by JD Davis
“I understand very good, señorita, no problemo. Nobody saw me shoot nobody, no little girls, nobody. You understand, and what you mean terrorist? I no terrorist and nobody hangs no nobody no more. No in America.”
Mel looked at Joe who took a deep breath and leaned in close to Tino.
“Okay, amigo. We came to try to save you from being hanged as a terrorist. That’s what they do now, Tino. I think the presidente—you know, the one who promises to build the wall—he says he’ll hang terrorist. And if your lawyer does come back, which I doubt, and says you’re not going to hang, he probably voted for the lady to be presidente, amigo, and she lost.
Tino was obviously disturbed by the idea of being hanged, and Joe had his undivided attention. “It’s like this, Tino: you kidnapped those girls in Guatemala. We have an eyewitness who is ready to testify. Next, you drove those girls to Chihuahua, Mexico, where you argued with two men about the money and the motorcycles. In fact, you told them your boss, Juan Delmar Espinoza, would kill them if their people in the US didn’t give you the money and the two Harleys. Are you listening, Tino?”
When Juan Espinoza’s name was mentioned, Tino had simply smiled; not the response Joe was expecting, so Joe reached out and slapped him across his face.
“You brought those girls to Arizona, Tino, and something happened. The deal went south, mal tartan, and when you told your boss, Señor Espinoza, the girls had seen you, he told you to kill them. We know all about it, Tino. The Harley dealer has already identified you. When he asked too many questions about registering the bikes, you got scared, Tino—you got scared and you threatened him. That was stupid, amigo. You never threaten a Harley Davidson dealer. When he saw you thinking about pulling your gun, he took it away from you; he kicked your ass and you got yourself arrested—very stupid, Tino. Now, guess what, your gun matches the one used to kill those girls. But it doesn’t matter, Tino, we have an eyewitness who watched you murder every one of those girls … well, all but one.”
“Maldición,” said Tino. “It was that little conejo from Ixcán. I knew I should have….”
“Should have what, Tino?” asked Gabby.
“I knew she would be trouble, the puta calle pequeña. I should have shot her twice.”
There it was—Tino Alvarez had just confessed.... Gabby looked at Tino, and then at Joe who held up his hand and shook his head.
“Tino, something is puzzling me. There are a dozen Harley Davidson dealers in Mexico and at least one I know of in Costa Rica: why did Señor Espinoza want you to take the risk of buying here in the States?”
Tino did not answer but instead said, “You no can slap me, señor, police here no can slap; I have rights.”
At that, Joe reached out and slapped him with his other hand. “Look at me, Tino. I am not a policeman and I can do more than slap you, my friend. You know what I think, Tino? I think you were trying to beat your boss out of a motorcycle, eh amigo; you’ll be lucky to not die in jail.”
Tino looked at them both.
“Maybe we can make deal, no?”
“Now look at me, Tino,” said Gabby. “You have one shot at this, Tino. If you lie to me again, or if you jerk us around for un minuto, you will see your last chance to live, walk out that door. We can save your life, Tino, but today only. Now, why don’t you tell us a long story about what’s really going on here?”
CHAPTER 13
COZUMEL, MEXICO
After a short layover in Dallas, Joe and Gabby got off the plane in Cozumel, Mexico, and breezed through customs with fresh passports identifying them as John and Anna Edgar from Camarillo, California. John was an industrial container salesman, and Anna was an administrative assistant for a small software company. They were finally getting to celebrate an overdue honeymoon, and you could tell by some of John’s awkward behavior. It was his first marriage and Anna’s second, but she was a very patient bride. It was their first time to travel to Latin America, and their excitement was evident as they enthusiastically perused dozens of travel brochures. They had three weeks of vacation and, as of yet, hadn’t decided where all they would go. A driver met them at the airport holding a sign that read EDGAR. He would take them to their hotel and eventually brief them on the latest whereabouts of Juan Delmar Espinoza.
