Path to Justice

by Jim Dutton

  Nick stammered, showing his nervousness, “I, uh, it could be, um, what, what do you think?” Nick felt like a total idiot. Talk about a suave response. A hick from the hills could do better than that. Ana unbuttoned the next button of her blouse, revealing her firm breasts. How she looked, was no longer just a product of Nick’s imagination. Nick reached to caress her before pulling his hand back, saying in a low, emotion-filled voice, “You are so beautiful, I want you so badly. But, I can’t do this, at least not yet.” He could see the hurt in her eyes.

  “I understand Nick, we shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just too soon with me and Judy. I better go. Thanks for everything tonight.”

  Lying in bed, thinking about what happened in Ana’s room, Nick was kicking himself. Ana was gorgeous, had a great body, was funny and intelligent, and could take care of herself. His last conversation with Judy was when he told her two nights ago that he couldn’t make it to the kids soccer games because of the Ottawa trip. She blew up. “I was beginning to think you were changing, placing family where it belonged, on top of the priority list. No way! It was just you trying to put on a good show for a few weeks, coming to their games, calling them. It’s always work first!” Judy hung up mid-explanation about how important the new case was.

  Ana woke up that morning thinking what a fool she had been. That type of move could be a career stopper. She got carried away, letting the attraction and a foreign weekend go to her head. On the other hand, what the hell? What is wrong with a little sex on an exotic weekend get-a-away? They were consenting adults. Nick had been separated from Judy for months. It wasn’t like she was asking him to make some type of commitment. Ana spent her time getting ready, ruminating about the relative merits of her actions in her head. While she was packing her suitcase, she heard a knock on the door, followed by “Concierge, Madam”. Ana opened the door to a grey haired, slight man, holding a single red rose and a note. “Pour vous, Madamoiselle. Your beauty puts the petals of this perfectly formed rose to shame.”

  Reddening, Ana replied, “Merci.” She thought why couldn’t she meet someone like him in the states, about twenty years younger and a foot taller? She opened the card. Thank you for the wondrous evening in your boudoir. Sometimes a man turns away from what he passionately desires. Nick. Ana couldn’t help feeling touched and warm. She thought, He sure knows how to send mixed messages.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Who would believe we would be at this one-strip, Cranbrook airport at eight in the morning? That puddle jumper from Vancouver dropped us straight out of the sky. Any plane that only has one seat on each side of the aisle and propellers makes me nervous,” said Pepe.

  “You can relax now, we’re here. The agents from the Spokane office will be by any minute to take us to meet the RCMP. The Spokane agents are the ones that had to get up by 4 a.m. to cross the border and drive over here.”

  “Jerry, you’ll never hear me complain about overtime. Mas dinero, mas fun.”

  HSI Assistant Supervising Agent-in-Charge, Jeft Springer, and HSI agent, Jena Saunders, sat with Jerry and Pepe, across the table from RCMP Master Sergeant Rosen, Corporal Beret, and Constables Emilie Rousseau and Paul Roberts. They were in a nondescript, grey building that had two signs out front, No solicitors and Bering Consultants. Each RCMP employee had a card key and the password for the numeric pad to gain entrance.

  ASAC Springer explained, “We’ve been setting up on our side of the Yaak border crossing for the last three days. In a line with the actual border, two agents will be behind camouflage blinds, 250 yards out. Each has a scope, with 70 times magnification, and an 800mm lens on a camera that brings up the subject by 25 times. Within 80 feet of the border exchange location, we have placed a highly sensitive, multi-directional mike, which looks like a pinecone. There are also hidden remote control video cameras, no larger than cigarette lighters. The video cameras feed the images to our electronics van a half mile away. We have seven, two person, vehicle surveillance teams. One is set up north of the lumber road entry on State Highway 92, in case they head northwest after the exchange. One each, south of Yaak, on the two access roads leading to State Highway 2. Two more vehicles are set up in opposite directions at the intersection at State Highway 2, where the two different roads from Yaak come in.”

  “Sounds like you have all access roads covered,” said Rosen. “Any sense what route they’ll take?”

