by Неизвестный
This book is dedicated to my family and friends who provided the inspiration for the personalities of the characters who “lived” the experiences of my novel.
It is also dedicated to the “Big Island” of Hawaii whose “mana” and people gave me the environment to write my novel.
Thank you to Katie who provided early editing and guidance to improve my story and bring it to life.
Thank you to my good friend Chris Britton who provided invaluable assistance in transitioning my rough product into an actual tangible book.
Wednesday, September 19
Calexico, CA/FBI Office, San Diego, CA, 4 p.m.
On a typical hot and steamy September day, an averaged-sized twenty nine year old Mexican man, illegally in the United States but with good enough papers that would get him out of most jams stateside was sitting in a bar called Tanta’s Cantina. He had crossed the border about two hours ago and was to meet with an individual unknown to him. The person was to approach him and identify himself simply as Pedro. He understood that Pedro was to give him an untraceable throw-away cell phone along with instructions of what to do next.
After finishing his beer and about to order a second, the man, identified by the ID he was carrying as being Javier Molina, was approached by a tall 30-something “hombre” dressed in slacks and a black shirt, classic business attire in
both the Mexican and U.S. border towns. Walking up to Javier and identifying himself as “Pedro”, he handed Javier the throw-away, told him to wait 15 minutes and then call the number already entered in the call log.
Javier finished his second beer and walked outside. It must have been at least 100 degrees so he looked for a shady spot, but no luck. He pressed the send button on the phone. A male voice answered, “Agent Jack Thomas, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Javier, who spoke enough English when required quietly, almost whispered into the phone, “This is Javier Molina.”
Jack Thomas responded, “I understand that you have some information regarding José María Cardozo and his family business.
“Si, how do I meet you?”
“Should we meet there in Calexico?”
“ No, “I want to get out of here as soon as possible.”
“Look Javier, I’m here in San Diego, can we just meet at my office?”
As it was now about 4pm, Molina said, “It’s too late today for me to get there. I will leave in the morning and will meet you in your office in San Diego about 6 tomorrow night.”
Agent Thomas told Javier how to get to his office and instructed, “Destroy that phone and dump it where there’s no chance anyone will find it, comprende?”
While Thomas had no specifics as to what Molina had to offer on Cardozo, he had been informed by a source that Molina, if that was his real name, had very valuable information that could greatly assist the agency in their prosecution of José María Cardozo, now the U.S. government’s guest in San Diego’s Federal Prison.
Agent Thomas was led to believe by his source that Molina, although not in the highest echelon of the Cardozo family by any means, was directly privy to the very activities that would assist the FBI and U.S. Attorney to put the proverbial nail in the coffin regarding José María, and might even lead to the prosecution of others in the most infamous Mexican drug cartel operating the last ten years.
Thomas immediately put a call into Assistant U.S. Attorney Sally Ferguson, the Chief Criminal Assistant.
“Sally, this guy Molina called as we had hoped. He will be here tomorrow night about 6.We may now finally have this case signed, sealed, and delivered and no escape from conviction available to the Cardozo family and their high-powered lawyer, Mr. Garza.”
Wednesday, September 19
Tanta’s Cantina, Calexico, CA, 5 p.m.
Javier Molina left Tanta’s Cantina and headed up the street. A regular in Calexico, he knew where to satisfy his growing desire for the company of a woman for the night before the journey to San Diego the next day—a likely path of no return. Javier expected that the compensation given him for his information and potential testimony would be protection (likely in isolation) until trial, and then the witness protection program. He could start a new life with a new identity, proper papers enabling him to remain in the United States and reap the benefits of the good life in “Los Estados Unidos”.
Javier then proceeded to the local cathouse, entered and selected his companion for the night. Javier was led to a small but comfortable room. For $50 he would have a place to sleep for the night and a charming young, local woman as well.
Thursday, September 20
Calexico, CA, 8 a.m.
Javier left for San Diego at 8:00 a.m. sharp. The previous day at Tanta’s he arranged for a ride with a trucker who was spending the night in Calexico before heading to San Diego as his next stop. The ride was relatively comfortable and uneventful.
The scenery from Calexico to San Diego was mostly barren. There was no small talk as Molina preferred to let the trucker think that he did not speak much English. Molina quietly daydreamed about his future new life in Los Estados Unidos. About 40 miles from San Diego, the truck driver said that he had to stop for fuel and was going to do so at a truck stop at an Indian casino just off Interstate 8, a few miles up the road. That casino was just outside the town of Boulevard, accessible by a frontage road that went right through the little town.
As they pulled into Boulevard, Molina asked the trucker, “Señior, por favor, can you let me off up the road (pointing right) so I can get una cerveza while you get the gas.”
The trucker was not overly pressed for time so he said, “No problema,” trying to show his limited border Spanish.
