Speak of the Devil (19 page)

“How are you feeling?” Jack asked Anna as the car pulled away from the school.

“Okay,” Anna said. “Worried about Olivia.”

“Don’t worry,” Fitzgerald met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Your family members aren’t really in danger. They usually just kill the prosecutor.”

Jack didn’t seem amused, but Anna laughed. She was glad Fitzgerald had a sense of humor. Even gallows humor was welcome at this point.

Jack spent the rest of the ride talking on his cell to the D.C. branch of the U.S. Marshals Service. “I know you’re not a babysitting service,” Jack said. “But this is about protecting my family.” He arranged to have a deputy pick up Olivia from school and bring her to the hotel every day that week. He would leave work early to be with her.

“What about Luisa?” Anna asked.

“It seems like a good week to give her a vacation,” Jack replied.

When they got to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Jack rode the elevator with Anna and got out on her floor. She stopped at the door to the Sex Crimes unit.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “But I’m fine. Go be chief.”

He nodded, kissed her lips chastely, and went back to the elevators.

She was glad to go to her office, log on, and start working. Before, her case against Psycho was part of her job. Now it was personal. If he thought killing witnesses was going to get him out of jail, he was about to see how wrong he was. She was going to rebuild this case, and make it even stronger than before.

Anna walked to Carla’s office and knocked on the open door. Carla invited her to take a seat.

“I’m hoping to get Psycho’s jail calls translated now,” Anna said. “I know we didn’t have funds before, but now—”

“Absolutely,” Carla interrupted. “Get them expedited.”

“Thanks,” Anna stood to go.

“Actually can you close the door?” Carla said. “There’s one more thing.”

After the door was shut, Carla said, “So it’s Hector. He’s on the
Lewis
list.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

Supervisors had a list of MPD officers who had some potential impeachment issue in their record. Line prosecutors couldn’t look at the list, for privacy reasons. But if a prosecutor intended to call an officer as a witness, she had to check with her supervisor to be sure there were no
Lewis
issues. Depending on the issue, she would determine whether to use the officer—and be required to turn over the impeachment material to defense counsel—or to find another witness.

“Turns out Hector has a juvenile assault conviction from Los Angeles. The record is sealed, but I made some calls.”

“What did you find?”

“He was arrested for jumping another young man into MS-13. When he was a teenager, Hector Ramos was an MS-13 member.”

Anna let that sink in. “I better have somebody follow him.”

“I agree. It can’t be regular MPD, though. Internal Affairs maybe.”

“I’ll ask Samantha Randazzo. She’s already helping on the case. This is perfect for the FBI.”

“Good.” Carla met her eyes with concern. “Are you hanging in there?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you. I just want to get these guys.”

“Is Jack okay?”

“You know him. He’s a fighter.” Anna didn’t want to tell Carla, Jack’s office rival, that he wanted Anna to drop the case.

Back in her office, Anna called Sam and relayed the new information.

Sam whistled. “You want me to put a tail on Hector?”

“Exactly. And can you interview the people who witnessed Nina’s death? The names are in the file. No one admitted to seeing or hearing much, but we should follow up.”

“On it.”

When they hung up, Anna pulled out the file dealing with Nina’s old case with Maria-Rosa Gomez and the underage prostitution scheme. She grabbed the folder marked
NOT FOR DISCOVERY
and headed to the fifth floor.

The Fraud unit was the ivory tower of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Lawyers in Fraud might handle ten big cases at a time, as opposed to the hundreds in the misdemeanor trenches of the Domestic Violence and Sex Crimes unit. Sex Crimes lawyers spent their days running to court or interviewing emotional witnesses; it wasn’t uncommon to see a crying woman rushing down the hall to the bathroom, or an AUSA asking a witness to show a bruised cheek for a photo. But in the Fraud section, people sat quietly before their computers, reviewing documents or drafting pleadings. It felt like a law firm, but with prison-made furniture.

Once lawyers got into the Fraud section, they stayed. Most of the Fraud AUSAs looked like they were approaching grandparenthood, while most lawyers in Anna’s section were the young, single, happy-hour crowd. The sense of permanence was reflected in the typical Fraud office decor: diplomas on the walls, Tiffany lamps on desks, oriental rugs covering government-blue carpets. The younger prosecutors, still going through the office’s section-by-section rotation, traveled light; ego walls were rare.

