by David Lyons
Dumont dismissed the bartender, then walked over and addressed Boucher. “There’s one thing I wanted to mention, Judge, before we start playing. We all have an understanding: anything we say in this room stays in this room. We are free to comment on anything we like, and at times some rather controversial views might be expressed. We share confidences. We enjoy a certain bond.”
“Warning,” Senator Farmer said, “sometimes the controversy is a ploy to throw you off your game.”
“Speaking of the game,” Dumont said, “let’s get started.”
They took their seats.
“The game is no-limit Texas Hold ’Em. We play till one a.m. The hand in play as the clock strikes one is the last hand. All of us have day jobs.”
Dumont began dealing. Boucher sat to his left. On his left was the man who’d said little up to this point, Gary Quaid. He was a solid rock of a man, built like a refrigerator. As if to emphasize his sharp corners, his red hair was closely cropped in a fifties-style flattop, the front fringe frozen to attention with gel. The sides and back of his head could have been shaved with a straight razor. He was big, not fat, though rolls of flesh gathered like strands of rope at the back of his thick neck. His face was freckled and fair and showed the effects of much sun, and his fingers were short and as thick as the cigar he held. He was no violin player. Boucher’s first impression: the man was a tank with about as much warmth as the armored vehicle.
“I’m sorry,” Boucher said, “what did you say you did?”
Dumont spoke. “Mind if I tell him, Gary?” The silent man just nodded. “Gary used to run the DEA in this region. For the last several years, he has been the head of the MAFS, Multi-Agency Force South. It’s an organization formed pursuant to special executive order after 9/11 revealed the lack of coordination between government agencies charged with security of our homeland. It’s composed of representatives from the Departments of Defense, Treasury, and Transportation, the FBI, the DEA, the NSA, and others. His organization has liaisons with Europe and most of South America. Their main mission is international counternarcotics operations, and his command center controls deployment of aircraft and ships from the U.S. Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard to stop the flow of illicit drugs in the southeastern U.S. and gulf coast areas. He is probably as powerful as any military commander in any of our armed forces today.”
Boucher said, “Wow.”
Quaid said, “Deal.”
Boucher was sitting at a card table with one of the most powerful men fighting the war against drugs, and with the forces at his command, war was an operative word. Senator Farmer was hardly a slouch when it came to authority, being a ranking member of the legislative body. Despite the profiles of the players, the opening chatter was only poker banter.
It was soon obvious that the fish at the table was James Daly, the president of Dumont’s bank. He was probably playing the role his boss had given him—designated loser, as his chagrin over his losses seemed a bit forced. After several hours, it was time for a break. Trays of fresh snacks were brought in, and the bartender returned to restock. During the break, Senator Farmer buttonholed Boucher. He was determined to make amends for his vote against the judge’s nomination, having learned to his horror that Ray Dumont, undoubtedly one of his largest contributors, thought highly of the man. Boucher nodded politely, looking over the senator’s shoulder as he spoke. Quaid and the lawyer from Houston stood in a far corner, engaged in intense whispered conversation. Even in this room where confidences were kept, the topic was for them alone. They seemed to have reached some sort of agreement when Dumont called for the game to resume. They nodded to each other before taking their seats. Boucher could have sworn that the lawyer relayed a signal to Dumont, which was in turn passed to the senator. He and the banker were the odd men out.
It was Gary Quaid’s turn to deal, which made Boucher last in the rotation and gave him the longest look at the cards in the flop, turn, and river, and the most time to consider his bets. Quaid was no more talkative when the game resumed. It was Senator Farmer who threw out the comment, as if tossing raw meat to hungry dogs. “I read some of those damned WikiLeaks. There was a quote from a high-level Mexican official in their Ministry of Internal Security. He said they were losing control of the border regions of their country to the drug cartels. He gave an eighteen-month deadline to turn things around. That deadline has long since passed. Nothing has turned around. Just a couple of years ago, some in our military, some of our own diplomats were calling Mexico a failed state because of its inability to eradicate the cartels.”
“That’s an irresponsible choice of words for a sovereign nation, one of our closest allies and largest trading partners, a country with the second-largest economy in Latin America,” Boucher said.
“I agree with Judge Boucher,” the lawyer Benetton said. “We’d certainly be offended if our government was called a failed state, yet there are American ranchers along the border from Texas to California, some of the most patriotic men in America, who are saying just that. They claim they are not being provided the protections guaranteed to them as U.S. citizens under the Constitution, that there is no security on our side of the border, and that a ten-mile no-man’s-land exists where no American is safe, where sovereign U.S. territory is overrun by cartels conducting their illegal activities. If Mexican officials are admitting they’ve lost control of their border region, U.S. citizens on our side of the border are claiming the same thing. The truth is, gentlemen, both governments are failing their citizens.”
There was silence. It was as if each one were hiding behind poker faces. All eyes were on Boucher.
“I was in Mexico recently,” he said. “Puerto Vallarta. One of the most beautiful coastlines I’ve ever seen. Whose bet is it? Let’s keep this moving.”
“Sorry,” Benetton said. “It’s my bet. I raise fifty dollars.”
