by Brad Parks
But by that point, her momentum was already gone. So was her nerve. Whatever spell she had been under was broken.
Fantasies aside, Natalie Dupree was no assassin. She was a mother. A mother who didn’t want to do something that would send her to jail and make orphans of her children.
Still, she hadn’t come this far not to get any satisfaction at all.
She pulled out the gun, took aim at one of the lions, and shot it in the face.
CHAPTER 44
There was no dust plume, no glinting windshield, nothing that alerted Herrera or anyone else to El Vio’s impending arrival.
That’s because he had come in the dark of night. El Vio and his motorcade of Range Rovers were at the gates of Rosario No. 2 before anyone could sound the alarm, before Herrera was even out of bed, and certainly before he could gather his wits about him enough to run.
Unpredictable. Always.
Herrera was still shoving his hand through his sleep-matted hair and hoping he had managed to button his shirt properly as he stumbled into the bunker. El Vio was standing there, perfectly alert, perfectly impatient, perfectly dressed in black, still wearing his mirrored sunglasses. His utility belt had two pistols strapped to it instead of the usual one.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
There was no point in lying. “Sleeping,” he said.
“Do you think the federales are sleeping right now? Do you think the Zetas are sleeping?”
Yes, actually, Herrera thought.
“We have a night watch, El Vio,” Herrera said. “I have trained them to be on the lookout for any large threats. If Sinaloa made a move against us, we would be ready for them, and they would pay a terrible price. We had three rocket launchers trained on your vehicles as you approached. It’s a good thing our men recognized your motorcade and eased off their triggers. Next time, you might want to let us know you’re coming.”
That was a lie, though El Vio accepted the bluff thoroughly enough that he shifted his weight, momentarily uncomfortable, like he was imagining the cabin of his Range Rover engulfed in flames. He turned his head to the side for a moment, exposing a momentary flash of white from his right eye.
“Very well,” El Vio said, turning back. “What’s the latest with our friend in West Virginia?”
Herrera suppressed the urge to twitch. There couldn’t have been a worse time for El Vio to be here or to ask that question. Herrera had listened to the phone call between the banker and his wife four times. It didn’t sound like the banker was going to take the FBI’s deal, but if El Vio heard the same phone call and thought otherwise . . .
It could be a disaster. The kind that would have El Vio deciding he needed a new director of security.
“We have two contractors in America,” Herrera said. “They are very good. Our friend is their sole concern. They are monitoring the situation closely.”
“I want more than monitoring. I want results. I am tired of this remaining unresolved. You’re not being aggressive enough.”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“What are the contractors’ names?”
“Ruiz and Gilmartin.”
“I want to speak to them. Now,” El Vio said.
What choice did Herrera have? At least it was possible El Vio’s ire might be redirected toward the contractors. Herrera pulled out his phone and called Ruiz, so they could talk in Spanish. When Ruiz answered, mumbling about how it was three o’clock in the morning, Herrera pressed the button for speakerphone.
“It is time to wake up,” Herrera announced. “I have El Vio on the phone.”
“El Vio!” Ruiz said, now awake. “This is an honor, sir!”
“What is the news from West Virginia?” El Vio asked.
“We are there now,” Ruiz said. “We have a man inside the prison. He has gotten close to our friend.”
“This is the large black man the General has told me about?”
“Not exactly, El Vio.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I told the General we had a man inside. I just misled him about which one,” Ruiz said. “Forgive me for lying, El Vio. I didn’t want anyone fouling up our operation and approaching our asset. We worked too hard to develop him. Our man is not a large black man. He is a small white man. And he’s not an assassin. He’s an actor.”
“An actor!” El Vio said.
Was Herrera mistaken? Or did El Vio actually sound . . . pleased?
“Yes, El Vio. And he doesn’t know who he’s really working for. He thinks we are with the FBI. Right now, the actor has made our friend a very generous offer—a million dollars in exchange for the documents.”
“But the offer is really coming from us,” El Vio said, actually smiling. Herrera had never seen El Vio smile before.
Now Herrera doubly didn’t want El Vio hearing the phone call between the banker and his wife. Nothing would erase the smile from El Vio’s face faster if he understood how unlikely it was the banker would take this deal.
“That’s right,” Ruiz said. “We feel confident our friend will accept the offer. He’s thinking it over right now.”
“Very good. Offer two million if you like. Three million. Whatever it takes. The money is not important.”
“Yes, El Vio.”
“And the actor is unaware who he’s really working for?”
“I assure you, El Vio, he has no idea.”
CHAPTER 45
I skipped the poker game that Saturday night.
My official excuse was that I had been running around in the rain and now I was coming down with something. I sent Masri as my replacement. I’m sure the guys didn’t care too much.
I then filled the night by brooding. I had called Danny and told him Dupree needed time to think about it. It was a simple enough message to convey that I used our code. There was no point in taking that one-in-fifteen chance unnecessarily.
Danny replied, also in code, that he would talk to his SAC about keeping the deal open for a week.
Which gave me a week to get Mitch to change his mind. There had to be a way.
