Don't Lose Her (13 page)

“We will scorch the earth in the search for Judge Manchester and the pursuit of any and all persons involved in her abduction,” said Florida Attorney General Thomas Mann during a briefing yesterday on the case that has shocked and outraged the justice system and the general public across the nation.

“First and foremost, we are focusing on the safe return of Judge Manchester, and secondly on bringing those responsible to justice,” Mann said.

“Law enforcement has pooled its resources and the level of cooperation among agencies is unprecedented.”

Though acknowledging that no ransom demands have been received from those responsible, authorities have focused their investigation on the Colombian cocaine cartel known as Los Lobos, of which Escalante has been the titular head for nearly two decades. Escalante was lured to Florida last year in a federal sting operation and arrested in a high-profile raid at a Palm Beach mansion and charged with dozens of RICO Act violations. Known as the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act of 1970 and originally meant to fight Mafia-like organized crime, the RICO
Act
was broadly defined and
has recently been used
to deter the reaches of organized drug dealers and all their affiliates in the United States.

Judge Manchester, though a relative newcomer to the federal bench, had extensive experience in drug-related criminal cases as a prosecutor for the Southern District of Florida for many years. Escalante's attorneys were fighting to have him returned to Colombia while federal prosecutors were fighting that extradition and demanding that he face the RICO charges here in the United States where, if found guilty, he could face more than fifty years in prison.

The extradition case was in its first week when Judge Manchester was abducted off the street in West Palm Beach only a few blocks from the federal courthouse during a lunch break. Eyewitnesses told police that an unmarked white van screeched to a halt on SW 14th Street about 12:15 last Wednesday and an unknown number of assailants pulled the judge into the vehicle and sped away. Despite the fact that private building and traffic cameras caught part of the abduction on video, the license plates of the van were found to be stolen and the vehicle has yet to be recovered.

Adding to the concern over Manchester's abduction is the fact that the forty-three-year-old judge is eight months pregnant with her first child, according to family members.

“My daughter is a pregnant woman who was only performing her judiciary duties as an officer of the court. This is an assault not only on her but on the foundation of the justice system in these United States,” said Manchester's father, Charles McIntyre, a retired Florida Supreme Court justice who pleaded for his daughter's release.

“She cannot change the laws of the United States and was only hearing the case as an arbitrator of law,” McIntyre said. “To harm her will make no difference in the outcome of the Escalante case and the charges against him. Such an outrageous act guarantees nothing but additional criminal charges to be brought against those responsible.”

Judge Manchester's husband, William T. Manchester, a lawyer and investment manager known for his exclusive clientele list and also his pro bono work with underprivileged and minority clients, could not be reached for comment. The interracial couple was married two years ago in a private ceremony, which was controversial in the realms of high society in exclusive Palm Beach. In interviews, friends of the couple who asked not to be identified said the judge was in the late third trimester of her first pregnancy.

“They are a beautiful couple and were extremely happy together and thrilled over the pregnancy despite all the racial innuendo slung around by the backbiters in the old Palm Beach set,” said one woman who claims to be a close friend and associate. “This just has to be devastating for Billy.”

William “Billy” Manchester is a black lawyer from Philadelphia with only professional rather than generational entrée to Palm Beach society as an investment specialist, while the McIntyre family has familial ties to the community spanning several generations.

Sources in law enforcement say that the State Department has been working back channels with the Colombian government in an effort to find out if Escalante's myriad connections in that country can be persuaded to assist in gaining the release of the judge.

Though the abduction, and sometimes killing, of judges and journalists in Latin America is not uncommon, this is the first time that an American judge has been physically threatened in connection with the powerful drug cartels.

Law enforcement officials say they have scoured all ports of entry and egress in both South Florida and Colombia in the event that Judge Manchester's abductors try to smuggle her out of the country. The investigation continues to focus on the drug cartel connection.

Yet in a statement released yesterday through his lawyers, Escalante denied any knowledge of the abduction and asked any and all who were involved to free the judge.

“If anyone from my native country is involved in this, it is without my knowledge or permission. This will not help change the fact that the U.S. government is denying me the legal right of extradition back to my homeland. My people are not so stupid.”