“Anyway,” said Senator Farmer, “the situation on the border is like a cancer, and it’s spreading. We need to cut it out at the source like a malignant tumor.”
“I agree with you, Senator,” Dumont said. “But I bet the judge and the lawyer sitting at this table would point out a litany of international legal reasons why we can’t do a damned thing.”
“Actually,” Benetton said, “there is ample legal precedent for just the opposite, if anyone wants a history lesson.”
“Can we finish this hand first?” Boucher pleaded. His urgency induced everyone to fold, and he won the pot, which should have been much larger. “Okay,” he said, “continue, counselor.”
“There have been incursions by U.S. forces into Mexico since the 1830s,” Benetton began. “At first we chased Indians. In 1876 Secretary of State Fish stated that chasing Indians into Mexico was not a violation of the law of nations, because Mexico was judged to be without power to prevent or redress the hostile actions. In 1877 the secretary of defense gave Generals Sherman and Ord authority to occupy Mexican territory if, in their judgment, it was warranted. We entered into an agreement with Mexico in 1882 that provided for the crossing of armed forces of either side in pursuit of Indians.
“In 1914, President Wilson learned of a shipment of arms being sent to General Huerta, who had seized power in a coup aided and abetted by the U.S. ambassador, Henry Lane Wilson, no relation. The president ordered the navy to seize the port of Veracruz and we occupied it for six months. It turned out that the shipment had been sent by the Remington Arms company by way of Germany as a subterfuge. We seized a Mexican port to intercept weapons sent from the U.S. in the first place. And people think the Fast and Furious fiasco was a farce.
“Then in 1916 Pancho Villa attacked Columbus, New Mexico, and killed twenty-four Americans. General Pershing led five thousand troops across the border to find him, and that expedition lasted over a year. In 1919, after World War I, three thousand U.S. forces under General DeRosey Cabell crossed from El Paso and chased Villa’s troops out of Juárez into the desert. There was a mild protest against this alleged violati
on of Mexico’s sovereignty, but our State Department answered strongly that American lives and property would be protected. The international legal doctrine of ‘hot pursuit’ was used in support of this action, even though no Mexicans actually crossed into the U.S.”
“No Mexicans crossed into the United States, yet we sent troops into their country in hot pursuit?” the banker asked.
“Shots fired by the Villistas reached El Paso, killing an American soldier and a civilian and wounding six others. That was enough reason to send three thousand troops across the border. It shows how little justification is needed. The principles of self-defense were deemed immutable. There is historical legal precedent that the doctrine of hot pursuit would justify chasing intruders back across the border—even occupying Mexican territory, if necessary.”
“I have a question,” Boucher said. “You mentioned Villa’s attack on Columbus, New Mexico, that induced Pershing’s expeditionary force to cross the border and chase him. Why did Villa attack in the first place? He must have known we would respond.”
“There is evidence to support the conclusion that it was a gun deal gone bad,” Benetton said. “A man named Ravel lived in Columbus and was said to have received payment from Villa for guns he never delivered. The first thing the Villistas did when they rode into Columbus that day was hunt for Ravel. He was out of town. Some historians suggest that Villa had some sophisticated strategy in mind, but it doesn’t fit the personality of the man. In everything he did, he was a bull. He rarely employed anything like a military strategy. In most of his battles during the revolution, he massed his troops and charged. It worked for him in the early days, and then it didn’t. But he never changed tactics. His raid on Columbus was in keeping with his personality. It was that of an angry bull.”
“You can’t seriously suggest,” Boucher said, “that circumstances over a century ago have relevance today.”
Benetton shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the saying ‘Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ Winston Churchill also said, ‘The longer you can look back, the farther you can look forward.’ Those were observations of men far more intelligent than I.”
“The drug cartels are no less a threat today than Pancho Villa was then, and just as out of control as the Indians were,” Dumont said. “As Senator Farmer said earlier, even members of the Mexican government are admitting that they have no control over large areas of their own country. Are we going to wait until al-Qaeda and the Taliban collude with the cartels and attack us from Mexico? We’ve already lost American lives on both sides of the border. If you say there’s precedent under international law, I say it’s time we do something. What do you think, Judge?”
Boucher studied his cards. The river could give him a full house. He’d already lost the possibility of a larger pot by trying to keep the game moving and would not repeat that mistake. He took a breath and fanned his cards. “The situation in Mexico is dangerous and troubling,” he said. “More than sixty thousand people have been killed there in recent years, and that’s a tragedy of global proportions. We can’t overlook our role. We’re buying the drugs, and we’re selling the cartels the guns. That’s two thirds of the triangle. I agree that something must be done, but while the suggestion of precedent is interesting historically, nothing has happened that would justify implementation of hot pursuit.”
“But if such an event were to occur?” Dumont pressed.
“If American lives were at risk, the president would have to weigh some very difficult options, one of which might be to send troops into Mexico,” Boucher said. “And I’m sure there would be those among his advisers who would cite the historical precedents Mr. Benetton has noted. There are other factors to consider, since an incursion into the territory of a sovereign nation might be considered an act of war. Senator Farmer, I’m sure, is more of an expert on that issue than I am.”
