The Arraignment (3 page)

Gerald Metz is fit, tall, and tan. He has the look of a man who works out-of-doors, except that he doesn’t do this with his hands. His nails are manicured and his palms uncalloused, causing me to suspect that the only thing they’ve grasped recently are the drivers and irons from a golf bag.

His speech is a little rough, hints of the self-made, up from what may have been some rough streets in another life. He is not what one conjures when thinking of the arts and those who patronize them. He wears a polo shirt under a blue blazer.

“That’s why when this stuff came up, I was surprised. Why the hell would the grand jury want to talk to me?”

It has been two weeks since I met with Nick, and Metz
is in my office, a thin leather folio in his lap and a lot of nervous chatter on his lips.

If I had to guess, I would say he is in his mid-forties. He is angular, with a high forehead and receding hairline slicked back on the sides.

He hands me a bunch of papers from his briefcase, then leans back in the chair, trying to put on an air of confidence like someone putting on a suit of clothes that doesn’t quite fit. The fingers of one hand tap a cadence on the arm of his chair, one leg crossed over the other, while his eyes dart nervously around the office, trying to find something to settle on besides me. Beads of perspiration pop out like acne on his forehead.

“Mind if I smoke?” he says.

“Prefer it if you don’t.”

He exhales a deep breath. If he is called before the grand jury, the man is going to sweat a river.

I read through the papers he has handed me.

“Didn’t even know these people. Met ’em once,” he says.

“Uh-huh.” What I’m seeing are a lot of first names on the salutations of their letters to him: “Dear Jerry.”

From the left sleeve of Metz’s blazer pokes an expensive-looking gold Rolex. He keeps sneaking peaks at it as he talks.

“Do you have another appointment?” I ask.

“Hmm. No, no.” He tugs the sleeve down to cover the watch and puts his hand over it.

“I’m just wondering if this is gonna take long.”

“That depends. Are these all the papers you have?”

He nods. “That’s it.”

There’s a hint of an accent, nothing strong. I’m thinking Florida by way of New Jersey.

“We didn’t even do the deal,” he says. “The whole thing fell apart.” Comes the flood of nervous talk. “Can’t figure why they’d be interested in me. Maybe you could just call ’em and tell ’em that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, tell the attorney I don’t know nothin’.”

“The U.S. attorney?”

“Why not?”

I look at him and smile. “If I did that, they would subpoena you for sure.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

“Fuckin’ government always on your ass. Last time it was an audit.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. Few years ago. Screwed me around for over a year. IRS demanding every scrap I had. Fourteen months they couldn’t find a damn thing. Now this. You ask me, I think it’s retaliation.”

“For what?”

“Cuz they’re pissed that they couldn’t find nothin’. All I know is my name keeps coming up in this grand jury thing. Word gets out, it’s gonna kill my business.”

“What do you mean, your name keeps coming up?”

“People called to testify, former employees of my company. They call and they tell me that they’re being asked all kinda questions about me and my business—you know, with these people down in Mexico.” He nods toward the letters on my desk.

“These witnesses, did they call you or did you call them?”

“Hell, I don’t know. What difference does it make? One of them called me; I called somebody else. After a while they’re all telling the same thing. This attorney. This federal guy.”

“The deputy U.S. attorney.”

“That’s the one. He keeps bringing my name up asking questions.” He thinks for a second. “I didn’t do anything wrong by talking to these people. The witnesses, I mean.”

“Probably not.”

“What do you mean probably?”

“They’re free to talk to you about their own testimony. If they want to. You say they’re former employees? What type of work did they do?”

He gives me names. “One was a secretary; the other was my bookkeeper.”

“How did you find out she had appeared before the grand jury?”

This stumps him for a second. He can’t remember. He tells me he heard it on the grapevine. The construction industry being a small community.

“So it sounds like you called her, this witness?”

“I probably did. It pissed me off. Can they do this? Some government lawyer asking a lot of questions about my business. Can they do that?”

“A prosecutor in front of a federal grand jury can ask almost anything he wants. What did he want to know?”

“Mostly financial information, from what I was told.”

This would make sense if the feds are investigating money laundering.

“What kind of financial information?”

“The business thing down in Mexico. They seemed to be interested in the one deal.”

“Tell me about that.” I look at the letter on the desk in front of me, the signature block at the bottom. “Tell me about this man Arturo Ibarra.”

“Two brothers. Arturo and Jaime. Arturo was the brains. I don’t think Jaime can write,” he says.

“Then you do know them?”

“Not really. Met ’em a few times. Just that Jaime’s got the slanted head. Know what I mean? What do they call ’em, ’Anderthals. Caveman.”

“You mean Neanderthal?”

“Whatever.”

“What about the other one, Arturo?”

“He was business. Educated. The brains. You know, I don’t like to ask. But I got one question. How much is this gonna cost me?” He’s looking at his watch again.

“That depends how long we take.”

He fumes, looks up at the ceiling. “Is there any way I can get my legal fees back on this? I mean if I’m not involved, why should I have to pay legal fees?”

“Unfortunately, that’s the way it works.”

“Can I take it off on my taxes?”

“Talk to your accountant,” I tell him.

He looks at me, as if to say “fucking lawyers.” “So whadda you want to know so we can get this over with?”

“Whatever you can remember.”

“These two brothers, they owned some property with their father.”

“What was the father’s name?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Mr. Ibarra. I never met the man. All I was told he was a big-time developer down in Quintana Roo. Southern Mexico,” he says. “On the Yucatán. You ever been there?”

I shake my head. “I’ve heard of it.” In the press it’s been called the first Mexican narco-state. Bordering Guatemala and Central America, it’s a pipeline for drugs.

