by Chris Culver
Mexican Special Forces. That was another of the many unintended consequences of the war on drugs. While the world’s private security forces could only hire so many former soldiers, the world’s drug lords had a need for manpower and the seemingly bottomless coffers to hire whomever they wanted. So not only did Barrio Sureño have ties to a cartel, they had ties to a man who had hunted and killed other men and women for a living.
“Do you have any idea how many people have died in this past week alone because of Barrio Sureño?” I asked, trying and probably failing to keep the anger out of my voice. “Do you have any clue?”
“I have watched the news.”
I leaned my head back and looked at the vehicle’s headliner. “Then you should have told us. We thought we were going up against a street gang. If we had known that Barrio Sureño had ties to men like Miguel, we would have taken precautions. We sure as hell wouldn’t have let two police officers guard the Penningtons on their own. These deaths are on you.”
I waited, hoping he’d say something, but he didn’t. Then I looked over at him. The muscles beneath Havelock’s cheeks flexed as he clenched his teeth. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but I’m bound by that same document you signed. I couldn’t tell you about Miguel.”
I wanted to kick something or vent my anger in some way, but all I could do was clench my hands tightly into fists. “You didn’t have to tell us about Miguel. All you had to say was that we were dealing with someone especially dangerous, someone we should watch out for. That’s it. A little warning that we were going up against a man who could kill our officers before we even knew he was in the room. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
Havelock clenched his jaw once again, and then tilted his head down and to the side. “We didn’t know if Miguel was involved. We knew he had ties to your street gang, but I had no idea he would involve himself in their internal politics. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
I looked out the window. “I’ll be sure to relay your apology to the families of the men and women he’s murdered.” Neither of us said anything until I sat up straighter about a minute later. “So Miguel is a drug smuggler. What else do you know about him?”
Havelock drew in a breath and then another, and I knew before his lips moved that he planned to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. “He’s not a drug smuggler. He ran the Zeta’s assassination squads. He’s admitted to forty-eight murders, but I think we can safely say he’s been involved in at least a hundred. Again, though, I didn’t expect him to become involved in your street gang. He’s strictly a cartel hitter.”
I squeezed the door handle to my right to keep from hitting him. “You son of a bitch. You knew we would come into contact with this man, and you did nothing. Two cops are dead because of you. They had families, kids, spouses. This didn’t have to happen.”
Havelock sighed and looked down at the steering wheel. “I understand how you feel, but now isn’t the time to berate me or my employers. I’m here to help you prevent any future deaths. Before we get to that, there’s something else you should probably know.”
I crossed my arms. “What?”
Havelock turned the SUV into a residential neighborhood and then glanced at me. “Santino Ramirez didn’t murder Angel Hererra. On the day Mr. Hererra died, Santino Ramirez and Tristan Salazar were in Nogales, Mexico on Miguel Navarra’s orders murdering the deputy chief of police. Our sources indicate that Tristan drove a pickup truck while Santino rode in the back and shot the chief’s vehicle with an automatic weapon.”
I threw up my hands. “That’s just terrific. We sent a man to death row for a murder he didn’t commit, and you could have stopped it with a phone call. Thank you very much.”
Havelock didn’t say anything as he drove deeper into the neighborhood. After turning down two streets, he pulled to a stop in front of a Garrison colonial and turned the vehicle’s lights off but kept the engine running.
“Miguel Navarra is the highest-ranking member of Los Zetas that we’ve ever turned. Because of him, we’ve interdicted two tons of methamphetamine before it reached our streets this year alone. I understand that you’ve lost people, but do you know how many lives we’ve saved because of Miguel’s tips?”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. You go to the border towns in Mexico or even in the United States, you’ll find the war on drugs is a very real war being waged by men armed to the teeth and willing to kill so they can keep selling poison on our streets. My superiors decided that we couldn’t risk losing a very valuable asset to save the life of a murderer.”
I held up my hands. “I don’t care about Ramirez right now. I’ve got four bodies on the ground tonight and two earlier this week. What can you do to help me with them?”
The FBI agent sighed again. “I didn’t make the decision to use Navarra. That was way over my head. If I could, I’d send him to prison. Since I can’t, I’ll give you everything else I can. Manpower, intelligence, whatever you need, but I can’t touch Miguel Navarra or this gang.”
Havelock’s voice held anger, sure, but also real regret. I leaned back and took a breath, giving myself a moment to think that through. “When you came in and met us after Dante died, you gave us Navarra’s name purposefully. You wanted us to take him out. You’ve wanted that since we found Michelle’s body.”
“I’ve wanted that for a long time, but that’s not the reason I mentioned him. He’s dangerous, and I didn’t want you walking in with nothing. Giving you his name was the least I could do.”
I looked out my window. “At least you got that right. Giving us his name was the least you could do. Take me back to my car, please.”
Havelock waited a moment, but then he put his car in gear and drove back to the Hardee’s parking lot. Before I got out of the car, Havelock cleared his throat to get my attention. I looked at him and crossed my arms.
“This where you apologize?”
He shook his head. “No. I did the only thing I could to help you out. Now close your case before it blows up any further.”