In the meantime, law enforcement continues to follow several leads in the abduction, said Attorney General Mann, who asked that anyone with information on the case call the federal hotline listed below.

I folded up the paper and put it on the floor. “Nothing new there,” I said. Billy remained quiet and didn't move, even to start the car.

“D-diane's f-father is c-considering a r-reward f-for information.”

“Bad move. Brings out the nuts and they'll be swamped with bullshit sightings and useless leads.”

“L-leads are hard t-to c-come b-by,” Billy said, nodding his head in the direction of the command center. “L-look how quick th-they jumped on th-this one.”

“I'm a little surprised myself, considering where it came from.”

Billy didn't flinch at the self-deprecation.

“I'm c-concerned about th-the f-full f-focus b-being on the c-cartel's involvement,” he said. “Wh-what d-did you f-find with the l-list? Anything?”

“Doubtful so far,” I said, sparing Billy the details on the Arenas brothers and what was left of Giovanni Maltese, hating to admit my failure to come up with a single solid lead.

“Any luck on tracing the owners of the warehouse back there?” I said instead.

I knew it would be one of the first things Billy did when I'd given him the address. He'd get the landowner records and trace them through the state files. The feds would probably get to it later.

“Sh-shell c-corporations. B-but I haven't g-given up on f-finding the pr-principals' n-names.”

“The witness on the roof said the Indian opened the front door with a key. So it wasn't just someplace they broke into. They had a plan.”

Billy nodded.

“Could be an old drug stash house.”

Billy nodded again. Something was germinating in his head, but he'd wait until he'd run it around a bit to share what he was thinking. Billy was not an admirer of brainstorming.

“D-despite my entreaties to every c-contact I have in S-south America, I c-can't f-find a s-single t-tie or s-substantiated rumor that Escalante's p-people are in this,” he said again, without emotion or inflection of frustration or dissatisfaction; he was just stating fact.

“If he's p-pulling the st-strings, th-then he's d-doing s-so with only a small group of tr-trusted affiliates. And as you and I know, M-max, s-something th-this b-big is a very d-difficult th-thing to d-do without s-someone slipping up and t-talking, f-for pr-profit or advantage.”

I knew the feds were offering every drug-indicted detainee they had in custody a deal of a lifetime for information. I knew that they were squeezing any and all suspects with anything short of water­boarding—and maybe even that—to get a line on Diane's whereabouts.

The conundrum, of course, was the fact that no demands—not ransom or pardon or waiver of extradition—had yet been asked for by those responsible. What do you give kidnappers if they don't ask for anything? How do you determine motive if no desires are aired?

Who took Diane, and why?

“All p-possibilities,” Billy said. “Remember: F-follow the m-money?”

His comment made no sense on the face of it. Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. He didn't look up.

“Judge Krome, the one you m-met in the c-courthouse hallway. He's n-never sp-spoken to m-me b-before th-this. N-now he c-calls me every d-day, asking f-for updates. I d-did s-some research. He's hearing a c-casino c-case. It appears he has b-been d-denying wh-what w-would n-normally b-be observed as r-routine extensions t-to th-the pl-plaintiffs.”

The answer didn't do a thing for my eyebrows.

“T-two d-days ago, it appears he w-was f-forced to g-give th-them another d-delay or r-risk ethics c-committee scrutiny.”

“And there's money involved?” I said.

“M-millions. If a ruling is m-made b-before a st-stipulated d-deadline in th-the pl-plaintiffs' c-contract w-with Indian c-casino p-people, th-they w-won't have t-to p-pay up. If it's l-later, th-the b-bill is due.”

“And who's paying attention to this now?” I asked, not sure that Billy should be, but his mind works on more levels than mine.

“Only m-me. I ch-checked every b-big-m-money tr-trial going on in th-the c-courthouse.”

“OK. And how does this tie in with Diane?”

“I frankly d-don't know, M-max. I'm drawing wh-whatever th-threads I can.”

“We need a break,” I muttered, hating to fall back on that old saw.

“Th-that's th-the r-response from the authorities, and th-their st-stated answer t-to th-the question of wh-what t-to d-do n-now. W-wait f-for a br-break in the c-case, th-they s-say.”

