Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  “And now you run your own construction company.”

  Fonseca nodded, rubbing his forearms. “The timing was perfect for me. Rancho la Peña was growing at the time. Still is. Your father, God bless his soul, and his wife, gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. I’m a fully licensed general contractor. I will never forget it.”

  “Do you know why my father was killed?”

  Fonseca’s eyes flared at the question, then darted to Viviana and back to Dawson. “Why are you asking me? How the hell would I know?” Fonseca flexed a jaw muscle, then exhaled noisily.

  Dawson’s gut tightened at Fonseca’s response. He’d touched a nerve. Fonseca knew more than he was saying. Dawson tapped his pen on his notebook, a sound that echoed in the stillness. He watched Fonseca’s hand nervously scratch his own forearm. Dawson recognized one of the tattoos, the Marine Corps emblem—a globe over an anchor and topped by an eagle with outstretched wings—buried in crude pen-and-ink prison markings. He glanced at the other men in the room, each with a similar tattoo on the forearm, the one he’d seen on the shooter at the Tia Flora restaurant. “You were in the Marines?”

  Fonseca sat upright. “For a while. Uh, it didn’t work out.” Fonseca shifted uncomfortably in his chair, now self-conscious about his tattoos.

  Dawson had seen these tattoos on the arms of the Marines during his many embeds in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Fonseca glared at Dawson, apparently unhappy with the question. “If that’s all the questions you have, I have a job site I need to check.” He stood and turned to his men, motioning to the door. “Let’s go.” The two men dropped their pool cues, while the others rose out of their chairs and drifted to the door.

  Dawson and Viviana stood to say goodbye, but Fonseca didn’t bother as he disappeared out the door. Viviana turned to Dawson, shrugged, and raised her hands.

  “What?” Dawson asked.

  Chapter 19

  El Paso, Texas

  With a little prompting, most Marines would offer up the basics of their service. When and where, with a few hints at the details. Proud of it. That’s why they had tattoos. Which made Fonseca’s reluctance to talk about his tattoos puzzling. Fonseca had drawn a get-out-of-jail card, and Dawson wanted to find out who was shuffling the deck.

  Dawson pushed open the doors of the Federal Court Building in downtown El Paso. Moments later he emerged from the elevator and was confronted with glass doors, one of which told him it was the Clerk of the Court’s Office. A middle-aged man with a gray beard and ponytail greeted him from behind the counter. Dawson pulled out his business card and pushed it across the counter. The clerk picked it up and read.

  “Kyle Dawson. Washington Herald. Name sounds familiar. Are you related to that Dawson guy who was killed?”

  “I’m his son. I’m investigating the murder, actually. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for the case files of Ernesto Fonseca.”

  “The Fonseca file has gotten popular.”

  “Who else wants it?”

  “People.”

  “Like what kind of people?”

  “News people. Like you.”

  Dawson nodded, suspecting it was Anita.

  “I’ll tell you what I told them. It’s sealed.”

  Dawson’s chest tightened. “I can’t see it?” he asked, as if the clerk was mistaken.

  “Not from me you can’t,” the clerk said.

  “What about the public’s right to know?”

  “What about it?”

  Dawson clenched his jaw. By law, arrest records and court documents were open. It wasn’t just a convenience for the press. But he also knew that the clerk was bound by a court order. “There must be something…” He stopped. His throat felt thick. Calm down. Arguing with this guy was not going to get him what he wanted. He knew he could dig up the indictment somewhere. Maybe if he could find Fonseca’s public defender. Or… Garcia had said that Fonseca was on probation. That meant he had a probation officer. “Where’s the federal probation office?”

  “Now that I can help you with,” the clerk said, motioning Dawson close as he drew a crude map in Dawson’s notebook.

  * * *

  Fonseca’s probation officer worked in a building several blocks from the courthouse. His name was Max Vigil and his office was a twelve-by-twelve-foot room with off-white walls that were barren except for a large calendar and a photo of the president.

  Vigil sat at a desk fronted by a white cardboard name placard with black block letters and a couple of wire baskets, one marked “in” and the other, “out.” He looked at Dawson from behind thick-lensed glasses that enlarged his eyes. Dawson handed his card to Vigil and took a seat in the worn vinyl and gray metal chair fronting the desk. Vigil looked it over and placed it on the desk. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, filling the room with a pale light.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  Vigil struck Dawson as the kind of government employee who did his job, but just enough to keep his boss off his backs. Like other such employees he’d encountered, he kept his desk clear, watched the clock, and knew what everyone else was doing—and not doing. No doubt he showed up on time, but left early, claiming he had business outside the office, though it was never clear what kind of business that was.

  “I’m looking for information on Ernesto Fonseca.”

  “Fonseca? Hmmm.”

  “The Mexican government says he killed Don Diego Borrego.”

  “El Guapo. I know. So what do you want from me?”

  “You’re Fonseca’s probation officer.”

  Vigil nodded, saying nothing.

  Dawson sighed. His stomach knotted. “All files related to the Fonseca’s trial and conviction have been sealed by the federal court.”

