Rosarito Beach (6 page)

S
itting in the judge's conference room were Kay Hamilton and her boss, Jim Davis; Clyde Taylor, director/warden of the Metropolitan Correctional Center; John Hernández, chief of the San Diego Police Department; and U.S. Marshal Kevin Walker, head of the marshals' Southern District Office. The marshals were, among other things, responsible for security for the federal courts in San Diego. Also present was Carol Maddox, the Assistant U.S. Attorney who had obtained the warrant for Kay to put video cameras in Cadillac Washington's bar. Maddox would be prosecuting Tito Olivera for Cadillac's murder.

While they were waiting for the judge to arrive, Carol Maddox leaned over and whispered to Kay, “Did you know Tito was going to kill him?”

“How could I possibly know that?” Kay said. “We just got lucky.”

“Hmm,” Maddox said, giving her a look she probably used on her kids when she suspected one of them was lying. Which reminded Kay . . .

“Are you going to have time to handle Tito's trial? I mean, with your kids and all?”

“Don't worry about me doing my job, Hamilton.”

Judge Benton Foreman of the United States District Court for the Southern District of California entered the conference room. He was dressed in a dark gray suit and maroon tie, and not the black robe he wore in court. Foreman would be the man presiding over Tito Olivera's arraignment and possibly his trial. He was sixty-three years old, six foot six, and weighed two hundred and seventy pounds. His black head was shaved, and gleamed as if he polished it with furniture wax, and Kay thought he looked like a retired NFL lineman. The judge hadn't played in the pros, but he had been a defensive tackle at Stanford. He'd also been number four in his class at Stanford Law and clerked for Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall. He was a very bright man.

As he was taking his seat, he said, “I don't feel comfortable holding this meeting without Mr. Olivera's lawyer in attendance.”

“Your Honor,” Jim Davis said, “this meeting is only to discuss security for the court and actions necessary to ensure Tito Olivera remains in jail until his trial.”

“You're assuming Mr. Olivera isn't going to be granted bail,” the judge said.

“Your Honor, Tito was videotaped shooting a man in the head and he's the brother of Caesar Olivera, head of the most powerful drug cartel in Mexico. I can't imagine that he's going to be—”

“Stop!” Judge Foreman said. He turned and picked up the phone on the credenza behind his chair. “Martha, call Tito Olivera's attorney and tell him I want him in my conference room in half an hour.” He hung up and said to the people in the room, “We'll resume this meeting when Mr. Olivera's lawyer is present.”

Judge Foreman left the room, leaving the other attendees staring at each other. Or, to be accurate, glaring at Jim Davis.

“Shit,” Davis said. “Prescott is going to turn this into a circus.”

“Well, I think this entire meeting is bullshit,” Clyde Taylor, the MCC warden, said.

Kay had only spoken to Taylor on the phone and never met the man in person. He turned out to be a short, round man with a double chin—and both his chins were quivering with outrage.

“It's not bullshit,” Kay Hamilton said. “Your goddamn guards—”

“Shut up, Hamilton,” Davis said. “Warden Taylor, we'll have this discussion when the judge returns, and you'll have a chance to present your case. I apologize for the delay.”

Marshal Kevin Walker rose from his chair and said, “I'm gonna go get a cookie or something.” Walker was in his early forties, and Kay thought he looked a bit like her boss, Jim Davis, although he wasn't as tall as Davis and his hair was dark instead of white. But like Davis he had a mustache, and Kay thought if he wore a cowboy hat, he'd look like the Marlboro Man. He was a hunk.

“Why don't you come with me, John,” Walker said to Chief Hernández. “I'll buy you a donut. I know cops like donuts.”

John Hernández, like Tito Olivera, didn't look Hispanic. Nor did he have a Spanish accent; he sounded like the Harvard Law School graduate that he was. Like Kay's lover, Robert Meyer, Hernández had political ambitions that went far beyond being the top cop in San Diego. Kay could hardly wait to tell him that three of his narcotics detectives were on the take.

