Our legal system is incompetent and corrupt, Payne thought. A time-wasting, money-sucking three-ring circus of lazy judges, brain-dead juries, and officious clerks in courthouses where there's not enough parking or decent places to eat lunch.
'Why'd you have to make it a human trafficking case?' Payne had asked Rigney.
'What difference does it make?'
'I repped those Mexicans in the tractor-trailer case.'
'I know all about it. You got held in contempt. Ethics charges. Anger management. The whole nine yards.'
'So would it make sense that I'd represent a guy who doesn't give a shit if the migrants live or die?'
Rigney shrugged. 'What do you care? Another case, another peso.'
Jeez, how depressing.
If the legal system were a frozen pond, Payne walked too far on ice too thin. Wearing combat boots and stomping his feet. In the tractor-trailer case, the ice broke. Traffickers brought three dozen Mexicans through a tunnel from Tijuana to Otay Mesa in San Diego County. As soon as the migrants popped out of the ground like bleary-eyed gophers, armed vaquetons- street thugs working for the coyotes-jammed the new arrivals into a trailer truck. The Mexicans were headed for a slaughterhouse in Arizona, where they had been promised jobs pulling intestines out of dead cows and ripping their hides off with pliers. Where the migrants came from, this was considered cushy work.
The driver, an American who would be paid $6,000 for the run, stopped in El Centro in the California desert to visit his girlfriend in her air-conditioned trailer, conveniently stocked with ice-cold beer and a queen-size bed. Afraid that the migrants would scatter if he let them out, he kept them locked in the back. The sun, perched high in the August sky, blazed orange as a branding iron. The metal truck became a convection oven. No one heard the migrants' screams or their prayers to the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Tongues swelled. Arms flailed. Limbs locked in spasms. The stricken watched long-departed relatives float by in the darkness. As the hours passed, bowels exploded like mortar shells. Mouths frothed, eyes bulged, brains melted. Eleven people died.
The government promised permanent residency to the survivors if they would testify against the coyotes and the driver. Trial was had, convictions obtained, miscreants jailed. By then, pale new faces manned the desks of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement Office. Tough regulations were enacted, lest any campesinos from Chihuahua were working for Osama bin Laden on the sly. Even though the survivors had kept their end of the bargain, a tailored suit from Washington yanked their papers and scheduled them for deportation.
'Government fraud, deception, and outright lies!' Payne told the press. 'Mafia hit men get better treatment.'
Payne subpoenaed a dozen skinny-tied government types. Not just I.C.E. officials. Mayors. State senators. Governors' aides. Demanded to know who cut their grass, washed their cars, changed their kids' diapers. Proved the hypocrisy of the entire system, or so he thought.
'Mr. Payne, you will refrain from this line of questioning.'
'Why, Judge? Because a Honduran woman cleans your toilets?'
'That's enough, Mr. Payne!'
But it wasn't. Payne turned to the table of government lawyers, cleared his throat, and belted out a passable rendition of Tom Russell's 'Who's Gonna Build Your Wall?'
Who's gonna cook your Mexican food,
When your Mexican maid is gone?
The judge banged his gavel and shouted,'You're in contempt, buster!'
Forty-eight hours in a holding cell. And a $5,000 fine.
On the brighter side, Payne won the case. Unwilling to risk any more toxic publicity, I.C.E. reversed its decision. Payne's clients got permanent residency.
Now, driving along Ventura Boulevard to the courthouse, Payne planned the rest of his day. Hit the gym, grab some lunch, pick up Adam for a game of pitch-andcatch. But first, there was a judge to bribe.
The day was already steaming. The sidewalk cafes, with their forlorn potted palms, were deserted, except for the Coffee Beans, Starbucks, and Peet's, where wannabe screenwriters pounded at their laptops, dreams of Oscar statuettes, A-list parties, and Malibu mansions warping their brains.
It was a short drive to Van Nuys, Payne's favorite venue for justice to be miscarried. The Lexus spoke then, the pleasant but distant female voice instructing him to 'Turn right in two hundred yards. Van Nuys Boulevard.' She didn't bother to thank him for the five grand under her floor mat.
Payne followed instructions and headed for the courthouse, thinking this wasn't so bad. He was a decent enough liar. He'd get out of the heat, do his civic duty, and pocket five grand. What could go wrong?
FIVE
'You think I'm stupid?' Judge Rollins aimed the gun a few inches north of Payne's shrinking testicles. 'Your wife's a cop.'
'Ex-wife.'
'I remember. She shot you.'
'An accident,' Payne said. 'She was aiming at my client.'
'That how you got the scar on your leg?' Gesturing toward a ridge of purple tissue on Payne 's bare thigh.
'No.' Payne reflexively touched the spot. Beneath his fingertips, fastened to his femur, was a metal plate and five locking screws. 'Got the scars in a crash on the P.C.H.'
'Jesus, Payne. Bad luck sticks to you like flies on shit.' A fuzzy thought came to the judge, and he squinted like a sailor peering through the fog. 'What I don't get, is why you think I'd tank a case.'
'Not tank it, Your Honor. Just give me the identity of the C.I.'
'That's even worse!' The judge was reddening, his tone growing angry. 'I give up a confidential informant, your client will have him killed.'
I messed it all up, Payne thought. Career. Marriage. Life.
I can't even bribe a crooked judge.
Payne's hands trembled, his fingers jerking like piano keys. He made a vow.
If I get out of this, I really will change.
'Your Honor. I gotta tell you the truth about what I'm doing here.'
Judge Rollins waved the gun toward the stacks of hundred-dollar bills. 'The money speaks for itself.'
'That's the thing, Judge. Ramon Carollo-'
'Is scum. And so's Pedro Martinez. Fuck 'em both.'
'Who?'
'Pedro Martinez, for Christ's sake. The C.I. I signed the warrants. I oughta know.'
Payne wasn't sure he heard correctly. 'You just gave me the informant's name.'
'You paid for it, didn't you?' The judge lifted his robes and slipped the. 38 back into its shoulder holster. He swept the stacks of currency into a desk drawer like a croupier cleaning up chips. 'Sorry I scared you. But with the Grand Jury running wild, I take precautions.'
Payne moved robotically. One leg, and then the other, into his boxers. He had trouble believing what had just happened. He was going home, and the judge was going to jail.
'Martinez has a house on the beach in Rosarito, just south of the border,' the judge said. 'Plus a condo in La Jolla. He shouldn't be hard for your people to find.'
My people, Payne thought, will be busting down your door and putting you in handcuffs. He finished dressing in silence and made for the door.
'Take care of yourself, Payne,' the judge called after him. 'And next time, make it the full fifty thousand.'