The FBI came in behind Joe and Gabby and cleaned up the mess with Tino Alvarez. He was arraigned in federal court, where nothing about terrorism was mentioned but where he understood a conviction for the murder of sixteen young girls would cost him his life. Because of the heinous nature of the crimes, there would be no press releases. Nor would there be any insinuation that a deal may be offered, granting him immunity from the death sentence. Currently, the US was fighting extradition requests from Mexico as well as Guatemala. To the great relief of Sheriff Culpepper, Tino was transferred from the Pima County Jail to a maximum-security federal penitentiary in Tucson. However, before they could guarantee his safety Tino had to sing, and sing he did. If ever Señor Espinoza stood trial, the testimony of Tino Alvarez—including the murders, drug deals, sex trafficking, and the bribes paid to both Mexican and US authorities—would ensure multiple convictions. Knowing Señor Espinoza would soon put a contract on his head, Tino was isolated and guarded around the clock. The agents from the Bureau were amused at his frequent questions about hanging prisoners in the United States. They figured whoever had lied to him had done them a favor, so they just let it hang … so to speak.
Both Joe and Gabby figured as soon as Señor Espinoza learned the fate of Tino he would be on the move. The horrific ordeal regarding the young Guatemalan girls had been the top story on every network, as had been the arrest of a suspect. It would have been nice to use Tino as bait, but that opportunity was long gone, so now it was time to allocate all the resources of the NSA.
Meanwhile, there was one thing Joe couldn’t shake from his mind. Why would a man like Espinoza want Tino to buy those two bikes in the US, especially when Tino didn’t have the information necessary to complete the transaction? Joe filed it away and decided he’d come back to that one later.
The person holding the sign at the airport was a fellow named Chad Longmire, but everyone called him Piper. He was a Midwest boy from Indiana and, for six years, had flown the infamous A-10 Warthogs in the US Air Force. He was a respected, badass pilot, who had flown missions in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was decorated twice for saving Marines and Army infantry pinned down by Taliban mortar and machine gun fire. Thinking it was time to make some money, he left the military and became a commercial pilot. He and United Airlines had a “parting of the ways” after several complaints from fellow pilots who said they would never fly with him again. Finally, Chad found a home with Mayan Air. They were a small but respectable Mexican airline, and Longmire loved flying the routes between Veracruz, Cancun, and Cozumel. The gig was working out perfectly until an incident involving an Italian swimsuit model, her poodle, and a disgruntled copilot. Apparently, Capitan Longmire persuaded the copilot to check the back of the plane and immediately seated the beautiful model in his place … along with her dog.
It would most likely have been overlooked, except he let her land the plane.
Unemployed for six months, Chad got a phone call that changed his life. His new partner offered him a sleek and fast Piper M600 and a job flying business associates in and out of questionable locations throughout Latin America. They would also throw in a Cessna 182 for those unexpected jungle and mountain excursions. The pay was nominal but the medical benefits were excellent and excitement was guaranteed. The only drawback was the three months of training as a communications specialist for his new employer, the Central Intelligence Agency.
Joe and Gabby liked him right away. There was chilled champagne in the back of his Range Rover and dinner reservations for the two of them at their hotel. It was important to maintain the ruse of their honeymoon.
“Folks call me Piper,” he said. “Now, let’s pop that champagne and get this honeymoon started.”
The cork flew o
ut the window and off the windshield of a passing taxi.
“Have a nice dinner, you two. I’ll pick you up for coffee at 10:00 AM and we’ll discuss your travel plans at my office. It’s located inside the hangar back at the airport. There is a popular café next door, and they have excellent huevos rancheros.”
CHAPTER 14
THE PERFECT LATTE
As Mel walked from her reserved parking space at City Hall, she spotted the crowd and seriously considered returning to her car to drink her coffee in peace. There was quite a commotion next door at the county courthouse, but Mel took her coffee seriously and protected the time she carved out for her first latte of the morning. It was the one thing she could always count on to be consistent and perfect. Gringo Joe’s Espresso was a favorite and frequent stop on her way to interview suspects, chide a grand jury into prosecuting, or when headed to court. Ever since a wild-abandon and irresponsible road trip, she had an incurable case of OCD—Obsessive Coffee Disorder. Six months earlier, when she’d first driven into Steelhead, Oregon, she didn’t know the difference between a dark roasted espresso bean and chicken noodle soup. However, that was then and things had drastically changed. Michele Randle had become an unmistakable, certified coffee snob. The espresso shot had to be pulled fresh in the last fifteen seconds before the steamed milk was added. That was only the beginning. If dining in, the milk needed to be steamed to 150° F; if it was to go, 160°. And, of course, the all-important pour must be executed properly.
