Authors: Clinton McKinzie
“Rebecca’s going to be thrilled that you’ve been smoking in here,” I told my boss.
“I cracked a window. Besides, I’m her godfather.”
“You don’t need to always be rubbing that in my face.”
I tossed the keys on a shelf. Mungo came creeping toward me, hugging the wall and staying as far away from McGee as possible. Right then I’d have liked to do the same. I’d have liked to turn around and run.
“I hope you didn’t let him steal anything,” I said as I patted the wolf’s head.
“Ha. You’ve already stolen the only thing I ever valued. And now you’re trying to steal my job, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“The suits, boy. The suits.” He meant the administration and the politicians who ran the office. “They’re getting some heat from our federal friends. They don’t like the fact that I sent the state-patrol SWAT in without seeking approval from higher-ups.”
“Tell them to blame me.”
“I did, but they won’t listen. It was on my order.”
I knew he was lying about the first part. McGee always took the heat when his agents, as he colorfully termed it, “screwed the pooch.” It was some philosophical leftover from his prior career in the army. He believed that he was responsible for the men under his command, and that they were responsible to him. The suits didn’t mind this bizarre philosophy because they were more than happy to blame McGee. That was fun for them. They would have loved to fire him. The only problem was that after twenty years at the Wyoming Attorney General’s Office, he had too much dirt on everyone. The drunk-driving arrests; the legislators’ kids who’d been caught with mushrooms or X, then had their charges quietly dismissed; the hundred other petty scandals. They couldn’t fire him, but they did everything they could to try and get him to quit.
“Is it big trouble?” I asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about it.”
That first part, too, was probably a lie, judging from the way he looked away. But I didn’t pursue it. I’d never heard him tell me not to worry about something, either. I guessed it was his way of offering his condolences. It made my throat swell a little.
“How’d you get in here, anyway?” I asked.
“As Rebecca’s godfather, I take my responsibilities very seriously. I like to stop by unannounced and see what kind of lowlifes she’s shacking up with.”
“Just me, I hope.”
“Only the latest and lowest in a
very
long list.”
The evil gleam was back in his eyes. I was glad to see it. For a moment there I could feel myself beginning to thaw.
I got myself a cold glass of water. I held it to my cheek for a minute before draining it. McGee ordered me to crack open a bottle of Glenmorangie that Rebecca kept for him. I gave him the drink and the bottle and then slumped in the chair opposite him.
Leaning forward, he filled my water glass with the Scotch. I drank some and made a face.
“Where you been today, boy?”
“Here and there.”
“I heard you riled them up at the courthouse.”
It was only three hours earlier, but everyone seemed to know already.
“I just looked at the guy, Ross.”
“You went for him. Don’t deny it.”
His beady, wet eyes were piercing. He did this to me sometimes. Opened up my head and heart and seemed to delve around in there.
“Where did you hear about it?” I asked.
“Sweet Rebecca. She learned about it right after the event. From another reporter who was there, hoping there would be fireworks for tomorrow’s paper. Wasn’t disappointed, I gather. Rebecca called me then. Thought I should drive down and have a little talk with you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I made a mistake, going there. I won’t do it again until I’m called to testify at the prelim.”
McGee nodded. “You’d better not. I heard about it from the A.U.S.A. A guy named Davadou. He wants you warned off. Officially.”
“Okay. I’m warned. Now, do you mind taking off? Rebecca probably won’t be home for a few hours and I want some peace.”
McGee chuckled grimly.
“You’re warned off unofficially, too, QuickDraw.”
He held up a thin white envelope. The upper edge was ragged where it had been opened. I could see my name on the outside, along with Rebecca’s address. Who but McGee knew I stayed at Rebecca’s address when I was in Denver? There was no stamp. It had been hand-delivered.
He waved the letter in front of me, impatient for me to take it. I could make out one of the names where the return address was printed. Horton, and a bunch of other lawyer-sounding surnames.
I took it.
“Mr. Burns”: it said under the law firm’s letterhead. “You are hereby notified that you will desist in any further attempts to contact, in person or by proxy, our client, Jesús Hidalgo-Paez, or any of his personal or business associates. A restraining order is being sought at this time. Any further attempts on your part will result in criminal prosecution.”
