Path to Justice

by Jim Dutton

  “Okay. We’ll set a status conference in 60 days for setting of motions and a trial date. Do I have a waiver of your constitutional right to a speedy trial to four months from this date or would you rather spend every waking hour over the next two months going over 60,000 pages of discovery?”

  The defense, one by one, waived their constitutional right to a speedy trial. Judge Orsini looked around and smiled, “Now that wasn’t too bad. I trust we’ll get along just fine over the ensuing months. You’re excused.”

  Nick spoke to Josh quietly as they walked out of the courtroom. “I was getting claustrophobic in there with all those defense attorneys and defendants. The first thing we have to do is to separate the wheat from the chaff. Work up offers for the lower 12, from five to 10 years apiece. Once those attorneys start pouring through all that discovery and realize how long a trial could take, they’ll want out. Although they’ll be making money on this case, a long, drawn out proceeding will destroy their client base for their solo practitioner offices.”

  After a sandwich, Josh and Nick went to the U.S. Attorney conference room in the federal building. The press conference was to start in 10 minutes. Nick went over to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern Region of California, Bea Kowalski, and gave her a hug. “Bea, thank you again for what you did for Agent Cantana.”

  “I would do it for any agent in trouble.”

  Bea was raised in a small town in Iowa, before going to Stanford undergrad and Duke Law School. Her first job was with the San Diego Office of the U.S. Attorney and she has stayed there ever since. She was a hard-nosed, fair and extremely competent career prosecutor.

  Nick turned to look across the room at State Attorney General Ken Hamilton and his entourage. General Hamilton beckoned Nick over. They didn’t even pretend to smile or bother to shake hands. “Nick, this better go off without a hitch. The press conference is very important to me. Many people, some in Washington D.C., will be following this case.”

  “Oh, trying to get appointed the U.S. Attorney? You’ll miss the weather here. It sucks in D.C. except for two weeks in the spring and a month in the fall.”

  “No more of your smart-ass remarks Nick. Is everything set? The power point and the seized drugs and guns?”

  “Yes, Rona took care of it. Everything will go smoothly. But, you better remove that piece of lettuce stuck between your front teeth.” Nick turned away and walked back to Josh, leaving the General to pick at a non existent piece of lettuce.

  The office holder politicians wanted to be on the podium. Bea Kowalski and Ken Hamilton stood side by side, behind the microphone. They were flanked on either side by the San Diego department heads of DEA, ICE, Homeland Security, California Bureau of Investigation, and the San Diego County Sheriff’s Office. Nick and Josh took spots at the respective far ends of the celebrity line. AG Hamilton started out, thanking the various agencies that participated in the investigation and emphasizing that the attorney heading up the task force was from his office. He didn’t bother to name Nick. Ken went on to extoll the efforts that his office had undergone to combat transnational organized crime. He was so gratified that these efforts had come to fruition with the indictment of the three top leaders of the Baja Norte Familia.

  U.S. Attorney Kowalski made her opening remarks. Much more concise and heartfelt as to efforts of the individual task force members, whom she named. She made the salient point that it wasn’t possible to bring these cartel members to justice without the cooperative efforts of several agencies. “We are a team—local, state and federal. We’re in this together.”

  Rona operated the power point projector as Hamilton and Kowalski took turns explaining the photographs of the investigation shown on the large screen. U.S. Attorney Kowalski, tired of the dog and pony show, left to go back upstairs to get some real work done. General Hamilton, flashing his megawatt smile at the reporters, ushered them into a side room to see the seized packages of heroin and firearms. By this time, Nick and Josh had skipped out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Luis Hernandez-Lopez sat on the metal bunk in his six foot by eight foot cell, getting more and more pissed off. He had been in isolation for over two months at San Diego’s Metropolitan Corrections Center. He was going stir crazy. For twenty-three hours each day he sat in his cell. A trustee brought him meals three times a day, sliding a tray through a slot in the cell door. He had a toilet and a small sink in the cell, no chair and no windows. He read by the corridor light that was turned off at 9:00 each night. For the last three weeks, he was reading the grand jury transcripts of the witnesses’ testimony over and over, looking for any little thing he could use to his advantage. He kept coming back to an agent’s testimony about what Felicia had said about him. That whoring Bitch. Puta! She was nothing. Nothing but big tits and a good lay. After all that he had done for her. Anything she wanted he had bought for her. He set her up in his estancia outside of Rosarito Beach. That ungrateful Bitch! Always whining about wanting to go back and visit her family in San Diego. She deserved to be slapped around. There was only one way to treat an ungrateful Bitch. She wouldn’t be around by the time of trial. Luis promised she wouldn’t die easily.