Or for bodies,
I thought, keeping that image to myself. I'd been there too often, starting investigations only after bodies had turned up.

“But I can't wait,” I said, to myself as much as to Billy.

“N-neither c-can w-we. And p-perhaps w-with th-the Indian, you have g-given m-me another thread to w-work w-with. I'll g-get t-to it.”

He was dismissing me and I got out of the car.

“R-remember th-the tr-tracking device, M-max.”

“Don't care,” I said—and I didn't. If they knew where I was and where I was going, maybe I'd have backup when I blew up somebody's shit. And that's exactly what I intended to do.

Chapter 23

M
aybe it was the release of her hands—the fact that she could again cup her belly in her palms and massage her own skin, coo to her child while warming it with her own touch. Even if it was irrational, she wanted her baby to know she was there, watching, protecting. In a dream state, she thought back to the early months, to the elation she'd felt when she told Billy she was pregnant.

It wasn't as if it was unplanned. They'd talked about the risks involved in a pregnancy at her age, the changes in their lives, the challenges. But the thought of a baby, a child created by the two of them, had given her a glow that even people in the courthouse noticed.

“Aren't we in a good mood today, Judge?”

“You are looking absolutely vibrant, Judge Manchester. What, you're ahead of your docket again this month?”

And then, of course, there was the downside as her body changed in those first weeks. Squirrels in her belly: tiny, bouncing, rambunctious squirrels mixing it up. The dreaming was real enough to take her back to those early mornings trying to do the everyday things to get ready for work, and suddenly being stopped by the squirrelly stomach. Even though she knew that right now she was in a half-dream, half-awake state in a prison room, the taste of bile rising in her throat became too real to ignore, and seized her.

If I puke in this hood, they'll still refuse to take it off,
she thought
. They won't care. They'll make me wear it. And what if I choke? What if I gag on my own vomit and choke myself to death and take my own child with me?

She began to panic. Then her stomach began a lurch, a dry heave. She fought it. Then despite the voice in the back of her head that demanded her to leave the hood untouched, she lost control and began tearing at the cloth, pulling at the drawstring around her neck. She didn't care what they might do and kept clawing at the fabric as her stomach spun. She knew about people aspirating on their own vomit. She was driven by the irrational fear that she would drown.

She fought until the hood actually came free. A breath of clear air hit her face and cooled her cheeks and forehead and throat. It brought an instant relief to the nausea, even if she was dreaming it.

But now she was not dreaming. The hood was in Diane's right hand. She went still, waiting for the slap to the head. But no one hit her. No one pushed her back on the mattress. No one grunted or yelled at her.

Still, the days of darkness had intimidated her. She kept her eyes closed, afraid to open them, despite the lack of reprisal. Had she been brainwashed so quickly? You will not see. We will not let you see. And so you cannot.

Using her newly tuned senses, she listened for the sound of her captor's breathing. Was he asleep? Had he slipped out while she was dreaming? How could he even tell if she was asleep or not? He could not see her eyes through the cloak.

Open your eyes, Diane
, she ordered herself. Still she hesitated. A minute? Fifteen? Finally, she willed them open, forcing her lashes, stuck by crusted, dried tears, to flutter. When she opened her eyes wide again, there was no reaction from her guard. Without moving, she looked around in darkness. But her pupils had been in darkness for days, and now they seemed to seek out the light, any light. Across the room, the bottom edge of a door offered the single source of a light that gave dimension and reality to her prison.

It was a single room, maybe ten feet wide. She turned and scanned the walls for windows: none. The cot she sat upon was bigger than she had imagined. The portable toilet was in the far corner, seven steps away. Against the wall opposite her was one straight-backed chair. Something was on the floor next to it—a comforter, no, a long pad like a futon. Had her captor been sleeping right next to her all this time? Watching every movement?

Next to the pad was a white sack of some sort, a group of standing bottles, and a clock, the old-fashioned kind with the green glowing numbers. She tried to focus on the clock as if knowing the time were of utmost importance. She moved to the edge of the cot to get a closer look and was about to stand when the familiar sound of creaking floorboards just outside the door froze her in place.

Two thoughts: pull the hood back on and pretend it had never been off, that nothing had changed—or fight like hell.

