Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

Alvarez looked at Linda Santiago and nodded his head slightly. “A half million is fifteen times my salary for a year. Would they be paying that to us in cash?”

  Good God! Had Alvarez misunderstood? Did he think he was being offered a bribe? But wait a minute. Maybe Alvarez was testing him to see if he’d bite, offer to make the payment personal. If he did, they’d have the federales on site in ten minutes.

  “Any fine would be paid by the company as directed by the head of the governmental entity,” he said stiffly. In his gut, he knew he was doing the exact opposite of what Montana would have done had he been in Jack’s place.

  Linda Santiago cleared her throat. “Mr. Strider, Mexico has excellent environmental protection laws, most based on Articles 25, 27, 73 and 115 of our Constitution. PROFEPA monitors complaints, investigates violations, enforces regulations, prosecutes, and assesses penalties. We can also refer charges to the Federal Attorney General requesting criminal sanctions.”

  “Yes, I’ve read—”

  “But that’s only theory,” she interrupted smoothly. “In reality, we don’t have the money to enforce the law against most violators. Besides that, sometimes we’re ordered back into our cages no matter how strong a case we have. But,” she smiled slightly, “the Palmer case is different.”

  “Why is it different?”

  “We haven’t been called off, and we’re going to get our injunction. Our agents will put seals on the equipment and install surveillance cameras in all major spaces. We’re going to put Palmer Industries out of business for good.”

  Alvarez leaned forward. “And put your clients in prison.”

  Whoa. They’re after blood. All he could do was act as if he hadn’t heard what they’d just said.

  “Okay, just lay out for me what Palmer Industries needs to do, or stop doing, and I’ll make it happen.”

  “Don’t bother, Mr. Strider.” Alvarez shook his head. “If they’ve been poisoning the water supply of Juarez and El Paso, the damage could be catastrophic. It’s too late to un-ring that bell.”

  Jack stared at the man, bewildered. Poisoning the water supply? Was that a scare tactic? “I’ve seen no evidence about any threat to the water supply. But here’s a fact. My client provides hundreds of jobs. Juarez needs those jobs.”

  “Palmer Industries didn’t come to Mexico to help out Juarez,” Alvarez said. “It came because it can get away with paying absurdly low wages.”

  Police sirens, one after another, passed by outside the windows. Jack looked at Santiago. “You and I have something in common. We’re both active in the Sierra Club. We both work to protect our environment. Let’s work together to resolve this.”

  “If Sierra Club membership was really a big deal for you, you wouldn’t be defending environmental thugs,” Alvarez said flatly. “And, by the way, we did some research on you. Your involvement in that scandal where Mexican girls were forced into prostitution doesn’t do much for your reputation with us.”

  “I was not involved in any scandal. It was my—” He choked back his anger and shifted his approach. “Regardless of what you think of me, you can’t justify a vendetta against my client simply because the company’s based in another country.”

  “Vendetta?” Alvarez repeated loudly. “Maquilas like your client are coddled. They do whatever they want to the Mexican people. I’ll tell you the truth about maquilas.”

  “Roberto,” Santiago intervened, “let it go. It won’t make any difference.”

  Alvarez stood. “No, I want him to hear this.” He gripped the edge of the table with both hands and leaned toward Jack. “Most border towns are in a desert with barely enough water to get by. Then the maquilas came and started sucking up all the water they wanted. The law says they have to treat it before sending it back into the water supply but many won’t do it. Some colonias have no water at all. Municipal water treatment systems barely function. Gringos make fortunes while our people die of thirst. I’ll tell you this.” He stood straight, and his chin rose. “You stole our gold and land in the past. But today you won’t steal our water without a fight.”

  Santiago spoke up. “Maquilas provide jobs, sure, but do you know who they hire? Women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five from rural villages because they’ve been brought up not to complain. These young women are far from home, unprotected, barely surviving. The pregnancy rate is sky high, and there’s almost no medical care. When a worker drops out, they replace her in an hour.”