As you can imagine, for Mel, stopping for a tall double-shot, one-pump vanilla latte wasn’t an exercise to be taken lightly—it was a religious experience. Mel was a sweetheart and adored by everyone on the right side of the law, but she was extremely good at her job and expected the same from others. If you couldn’t or didn’t do your job competently, you—and everyone else within earshot—would hear about it, including secretaries, court clerks, patrolmen, detectives, investigators, and, certainly, baristas. About the only thing that softened her perfectionistic nature was a perfectly made latte, and now her morning ritual was in jeopardy.
It was her experience that when there was a crowd outside the courthouse, it was usually drama best avoided. Rarely did it make a difference, and whoever was picketing, marching, boycotting, or voicing their dissatisfaction would get it off their chests and life would resume. However, today’s crowd looked to have some staying power, and when someone yelled her name, it was too late to retreat. She strapped on a fake smile and walked into the fray. Lela, from the file room, was the first to approach her.
“What’s going on?” asked Mel.
Lou Bailey, a longtime personality for Steelhead’s oldest radio station, answered her question.
“It’s Bill Crivelli, who else. He’s called a press conference and is asking that Mayor Abercrombe resign and for Archie Anderson to be fired immediately. He’s saying we’ve waited long enough and the mayor is guilty of cronyism, corruption, conspiracy, and one other word starting with a ‘C’ which escapes me right now.”
“Oh, great, what kind of person pulls this crap just before Christmas? Any mention of me being a crony yet?”
“Not yet, Mel, but the morning is young.”
By now a sizable crowd of city and county employees had gathered around her, as though waiting for orders.
“What should we do?” Lela asked.
Mel was five feet, four inches tall in her stockinged feet, but warranted the respect of her peers from day one. She took a sip of a rapidly cooling latte and said, “Well, let’s charter a bus, go to Portland, and take in some sightseeing, maybe do the Homes on Parade tour.”
Only Lela thought she was serious and said, “Really?”
“No!” snapped Mel. “How about we all go inside and do what we’re getting paid for? This bozo is just trying to get another headline because he hasn’t been in the news for almost a week now.”
Mel headed toward her office, but not before she heard her name used in vain from the microphone of Mr. Crivelli.
“And speaking of illegitimate appointments, there goes Assistant District Attorney Randle, another one of the mayor’s buddies.”
She so wanted to walk back over and teach Bill Crivelli some judo, but instead yelled, “Merry Christmas, Bill!” warranting a chuckle from everyone, as the crowd dispersed, taking refuge from the cold drizzle.
For the past month, Mel had begun a file on the business practices and associates of Mr. Crivelli.
It wouldn’t be long, she thought.
Mel had taken the Oregon bar exam and passed with ease. Some states allow reciprocity for attorneys to practice, but California is an exception. No one accepts the California Bar, nor does California allow attorneys licensed in any other state to practice without first taking and passing their own exam. It’s as if California is another country instead of a member of the Union. The idea of the sovereign nation of California is discouraged by most, encouraged by some, and applauded wildly by Texas.
Regardless, her expenses were covered and Mel could legally practice Oregon Law. Archie Anderson, still fighting and defending himself from two frivolous lawsuits by Crivelli and friends, was a generous and honorable man. Officially he only worked ten hours a week, but spent another ten helping Mel get up to speed.
After completely straightening out Hobie Abecrombe’s legal mess with the feds, she handled most of the prosecutory docket and still had time to dig into William “Bill” Crivelli’s personal and professional dealings.
Sarah, Mel’s admin assistant, buzzed her and said the mayor was on line one.
