Rosarito Beach (7 page)

The meeting went on for another five minutes, Lincoln Prescott making a pointless speech about the rights of the accused, the warden of the Metropolitan Correctional Center voicing his umbrage about accusations that his officers couldn't keep criminals incarcerated in his jail, and the chief of police once again challenging Davis's “outlandish assumptions” about what Caesar Olivera might do. The only one who didn't protest was U.S. Marshal Kevin Walker. He just sat there rubbing his big chin, apparently mulling over everything Jim Davis had said.

Kay figured that Judge Foreman might take a little time to come to a conclusion, but he didn't. He said, “Although I believe Caesar Olivera may have the capability suggested by Mr. Davis, and may intend to take some drastic action to free his brother, I refuse to let the legal institutions of the United States cower in fear. As I said, this is not Mexico. Mr. Olivera will be arraigned tomorrow morning in my courtroom as scheduled, and you people will all do your jobs to make sure that happens.”

As a result of Benton Foreman's refusal to cower, eighteen people would die.

—

T
he press conference went about the way Kay had expected.

Jim Davis gave a very terse, very formal statement regarding how Tito Olivera had been arrested for killing one Ronald “Cadillac” Washington, how DEA agents arrested two of Mr. Olivera's men, and how Leon James was shot and killed. He stated that Mr. Olivera had been a “person of interest” for some time regarding his connections to narcotics trafficking in California. He made no mention of Tito's big brother.

The first question asked was: “Is it true that Kay Hamilton, the DEA agent who killed Marco Álvarez in Miami, was the agent who arrested Tito Olivera?”

This question may have surprised Davis, but it didn't surprise Kay. Half an hour earlier, she had called the reporter who asked the question—and told her that she should ask it. The reporter was a good-looking redhead who anchored the local news on Channel 8, and Kay had leaked information to her in the past when she thought it might do her career some good. She occasionally had drinks with the reporter as well.

Davis responded to the question by saying, “The DEA does not release the names of DEA personnel involved in arrests.”

But the cameras focused on Kay, and she knew the following morning the papers would discuss her killing Marco Álvarez and three of his men in Miami, and how twenty-seven people were eventually convicted thanks to her efforts.

Kay figured that she'd had a pretty good day. Maybe she'd treat herself to a couple martinis and a steak at Morton's.

R
aphael Mora watched as Caesar Olivera spoke quietly with Tito's lawyer.

They were in Caesar's home office at Caesar's Sinaloa estate; the desk Caesar sat behind had once belonged to Archduke Maximilian of Hapsburg, Emperor of Mexico from 1864 to 1867. The telephone was not an antique; it was encrypted. Caesar ended the conversation by saying, “Thank you, Mr. Prescott,” and gently placed the phone handset back into its cradle.

Mora knew the calmness Caesar was displaying was a façade. He knew that Caesar was so angry about the idiotic thing his brother had done that he wanted to take the phone and beat it on his expensive desk until it shattered—but he also knew that Caesar would never do that.

Raphael Mora had worked for Caesar Olivera for almost twenty years, and he remembered how Caesar had been when he was younger. He watched him beat three cousins to death one time by smashing their faces with a claw hammer; when Caesar was finished, his face was so covered with blood it looked like he was wearing a wet, red mask.

Caesar had willed himself to become a different person. Now he rarely raised his voice. He prided himself on remaining unemotional, logical, and coldly analytical no matter how he might feel about a situation. He had little formal education, but he read extensively; he particularly liked to read management books, because that's how he now thought of himself: as a CEO.

Caesar was forty-five years old. He was a handsome man, although not as handsome as Tito. And unlike his younger half brother, Caesar looked Hispanic; he and Tito had different mothers. His hair was thick and dark, his nose prominent, his chin blunt. His eyes were so dark they looked black. And where Tito was tall and slender, Caesar was five-ten, with a deep chest and the muscles of someone who might have spent a lifetime doing manual labor. Mora knew that Caesar Olivera had never done manual labor; the muscles were a genetic gift, further assisted by a personal trainer.

Caesar also no longer personally executed those who had disappointed him in some way. These days, he and his wife frequently dined with Mexican politicians and celebrities; he had a philanthropic organization in his wife's name; wings in hospitals and buildings at universities bore his name. People in the Mexican army, the federal police, local cops, politicians, and judges worked for him and protected his interests and his investments. And nobody—at least nobody in the Mexican media—called him a drug lord. He was simply a well-connected businessman with vast real estate holdings and controlling interests in many legitimate companies.