  “To keep those miserable jobs,” Alvarez said as he sat down, “hundreds of thousands have to live in huts with no insulation, no electricity to run even a small fridge or a fan, no running water and no sewer. And the jobs have no security. When an economic slowdown hit the U.S., 80,000 workers in Ciudad Juarez were fired. Not one day’s notice. No severance pay. Not even bus fare back to their villages. And if a maquila can increase profits by moving to China or Malaysia, it’s gone overnight, leaving nothing but empty buildings. Now, maybe you understand more about why we’re going to take down Palmer Industries.”

  He certainly did. In different circumstances, he might have been on their side. Their anti-maquila sentiment was a wild card he hadn’t counted on. He let seconds pass in silence so some of the intensity could dissipate. Finally he said, “I understand, so let’s talk about what Palmer Industries can do to be a better citizen of Juarez.”

  “Palmer Industries is not a citizen of Juarez,” Santiago said. “The owners live in San Francisco. Even the manager crosses the border into Mexico each morning, then goes back to El Paso at night. By the way, it’s obvious you don’t know Tomás Montana.”

  “So,” Alvarez added, “no settlement.”

  The two PROFEPA lawyers shook hands with him coldly and walked out.

  Jack stayed behind for a moment to compose himself. He’d just run into a brick wall where a brick wall wasn’t an option.

  4:30 p.m.

  “ROBERTO ALVAREZ hates maquilas and sees a chance to knock down a big one,” Jack said into the phone. “He smells Palmer blood in the water.”

  He pictured Sinclair in his shrine room, leaning back, ankles crossed on the desk, leafing through Foreign Affairs while he manipulated as much of the world as he could reach.

  “Oh, Christ! I told you to make a deal and end this thing. I shouldn’t have to do everything myself.”

  It’s what you haven’t done that’s part of the problem, Jack thought. Aloud, he said, “If you don’t like my work, I won’t send you a bill.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass.”

  “Look, Alvarez isn’t bluffing. He’s ready to go for an immediate injunction.”

  Sinclair was silent for a moment. “We just took over handling this. The judge has to grant us time to prepare.”

  Jack knew he had to at least sound patient. “If the judge delays the Hearing, Alvarez will move for a temporary injunction to shut down operations. Palmer Industries doesn’t have clean hands, so it will probably be granted.”

  “How much do they have on Palmer anyway?”

  “A lot of petty stuff, and they can probably prove it all. But there has to be more to this. Since Alvarez is being so hard-nosed, I think he has something else, something big. He’ll amend his complaint to make it more damning.”

  “Do I have to send a skywriter down there to get my message across? We’re not handing this over to some damn penny-ante judge we don’t know, hoping he rules in our favor.”

  “Then send someone to Juarez to find the facts and build a defense. That’s not me. Arthur Palmer made that clear.”

  Silence on the line stretched out. Finally, Sinclair said, “I’ll tell Arthur he’s looking at padlocked doors unless you go to the plant and get everything you need to put together a defense. It has to be you, because I don’t trust anyone from the Mexico City office. Catch a plane to Juarez tomorr
ow. You’ll be back in Mexico City in a couple of days.” He hung up.

  Jack stood holding the phone, listening to the dial tone. His back was against the wall. Alvarez couldn’t be bluffed into folding his hand, and he wouldn’t settle. Nor would he let the plant stay open based on Palmer’s promise to clean up its act. And Montana would need the best criminal lawyer in Mexico if he tried to bribe Alvarez.

  Nice irony. Arthur Palmer had thrown his American workers out on the street. Now he was determined to keep the plant open and that meant saving the jobs of his Mexican workers. If Palmer and Montana couldn’t prove that Palmer Industries’ operations were lawful, or nearly so, Jack would be out of a job.

  Chapter 19

  July 1

  6 p.m.

  THE BAGGAGE screener in the Mexico City airport used his hand like the scoop of a backhoe to paw through Jack’s bag.