  “I know.”

  “I was hoping you could provide me with documents explaining why he was taken off death row, why he and some of his men were released, and the conditions of their parole.”

  Vigil stared at him for a moment, glanced around the room, then back at him. He shifted in his chair, as if struggling with some internal demon, then straightened up and sighed. “Obtaining such files will require some work,” Vigil said. “The problem is that I’m not paid to do such things, especially for the news media. In fact, that kind of activity could put me and my career in jeopardy.”

  Dawson nodded, suspecting what Vigil meant. He gazed at Vigil for a few moments. “If a person could come up with such documents, that person could be compensated for his trouble.”

  Vigil nodded, then looked past Dawson, like he was consulting an unseen presence. “How much would a person get for going to that trouble?”

  Dawson hated such moments. He could be guilty for offering a bribe, and Vigil would be guilty for taking one, both federal offenses. But that didn’t seem to bother Vigil. And Dawson wanted the information. Badly.

  Dawson lifted two fingers, like a victory sign.

  Vigil raised three fingers.

  Dawson nodded. “Do you know Diablo’s?”

  Vigil nodded.

  “Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow.”

  Vigil nodded.

  Dawson left the building, confident that Vigil would come through. Paying for information was not something Dawson was supposed to do. Not only was it illegal, it was against journalistic ethics. But he’d become accustomed to it. Overseas the game was different. And El Paso was about as close to a foreign country as he could get without actually going.

  In Iraq and Afghanistan, he’d always worked with a driver and a translator, both of whom put their lives on the line just by working for him. When they drove him to villages to interview people who had just lost their families to so-called smart bombs, the bloodied villagers viewed Dawson and those with him as the enemy. They didn’t know or care about his objective and balanced journalism. Their reality lay in the rubble. They spewed anger and hatred, raging against the cruel fate that Allah had given to them at the hands of the infidel invaders. Money changed hands. They sai
d what they had to say, knowing it would not bring back the dead. It was a token, a small compensation for their misery.

  Dawson knew that it was not about the money for Vigil. Sitting day after day in his office reviewing case files and listening to parolees ramble about reforming their lives was mind-numbing. Meeting a reporter quickened the pulse, tightened the throat. It was something he was willing to do, a risk he’d take—just for the hell of it.

  Chapter 20

  El Paso, Texas

  Diablo’s in downtown El Paso was a Mexican restaurant and bar marked by a small neon sign of a grinning devil with pointy beard, pitchfork, and curling barbed tail. Dawson liked the place because it was dark inside and quiet.

  They’d beaten the lunch crowd—not that there was much to beat. A rugged-looking woman with bleached-blond hair and a puffy face nodded as they entered. Vigil waved to her like he was a regular. They settled into a booth set with paper placemats and silverware rolled in paper napkins. The waitress clunked a draft beer and a shot of Jim Beam in front of Vigil. Dawson ordered a Tecate. Vigil shifted to the corner of the booth and drummed his fingers on the table. “So you want to know about Fonseca, huh?”

  Dawson nodded.

  Vigil cleared his throat noisily and rubbed his nose. “I don’t know how much I can tell you that’s not in the file.” Vigil tossed back the Jim Beam and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced at Dawson, sipping from his beer.

  Dawson’s stomach knotted. He didn’t know how much he could say? Then why had he agreed to meet? Maybe he wanted more money. Dawson cleared his throat. “Do you know why the file was closed?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  The knot in Dawson’s stomach tightened. “After Fonseca got out of prison, he toured high schools across the Southwest telling kids not to join gangs and deal drugs. Was that for real, or was it a cover?”

  “Oh, it was legit. It was a condition of his release.”

  The waitress stood at the table and pulled out her order book. “What can I get you guys to eat?”

  Vigil ordered enchiladas, and Dawson ordered nachos.

  “He’s a born-again Christian?”

  “I guess that’s what they call it,” Vigil said. “I can tell you he was a different man from when he went in. I don’t know what happened. But he seemed pretty straight.”

  “Did he run his gang from the prison?”

  “Los Ríos? That’s hard to say.”

  “What was the word on the street?”

  “That he was still in charge, of course, since only a couple of his men were in prison with him.”

  “Fonseca sat on death row for two years. Then he got out. Why?”

  “When the feds want a man out of prison, they can pretty much get their way.”

  “What feds are you talking about?”

  “The DEA. You know, the guys who go after drug smugglers.”

  “The DEA? What would they want with him?”

  “Well, I’d say that Fonseca got smart in prison. Real smart. He learned that you can get a lot more out of life if you don’t go around shooting people, even if they’re nothin’ but a bunch of goddamn punks.”

  “And the DEA guys wanted him out?”

  He nodded again.

  “Did you bring Fonseca’s file?”

  Vigil nervously looked around before he opened his small briefcase, took out a file, and pushed it across the table. “I could lose my job for this, you know, if not my life.”

  Dawson pulled an envelope from inside his coat and slid it across the table. “For your trouble.”