  Jaime Hernandez-Salgado opened the letter from his third cousin, Luis. He hadn’t seen Luis for a few years. Jaime had been avoiding him. He wanted nothing to do with Luis and the Baja Norte Familia. Jaime was working hard to make a go of his Mexican restaurant, the Purple Flamingo, under the San Diego side of the Coronado Bridge. He remembered it was at the restaurant that he had last seen Luis. Luis had come in like a big shot, with a beautiful woman on his arm and two bodyguards. He acted like they were the best of friends. Jaime had to comp Luis for the meals and the dozen or so Cadillac margaritas they sucked up. Jaime wanted to keep Luis happy, but at a safe distance. Jaime knew that Luis was being held in MCC. It was in all the newspapers and the talk of the family. Jaime’s stomach felt queasy as he unfolded the letter.

  The letter was brief and foreboding. Dear Cousin, I miss seeing you. I look forward to you visiting me this Sunday during visiting hours, 2 to 4. You need to make an appointment online. My prison number is 9743201. See you then. With great sincerity, Luis.

  Jaime thought, That son-of-a-bitch. He wants me to do something for him. “With great sincerity.” What was that supposed to mean? A threat if he didn’t show. Of course, I will go. You don’t say no to family or the Familia.

  Sunday, at 2:30, a guard escorted Jaime down a long hallway, through a series of secure doors and up two flights of stairs, to a small room with a counter, situated below steel mesh glass. The guard motioned Jaime to sit in the plastic chair next to the counter and the telephone. The guard, in a clipped voice, told Jaime, “The prisoner will sit down on the other side of the glass partition in a few minutes. He’ll initiate the telephone contact. When you hear a beep, pick up the phone and follow the instructions. You have 15 minutes of telephone time.” The guard left Jaime alone in the room. Five to ten minutes later, Jaime saw Luis shuffle in, his legs cuffed. The connecting chain only allowed him to step a foot at a time. It was completely different to see Luis in an orange jumpsuit, no jewelry, and with bags under his eyes. Even his meticulously kept hair had a few strands out of place. Jaime couldn’t help thinking, It was an improvement. The guard uncuffed one of Luis hands, leaving the other one connected by a chain to his leg shackles. Jaime thought, He is smart not to take any chances with Luis.

  Jaime watched Luis fumble with the telephone, putting the receiver in the crook of his neck while he dialed several numbers. Luis pressed a few more numbers after listening to the prompts. Jaime heard a beep and picked up his receiver. A robotic voice told him that all telephone conversations are taped. If he wanted to talk to the inmate, to press one. Jaime pressed one and Luis started the conversation. “Jaime, good to see you. As you can tell we don’t have much privacy in here. All telephone calls are taped and all incoming or outgoing correspondence is read a
nd copied. The prison guards are a bunch of voyeurs.”

  “Luis, this is the first time I’ve been in a prison. It’s all new to me. How are they treating you?”

  “I’m in isolation. I get one hour a day to exercise by myself in a courtyard. The meals suck and are fattening. I’ve gained five pounds. I’m bored and I feel like firing my attorney who hasn’t gotten me out on bail yet. Other than that, everything is fine. I have a quaint studio cell, with just enough room to sleep and use the toilet. I’m not in danger of getting skin cancer—no natural light graces my features.”

  “Sorry to hear that Luis. But, I really don’t want anything to do with all of this.”

  “You’re family. You always were the good one. Working hard at your restaurant. I hope nothing happens to it. I hear grease fires are rather common. Could burn the whole building down. You need to be careful. You know I’d help you if anything like that were to happen? We’re family. We help each other out. Right?”

