Speak of the Devil (29 page)

44

Act like it’s a first date,” Agent Samantha Randazzo said. “Listen more than you talk.”

Gato nodded. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been on a “first date” the way she meant, but he could listen. He felt like he’d been listening to Agent Randazzo for hours. He felt sick with nervousness. He was ready to be done with this.

They were inside a big warehouse on Georgia Avenue, which the agent was calling the “command center.” Shelving units had been pushed to the walls and the big space in the middle was parked up with dark-tinted Suburbans and police cruisers. Cops in suits and uniforms filled the place: drinking coffee, talking, typing on laptops sitting on collapsible tables. Gato got more than one curious or suspicious glance.

“Some cooperators get nervous and chatter,” she continued. “That doesn’t help us. You want to get the
other
guy talking. Ask questions. Follow up on the answers. Talk about crimes you guys have committed in the past, but in a way that’s part of the conversation—not in a way that seems weird.”

Gato nodded. The phone the agent had given him looked like every other prepaid cell phone he’d bought at 7-Eleven. But she said there was a bug in it to record everything, and GPS to track him.

“When you do talk, speak slowly and loudly. But naturally. If you’re keeping the phone in your left pocket, try to angle yourself so that your left hip is closest to Diablo, to better pick up his voice. But don’t do it in a way that looks funny.”

Gato tried to imagine angling his hip toward Diablo in a way that wouldn’t look funny, but pictured himself posing like a Victoria’s Secret model.

“It won’t be an issue,” Gato said. “We have to strip. There’s no way the phone will go in with me.”

“Just in case. If there’s any way to keep it on you, do. It’ll help us know that you’re safe, and let us track where you are. And if a gang member asks you to get in a car, don’t! If they bring you somewhere else, it might be to kill you. What’s your exit strategy if they try to get you in a car?”

“Um . . . I’ll say I gotta take a piss?”

“Good.”

Gato knew there was no “exit strategy.” If they asked him to “take a ride” and he tried to avoid it, they’d just kill him right there. He didn’t mention that to the agent. She’d been role-playing all sorts of different scenarios with him, giving him tips, and coaching his answers. If he didn’t have an answer, or she didn’t like his answer, it would mean more talking.

“If we positively ID Diablo,” the agent continued, “we’ll wait until the meeting is over and arrest everyone. You’ll be arrested, too, for your own safety, so no one will know you’re cooperating. Most of the officers out there won’t know you’re the cooperator. They’ll treat you like everyone else. That means if you resist, you’ll get your head smashed, so don’t go acting up. You’ll be processed just like everyone else, but when your friends are being divided up to be housed, you’ll go into protective custody.”

He nodded. He didn’t like taking orders from a woman, or hearing her talk about smashing in his head. But such was his life now.

“Most importantly,” the agent said, “try to act natural.”

“Okay,” he said although nothing he’d done over the last few days felt natural at all.

Finally, she said it was time for him to go in.

“Remember,” she said as she opened the warehouse’s side door. “If you get into any trouble, say ‘I wish my brother were here.’ ”

He didn’t have brothers in America and couldn’t imagine using the line. But he nodded and walked out. As soon as the door shut behind him, it closed out the world of lights, laptops, and police chatter. He was alone, in the dark, cold night, with only a cell phone to protect him. He took a deep breath and started walking.

• • •

In the hotel room, Olivia pulled on her conical black hat, completing her witch costume. She already wore the long black dress and had the warty rubber nose attached over her cute little one. She clutched a plastic jack-o’-lantern for collecting candy.

“You are the cutest witch ever,” Anna said.

“I am not cute.” Olivia looked offended. “I’m scary. I have powerful magic.”

“Ah, right.” Anna held up her hands in mock horror. “Please don’t turn me into a bat!”

“You’ll have to do what I say.”

“Anything.”

“Bring me some candy, peasant.”

Anna grabbed a pack of Skittles and handed it to Olivia. The girl nodded with witchy satisfaction and dropped it into her pumpkin.

Jack opened the door and they all walked into the hallway. He was somber and tense, knowing what was going on in Wheaton Regional Park, unable to do anything to help.

