by Todd Merer
“Who’s Maledon?”
“Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that conspiracies are like zombies. Some stay buried beneath gravestones in the form of statutes of limitations. But lift the gravestone, and the zombie climbs back into the world.”
“What do you do when that happens?”
“Pick up a stick and kill it again.”
“So then. You’ll win my case?”
My nod was noncommittal, but Bolivar let it go at that. A smart guy, I figured, not wanting a lawyer who lies. Also a control freak who’d insist on running the case. For sure, his agenda already included Plans A, B, and a big chunk of the alphabet. In the final analysis, he’d end up cooperating, but only after making a show of fighting the system.
Thirty seconds passed without a word, so I kicked it up a notch. “If anyone can beat your case, it’s me. If, meaning I’m good at what I do.”
He looked around the big room. “American lawyers talk to these people as if they’re children. Tell them what they believe they want to hear. One of them promised he could get me back to Colombia inside a year. Possible, Doctor?”
“Call me Benn. Impossible.”
He nodded. “Who’s the prosecutor who indicted me?”
“Her name is Kauffman.”
“A woman. Nice looking?”
“There’s nothing nice about her.” I didn’t want to upset Bolivar prematurely, but no point in denying what would soon become obvious. For too many reasons to mention, Kandi Kauffman was the nastiest prosecutor I’d ever dealt with, and very possibly the worst person I’d ever had the misfortune of knowing.
He checked his watch. “Don’t want to keep you.”
“You’re not. I get paid to talk to you.”
“I want to make the morning Mass.”
“Mass? No more forces of nature?”
“I’m no longer among Indians. I’m thick with thieves.” His handshake was strong. “Today’s a good day. I met my brother from another mother. See you in New York.”
Sometimes jails remind me of X-rated movie houses. Filthy but lucrative enterprises. I left La Picota dwelling on the links between a Colombian cocaine supplier and a Russian gangland distributor.
As Castri steered the Chevy back to Casa Medina, I went into my device and looked up the native people of the Colombian Sierra Nevadas. The largest remaining tribe, the Logui, didn’t worship the usual earth mother or father in heaven, but a living human, The One Who Knows Most of All. I looked up from my phone and considered Sombra’s rep as a standup guy for the downtrodden native peoples. It was a nice public-relations gimmick, but Joaquin Bolivar had supposedly been there and done that six years ago.
The crazy thought flashed again: Maybe Bolivar really was Sombra.
Nah. Zapata had to be the man. Two good reasons why. First, Paz had auditioned me in front of him. And Sombra wouldn’t personally be doing something as dumb as a trial coke run in a sailboat. Bolivar either was family to Sombra or possessed knowledge enough to get Sombra indicted if he flipped.
I closed my device. Time to savor the best part of my job: the getting-out-of-jail-breathing-free-air-and-having-a-drink part.
ALUNE
Today the lawyer appeared. Clearly, he was the right choice. In his world, he is as capable as any. When the moment comes, he will act forcefully, driven by self-preservation and greed.
He is a loner, a peacock, his life a series of episodic survivals.
In all likelihood, he will never realize he’s acting on behalf of Those Who Know More in their endless conflict with Those Who Know Less.
One issue remains unresolved. The lawyer’s fate. Live or die?
It depends on whether he becomes one of Those Who Know Too Much.
CHAPTER 20
The next morning my knee was sore. I limped the half block from Casa Medina to Harry Sasson, a joint frequented by Bogotá’s who’s who. Mondragon had said he’d be there to introduce me to Rigo’s family, but when I arrived, they weren’t there yet.
I’d figured as much and green-lighted Castri to score some referrals by pointing clients my way. With Sombra a fading possibility, I was open for business. Castri had friends in low places, and when he put out the word I was in town, they came flocking.
Over an espresso, one lawyer pitched me to take on his client, but the fee didn’t even amount to admission to the bleachers of my ballpark.