“I’ll be back in 30 minutos to pick you up. You be out front or I’m gone.”
The trucker pulled over in front of a bar with an old neon sign that blinked, Dante’s Tavern. Molina got out and the trucker proceeded up the road. It was just about 2:30 p.m. on this hot Santa Ana day.
About 35 minutes later the trucker left the Casino truck stop and went back down the frontage road. As he started to pull over opposite Dante’s Tavern, what he saw immediately signaled trouble. He wanted no part of it–a scuffle outside the bar that was going full tilt. As best he could see, a group of kids were in some kind of fight but he couldn’t tell who was who.
There was nothing in it for him in getting involved in the melee and be-sides, the Mexican kid wasn’t waiting for him. He had said, “Be there or I’m leaving.” The kid didn’t pay him anything to take him from Calexico to San Diego. He now had to get back on schedule. Besides, he always carried some weed with him and he didn't need any cops or whatever snooping around his truck.
The trucker put his big rig back in gear and headed down the road never to be seen or heard from again and with no further thought as to the kid he picked up in Calexico that morning.
Thursday, September 20
Calexico, CA, 9:45 a.m.
A late model black Chevrolet Yukon was sitting about 50 yards down the road by a ramshackle little house on a side street near where Javier Molina had spent the previous night. The Yukon’s windows were heavily tinted so that one could not see it was occupied by a driver and a passenger, two Mexican males in their late 20s. The two men sipped cups of coffee seldom speaking, but intent on a house up the street from them.
A few minutes later, a man came out of the house. The Yukon pulled out and slowly followed the man. He walked about two blocks and then turned right into a rest area adjacent to the highway onramp where several big rig trucks were parked. The man walked up to the first truck he came upon and spoke with the driver. The driver appeared to be pointing to another truck 20 yards away. A few minutes later, he walked away and
approached a second truck. After a brief conversation with that driver, the he walked around to the passenger door of the cab and climbed in. The truck pulled out a few minutes later, entered the highway and headed West on I-8 toward San Diego.
The Yukon pulled out about a minute later. It remained about a quarter of a mile back. Trailing a 40’ big rig with clear markings on the trailer without looking suspicious, was no problem.
Thursday, September 20
Boulevard, CA, 2 p.m.
The driver of the Yukon could not believe his eyes when he saw the passenger in the truck they were following get out of the truck in front of a roadside bar called Dante’s Tavern and go inside. They had a clear purpose in following this man who, as they were informed, was likely heading to San Diego. Their task, as outlined by their employers, was simple and the passenger leaving the truck in the area of this old bar was almost too good to be true.
The Yukon slowed and pulled over to the side of the road directly across from the bar and stopped near an aging convenience store with a sign, Anderson’s Country Store directly across from the bar.
“Was this too easy to be true?” As they contemplated their next move in carrying out their ordered task, three boys on the porch in front of the store suddenly walked to what appeared to be a picnic area on the side of the bar. Preparing to capitalize on their lucky break and seize the opportunity to carry out their task now, the passenger in the Yukon got out and worked his way around the back of the tavern and the picnic area.
Thursday, September 20
Outside Dante’s Tavern, 2:45 p.m.
As the passenger from the Yukon watched from his perch at the back of the tavern, the man they were following came out of the bar and headed towards the picnic area. Before the men from the Yukon could react, the three boys from the convenience store rushed across the parking lot and attacked the man from the bar. All hell broke loose. Fists were flying and the man from the bar was getting a pretty heavy beating.
Acting on instinct, the man from the Yukon rushed up behind the boys as they pummeled the man from the bar who was hunched into a ball by a large wash basin in the picnic area of the tavern. Moving stealthily, the man from the Yukon approached the brawl, reached in from behind the boys, who were totally preoccupied with throwing punches along with yelling racial slurs, plunged a hypodermic needle he had in his hand just under the left pectoral of the beating victim with speed and efficiency and was gone before anyone saw him or realized that he had joined in the fray.
It was obvious that the man from the Yukon was trained in this procedure and killing the old fashion way with guns and knives was passé. The man from the Yukon then went back around the rear of Dante’s, across the street, jumped into the passenger side of the Yukon and the driver quickly set out for parts unknown.
Thursday, September 20
El Cajon EMT Station #22, 2:45 p.m.
Jim Duncan, a career paramedic, a lieutenant in the Fire Department, on the job for 25 years, was sitting in the coffee room of the station going over some materials for an upcoming quality and conditioning exam to be administered the following Monday. It had been a great week in the waning days of the summer season. The Labor Day marked the end of the insanity that regularly took place on the weekends during the summer. Endless beer and trouble making in the blistering East County sun, which always led to some business for Jim and his team. From snakebites to brawls, broken bones from hiking mishaps to auto accidents, all of these supplemented the regular fare of a paramedic on his beat.