George Litz’s office was livelier than the rest. Four burly men, all with short hair and dark suits, sat in the guest chairs, leaned against the bookshelves, or perched on the windowsill. They had to be federal agents. George himself leaned back in his desk chair and tossed a Nerf football to the agents as they spoke. He had broad shoulders and an abundance of steel-gray hair. The conversation tapered off as Anna knocked on the open door.

“Hey, George,” she said. “I’m Anna Curtis. From the Sex Crimes unit.”

She’d seen him in the hallways, but never spoken to him before. He was a generation older, and their work had never intersected.

“What can I do for you?” George and the agents seemed pleased to be distracted by a young woman.

“I’d like to talk to you about the Maria-Rosa Gomez case.”

George glanced at the men hanging around his big office. “I guess it’s about time for lunch, guys. Why don’t you go, and pick me up something? We’ll keep working when you get back.”

The men joked with one another good-naturedly as they filed out of the office. Anna sat in one of the seats, warm from the body before.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I have a rape case. I think it’s related to the Gomez case you handled back when you were in Sex Offense.”

“How so?”

Anna sketched out the broad strokes.

“Those sound like my defendants,” George said. He tossed the football in the air and caught it. “How’d did you get my old file anyway?”

“Your secretary left it for me. There was an e-mail asking about it.”

“Ah. Sorry I missed that.”

“So what happened in the Gomez case?” Anna said. “I can’t tell from the file.”

“Nothing happened to it. The defendants were in the wind.” George turned to his filing cabinets and rummaged through until he pulled out a Redweld folder. He handed it to Anna. She glanced through and saw a draft indictment, charging two John Does, aka Psycho and Diablo.

“You never got their names?” Anna asked.

“We got a million fingerprints from the stolen vans, but they were johns, or the vehicle owner’s, or just not in the system. There was one set from the driver’s side door handle—I’m thinking the devil guy—but they weren’t in the system either. I was sure he’d be arrested eventually on something else, but nothing ever came in. The case went dormant. Probably went back to El Salvador.”

“If so, they’re back,” Anna said. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve got one of them in custody.”

George almost dropped his football. “Which one?”

“Psycho.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. I’d love it if someone from your case could ID them, and we could tie the two cases together. I saw a reference to another witness, Julia Hernandez. What can you tell me about her?”

“I can’t tell you, but she saw the whole thing. Once the girl and Flores were killed, the Marshals put Julia into Witsec. Probably living somewhere near a cornfield. I figured if we ever arrested somebody, we’d bring her back.”

“Now’s that time. How do I talk to her?”

“We’ll have to call the Marshals Service. They’re in charge of Witsec, they decide whether a protected witness comes in for a meeting.”

The team of agents returned to George’s office, carrying sandwiches wrapped in cellophane. One tossed a sandwich to George. “Pastrami from New Course,” the agent laughed. New Course was a sandwich shop that made a point of employing former offenders. “I told ’em it was for you, so I’m sure they made it extra juicy.” The agent mimed jerking off.

George shook his head good-naturedly and turned to Anna. “I’ll make a few calls,” he said. “See what I can do. I’ve got to get back to this—but good luck.”

The agents were unwrapping their sandwiches, cheerfully debating whether it was a certain health risk for law enforcement agents to eat at New Course.

“Actually,” Anna said, “can you step out with me for a second?”

George looked longingly at his sandwich but stepped into the hall with her. She shut the door.

“I’m wondering,” Anna said, “do you know an MPD officer named Hector Ramos?”

“Heard of him. Human-Trafficking Task Force?”

“Yeah, that’s where he is now. Four years ago, he was on the power-shift. He was the Eyes on the buy-bust where Nina died. I’m wondering if he ever worked on this case. Or had any connection to it?”

George’s face was blank. “Nope.”

“Any connection between him and the MS-13 members involved in this case?”

“Don’t think so.” He opened the door to his office again. “Good luck.”