I opened my door but didn’t get out right away. I wanted to say something, but I realized before I opened my mouth that I didn’t have anything to say. Instead, I merely nodded at him and got out of the car. He drove off, leaving me to smell his exhaust. Had our positions been reversed, I like to think I would have done more, but I don’t know. And that’s what bothered me the most. Some days, I don’t even know what right and wrong are anymore. I climbed into my car and texted Hannah to let her know I planned to stay at our house tonight instead of at Jack and Yasmine’s. With luck, no one would shoot me in the night.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, I could feel a need building in my gut. In years past, I would come home in the middle of the night like this and pull a bottle of bourbon from my glove box. I’d drink until I felt better. Some days, I’d only need a little, but other days, the things I saw at work refused to leave until I drank them into oblivion. I’d then go inside, brush my teeth, rinse with mouthwash, and pretend I felt fine. I didn’t want to bring the despair, the anger, the hopelessness that I experienced at work home with me. I thought that made me a good father and husband. In reality, it made me a fool who very nearly lost everything important to him.
I turned off my car and stepped out into the cold night, feeling the chill sap my anger, leaving a dull emptiness inside me. I didn’t want to see Gail and Mark Pennington when I closed my eyes, but they wouldn’t leave. Mark wasn’t the first child I had seen die, and I knew he wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t make it easier. I sat down on the hood of my car. My text to Hannah said I didn’t want to wake anyone up by going to Yasmine and Jack’s this late, but I had another reason entirely for going home.
As much as I loved my family, I didn’t want to see them right now. I wanted to go to a bar. People in bars didn’t need me or ask things of me. They see a man sitting alone with a double shot of Jack in front
of him, they figure he wants to be alone. As long as I had a shot in front of me, I didn’t have to process the things I’d seen.
As I sat there, staring at my shoes of all things, the kitchen door opened. My wife stepped out, her chest rising and falling and her breath coming out in puffs of frost. She wore a thick pink bathrobe and slippers. Even at one in the morning with no one around, she covered her head with a scarf. At first, her eyes bore into mine, but then they softened and I found myself drawing strength from her.
“I saw the news tonight,” she said. “I saw what happened.”
I looked away. “And you came here thinking I was drunk, didn’t you?”
“I know you’re not drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” I said, looking at the ground. “That is why I came here, though. That’s the loser you married.”
“We’ll go inside and we’ll talk.” She held out an arm for me to go inside, but I stayed in the driveway. She pulled her robe tighter. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t look at her. “After I found out Michelle died, I went out to a bar. I had five drinks. It was the first time in three hundred and however-many days.”
Hannah’s posture didn’t change, but she blinked rapidly. A tear fell down her face. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you should know.”
She took a deep breath and nodded, rubbing her arms for warmth. “I saw the pictures on the news tonight.”
I started to speak, but my voice cracked and caught in my throat. I swallowed the lump that threatened to form. “Mark Pennington was just a couple of years older than Megan.”
“I know,” said Hannah, nodding. “You saved him once, but you can’t be everywhere.”
“They killed his mom because I sent Santino Ramirez to prison.”
“No, they didn’t,” she said, not a hint of hesitation in her voice. “Come inside, Ashraf. It’s too cold to stay outside.”
I didn’t try to argue with her. I simply stood and walked inside. We sat down on the sofa in the living room without saying a word. Thankfully, she had left the kids at her sister’s house. For all of my life, I’ve thought of myself as strong, able, fit to take on the world, but I’m not. After seeing Gail and Mark and more similar scenes than I can remember, I’m broken. I’m lucky to have someone willing to help me pick up the pieces.
Chapter 22
The next day came quicker than I wanted with a 7:00 a.m. phone call. I rolled over and picked up the handset from the end table beside me. It was Ken Schiller, a reporter from the Indianapolis Star.
“Who is it?” asked Hannah, draping a hand across my shoulder and snuggling up behind me.
“It’s a reporter,” I said, putting the phone to my ear and swinging my legs off the bed. Our frigid hardwood floor sent a chill up my spine. “I owe him a favor.”
Hannah started to sit up. “I’ll put on some coffee. It’s time to get up and get the kids anyway.”
I didn’t shudder at mention of her coffee, but I came close. A couple of years ago, I had a cup, and I swear, my entire left side went numb. I’ve built up a tolerance to it since then, so it rarely makes me feel as if I’ve had a stroke, but that doesn’t make it stop burning as it travels down my esophagus.
“Coffee would be great,” I said, hitting the talk button on the phone. Hannah leaned over to kiss my forehead, and I tried but failed to avoid ogling her chest as I answered the phone. She saw and winked and mouthed later. At least I had something to look forward to.
“Ken, it’s Ash Rashid,” I said, refocusing on my work. “What do you need?”
“Kristen Tanaka is going on the Channel 9 morning show in an hour, and I’ve heard she plans to talk about Santino Ramirez. You know what she’s going to say?”
I blinked and rubbed my eye sockets to wake myself up. “Probably that Ramirez didn’t kill Angel Hererra. Don’t quote me on that.”
“Are you serious?”
I couldn’t think of a way to tell Ken anything without violating the NDA Havelock had made me sign, so I simply sighed.