  “My best guess is they will go southwest from Yaak onto Highway 2, follow it west into Idaho where they will head straight south to Coeur d’Alene and on to Spokane. We believe the Baja Norte Familia cartel is a west coast operation and probably has stash houses in Seattle. How are you set up on the Canadian side?”

  Rosen sipped his coffee and waited for Constable Roberts to put the Canadian map on the projection screen before answering. He cleared his throat and remarked, “Our side of the border isn’t quite as complicated. We have five, two-person surveillance teams. Two at the location where the old lumber road intersects with Canadian 95, just a mile south of the Canadian town of Yahk. It’s similar to your Yaak version, except where your Montana town features two saloons, our Yahk has a gas station and a community center. We’re placing another vehicle southwest of Yahk, where Canadian 95 intersects with westbound Canadian Highway 3. Traveling north on Canadian 95 leads to Cranbrook, then on to the Trans-Canadian Highway. At that intersection, two more teams—one to cover eastbound to Calgary, the other westbound to Vancouver. Most of the drug trade in western Canada goes through Vancouver. We expect the Canadian smugglers to head in that direction. A control center for this operation has been set up at the community center in Yahk.”

  Springer said, “Does everyone on each international team have the HSI-issued satellite radios?”

  Corporal Beret and HSI Saunders replied, “Yes”. Corporal Beret added, “I understand that HSI gave us the radios. Thank you.”

  “All in the spirit of international cooperation. We appreciate how fast RCMP moved on this,” said Springer.

  Sgt. Rosen said, “I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page about the strategic aspects of this joint investigation. On this first surveillance, we’ll just let the suspects’ vehicles, on either side of the border, drive to their respective destinations without any pretense traffic stops. Each side of the border will put together search warrants to allow the fixture of a GPS monitoring device on the undercarriage of each of the suspect’s vehicles for 30 days. From information obtained on this evening’s surveillance, we hope to affix the GPS devices during the second planned surveillance, a week from tonight. On the second surveillance, we again let the vehicles go through without stopping the vehicles, but will document all events. On the third surveillance, the U.S. side will arrange a traffic stop before the suspects reach the border exchange point. You will bring in a drug-sniffing dog, the dog alerts and you seize the drugs. The Canadian side monitors the Canadian suspects who will be going home without their weekly drug supply. Both sides will evaluate the case at that time and make further surveillance and seizure decisions.”

  “Exactly right,” boomed Springer. “We are looking at this case for the long term. We want to establish as many connections on both sides of the border without scaring the cartel off. When the time is right, both sides will execute simultaneous search and arrest warrants to take everyone down and seize all the assets and drugs. We all know how important it is for the crooks to not make the surveillance. I even had HSI dig up a few old pickup trucks so we could fit in up here.”

  Corporal Beret smiled, “I hope the pickup trucks have gun racks to meld in with your authentic western frontier. For us, we have a mixture of Priuses and old Fords, fits the Canadian gestalt better.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you Canadians to your aperitifs and Cuban cigars. We Americans like to suck down an Old Milwaukee brew and work on a wad of chew,” replied Springer with
a sardonic grin.

  “What do you think Sergeant Major, both sides set up on the border by 3:30 p.m.?” asked Springer.

  “Fine by us, the sun sets at 5:02 tonight. It should give us plenty of time before the smugglers show. Don’t they always go to the border for the exchange at dusk?”

  “Yes,” replied Jerry and Pepe together.

  “We will be on channel 12 and have a radio check-in at 3:30. Talk to you then,” Springer said as he stood up and shook hands with Sergeant Major Rosen and the rest of the Canadian team.

  At 5:30, the Yaak surveillance team closest to the turn off onto the lumber road reported that a Dodge Ram pickup, towing a Ranger off-road vehicle, had just pulled into a side clearing by the lumber road access. A young white male backed the Ranger down wooden boards from the trailer to the side of the road while the Hispanic unloaded two bags from the back of the cab and put them into the Ranger.

  Ten minutes later, teams from both sides of the border heard single vehicles coming towards them. In their respective command posts, ASAC Springer and Sergeant Major Rosen were getting direct audio and video feeds on the four suspects at the border. The two Canadian-based men carried one duffle bag between them while the American suspects each had a duffle. The white male handed his bag over, saying, “Hey partner, sweet Mary Jane, all buds, along with south of the border brown sugar.”

