‘Never heard of them.’
‘Let’s jog your memory.’
Otego took out a series of photographs and spaced them out on the desk. I trembled with horror.
‘You can’t think—?’ The pictures showed the dead bodies of Leila, her father and the two children. I turned away.
‘I don’t think. I only look at facts. We have your bloodstained clothing at their home, together with fingerprints that match yours and four corpses. Now, I’m not paid to think for you. What do you think?’
I knew exactly how it looked and with a full explanation, I could easily answer his question. However, I was in a country whose legal procedures I had little working knowledge of, which told me I needed to tread lightly.
‘Listen, there’s a simple explanation, but can I make a phone call and speak with a lawyer?’
He leaned back in his chair and grinned. ‘What is the simple explanation?’
‘It’s – no, wait. Listen, I think it’s better if I talk with a lawyer to advise me.’
‘Ah, the American right to make a phone call.’ He leaned forward. ‘Here’s what you get in Mexico. Within forty-eight hours, we have to let you phone your consul, if we were to charge you with an offense. If we don’t charge you within that time, we have to let you walk. If you don’t have a lawyer, your embassy will give you a list of local lawyers who speak English and who are familiar with our technicalities. You won’t be allowed any other phone calls, but your consul will be able to contact your family. In the meantime, you don’t have to say anything without your lawyer present.’
‘How long will it take to get the Consul here?’
‘They have a busy workload locally. You can phone Tijuana. They will give you advice.’
‘So am I being charged?’
‘Yes. For now, the charges are drug trafficking and possession of an unlicensed automatic rifle. You’re going to be transferred to a high-security prison in the south of Chihuahua as soon as we get some tests back from forensics later today.’
Otego picked up the handset, dialled a number, and passed me the phone.
‘Your consul. You’ll need to ask him for a small loan to buy food when you get to the prison. As I told you, prisoners don’t get a free ride.’
All I could hear was the telephone ringing at the other end of the line.
‘What about bail?’
‘Unlikely. In any case, you would have to deposit cash if granted bail. We don’t accept personal sureties in our country. However, that’s for a judge to decide and you won’t get to see one for another seventy-two hours. You have to remember, here in Mexico, you're considered guilty until proven innocent. The judge will determine the evidence and if he’s satisfied there’s a case, you will go to trial.’
‘Why do I need a loan? I have two hundred dollars.’
‘You mean you had. They’ve been sent off to forensics.’
The consulate’s receptionist finally answered and put me through. A woman answered and I gave her all the details.
‘How long before a consul can get to me?’
‘Difficult to say. We have the address of the prison you are going to and someone will contact you there.’
‘What about letting my family know what’s happening?’
‘We have to confirm your citizenship first. Hang tight and discuss it with your consul. Have a nice day.’ The call ended.
‘Have a nice day?’ I put the phone down and turned to Otego. ‘Incidentally, do I have to put up with your officer beating on me?’
Otego raised an eyebrow. ‘You have to understand, there is a war on down here with traffickers, and many innocent people have lost their lives locally. Sometimes officers can get a little over-zealous. I’ll have a word with him.’
That didn’t make it right for the officer to act like a thug; still, I took him at his word. Otego left the room and the door closed. Sitting back, I stroked the stubble on my chin. The bad dream was now a nightmare. It didn’t seem as though I would get to see Mary and the kids anytime soon. Once Rob and the FBI had tracked me down and I had explained everything that had happened, I was sure they would have our Mexican counterparts allow me to go home. I could just see the headline. ‘United States drug enforcement agent charged with trafficking’. My spirits waned at the absurdity at the whole situation.
The door opened and in walked Brute, carrying coffee and a sandwich. He set the sandwich down on the table.
‘Gracias,’ I said, offering a truce.
He spat in the coffee. A surge of anger ran through me, and I curled my feet around his ankles and butted his chest. Brute fell backwards, sprawled on the floor and the hot coffee poured over him. Otego rushed into the room.
‘What’s happening here?’
‘He tripped.’
‘Wait outside,’ Otego ordered.
Brute climbed ungainly to his feet and glared at me as he left the room.
‘We’ve got the forensics back on the rifle and the bullets in the magazine.’
‘And?’
‘The transport is on its way to take you to the prison. I’m charging you with the murder of Eduardo Garcia, Leila Garcia, her son and daughter.’
Chapter 45
Unlikely Companion
A runaway train couldn’t have hit me any harder that the revelation that I was to be charged with trafficking, together with the murders of Leila and her family. The horrific vision of Sidekick spraying Leila’s family with his automatic flashed though my mind, and then a snapshot of me picking up his rifle and stowing it the pickup under the seat.
‘Do you wish to make a signed statement?’ Otego asked.
‘I – I’m – yes – err, no. Sorry, I’ll have to wait to speak to an attorney before I say anything.’
Otego was standing in the room, but I stared right though him. The room started to spin. My head sagged and I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands. At the sound of the door closing, I opened my eyes, and lifting my head, I looked around the empty room. Any thoughts that my journey was close to an end deserted me, replaced with the realization that my journey had just begun.
