Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

  The man didn’t intend to be identified, and it would be a bad idea to push it. They needed him.

  “I’ll pay you half now, the other half when I know she’s safe.”

  “No, señor.”

  The man’s footsteps receded across the inner room.

  “Wait. Here’s all the money.” He handed $5,000 to the woman. And here’s a card with my cell phone number. Call me as soon as she’s safe, and I’ll pay you another $500.”

  The man returned to the other side of the doorway, and the woman handed him the money and Jack’s card.

  No response from the other room. Did they have a deal or was it a scam?

  “Si, señor, con mucho gusto,” the man said and withdrew into the dark.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Ana-Maria. “What time do you have to be back here?”

  “I told her I was going to my house to get pictures of my family and the small ring my mother gave me. It’s the only thing I have from her. But she said I can’t leave this house. It’s for their protection.”

  “Protection? What’s she talking about?”

  “One time somebody left and decided to make money by bringing the police here. They demanded a big bribe or they would take her husband to jail. So they make everyone a prisoner until they cross.”

  “When will that be?”

  “They say maybe tonight, maybe three, four days. I hope it’s tonight.” She pointed to her blue dress. “I can’t wear this for three more days.”

  He took her to the front corner of the room, blocking her from the view of the woman. “Keep this money out of sight,” he said, handing her $1,000. “Get far away from the border and call me as soon as you can. I’ll set up a bank account where you can draw money to live on.”

  Maybe this would work, but a lot could go wrong. The coyote could take the money from her. So could someone else being taken across. Or there could be trouble on the other side. But it was the only way.

  She leaned forward and kissed him. “I wish . . . I wish.” Tears filled her eyes.

  Chapter 26

  July 4

  4:30 p.m.

  THE PHONE ON his desk at the condo finally rang. About damned time.

  “Jack, I was with a client when you called earlier.” Sinclair’s booming voice forced Jack’s ear away from the receiver. “Mrs. Pounders told me you’re back in Mexico City.”

  “I got in from Juarez a couple of hours ago. I called to tell you that Palmer Industries doesn’t have a prayer at that PROFEPA Hearing.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear.”

  “That’s the way it is. Montana gave me nothing. No help with a defense. The records he provided are phony. Palmer Industries will look even worse if it gets caught introducing those bogus records at the Hearing.” It was time to be blunt about what Sinclair had to do to help him pull this off. “Tell Arthur to let me throw Palmer Industries on the mercy of the Hearing judge. Admit failures. Offer to pay a fine. Make a written pledge that Palmer Industries will fix everything.”

  “I doubt if Arthur will—”

  “One more thing. He has to fire Montana. If Arthur won’t do all that, he should notify clients that he’s going out of business.”

  “If he won’t go along, what’s your strategy?”

  Sinclair had never before asked him about his strategy. Maybe that was because Arthur was counting on Montana to bribe the judge. What they didn’t know was that the PROFEPA lawyers were fanatics and would never let the judge get away with it. So why ask about strategy now? Maybe fishing to find out what he intended to do.

  Either way, he and Sinclair shared a goal: keep the plant operating. Sinclair wanted that for his client. Jack wanted it to save his career. But he had another goal they might or might not share. That was to stop Montana from breaking the law.

  “I don’t have any other strategy. Palmer Industries should be forced to clean up its act. Montana’s fake books make it look like he’s treating hazardous waste properly, but he’s not.”

  “That’s a serious charge. Have you seen the so-called real books?”

  “No, but I—”

  “But you know where they are, right?”

  “They’re on DVDs, and Montana has those.”

  “So this is all conjecture, but let’s suppose—” He dragged out the word. “—for the sake of argument that Montana has been faking some records. Maybe he did it to avoid taxes. That doesn’t merit the death penalty, by which I mean shutting down the plant.”