Over a second cup, another lawyer wanted me to visit his client, who he swore had big bucks, but the guy was locked up in La Modela, a horror show of a dungeon where even payola visits take hours of meandering through mazes lined with windowless, cavelike cells from which defendants lying atop old mattresses curse and spit at passersby. Scratch going to that zoo. Just the thought had my leg shaking, although maybe it was the coffee.
Over a third cup, I met with a north-coast DTO boss willing to meet my price to represent one of his lieutenants. The DTO boss made it clear that my mission was to make sure the lieutenant wasn’t going to sit on him. I chose not to accept it. No matter what I did, the result would be disastrous. Fight and lose the case, and a year later I’m in appellate court trying to convince the black robes I had prevented the client from flipping to protect the boss. The alternative was for me to actually help the client flip; problem was, if I did that, the boss would make me meat.
“In all respect?” I told the DTO boss. “At the moment, I’m too busy to take on a new case. It wouldn’t be right for me to accept a fee for work I don’t have time to do properly. Having said that, please know that if you personally find yourself in need of my services, no matter how busy I am, I would make time enough to solve your problem.”
The boss liked that. “I’ve been speaking to a lot of lawyers, but you’re the only honest one I’ve met. If—God forbid—I ever have a problem? You’re my lawyer.”
I figured the boss would become my client in about a year, for a fee double what I’d have charged for the lieutenant. It was like dealing in futures. Better a bird in the bush than one in the hand.
Over a fourth cup of coffee—I had the caffeine shakes by then, but they felt good—I chatted up a lady lawyer who had a client she wished to refer to me. I’d flirted in passing with this doctora but never had had an opportunity to follow through. Now seemed an opportune moment. But before we could set a time and date, the waiter interrupted, handing me an envelope, and said, “A gentleman said to give this to you.”
Inside the envelope was a note—typed, not written—from Mondragon saying the meet with Rigo’s family had been changed to Medellín. He included an airline and flight number. It left in two hours.
Medellín. City of guns and roses and, for years, the murder capital of the world, reluctantly surrendering the title to San Pedro Sula, Honduras—predictable because so many Medellín killers had relocated there. Dating back to Nacho, I had issues with Medellín. Trepidations about the people I’d facilitated Max to cooperate against. Whenever he’d cooperated successfully, I’d been elated: Ka-ching! Winner! Now, looking back, I was ashamed of myself. What was left of my soul was screaming to escape . . .
“I’m so sorry,” I told the doctora, but something had come up, I had to leave immediately.
“Business is business.” Her knowing smile was greedy. I was glad to leave.
It was a beautiful day as Castri started off to the airport, but it was pounding rain when we arrived. The route to Medellín is over the Cordillera Central, peaks even higher than those on the route to Cali, an insanity to attempt a crossing in bad weather. I waited out the rain on an airport bench, where I left reality and entered my device.
The weather in New York was sunny and cold, and the Dow was off three hundred points. I didn’t give a shit because I didn’t own stocks—couldn’t—because all my money was in cash. I didn’t care about the news, either; it’s either bad or worse, so why bother? All I cared about was my own little world.
Laura Astorquiza’s blog was now on my reading list as number three with
a bullet, almost neck and neck with Insight Crime and within striking distance of Colombia Report. I scanned the latter without anything catching my interest, then went into Radio Free Bogotá, and found this:
Our nation is in the grip of suspense. The hunt for Sombra is a soap opera watched by all. But do not be preoccupied with what transpires next: instead, go back to the past in order to unveil the true mystery. Citizens, ask yourselves how it was possible for Sombra to have evaded capture for so long. Better still, ask the question to the man whose job it is to capture Sombra . . . a soldier whose modest salary somehow allows him to acquire grand houses and fincas. Very soon evidence beyond doubt will emerge, proving General Uvalde is a thief, and a traitor to our nation. Viva Colombia.
Laura, Laura, Laura. You brave, foolish girl. You think you’re safe from General Uvalde because you live in Panama. But no one is safe from a man like Uvalde. One word from him, and you become another of the disappeared ones—
Wait a sec . . .
In her previous blog, Laura mentioned Rigo. Now she’d mentioned Uvalde and Sombra. All three shared a common denominator: me.