The alternative was that I just stick it out for the next four-plus months, hoping he inadvertently slipped up and gave me a lead I could have Danny and Rick chase down—a lead that worked out better than the cabin.
Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to give up. I had already decided that. I was closing in on two months inside. I could make it another four. Even if I didn’t get the big bonus, seventy-five grand was more than I’d be able to make between now and April 9 doing anything else. I just had to grit it out.
When I woke up the next morning, that cold rain was still falling. It made me feel like maybe I was coming down with something. There’s no inspection on Sundays, so after breakfast I climbed back into my unmade bed. Frank had already gone off to church, giving me the room to myself. I had my book. My hope was to stay there and do nothing but read it until at least lunch, a plan that was going perfectly until one of the Randolph COs came into my room shortly after eight o’clock.
“Goodrich,” he said. “You’ve got a visitor.”
“I do?” I said, genuinely confused. “Who?”
“Your cousin.”
That barely seemed possible. I had two cousins. They grew up in Yonkers. Even when I wasn’t in prison, I barely—
Then I realized which “cousin” he meant. It had to be Amanda. She was the only nonfictitious person on my visitors list.
But what was she doing here? And without notice? We had talked on Friday, like usual. Trying to get a conversation going had been another exercise in dental extraction. There had been no mention of coming to see me. Not even a hint it was something she was thinking about.
I kicked off my blankets and hopped down to the ground. My fingers trembled as I tied the laces on my boots. I was alre
ady making guesses as to why my fiancée had felt compelled to make the five-hour drive down to West Virginia and take the risk of seeing me.
None of them were good. My first thought went to the baby. She had lost it. Or there was something wrong with the fetus. Or there was something wrong with her.
Then there were other possibilities. My mother was sick. My mother was hurt. Someone in the family had died. Whatever the case, it was devastating enough she didn’t want to tell me over the phone and pressing enough that it couldn’t wait.
The CO had already moved on, leaving me to escort myself up to the administration building, which housed the visitors’ center. I ran there. A CO just inside the door logged me in and reminded me I wasn’t allowed to accept any items from my visitor and that I would be searched on the way back out. I could barely bring myself to pay attention.
Then I was let into the visiting room, a large, cafeteria-like space with vending machines against the wall and tables and chairs set up throughout. Only a few of the tables had people sitting at them.
Amanda was in one of the corners and stood when she saw me. She was wearing a cowl-neck sweater she thought wasn’t sexy on her. Naturally, I disagreed. The last time she wore it, we had gone out to a party, then come home and made love, then fallen asleep together in a naked tangle.
But I could tell right away the next memory associated with that sweater wasn’t going to be nearly as happy. She looked tired, empty. Like she had been crying a lot.
My head, already spinning with awful thoughts, rotated even faster. My heart was throwing itself against the inside of my rib cage. Seeing her was at once joyous and agonizing. Something terrible had happened. Something that had already gutted her and was now going to take its turn with my insides.
I walked over to her and, without a word—and without worrying about what the COs might think if any of them realized Amanda was listed as my cousin—kissed her softly on the mouth. Then I embraced her. FCI Morgantown regulations permit one hug and one kiss at the start and end of a visit—yes, the Bureau of Prisons even rations how much affection an inmate can receive. I was going to make the most of mine.
Despite the circumstances, despite the surroundings, despite my fears about the terrible news I was about to hear, it felt incredible just to be near her. Incarceration divests you of so many liberties and material comforts, from something as consequential as the freedom of movement to something as simple as what brand of toothpaste you use. But the most powerful of all the deprivations is loving human contact. I missed it more than I had realized, on both a deep emotional level and a more immediate physical level: Within a second and a half, I had an erection. I pressed myself against her. She pulled herself even tighter, reaching around to grip my ass with both hands. I inhaled her scent, a smell I missed more than I realized.
I could have spent the entire day like that. Not talking. Not moving. Just holding her, feeling her heat, feeling the curves of her body. For all the times I had sung about characters who didn’t want to let go, this was the first time I had truly felt it myself.
But, finally, a CO who had been hanging out near one of the vending machines walked up and gently said, “Okay, inmate. That’s enough.”
We released each other, then sat down. She scooted as close to me as she could. I was desperate to hold her hand, just so we could keep touching. But no one else seemed to be doing it, and I didn’t need the CO hovering over us anymore.
I began with, “I’ve missed you so, so—”
“And I’ve missed you, too. But we can’t start with that now. There’s something really important I have to tell you.”
Okay, here goes. I braced myself and said, “What’s that?”
And then she said among the last things I ever expected to hear:
“Danny Ruiz doesn’t work for the FBI.”
I felt my brow wrinkle. “What are you talking about? Of course he does.”
Amanda proceeded to tell me about how Brock had figured out I wasn’t on tour. She then related a story Brock had heard from a high school friend of ours. It involved Danny Ruiz appearing in federal court.
As a defendant, not as a prosecuting witness.
“That’s . . . I’m sure there’s some kind of misunderstanding,” I said. “You’ve seen him. He has that FBI car. And that FBI shield. And that FBI business card. And that FBI helpline. And that FBI money. And those FBI documents . . . I mean, those were—”
“Fakes. All of it was fake,” she said quietly.