  Jaime felt the blood leave his head. He began to feel faint. He started to take deep breaths. He stared at Luis. Luis’ dark eyes were unforgiving. “Right Luis. We’re family.”

  “Good. Jaime, you don’t look so good. If you need to splash some water on your face when you leave, there’s a bathroom just off of the public visitor waiting area. You really need to take care of yourself. I know what’s best for you.”

  “Okay Luis. It probably is a good idea to splash some water on my face.”

  “I’ll be seeing you soon Jaime. Vaya con Dios.”

  Jaime buzzed the guard to be let out. The guard escorted him through the secure doors and said, “Just down the hallway and to the right is the reception area. They’ll let you out.”

  Halfway down the hallway, a trustee, carrying a mop approached Jaime from the opposite direction. As the trustee went by, he whispered out of the side of his mouth with eyes straight ahead, “Under the sink, a note.”

  Jaime battled with himself as he continued down the hall. Should I pretend I didn’t hear and just leave without using the bathroom? Luis is drawing me into his net. Nothing good would come out of this. But, something horrific would happen if I don’t do what Luis says. Luis wouldn’t think twice about having someone torch my restaurant. That would be five years of hard work—gone. I have no choice.

  Jaime went into the bathroom. No one else was there. He reached underneath the sink and felt around. Towards the back of the sink there was a small baggie containing something. He pulled at the baggie. It was stuck to the underside of the sink. With more effort, the baggie pulled away from the sink but was still connected. Jaime felt a sticky substance between the sink and baggie. He broke it off with his fingers. He brought the baggie out and saw freshly chewed gum sticking to the underneath portion of the baggie. Inside the baggie was a piece of paper, folded several times. Jaime wrapped the baggie with a small piece of paper towel and placed it in his front pocket.

  Jaime walked to the receptionist window. “I just want to compliment MCC for such a clean and tidy bathroom. I wasn’t expecting a public bathroom to be so clean. I’m in the restaurant business. Do you use a particular service?”

  “No, the prison trustees do it. They take their time and do an excellent job. It gets them out of their cells and gives them something to do.”

  Jaime was on his second bourbon and water back at his restaurant before he got the courage to open up the note. Unfolded, the note consisted of a quarter of a letter size page. The note was concise. Every Sunday visit me at 2:30. When you leave, check under the sink. Green light on Felicia. Probably attending a dental hygienist school out of state under a different name. Top priority. Do not spare resources. Take this note to bartender Jesus at the La Frontera Bar in San Ysidro. Put Pato on it.” Jaime thought, What the hell does “green light” mean?

  He checked online and found that La Frontera was on San Ysidro Boulevard, a few blocks east of Interstate 5. Late Sunday afternoon seemed like a good time to drop off a message to Jesus at the bar. Twenty minutes later, Jaime parked his Jetta next to several motorcycles in front of the bar. No curb appeal. A one story, stucco building that needed paint. A flashing neon light, missing several lights, announced you were at La Frontera. A couple of worn Corona posters were hanging in the windows. Jaime ventured in. He could barely make out the long wooden bar through the smoke and low lights. The jarring sound of pool balls hitting each other directed Jaime’s attention to the rear of the bar. A middle-aged woman, in leathers with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, was half sitting on the side of the pool table, lining up a shot. A behemoth, with a ZZ Top beard, was drinking out of a pitcher across from her. Jaime reverted his eyes to the bar. A half dozen people were spread out along the bar. The nearest was grunting as he took a bite out of a double hamburger. Grease dripped down his chin. A grimy sleeve of his work shirt doubled as a napkin. Jaime took a stool as far away from the other customers as he could. Behind the bar, a wide man with long black hair in a ponytail had his back to Jaime. The man was rinsing off some pint glasses and putting them back on the shelves. Jaime didn’t see any soap. The man turned, and took a couple of steps towards Jaime. “What are you having?”

  “A Coors Light would be fine.”

  The big man guffawed. “We don’t have any of that light beer piss around here. You’ve got a choice, Corona, Tecate, Budweiser or Pabst?”

  “A Tecate is fine. I’m here to find Jesus, the bartender. I’m a cousin of Luis Hernandez-Lopez. I’m Jaime Hernandez-Salgado.”