Anna thanked George and left. The smell of sandwiches made her belly rumble with hunger. She considered running out to grab a burrito at Chipotle, but the Marshals had her spooked. They could escort her to and from work, but they couldn’t be with her all day, so they advised her to stay inside the U.S. Attorney’s Office unless she had a police escort. It was like she was under house arrest. She went down to the vending machines and bought pita chips and a Snickers bar. Lunch of champions.

28

The brief that Psycho’s newly appointed attorney filed later that day didn’t surprise Anna. The Motion to Change Bond Status, based on Anna’s
Brady
letter about Tierra’s new story, was a standard effort to get Psycho released from jail. The judge scheduled the hearing for the next morning.

Anna walked to court with McGee. He tried to distract her with gossip, even as he scanned the street to make sure no one was hiding in the bushes with a machete.

D.C. Superior Court was the court of the people. Anna and McGee got at the end of a long line of civilians snaking through the brick patio before the main doors. Lawyers and cops had to wait with everyone else. Inside, the atrium swarmed with people looking at the big electronic board listing courtrooms, mothers dragging kids by one arm, and lawyers having last-minute or first-time conferences with clients on the plastic chairs bolted to the walls. Escalators crisscrossed the atrium, going up six flights. Anna and McGee rode up to the third floor.

Judge Susan Spiegel’s courtroom was as tattered as all the others in D.C. Superior Court. It was windowless, with a low ceiling of stained fluorescent panels. Threadbare mustard-colored carpeting covered the floor. The courtroom was packed with people waiting for their own hearings.

McGee didn’t need to be there; Anna could handle this hearing alone. He had volunteered to escort her, though, and she was glad.

Although court personnel usually sat in the first row, McGee gestured for Anna to sit with him in the last row. He wanted the wall at his back.

“Nobody’s going to attack me in court,” Anna said. “There’re metal detectors and armed CSOs.”

McGee shrugged and offered her a stick of gum.

The judge took the bench at precisely nine thirty, but Anna and McGee had to wait another two hours, as the judge called case after case before theirs. Anna’s attention drifted as alleged murderers, rapists, and robbers had their status conferences, sentencings, and probation revocation hearings. She checked her phone discreetly a few times. Judge Spiegel would yell at her if she noticed.

Anna thought longingly of the federal District Court, across the street, where attorneys got set times for their hearings, showed up, and were done. Once she brought federal charges, the Superior Court case would be dismissed, and she would try her case there.

A little before noon, the clerk finally called, “United States versus Jose Garcia, aka Psycho.” Everyone took their places. A deputy Marshal brought Psycho out from the holding cell hidden behind the courtroom. He wore the usual orange prison jumpsuit, and the same inappropriate smile. He didn’t look at Anna as he was led to stand next to his lawyer.

“Frank Ciopobi, for Mr. Garcia,” the new lawyer said.

“I understand you’ve been appointed to take over this case. The court is grateful for your service.” Despite the shabby courtroom, Judge Spiegel was smart and efficient. But she was perpetually cranky, with a permanent vertical crease between her eyebrows. This introductory politeness was likely the warmest she would be during the entire proceeding. “The defendant has moved to change his bond status. Mr. Ciopobi, what’s your argument?”

“At the detention hearing, the defendant was held without bond based on evidence presented by the government. However, all of that evidence is gone. Tierra Guerrero has recanted her prior statements, and admits that my client was simply a paying customer. This admission defeats all charges against my client.”

“So it’s your theory, Mr. Ciopobi, that your client was having consensual sex in a room in which three strangers with machetes were slicing up the owner of the brothel—and that despite the fact that he was wearing a trench coat, carrying a machete, and is an MS-13 member, your client was not part of the group of trench coat–wearing machete-wielding MS-13 members who decapitated the brothel’s doorman, terrorized its employees, attacked a police officer, and fled? Your client was simply in the wrong place, dressed the wrong way, and armed with the wrong machete, at the wrong time?”

“Not exactly, Your Honor. But I don’t need to have a theory. I’ve got no burden to prove anything. It’s the government that needs to have a theory and evidence. And the testimony you just related comes in large part from the brothel owner, who, unfortunately, has passed away. We don’t see how the government will prove the story it initially recounted.”