First Victim

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The Chinese woman replied through the interpreter, ‘‘Yes. We pay money to be brought America. We in America. Yes?’’

‘‘She’s an illegals poster child,’’ Boldt mumbled.

Daphne tried another tactic. ‘‘What if we arranged for you to remain in the United States legally? Would you help us then?’’

The interpreter interjected, ‘‘I will not be party to this kind of sham.’’

‘‘What sham?’’ Daphne argued.

‘‘The Service will never agree to such a deal. Have you spoken to Agent Coughlie? Of course you haven’t! Brian Coughlie never makes such deals.’’

Boldt inquired, ‘‘Then how do they obtain information from these people?’’

‘‘Listen, I’m only the translator, but I’m telling you: I’ve never offered a deal to any female detainee. It just isn’t done. The operating premise is that the women don’t know anything. They are rarely, if ever, even interviewed. The male detainees, the various gang members occasionally rounded up—the coyotes—they’re a different story. But in terms of the women, Fort Nolan is nothing but a big bus terminal, with all the buses headed home.’’

‘‘All the more reason she should cooperate with us,’’ Boldt reminded. ‘‘We’re giving her a chance to be heard.’’

‘‘But you don’t control their destiny, the INS does. Agent Coughlie does.’’

The subject’s eyes ticked back and forth between her interpreter and Boldt, who was beginning to dislike Coughlie already.

Daphne said politely, ‘‘Please translate the lieutenant’s offer. If we cut her a deal that included a legitimate green card and her money returned, could she supply us with the name of the ship and any details of crossing?’’

The translator spoke quickly behind poorly contained anger. The detainee listened carefully, looked surprised and then studied both Boldt and Daphne carefully. After a long hesitation, she shook her head no.

‘‘Why,’’ Daphne pleaded. ‘‘Why volunteer for deportation?’’

The interpreter answered, ‘‘Because—’’

Boldt chided, ‘‘Not you. Her!’’

The Chinese woman shook her head a second time upon hearing the translated question.

The interpreter tried again with Daphne. ‘‘They are warned before they leave the mainland that the Americans do not keep their word. Their relatives, both here in the US and in China, will suffer if they talk. To a Chinese, family is everything. It would be shameful to put any family member at risk.’’

Boldt addressed the translator. ‘‘The people who took her money nearly killed her. They did kill three others. More will die. Maybe relatives of hers who follow in her footsteps. Doesn’t that mean anything to her?’’ He hesitated, leaned forward and warned, ‘‘Tell her that we will arrest her as an accomplice to those deaths if she does not cooperate.’’ This drew Daphne’s attention as well. He continued, ‘‘Tell her that if convicted she will not be deported, but will spend the rest of her life in a prison with convicted murderers, drug addicts and thieves. Exactly that. Exactly those words, please.’’

The color had drained out of the translator’s face; her eyes pleaded with Daphne for intervention.

But Daphne nodded at Boldt.

‘‘You wouldn’t do this,’’ the interpreter objected.

‘‘Not another word from you,’’ Boldt fired back, ‘‘other than what comes from her or one of us. No more editorial. Three women are dead,’’ he repeated loudly, now getting his earnestness across to the subject as well. ‘‘Now translate!’’

The interpreter spoke to the woman, who subsequently blanched at the idea of a prison term. After a long and searching staring match with Boldt, this woman addressed her translator, who, upon hearing

the words, suppressed a smirk.

‘‘What?’’ Boldt asked impatiently. ‘‘And I want it word for word.’’

The translator did her job. The Chinese detainee smiled, for the first time without using her hand to shield her mouth. Her front teeth were missing.

‘‘What?’’ Boldt repeated irritably.

The interpreter then reported, ‘‘She said you Americans must have big prisons.’’

CHAPTER 5

he following day, for five hundred dollars in cash, the state auditor supplied Melissa with the name Gwen Klein, and the Greenwood Licensing Service Office—in Washington State the equivalent of a Department of Motor Vehicles—where Klein worked. Melissa spent hours in the back of her van with a bulky broadcast-quality video camera and battery pack perpetually prepared to record. She shot tape of Klein leaving the LSO and running errands, tape of Klein picking up her kids from day care, tape of Klein grocery shopping. Her first ‘‘report card’’ was delivered in Stevie McNeal’s sumptuous penthouse apartment over a pair of salads that Stevie had ordered by phone. The wine was an Archery Summit Pinot. Stevie drank liberally, Melissa hardly at all.

‘‘About the only thing I have to report is that the husband is driving a brand new pickup truck and the house appears to have a new roof.’’

‘‘Extra cash,’’ Stevie suggested.

‘‘Or a dead relative or a generous banker. The husband pounds nails. She’s a state employee. That’s a thirty- thousand-dollar truck he’s driving, and new roofs aren’t cheap.’’

‘‘Let’s find out how he paid for that truck,’’ Stevie suggested.

‘‘That would help us to pressure her.’’

‘‘She’s not going to talk to us,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘Not without hard evidence of her involvement.’’

‘‘Driver’s licenses are small. She could make a drop anywhere.’’

‘‘So you stay close to her,’’ Stevie suggested.

‘‘I can stay close, but I can’t stick to her.’’

‘‘Sure you can.’’

‘‘Not and get tape. At least not with that camera. It’s the size of a school bus.’’

‘‘Let me look into getting you the digital,’’ Stevie said. ‘‘There’s a briefcase for it that we use on all the undercover stuff. You can go anywhere with it.’’

‘‘That would certainly help.’’

‘‘Not anywhere dangerous, mind you,’’ Stevie informed her. ‘‘I want you to remember that.’’ Melissa had been a risk-taker all her life.

‘‘And if we don’t get something more positive out of her in a day or two?’’ Melissa asked.

‘‘Then our friend at the dim sum doesn’t get his second payment.’’

‘‘And the women in that container? We forget about them?’’

‘‘Don’t do this to yourself,’’ Stevie said.

‘‘Do what?’’

‘‘Work yourself up. Go righteous on me.’’

‘‘We have two options,’’ Melissa said impatiently, brushing aside Stevie’s concerns. ‘‘Journalism 101. The first is to confront her on-camera with what we know. The second is to make something happen.’’

‘‘Journalism 101?’’ Stevie objected. ‘‘Since when? Confront her, sure. But entrapment?’’

‘‘If you can’t break the news, make the news,’’ Melissa quoted.

‘‘That’s not you and we both know it. Make the news? Fake the news? That’s not you! Corwin maybe, but not you.’’