Rosarito Beach (9 page)

The day of the attack, cameras were at the Federal Courthouse hoping to catch a glimpse of handsome Tito Olivera doing the perp walk. When the shooting started, only a block from the courthouse, some of the faster cameramen were able to record part of the battle: the cops shooting it out with the gangbangers in the Hummers, the dead cops and marshals lying on the street, the burning police vehicles, citizens fleeing in terror, screaming and falling. The story instantly went international, with all the pundits rehashing everything previously said about drug cartels and how the savage violence in Mexico had clearly crept across the border.

The president made a speech standing in the Rose Garden, looking annoyed, saying he was going to be talking personally to the president of Mexico, demanding he do something to control the cartels. Like that was going to help. Congressmen made speeches about the need for sanctions against Mexico, and although the attack had nothing to do with illegal immigrants, politicians pounded on the podium about the need to boot out the aliens—as if the gardeners, pickers, maids, and busboys were all gang members in disguise. Glassy-eyed proponents for legalizing drugs made their pitch to whoever would listen, while gun-control advocates pointed out that all the weapons the gangsters used were manufactured in the United States; they asked once again if anything meaningful was ever going to be done to control the sale of such lethal hardware. The president of the NRA claimed that if a few of San Diego's citizens had been armed that day, they might have been able to help the cops; he said it wasn't the NRA's fault that criminals had more firepower than the police.

Of course, nothing changed after weeks of political posturing and heated rhetoric—except for the lives of seven U.S. marshals' families who would never be the same again.

W
hen Jim Davis and Kay saw Kevin Walker the next day, he looked as if he'd aged ten years. Kay put her hand on his arm and said, “I'm so sorry, Marshal.” He just nodded. He reminded her of pictures you see of survivors of suicide attacks in places like Baghdad—men wandering through smoking rubble, in shock, their eyes vacant, having no idea why they had been spared and their friends had not.

Clyde Taylor, warden of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, was also subdued. He'd been thinking about what Jim Davis had said, about how Caesar Olivera could raise an army to get Tito out of his jail. He now believed Davis, and he did
not
want to be responsible for guarding Tito for the ten or eleven months that would pass before his trial.

Warden Taylor was, in fact, the one who had called the meeting.

“That idea of yours about putting Tito in the brig at Camp Pendleton until the trial. Do you think you can make that happen?”

“Before the attack on the marshals, I wasn't sure,” Davis said. “It was just an idea. But now, yeah, I think so. My boss in Washington is talking to the Attorney General and folks at the Pentagon. I've talked to the commanding officer at Pendleton, and he actually likes the idea. He's one of those guys who wants to be back in Afghanistan killing Taliban. It sounded to me like he would enjoy the opportunity to match his marines up against a bunch of Mexican hoodlums.

“The thing I like about Pendleton is the brig is miles from the main gate, and if Olivera tried to bust through the gate or the fence, the marines would have plenty of time to set up a defensive perimeter around the brig. This general at Pendleton will also run his guys through drills until they drop. But we can't rely totally on the military. Caesar Olivera can bribe marines just as easily as he can bribe cops and jailers.”

Turning to Kevin Walker, Jim Davis said, “Marshal, technically, guarding Tito Olivera if we move him out of MCC is your job. I think we need your marshals inside the brig and living with Tito until his trial. The military will supply all the manpower to keep him in jail, but your people will be the ones running point.”

Walker just nodded. Kay was really worried about him; he looked like he was barely able to function.

“What do I do with Tito until we can transfer him to the brig?” the warden said.

“You're just going to have to do your job,” Davis said. “You need to handpick the guys you have guarding him and make sure they're people who can't be bought. If I were you, I'd also put a video camera in Tito's cell so you can see if anybody passes him a cell phone or anything else. You'll need to beef up your perimeter security, too. You should block off elevators, stairs, and doors that can be used to get to Tito. Ask SDPD to assist you outside the building. They lost people in the attack, and you know they'll help.”

“What happens if Caesar Olivera kidnaps people in my family or the families of my guards?”

Davis shrugged. “I don't know what to tell you, Warden. Just do the best you can and I'll try to get Tito out of your jail as fast as possible. You also have another problem.”

“What's that?” the warden said. He didn't want to hear about any more problems.

“You're holding two men who saw Tito kill Cadillac Washington: Jesús Rodríguez and Ángel Gomez. They're witnesses, but they're not going to testify against Tito, because they know if they do, Caesar Olivera will have them killed.”

“Then what's the problem?” the warden asked.

“Olivera is going to kill them anyway. He's not going to take the chance of them cutting a deal and giving up information about the cartel. Their lives aren't worth the risk. So you need to put them in isolation and watch them like they're your own kids.”

“Why not put them in Camp Pendleton, too?” the warden said.

“No. That's a silver bullet we're using for Tito. We can't put everyone who's connected to him on the base.”

Before the warden could object, he said, “We also have to protect our informant, María Delgato, and her family. Caesar Olivera has probably figured out by now that María was the one who set up his brother, so he's going to do his best to cut her head off. And I mean
literally
cut her head off.”

