The NAFTA Blueprint

by Rodrigo Garcia

  * * *

  When we arrived at the U.S. Customs port of entry in Houston for people processing, Helena felt ill at ease.

  She tugged me by the arm, “I don’t have a good feeling about this, you know, the last three times I’ve traveled by airplane they’ve searched me thoroughly almost to the point of harassment. I don’t know, maybe I’m flagged or something, something on my passport raises concerns, probably based on the work that I do with the Corridor Watch project. Who knows?”

  I didn’t respond, I looked over and nodded my head followed by a smirk, Helena was nothing but trouble. I don’t know how, but I underestimated her manipulative prowess. I’d been in a situation like this before back in Los Angeles, with Shauna Chandler, it had a crude ending. She worked it and shook her ass well, yet I hadn’t received the slightest physical affection from her that could trigger something of more depth. Tangled in this story that would be the death of me. I was out…I wanted out as soon as we headed back into the city.

  I would shred documents and notes, anything attaching me to NAFTA. We circled around the serpentine line until it was our turn to approach an official standing around a booth. From afar, I could see the agent’s tightened eyes gazing in our direction with a mad diabolic glitter, a surveillance camera with a bird’s eye view mounted on top. The swarm of badges, pistols, navy blue uniforms, and canines intimidating crowd control influenced a slight trembling in my legs.

  Helena approached the booth first. The agent took her passport, he surveyed her several times, afterwards he scanned her passport and fed it into a counterterrorism-watch database, and he asked, “Are you alone?”

  “No, I’m with him,” she said and pointed in my direction. He gestured me to approach the booth with his curling finger.

  “Passport?” he demanded.

  After I furnished it, he went through the same routine he did with Helena’s passport, which he then added, “Where’s your passport card?”

  “My what? My passport card? I don’t know what that is. All I have is my passport.”

  “Neither of you have an enhanced passport card, right? There’s a new travel initiative required by the Department of Homeland Security, it’s called the REALID Act. This Act requires all state DMV offices to provide their residents with a passport card that facilitates identification and travel between the regions of North America. All American, Canadian, and Mexican citizens are required to have the document. And you people clearly do not have one. Please step to the side, the supervisor on duty will handle your situation.”

  “Wait a minute. We don’t have a situation. We don’t need anyone to handle any situation. There must be some mistake. We’re from Texas, nobody told us about any passport card requirement. No questions were asked when we left the country to Canada. This is a mistake. Wait, I’m an attorney, I know my rights!”

  “I’m sorry ma’am, I’m just enforcing the law, this is standard procedure.”

  The Customs agent grabbed a telephone to dial an extension. We were escorted towards an inquisitor room by two looming agents from the K-9 unit who took our luggage. A soaring short-haired blonde stood behind a desk swiveling his head from side to side. He turned his head when he heard us walk in, with a sensation of green fire piercing from his eyelids.

  “Michael Ray Korsakov, Helena Stratos, please sit down, make yourself at home,” he said.

  “Well, as you’ve been somewhat briefed by the agent, the REALID stores biometric information into an enhanced database that maintains unique identifiers such as: fingerprints, facial images, iris scans, and other features to reduce terrorism. This passport card is a de facto national identification. It federalizes and standardizes identification with RFID chips, radio wave frequencies. Maybe Texas has been rebellious in enforcing the Act, causing bureaucratic nightmares for its residents such as this. Yet, the Department of Homeland Security supersedes all state discrepancies and is pursuant to enforcing passport cards for any Americans traveling by land, air, and sea throughout North America. These RFID chips are used in retail, banking, security, medical, shipping containers, universities, museums, tracking attendance, toll roads, in animals and people, everything. They’re tracking devices to help reduce urban terrorism through preventative measures.”

  “Well I don’t know, they sound like spy chips. Tracking devices to replace bar codes? This reduces…no, no, wait…eliminates civil freedoms and liberties. The Patriot Act at its worse,” I moaned.

  And then I asked, “Ok, so…what do we need to get one? How do we get out of here? Look, we don’t have one, and we’re not urban terrorists, so what do we need to do, boss?”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to discuss with―”

  The door clumped boisterously, and on the other end stood a lofty individual with enough clout to interrupt an interrogation process. This could represent an arduous situation for Helena and me. Yet, when our inquisitor opened the door, a middle-aged figure with a balding scalp, wearing a finely pressed black suit with a red and white silk striped tie, flashed an FBI badge and announced ‘Special agent James Robertson from the Houston Division, Chief of the International Terrorism Operations Section―counterterrorism.’ Try as he might, our interrogator could not figure out the angle of this agent.

  Perhaps he thought they had field workers for this type of arrest, which was my thought too. He puffed breath underneath tight-sealed lips, his eyes raised while also squinting. He breathed heavily through his nostrils. He walked around the desk with his arms crossed. He fixated a stare at Helena and I, he looked at the FBI agent, an idea had occurred to him. A phone call was placed to the local FBI Houston Division, but everything checked out. The special agent was who he claimed but it aroused suspicion. Everyone in law enforcement was suspicious. It was the nature of the beast.