Jim’s group had served East San Diego County all the way to the Imperial County line, north to the San Bernardino County line and south to the Mexican border. “The back country,” as he liked to call it, rendered all sorts of additional challenges for the team. Whatever the imagination might conjure up probably occurred at one time amid the unpaved roads in the bleak, cactus-laden sand and rocks the back country often generated.
Thursday, September 20
El Cajon EMT Station #22, 2:45 p.m.
Guillermo Rivera was enjoying a quiet afternoon on the job as a first-year EMT. “Billy,” as he liked to be called–not trying to ignore his Hispanic roots, but just wanting to be one of the guys–was cleaning up the equipment area as the rookies were required to do. Billy had been on the team for less than six months and had come to the department from Taos, New Mexico. His credentials were impressive and his reviews were tops, for a rookie, so, he was an easy hire for the department. He was fluent in Spanish and his request for station #22 made his transition to San Diego easy. Not many EMT’s asked to work in the six to eight months of the blistering heat of the back country, but Billy’s home in Taos was pretty similar in the Summer and early Fall.
Thursday, September 20
San Diego County Medical Examiner’s Office, 2:45 pm
Dr. Rebecca Louden was the Assistant Chief Medical Officer for the County of San Diego, Dr. Louden had just finished a routine autopsy and was cleaning up and getting ready to shift her attention to completing her paperwork for the day. She was a graduate of the UCSF medical school and had been at the coroner’s office for ten years. Her rapid rise to Assistant Chief was due to an incisive mind, and even though some thought of her as having a rather quirky personality, the quality of her work was beyond reproach. Dr. Louden was unmarried and gave little, if any, priority to a social agenda, favoring her work, rest, and some preferred activity with a small group of friends. Unlike most professional women, she had acquired a passion for saltwater fishing, which had become her ultimate method of stress relief and relaxation.
Che Alvarez was a laboratory assistant in the department. With a name like Che he was the brunt of jokes for anyone old enough to remember the Latin American anarchist, Che Guevara, for whom his parents had named respecting and admiring Che’s role in the formations of so-called “freedom and democracy” in Latin America. He had hoped memories of the legendary Che would have dimed among the younger generation. But, the movie Motorcycle Diaries hit the scene, once again creating a buzz for a young adventurous and historical figure fighting in the battle for freedom, equality, etc., etc., etc. Che was giving some serious consideration to changing his name and using only his middle name, Umberto. Umberto or Che, that was the question. He suspected that Che would work better with the chicks.
Che worked through his break that day to get the lab scrubbed after the autopsy Dr. Louden and he had just completed. He hoped to get out of the lab early. Thursday night was the hot night at his favorite club in Tijuana, a short drive from his Chula Vista apartment. There he would salsa dance to a sensuous beat with some beautiful young señorita until the wee hours, hoping to hell there was no early morning case back at work to deal with!
Thursday, September 20
San Diego County DA’s Office, 2:45 pm
Kyra O’Neill was a Deputy District Attorney in the San Diego County District Attorney’s office and was assigned to the El Cajon Branch of the office located in the El Cajon courthouse. Kyra was about to hit the big “3-0” in November. At a mere 5 years into the practice, she found herself trying to decipher what life meant to a young Deputy District Attorney. However, this major life assessment seemed such a monumental undertaking that Kyra chose instead to flush those thoughts and just work on the variety of files she had to appear for at the end of every week. Kyra”s current assignment at the branch was the Friday Criminal Arraignment calendar. The “Friday Follies” name was given to the Friday Criminal Arraignment calendar because of the typical large number of cases heard in rapid succession in an overcrowded courtroom. The only redeeming thought Kyra had was that it signaled the end of the week and the opportunity for a little R&R over the weekend.
No trials for her the following week! Was life getting easier? No, it was just a quirk of scheduling that gave her a few days off from crisis mode. In addition to her regular duties, she was finishing her two weeks on the duty hot line, meaning that crimes requiring a Deputy DA on the scene came directly to her and
she’d have to hit the dirt and be out at any such scene ASAP. She was about to get one of those calls.
Thursday, September 20
Law Offices of William Johnson, 2:45 p.m.
William “Buck” Johnson was a successful East County criminal defense and personal injury lawyer. Highly respected, successful, but with his many outside interests he likely would be daydreaming when he wasn’t hard at work. His leisure interests too often conflicted with his self-imposed discipline for work. Buck, 51 years old, could have been William, Bill or Ted (his middle name was Theodore), but he stuck with plain old Buck. No one knew why. Maybe it was his former dabbling into the cowboy culture which had now been replaced by his rebel rider phase. He was often seen around town riding his impeccably polished Harley Road King, lovingly named “KRMPONY” which was displayed on his personalized license plate.