“No. I’m sure Brock just got it mixed up. There’s got to be some kind of explanation—”
“I just spent all night in the car with Brock,” she said. “He drove me down here late because he knew I wasn’t in any shape to drive myself. I was on the Internet most of the way. Daniel Ruiz is a pretty common name, but Brock remembered that Danny’s birthday was November 10, the day after his.”
“Yeah. We’d get cupcakes on back-to-back days in homeroom.”
“Well, anyway, I paid for full access to one of those public record search sites. I found a Daniel Roberto Ruiz who matched that birthday who was indicted on drug-trafficking charges in federal court. And there was a judge’s order to dismiss the charges. It was a sua sponte dismissal, whatever that means. Southern District of New York. Dated two years ago.”
I thought back to the quick bio Danny had given me as we were walking away from the Morgenthau back on Labor Day weekend. He mentioned the army, college, and being recruited by the FBI. Then he talked about having worked there for three years.
Three years, yeah. Hard to believe. It’s been a good ride, though.
There wasn’t any space in that timeline for facing federal drug charges, much less room in the FBI for someone who was a legal glitch away from being a convicted felon. Maybe as an informant. But not as an agent.
“Oh my God,” I said.
I looked up at the ceiling, already blinking back tears. But I couldn’t hold them. They were soon streaming down my face as the enormity of my blunder surrounded me.
“Oh, Amanda,” I groaned, then repeated, “Oh my God.”
“Shh, honey. Shh.”
But there was no consoling me. Not immediately. She had to know that. So she just let me spout for a while.
Bizarrely, I found myself thinking of something I learned in science class many years earlier. At any given moment of any given day, we are carrying around a column of air that’s as tall as the atmosphere itself. It’s a massive weight: something approaching forty thousand pounds for a full-size adult, the equivalent of thirteen Honda Civics. We don’t feel it, though, because just as that pushes down on us from above, an equal force supports us from below, and all is well.
Or at least that’s how it’s supposed to go. It just wasn’t working for me anymore. The entire weight of that column was crushing me with nothing to counterbalance it. It was like I was never going to be able to get out of that chair or take another step.
I had covered my face with my hands and was drawing in labored breaths. My first intelligible words, after a string of unintelligible ones, were: “I am such a fool. I am such a fool.”
“We were all fooled.”
“But I’m the bigger fool. The much, much bigger fool. I was just . . . I was blinded. By the money. By my friendship with Danny. By . . .”
By wanting so badly to be with you, Amanda. But I didn’t say that part. I didn’t want to sound like I was blaming her for my own stupidity.
And there was lots of it, now that I looked back. I thought of the morning after they first approached me, when we returned to the diner. When Danny suggested I ask for more money, I took it as a sign he was looking out for me. Because I wanted to believe it. The whole thing was just a gambit, designed to set the hook, then reel me in. When I asked Gilmartin about taking the contract to a lawyer, he probably already knew I couldn’t afford one.
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And on it went. They cautioned me against speeding because they couldn’t risk the scrutiny of real law enforcement. They wouldn’t go anywhere near the federal courthouse in Morgantown for the same reason. They paid for everything in cash, even the things they bought for themselves, because not even they could fake an FBI credit card.
I removed my hands and looked at her. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. And I haven’t just ruined my life. I’ve ruined yours, too. I’ve ruined the baby’s life. I’ve ruined everything.”
“Just try to get ahold of yourself,” Amanda said.
Glancing at the CO, who was watching me carefully from about fifty feet away—because I was clearly in the middle of a breakdown—I lowered my voice to a fierce whisper. “Get ahold of myself? Don’t you get it? I pleaded guilty. Freely and voluntarily. In an actual court of law. In front of an actual judge. And the FBI isn’t going to be able to come get me out anytime I want, because the real FBI has no idea I’m even here. I’m stuck here for the next eight years of my life. Eight. Years.”
“Shh,” Amanda said again.
“This is for real. What am I supposed to do? Go to the actual FBI and be like, ‘Yeah, so, there’s been this little mix-up. . . .’ The administration here won’t even let me talk to the FBI. It’s very clear in the handbook that I’m not allowed to initiate contact with law enforcement. Only with the courts. And the courts would look back at my sentencing and be like, ‘Uhh, sorry, pal, you pleaded guilty. Nothing we can do.’ That’s if I could even get them to pay attention. And I probably couldn’t. Chances are they’d just ignore me, because I’m nothing more than another crazy convict who has become unhinged in prison and is now telling wild stories that no one would possibly believe.
“And it’s not even like I can say, ‘Ha-ha! That was Pete Goodrich who pleaded guilty, not Tommy Jump. So you can keep Pete Goodrich, but Tommy Jump is leaving now.’ I gave them my fingerprints. So, sure, I could waltz out of here and they might not notice for a few hours. But you can be damn sure they’d start looking after that. And when they caught me, they wouldn’t care if I was Tommy Jump or Pete Goodrich. As far as they would be concerned, my fingerprints belong to a guy who is supposed to be in prison. All I would have done by running away is added five years to my sentence for attempted escape. And I would serve it in a place a lot worse than this.”
