Page 74

CHAPTER 72

JOE MOLINARI WAS one of three FBI agents sitting in the front row of an emergency hearing at a local courthouse in Monterrey. He, Ruiz, and Dougherty had been witnesses to the assault. Bao was at the hospital getting checked out for whiplash or a spinal injury, but before the day was over, he and Bao would also face interrogation for their role in the killing of three men whose bodies were cooling in the morgue.

The officers and the FBI agents had described the circumstances of the incident to the magistrate. The three dead men were identified by police chief Nunez as bandits and killers, members of the Diablo cartel. One man who was alive but not speaking was Gustavo Sandoval, an attorney-at-law and head of the Diablo cartel, currently secured in a separate holding cell.

The fifth and final man was sitting in the witness stand in the dark and windowless courtroom. Emilio Lopez was another member of the Diablo cartel who had been in the car crash. At this moment, he appeared to be in bad pain from the run-in with the car door.

Lopez had volunteered to tell all in exchange for safe relocation for himself and his family and was convincingly appreciative for the opportunity to make his case. He was married with four children. He didn’t want to go to jail. He wanted to live in the United States.

The interpreter asked Lopez to listen as she read his statement in Spanish.

“Mr. Lopez, you have stated that you were surprised by the crash with the people in the silver Honda. You say you were sleeping. There was a crash when the car you were in hit the Honda SUV.”

“That’s correct,” Lopez said. “And I speak English.”

“In your own words, then,” said the interpreter. She switched on her digital recorder.

Lopez repeated his statement, this time in English.

“There was no plan. We were in Manny’s car and I fell asleep. I woke up to a loud crash, and I was thrown from my seat. The talk was that the car ahead of us ran through a red light and we were too close to stop.”

“The car you were in belonged to Manuel Nunez?” the interpreter asked.

“Right. After the crash, Manny was yelling. He was very angry that his car was ruined. His idea was to get the driver to pay for the damage or give him the Honda or whatever Manny could get from him.”

“At gunpoint.”

“Yes. All of the guys I was with got out and rushed the car we’d hit. There was shooting from both sides. Manny was killed. Eddie and Pedro were also shot dead.

“That’s all I know. Big crash. I wake up. There is the sounds of shooting from AKs. I get out, and three of my bros are shot dead. I run. I think the driver of the Honda is going to run me down. She drives past me, fast, then opens her door, and I slam into it. Knocks me out. Next thing I remember, the police come. I talk to the police inside the ambulance that takes me to the hospital. They tape my ribs and release me into the chief’s custody. And here I am.”

Lopez was holding himself with both arms across his chest. He was jiggling his feet, breathing hard, and running out of air.

The magistrate addressed him. “What kind of gun were you carrying?”

“None. I own a Beretta gun. I lose it in the car crash. I never shot anyone. Only bottles. I shoot bottles and cans.”

“Mr. Lopez. Is it true that all five of you in the crashed car were members of a club or association?”

“I don’t like to talk for other people.”

“I suggest you make an exception to your personal rules so that you aren’t detained, tried, and sentenced.”

“It was a joke. Our club.”

“Feel free to laugh at your joke, sir. What did you call your club?”

“You mean Los Hermanos del Diablo?”

“Mr. Torres,” the magistrate asked Joe’s advocate. “Do you have a question?”

“Yes, thank you,” Torres said. He asked Lopez, “To your knowledge, did the Brothers of the Devil have anything to do with the deaths of Judge Martin Orlofsky and his wife in San Francisco? I remind you, sir, you are under oath.”

“Yes, I do understand. I swear, before God, Diablo has nothing to do with that. I heard that cops in San Francisco had something to do with it. I don’t know names. I don’t know reasons. I only heard ‘They were killed by cops.’”

“Who told you that?”

“I didn’t hear from one person. It was just talk after someone read about the crime online. I only know it wasn’t us. I have never been out of Mexico.”

The magistrate asked the assemblage if there were any other questions for Emilio Lopez, after which he thanked Lopez for his testimony and the injured man was escorted to a holding cell while the others discussed next steps. The decision was made that custody of Lopez would be transferred to the FBI as soon as it was convenient for the federal agency.

Paul Robles, FBI section chief in Monterrey, requested a conference with Joe.

The magistrate granted it, and Robles took Joe into a private room.

Robles said, “You’re going to have to stay in a cell tonight, as a safety precaution. You’ll have the hearing first thing in the morning.”

“Can Bao stay in the hospital?”

“I’ll work this out with the police chief and the magistrate. Let’s say yes. What else do you need to know?”

“That I have the backing of the FBI, that you’ll represent us and you’ll do whatever is required to keep us out of prison.”

“Joe, both the USA and Mexico are delighted to have you rub out killers for them. Consider it one night in jail. Trust me. You’ll be home in time for dinner tomorrow.”

Hopeful that Robles could keep Bao safe under security overnight in the hospital, Joe shook Robles’s hand, went back into the courtroom, shook hands with Torres, Ruiz, and Dougherty, and followed the guards upstairs to his own holding cell in the jail, where he’d be kept in isolation with 24-7 protection.

It wasn’t until the door was shut and locked that he remembered that he’d had to relinquish his phone when he was brought into court. Oh, God. He hadn’t called Lindsay.