The NAFTA Blueprint
Page 20
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A luxury had been granted to me several years ago. I had worked as a liaison of sorts between the L.A. Times and the Department of Health and Human Services on a longitudinal study, which allowed me the privilege of requesting specific addresses of any party I wished. I carried a letter with me at all times, a journalistic tool, that stipulated my privilege to obtain such information and I still carried my old L.A. Times badge―I was never questioned. More so when I was working on a story out-of-state because people respected authority, because it was official, nobody ever wanted to escalate it to upper-level management.
Sometimes a supervisor would step in to examine the authenticity of the letter followed by a few questions, but most of the time it was furnished with quickness. I would wait in line at the customer service desk, hand them the letter with my badge lingering around my neck, smile and make small talk, within a few minutes I had the most updated address for the party I was requesting. As smooth as silk…the illegal trickery of a reporter.
So, at the United States Postal Service main branch in Austin, I obtained Mary Jacobs’―the commissioner’s widow, physical address in Barton Hills, which would be our next stop. But I will admit I was starting to become paranoid. Helena had scrolled some web pages on her phone to investigate any significant concerns related to the medication and it turned out a lead.
Barton Hills was an intimidating, high income, suburban community in the outskirts of Austin. We got ourselves a local map and waved around the winding streets that circled around ranch-style luxury homes with ecological gardens and yards. It was a perfect escape from the hustle and bustle of downtown politics. It seemed like a perfect escape to ponder government corruption, and so I assumed it a perfect hide-out for Jay Jacobs to be tucked away in his corner of solitude. All this wealth around him would have perhaps suggested an underlying tone of absurdity.
We parked on the opposite side and walked to the address anticipating a polemical situation. Noticing my reluctance, Helena glanced over at me and grabbed my hand, “Everything’s going to be alright Michael, don’t worry about it, honey. I’m so glad you got involved in this, you are truly an amazing man.”
You can perhaps imagine what I felt when Helena said those fine words to me. Comforted, accomplished, embarrassed, gratified, aroused, and a slew of other emotions and feelings I couldn’t distinguish. Has anyone ever told you anything of that significance at a chaotic moment such as this, when the world was closing in on you? Well, I didn’t know what to do or how to feel, but I know it reinforced my fondness for her.
I merely squeezed her hand, I smiled, “Shall I knock or should you do the honors?”
We walked towards the front door hand in hand until she released it before knocking. We looked towards each other with a smile plastered on our faces.
An elderly woman opened the wooden door, she glanced through the slight portal. She had piercing green eyes and short auburn hair, easy on the eye I’d like to add, “Hi, can I help you?”
Helena spoke first, “Hi…I’m Helena Stratos and this is Michael Korsakov. How do you do, ma’am? Are you Mary Jacobs by any chance?”
“Why, yes I am, how can I help you sweetie?”
“We were acquaintances with your husband, the commissioner Jay Jacobs. I’m so sorry for your loss. We wanted to extend our condolences to his family. He had given us your address here in Barton Hills after we talked about meeting here for dinner.”
Helena reacted rapid, therefore I continued with the ruse. I looked into Mary Jacobs’ eyes and she jumbled up, she snickered for a moment and took a step back.
I reached in for an uncomfortable embrace between the open door and said, “I’m sorry for your loss ma’am.”
Helena continued, “We had been working on a project with your husband, had he mentioned anything to you about us, or maybe on a project related to NAFTA or the supercorridors?”
She hadn’t used our professional titles of reporter and attorney because it could have caused apprehensiveness. Helena had sharpened skills that were refined with practice, we used reporter and attorney trickery on the poor widow but I didn’t regret any of it since we were interested in exposing the murder of her husband, if such had occurred.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember him mentioning anything about NAFTA or anything related to it. At least not a recent project, but he has always been working on the supercorridors with the Department of Transportation. You should know that…that’s why he’s the commissioner.”
She paused to wipe her tears. “That’s related to NAFTA, but he didn’t mention anything about you folks. I’m sorry, but can you please leave, I’m not interested in wherever this is headed. I don’t know what this is about…but I’m not interested. Please leave. I can’t do this right now.”
Mary Jacobs became apprehensive and began shutting the door. Her voice had shifted from distraught concern to agitated resentment. “Please Mrs. Jacobs, I know this is difficult for you right now, but do you know if the commissioner had any enemies or anyone who wanted to hurt him?” asked Helena.
“What did you say missy―you’re skating on thin ice here? I think you better leave before I call the police. This is private property. How dare you―”
I interrupted with confidence, I hadn’t spoken. We were losing the widow to apathy. “Look ma’am, we’re sorry to disturb you, we know this is extremely difficult for you, but we have reason to believe your husband might have been murdered by some people in a position of power. Your husband knew too much…he was dissatisfied. We were working on a project together related to the supercorridors. He contacted us several times to provide clandestine insight as to the nature of the supercorridors. He was concerned that he was making serious enemies with important business and political alliances. He even maintained that his time was limited so he wanted us to connect the pieces to the puzzle. I’m sorry Mrs. Jacobs, but he was guiding us on a business-government misappropriation of funds conspiracy and he wanted us to expose it. I’m a reporter with the Houston Chronicle and Mrs. Stratos here’s a lawyer based out of Fayetteville. We think he might have been murdered.”
She didn’t respond, she looked at me with blank eyes, she began weeping once again, but at least she hadn’t closed the door.
I continued, “We examined the autopsy report and found traces of a drug called Cardura xl, it’s a medication used to treat prostate cancer, but we know the commissioner had lung cancer. By any chance did the commissioner have high blood pressure or any other condition that would cause him nausea or extreme dizziness?”
“Why yes he did, he had high blood pressure but it was controlled,” said the widow.
“Well, this medication can cause extreme negative reactions if the recipient had high blood pressure and if it was taken in large quantities. The autopsy report showed large traces of this drug in his system, so it’s probable that this could have produced a severe side effect. Do you know how this drug might’ve got into his system? Here, take a look,” I pulled out the autopsy report and handed it to Mrs. Jacobs.
While she read the report, Helena tugged me on the arm and suggested I looked towards the street where we had parked. There was a black Lincoln Town Car parked across the street with an individual inside: clean-shaven, dark sunglasses, short hair, suit and tie, with a coiled surveillance tube, staring in our direction.
Mary Jacobs looked up at us, she noticed our distraught faces looking towards the street, “What have you done, have you brought trouble to my home?”
She slammed the door behind her and left us abandoned on her porch. She kept the autopsy report as well. We looked back towards the street, the vehicle sped off, Helena and I looked at each other―we understood we had to flee. We walked to the car looking in both directions with caution, and then we scurried with our leg
s wobbling across the pavement. I turned on the ignition. As we began driving off, the Lincoln hauled ass to the side and clipped the driver’s mirror. I turned the steering wheel, careening out of control. We almost crashed into a vehicle. We went hysterical, shouting and screaming and cussing. I thought for sure my number was up.
9.