The Governor's Wife (14 page)

"Felipe, look at me."

He turned his face to Enrique. Felipe Peña was only twenty-two, but he had lived a full life. A full, mean, cruel life. Four years before, Enrique had taken the boy into the cartel, hoping to save his soul. But it was not to be.

"You came to me, did you not?"

Felipe nodded.

"You swore allegiance to God, to me, and to the honor code, did you not?"

Another nod.

"You understood that violating the code is a crime punishable by death, did you not?"

Another nod.

"And what does the code state? Please tell me, Felipe Peña."

As if reading from the scripture: "We do not kill women, children, or innocents. We do not sell the drugs to
Mexicanos
, only to
gringos
. We do not ourselves use the drugs
.
We tithe twenty percent to charity and church."

"Now, Felipe, have you lived your life by the code?"

He pondered a moment, then his shoulders slumped.

"No,
jefe
."

"Did you use the drugs?"

"Yes."

"Did you sell the drugs to
Mexicanos?
"

"Yes."

"Did you kill an innocent?"

"Yes."

"A ten-year-old girl you raped?"

"Yes."

"Why? Why, Felipe Peña?"

The boy now cried.

"
Jefe
, it was the drugs."

Enrique shook his head and sighed.

"The drugs. That is why we do not ourselves use the drugs we sell to the
gringos
. It is a filthy habit that blackens the soul with hate and cruelty, that does not allow one to live an honorable life. Felipe, if you were a
soldado
with another cartel, I would send Hector to put a bullet in your brain. But you are my
soldado
, you are my responsibility, your acts are my acts … so I must personally dispense justice to you. That child's parents have demanded justice, and I must give them justice. They look to me for justice because there is no other justice in Nuevo Laredo. Only me, Enrique de la Garza. I am the law in Nuevo Laredo. Felipe, I too have a ten-year-old child. If you raped and killed my Carmelita, would I not demand justice? If a man raped and killed your child, would you not demand justice?"

"Yes, I would."

"Yes, Felipe, you would. You would demand justice. And I would give you justice. Now you must give justice to that child's parents."

Enrique de la Garza now rendered his judgment.

"Felipe Peña, you have not lived your life with honor—will you now die with honor?"

He blinked hard to clear his eyes of the tears, then he stood tall.

"Yes,
jefe
, I will."

Felipe turned back, bent his head over the railing, and awaited his fate with honor.

"Felipe, would you like to pray?"

"No,
jefe
. I am not worthy enough to pray to God."

"Felipe, your family will never go hungry or homeless."

"
Gracias, jefe.
"

Enrique held the machete out to Julio.

"Take it, my son, and dispense justice."

His son now appeared nauseous.

"Father, I cannot."

"Son, this is not a pleasant task, I know, but it is a necessary one. If the people of Nuevo Laredo are to one day look to Julio de la Garza for justice, you must be strong enough to dispense justice. Man enough."

He saw the hurt in his son's soft face. He was not strong like his older brother. He was shy and sensitive, like his
madre
. Since his mother's death, Julio had never been the same. Sometimes Enrique worried that his son was homosexual, but he quickly put such thoughts out of his mind.

"I am sorry, Julio. You are your mother's son, with the gentle soul."

Enrique turned back to Felipe Peña, grasped the handle with both hands, raised the blade above his head, and then swung the machete down with great force, cutting Felipe's head off cleanly. His head fell the hundred feet to the river below. Blood spurted from his open neck. Hector grabbed Felipe's legs and flipped him over the railing. His body now joined his head in the
Río Bravo.

Enrique exhaled and suddenly felt tired. Dispensing justice in an unjust world always made him feel weary. He carried every judgment with him like a cross. But justice was his burden to bear. And he had learned that nature disqualified some men from honorable lives. He now heard a gagging sound and turned to see Julio throwing up over the rail. He handed the boy his silk handkerchief.

"Run along now."

Julio walked quickly inside but stopped when Enrique called out to him.

"Oh, Julio, your Bach—it was very nice.
Muy bueno
."

"
Gracias, padre
."

"Did the tutor arrive for your sister?"

"Yes, Father, she is here."

"Tell her I want to discuss Carmelita's progress in reading the
inglés.
Last night, when she read to me, she did not understand many of the words."

"I will tell her, Father."

"Also talk to your sister about spring break—where would you children like to go? Perhaps Cancún? We will make plans over dinner with your brother."

They used to take family vacations to Europe, but with the international warrants for his arrest and apprehension and the $10 million bounty on his head, their vacations were now restricted to friendlier venues. Cancún was always nice. And California, of course.

"Yes, Father."

Julio made a hasty exit. Fortunately, Enrique's first-born son would one day be man enough to dispense justice in Nuevo Laredo. Julio would never be man enough.

"He is a good boy."

Hector said nothing, but Enrique knew he thought his second-born son weak. Enrique decided not to address the matter again. Not now, at the end of the day. The sun would soon fade into the
Río Bravo
; the breeze had turned cooler and held the promise of a fine evening. He pointed the machete up to the clear sky.

"Hector, I saw on the
Fox News
that the
gringos
have deployed a Predator drone over the border."

"That is correct,
jefe
. From the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station."

"I do not like it in my sky over Nuevo Laredo. Please shoot it down."

Hector gazed skyward.

"They will not be happy if we do."

"Who?"

"The
gringos
."

"Hector, I did not ask if it would make the
gringos
happy. I simply asked that you shoot it down."

