike Coughlie already. Daphne said politely, ‘‘Please translate the lieutenant’s offer. If we cut her a deal that included a legitimate green card and her money

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  returned, could she supply us with the name of the ship and any details of crossing?’’

  The translator spoke quickly behind poorly contained anger. The detainee listened carefully, looked surprised and then studied both Boldt and Daphne carefully. After a long hesitation, she shook her head no.

  ‘‘Why,’’ Daphne pleaded. ‘‘Why volunteer for deportation?’’ />
  The interpreter answered, ‘‘Because—’’

  Boldt chided, ‘‘Not you. Her!’’

  The Chinese woman shook her head a second time upon hearing the translated question.

  The interpreter tried again with Daphne. ‘‘They are warned before they leave the mainland that the Americans do not keep their word. Their relatives, both here in the US and in China, will suffer if they talk. To a Chinese, family is everything. It would be shameful to put any family member at risk.’’

  Boldt addressed the translator. ‘‘The people who took her money nearly killed her. They did kill three others. More will die. Maybe relatives of hers who follow in her footsteps. Doesn’t that mean anything to her?’’ He hesitated, leaned forward and warned, ‘‘Tell her that we will arrest her as an accomplice to those deaths if she does not cooperate.’’ This drew Daphne’s attention as well. He continued,

  ‘‘Tell her that if convicted she will not be deported, but will spend the rest of her life in a prison with convicted murderers, drug addicts and thieves. Exactly that. Exactly those words, please.’’

  The color had drained out of the translator’s face; her eyes pleaded with Daphne for intervention.

  But Daphne nodded at Boldt.

  ‘‘You wouldn’t do this,’’ the interpreter objected.

  ‘‘Not another word from you,’’ Boldt fired back, ‘‘other than what comes from her or one of us. No more editorial. Three women are dead,’’ he repeated loudly, now getting his earnestness across to the subject as well. ‘‘Now translate!’’

  The interpreter spoke to the woman, who subsequently blanched at the idea of a prison term. After a long and searching staring match

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  with Boldt, this woman addressed her translator, who, upon hearing the words, suppressed a smirk.

  ‘‘What?’’ Boldt asked impatiently. ‘‘And Iwant it word for word.’’

  The translator did her job. The Chinese detainee smiled, for the first time without using her hand to shield her mouth. Her front teeth were missing.