  Jack watched closely to make sure the guard had no chance to plant something, like a few rocks of crack cocaine, and then loudly call a colleague to witness what he’d “discovered.” After that, they would muscle him into a small room and demand payment of a hefty “fine.” They knew that most travelers, terrified of being locked up in a Mexican jail, would pay and keep quiet. He’d seen the same scam worked in other countries. When the guard saw Jack watching, he scowled and slammed the bag closed with a grunt.

  Jack headed for the gate and his flight to Juarez.

  When they landed in Juarez, he joined other passengers leaving the restricted area. Having seen Montana on the video conference should have been sufficient to spot him, but it wasn’t. Then a man holding a sign that read “Sr. J. STRIDER” approached and smiled. “Buenas tardes, señor. I am Antonio. Señor Montana sent me.” As they reached an Oldsmobile double-parked at the curb, Antonio slipped several bills to the cop who stood next to the car, pretending it didn’t exist.

  “Antonio, how long will it take to get to the Hotel Rialto?”

  “But, señor, I’m taking you to the Palmer Industries plant.”

  “I’d rather go to the hotel first, check in and rent a car.”

  “I was told to go straight to the plant. Your rental car is already there, and Señor Montana is waiting for you.” Reflected in the rearview mirror, Antonio’s eyes were wide. He looked like a man caught in the middle.

  “No problem.”

  One thing he’d learned about Mexico: nothing went as expected.

  In Spanish and English, the sign at the airport exit read: “Juarez: Fastest Growing City in the Americas.” That was news to Jack, especially since he knew its homicide rate was the highest in the Americas. Drug cartel members gunned each other down day and night, pausing only to turn their weapons on police and soldiers.

  As they entered Juarez, traffic became dense and signs of “growth” were everywhere: junked cars, abandoned mechanical parts, and litter blowing along the curbs. A web of overhead electric wires formed a canopy above the urban jungle. Dilapidated buses rattled along, passengers leaping on or off at will. In the absence of traffic lights, topes—steep concrete speed bumps known as “sleeping policemen”—punished speeders. Indifferent to them, Antonio made the heavy car swerve like a tango dancer to avoid axle-bending potholes. But as Jack was driven across the dusty, low-rise city, he was jolted emotionally more than physically.

  “Antonio, how many people live in Juarez?”

  “My cousin says maybe two million. The mayor, he says one million, but he doesn’t count the people in the colonias who came for jobs. He pretends they aren’t here.”

  Glancing to his right, there was El Paso no more than a half-mile away, separated from Juarez by the sludgy seep of the Rio Grande river. A concrete canal enclosed by barbed wire ran down the center of the ruined river. On the Juarez side, clusters of cement block and tarpaper shacks near the riverbank reminded him of the worst he’d seen in Cairo and Lima. On the U.S. side, in El Paso, glass and steel high-rise buildings were labeled Wells Fargo and JPMorgan Chase in garish neon. At the base of a mesa, giant sprinklers ensured the health of a lush green golf course.

  Antonio noticed Jack looking across the border. “We have a saying, Señor Strider. ‘Alas, poor Mexico. So far from God, so close to the United States.’”

  Out the window, he saw a woman crouched beside a ditch bordering the road. She was washing an infant in its murky, scummy water. For a second her large dark eyes fixed on him. It was like a lightning strike, zapping his emotions.

  At that moment, an amplified voice blaring from across the river caught his attention. “What’s that sound?”

  “The race announcer at Sunland Park Racetrack and Casino. Many slot machines. Free tequila for gamblers. Mariachi music all day. Every night, somebody who used to be famous sings or tells jokes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Antonio turned into Palmer Industries. Despite passing through an impressive gate, the sight ahead didn’t look like anyone’s paradise. In fact, the noxious atmosphere and July heat created a miasma of latent hostility. This was going to be a tough gig.

  Directly ahead was a long one-story brick building. To the right of a door a sign read “Administration.” Behind that building, Jack saw rows of warehouse-like structures. Farther away, a smoke stack belching yellow-white smoke. Two men in camouflage uniforms watched as he got out of the car. After Antonio waved, they turned away.

