Ground Truth (10 page)

Chapter 19

July 1

6 p.m.

THE BAGGAGE screener in the Mexico City airport used his hand like the scoop of a backhoe to paw through Jack’s bag.

Jack watched closely to make sure the guard had no chance to plant something, like a few rocks of crack cocaine, and then loudly call a colleague to witness what he’d “discovered.” After that, they would muscle him into a small room and demand payment of a hefty “fine.” They knew that most travelers, terrified of being locked up in a Mexican jail, would pay and keep quiet. He’d seen the same scam worked in other countries. When the guard saw Jack watching, he scowled and slammed the bag closed with a grunt.

Jack headed for the gate and his flight to Juarez.

When they landed in Juarez, he joined other passengers leaving the restricted area. Having seen Montana on the video conference should have been sufficient to spot him, but it wasn’t. Then a man holding a sign that read “Sr. J. STRIDER” approached and smiled.
“Buenas tardes, señor.
I am Antonio.
Señor
Montana sent me.” As they reached an Oldsmobile double-parked at the curb, Antonio slipped several bills to the cop who stood next to the car, pretending it didn’t exist.

“Antonio, how long will it take to get to the Hotel Rialto?”

“But,
señor
, I’m taking you to the Palmer Industries plant.”

“I’d rather go to the hotel first, check in and rent a car.”

“I was told to go straight to the plant. Your rental car is already there, and
Señor
Montana is waiting for you.” Reflected in the rearview mirror, Antonio’s eyes were wide. He looked like a man caught in the middle.

“No problem.”

One thing he’d learned about Mexico: nothing went as expected.

In Spanish and English, the sign at the airport exit read: “Juarez: Fastest Growing City in the Americas.” That was news to Jack, especially since he knew its homicide rate was the highest in the Americas. Drug cartel members gunned each other down day and night, pausing only to turn their weapons on police and soldiers.

As they entered Juarez, traffic became dense and signs of “growth” were everywhere: junked cars, abandoned mechanical parts, and litter blowing along the curbs. A web of overhead electric wires formed a canopy above the urban jungle. Dilapidated buses rattled along, passengers leaping on or off at will. In the absence of traffic lights,
topes
—steep concrete speed bumps known as “sleeping policemen”—punished speeders. Indifferent to them, Antonio made the heavy car swerve like a tango dancer to avoid axle-bending potholes. But as Jack was driven across the dusty, low-rise city, he was jolted emotionally more than physically.

“Antonio, how many people live in Juarez?”

“My cousin says maybe two million. The mayor, he says one million, but he doesn’t count the people in the
colonias
who came for jobs. He pretends they aren’t here.”

Glancing to his right, there was El Paso no more than a half-mile away, separated from Juarez by the sludgy seep of the Rio Grande river. A concrete canal enclosed by barbed wire ran down the center of the ruined river. On the Juarez side, clusters of cement block and tarpaper shacks near the riverbank reminded him of the worst he’d seen in Cairo and Lima. On the U.S. side, in El Paso, glass and steel high-rise buildings were labeled Wells Fargo and JPMorgan Chase in garish neon. At the base of a mesa, giant sprinklers ensured the health of a lush green golf course.

Antonio noticed Jack looking across the border. “We have a saying,
Señor
Strider. ‘Alas, poor Mexico. So far from God, so close to the United States.’”

Out the window, he saw a woman crouched beside a ditch bordering the road. She was washing an infant in its murky, scummy water. For a second her large dark eyes fixed on him. It was like a lightning strike, zapping his emotions.

At that moment, an amplified voice blaring from across the river caught his attention. “What’s that sound?”

“The race announcer at Sunland Park Racetrack and Casino. Many slot machines. Free tequila for gamblers. Mariachi music all day. Every night, somebody who used to be famous sings or tells jokes.”

Fifteen minutes later, Antonio turned into Palmer Industries. Despite passing through an impressive gate, the sight ahead didn’t look like anyone’s paradise. In fact, the noxious atmosphere and July heat created a miasma of latent hostility. This was going to be a tough gig.

Directly ahead was a long one-story brick building. To the right of a door a sign read “Administration.” Behind that building, Jack saw rows of warehouse-like structures. Farther away, a smoke stack belching yellow-white smoke. Two men in camouflage uniforms watched as he got out of the car. After Antonio waved, they turned away.