“It’s a very strong possibility.”
Ken paused, probably to write something down.
“I’m hearing that she’s none too pleased with her handling last night.”
“You hear a lot of rumors at this time of morning?”
“Occasionally,” he said, his voice scratchy. He paused another second and then sighed. “If you can give me some details about Ramirez, we might be able to get ahead of this.”
And by that, he meant he didn’t have enough to write a story and scoop her.
“If I had anything I could give you, I would.”
“All right, then,” he said, his voice sounding more than a little crestfallen. “I’ll see what I can find without your assistance. Can I call you back for a quote if I find anything?”
“Sure.”
I thanked him, hung up, and then met my wife in the kitchen, where she immediately poured me a cup of coffee.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“For now,” I said. “A reporter is going to unveil some big story on an old case I worked. I have the feeling it’s not going to paint me in a pleasant light.”
“At least you know what to expect,” she said, walking to the fridge. “You want some breakfast?”
My sister had recently given Hannah my mother’s recipe for ful medemes, an Egyptian dish made from slowly cooked fava beans, garlic, olive oil, and other spices. When we were kids, my mom had always topped it off with a hardboiled egg for extra protein to carry us through the day, but Hannah usually put fried eggs on top. Working men in Cairo, my parents’ hometown, ate it for breakfast all the time. The way my mother talked about it, you could walk down certain streets in the city and smell the garlic, the cumin, and the oil coming from every open window you passed. Growing up, I had it almost every single morning, not because I wanted it but because my mother kept making it, day after day. I think it reminded her of simpler times before my father died.
I sipped the coffee and shook my head. As usual, my throat almost closed up, preventing me from swallowing. I forced it down somehow and smiled, hoping it wouldn’t look too much like a grimace. Hannah furrowed her brow.
“Is the coffee okay?”
“Just hot,” I said, standing and taking my mug with me. “I’m going to turn on the news. And thank you, but no to the breakfast.” I held up my mug. “I’m good with this.”
She smiled and nodded. “I’m going to take a shower. For a brief while, I’ll be naked. You should consider joining me.”
I looked at my cup of coffee, and then I looked at my wife. “You know, I think the morning news can wait.”
I followed my wife to our bedroom. Before the kids came along, Hannah and I had made love almost every morning. I liked revisiting the tradition. As my wife showered afterwards, I walked into the living room and turned on the television. Generally, I’m not a fan of morning shows, local or national. Too much fluff, not enough substance. That morning promised to be different. After two of the hosts made French toast with a local chef, and then a round of commercials, the camera panned to a pair of lounge chairs. One sat empty, but the other held Kristen Tanaka. She wore a form-fitting navy dress that landed on her midthigh and a white, probably silk, shirt to cover her cleavage. She looked dignified and elegant, and she had a somber expression on her face to match the somber news she would likely deliver. She didn’t smile, even as the camera zoomed in on her face.
“Good morning. I’m not ordinarily on the morning show, so for those who don’t know me, I’m Kristen Tanaka and I’m an investigative journalist for this station. We try to keep our morning program light, but a very serious situation has recently come to this station’s attention. Our producers felt the public deserved to know as quickly as possible.”
]Outside of work, I’m sure Kristen was a fine person, but at work, I doubted her supposedly altruistic motives.
“I’m here,” she continued,
“to talk about a man named Santino Ramirez. If you’ve watched the news lately, you’ve likely heard of him. If you’ve not heard his name, he was tried and convicted for the 2002 murder of Angel Hererra and is set to become the first man executed by the state of Indiana since December of 2009.” She paused, closed her eyes as if she were nervous, and then drew in a deep breath. “Due to the nature of his crime and his upcoming execution, our station felt that we had to get this information out as quickly as possible. Hopefully it’s not too late to prevent a tragedy.” She took another deep breath. “Forgive me, but I’m a little nervous. This is probably the most important story I’ve ever reported. Mr. Ramirez is innocent of the crime for which the state sentenced him. My sources indicate that he was set up by the very police officers who should have protected him.”
She paused for dramatic effect and reached to the table beside her for a computer printout.
“A source recently sent me this surveillance photo taken by a camera on the US–Mexico border at 11:14 a.m. on the day Mr. Ramirez allegedly shot Angel Hererra.”
A grainy, black-and-white surveillance picture replaced Kristen on the screen. I couldn’t see many details, but the image showed two men in a truck. They could have been Ramirez and Salazar crossing into the US after murdering the deputy chief of police in Nogales, but they also could have been two random strangers. In the end, it probably didn’t matter. In TV news, perception becomes reality nine times out of ten, the truth be damned.
“That is Mr. Ramirez in the driver’s seat and a friend in the passenger’s seat. They are crossing out of Mexico after visiting Mr. Ramirez’s elderly mother in Nogales.”
The picture shifted from a surveillance photo to a road map of the United States with the route from Nogales, Arizona to Indianapolis highlighted in yellow.
“This is a trip of almost two thousand miles and takes over twenty-four hours to drive,” she said, continuing. “Even if he had flown, Mr. Ramirez could not have committed this crime.”