I felt detached from my body and the situation. Cut off from the world and all that was familiar, drowning in my own solitude.
Forensics had always been a blessing throughout my career. Now the science was acting as a curse to conspire against me.
I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I couldn’t help thinking Leila had hung around long enough to see justice done with the deaths of Squat and Sidekick. Maybe with them out of the way, Leila was targeting me for turning up on her doorstep and bringing about the demise of her and her family with my lies. I tried to grasp the vision of Mary and the kids from the photograph, but it eluded me. Instead, I pictured myself placing the picture frame in a side pocket of the canvas bag I had left with Leandra and I sighed.
Leandra was probably long gone, together with the money and the photo. There was no doubt she would think I had deserted her, only to find out what happened to me through the newspapers at some time in the future – a faint memory of someone she once knew. If I could have sent her a telepathic message, I would have. I felt a need for her to know she was special to me and I would have given anything to see her impish smile to get me through my current predicament as she had done so many times.
Tyres screeched outside and I heard vehicle doors slam. The door to the interview room opened. Two police officers entered the room, armed to the teeth, wearing SWAT type uniforms and body protection, including steel helmets. Both of them wore ski masks covering their faces. Otego followed them into the room and one of the officers signed what I imagined was a release form, to hand me over to them. I managed to slip the sandwich into my pocket before they grabbed me under the arms, lifted me to my feet and then ushered me outside the station.
On either side of the entrance, two more officers crouched, shouldering their rifles, and surveying the street. A black armoured truck stood in front of the entrance, not
unlike the type used to ship money to banks. At the front of the vehicle was a black four-by-four SUV. At the rear were two more, all with dark-tinted windows. It seemed to be over-the-top security to escort a prisoner, but then this was Mexico, the epicentre of the drugs war zone. The rear door to the armoured truck opened and my escort dragged me with my feet trailing and manhandled me inside. Two guards took over and sat me on a bench, securing my ankle restraint to the floor. The door closed and I raised my head, to the sight of a toothy grin.
‘Hi, bud. You American?’
‘Yeah.’
Similarly shackled, but wearing blue jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt, the guy grinned. Maybe in his late twenties, his hair was long over his ears and looked bleached, with dark roots showing in a centre parting. His arms were heavily tattooed and I focused on a cannabis plant sitting on a surfboard, on his bicep.
‘What did they get you for?’ Surfer asked.
‘It’s a mistake. My lawyer will get me released.’
‘Yeah, right, dude. Everybody says that. This your first time?’
‘Yes. Look, I don’t want to talk, I have things on my mind.’
‘Just being friendly.’
He sat with his hands clasped, twiddling his thumbs. Wherever I looked, I could sense him staring at me. I glanced at the two guards sitting next to the rear door, hoping for silence.
‘You look familiar,’ Surfer said. ‘You from California?’
‘No.’
‘Talkative, aren’t ya. It’s a long journey, best we get acquainted. We may need each other when we get to the prison.’
‘How do you work that out?’
He shrugged. ‘Not too many of us from the US at the facility. Most of the inmates section off into gangs and they’re left to run the day-to-day shit. The warders just guard the perimeter and leave the prisoners to the blocks. I’m telling you, man, it’s not safe to hang around on your own.’
‘So you’ve been there before?’
‘Yeah, man, but last time my lawyer sprung me. This time they caught me at the border with my truck loaded to the hilt with green turf. Best weed I’ve had in years.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re gonna need to buy some clothes when you get there, or you’re gonna stand out. You got money?’
‘No.’
I looked at my white overall and bare feet.
Annoyingly, Surfer wouldn’t let go. ‘I’ve got seventy-five dollars. I can lend you some, but I want double back.’ A smirk crawled onto his face. ‘You could always sell your ass if it came down to that. Your choice.’
‘I’ll think about it for now.’
‘What, selling your ass?’
He let out a roar of laughter. The conversation was only making matters worse.
‘Listen, I need to sleep. We can talk when we get there.’
‘Whatever, dude.’
Feigning sleep, I dipped my head and closed my eyes.
‘Got it,’ Surfer said. ‘You’ve been caught skinny-dipping. That’s why you’ve got no clothes. Well, well, a damned bare-assed runner, that’s it. Come on, own up to the crime.’
‘You’re not funny,’ I said, not lifting my head.
‘If it’s not that, then they must have taken your clothes for forensics. Shit, did you rape somebody?’
Surfer’s voice acted like an annoying housefly, buzzing around inside my head.
‘No I haven’t, now shut the fuck up.’
‘Boohoo, scary. I’m pissing in my pants. Wait – that clinches it then, you whacked somebody. You’re a freaking murderer. It looks like I’m gonna need your protection rather than you needing mine. Is that what you’ve done, killed somebody?’
I lifted my eyes and glared at him.
‘Just saying, dude. No worries.’
Not answering him at last bought his silence, and closing my eyes, I dropped my chin to my chest.
The vehicle lurched to a stop, throwing me sideways and I opened my eyes.
‘We’re here,’ Surfer said. ‘Stay close when we get into the yard after processing.’
The vehicle rumbled forward and stopped again.