“
Señor
Montana’s office is inside. Your car is over there.” Antonio pointed to a gold Lincoln Town Car. It might as well have had a sign on it that said “gringo tourist.”
Was that Montana’s idea of a joke?
The only other car in the staff parking lot was a black Hummer with dark tinted windows and oversized tires that raised it high above the gravel. He checked his watch. Seven p.m.

There was no receptionist at the desk inside the Administration building, but a man in workman’s coveralls quickly stepped forward.

“Buenas tardes, señor. Me llamo Manuel.”
He led Jack back outside the Administration building and behind it to a warehouse he opened with a key. It was dark inside until Manuel flipped four switches. Banks of lights far overhead came on with a series of “whumps.” The great cavern seemed to be a storage depot for forklifts, backhoes, and other heavy equipment. All were covered with dirt and grime; workhorses, not show horses.

“Pardon me,” Jack said in Spanish. “I’m here to see
Señor
Montana. Are you taking me to him?”

“
Señor
Montana,
si,”
Manuel said, gesturing back to the Administration building. Then he continued gently guiding Jack from one vast building to the next, most of them full of equipment evidently designed to treat various kinds of hazardous waste. A network of metal catwalks far overhead provided access to control valves and distant vents. The pipes, spheres, and hissing chambers looked like a giant’s chemistry set. The stink in the different buildings ranged from stinging chlorine to overpowering rotten eggs.

He hated wasting time like this when he and Montana should be talking about PROFEPA lawyers who wouldn’t settle for anything less than the corporate death penalty. Coming up with a plausible defense was going to be like climbing Mt. Everest.

When Manuel unlocked the entrance to the next warehouse, Jack saw a beam of light streaming through a doorway in the wall to his left. A sign near the office door read
Director de Planta.
A silhouetted man stood yelling at someone just inside the office. It was a young woman at a desk, sobbing, face in her hands. When Manuel turned on the big overhead lights, the man swung to face them.

“Vayanse, bastardos,”
the thickset man shouted, moving fast across the empty floor toward them. Jack didn’t need a translator to know that
“bastardos”
wasn’t a friendly greeting.

“Si, Señor Guzman, vamanos horita,”
Manuel said and jerked Jack by his sleeve back toward the door.

“Alto!”
The man demanded, moving in.

Manuel backed away from Jack.

“Eres un gringo,”
Guzman said and switched to English. “Off limits. Get out.”

Behind him, Manuel whined something that included Montana’s name over and over. That must have gotten through to Guzman. He stopped moving in on Jack, dropped his fists, and growled, “Don’t come back,” then stalked toward his office.

It happened so fast Jack didn’t have a clear image of Guzman except that he had a bulldog face and moved like a seasoned street fighter.

Manuel tugged him outside and pointed toward the Admin building across the gravel yard. “
Señor
Montana.”

Inside, he took Jack down a dimly lit hall into an anteroom to Montana’s office, pointed to the door and fled, apparently shaken by the encounter with Guzman. From inside the office, Jack heard a loud voice talking in bursts, clearly on the phone.

Taking a moment to calm down, he realized he’d learned something from the tour. There were places Montana didn’t want him to go, things he didn’t want him to see. Well he would, by God, see them. He knocked firmly on the office door.

After a delay came a curt command. “Enter.”

Thomas Montana, leaning back in his chair, tooled boots propped on his desk, gestured for Jack to sit. He continued talking on the phone, making no eye contact.

What a snake. Can’t be bothered to meet me at the airport, sends me on a snipe hunt through the plant, and leaves me hanging while he chats on the phone. Annoying, but not surprising. Okay, Montana was showing him how he wanted to play, and that’s the way it would be.

On the wall behind Montana’s desk hung a photograph signed by the famous photographer Alberto Korba of what looked like a revolutionary battle. Along the wall to Montana’s right was a shelf of very old sculptures in the Inca style. Resting on the corner of Montana’s desk stood a foot-tall bronze cock with feathers and spurs flaring. They showed a side of Montana he hadn’t expected.

“Go screw yourself,” Montana shouted and slammed down the receiver.

