Fallen Idols

by J. F. Freedman

  It's the typical bureaucratic runaround, he told himself. He'd be out of here and in his limo in five minutes.

  Tucker closed the suitcase and walked back to Rodríguez. “Did you do your own packing, Mr. Rodríguez?” he asked. No smile now.

  Rodríguez stared at him. “My wife helped me,” he acknowledged. He smiled, his teeth white, perfectly straight. “She's better at folding my shirts.”

  “Your wife?” Tucker stared at Rodríguez. “Nobody else?”

  Rodríguez shook his head. He hesitated for the slightest moment; less than a second. “No,” he answered firmly. He forced another smile. “There's no problem, is there?”

  They drove Rodríguez, handcuffed, in an unmarked sedan, to FBI headquarters in San Diego. He asked—I begged—that he be allowed to call the company's lawyer, but they refused, which under the post–9/11 United States security laws governing noncitizens they were permitted (and unofficially encouraged) to do. After booking him, confiscating his bags and all of his personal articles, they strip-searched him and threw him into an empty cell. The door was locked, and he was left in darkness.

  He didn't know how much time passed before they came and got him. It could have been hours. He had no sense of time. He was scared out of his wits.

  The door to his cell swung open and two men in plainclothes entered.

  “What's going on?” Rodríguez asked them, his voice quivering with fear. “Why are you doing this?” More shrilly: “Say something. Please.”

  They said nothing. One of them rehandcuffed him, then he was led down a jail corridor, into an elevator, which was empty except for his escorts and him, and alter going up some flights (he didn't know how many, there weren't any indicator lights in the elevator) the door opened and he was led down another hallway and into an interrogation room. Agent Tucker was there, as well as three other men Rodríguez hadn't seen before. One of them was dark-complexioned, Latino like himself. This man's features were almost Indian-like, especially the hawk nose and flat, sloping forehead.

  There was a dull-metal conference table in the center of the room, surrounded by cheap plastic chairs. Three of the walls were bare, painted institutional dirty-white. The fourth wall was a mirror, the glass tinted dark. Rodríguez, seeing it, assumed it was a one-way mirror. The circumstances felt like those of an American television show, NYPD Blue or Law and Order, except this was real, not playacting.

  “Uncuff him,” Tucker told his escorts.

  The cuffs were removed. Rodríguez rubbed his wrists, more from nerves than from pain.

  “Sit down, Mr. Rodríguez.” Tucker pointed to one of the plastic chairs.

  Rodríguez sat. The others remained standing. They all started at him with stern, unsmiling expressions on their faces.

  “What is going on?” Rodríguez asked again, this time of Tucker.

  Tucker looked at him a moment longer. Then he grabbed one of the chairs that faced Rodríguez from across the table, turned it around, and sat down, resting his elbows on the chair-back.

  “So you know,” Tucker told him, “you're being recorded. Audio and video. For your protection as much as ours. You got a problem with that?”

  Rodríguez knew it wouldn't matter if he did or not. “No,” he answered.

  “Good.” Tucker leaned forward. “One more time, Mr. Rodríguez, so there's no misunderstanding: nobody packed your bags except you and your wife. Nobody asked you to bring anything with you, either here or in your own country.”

  Rodríguez wet his lips nervously. “No. Only my wife and I packed.”

  Tucker shrugged, as if to say “I gave you a chance to be straight with me, and you blew it.” Without taking his eyes off Rodríguez's face, he held up a hand. One of the other agents placed a large padded envelope in it. Tucker put the envelope on the table between him and Rodríguez, opened the clasp, and reached inside. He, brought out two objects—a small statuette about a foot tall and a man's wristwatch. He placed the two items in front of Rodríguez.

  “Do you recognize these?” he asked. “Go ahead, you can pick them up.”

  Rodríguez's heart sank. “Yes, I recognize them,” he answered dully, without touching them.

  “They belong to you?”

  Rodríguez was about to say yes, but he hesitated.

  Tucker picked up the statuette, held it a few inches from Rodríguez's face. “Where did you get this?”

