was the paperwork jamming the gears.
Two days after that first face-to-face at the Vietnamese restaurant, Happy went in for his free talk, as Lattimore called it, or “off-the-record proffer,” per the assistant U.S. attorney. Happy laid out everything he’d done, no threat of prosecution: sneaking back into the country with the help of his ganged-up
The conference room had a flag in the corner, a tray of coffee and ice water anchoring a long shiny table, a portrait of FBI director Robert Mueller III-Bobby Three Sticks, Lattimore called him. His supervisor, a reedy and taller-than-average Filipino named Orpilla, passed a consent form in front of Happy that asserted he willingly agreed “to assist in the making of undercover recordings at the sole direction of law enforcement officials.” The form promised Happy the federal government wouldn’t prosecute him for anything that popped up in those recordings; all bets were off, though, if state or county prosecutors went ahead. He’d have to work that out on his own. Happy read the form, waived his right to have someone from the public defender’s office advise him. Prior experience convinced him public defenders existed simply to slow things down, not change their direction or, God forbid, improve their odds. He signed where he saw his name. Orpilla took the executed form and tucked it into a folder.
It was the AUSA, though, who was driving the bus. The guy’s name was Jon Pitcavage-overachiever eyes etched with crow’s-feet, a tight scrub of graying black curls, the build of a serious gym rat. He wore a snappy pinstripe suit and leaned into his words. If Happy read Lattimore’s body language right, he had little use for Pitcavage, except he was the one AUSA in San Francisco, supposedly, who knew where the gas pedal was, not just the brake. He got points among the agents for that-though, apparently, only that.
Happy repeated for Pitcavage what he’d already laid out for Lattimore. The attorney listened with elbows on the table, hands clasped, thumbs bobbing against his chin. Once Happy wrapped up, the guy leaned back in his swivel chair, crossed his legs, rocked pensively back and forth. Guy likes being watched, Happy thought, while over the man’s shoulder, far beyond the conference-room window, an airliner razored a vapor trail across an otherwise perfect sky.
“This scenario,” Pitcavage said finally, “the quid pro quo-this Vasco character gets sole control of the narcotics operation involving the Valle Norte cartel and shot-caller status with Mara Salvatrucha, in exchange for funding the smuggling of this Arab alien, this would-be terrorist, into the country-as I understand it, this was all your idea?”
Happy felt the familiar bilge of nausea rising from below. “Yeah.”
“But there is no smuggling operation, correct? And the Arab, as far as you know, owes no allegiance to any known terrorist organization.”
“Samir-he’s Palestinian-he actually helped the coalition forces in Iraq.”
Pitcavage glanced toward Lattimore. “An interpreter.”
Happy said, “That’s right.”
“And this coconspirator in Richmond, the warehouse owner, the person who is supposed to receive these fictitious shipments of cocaine from, where was it?” He leafed through his notes. “Turbo, Colombia-you just made that up.”
“Read about it on the Web, actually. Sounded good. Thought it’d get Vasco to bite.”
“But he didn’t bite, did he?”
Happy cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”
“He wanted verification. He wanted to see an honest-to-God warehouse, a real live owner. Golly, I’m stunned. Just like he’ll probably want to see a cocaine shipment before too long, don’t you think? Where do you suppose that might come from?”
Happy felt like he had a living thing thrashing around in his gut. “I figured I’d be in touch with you people by then. That was something we’d have to work out.”
“We.” Pitcavage’s eyes looked scorched. “How I always love the sound of ‘we.’”
“Look,” Happy said, “if you think I just made this crap up so I could shake Vasco down, get him to pay for my old man’s trip back, you weren’t paying attention. Get serious, I do that, and Vasco finds out everything else, the coke, the Colombians, the terrorist, it’s all just crap? He’d lean hard. Me and my family, we’d pay and just keep paying. Like I told you, I want citizenship, me and my dad both. Can’t get that from Vasco. I want that, I gotta come here. Way I see it, my cousin Godo already earned it, earned it for me, my dad, both. But I’m ready to go the extra mile, make sure you get what you want, ’cause yeah, I surf the Net, I read the articles about how you guys are trying to link up gangs and the ragheads. Dream bust, those two tied together. And I know how to make that happen, who to put with who. I give you your shot. And I know this doesn’t just stop here. I know this opens doors for you. People gonna read about this case and they’re gonna say: We gotta stop these
Pitcavage ran his tongue inside his lower lip, as though scouring out a speck of food. “You honestly believe that this bag of snakes you came in here with is a dream bust?”
“I
The lawyer turned to Lattimore and Orpilla and, as though Happy had just vanished, launched off on a new tack. “I’ll sign off on the recording, it’s reasonable and legal. As for the setup, the way I understand it there’s been no Barraza harassment, no pressure, no cajoling. Admittedly, your genius here has devised the crime but we’re clear there, that’s established law. If there’s no prior disposition to terrorist activity there certainly is to the smuggling. No special feel-good motive’s been contrived, nobody’s gone all buddy-buddy. It’s about greed, period.
“The one weak spot, beyond the obvious tactical headaches, is the unusual attractiveness of the crime. What is it, anywhere from one and a half to three mil this Vasco clown thinks he’ll be clearing per annum? But there’s been no promise it’s a sure thing, he hasn’t been told they can’t get caught. He knows the risk. And one discussion, boom, he’s in. You get him and these other idiots on video, you get them on tape, plenty of it, you know the drill. And it’s all got to happen quick, before somebody catches on there aren’t any shipments coming from Turbo and never will be. I figure we’ve got a month, tops. Any longer, the thing will unravel. And unless I’m mistaken, this interpreter and the source’s father should be back in the States by then. So that’s your time line.”
Pitcavage rose from his chair, stole a glance out the window. The vapor trail resembled a line of coke on a blue mirror.
“Get these guys expressing full knowledge and consent. I don’t need a pledge to al-Qaeda, like those buffoons in Liberty City, though that would be sweet. But they make it clear they know what’s going on: quid pro quo, a cocaine franchise for a terrorist across the border. You get me that, I don’t see a jury backing off a verdict. You’ve heard me say it before: We don’t have to wait until buildings come down to prove somebody’s a terrorist. And your genius is right, the MS-13 angle makes it particularly attractive. These guys want to claim they weren’t predisposed, they can walk away any time they want. Make sure everybody on the joint task force stays in the loop. I’ll be surprised if we don’t see plea deals all the way down the table. Defense will cry entrapment but they always do. And they always lose. Entrapment’s just what they tell their clients so the bills get paid.”
He tamped down his tie and turned to leave, stopping himself only to address Happy one last time. “You’re absolutely certain this interpreter’s name is Samir Khalid Sadiq?” He posed the question as though to imply there were varieties of deceit, especially in the Muslim world, that were not just hard to discern, they were impenetrable.
“Yes.” Happy swallowed. “At least, you know, that’s the name he always used around me. Always.”
The lawyer shot a warning glance across Lattimore’s bow, then left like time was money and the money was down the hall. And that was pretty much the last Happy saw of Assistant U.S. Attorney Jon Pitcavage.
LATTIMORE GUIDED HAPPY TO THE ELEVATOR AND DOWN TO A LOWER floor where his own cubicle was buried. Happy felt a little shocked to see what a rat’s nest it was, binders stacked helter-skelter on every surface, copies of