  “Señor Montana’s office is inside. Your car is over there.” Antonio pointed to a gold Lincoln Town Car. It might as well have had a sign on it that said “gringo tourist.” Was that Montana’s idea of a joke? The only other car in the staff parking lot was a black Hummer with dark tinted windows and oversized tires that raised it high above the gravel. He checked his watch. Seven p.m.

  There was no receptionist at the desk inside the Administration building, but a man in workman’s coveralls quickly stepped forward.

  “Buenas tardes, señor. Me llamo Manuel.” He led Jack back outside the Administration building and behind it to a warehouse he opened with a key. It was dark inside until Manuel flipped four switches. Banks of lights far overhead came on with a series of “whumps.” The great cavern seemed to be a storage depot for forklifts, backhoes, and other heavy equipment. All were covered with dirt and grime; workhorses, not show horses.

  “Pardon me,” Jack said in Spanish. “I’m here to see Señor Montana. Are you taking me to him?”

  “Señor Montana, si,” Manuel said, gesturing back to the Administration building. Then he continued gently guiding Jack from one vast building to the next, most of them full of equipment evidently designed to treat various kinds of hazardous waste. A network of metal catwalks far overhead provided access to control valves and distant vents. The pipes, spheres, and hissing chambers looked like a giant’s chemistry set. The stink in the different buildings ranged from stinging chlorine to overpowering rotten eggs.

  He hated wasting time like this when he and Montana should be talking about PROFEPA lawyers who wouldn’t settle for anything less than the corporate death penalty. Coming up with a plausible defense was going to be like climbing Mt. Everest.

  When Manuel unlocked the entrance to the next warehouse, Jack saw a beam of light streaming through a doorway in the wall to his left. A sign near the office door read Director de Planta. A silhouetted man stood yelling at someone just inside the office. It was a young woman at a desk, sobbing, face in her hands. When Manuel turned on the big overhead lights, the man swung to face them.

  “Vayanse, bastardos,” the thickset man shouted, moving fast across the empty floor toward them. Jack didn’t need a translator to know that “bastardos” wasn’t a friendly greeting.

  “Si, Señor Guzman, vamanos horita,” Manuel said and jerked Jack by his sleeve back toward the door.

  “Alto!” The man demanded, moving in.

  Manuel backed away from Jack.

 
“Eres un gringo,” Guzman said and switched to English. “Off limits. Get out.”

  Behind him, Manuel whined something that included Montana’s name over and over. That must have gotten through to Guzman. He stopped moving in on Jack, dropped his fists, and growled, “Don’t come back,” then stalked toward his office.

  It happened so fast Jack didn’t have a clear image of Guzman except that he had a bulldog face and moved like a seasoned street fighter.

  Manuel tugged him outside and pointed toward the Admin building across the gravel yard. “Señor Montana.”

  Inside, he took Jack down a dimly lit hall into an anteroom to Montana’s office, pointed to the door and fled, apparently shaken by the encounter with Guzman. From inside the office, Jack heard a loud voice talking in bursts, clearly on the phone.

  Taking a moment to calm down, he realized he’d learned something from the tour. There were places Montana didn’t want him to go, things he didn’t want him to see. Well he would, by God, see them. He knocked firmly on the office door.

  After a delay came a curt command. “Enter.”

  Thomas Montana, leaning back in his chair, tooled boots propped on his desk, gestured for Jack to sit. He continued talking on the phone, making no eye contact.

  What a snake. Can’t be bothered to meet me at the airport, sends me on a snipe hunt through the plant, and leaves me hanging while he chats on the phone. Annoying, but not surprising. Okay, Montana was showing him how he wanted to play, and that’s the way it would be.

  On the wall behind Montana’s desk hung a photograph signed by the famous photographer Alberto Korba of what looked like a revolutionary battle. Along the wall to Montana’s right was a shelf of very old sculptures in the Inca style. Resting on the corner of Montana’s desk stood a foot-tall bronze cock with feathers and spurs flaring. They showed a side of Montana he hadn’t expected.

  “Go screw yourself,” Montana shouted and slammed down the receiver.