Bullshit,
I was thinking.
I’m a cop. They can’t stop me from talking to whoever I want.
But I knew that they could. And how would it look in court when the defense attorney asked me,
Isn’t it true, Agent Burns, that Mr. Hidalgo had a restraining order issued against you?
And when I tried to explain,
Just answer yes or no, Agent Burns
. The jury would see it as a vendetta by a disgruntled cop. By a disgruntled cop with a history that’s more than a little tarnished. That was obviously a part of the defense’s plan.
I read on:
“Attached to this notice is a brief note our client insisted on you receiving. This communication is intended by our client and this firm to be the FINAL communication between yourself and Mr. Jesús Hidalgo-Paez.”
The letter was signed by Jeremy Horton. The cc: list included all the other attorneys on Hidalgo’s defense team. I could imagine how they all chuckled when contemplating writing it, how clever and lucky they were. And how pissed Horton must have then been when Hidalgo insisted he attach the note.
There was a paper clip attached to the page. On the other side was a small note that was written in Spanish, in a barely legible hand.
Greetings, Antonio Burns. I was profoundly saddened to hear what happened to your brother. He was a very good friend to me. Climbing is a dangerous hobby, no? He always described it as “feeding the Rat.” I can only hope that his Rat is now well-satisfied. Please convey my condolences to your mother, Maria, and your father, Leonard, on their Patagonian ranch, as well as to your fiancée, Rebecca Hersh, who I understand lives at this address here in Denver. Yours truly, Jesús Hidalgo-Paez.
Below it was a tiny, simple picture. It was like the sticker I’d seen on some of the
sicarios
’ and bangers’ cars, where it had been placed like a little inside joke. It was a simple circle. Two dots for eyes. And, where the smile on the smiley face belonged, a wagging tongue instead.
I thought I’d been scared over the last couple of days. Almost paralyzed by the fear of what would happen to Roberto—the worst being that he would live—and terrified out of my mind that Hidalgo would walk. That justice would fail.
But the letter made a new kind of fear rise up in my stomach. One that felt to me like it does when I take a huge, whipping fall off the rock when everything’s out of your hands. The kind of fear that comes with a little bit of thrill. The kind of fear that I’d spent years seeking out. I was no longer cold and willing myself to become an ice cube. I was starting to get hot.
McGee was talking.
“It came by messenger. About twenty minutes ago. Not too smart of Mr. Hidalgo. Horton—that prick—must have had a fit. Davadou can try to get it admitted as evidence. Or there might be an iffy case for witness intimidation.”
I shook my head.
“It’s too vague. It won’t get anywhere.”
McGee talked some more, arguing that he was the lawyer, not me, but I didn’t really listen. I was too caught up in the strange pleasure of this chilly new me.
Why hadn’t I ever considered Rebecca’s safety? The thought had never even crossed my mind. We weren’t married yet, we didn’t share a surname, we didn’t even share a home. Our relationship was more or less a secret. I should have thought about it, but maybe it was just so monstrous a threat that I hadn’t allowed it to enter my consciousness. Maybe I’d blocked it out. Another question I asked myself was
How the fuck had Jesús Hidalgo learned about her?
He was powerful, but he couldn’t have those kinds of resources. Most of his men couldn’t even speak English. But I knew the answer. Horton, the lawyer. He was a celebrity in Denver. He would know people at the
Post
. People who he’d backslap and slip a little juicy gossip. They’d return the favor. Even though Hidalgo had only become his client in the last forty-eight hours, it would have been high on the defense attorney’s To Do list to make a few calls about the principal witnesses against his client.
I could almost imagine the conversation he would have had with some editor at the
Post:
“Do you have anything on a Wyoming cop named Antonio Burns?”
“You don’t know who he is?”
“Sounds kind of familiar.”
“He’s the guy they call QuickDraw. The one who shot those three gangbangers in Cheyenne two years ago?”
Horton, getting excited, would have said,
“You’re kidding! This is great. Can you send me everything the
Post
has on him?”