He looked at Jack and asked in a completely tranquil voice, “You were checking out my art. Some good shit here, but you should see what I have in El Paso. Crates of it. I’m like a black hole for art. Costs a fortune, but I can’t get enough.” His tone was so self-satisfied that it said he didn’t give a damn whether or not Jack liked his art. “So now you’ve seen the set up I have here. Twice as much space under roof as we had in California, and I’ve cut labor costs seventy percent.” He waved the stump of his cigar. “Sweet deal, no?”

“Guess so. I couldn’t tell exactly what I was seeing as we walked around, and there were some buildings Manuel wouldn’t take me into.” He watched to see if Montana’s face gave away anything. No change. “And your Plant Manager seemed pretty upset when we ran into him.”

“Guzman? Manuel took you into Shipping & Receiving?” Montana’s face went dark, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Anyway . . . that tour is all we can do for you here.”

“Meaning?”

“That there’s no point in hanging around. We’re not set up for a research project. Besides, you already have most of our records. Anything else you want, I can get to you in Mexico City on twelve hours notice. Believe me, you have my one hundred percent support for what you’re doing.”

Montana did his best to make his smile look genuine while, at the same time, giving Jack the bum’s rush.

“I need more than just records. I have to know about anything that could give Palmer trouble in court. Surprises kill a defense. And I need your responses to each PROFEPA charge. You and I will be spending several hours together.”

Montana lighted the cigar and blew a coil of smoke across the desk. “I’ve got meetings in Mexico City in the morning, the kind I can’t miss.” He shrugged.

“Listen,” Jack said, trying to rein in his anger, “I have a job to do. You shouldn’t—”

“I run this place.” Montana’s eyes narrowed. “No one tells me what I shouldn’t do. But, hey, let’s not have a misunderstanding here.” As if shooting a free throw, he arched an empty beer bottle into a wastebasket. “How about a Tecate? Better than that horse piss you call beer in the States.”

Jack hesitated. He’d like the smooth honey of single malt on his tongue, but not a beer with Montana. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He pulled another Tecate from a built-in refrigerator behind his desk, opened it, and poured half of it down his throat.

Jack’s bullshit meter was sounding loudly.
This guy’s an asshole, but there’s something else going on here.
Montana had tried to rush him back to Mexico City. But he knew Jack had been assigned to defend the plant, so what was motivating him?

“Tom,” he said calmly. “By the way, do you prefer ‘Tom’ or ‘Thomas’?”

“In Mexico, friends call me
Tomás.
You can call me Tom.”

Oh, nice touch.
“What you sent me in Mexico City wasn’t enough. Since then, I’ve reviewed the actual PROFEPA charges. Now I know what I need to see, including the equipment. Just point me to a desk and ask your assistant to give me the documents I need. I should be out of here in a couple of days.”

“Strider, I don’t need you showing up with some bullshit San Francisco attitude . . . but I’ll leave a note telling Ana-Maria Archuletta what to give you in the morning. She’s in charge of our filing, knows where everything is. Just do what you’ve been told, and don’t be snooping around my plant.” He fired the empty Tecate at the wastebasket. It shattered against the wall. He wrenched the cap off another.

“I’ll be here in the morning, Tom, but since we’re both here right now, let’s take ten minutes to go over some questions.” Once they got going, he’d pin Montana down for a lot more than ten minutes.

“No way. I’m eating at the Mayor’s house tonight. In fact, I’m out of here right now.” He came to his feet and headed out of the room, flicking off the office light, leaving Jack in the dark.

He gritted his teeth. C
alm down. Ignore his little games. Get the job done.

In the parking lot, Montana pointed in the direction of the city lights of El Paso. “Don’t confuse that beat-to-hell river over there with your San Francisco Bay. This is a different ballpark.
My
ballpark.
Comprende?”

“Here’s some breaking news for you,
Tom.
Palmer Industries
isn’t
your ballpark. It’s a corporation whose owners live in San Francisco. They sent me to do a job, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He let that sink in. “
Comprende?”

Montana moved closer. “Stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, and you’ll answer to me.” He smiled an empty smile and spread his arms wide, palms up. “Hey, we’re on the same team,
amigo.”
He climbed into the Hummer and leaned out the window. “This is a tough city, so watch your back.
Buena suerte.”
He gunned the engine and pulled out of the lot at high speed, leaving a cloud of swirling dust.