crude from underneath. I watch him for several seconds as he sits there biting and shooting looks from beady little eyes in every direction as if the walls have ears. In this case, they may. I can’t be sure that our conversation is not being monitored. There are now in place what are called Special Administrative Measures. These permit federal prison authorities to listen in, even between lawyer and client in cases where national security is believed to be at issue. The fact that Espinoza is charged with the theft of a thousand high-tech visas to enter the country must have them wondering for what purpose these documents were stolen.
A tattoo across the back of Espinoza’s hand reads “Sangre” (meaning “blood”), in Gothic block letters like some ethnic mural on a wall in East Los Angeles.
“Even if they don’t turn you over to the state, the feds are not likely to go easy. In case you haven’t noticed, scrutiny at the borders has been turned up-just a notch.”
I emphasize the last few words. It takes him a beat or two to make all the intended deductions, then he looks at me. “No way, man.” Then he looks away as if this puts distance between himself and his own conclusions. “I ain’t no fuckin’ terrorist,” he says. “Maybe people once in a while. Sure I brought people across, sometimes. But, but not that shit. No way, man.”
“Maybe they don’t know that. We’re talking some risky stuff that went missing. These were not green cards knocked out on somebody’s home computer, Miguel. These were laser-etched visas with holograms. You know as well as I do they can’t be traced. The little camera they use at the border down at San Ysidro to shoot pictures and send them back to Virginia.” He follows my every word. Espinoza knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“You know the one, where they check to see if they’re forgeries. That little camera, and those people in Virginia, they wouldn’t be able to stop you if you had one of these cards at the border. They’d think you were just another honest citizen crossing over to do business. Bad people could bring a lot of dangerous shit into the country with cards like that.”
“That’s not…” He bites the next word in half.
“That’s not what? That’s not why they were stolen?”
All of this has him thinking of perils he’s never considered, looking down at the tabletop again and then back to me.
“Why, man? I mean why would they think I’m some fucking terrorist? There’s no evidence I ever did nothing like that.” He thumps the table with two fingers to make the point.
“Maybe they think you’re moving up in the world.”
“Hey, man, you’re fuckin’ with my head. That’s bullshit.” He turns away from me, the devil he doesn’t want to see or hear. But the thought has seeped into his brain where it now sizzles like corrosive acid.
“They can’t do that, man. That’s fuckin’ illegal. They got no fucking evidence. There are laws,” he says. “I am entitled…”
“Of course you can make all of those arguments,” I tell him. “But the people who sit on juries are a little uptight right now. If they think you might be that kind of a threat, well, they might just throw you in the can until sometime around the year when your grandchildren have children.”
I can tell that this is a sobering thought, one that has him forgetting for the moment who might have hired me and thinking instead about the sky outside-and how long it might be before he gets to see it again.
He looks at me, shiny brown eyes. “Whadda you want to know, man? Tell you what I can.”
“What do you mean you’re representing him?” Harry is looking at me as if I’m crazy, seated in one of the client chairs across from my desk in the office.
“I met with him over at the federal lockup late yesterday afternoon and told him I’d take his case.”
“Why? Did he give you a retainer?”
“We’ll have to work that out. Ever hear of a drug, street slang, something called Mejicano Rosen?”
Harry shakes his head. “Heard of Maui Wowee. Hawaiian Sensimilla. It’s the same stuff,” he says. “Potent. And I’ve heard of black tar and white china, angel dust, snow, B.C. bud, baby-T…”
“What’s baby-T?”
“Another word for crack,” he says.
“Where did you hear all of this?”
“Some of us lead less sheltered lives,” says Harry.
“But you’ve never heard of Mejicano Rosen?”
“Your Spanish sucks,” says Harry. “Sound like some Jewish dry cleaner in Tijuana.”
“Do me a favor? See if you can run it down for me?”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Start by asking around wherever it is you lead this less sheltered life of yours. Maybe over one of your card games on Thursday night with that vice cop and the deputy D.A.”
“Oh, right. What am I gonna go over there and yell, ‘Hey guys we have a client running some stuff outta Mexico and we’d like to know what it’s worth’?”
“Try the library. Take Marta with you. Maybe there’s something on Lexis-Nexis? An article or an appellate case that mentions it.”
“You’re wasting my time. Why don’t you just ask your client?”
“Espinoza did the limit. He’s not going to tell me anything more unless he gets awfully lonely in the jail. I get the sense he doesn’t trust me that much.”
“Can’t understand that. Just cuz you’re trying to pump him for information in a double murder involving a friend without disclosure?”
“Hey. I’m not even sure he’s going to let me represent him.”
“Did you happen to mention Nick? Tell him about all the blood on the sidewalk in front of the federal courthouse, the fact that Metz, who was shot with Nick, mentioned Espinoza’s name?”
“We didn’t have that much time.”
“I see you were too busy listening.”
“Lawyer’s job,” I tell him. “Hearing the heartache.”
“Makes you wonder how they ever came up with the word mouthpiece,” says Harry. “When exactly are you going to break this little tidbit to your client, the fact that you’re hoping he runs in the same circles with the people who killed Nick, so maybe he can give you a reference you can pass along to the cops?”
“Look at it this way. I could be giving him a wonderful case on appeal. That’s more than the federal public defender can offer. I’ll tell him when it becomes necessary.”
“Oh, good,” says Harry. “Then maybe they’ll just suspend your license instead of disbarring you. How can you be sure he didn’t have a hand in doing Nick himself?”
“Your friend with the D.A. said he was under federal surveillance at the time.”
“He said he thought he was. There’s a difference.”
“He did admit that he knew the people who pulled the number down in Tijuana, the ones who held up the delivery van and took the visas. Of course he had nothing to do with it.”
“Of course.”
“And he gave me a name. First name only.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Some information as to where this person might be found.”
This does not excite Harry.
“It could just be coincidence. Espinoza says he was a high roller out of Mexico, flashy dresser. He says the man always had a large roll of cash and he seemed to be calling the shots. His name was Jaime.”
Harry looks at me out of the corner of one eye. “So?”
“Metz, that morning in my office, told me one of the Ibarra brothers was named Jaime.”
“So was Jimmy Stewart,” says Harry. “Maybe they should dig him up and look for visas.”
I ignore him. “It does beg the question: why he would flop in a flea house like Espinoza’s apartment?”
“I’ve seen the place. He says this Jaime and some friends stayed with him for a few days. I tried to get a fix on when this was. He said he couldn’t remember exactly, but it was last summer. It was definitely after the van carrying the visas was knocked down in Tijuana. He says these guys must have left some of them behind. Of course, then he fell into his own pit.”
I can tell by the look that Harry is curious, but he doesn’t want to encourage this.
