Warriors in Paradise (12 page)

“I don’t have the faintest idea. We just met this morning. He adopted me,” I responded and immediately added, “Would you please take us to the Papagayo? Could we hire you for the morning?”

“Yes, no problem. But I am charging double because of the conditions.”

“OK by us. We believe in the law of supply and demand,” I said.

As he drove to the beach in front of Parque Papagayo, he continued, “It looks like a big Rhodesian Ridgeback. Look at the stripe on his back. The hair is running counter to the rest of his mane. That is a feature of those African dogs. The South Africans developed the breed to hunt for lions.”

“You certainly know a lot about dogs,” said Charlie, his interest piqued.

“Yes, I do. As I told you, I love dogs,” said the taxi driver. “However, this is the first time that I’ve seen a Rhodesian up close and personal.”

“If these dogs are from South Africa, how come they are called Rhodesian Ridgebacks and not South African Ridgebacks?” asked Charlie.

“Because the South African who developed the breed was living in Rhodesia at the time, and the Rhodesians registered it as a breed,” said the taxi driver.

“You know,” I said to Charlie, “this keeps on getting stranger and stranger by the minute. My mother called the house in Acapulco Azania because she liked the sound of it and because it means South Africa, a bastion for free people, for all the tribes: Xhosa, Zulu, Afrikaner, English, colored, etc. And now, on top of it all, an African lion hound has joined the group.”

***

The taxi took us back to the beach. We needed to look for our Canadian friends and the Russian girls. As we arrived, we saw several soldiers walking among the clutter. Two bulldozers were lifting the debris onto dump trucks. The area where we had been had already been cleared. We went to see the major in charge of the clearing operation and asked him if they had found five girls. He told us that they had not found anybody, not a single person, dead or alive. We asked him how long it was going to take to clear the beach. He told us the beach should be cleared by tomorrow, but if the rain continued, the floods would be carrying more garbage into the bay. So he expected the cleaning effort to continue nonstop until Manuel had passed through.

We went back to the taxi. We knew then that Juliette, Camille, and the three Russian girls had either drowned or were still onboard the yacht.

The taxi driver knew Acapulco well, so he found the streets with less water and fewer cars. Eventually we made it home, about two hours after leaving the clinic.

When we arrived, Sandra came out and paid the taxi. We didn’t have any money on us. Probably the goons on the yacht had taken all our valuables before dumping us on the beach, or perhaps the same couple who had been searching Valentina had searched us and taken our valuables.

Sandra was concerned, but she was happy to see us. I told her what had happened to us. She called my mother and passed me the phone. I explained to my mother all that we could remember. The more we talked about it, the more we remembered. I told her that we were going to the police station to report the incident. She said, “Yes, I guess you have to do that, but be careful. We don’t know how far the influence of these people extends. They might have penetrated the police. Just in case, call me from the station or in two hours.”

I responded, “Yes, Mom. I will call you.” We then said good-bye and hung up.

We took a shower and dressed in clean clothes. We drove to the police station in the CR-V.

The prosecutor

We parked the car and walked to the station. I asked to see the prosecutor, “Agente del Ministerio Público.” While we waited for him, Charlie and I continued to recall the events of the previous night. We recalled arriving at the yacht, being greeted by the captain, and meeting the group of five, including the host and the two Americans. We remembered their names and how many people were in the main cabin. We remembered the expensive hors d’oeuvre table and the three Russian girls. The rest was still a little fuzzy, but it was becoming less so.

After a short wait, we were ushered into an office, where a thin, dark man with yellow, jaundiced eyes asked us to sit down. He was the prosecutor. His desk was covered with two piles of files fifteen inches high on both sides. The place smelled of sweat, urine, despair, and suffering. He asked for our names and IDs. He started typing into a computer. He asked us to describe in our own words what had happened. We began telling him about the invitation to the Independence Day party on a yacht called Camaney II, owned by Mr. Nicanor Toro. He stopped typing and said, “Excuse me for a moment. I will be back shortly.”

We waited for twenty minutes. The prosecutor came back with two uniformed officers, who then proceeded to arrest us. I asked what was happening, and the prosecutor told us that charges had been filed against us for trespassing onto a yacht, breaking up a private party, starting a fight, unruly behavior, and aggravated assault.

Charlie pushed one of the uniformed police officers away from him. He was getting ready to fight his way out when more police officers arrived, some with their guns drawn. I turned to the prosecutor and told him, “Look, before this gets out of hand, please let me make a call. And then we will go quietly with you and your officers.”

He answered tersely, “You will have your call after we book you.” He then told the police officers to take us to lockup. They guided us to the part of the building containing the holding cells. The jail admissions officers took away our wallets, watches, belts, and shoelaces. Then they made us sign some papers listing these items. The guards ordered us into a holding cell with seven prisoners already there. There were two cement bunk beds, and all four spaces were taken. We sat on the floor.

Charlie asked me, “What do you think is happening?”

I said, “I think that the officer in charge is on Toro’s payroll. As soon as we mentioned his name, he went to speak to someone to receive instructions. I believe that they were not expecting us to survive and, least of all, file a police report.”

“So, what are we going to do?” asked Charlie.

“Everything now depends on my mother. I told her that I would call her in two hours. She will be concerned when she doesn’t hear from me. She is a lawyer and used to be a judge. She still has some contacts here in Acapulco. However, she will have to move fast, before more paper work is done on our assumed charges. In our system of justice, the burden of proof is not upon the accuser but upon the accused. The accusers don’t need to prove that we are guilty. We need to prove that we are innocent, and that is very hard to do. So we have to kill this ASAP before it goes any further.”

“And how is she going to do that?” asked Charlie.