  One of the Canadians replied, “Hey, Gringo, I’m not your partner and this isn’t for a frat party, college boy.”

  “Hey, relax, be cool, just a little chatter.”

  “Chatter gets you in trouble.” Without another word said, the bags were exchanged and the two groups walked back to their vehicles.

  The surveillance team south of Yaak, on the road that led southwest, reported they had picked up the Ram truck and were following it about 200 yards back. There was no traffic and no reason to risk following more closely. Pepe swore to himself when he heard this, no action for him and Jerry tonight. It seemed like the perps were heading towards Spokane and then probably on to Seattle as expected. Jerry and Pepe had drawn the surveillance southeast at Libby, on State Highway 2. One half hour later, Jerry’s and Pepe’s luck turned. Surveillance team #4 reported that the truck had taken a left on to eastbound 2 towards Libby, 28 miles away. Pepe poked Jerry in the ribs, “Get ready, hot shot, they’re coming our way.”

  “You spilled my coffee. Settle that Latin fire down Pepe.”

  Fifteen minutes later an excited call came over the radio from team #4, “They just took a right onto a small paved road. A sign says Noxon. I’m afraid to continue surveillance because I had to stay fairly close to the truck through a series of curves just a few miles back. Please tell me what you want me to do!”

  Springer instantly answered, “Stay put, I’m checking options.” After what seemed to be an indeterminable wait, but was only about 20 seconds, Springer came back on. “Terminate surveillance #4. Jerry and Pepe, get your asses moving, head southeast on Highway 2 for 30 miles to a sharp left curve in the road. At that curve, take a right onto a gravel National Forest road which runs directly south for 20 miles and then intersects with Highway 200, just above the town of Trout Creek. We think the suspects may go to the intersection of Highway 200 and turn left on 200 to go east towards Trout Creek. Highway 200 eventually leads to Missoula, where the University of Montana is located. This fits with the college boy crack made by one of the Canadians. The gravel road is windy and goes over a 5,000 foot pass. Have either of you driven gravel mountain roads?”

  “You bet boss. I’ve been driving up and down a 25-mile long, windy mountain road to Mineral King, east of Visalia, for ten years on camping vacations. Couldn’t afford to take the kids to Hawaii,” said Jerry.

  “Stop bitchin’ about your pay grade, just go. By the way, the local sheriff says the only traffic you’ll see on the road are four legged friends. Be careful, I don’t like road kill venison,” said Springer.

  Pepe said, “I agree with you on the venison, but a moose steak isn’t too bad.”

  “Be careful what you wish for agent,” retorted Springer, clicking off.

  Springer spoke to his air support at the small airport serving the resort town of Sandpoint, Idaho. The feedback wasn’t good. It was dark and a plane flying back and forth at night over a small paved road would be suspicious, no matter how thick-headed the perps are. Springer told the Sandpoint aerial support team to stand down.

  Jerry was scaring the shit out of Pepe. The U.S. Forest road was only a lane and one-half wide. It followed a river ravine on one side, with a steep drop-off. The road was deeply rutted and had its fair share of potholes. Jerry, except on the sharpest corners, was driving the V-6 Toyota Tacoma at 50 mph, at least double the safe speed for the road conditions at night. Somehow, they got to the top of the pass without spinning out to their death. Pepe breathed a sign of relief, thinking, We may get through this.

  Jerry broke his revelry, “Now for the tough part, going downhill on gravel. There’s always a chance a vehicle’s tires will lose traction and just slide off the road on a curve.”

  “Thanks Jerry. That’s making me feel a lot better.” Halfway down the pass, Jerry misjudged the sharpness of a curve and Pepe felt the tires slip into a four wheel slide. Jerry was lightly applying the brakes and turning into the skid. Luckily the outside of the curve didn’t end in a 1,000 foot drop to the river below, but instead ended in a carved out cliff, rapidly approaching. The brakes finally gripped and the Tacoma slowed and rammed into the side of the cliff at 10 mph.