When the doorknob's mechanical grind turned, her limbic system overruled. She stood and flexed her knees, and in that moment of expectation the first words she'd heard in what seemed like weeks came to her ears in a low, male, deep-chested voice: “Get her ready. We are going.”

Going? Going? Going where?
The words confused her.

The explosion of light that came in with the opening door stung her eyes in the way a flare must do to soldiers wearing night-vision goggles. Blinded, she rushed forward, launching herself as best she could into the door panel and feeling it give under her weight and momentum. It was less an attack than a stumble, but she heard a high-pitched yelp and a definite clomping of unsteady footfalls.

Just as she tried to gather herself for another lunge, a much greater opposite force hit the door from the other side and sent her sprawling across the room. She went down onto the iron frame of the cot, the edge catching her on a hip bone. Her cry of pain ripped the air. She looked up at the open door and got one glimpse of the backlit figure of an enormous man, taller and seemingly wider than the doorway itself. No face, but a scarf or maybe even a swath of long hair swung with his movement as he stepped into the room and backhanded her into blackness.

Consciousness—no, a true focus—crept back with the mixed odor of gasoline fumes and new car carpet. Diane had not gone completely out with the blow delivered by the big man. But the swirling movements, being dragged up by the armpits and then pushed and pulled in directions unknown, were all a blur. She recalled the stumbling, the jostling, and then a panicking feeling that they were throwing her over a rooftop to her death. But she never landed.

Then there were noises: a car engine, metal latches slamming together, the distant blaring of a horn, a siren—was it coming for her? An ambulance? A police car? Then came the movement, the pitching and a lurching stop before a feeling of momentum and speed.

Only now, with the odors around her and the realization that the hood had again been draped over her head and her hands retied, this time in front of her, did she make a cognizant assessment: they'd tossed a pregnant woman into the trunk of a car and now they were on the road.

There was no telling the amount of time they'd been moving or in what direction. Diane's senses had been so scrambled from the visions and the blow to the head that she was utterly lost. She moved her limbs as best she could to judge if anything was broken. She felt with her feet and hands the dimensions of the space around her and listened. Would you hear someone talking through the backseat of a car if you were in the trunk? Would you know if you were in the city or on the interstate, near the beach or inland? She didn't know. And soon she didn't care.

There was a constant high-speed hum of tires on a relatively flat roadway, and the odor of new car along with a tinge of exhaust. She encircled her stomach with her forearms and bound wrists and on the backs of her hands she felt a familiar texture. Someone had brought the blanket from the tiny cot and covered her. To keep her warm? Or keep her covered from prying eyes? She felt around more with her hands, let her fingers probe until she found a plastic bottle. She pulled at it and felt the shape.

She knew it could be anything; still she brought it to her mouth, and using her teeth, twisted the top until it was open enough to leak. Then she tasted the first few drops of bottled water with her tongue. Was her guard being kind to her? Did he feel bad after smashing her unconscious? She drank some more. What had her doctor said about hydration? Did her captors know this? Did they actually care about her health? If they were holding her for ransom, wouldn't they have to keep her alive, at least until they got their money?

Shit, Diane, they're holding you in the trunk of a car doing 100 mph down the highway. They punched you in the head and dragged you down a flight of stairs and tossed you into a trunk like a sack of trash. You're nothing to them but a means to some end, whatever the hell that might be.

“Get her ready. We are going,” the voice had said. Was it the voice of the big man, the one she saw in the backlit doorway? She concentrated now on the words. She was good at accents. She'd lived in multicultural South Florida all her life. She knew the difference between a Florida backwoods cracker drawl and a southern Georgia inflection. She knew a Cuban aristocratic Spanish from a Castilian cadence and could distinguish a classic New York accent from a nasal, higher-pitched Brooklynese.

Those six words had been none of those. They had a straighter, clipped feeling of Midwest America, but with an indecipherable spin. What they absolutely were not was Latin American, Colombian.

If Escalante was behind all this, these were hirelings, not men from his own country, which made less sense to her. Such a man and his cartel minions didn't kidnap a federal judge and send anyone but their most trusted soldiers to carry it out.

So who are these people? What do they want and when are they just going to kill me and my unborn child?