‘You sure do talk in your sleep. Who’s this Leandra, your wife?’
I ignored him, hoping we weren’t going to finish up in the same cell. The truck door opened. One of the guards released the floor shackle and helped me out of the vehicle. Surfer followed me out of the truck humming “Yankee Doodle” until the dig of a rifle butt silenced him. A prison escort approached and they signed for our custody.
The prison guards waved us forward and we shuffled toward a steel door at an office block. Looking over my shoulder, I noted that we had entered through a solid-steel door and then wire-mesh gates, leaving a no-man’s land of around thirty feet around the perimeter and a further hundred yards of open space leading to the accommodation blocks. With an outer brick wall and a wire fence thirty feet high and topped with razor wire, it looked secure enough. Add to that, armed guards on towers, spaced out every hundred yards, and I doubted anyone would risk escaping.
We entered reception and a guard signalled us to sit on a bench facing a counter.
My palm itched like hell and I picked at the dead skin around the edges of the old wound. It had almost healed, leaving a red patch with new skin over the blister area. Where the tracker key had cut into the flesh, all that remained was a small scar.
‘Don’t do that, it’ll make it worse,’ Surfer said. ‘Listen, when we get to our cells, stay there. Don’t go wandering alone in the yard.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re going to need to know the rules if you want to survive. Do you speak Spanish?’
‘Yeah, a little.’
‘A word of advice, learn it a lot. Only use English if you’re in a group of Americans, or they’ll think you’re conspiring against them.’
‘Who are “them”?’
‘The two main gangs are the Cobras and the Perez crew, but there are others. The MS-13 gang acts as the arbitrators when there’s a dispute. I’ll point out their tattoos so you know which is which.’
‘No need, I already know. Is there anything specific to watch out for?’
‘Yeah, the ones who pump iron may look menacing, but they’re so pumped up, they’d have trouble unzipping themselves to take a piss, never mind throwing a punch. Mind you, if they do connect a punch, it’ll send you into another dimension. The ones you really have to watch for are usually the skinny runts. Always watch your back for the hit and run.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They stab you in the back with a homemade shank. If they just want to mark you, they’ll fashion a slasher out of a toothbrush and a razor blade. Another thing, don’t look anyone in the eye. Try a keep a general look out and watch for anybody converging on you from different directions if there’s a crowd. If you get in a fight, or see anything, don’t tell the guards anything. The only thing these guys hate more than a snitch are paedophiles and child murderers. Any of those suckers and it’s as good as a death sentence for them.’
I was beginning to think my time as a kidnap victim had been easier than what might lie ahead. The thought that the inmates might find out I was suspected of murdering Leila’s children and a DEA agent had me in a shiver.
‘What do you have to do to get locked up in solitary?’
‘Usually, you need to get into a fight. Trouble is, only one of them gets to solitary – which by the way is a hellhole and a living death. The other ends up a corpse for the buzzards to pick over.’
Chapter 46
Dead Man’s Clothes
When Surfer told me we had to strip for a shower after processing, I wasn’t expecting a hot shower and room service. Then again, turning my back on the power hose as the spray bit my skin, I wasn’t expecting a guard to spray me with a cold blast of high-pressure water either. The guard finished and threw me a towel.
‘Bend over,’ the guard said in Spanish as he donned a latex glove.
The indignity of his probin
g finger looking for contraband made me feel less than human, especially with Surfer looking on with an ear-to-ear grin.
Looking down, my skin was nothing but red blotches. Judging by my flamed cheeks, I guessed that my face matched the rest of my body. Numb from the experience, I noticed Surfer talking to the guard.
He turned to me. ‘What’s your shoe size?’ he asked.
‘Size ten.’
The guard cast his eye over me. Surfer reached into his pocket and handed the guard a bill.
‘That’s your clothes taken care of. It’ll be cheaper buying them through the guard. They cost me five dollars, so you’ll only owe me ten dollars.’
I raised an eyebrow and gave him a look. I couldn’t recall giving the go-ahead. But then, I did need clothing.
‘Will they be prison issue?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, they’re sort of what ex-prisoners don’t need anymore.’
I felt like a new kid at school, being shown the ropes by a mature student. Grateful as I was, I had to remind myself that he was a trafficker. The guard returned carrying jeans, a T-shirt, boxers, socks and a pair of shoes. He set them down on the bench. The jeans fit my waist, but they were a little short and in need of a wash. One of the shoes had a hole in the sole and I thought it was less of a bargain than I first imagined. My eyes opened wide when I held up the T-shirt. There was a dark stain around the chest area and a rip in the material.
‘Shit, what’s this?’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to say. They empty the stuff from the stiffs’ cells and store it here. This guy must have still been wearing it when he died.’
I rolled my eyes at the thought I’d be wearing a dead man’s clothes. Not only that, but the guy must have been stabbed. I already felt like a dead man walking. Wearing the T-shirt I figured I’d be tempting fate.
‘Ask him if he has a different one.’
Surfer conversed with the guard, turned to me, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Listen, don’t worry about, it’ll add to your street cred. You can buy another one later from one of the inmates.’
Deadly Journey Page 26