  The FBI was taking over the investigation. We would be taken to a more suitable environment for questioning our acts of supposed terrorism. My heart stumbled dejected to the ground, special agent James Robertson gloated as he handcuffed Helena and me.

  We sat in the backseat of a black government-plated suburban with darkened windows as it ebbed into the city limits. The ride was soothing unlike my turbulence. My palms became sweaty, moisture trickled down my wrists through the avenues of my interlocked fingers linked by handcuffs. Deep breaths were also inhaled, my eyes wondered about recognizing architectural landmarks while also concentrated on the steering wheel.

  The steering wheel represented fate, whichever way it maneuvered would be based upon the wind-guiding compass. That agent held our fate on his keychain. It dangled and crashed into neighboring obstacles forcing a melody whenever a stop approached. I thought about getting out of those gripping handcuffs, kicking the driver’s seat from the back with blunt force, causing the agent to lose control of the steering wheel.

  A crash was expected, perhaps even coaxing him to lose consciousness for a moment, enough time for me to grapple the keys away. It would be our chance to escape. If Helena didn’t want to participate, I would abandon her. I didn’t care. I went over that scenario in my mind recurrently. A contingency plan would have to be improvised. The only plan was to run until I felt I was out of their clutches.

  It was too early to end my journalism career over this. Worst of all, it hadn’t been written―I hadn’t been recognized for fierce reporting. At the end of the day, the story was the only thing that mattered. If I was supposed to die because of it like Jay Jacobs and Emma Marlowe, then I at least should have had the opportunity to share it with an audience, let them draw conclusions.

  I caught Helena glancing over in intervals with a soft look perhaps to engender empathy, but my determination to remain aloof to her plight was enduring. I would look at her from the corner of my eye with my lips pressed, followed by a nod. That’s all I had for her. I was concerned about my own well-being, why should I co
ncern myself with the person who dragged me into this whole mess because of a detached husband, why should I have to suffer?

  Helena lied. She wasn’t a concerned citizen or a social activist fighting for a cause like she had claimed. She was an abandoned wife who wanted nothing more than her husband to return to the lair. I imagined torture by proxy…extraordinary rendition, what if this FBI agent was transferring our interrogation to Canada for that shooting, or some other country where these types of practices were legal? Who would know? What could they want with us?

  It couldn’t be related to the passport required by the Department of Homeland Security. This seemed too dramatic for not carrying a document, considering our current passport should suffice. There was something else, but I couldn’t place it.

  Special agent James Robertson pulled into a storage facility and the whole drive he didn’t say an entire word. I memorized the cross streets and address―1165 North Loop West, between Bevis and Beal streets. There would be an exchange into another vehicle, we would be blindfolded, they would put us on a plane or helicopter, we would be flown to some foreign territory, and we would be tortured until all information on the NAFTA blueprint was bestowed. I wanted to die. I didn’t execute the escape plan, I hesitated, why hadn’t I kicked the backseat, why had I allowed myself to be taken by this whimsical woman handcuffed next to me? Damn you Helena, I curse the ground you walk on!

  “Alright, we need to talk,” said the agent after he pulled into a parking garage of the facility.

  He took the keys out of the ignition and drew his pistol, but he didn’t point it, he laid it under his seat. There were tarps covering objects in the storage unit, perhaps instruments of torture. This was not an appropriate location for a government interrogation, about that I was clear.

  “Look, agent Robertson, I’m an attorney here in Texas. This type of questioning is not suitable in this environment. You haven’t even told us what this investigation is about. Nobody has even read us our rights. Please, if you don’t mind, I’d like to contact a colleague who handles defense law who can represent us on the matter, whatever it is you’re trying to figure out. We have not resisted arrest, nor did we refuse to answer any questions regarding U.S. Customs. We would like to be questioned in a federal office with other investigators present, while a competent attorney is aware of our situation. Please agent Robertson, this is inappropriate,” said Helena.

  “You’re not under arrest so you can stop worrying about that. I’m not an FBI agent, I don’t work for the government or U.S. Customs, I’m not a law enforcer of any kind. And I’m not going to turn you over to any government agency. Please, just listen. We need to discuss a serious matter, so please remain calm. Does the name, ‘Dr. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz’ mean anything to either of you? Please, think hard―I implore you, be honest, for your sake.”

  Helena looked at me puzzled. She had so far taken the lead with the agent, and she gave me the impression she would continue.

  “Um, yeah sort of, I’ve heard the name before but I don’t know anything about that person.”

  I remembered the name. It was a contact Jay Jacobs had given to Helena along with Emma Marlowe―he was next on the list. They wanted to get to him and use us to get to him.

  “I’m Dr. Igor Jáuregi Errazuriz. I was a friend of Jay Jacobs.”

 

  15.