“Were you listening to what has already been said?” the senator said. “When Mexico was judged to be without power to control Indians, our incursions were not deemed to be a violation of the law of nations. Now the country has lost the ability to control the cartels. I think the precedent Mr. Benetton cited is right on point. What is being suggested would be considered a police action, not an act of war. A nation that cannot maintain civil order over criminal elements in its territory would have a weaker claim to sovereignty over that area. If we crossed the border in response to a threat to our territory or its citizens, not only would it be justified, but the commander in chief could send backup forces across the border to support the first responders. Hell, he could chase them down to Ecuador.”
“Without a declaration of war?” Dumont asked.
“There hasn’t been a declaration of war since 1941. Not in Korea, Vietnam, Grenada, Iraq, or Afghanistan. We sent forces into each of those countries. Now, damn it, I want to play poker.”
Boucher picked up his cards. “Me too. I raise one hundred dollars.”
The game recommenced, and poker trumped politics. The subject was not brought up again, and nothing of consequence was said by any one of them for the remainder of the evening. The final hour was approaching. It was time for down-and-dirty. It was time for concentration and deployment of each and every possible psychological gambit. It was time to win or be counted out.
When the counting was done, Boucher had done respectably; the senator—the biggest ego—was the biggest winner; and the banker, no surprise, was the biggest loser. They all shook hands and said good-bye, stating that Boucher was welcome back anytime. Dumont stood aside, smiling at the acceptance of his invitee. The men were met by a casino employee who accompanied each of them to waiting transportation.
“Judge, I’ll give you a ride home,” Dumont said. “This time I’m going to personally make sure you get safely inside.”
They were ushered into the backseat of the limo. Dumont reached for the bottle and poured two glasses. “There’s never a more suitable place for ‘one for the road’ than the backseat of your own limo.” He poured two. “My friends liked you.”
“I couldn’t tell. They take their poker and their politics seriously—particularly, it seems, the situation in Mexico.”
“I can’t deny that. It has touched each of us one way or another. I lost my son down there.”
“Yes, I was told. I’m sorry for your loss.”
There was silence for the rest of the drive. They pulled up in front of Boucher’s house.
“Sit for a minute,” Dumont said. He knocked on the glass partition and motioned for the driver to wait. “You’re a young man, Judge,” he said. “You have achieved at an early age what, for most men in your profession, would be the beginning of the most productive phase of a career. Yet your future looks broken. You’re standing at the edge of the cliff, waiting to jump—or be pushed. Am I right?”
“Leaving the bench would not be the end of my life.” Boucher paused. “But I’ve never been less sure of my future.”
“I can help you. I can make you one of the most powerful, respected men in this country—far more than any judge—and I can guarantee you the kind of wealth that will ensure that power and respect.”
“Why would you do that for me?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been asking myself the same question. Maybe it’s the way you dispose of those who do you harm. As I told you, I find that admirable.”
“Most people would call it vengeance. I’m a vengeful man who acts without thinking. I don’t think that credits me.”
“I disagree. I think vengeance is a trait necessary in a man of power. I remember asking my father late in his life something inane, like to what he attributed his many years of success. He said to me, ‘My enemies. Every day I wake, I thank God for my enemies.’ He was vengeful, and he was feared by every man in Louisiana till the day he died. But it’s not just that. It’s, it’s . . .” He took another sip, then set the glass down in the holder. “My only son,” he said. “I’ve been helpless to avenge his death
. Maybe that’s why I admire your ability to dispose of evil men.”
“Ray,” Boucher said softly, “I’m not proud of what I’ve done, and most condemn me for my actions.”
“I don’t. I can help you. I want to help you.”
“In return for what?”
“Your loyalty, nothing more. Think about it. I don’t need an answer right now. We’ll have time to get to know each other better.”
“To change the subject, I want to thank you again for that desk. It fits in my study perfectly. I know I’m going to really enjoy it.”
“That’s as it should be. I hope you enjoy the reading matter as well.”
“General Scott’s memoir? I can’t wait to start reading it. I’ve scanned the first few pages. I’m afraid I’ve never given him enough credit. I’ve always been fascinated with the Civil War and remembered him only as the general who was too old when it started and had to step down.”
“Some called him the equal to Napoleon and the greatest military mind of his age. His accomplishments are still being praised today. An essay by a U.S. Marine colonel, ‘Winfield Scott’s 1847 Mexico City Campaign as a Model for Future War,’ won a competition sponsored by the Joint Chiefs of Staff in 2009. We could use a man like Winfield Scott. Especially now, since we’re . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. “We’ll continue our discussion after you finish your reading.”
“I’d like that. I would also like to be invited back when you get another game going. Your friends are unique individuals. I don’t often get the chance to converse with men as involved with issues of the day as they are.”
“Involved,” Dumont said as if the word held some private meaning. “They certainly are that. Good night, Judge. We’ll talk soon. You take care of yourself.”
The driver had stepped out and opened the door for Boucher, then accompanied him up his walk.
“Thanks. I can take it from here,” Boucher said. At his door, he turned and waved to Dumont, who raised his glass in toast.