“Hello, Mayor. Tell me where you’re hiding so I can join you.”
Hobi laughed and said, “Absolutely not, they’ll follow you and I’ll have to answer all the same dad-gum questions again.”
“It’s all right, Hobie,” said Mel. “I know you’re out at the winery pining for a slice of Lizzie’s quiche and probably some early eggnog.”
“Dang it, Mel, if you tell anybody … I swear.”
Mel laughed and asked what she could do.
“Mel, we have to get out in front of this thing with Crivelli and I was wondering if you’d make a statement. The reporters and TV crew are still lingering. They say they won’t leave until they get a comment in response to Crivelli’s accusations. Archie’s too dang vulnerable and his legal counsel forbids him to say anything and I’m certainly not in the mood. What do you say, Counselor, want to take one for the team? I’ll send over a cigarette and blindfold.”
Mel chuckled and said she figured it was her turn. “I’ll do it, Mayor, but I want to get my ducks in a row first.”
“You mean you’re headed to Joe’s for some coffee.”
“It won’t hurt a darn thing, Mayor, and I hear Joe’s back from one of his mysterious trips. I’d like to bounce a few things off him, if you don’t mind?”
“Great idea, Counselor, I do it all the time. The guy has insight that I simply can’t find anywhere else.”
Mel called her pal, Lou, at the radio station. She “leaked” the idea she might make a statement on behalf of the mayor and the city of Steelhead around 4:30 PM. Her next call was to Joe.
“Hey there, stranger,” she said as Joe answered his cell.
“Hey yourself. I was thinking it was about time for your second latte.”
“My thoughts exactly. Any chance we could grab a corner table? I hate to bombard you but I have a bit of a situation and I need my spiritual advisor’s insight.”
“Be my pleasure, Mel, I’ve missed you.”
“Ditto,” she replied. “See you in about half an hour.”
Since meeting Joe over a year earlier, their relationship had evolved. It was somewhere between best friends and the occasional short goodnight kiss. Like most everything else in each of their lives, it was complicated. While there was never any mention of a romantic commitment, there seemed to be an unspoken something-or-the-other lingering about. Mel was swamped, often burning the midnight oil, and Joe had this “
other thing.” He randomly took trips down South to check out a new blend of coffee. Mel didn’t buy it, but whatever it was, she figured it was important and didn’t ask too many questions. Regardless, she worried. She always assumed it had something to do with what he used to do in the military. She certainly knew there was more to Joe Chandler than coffee. Joe was naturally a reserved, introspective person. Nevertheless, he made it distinctly clear that he was grateful and blessed to have Mel in his life. And that was another thing; while almost no one else she knew used such words, Joe comfortably said things like blessings, grace and thankfulness. Churchy people say stuff like that, but with Joe it was different. It was natural and comfortable, as if it resonated from deep in his soul and he didn’t need to guard himself from it. Several years earlier, Mel’s faith in God had gotten filed under “small g” and buried beneath her ambitions. Anyway, while Joe was ruggedly handsome and fun, the idea that he lived for something or someone bigger than himself was refreshing. Before Joe left on one of his “coffee things,” he always handed Mel a book that they would discuss over a nice dinner when he returned. The books were amazing and a wonderful escape from her hectic life, but it was the discussions she loved—Joe taking life’s deepest mysteries and unpacking them with incredible word pictures and spellbinding stories. Often, as they talked late into the evening, she swore she could smell the salt and feel the sting of the windblown wave from the Sea of Galilee.
In the dark recesses of a nook, there was a table where those wishing to do so could hide behind their laptops or personal devices. While Gringo Joe’s Espresso could be a very social place, especially during the holidays, sometimes folks needed to be alone with their coffee and the world outside of Steelhead. It was there where the two parked with their favorite drinks and today’s special, a huge slice of zucchini-walnut and cinnamon apple bread.
“You sure know how to entice a girl, Joe Chandler.”
“Yes, finding the world’s best coffee beans and hiring Herr Elsa Müller to do our baking seems to lure in a steady stream of lovely, unsuspecting attorneys.”