The coincidence factor. Again. Fool me once, even twice, but three times?
No. Someone was telling me something. But what?
I had no idea. Nor did I have an iota as to what proof against Uvalde she was referring to.
The PA squawked: My flight was called.
I boarded the aircraft, wondering: Medellín: guns or roses?
CHAPTER 21
As I emerged into the terminal, two thugs greeted me. A gordo and a flaco. They escorted me to a Ford F-150 with oversize tires and a four-door cab. I got in the back with Gordo, and Flaco climbed behind the wheel.
A third guy was riding shotgun. Hefty, with narrow eyes and prematurely thinning hair. Picture Rigo at twenty-five, and that was him. The same surly manner as his papi as well.
“I’m Omar,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll answer to me. Clear?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “We need to be clear about everything . . . including our business arrangement.”
“My family pays its debts, Doctor.”
That settled, I sat back and enjoyed the ride. Hot Cali’s altitude is lower, and chilly Bogotá’s altitude is higher, but Medellín’s altitude is midway between, perfect as a California dream.
The airport highway meanders through the high country around Rio Negro, passing estates of the famously rich and secretly wealthy, before dipping toward the sprawling metro area in the bowl-like valley where sprawls Medellín, the heartland of Antioquia, a province whose homeys have paisa accents. They consider themselves above their countrymen because—unlike the rest of Colombia, which shares some amount of Indian blood—most Antioquians are of European stock, or get plastic surgery to make them appear so.
I’ve represented people from every corner of Colombia but never really clicked with the big guys in Medellín, probably because I’d been with Nacho during his war with Pablo Escobar, a sainted figure among the paisas.
That was fine with me, because La Oficina de Envigado—Envigado being the municipality adjacent to Medellín—produced some of the cruelest killers of the drug wars. When they weren’t killing rival cartels, they were killing one another. If I were a wagering man, I wouldn’t have bet a peso on my fellow travelers’ life expectancies.
Instead of heading toward Medellín, we turned toward Envigado. It was late afternoon, and the sun had fallen behind the mountains when we turned up an unpaved road that wound through a forested hillside. It was dim beneath the trees, but twice I saw men with shotguns and had no doubt there were more of Rigo’s Los Hachos nearby.
We emerged from the trees to a hilltop compound—a huge main house, several smaller but impressive homes—and an array of stables, all surrounded by lush grass, compared to which the Yankee Stadium infield was a weedy lot. Little wonder, for a small army of landscapers was tending the grounds. Another army of ugly types armed to the teeth prowled everywhere.
The F-150 stopped near the stables. I got out and took a deep breath of fresh air slightly tinged, not unpleasantly, with horse manure. People were gathered at a paddock railing. Omar motioned for me to follow him there.
As we neared the paddock, I heard the rhythmic tattoo of a paso fino high stepping atop planks, then saw a fat old man astride a husky little mare huffing and puffing beneath the load.
I swallowed hard.
The fat man was one of the infamous Ordoñez-Ochoa brothers—widely known and feared as the Double-Aughts—who in their heyday partnered with Pablo Escobar and afterward threw in with the North Valley Cartel. Both of which were Nacho’s blood enemies. Ordoñez was a fairly common name, but now I was almost certain that my suspicions had been correct:
Rigo Ordoñez was the Rigo among Nacho’s killers.
The old man’s eyes—narrow, like Rigo’s and Omar’s—cut to me, and I wondered if he knew I’d been tight with his old archenemy, Nacho. That worry spawned another:
Had Mondragon enticed me here so the Ordoñez could settle old scores?
But I was thinking like a conspiracy wing nut, because these people don’t kill where they live, and among the people at the railing stood a woman Omar offhandedly introduced as his mother.
“Sandra Milena,” she said pleasantly, offering her jeweled hand. She was a handsome woman of a certain age who in her younger days probably looked much like her husband’s current squeeze, Stefania. “How is my husband, Doctor?”
“Well,” I said. “He sends his best regards.”