“Does Prescott have anything new?” Mora asked.

“No,” Caesar said. “He just called to tell me that three San Diego detectives have been taken into custody but they never had any direct contact with Tito.”

Caesar looked away for a moment, and again Mora had the impression he was struggling to control himself. “Do you think Juan knew what he was going to do?”

Juan Guzmán was nominally Tito's second-in-command, and when Tito went north to run Caesar's U.S. operations, Caesar had forced Tito to take Juan with him. Juan was older than Tito—about Caesar's age—and he was an experienced man and not a hothead. His job had been to mentor Tito, keep him out of trouble, and keep Caesar informed of what Tito was doing. Juan had obviously failed—and failed badly.

“No, sir,” Mora said. “I spoke to him right after Tito was arrested. He knew Tito was upset about your order to buy out Washington. His pride was hurt, and he thought he'd failed you. But Juan had no idea he was going to do something so foolish.”

“And the woman? Was she a DEA informant?”

“It would appear so,” Mora said. “Tito told Prescott that she knew the DEA agent who arrested him. She called her Kay. He said only three people in his organization knew of his meeting with Washington: the woman, and the two men he brought with him to the meeting. He's certain the two men didn't talk to the DEA about the meeting. Juan vetted the woman, of course, when Tito started sleeping with her, and he saw nothing that gave him any cause for concern. She was who she appeared to be: a beautiful, not-too-bright party girl. Juan reviewed her cell phone records periodically and never saw any indication she was talking to anyone at the DEA.”

“How did they get to her?”

“Juan doesn't know for sure, but he suspects it might have been through her brother. He was arrested five months ago, and when he was released on bail, he ran and it looked as though he'd fled to Canada. Phone records show that he called his mother periodically from Vancouver, and Juan thought he was hiding there, probably living off some woman, until he decided it was safe to come back to the U.S. But now . . . well, Juan doesn't know, but he suspects the DEA is hiding the brother and they used him to force the woman to cooperate.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don't know. The DEA disappeared her right after Tito was arrested. I'll find her.”

Caesar nodded. Of course Mora would find her.

An organizational chart of the Olivera cartel would show that Caesar had no second-in-command. His organization was relatively horizontal, with a number of men and women who would be considered senior vice presidents in a traditional company and all reported directly to him. Some were responsible for specific geographical areas in Mexico and South America and they managed drug trafficking, human trafficking, prostitution, and weapons. Others were specialists. A woman—a Harvard MBA—managed all of Caesar's financial affairs; she had more than a hundred people working for her in Mexico. One man was responsible for transporting Caesar's major products—people and drugs—both into and out of Mexico; another man was responsible for his physical security, the security of his homes, and his family. This person had technical personnel working for him who dealt with encryption, computer security, and electronic surveillance countermeasures.

Raphael Mora was, for lack of a better term, Caesar's intelligence officer and wartime consigliere. And Mora was more than a goon with a gun. He'd been in the Mexican army when he was younger, a graduate of Heroico Colegio Militar, Mexico's equivalent of West Point. He'd also received training at the United States Army War College, the Strategic Studies Institute in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, as well as training with U.S. Army Special Forces at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, before coming to work for Caesar Olivera.

“Well, do you have a plan for freeing my brother?”

“Yes, sir,” Mora said. He had begun developing the plan an hour after Tito was arrested. He told Caesar what he had in mind.

“I leave for San Diego in half an hour,” Mora said, “and I'm taking a couple specialists with me, but I'm going to have to rely on a local gang for manpower. The gang leader seems bright enough, but I'll have to trust his judgment to pick a decent crew. I don't have time to screen his personnel.”

“Does Tito know what's going to happen?”

“Yes. We got to a guard quickly and he gave Tito a cell phone. I've told Tito what to expect, and he understands the risks.” Mora hesitated. “Sir, I'm assuming you understand the risks as well.”

“I do,” Caesar said. He didn't bother with threats about what he would do if his brother was killed or seriously injured during the escape attempt.

“Is there anything we can do to force the judge to release Tito on bail?” Caesar asked.

“No. Marshals are protecting the judge and his immediate family, and we have less than sixteen hours.”

“If you fail tomorrow, where will Tito be held pending trial?”

“As Prescott probably told you, the DEA wants to put him on a marine base, but he thinks that's unlikely to happen and he'll be held at MCC, San Diego. Obviously, it's going to be extremely difficult to get him out of there, but we'll have at least a year before his trial to work out a plan. Prescott will make sure we have at least a year.”