  “Make up your mind. Are you looking for a bartender or trying to find your savior?

  “I-I-I-I was just told by, by LLLuis…”

  “I’m just foolin’ with you. You’re really wet behind the ears. Are you sure you’re related to Luis?”

  Yeah, I own a Mexican restaurant in Diego.”

  “Oh, I know who you are. You’re the goody-goody of the family and own that swish restaurant, the Purple Flamingo. Luis has talked about you.” The bartender walked right up to Jaime. Jaime could see his bulging arms in his sleeveless T-shirt. On his right bicep was a tat that outlined Baja Norte California and had the word Familia in red inside the outline. On his left bicep was a skull and cross bones with the number 187 written in red along the skull. There were several tatted tear drops down his cheek, below his left eye. “I’m Jesus, the bartender.”

  Jesus put a draft Tecate down in front of Jaime. “On the house. What does Luis want?”

  Jaime pulled the note from his pocket and gave it to Jesus. Jesus read it to himself. He said out loud to himself, “I haven’t seen a kite in a while.”

  “What’s a kite?”

  “You’re looking at it. It’s the way inmates communicate with each other about things they don’t want the guards to know about. Often a trustee will help deliver a kite to the intended recipient.”

  “What’s a green light?”

  “You don’t want to know joven. Let’s just say it’s not good. You can tell Luis—message delivered.”

  Jamie downed his beer, dropped a couple of ones on the bar, and left. The jukebox was serenading him with Jalisco as he stepped through the door. Jamie went straight home and got on his computer. He looked up the meaning of tattoos. He found that in gang culture, 187 over a skull and crossbones signified the person was an assassin or hit man for the gang. 187 is the Penal Code section in California for murder. Jamie began to shake uncontrollably.

  The next morning, Jesus got on his Harley and headed for Luis’ compound in the hills above Rosarito Beach. Jesus told front gate security, “I have to see Pato.” Jesus was taken to the upstairs study where Pato was looking at three large screen televisions. One was tuned to CNN, one to a stock market channel, and one to Sports Center. Pato’s real name was Javier Esquel Ranchez. He was Luis’ protege—just turned thirty, sophisticated, had a degree in economics, and has a way with the ladies.

  Pato look
ed at the note Jesus handed him. “That’s Luis’ handwriting. I don’t think Felicia has long for this earth. It’s too bad they missed her awhile back. Would have saved me a lot of trouble. This dental hygiene school sounds like a decent lead. All she could talk about was going back to school to become a dental hygienist. When you have a snitch and Luis is scorned, no rock shall remain unturned in our search. I’ll begin a Google search of schools. Knowing the government, they probably placed her as far away from us as possible, like in the middle of the country or with a moose in Maine. Thanks, Jesus. I may need you later on this.”

  Before retiring that evening, Pato went to Felicia’s bedroom that hadn’t been touched since she left. Luis used to believe she’d come back to him. Luis had thought, What woman would not? On top of her dresser was a framed photo of her with co-workers at a restaurant. Pato recalled that she had worked as a waitress at a steak and seafood restaurant off J Street in Chula Vista. Inside a desk drawer, he found correspondence from her aunt. Felicia used to bore Luis and Pato at meal times with stories of her childhood and her aunt raising her. It might be worth a friendly visit to the aunt to see if Pato could charm some information out of her about Felicia’s whereabouts. Pato didn’t believe in using a stick unless absolutely necessary. Carrots and sugar always worked well for Pato.

  Late afternoon the next day, Pato drove across the border and went to Terry’s Steakhouse at the end of J street. He was wearing his casual professional outfit—silk polo shirt, pressed chinos, and loafers. He walked straight up to the bartender, with a big smile.

  “Hello, I’m Lorenzo. I’m a lawyer for Felicia Esperanza-Salas. Here’s my bar card. She hired me to handle a small slip and fall case at a grocery store. They finally agreed to settle. Problem is, I can’t find her. She left her old apartment about a year ago with no forwarding address. Her cellphone number has been disconnected. I remembered her talking about this restaurant. Do you have any idea where she is?’