Anna was sorry that the little girl couldn’t have a normal Halloween. Takoma Park would be full of kids running down the sidewalks now, yelling “Trick or treat” from house to house. But it was too dangerous for Olivia to be walking the streets tonight. Anna had set up a Halloween scavenger hunt around the hotel suite, which they’d do later. For now, the three of them walked to the front office of the Residence Inn. The manager had invited Olivia to trick-or-treat there.

Anna checked her cell phone for the sixth time that night. No messages, no texts. At this point, her role was minuscule. She could only wait, ready to answer the phone if a legal issue came up. Sam would only call her in the most dire of circumstances, since Anna’s legal advice would likely rein in her options. Sam preferred to make the decisions herself, and leave it to Anna to justify them in court later.

The hotel manager was a sweet old lady who’d taped cardboard ghosts to her office door. On her desk was a bowl filled with glow sticks and mini Snickers. The office already held a few other parents and kids who were stranded at the hotel for their own reasons. There were two little princesses, a Batman, a Devil, and a zombie. Olivia stopped walking and stood outside the door.

“It’s okay.” Anna put a hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead.”

“It’s a
Devil
,” Olivia said. “He’s a bad guy.”

Anna and Jack frowned at each other. Despite their efforts to shield Olivia, the girl had heard and understood too much of what was happening. Anna knelt down and put a hand on Olivia’s arm.

“It’s just kids in costumes. They’re pretending to be bad for the night. But underneath they’re nice kids. Same as you.”

Olivia stood looking at the other children several minutes. Finally she nodded. She took Anna’s hand and walked into the office to collect her treats.

• • •

Gato trudged down Arcola Street, which led away from busy Georgia Avenue, passed through a modest suburban neighborhood, then ended in Wheaton Regional Park’s big parking lot. To the left was the wooded park with its series of pavilions, playgrounds, and picnic tables. Ahead of Gato was the shuttered carousel, the ticket office, and the building that held the Train Room.

On summer days, the park was filled with families having cookouts or birthday parties, and the happy sounds of children on the carousel. Gato had come here once with Maria-Rosa. It seemed like a lifetime ago. In a sense it was. Maria-Rosa’s lifetime. She and Gato had spread out a blanket and picnicked on fried chicken and cinnamon-laced
horchata
from Pollo Campero. Then Gato lay down, and Maria-Rosa fitted herself into the crook of his arm. They gazed at the light blue sky through the trees, pointing out animal shapes in the clouds and talking about how they would decorate a house of their own.

Tonight the sky was black. The park was empty and silent.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to warm them as he walked through the lot. He didn’t see any police. Agent Randazzo told him that there would be undercover agents watching the whole thing. But he only saw one couple in a car, and they looked like they were here to fool around. If the FBI was here, he could not see any sign of it. His fingers gripped the cell phone like a lifeline.

The Train Room was in a building with offices, bathrooms, and, downstairs, the miniature train “station.” A homeboy who worked the night shift as a janitor had a key. Gato walked up a long wooden ramp to the building’s entrance. Through the windows, he could see twenty to thirty men and boys already inside.

Rooster sat on a stool, fully dressed, in front of the door. Gato greeted him, and they threw up the
garra
, then the “M” and the “S,” and the “13.”

“Everyone’s gotta take off their clothes,” Rooster said apologetically. “Even you, homey.”

“No problem.”

Gato undressed down to his briefs and piled his clothes and shoes on top of a bench. A bunch of piles were there already. His skin puckered with goose bumps as the cold air hit it. He held on to his cell phone.

“You know you can’t bring it inside,” Rooster said.

“Right.”

Gato tucked the cell phone into his shoe. So much for the FBI’s stupid plan. He began to walk toward the room, but Rooster put out a hand to stop him.

“I was wondering,” Rooster said. “Did you kill that prosecutor?”

The question had a tinge of malice to it, but Gato had prepared an answer. “I’m close. I followed her, but she was always with a police officer.”

“Diablo’s not gonna wait forever.”

“He won’t have to. Soon. I’ll get her soon. Don’t worry.”

Rooster shook his head and shrugged, but didn’t move to let him pass. He just stared at him, with a sad look on his face. In that moment, Gato realized that Rooster had been assigned to kill him. Diablo’s second chance was no chance at all—but Gato hadn’t expected the assignment to be handed out so soon. He’d have to make his own second chance. Gato picked his cell phone out of his shoe.