“And if there is a trial?”

This was typical of Caesar Olivera. He had a Plan A—free Tito before his arraignment. He had a possible Plan B—free him from the Metropolitan Correctional Center before his trial. But he wanted a Plan C.

“The video is the problem,” Mora said. “Prescott hasn't seen it yet, so we don't know exactly what it shows, but once Prescott sees it, he'll decide if it can be impugned. I will, of course, investigate methods for destroying it and any copies that are made. However, and as I'm sure you know, that may not be possible. The evidence against Tito will be well protected; they're not going to leave it sitting in a cardboard box in an evidence locker. There are also three witnesses to the killing: Tito's whore and his two men. They'll all be dead before the trial. Once a judge is assigned and a jury is impaneled, we'll start looking at those people to see who can be influenced. But, sir, we don't want this to go to trial. So, shall I proceed?”

“Yes,” Caesar said.

“You realize that the reaction from the media and American politicians is going to be enormous, much bigger than anything we have ever seen in the past. The financial impact on our operations will also be significant.”

“I understand. Proceed,” Caesar said.

—

A
fter Mora left, Caesar walked outside and took a seat in a wicker rocking chair on the large porch that ran along the west side of the house.

Caesar had several magnificent homes in Mexico: an urban palace in the Bosques de las Lomas area of Mexico City; an oceanside mansion in Playas de Rosarito that was close to the U.S. border; and condos in Manzanillo, Cozumel, and Tehuantepec. His primary residence was in the Mexican state of Sinaloa, where he had been raised, and he spent as much time there as possible.

The estate in Sinaloa was east of San Ignacio, on the western edge of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains, and covered more than ten thousand acres. It was cool in the summer and there were miles of forest trails where his wife and daughters could ride their horses. He had orchards, stables, tennis courts, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, and several cottages for visitors. The cottages were nicer than the homes of ninety percent of the people who lived in Mexico.

Caesar lit a cigar; he permitted himself two a day. He had stopped smoking cigarettes ten years before. As he smoked—and thought about his brother—he watched his eldest daughter ride her horse in the exercise yard near the stables. Katrina, only fourteen, was an excellent rider and her coach said she could be an Olympic-caliber equestrienne. She was also going to be as beautiful as her mother. Caesar was almost sorry his wife and daughters were leaving tomorrow for Mexico City; well, he was sorry his daughters were leaving, not quite so sorry his wife was going.

Caesar knew he should never have sent Tito to the United States. He knew it was a mistake the day he made the decision.

Tito was twenty years younger than Caesar. Caesar's mother was his father's first wife, a Mexican national, and when she died, his father married a woman from L.A. who was almost Caesar's age. Caesar's father also allowed Tito to be born in California so he could claim U.S. citizenship.

All his life Caesar had spoiled his baby brother, and when Tito was twenty, he began to pester Caesar to give him a larger role in his business, and in particular to be allowed to expand Caesar's operations in the United States. Caesar initially resisted Tito's pleas; he didn't need to expand. He certainly didn't need more money. Furthermore, doing business in the United States was much more dangerous than doing business in Mexico, because law enforcement, for the most part, actually functioned in the United States. In Mexico, no one would ever dare to arrest Tito Olivera; north of the border, cops and judges were much harder to buy and intimidate.

But Tito continued to beg, saying that if anything should ever happen to Caesar—God forbid—he needed to have the experience. Also, taking control of distribution in the southwestern United States made good business sense—and Tito knew that a solid business argument would appeal to Caesar. So he eventually gave in, knowing when he did that Tito didn't have the maturity, the discipline—or the intelligence—to run his empire. He had hedged his bet by sending Juan Guzmán to San Diego with Tito, but for whatever reason, Juan had failed him when it came to Tito's decision to kill Cadillac Washington. Caesar hadn't yet decided what to do about Juan.

“Papa! Papa!”

Caesar looked out at his daughter; she looked so small sitting on the chestnut mare she favored.

“Watch me, Papa.” And then, before Caesar could say anything to stop her, she ran the mare directly at the enclosure surrounding the exercise yard and jumped the fence.

“Katrina, are you crazy!” Caesar shouted. “Get off that horse right now.”

But he was smiling.

Katrina was the right person to run his empire after he was gone. She had the courage, and she was definitely smarter than his brother.