“I don’t know, but if anybody can do it, my mother can,” I said.

One of our cell mates on a top bunk bed said, “I am horny. I want to fuck me a blond—a nice-looking, blue-eyed, tight-assed gringo.”

Oh shit, I thought. All hell is going to break lose.

Charlie proved me wrong. He stood up and walked, with a big smile on his face, to the inmate and told him in perfect Spanish, “Hey, buddy, I am tired. Get off my bed!”

The guy looked at Charlie and growled—actually growled,
arrrghhh
—and tried in a rapid movement to swing his legs around and jump off the bed, but Charlie had already taken hold of his ankles and pulled him off the top bunk. He fell like a sack of potatoes flat on his back, yelling as the air escaped his lungs. Charlie looked down at him and stepped hard on his stomach.

Charlie looked around with a big smile on his face and asked loudly in Spanish, “Anybody else have something to say?” Nobody answered. “I didn’t think so,” said Charlie.

Charlie pulled himself swiftly onto the upper bunk, looked down at me, and asked, “What are you waiting for? An invitation in the mail?”

So I stood up and went to the bottom bunk bed and told the guy, “Do I need to throw a party to get you off my bed?”

“Sure, sure. It’s all yours. I was just keeping it warm for you,” he said to me as he was moving out.

I looked at Charlie and said, “You seem to have experience in this!”

He said, “I understand group psychology. I have been in an all-boy boarding school and in the army. It is not much different from being in a jail.”

We started laughing for the first time since our ordeal had begun. It gave me hope and rekindled my will to fight back.

We had been in the holding cell for less than an hour when a guard called our names. The guard opened the cell and asked us to come out. There could only be three possible explanations for this, I thought. The first one was that we were going to be punished for hurting an inmate. The second was that they were going to do some more paper work on the charges against us. The third one, and the one I thought most likely, was that we were going to be released thanks to the favors my mother had called in.

Before leaving the holding cells, we were given back our belongings. I checked my wallet and found half of the money gone. I asked Charlie, “Is all of your money there?”

He responded, “No. More than half is gone!”

I turned to the guard and told him, “We’re missing half of our money. Please check. Perhaps some of it fell out.”

“No, we are giving you exactly what you gave us,” responded the guard.

“Will you please show us the receipts we signed when we came in?” I said.

“You didn’t sign anything when you came in,” the guard responded.

I got close to his face and said to him, “Do you know why we are leaving so soon? We are leaving because we can. We have the power and the influence. Do you think I’m not coming back for you later?”

He stood up and told me, “Let me look again.” He came back shortly thereafter and told me as he was handing back the missing money, “You were right. Some of the money fell out of your wallets.”

Without a further word, we stepped out of the jail admissions office and followed the waiting police officer back to the prosecutor’s office. There, in front of his desk, was a man of about sixty in shorts with a light-pink, long-sleeve shirt. As we approached, he stood up and stretched his hand out toward me, saying, “You must be Santi. I am attorney Mario Bermúdez, a friend of your mom.” And turning toward Charlie, he added, “And you, big guy, must be Charlie. Pleased to meet you! Please, let’s get out of here.”

Without a word, we followed him out of the police station. Before stepping onto the street and into the rain, he turned around and said to us, “When you came to file your police report, you caught Senor Toro and his friends unaware. They were not expecting you to report them to the police. The prosecutor informed a lawyer by the name of Jacinto Cienfuegos, who instructed the prosecutor to hold you while he came down to the station to file charges against you. However, I arrived before him. He still hasn’t showed up. I asked to see the charges, and, of course, there were none. They thus could not hold you because I was witness to their wrongdoing. Therefore, they apologized and released you on your own recognizance.

“Santi, Charlie, I don’t think you can get any official police justice for what happened to you and your friends. As you can see, the chips are stacked against you. Nicanor Toro controls the police. I suggest you forget about the incident or find another way to seek justice.”

As I started to speak, he interrupted and told us: “Please, I don’t want to hear any of the details of what happened to you. It is safer that way. Santi, talk to your mother. She will know what to do.”

We thanked him. Charlie and I went to the CR-V and drove to the clinic. I went to see Valentina, and Charlie went to see Caleb. I stayed with Valentina for a couple of hours.

I called Rubén Villacorta, Valentina’s brother, in Monterrey. I told him that she was at the clinic, that she had suffered an accident and was in a coma, but the prognosis was optimistic. Crying, he told me that he was coming to Acapulco. I told him that he couldn’t; the highway to Acapulco was closed because of mudslides, and the airport was underwater. I told him not to worry; the doctors and I were taking good care of Valentina.

Waking the Beast

I called my mother. We talked for a long time. Our enemies were powerful and influential. They had corrupted the police and the justice system. We were supposed to be dead. When they found out that we were alive, they had tried to have us jailed on bogus charges. The charges didn’t stick. Hence, they were going to come after us. We had seen something during the yacht party that they did not want us to divulge. They didn’t know that Valentina and Caleb were also alive, and that was an advantage. They also did not know about the clinic. However, they knew my and Charlie’s addresses.

Therefore, the first order of business was to get Sandra and my mother into safe locations and for Charlie and me to disappear. The second order of business was to plan what to do and how to do it.

My mother would contact Sandra and arrange for her to stay in a safe place. She told me to call her three times a day at the same times: nine o’clock in the morning, three o’clock in the afternoon, and nine o’clock in the evening. The other times, her personal cell phone would be turned off and without the battery.

My mother was all business and detached. She ended the conversation by saying, “Do not feel guilty. It wasn’t your fault. I love you very much, my beautiful son, and please remember that there is always a solution to every problem. Santi, we will find a good solution to this awful problem. This I promise you.”