  “For God’s sake, Justin, this isn’t about tax evasion.” He took a deep breath to keep from venting his frustration. “You remember when Edward Palmer claimed Montana couldn’t be generating such high profits unless he was cutting corners and bribing people? Edward was right. That’s the reason for the fake records. Besides that, the PROFEPA counsel, Alvarez, has test results showing that the plant incinerator is emitting dioxin fumes that can poison breast milk and cause cancer. Montana saw that report and didn’t modify the incinerator. Those test results may be part of the reason Montana’s in Mexico City right now.”

  The gravity of that possibility must have gotten Sinclair’s attention, because he didn’t respond right away. “Fax me a copy,” he finally said.

  “I don’t have one, but my source has seen it.”

  “Who is this source?”

  If he exposed Ana-Maria, Sinclair might tell Arthur, and it would get back to Montana. Even after she was safely out of Mexico, he’d never reveal her name.

  “I have a reliable source. I’m going to leave it at that.”

  He could tell Sinclair about Montana’s bribery of inspectors and that the plant manager was probably a murderer. He could also tell him about the mystery trucks. But without solid proof, there was no point.

  “Then,” Sinclair said, “I’ll be blunt. No Mexican judge wants to put a big American company out of business, and government ministers aren’t going to give up the big cars and beach homes that come from appreciative maquila owners. This Hearing judge won’t shut the plant down unless you’re a no-show and he gets cornered into granting an injunction. Here’s my problem. You’ve made it clear you don’t like this client, so I need your word you will register your appearance to prevent a default against Palmer Industries. And I urge you to remember that for a successful partner in this firm, as you could be, all things are possible in the future. Do you really want to let people think you can’t get the job done?”

  If Sinclair had been subtle when he was a diplomat, he wasn’t bothering with that now. But he still knew how to dangle a little temptation—become a leader in a powerhouse firm and everything, even SCOTUS, was possible.

  “I’ll be there, but you could send Clarence Darrow in as counsel and he couldn’t win this, unless you follow my recommendations.”

  Away from the phone, Sinclair said, “Come in, Mrs. Pounders. Excuse me, Jack, I have to sign something.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling as if he were watching a slide show. Click: an infant being bathed in filthy ditch water. Click: thugs with semiautomatic rifles patrolling the Palmer grounds. Click: a mother suckling her child with carcinogenic breast milk. His way forward was absolutely clear.

  “I’m back,” Sinclair said. “Do we understand one another?”

  “We certainly do.”

  “Good man. I knew I could count on you. By the way, when word got to Rick Calder that you’d left the country on short notice, he went ballistic. He knew better than to call me after he smeared the firm’s name in that Chronicle article, so he got his message to me through one of our partners. He said he has you in his sights.”

  Calder was like a bad-tempered pit bull who couldn’t let go. But he was a problem for the future. Right now, Jack had his hands full with people who might
literally have him in their sights.

  Chapter 27

  July 4

  8:00 p.m.

  “YOU HAVE A visitor, Señor Strider.” It was the reception clerk for his condo. “It is Señorita Vanderberg. Shall I send her up?”

  “What?” Jack said, startled. “Are you sure about the name?”

  “Yes, señor, shall I send her up?”

  “No, I’ll come down to get her.” He felt as flustered as a teenager.

  “She didn’t wait. She’s already in the elevator, señor.”

  He was standing at the elevator door when Debra emerged, stunning in a khaki suit and dark green blouse, laptop case in one hand, tether of a rolling suitcase in the other.

  “Buenos tardes, señor.” She dropped the tether and gave him a mock salute. “Reporting for duty.”

  He stared at her, confused. “What are you doing here? I’m glad to see you, but . . .”

  “Our exalted leader sent me. That meant he also took me off the biggest securities offering I’ve ever worked on. At first I was angry, but on the flight I decided this might not be such bad duty after all.”

  My God, this morning he’d been in bed with Ana-Maria, and yet he was so happy to see Debra he wanted to take her in his arms and show her how glad he was. He hoped Debra couldn’t hear the collisions of his conflicting emotions.