Normally, guarding a federal witness would be Kevin Walker's job, but Davis said, “If it's okay with you, Marshal Walker, my people will cover María. We've been hiding her brother for almost half a year, and right now we have her mother in custody, too. I know you're shorthanded with everything that's happened, so if you want to protect them, then maybe I can—”

“You can take care of your informant,” Walker said. It was obvious Walker didn't really care about María Delgato. All he cared about was the seven dead men who had been his responsibility.

“Okay,” Davis said. “I'll take the lead on getting D.C. to buy in on this plan.” He nodded to Kay, and they left before anyone could change their minds.

As they were leaving Warden Taylor's office, Davis said, “Is María in Portland yet?”

“Yeah,” Kay said. “I'm heading for the airport in an hour to fly up there. I'll be gone a couple of days.”

T
he day Tito Olivera was arrested, Kay had two DEA agents pick up María Delgato's mother. Sofía Delgato thought they were immigration agents and went along peacefully, crying into a handkerchief nonstop for an hour. Kay had two other agents take María to meet up with her mother, then all four agents, two males and two females, headed north in a van. They were ordered to drive without stopping until they reached Portland, Oregon, and then wait for Kay at a safe house that she had rented for the month. Kay had no intention of flying María Delgato anywhere; she knew the Olivera cartel had the ability to check flight records. After she arrived in Portland, Kay was going to take María and her mother to see Miguel Delgato, María's younger brother.

For the last five months—while Kay had been trying to get enough evidence to put Tito Olivera in jail—Miguel Delgato had been staying with two DEA agents named Figgins and Patterson. The three men had been living together in an unimpressive, three-bedroom waterfront house that sat on two isolated acres ten miles from Neah Bay, Washington.

Neah Bay, Washington, is a bleak Makah Indian fishing village on the northwestern-most point of the continental United States; Canada's Vancouver Island is twenty miles away, just across the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The term
the end of nowhere
comes to mind, but Neah Bay is a premier place for catching salmon, halibut, and cod.

Miguel's minders, Mike Figgins and Ray Patterson, were both a year away from retirement. They were overweight, out of shape, probably alcoholics, and just coasting along until they could pull the plug on their careers—and the job of guarding Miguel Delgato was the best gig they ever had in twenty-five years with the Drug Enforcement Administration.

No one was hunting for Miguel; his friends and business associates all thought he'd fled to Canada. Once a month, Figgins and Patterson would let him make a call that was routed through a Vancouver exchange and allow him to talk to his mother so phone records would show he was living there. Miguel wasn't important enough for anyone to look for—and Figgins and Patterson weren't worried about his escaping, either. Miguel knew that if he escaped, his mother and sister would be deported.

So Figgins had borrowed a twenty-one-foot Trophy boat from the widow of a DEA agent who lived in Seattle, and for the past five months he, Patterson, and Miguel had done nothing but fish, play cribbage, golf, drink, and take an occasional trip to the casino near Port Angeles. The agents were both divorced—between them they had five ex-wives—and they were doing exactly the kind of things they planned to do after they retired. And not only were they getting their DEA salaries for babysitting Miguel Degato, they were also collecting per diem.

It turned out that Miguel actually liked to fish and golf. He didn't like being cooped up with two old boozers like Figgins and Patterson, but he knew it was either that or a cell in Victorville. So Miguel went along with the arrangement without bitching too much, and the three men actually became friends—or as friendly as a guy and his jailers can be. Figgins and Patterson were dreading the day the assignment ended.

Kay's plan was to stash María and her mother with Miguel at Neah Bay until Tito Olivera's trial—but there'd be no more golfing and fishing trips for Figgins and Patterson once María arrived.

—

K
ay flew into Portland because she didn't want there to be a record of her being anywhere in Washington State. She rented a car at Portland Airport, then drove to the safe house where María and her mother were waiting with the four DEA agents who had transported them from San Diego.

Kay was going to drive María and Sofía to Neah Bay herself. She and her boss, Jim Davis, had made the decision that the best way to protect María until the trial was to hide her in the most remote place possible and minimize the number of people who knew where she was. And although Mike Figgins and Ray Patterson were both professional burnouts, Kay trusted them. She'd worked with them in Miami, and in spite of their many flaws, she was positive they wouldn't sell María to Caesar Olivera.

As soon as Kay walked into the Portland safe house, María began to bitch. Kay had ruined her life, and she wanted to know what was going to happen next. What was she going to do for money? Where were she and her mother supposed to live?

“Aw, Jesus, shut up for a minute, will you?” Kay said. “We'll talk about all that stuff later.”

She didn't bother to remind María that if she hadn't shot off her mouth in front of Tito about knowing Kay, she wouldn't be in this predicament.

“First,” Kay said, “I need to know more about your mother's heart condition so I can arrange for medical care.”

“What heart condition?” Sofía Delgato said. “All I take is a high-blood-pressure pill.”

Kay looked over at María, and María just shrugged.