“How do you see my father’s case?” Omar asked.
Before I could reply, Mondragon appeared between us. “Dr. Bluestone is already making progress. The prosecutor is very pleased with the lanchas.”
Lanchas, also known as go-fast boats, are big, super-powered speedboats that, even loaded with thousands of kilos of cocaína, can easily outrun Coast Guard cutters. So Mondragon’s pre-extradition dealings for Ordoñez with the government were about information leading to lancha seizures. Probably what AUSA Barnett Robinson had been alluding to when he said the government was checking out previously supplied information.
“I was asking Dr. Bluestone, not you,” Omar said to Mondragon.
Clearly Omar didn’t like Mondragon. Probably not me, either.
“It is my understanding things are going well,” I said blandly.
“Results,” Omar said. “You’ve been paid. Where are the results?”
“Paid?” I said. “I received a small deposit for my expenses.”
Omar frowned, but Mondragon was unruffled. “There was a difficulty paying cash in New York. But I have Dr. Bluestone’s money with me.”
He crooked a finger for me to follow him, and we walked to a parked Mercedes. He popped the trunk. A large suitcase lay inside. He opened it to reveal banded bricks of brightly colored Colombian currency: hundred-thousand-peso notes—each worth about fifty bucks—so the suitcase held the rough equivalent of $1 million US currency.
“Your fee,” Mondragon said. “Not to worry about carrying it safely. Omar’s people will accompany you to Bogotá.”
I wasn’t worried about the trip to Bogotá, rather how I’d get the suitcase into the States. Even if I was crazy enough to try to carry it through customs, and even if I tried and succeeded, no way I could explain the amount to a currency exchange. Surely, Mondragon knew all this, and it pissed me off that he was making an offer I had to refuse.
“Of course,” he said, “if you wait a little longer, we can arrange payment in New York.”
“How much is a little longer?” I said.
He shrugged. “A week. Two at most.”
Omar had followed us. “Acceptable, Doctor?”
“No more than two weeks,” I said.
“Results,” Omar said, stalking off.
“When you return to the United States, the major cooperation begins,” Mondragon said to me. “Give this to Mr. Robinson, Doctor.” He handed me a small ob
ject: a thumb-size flash drive.
“What’s in it?”
“I’m sure you’ll see for yourself,” Mondragon said. “Well, then, you should be off. You’ve got business to attend to.”
I bade the family farewell from a distance. Sandra Milena put up a hand, and Omar nodded solemnly. Old man Ochoa glanced an acknowledgment.
Descending from the compound in the twilight, the bright grid of Envigado shone below, and beyond that Medellín, and beyond Medellín, dark against a purple sky, were tall mountains, mysterious as ever.
But another mystery now had my full attention:
The contents of the thumb drive.
CHAPTER 22
Once in my hotel room, I double locked the door and pressed the “Do Not Disturb” light. From the bar I took vodka minis and lined them atop the writing desk. I opened one but did not drink because I wanted to be clear about what I was about to see. The minis were for post-viewing because I had the uneasy feeling I was about to shock my nervous system with a secret revelation. A mass execution of captive combatants? A tortured confessional?
I inserted the thumb drive into my device.
It was a video, all right. A nondescript room. A shaded window and two men at a table. I knew one and knew of the other. Rigoberto Ordoñez and General Uvalde.
They didn’t speak and didn’t have to.
Obviously, the subject of their meeting was the opened suitcase between them. It was not unlike the one Mondragon had shown me at the finca, crammed to the brim with money.
Rigo closed the suitcase.
He moved it to Uvalde.
They shook hands.
Cut to black.
I swallowed hard. If Uvalde learned I possessed this evidence against him, I was fried. I ejected the drive and dropped it into my breast pocket. Best to keep it close, so if push came to shove, I could swallow it. I was furious and frightened. Rigo was putting me in harm’s way while playing games with my fee. Insult and injury. And once I turned the evidence over, Rigo was well on his way toward a cooperation agreement for which I would no longer have the leverage to collect my fee.