“I don't eat donuts,” the chief said, sounding both righteous and serious, the way some people sound when they say:
I don't smoke.
“But I'll come with you.”

Kay figured the marshal and the chief were going off to see if they could agree on a position they could both support. They were probably going to gang up on her boss.

—

T
he meeting resumed with Lincoln Prescott in attendance. Lincoln Prescott may not have been the best criminal defense lawyer in San Diego, but he was definitely one of the richest. His full-time job was defending members of the Olivera cartel, and Caesar and Tito Olivera sent a lot of work his way and paid him well.

Prescott was dressed, as always, in a white three-piece suit. He wore the suits regardless of the time of year or the weather, to make sure no one would confuse him with any other lawyer. His hair was gray and long enough to touch his collar in the back and had wings sweeping out over his ears. He always looked like he needed a haircut—and he had his hair trimmed once a week to make it look that way. He was a devious, grandstanding, media-hogging asshole and was hated by every prosecutor who ever had the misfortune to go up against him.

“Okay,” Judge Foreman said. “Mr. Davis, you can begin.”

“Your Honor, as I stated earlier, the purpose of this meeting is to discuss security for you and your court and to make sure that Tito Olivera doesn't escape before his trial. I think it's a mistake having Mr. Prescott here, as he'll pass on everything he hears to Mr. Olivera's brother.”

“I object, Your Honor,” Prescott said. “In fact, I object on several grounds. I strongly resent Mr. Davis implying that I'd be a party to an escape attempt. I object to my client being treated differently than any other citizen who has been accused of a crime in this district. I also intend to show that the warrant obtained by the DEA to monitor a private meeting between my client and Mr. Washington was improper and unconstitutional and—”

“Mr. Prescott, you can save the warrant speech for later,” the judge said. “Right now I want to hear why the DEA thinks extraordinary security precautions are necessary.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Davis said. “As I stated earlier, Tito Olivera is the brother of Caesar Olivera, head of the most powerful drug cartel in Mexico.”

“I object again,” Prescott said. “I also represent some of Mr. Caesar Olivera's interests in the United States and I know he's never been arrested here or in Mexico, that there's absolutely no proof that he's involved with narcotics, and—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Kay muttered.

She didn't think she'd spoken loud enough for the judge to hear, but she was wrong. “What did you say, young lady?” the judge said.

“I apologize, Your Honor,” Kay said, “but this isn't a courtroom and there's no jury here. If Olivera's mouthpiece keeps interrupting every time we say something, we'll never get through this meeting.”

“Your Honor,” Prescott said, “I will not stand for—”

“Be quiet, Mr. Prescott,” the judge said. “Although I don't approve of Agent Hamilton's language, I want you to stop interrupting and let Mr. Davis speak.”

—

I
t took Jim Davis about ten minutes to state his case. First, he said, the judge had to recognize Caesar Olivera's capabilities. He had thousands of people working for him in Mexico, had connections to every Hispanic gang in California, and, after twenty-seven years in the drug business, his net worth was estimated to be in the billions. But it wasn't just his money and his manpower that were frightening, Davis said.

“It's his
mind-set
. He's not intimidated by law enforcement. He's not like the old-time Mafia guys who were afraid to kill federal agents, and he knows as long as he stays down in Mexico we'll never get him.”

In Mexico, Davis said, Olivera's men had killed cops, lawyers, politicians, judges, and journalists who interfered with his operations. A year before, his people had attacked a Mexican jail with more than fifty men, using rocket-propelled grenades and automatic weapons to free a prisoner. Sixteen Mexican soldiers guarding the jail were killed.

“This isn't Mexico,” the judge said.

Davis basically said
Not yet
. Since Tito Olivera had moved to San Diego five years before to manage his brother's affairs in the United States, the murder rate in the Southwest had tripled. Most of the victims had been criminals connected to the drug business, but a few had been innocent bystanders. One journalist had been killed, and although his murder was unsolved, the motive appeared to involve an article he wrote about Tito. Furthermore, Jim Davis said, the DEA had recently obtained evidence that Tito had three San Diego Police Department detectives on his payroll.