  Inside the condo, she looked around. “Wow! Not exactly a hardship post. Driving from the airport through this huge city is a little intimidating, but this neighborhood is beautiful. Now, how ’bout leaving my stuff here and finding some place that serves killer margaritas?”

  LIGHTS WERE beginning to flick on as they followed his usual path down Calle Michoacan. He stole sideways glances at Debra, still flabbergasted that she was actually walking beside him in La Condesa. Maybe she wouldn’t notice how many of the big sedans and SUVs cruising down the street were armored. Or how many armed “watchers” stood on corners. He put his right arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. But despite his feelings, he’d put her on a plane to San Francisco first thing tomorrow.

  He chose La Bomtagne because it specialized in margaritas. The mesero led them past a dance floor to a horseshoe-shaped booth with leather cushions. A waiter, smiling and bowing slightly, appeared within seconds to take their drink orders.

  A few minutes later, Debra sipped a margarita from a salt-rimmed glass the size of a small punchbowl and checked him out.

  “Navy blue shirt, pressed khakis, polished loafers. You’re out of your ‘I’m-a-serious-lawyer’ uniform. I might not have recognized you if we’d passed on the street, but I certainly would have smiled.”

  She had no idea who he was—that he sometimes wore a leather bracelet given him by a Masai chief, had kayaked through the Grand Canyon, and a lot more she wouldn’t expect. But that was a conversation for a different time.

  “Now that you’ve recognized me,” he said, “maybe you’ll tell me why Sinclair sent you here.”

  “I honestly don’t know. At first I assumed it was to help you prepare for the Hearing, but it’s too late for that. He gave me some work to do in Juarez for Palmer Industries, but that made no sense since you’re already here. Anyway, Mrs. Pounders had booked the flight and reserved a suite at the Four Seasons. I barely had time to get to SFO. Now here I am, listening to a hot mariachi band.”

  She delicately licked salt off the rim of her glass. “Sinclair did say that in case you missed the Hearing for some reason, I was to be there and introduce myself as representing Palmer Industries. He said, ‘Just sit there and let the judge handle it.’ He didn’t even give me the Palmer file to read, so I know exactly zip about the situation.”

  “What did you think he meant when he said I might miss the Hearing?”

  “That at the last minute you might refuse to defend the Palmers on principle. In case you boycotted, he didn’t want Palmer to lose by default.”

  If Sinclair really thought he might take a hike, sending Debra as backup was what any smart lawyer would do. Jack wasn’t offended.

  “Thinking I might dump the client could also explain why he asked you to go to Juarez,” he said. “What did he tell you to do there?”

  “Draft hazardous waste treatment contracts with three new Mexican clients. So I’ll be meeting the mysterious Mr. Montana. Tell me about him.”

  “Short answer: he’s a toad. I went to Juarez because I needed information from him. But soon after I got there, he announced he was leaving for Mexico City. Later on, I found out he keeps two sets of records. That has to be because the real books would torpedo any defense. There’s a lot more, but nothing I can prove yet.” Time to change the subject. He’d already said too much. The less she knew, the safer she’d be.

  He got the waiter’s attention and tapped the rim of his glass, then turned back to her. “What were you about to tell me just before you walked out on dinner at Boulevard?”

  She looked at him quizzically. “Sure you want to know?”

  “Ever since that night.”

  She hesitated, as if unsure that she wanted to answer. Then she shrugged and said, “Okay. Once upon a time there was this second year law student who took an extra course because she needed the units and heard the guy who taught it was brilliant. At the time, that student had the highest GPA in her class and was odds-on favorite to be editor-in-chief of law review. But the grade she got was just low enough to knock her out of the job.”

  Oh, no. He got the picture. “Was that my course in advanced international economics?”

  She nodded.