  “A friend gave it to me,” Rodríguez told him. “They are very common, they are sold everywhere.”

  Tucker looked at the object in his hand. “What is this, precisely?”

  “A figure of the Virgin,” Rodríguez said. “People like to have them for luck,” he explained. “They keep them in their homes, their cars, offices.”

  “That's why you have it? For luck?” Tucker asked.

  Rodríguez shook his head. “It isn't for me. I brought it to give to someone.”

  Tucker cocked his head. “Who?”

  “The mother of one of my co-workers from my office,” Rodríguez explained sheepishly. “She lives in Los Angeles. Legally,” he added hastily, “she has a green card. She has lived in Los Angeles for many years.”

  Tucker nodded thoughtfully. “Your co-worker gave it to you to bring to the States to give to his mother. That's correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So when you told us nobody gave you anything to bring into this country you were lying, weren't you, Mr. Rodríguez?”

  It was warm in the room. Rodríguez was sweating, particularly under his armpits, which he did when he was nervous. When this ordeal was over he would have to shower and change his clothes before meeting his American friends.

  “Yes,” Rodríguez stammered. “I had forgotten. It's such a cheap item. They're very common, they're sold everywhere.”

  “Did your friend tell you what he paid for it?”

  Rodríguez calculated in his head. “Four or five dollars in American money.”

  Tucker turned the statuette over in his hand. “This looks like it's worth more than four or five dollars to me,” he said. “Look at these stones here.” He touched some small jewels that were inlaid in the Virgin's crown. “These look like real jewels, not fakes.”

  Rodríguez shook his head. “They are glass,” he told his interrogator. “Believe me. They aren't real.”

  “Then why did you have it hidden away in your bag, buried under your socks and underwear?”

  Rodríguez was sweating profusely now. He could feel the warm brine running down his arms, drenching his shirt. “I wasn't hiding it,” he protested. “I didn't want it to break. That's why I had It … covered up like that,” he finished. He knew he sounded like an imbecile.

  Tucker swiveled around in his chair and leaned back, motioning to the Latino-looking agent. The other stepped forward and bent down, his face next to Tucker's. The two spoke in whispers for a moment. Then Tucker turned back to Rodríguez.

  “What if I told you this was a real statue, not a knock-off? That it's made of gold, and the jewels are real rubies and garnets. That it is worth more than a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Rodríguez's jaw dropped. “That can't be. It's a cheap trinket,” he said, his voice rising with fear.

  Tucker leaned in toward Rodríguez. “And what if I also told you,” he continued, his voice low and flat, “that a statue exactly like this one was stolen from a church in your country less than a month ago?”

  Rodríguez closed his eyes. His heart was hammering madly in his chest, like a caged bird beating itself to death against the bars. “I am not a smuggler,” he managed to say. “I was doing a friend a favor. Nothing more, You must believe me,” he pleaded.

  “I would if you'd tell the truth,” Tucker answered. He handed the small statue to the Latino-looking agent, who put it back into the padded envelope. Then he turned again to Rodríguez, and picked up the watch.

  “And this is yours, as well?” Tucker asked. “Or did your friend give this to you to give to his mothe
r, also?”

  Rodríguez shook his head. He had to stay cool, no matter what. “That is my watch.”

  “A TAG Heuer. Very nice. They're used for scuba diving, aren't they?”

  Rodríguez nodded.

  “Are you a diver, Mr. Rodríguez?”

  “I have tried it,” Rodríguez answered, “in Belize and off the coast of Mexico, but only a few times.”

  “So to you, it's a timepiece.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a nice piece of men's jewelry.”

  “Yes,” again.

  Tucker ran a finger along the crystal. “Did you buy this watch new?”

  “I bought it from—” Rodríguez began. He stopped.

  “From?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “A gift?” Tucker's face registered a look of surprise. “You didn't buy it?”

  Rodríguez shook his head. “No. I had forgotten. It was given to me.”

  “By the same pal who gave you the Virgin to deliver to his mother?”