“Rooster, do me a favor. This wasn’t cheap, I don’t want to just leave it here. You’re staying out here, right? Hold on to it for me.”

Rooster nodded, then dropped it into the pocket of his puffy winter coat. He would stay outside, keeping watch, during the
generale.
Gato hoped the FBI could still listen.

• • •

Inside the warehouse, Sam and six FBI agents clustered around a computer. They were the brains of the operation. Throughout the park, they had eyes, ears, and muscle. Gato’s phone was working, but it was no longer on his person. Sam radioed the guys in the parking lot.

“Keep good eyes on our CI. He doesn’t have his phone anymore.”

“Copy that. CI just entered the Train Room.”

She nodded to Agent Steve Quisenberry, who sat at a laptop. Quisenberry clicked on the keyboard. The sound from the recording devices in the Train Room began transmitting. The team leaned forward to listen.

45

Gato opened the door. The Train Room was a large space lit tonight by a few small electric lanterns, creating a soft yellow glow in a few patches of the otherwise dark room. Homeboys in underwear stood in clumps talking softly. Some were from the Langley Park Salvatruchas or neighboring cliques, but there were many MS-13 leaders from around the East Coast. Two walls had large windows, from which Gato could see the mini-train tracks and parking lot. He hoped that meant the police could see inside. As Gato walked in, his bare feet crunched on something. The entire floor was covered in a large blue roofers’ tarpaulin. At the moment, it was just catching cigarette butts, but MS wasn’t known for its prim housekeeping. Gato guessed what kind of mess they were expecting. Still, he walked in.

He looked around, hoping to see Diablo, but the man was nowhere in sight. There were many “old heads”—grizzled older leaders covered in tattoos in the old style. The younger generation of leaders were here, too—some still just boys.

Men continued to arrive. Gato talked to some of his homies from the LPS, but he was distracted. Eventually, an old head from the Sailors Locos Salvatruchas called the meeting to order.

“
La garra
,” the room intoned.

They threw up the signs, “MS” first, then each clique leader adding his clique’s sign. The representatives from each clique went around the room saying their nickname and the clique they represented. Gato guessed there were eighty men here now, with leadership from every clique up and down the East Coast.

They blessed a new clique: the Dover Salvatruchas, spun off from a group in Wilmington. The men celebrated their new homeboys and laughed about a recent article branding MS-13 the most dangerous gang in America. That would help recruitment.

After twenty minutes, Rooster, still dressed in his jeans and winter jacket, opened the door and held it ajar. A second later, Diablo entered, gesturing for Rooster to follow him inside the room. Diablo wore only black boxers; his entire body was covered in tattoos, head to foot. His long dark hair streamed down his back, his horns stood proudly on his forehead. He smiled at the men, baring his sharpened teeth. The crowd cheered at the sight of him.

“We come here tonight to celebrate what we’ve achieved,” Diablo said in Spanish. “And to figure out how we can do better.”

The men roared, clapped, threw up the claw.

“One thing to celebrate is our increased rent. We are now getting almost a hundred thousand dollars a month from businesses in the D.C. area. People have heard our reputation, and they pay. And we have killed many Eighteenth Street
chavalas
. That gang is growing weak here. That is something we can be very proud of.”

Another loud cheer.

“But we have a long way to go. Many businesses still thumb their noses at us. They don’t believe us capable of carrying out the threats we have given them. We must show them we are merciless. We punish those who do not obey.
Anyone
who doesn’t obey.”

He turned and picked up a machete from the floor. Then he drove it right through Rooster’s stomach.

“If you don’t complete a greenlight,” Diablo said, “you will be greenlighted yourself.”

In profile, Rooster’s eyes bulged and a look of horrified shock crossed his face. He was perfectly still for a moment. From the side, Gato could see the pointed blade of the machete coming out of Rooster’s back. A few puffs of down floated out of the slice in the back of his winter jacket; a bubble of blood expanded from his nostril. His bright eyes dulled. Diablo yanked out the blade, and Rooster’s body collapsed onto the tarp.