This statement had John Hernández leaping to his feet, demanding that Davis prove what he'd just said. “I'm sorry to blindside you with this, John, but the judge needs to know that Olivera has penetrated your department, because it's relevant to this discussion. I'll give you the names right after this meeting because you need to detain these men before Mr. Prescott can warn them.”

Prescott opened his mouth to protest, but the judge said, “Not now, Mr. Prescott.”

Davis continued. “What I'm saying, Your Honor, is Caesar Olivera has enough money to buy cops, and he's already bought some. We also know he's corrupted people at MCC in the past.” Davis then recounted the five incidents in the past year where MCC correctional officers had been caught passing contraband to inmates, and three of those inmates worked for the Olivera cartel.

Now it was Warden Taylor's turn to sputter, saying that just because a few bad apples had been found in his bushel it didn't mean all his apples were rotten.

“I appreciate that, Warden,” Davis said, “but the fact remains that Olivera has proven he can buy some of your people and he has an intelligence network capable of learning everything there is to know about how Tito is being guarded.”

“Just cut to the chase here, Mr. Davis,” the judge said. “What do you want?”

“The first thing I want is for everyone in this room to realize that Caesar Olivera will do
anything
to get his little brother out of prison. He will kill people. He will bribe people. He will kidnap family members of cops and prison guards. Even Your Honor's own family isn't safe, Judge.

“Furthermore, I think it's possible that Caesar may try to free Tito when he's being transported from the federal lockup to your court for the arraignment or during the arraignment itself, and Marshal Walker may not be able to stop him.”

“Horseshit,” Walker said, but Davis ignored him.

“I think Tito should be arraigned inside his cell at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and I believe he should be arraigned as soon as possible. Like immediately after this meeting.”

“This is absurd,” Prescott muttered.

“I also believe federal marshals should be assigned to protect Your Honor, Your Honor's family, the federal prosecutor, and the federal prosecutor's family until after the arraignment. Now, I realize that you might decide to release Mr. Olivera on bail . . .”

There wasn't a person in the room, including Tito's lawyer, who believed that Tito would be released on bail.

“. . . and if he is, I can't do anything about that. But if Mr. Olivera is remanded, I believe he should be placed in some facility that can literally fight off an army. I think if Tito is allowed to remain in the Metropolitan Correctional Center until his trial, the citizens of San Diego will be in grave danger and Caesar Olivera will eventually free his brother.”

“My people can protect the citizens of San Diego,” John Hernández said.

“John, how many cops do you have?” Before Hernández could answer, Davis said, “You have less than twenty-seven hundred people in your department and a third of those people are administrators, desk jockeys, and lab rats. Caesar Olivera could double the number of street cops you have with Mexican and California gangbangers. He'll pay them whatever they ask, and he'll arm them better than your police force.”

“What's your point, Mr. Davis?” the judge asked.

“My point, Your Honor, is that with Caesar Olivera you might see something you've never seen before in this country: a group of thugs armed as well as U.S. Army soldiers, with no regard for human life, mounting an attack against the Metropolitan Correctional Center, blasting their way inside, and killing every correctional officer in the place to free Tito Olivera.”

Before John Hernández or the MCC warden could object again, Judge Foreman said, “So what do you propose, Mr. Davis?”

“I propose that Tito Olivera be placed in the brig at Camp Pendleton until his trial and that his trial be held at Camp Pendleton as well.”

Camp Pendleton, as every person in the room knew, was a Marine Corps base forty miles north of San Diego that covered one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres. It had a population of more than one hundred thousand people, of which forty thousand were active-duty marines. Camp Pendleton was the headquarters of the First Marine Division and the elite First Marine Expeditionary Force; there were M1 Abrams tanks and Cobra helicopters there. In other words, it was a place with considerably more manpower and firepower than the Metropolitan Correctional Center, and the marines were not overweight jailers armed with batons.

“I object, Your Honor!” Lincoln Prescott shrieked. The other attendees all responded with some variation of
You gotta be shittin' me!