  “No.” Now not only his underarms, but his entire upper body was drenched with his sweat. He could smell it coming off him. He knew his interrogators could, too. It was humiliating, to be in this position.

  “By who?” Tucker asked.

  “A friend,” Rodríguez said. “An old friend.”

  “Another old friend, huh? Someone you must be awfully close to, to give you a present this nice.” He turned and looked back at the Latino agent. “What do these go for down there, Felipe?” he asked the man. “In American dollars.”

  “Two thousand,” the other replied. His accent was heavy, but not like an American chicano. Like someone from Central America, Rodríguez realized with a feeling of despair. Perhaps even his own country.

  Tucker's eyes bore into Rodríguez's. “Your friend who gave you the statue to give his mother. What's his name?”

  Rodríguez swallowed. “Carlos.”

  “Carlos what? And his telephone number, what's that? His e-mail address, his home address, whatever you have.”

  “I don't know,” Rodríguez answered. “You have all my effects. My phone book, my cell phone.”

  “And his mother,” Tucker pressed. “You have her name? Her address, telephone number? You were going to call her, weren't you, so you could meet up with her and give her this gift from her son?”

  “I … it is there somewhere, in my things,” Rodríguez stammered. He wet his lips. “May I have some water?”

  Tucker whirled the watch around his finger. “In a minute. And this,” he said. “The friend who gave this really neat present to you. What did he give it to you for? You did something special for him, or what?”

  “It was … yes,” Rodríguez admitted. “I had done him favors in the past. He gave me the watch as a token of his thanks. Because he was a friend. He also did favors for me.” He sat up straight, trying to appear strong, in control. “Have you never done a favor for a friend, Agent Tucker?” he asked. “Have you never given or received a present from a friend?”

  “Oh sure, I've given gifts and gotten them,” Tucker said cheerfully. “Nothing this expensive, though.” He held the watch up against his wrist and compared it to his own, a digital Seiko. “Me and you, we move in different financial circles, Mr. Rodríguez. You're an important businessman, and I'm just a humble civil servant.” He put the watch back down on the table. “When did your friend give you this watch?” he asked. “A year ago? Two?”

  Rodríguez thought for a moment. “About a year ago, that's right.”

  Tucker smiled. “What a coincidence.” He picked the watch up again and turned it over. “You see these initials engraved on the back here? Take a good look.”

  He handed the watch to Rodríguez. Rodríguez looked at the back. “Yes. I see them.”

  “They aren't yours, are they.”

  “No.”

  “Read them to me.”

  Rodríguez squinted. “They're small. And they have been rubbed almost smooth.”

  “Give it a shot, anyway.”

  Rodríguez looked closely at the watch-back. “W?” he ventured. “And a … I think a C?”

  Tucker took the watch from him. “Close enough.” He looked at the initials himself. “Somebody wore this for a long time to have rubbed them that smooth, as you noticed.” He looked at Rodríguez, his eyes unblinking. “So this watch, that your friend gave you. It wasn't a new watch that he bought in a store, or from a catalogue, was It? He got it used from somebody, didn't he?”

  Rodríguez shrugged. “He must have. I didn't ask him where he got it.”

  “So it could have been stolen. Did you ask him if it was?”

  Rodríguez shook his head. “No.”

  “You weren't at all curious where he got this fine watch that he was presenting to you as a token of his friendship?”

  “It was a gift,” Rodríguez said. “You don't question where a gift comes from. You accept it, with gratitude.”

  Tucker leaned back. “If you had known this watch was stolen, would you have accepted it?”

  Rodríguez thought for a moment. “I don't think so,” he answered slowly.

  “But you might have.”

  “I didn't think to ask.”

  “Somebody could have been murdered for this watch, but as long as you didn't know, you wouldn't care, is that what you're telling me?”

  Rodríguez shook his head. “I wouldn't take it under those conditions, of course not.”

  Tucker nodded. “I'm glad to hear that, at least.” Abruptly, he stood up. “That's enough for now.”