  “I had no idea. To be objective in grading I always avoided knowing the personal circumstances of my students.” My God, he sounded like a cold fish wrapped in a stuffed shirt. “But why didn’t you talk with me about it?”

  He knew that the scathing look she gave him summed up the reasons a very smart, proud young woman doesn’t go to any professor to try for a higher grade.

  “There was nothing to talk about,” she said. “The grade was fair. I just took too many courses that quarter, and did so much work on law review I was always behind. I caught up in the other courses, but didn’t quite cut it in yours.” She paused and swallowed hard. “I got a great clerkship, but since I hadn’t been editor-in-chief it wasn’t the Supreme Court. The memory still bites me at unexpected moments. That’s what happened during dinner at Boulevard. Don’t worry about it.”

  Jack got it. Even though she thought the grade he’d given her was fair, that hadn’t silenced the “what-might-have-been” demon. It probably never would. He knew that demon too well.

  “You should see your face,” she said and smiled a little. “Did you hear me? Don’t worry about it.”

  The server set down several steaming platters of food. His helper placed three Tecate beer bottles in the center of the tile tabletop.

  “Excuse me,” Jack said, “we didn’t order any of this.”

  The server gestured vaguely toward the bar and bowed himself away.

  “Good Mexican food deserves cold Mexican beer.” The male voice came from beyond the halo of light from the lamp hanging above the table. “Con permiso,” he said as he stepped into the light. “You are Señorita Vanderberg. I am Tomás Montana. Call me Tomás.” He took her hand without shaking it, held it for a couple of seconds too long, then slid into the booth next to her.

  Still rattled by Debra’s revelation, Montana’s arrival caught Jack flatfooted. He didn’t like it one damned bit.

  “Surprised to see me, Jack? You shouldn’t be. I can find you anywhere, day and night. No problem.”

  He wouldn’t take the bait. “I’m sorry you didn’t find me sooner. Actually, I thought you might be avoiding me.”

  “But you’re my lawyer, no? Why would I avoid you?” His smirk was arctic. “Come.” He distributed the glis
tening bottles of beer. “Salud y pesetas y amor y tiempo para gustarlos. Health, money, love, and time to enjoy them.”

  Jack didn’t drink. Why had Montana shown up here? Did he suspect his lawyer had been trespassing at the plant? Well, to hell with him. Instead of forcing him to leave the table, he’d try to get something out of him. He’d just wait for the right opening.

  “Your beauty is a blessing on the city, Señorita Vanderberg,” Montana said. “What brings you here?”

  “To do a little legal work for Palmer Industries.”

  “That will be a pleasant change for me. You must know our friend Jack was sent to Juarez as a spy.” Despite the nasty word, his smile didn’t change. “But I think he found nothing. Was the trip worth your time, Jack?” He leaned forward, eyes a little glassy.

  “Time well spent,” Jack said.

  “Fortunately, we’re making so much money that even your fee won’t dent our profits. But let’s not spoil our dinner with business talk. I’d much rather talk with Señorita Vanderberg.” Quickly draining his Tecate, he ordered three more for the table.

  He let Montana act like the host, monopolizing Debra’s attention with local folklore and humorous stories. Montana would fend him off if he asked questions, so he’d lay back and give Montana time to make a mistake.

  After Montana delivered the punch line of an off-color joke, Debra glanced at the floor filled with couples and said, “That’s a great band.”

  Montana leapt to his feet, hand outstretched. “It would be my pleasure to be your partner. May I call you Debra?”

  When Debra rose and slipped out of her suit jacket, Jack noticed that her move was appreciated by every man around them.

  He watched Debra dance with Montana, her dark hair swirling like the cloak of a whirling dervish. After sitting through several tunes, his wait-and-watch strategy had put him in a sour mood. He ordered another tequila. When she still hadn’t returned to the table after several more minutes, he tossed back the tequila and headed for the restroom. When he returned, they weren’t on the floor. He looked at the other tables and the bar. They had disappeared.