Hector was a former captain in the Mexican Army's special forces. He had been trained in counterinsurgency tactics and advanced weapons systems by the U.S. Army, to fight the very cartel that now employed him. Enrique had offered him a substantial raise. "If you are a paid killer," he had said to Hector, "why not be well paid?"

"The drone, it flies at an altitude of over seven thousand meters."

"What would it take?"

"A missile."

Enrique grunted. "Then let us purchase a missile. Surely the Russians have what we require." He gazed skyward again. "I would very much like to shoot that Predator down."

Hector shrugged. "Okay. I will shoot it down."

"
Bueno.
"

He handed the bloody machete to Hector for cleaning then waved to the Border Patrol agents who had witnessed the termination of Felipe Peña from the far riverbank. Hector exited the office, and Enrique returned inside and to his phone conversation with his broker.

"I have returned,
Señor
Richey. Terminating employees is a difficult affair."

"Tell me."

Enrique checked his clothing—a Tommy Bahama silk camp shirt over silk slacks and leather
huaraches
—for blood. A few droplets had splattered his trousers.

"Do you use baking soda or ginger ale for blood stains on silk?"

His broker's voice on the speakerphone: "
What?
Blood stains? Silk what?"

"Trousers. No matter, there are more where these came from. So, where were we?"

"I asked if that was gunfire."

"Oh, yes, it was. Just a little target practice."

"Skeet?"

"
Gringos.
So,
Señor
Richey, to resolve this dispute honorably, you must restore half a billion dollars to my account within three business days or I will be forced to file a complaint."

There was laughter on the phone.

"Mr. de la Garza, you can file a complaint with the SEC or the FBI or the NFL, I don't give a shit. But it'll be a cold fucking day in hell before my firm refunds half a billion dollars to anyone. You don't know who you're dealing with—we're connected in D.C. The Feds don't fuck with us. So you can file your complaint with God Himself, but you ain't getting your money back."

Enrique chuckled.

"Oh, no,
Señor
Richey, I file my complaints with Hector Garcia."

"Who the hell's Hector Garcia?"

"He is the head of my complaint department. When a customer fails to pay his account timely or the government interferes with my business or a business associate acts dishonorably toward me, Hector Garcia resolves my complaint. And he will resolve my complaint with you by walking up to you one dark night there in New York City and putting a gun to your head and saying, 'You should not have dishonored Enrique de la Garza,' and then he will put a bullet through your brain."

There was no laughter now.

"Who the fuck—? You can't threaten me! This is America!"

"No,
mi amigo
—this is Nuevo Laredo."

Enrique disconnected his broker and shook his head in amusement.

Gringos.

They think we are just the stupid Mexicans to be taken advantage of by the smart Americans. We run a thirty-billion-dollar-a-year enterprise, but we are stupid? We transport fifteen thousand metric tons of marijuana, cocaine, and heroin north across the border annually—despite fifty thousand
federales
on this side and twenty thousand Border Patrol agents on that side—but we are stupid? We launder thirty billion U.S. dollars through banks in America, Panama, Ecuador, and Europe each year, but we are stupid? And now the
gringos
open their roads and highways under NAFTA to Mexican trucks—
even though they know the cartels now own the Mexican trucking companies!
—thus allowing us to ship our dope directly to every town and city in America, but we are stupid? Ah, but the
gringos
must believe that we are just the stupid Mexicans because that allows them to feel better about themselves—
allows them to feel superior to the rest of the world
—even though they are the ones smoking, snorting, and shooting all that filthy dope into their bodies.

Oh, to be so stupid.

Enrique de la Garza employed American brokers and bankers, lawyers and accountants, financial planners and investment advisors; none asked too many questions, such as "Where do you get all this cash from?" He was one of three hundred individuals identified as off-limits to U.S. banks under the Foreign Narcotics Kingpin Act, so the U.S. government can say they are doing something to stop the drug trade, but their government does not enforce their own law because the banks want their profits. Just as the
gringos
want his products. Oh, the appetite they have for the marijuana and the heroin and the cocaine! Insatiable. And extremely profitable. Enrique's empire had grossed over $5.5 billion U.S. last year and was on track to gross $6 billion this year. His personal net worth now exceeded $7 billion; he had billions invested in U.S. real estate, stocks, and bonds. He ranked one hundred thirty-four on the
Forbes
list of billionaires. Twenty-four years ago, he had started with nothing but a Harvard degree, and now he had an empire that spanned the globe. Markets in North America, South America, and now even to Europe he transported his products via a fleet of 747s—there was no radar over the Atlantic Ocean—something no other cartel had even imagined. By land, by sea, by air, even by tunnels two miles long he transported his products north, always one step ahead of the
gringos
. Innovation, that was the key to staying ahead of the competition and foreign authorities. Enrique de la Garza possessed vision—he saw what others could not even imagine. And now, at forty-six years of age, he had it all—wealth, power, respect, the admiration of his people, good children—everything a man could desire … everything except the love of a woman. His eyes returned to the image frozen on the television.

A woman like her.

He often found himself longing for a woman again. For love. For romance. His wife had always said he was a hopeless romantic, and perhaps he was. But he had been without romance since her death five years before. Five years he had mourned for his beloved Liliana. He still loved her; he would always love her. But he wanted to love and be loved again, to feel a woman close to him—not a woman who wanted his money; those women he could have any day—but a woman who wanted him, as Liliana had.