“I’ll even give you something extra. You won’t believe it, but he’s knocked up one of the reporters here. Pretty girl, named Rebecca Hersh. She did a soft story on him after that bloodbath in Cheyenne. . . .”
“You listening?” McGee demanded, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I asked you if there is anything I can do.”
“Yeah. Stay here.”
He grinned, showing me his big yellow teeth.
“Never thought I’d hear you say that, QuickDraw.”
“Are you armed?”
“What male from the great state of Wyoming’s not?”
He flipped open his jacket—scattering ash—and showed me his old service .45.
“Stay here. Take Rebecca to and from her work. Go everywhere with her. She might not let me.”
She might not want me.
“Dream come true,” he said with a wink, reading my thoughts. “I’ll stick to her like glue. Now, is there anything else you want me to do?”
“Just tell me he’s not going to get away with it.”
The wink and the leer faded.
“He’s probably not. But you never know, QuickDraw. Maximum he can get for just cooking the drugs is twenty years. That is, if the Feds manage to convict him.”
He left unsaid that the only way it might be more time was if Roberto died. Then Hidalgo could be sentenced to life under the subsection that allows for enhanced penalties where a death occurs.
“But then again, I hate to say it, he may walk on it. There’s all sorts of suppression issues relating to the raid.”
I let out a little of the chill.
“It’s so fucked up, Ross. He’s been transporting drugs for years. Everybody knows it. Now he’s caught cooking crank in Wyoming. And he had slaves doing the cooking. And he did what he did to my brother and to who knows how many others. He should have the same done to him. Whatever happened to justice?”
“Ah, QuickDraw, QuickDraw. You’re my perpetual virgin,” McGee said. “You’d think that after working with me for almost a decade, you would have gotten your cherry popped by now.”
But I wasn’t a naive virgin. Not anymore. That was the problem.
Extradition Sought for Alleged Drug
Lord Arrested in U.S.
DENVER, Co., August 27—Charges against alleged Mexican drug kingpin Jesús Hidalgo-Paez have been dismissed by federal prosecutors in the U.S. for lack of evidence, but warrants for his arrest have been issued in Mexico. Mr. Hidalgo-Paez continues to be held in American custody pending an extradition hearing today that he is not expected to contest.
During a dramatic raid last week in which four Mexican nationals were killed, officers of the Wyoming State Police and Wyoming Attorney General’s Office arrested a total of 23 men on a remote mountain ranch. Seventeen of those arrested were subsequently charged with crimes ranging from conspiracy to distribute narcotics to possession of illegal weapons. One police officer suffered a minor gunshot wound while making the arrests. Another man was critically injured.
Mr. Hidalgo-Paez is said to have strong ties with key officials in Mexico’s government and with that country’s largest political party. Yet some American authorities believe he also heads one of Mexico’s most violent drug-smuggling cartels. Court documents filed in Denver allege that a methamphetamine “superlab” was discovered in an abandoned mine on the Wyoming property where last week’s arrests took place.
In a surprising move yesterday, Assistant U.S. Attorney Michael C. Davadou dismissed the charges against Mr. Hidalgo-Paez. “The Mexican courts have far greater charges and far superior evidence,” Mr. Davadou told reporters in an afternoon press conference.
He went on to say, “Unfortunately, some Wyoming police officers jumped the gun here. They went onto that property without a proper warrant or any judicial authority. The evidence discovered, I’ve determined, is likely to be ruled inadmissible as the fruit of the poisonous tree. The government is duty-bound not to pursue charges they don’t believe they can prove in court.”
In the United States, before police may enter a suspect’s property, they must have either the consent of the landowner or a search warrant based upon probable cause. “Fruit of the poisonous tree” refers to evidence that is discovered pursuant to a faulty warrant. Such evidence is generally deemed inadmissible at trial by American courts.
Mr. Davadou had some harsh words for the Wyoming authorities who conducted the raid. “Their intentions were good, but their manner and method were without justification. They jumped the gun, is what they did, and they should have known better. Even more unfortunately, they ruined a federal investigation that was under way. If it had been allowed to proceed, I believe we would have a solid case against Mr. Hidalgo.”