  The truck bounced back into the middle of the road and Jerry stepped on the accelerator, laughing and yelling, “Just like bumper cars, heh Pepe!”

  Pepe didn’t say anything for a long moment, then screamed at Jerry, “You crazy son-of-a-bitch, slow down! This job isn’t worth it.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it down a notch.”

  Pepe finally unclenched his fists when the road straightened out on the floor of the valley.

  Pepe could barely make out the marshy grassland on his right when he screamed, “Look out for the elephant!”

  “It’s a big bull moose, just out for his evening graze. You’re the one who said he liked moose steaks.”

  Pepe swore, “I’m going vegan. Except maybe carne asada, now and again, on family occasions.”

  They pulled up on a side road outside Trout Creek and called in to Springer. “We’re in position outside of Trout Creek.’’

  “If you have beaten the perps to Trout Creek, filet mignon dinners for you, on me.”

  Jerry responded, “Just buy the two steaks for me, Pepe has just sworn off meat.” Two minutes later, Jerry called in again and told Springer, “You owe me two steak dinners.”

  The perps’ pickup was driving along at the speed limit, heading southeast on Highway 200 towards Missoula. Jerry let a car pass between him and the perps before he pulled out to follow. An hour into the surveillance, the perps turned into Mountain Burger, located in the one-block-town of Dixon. The neon sign advertised buffalo burgers and huckleberry milk shakes.

  Pepe’s stomach was growling. He bitched, “Here we are with a stale bag of potato chips, while the scumbags are munching on juicy burgers and fries, all washed down with huckleberry shakes. And they say crime doesn’t pay.”

  “Stop whining Pepe. I’m sure we can dig up a Mexican restaurant for you in Missoula after we put the perps to bed.”

  From the food stop, it was only another 45 minutes before the pickup truck left the main east-west interstate, Highway 90, at the University of Montana exit in Missoula. Jerry followed them down several tree-lined residential streets near the University to a large brick house with an unkempt front yard. The perps pulled up in front, taking the duffle bag inside. Jerry and Pepe documented the address and physical description of the residence for a future search warrant. They reported into Springer and were told to get some sleep an
d to be back at the residence at seven in the morning to renew surveillance. By 10:00 a.m., Springer would arrange for another surveillance team to relieve them.

  At 7 o’clock sharp the next morning, Pepe and Jerry were sitting on the residence, munching on Egg McMuffins and hash browns. Jerry wondered aloud, “With all this fine dining we enjoy on surveillances, can I get workman’s compensation for my anticipated clogged arteries heart attack?” ASAC Springer’s call put an end to the fruitless conversation. He briefed them about the Canadian surveillance. The Canadian suspects had traveled north on Highway 95 to the TransCanadian Highway and then on to Vancouver. They dropped the two duffle bags at a small warehouse, which had a sign near the door, World Food Imports. The suspects were then followed to an apartment complex in North Vancouver.

  At 9:15, the same two U.S. perps exited the brick house, the white guy with a book under his arm, walking towards campus, while the Hispanic, with a duffle bag, got into the pickup.

  He drove to eastern Missoula and pulled into an industrial complex. There, the Hispanic parked behind a warehouse, which had a sign in front, World Food Imports. Fifteen minutes later the pickup came from around the back, minus the trailer with the off-road Ranger. Jerry called for a team to check out the warehouse and followed the suspect back to the brick house. At the house, Jerry and Pepe were relieved, a new surveillance team took over.

  Pepe and Jerry took the next flight out to Salt Lake City. They flew into Lindbergh Field as the sun was setting over the ocean. Pepe commented, “It’s nice to be at sea level with no windy, gravel mountain roads in sight.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was the Tuesday after the first successful joint surveillance of La Familia at the Canadian border with RCMP. Nick assembled his team in the conference room. The room looked almost as tired as the people in it. There were scattered files, laptop computers, an empty pizza box, as well as a half dozen, brown-stained coffee cups. The team had been working 16-hour days since the joint surveillance, gathering information and writing up a search warrant to authorize GPS trackers on the target vehicles. Their RCMP counterparts were equally spent, and also putting a case together to obtain an authorization to place a GPS tracker on the Canadian vehicle.