  Vigil opened it and thumbed the three crisp one-hundreds. He folded them carefully and stuffed them into his pants pocket.

  The waitress brought their plates. Vigil rubbed his bare forearms, cold from the blowing air conditioner. A second shot of Jim Beam was placed beside his beer. Vigil threw his head back quickly and the amber liquid disappeared, chased with the beer. Vigil dug deep into his enchiladas and chewed.

  Dawson lifted his beer and nodded to Vigil. “Truth, justice, and the American way.”

  “Whatever,” Vigil said.

  * * *

  Dawson hurried down the street to his car, waves of heat shimmering up from the concrete. He wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to Vigil. He felt compromised, dirty. The man had collected cash, eaten a hearty lunch, and had washed it down with a couple of drinks. Vigil had walked out of the restaurant with a fine buzz thanks to Dawson, who felt a headache coming on.

  He opened the car door and slid into the seat. It felt on fire. He’d forgotten to put up the sun shade. He quickly opened the windows and turned up the air conditioning, then sifted through the material Vigil had given him as his car slowly cooled.

  Bureaucratic stuff. Prospects for Fonseca’s rehabilitation, his chances of returning to gang life on the streets, of dealing in drugs and murder, all couched in obscure terminology that said nothing. Fonseca had been a model prisoner, and, yes, he had found God. He’d preached against a life of crime to gang bangers in dozens of high schools across the Southwest. Some in Mexican border towns. Dawson leaned back, closed his eyes, light headed from a couple of cold beers. This paperwork told him nothing. But it was not the paper that had been helpful.

  Vigil said the DEA had wanted Fonseca out of prison.

  The DEA.

  Chapter 21

  El Paso, Texas

  Engulfed in smoke, as if in a magic act, Garcia hovered over his hulking barbecue grill while wearing a Hawaiian shirt and wielding a spatula with one hand and holding a beer in the other. Dawson gazed at Garcia’s Marine Corps tattoo with the letters MARSOC below in old English script.

  “Finally got you over here for dinner,” Garcia said.

  “I need to learn more about your steak-burning techniques.”

  “Watch closely then. Another beer may be required to fully understand.”

  Dawson swigged from his beer. “Something’s been puzzling me.”

  “That does not surprise me.”

  “Fonseca and his men have the same tattoo as you,” Dawson said, pointing to Garcia’s forearm.

  Garcia lifted his forearm and gazed at the blue markings. “He’s got that same tattoo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A lot of Marines have that tattoo. So what?”

  “They don’t all come with the letters MARSOC. What the heck does that stand for?”

  “It’s for Marine Corps Special Operations Command.”

  “Special operations? Special operations are being conducted against the cartels?”

  Garcia cut into a steak to check it. “Is that a surprise?”

  “I suppose it shouldn’t be. No one ever hears about them.”

  “The less people know, the better.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You’ve been with the DEA for seven years now. I can’t imagine much happens that you don’t know about.”

  “That was true once. There are a lot of players these days.”

  “Like Fonseca?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Viviana works for him. You know every move Fonseca makes. Someone is keeping track of him. Why?”

  “He has a record, you know.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  Garcia gazed at Dawson as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head and looked at the grill. “It’s gotten bad, Kyle.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out who killed my father.”

  Garcia took a drink from his beer. “Nothing around here is ever simple, Kyle.”

  “That’s why there’s been so little progress in finding Sam’s killer?”

  “Investigators aren’t supposed to talk, especially to the press. Just like I should not be talking to you.”

  “But you are.”

  Garcia sighed, then squinted into the distance. “Someone is suppressing the investigation.”

  “Li
ke who?”

  “Someone. They’re circling the wagons.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Madsen’s staffer who was killed at the border?”

  “It could,” Garcia said with a shrug.

  “The student’s name was Joaquin Romero. He’s Trini Serna’s nephew. I can’t imagine he just happened to be in a car crossing the border with two drug cartel couriers and half a million dollars.”

  “It was no accident.”

  “The money was drug money. But whose money? And who was it for?”

  Garcia stabbed a pronged fork into each of several steaks and flipped them, then gazed at Dawson through a cloud of smoke. He sipped his beer. “It was drug money, that’s for sure.”

  “And?”

  “The shooters were working for the Borrego cartel. Enforcers, just like Fonseca and his gang used to be.”

  “That means the money was probably meant for someone else. Probably the Sonora cartel. And Borrego sent some men to steal it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What was the Romero kid doing with it?”

  Garcia shrugged. “A few months ago, Romero was telling his friends that he was going to get rich, just like his uncle.”

  “Really? Where did you hear that?”

  Garcia grimaced. “From Miguel.”

  “Your son, Miguel? How would he know? He’s a senior in high school.”

  “Yes, but El Paso’s not a big town. They knew each other. Not well, but well enough.”

  Dawson thought for a moment. Fonseca and his Los Ríos boys had run drugs and money back and forth across the border before prison. No reason they would stop. Especially if they had a network. They were enforcers. Murder-for-hire. That would not change either. “Could the money have come from Fonseca?”