María was no longer wearing the sexy, low-cut cocktail dress she had on when Tito was arrested. She was now wearing jeans—and not designer jeans—a bulky sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Neither María nor her mother had been allowed to pack before leaving San Diego, because Kay had wanted them out of the city as fast as possible. She'd instructed the agents who drove them to Portland to buy them clothes suitable for January in the Northwest, where it was almost always raining and the temperature was twenty to thirty degrees cooler than San Diego.

Turning to one of the female DEA agents, Kay asked, “Did you get them enough clothes so they only have to wash once a week or so?”

“Yeah,” the agent said. “And suitcases if you have to move them.”

“Good,” Kay said. Pointing at María's tennis shoes, she asked, “How 'bout waterproof boots?”

“Yeah. Rain gear, too.”

“Why the hell do we need rain gear?” María asked.

“Have you noticed the weather outside, María?” Kay said.

“Yeah, but I'm not planning on going hiking or some shit like that. And these jeans she bought me make my ass look fat.”

Kay thought her ass would have looked perfect even if she'd been wearing a burlap sack, but didn't say so. She also thought that María was really going to be a handful for Figgins and Patterson.

Kay thanked the four DEA agents for bringing María to Portland and told them they could head back to San Diego. She implied, without actually saying so, that María would be staying at the safe house in Portland until Tito's trial. She had no reason to distrust the agents; she just didn't want them to know where she was taking María. As soon as the agents left, Kay told María and her mother she was driving them to see Miguel. Sofía was delighted to hear this; she hadn't seen her son in almost half a year.

María asked where they were going, and Kay ignored her.

—

I
t was—or should have been—a six-hour drive from Portland, Oregon, to Neah Bay, Washington. The scenery, particularly along the Washington coast, was marvelous; the trip itself was a nightmare. They had to stop every hour so María's mother could use the restroom, and if they weren't stopping so Sofía could pee, they were stopping because María wanted to smoke, which she couldn't do in the rental car.

The six-hour trip to Neah Bay took eight hours.

Kay allowed María and her mother a few minutes for a tearful reunion with Miguel, then told everyone to sit down in the living room. Speaking in English so Figgins and Patterson could understand, Kay said, “Let's talk about what's going to happen next. Miguel, translate for your mom if she doesn't understand something.”

Kay explained that it was going to be almost a year before Tito Olivera went to trial. It was a death-penalty case and Tito's lawyer was going to delay things as long as he could, and the reason he was going to delay was to give Caesar Olivera an opportunity to free his brother. More to the point, Caesar was also going to do everything he could to find María and kill her.

“If he can't find María, he'll try to find you two,” Kay said, pointing at María's mother and brother. “And when he finds you, he'll kidnap you and threaten to kill you if María testifies, then he'll kill you anyway.”

When Kay said this, María's mother began to wail in Spanish; it was obvious she spoke English better than Kay had thought.

“The three of you have to understand something,” Kay said. “Caesar Olivera runs a large, sophisticated organization that has technical capability and contacts everywhere. The best chance of keeping you all alive is for you to stay here. This place is at the end of nowhere and Caesar has no reason to look here. But if you do something stupid, if you make a telephone call to anyone, send a letter, get on the Internet and send an e-mail, if you make contact with anyone from your past, Caesar Olivera will find you. Then he'll kill you.

“Now, María, I suppose I could put you in a maximum-security prison somewhere, but I don't think you'd like living in a prison for a year. Plus, there isn't a prison in this country that Caesar couldn't penetrate to have you killed. Your best bet is to stay here and be invisible.”

“And these two fat old farts are going to protect me?” María said. She said this in English, and when she did, Figgins said, “Hey, we're not that old.” And Patterson added, “But we are fat.”

“Shut up,” Kay said to the agents. “I'm not in the mood.”

To María she said, “You still don't get it. I could put thirty agents up here and they wouldn't be able to protect you. Caesar Olivera could literally drop a bomb on this place if he wanted to. He could send in a hundred guys to kill you. So Mike and Ray aren't really here to protect you. They're here to make sure you follow the rules, and if you don't, you're gonna die.”

“Jesus Christ,” María muttered. “What the hell am I going to do in this shithole for a year?”

In Spanish, her brother said, “It's not so bad, sis. And you like to fish—at least, you used to.”

“Fish!” María said. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“María, watch your language,” her mother said.

“What happens after the trial?” María asked, switching back to English.

“The government is going to take care of you and your family, María. We're going to relocate you to someplace nice, someplace where Olivera would never think of looking for you. We'll get you a house. We'll get you new identities that are bulletproof. If you want plastic surgery to change your appearance—”

María made a little snorting sound that Kay interpreted as
Why in God's name would a woman who looks like me ever want to change her appearance?

“Anyway,” Kay said, “we've got a year to figure out where you should go after the trial. Right now, the main thing is, I have to make sure you understand that the only way to protect you is for you to stay here and stay out of sight.”

Kay wasn't too worried about Miguel and his mother, but she knew María was going to be a problem. She was a spoiled glamour girl, and she was used to a lot of attention and a lot of action. She liked wearing nice clothes and going to nice places. She was used to being pampered at upscale spas. For her, a year in Neah Bay was going to be like being buried alive.

Thank God Kay had the video of Tito killing Cadillac Washington.