  Rodríguez looked up at him. “Am I free to leave now?” he asked hopefully.

  Tucker laughed, a dry, humorless snort. “You're going back to your home away from home, otherwise known as the San Diego County Jail. The judge will arraign you sometime tomorrow, or maybe the next day. It'll depend on how long the U.S. attorney takes to file the charges against you.”

  Rodríguez, already scared out of his mind, turned to chalk. “What charges?” he asked in a choked voice.

  “Bringing stolen national cultural items into the United States, for openers,” Tucker told him. “That's for the statue, which in case you actually didn't know, is real, not fake. You could do five or ten years for trying to smuggle that in.”

  Rodríguez was shaking. He felt bile forming in his throat.

  “But that's small potatoes, in the grand scheme of things,” Tucker went on. He picked up the watch again. “This one's the big enchilada. This one is for participating in the killing of an American citizen, in your country. The wife of a prominent archaeologist, a little over a year ago. You may remember it, it was a big deal. Her name was Jocelyn Gaines, and her husband was named Walter Gaines.”

  He dangled the watch in front of Rodríguez's terrified lace. “This watch belonged to Professor Gaines. It was among his personal items that were stolen, the night his wife was killed. Those initials on the back you read? W.C.? That was W. G., not C. Walter Gaines.”

  He paused to let the impact of what he was saying sink in.

  “I … did not …” Rodríguez told him, almost breaking into tears. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “You have the watch,” Tucker pointed out. “Prima facie evidence.”

  Rodríguez didn't know what prima facie meant, but he knew he was in terrible trouble now, much worse than smuggling in a single piece of native art. “I had nothing to do with that,” he cried out again.

  Tucker shook his head. “This piece of evidence says you were either an accessory or a perpetrator, it doesn't matter. Either way, it's murder.”

  “Murder?” Rodríguez choked out.

  “The woman was killed for a watch. It's not an accidental killing anymore. This”—again, he held the watch under Rodríguez's nose— “makes it murder.”

  The bile rose up in Rodríguez's throat, into his mouth. He tried to hold it in, but by then he had lost all control.

  They let Rodríguez call his attorne
y. By the time the lawyer arrived at the jail, it was well after midnight. The two men met in a small room near Rodríguez's jail cell. Rodríguez was wearing a jail-orange jumpsuit that was several sizes too large. His feet were shod in paper slippers. He had not showered, he stank like a billy-goat, and his breath was still foul from vomiting.

  The two talked for over an hour. When they were finished, and Rodríguez was led back to his cell, the lawyer, who was top-notch, called Fred Levy, the head of the district U.S. Attorney's Office, and arranged two meetings, the first between himself and Levy, to try and work out a plea agreement, and if that could be done to both parties’ satisfaction, to proceed with the second meeting, between Levy and his client.

  “My client's a sharp businessman,” Rodríguez's lawyer told U.S. Attorney Levy, “but he's a naïve asshole when it comes to trying to smuggle contraband into this country, especially after 9/11. He comes and goes in and out of the San Diego airport all the time, he's wired up with the customs agents, they never check his bags—he probably slips them a bottle of Jack Daniel's at Christmas—he figured he wouldn't have any trouble. So when it was new faces, he was screwed. We're not going to he to you about that, you caught him red-handed.

  “The watch is another story. He assumed it was hot, but so what? A watch is a watch, there's thousands exactly like the one he's wearing, all over the world. But he says he didn't know who it came off of, and I believe him. He figured it was a foreign tourist, maybe an American, but that's no big deal down there, ripping off gringos is par for the course, nobody gives it a second thought.

  “But now he does know where the watch came from and he's scared out of his everlovin’ mind, because he's going up on a murder charge, unless he can make a deal. So what he's prepared to do is give you the name of the guy who gave him the watch, and more importantly, who that guy's connected with. It wasn't just some random robbery, according to him, it was political, it's a heavy scene that was directly connected to the woman who was killed. It involves smuggling, political payoffs, all kinds of stuff.