“How did you find this job?” I ask him.

“The two brothers came to me. Said they wanted to develop this property into a resort. It was on the coast, beachfront. Mostly swamp land. South of Cancún on the highway, down toward Tulúm, what they call the Mayan Riviera. The two brothers took me down to their property, a few hundred acres of cactus, swamp, and mosquitoes, probably snakes and alligators if you wandered out that far. I took their word for it that there was a beach out there somewhere.”

“Why did they come to you?”

“My company’s got heavy equipment. We were the closest. Just across the border. Most of the work down there is done with hand labor. Pick and shovel stuff. Labor being cheap.”

“Why did they want your equipment?”

“They wanted to move fast. A window of opportunity in the permitting process. All I know is what they told me.”

“Go on.”

“I figured they probably crossed a few official palms with some gold. Way of life down there.” He says it as if graft doesn’t exist north of the border.

“How were they going to pay you?”

“Some cash up front and then a piece of the ownership.”

“How big a piece?”

“Ten percent. They were gonna develop the property, get it in shape where foundations could be poured, then spin it off to some hotel chain to build the resort. We were all supposed to cash in at that point.”

“You say the deal didn’t go through?”

“No. I was told the old man pulled the plug. He controlled the funds. There was some kind of falling out and the deal collapsed. That’s it. Long and short of it.”

“Everything?”

“Pretty much. You gotta remember this was a while ago. You can’t expect me to remember all the details. The whole thing lasted a total of a few months. It never got beyond some letters and telephone calls.”

“But you said you went down there?”

“Well, sure. They paid my way. Why not?”

“How long were you there?”

“Shit, I don’t know, a few days, maybe a week. This was two years ago.”

Well within any statute of limitations for money laundering, though I don’t mention this to Metz.

“Did any of their agents or employees meet with you in this country?”

“No. Not that I can remember. No, wait a second. There was one guy. I can’t remember his name. We met once and talked on the phone a couple of times. I may still have his card.” Metz pulls out his wallet and starts picking through the contents—rat-eared receipts, licenses, a social security card that looks like it’s been around since the Civil War, a collection of business cards. Finally he finds the one he’s looking for.

“Here it is.” He holds it out at arm’s length as if glasses might be in order for reading. “ ‘Miguelito Espinoza.’ Mexican labor contractor.”

He hands me the card and I make a note—an address in Santee with a phone number. On the other side of the card, everything under the name is printed in Spanish, including
a title
notario publico.
In this case it means the man holds a license as a notary public. He can verify documents and put his seal on them. The designation is often used north of the border to give a false implication to those not speaking English that the holder is a lawyer, as the title would signify in Mexico.

“Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“There are a few things you should understand. The fact that you haven’t been called to testify is not necessarily a good thing.”

“Why’s that?”

“Have you received any correspondence from the U.S. attorney in connection with this matter?”

“Like what?”

“Perhaps a letter?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because if you’re a target of their investigation they will be sending you a target letter. It will tell you about the proceedings, warn you not to destroy documents, tell you about your right to confer with counsel outside the jury room and your right not to testify.”

“Why the hell would I be a target?”

“I’m not saying you are. But the fact that they haven’t called you to testify and that they’re questioning former employees is not good.”

This puts a look of anxiety on his face. Metz is no longer looking at his watch.

“How many telephone conversations did you have with these people?”

“I don’t know. How the hell am I supposed to remember something like that?”

“You can be sure the DEA or the FBI will know the answer,” I tell him. “If they’re investigating you, they may already have your telephone records. They’ll know how many times you talked to the brothers in Mexico and how long
each conversation lasted. They may know about this man Espinoza. They’ll have that at a minimum, unless of course the Mexican authorities tapped into the brother’s phone lines down there, in which case they’re likely to know a great deal more.”

I can tell that this is a sobering thought.

“Did you send them anything in writing, any letters?” All I have before me are letters from the one brother to Metz, nothing going the other way.

“I, ah. I don’t think so.”

“You do keep copies of your business correspondence?”

“Yeah. But you know how things are. Sometimes they get away from you.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s everything I could find.”

“You mean you may have written letters to these people, but you can’t find them?”

“It’s possible. I can’t remember.”

This is not looking good.

“What if the prosecutor subpoenas them?”

“I’ll give them what I can find. What the hell else am I supposed to do? If I can’t find ’em, I can’t find ’em. Right?”

“You said one of the witnesses was a former secretary to your company. How many office employees do you have?”

“One. Sometimes I don’t have any. People quit, come and go. Stuff gets lost. I told my gal in the office to get whatever was in the files, like you asked. That’s what she got.” He points to the few letters on my desk.

“And what if your secretary is called to testify. What will she say?”

He gives me a steely-eyed look. “That she gave me everything she could find,” he says.

“And that this is it?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’m not trying to be difficult,” he says. “It’s just that I can’t give ’em what I don’t have.”

“Of course.”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

“Tell me, did you sign a contract on this business in Mexico?”

“We never got that far.”

“Did they pay you anything, compensation?”

“Like I said, they paid for my trip down there. Traveling expenses and the like.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know, maybe four thousand, forty-five hundred dollars. And there were some consulting fees.”

“Consulting for what?”

“The location, difficulty of getting heavy equipment in and out of the job site.”

“How much did they pay you for this?”

“I can’t remember exactly.”

“An estimate?”

“I don’t know.”

“More than a thousand dollars?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“More than five thousand?”

“Uh-huh.”

My eyes are off my notepad now, looking at Metz. “How much?”

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of two million,” he says.

“Dollars?”

He nods.

I sit there staring at him, the gaze of an animal in front of a speeding locomotive at night.

“For consulting fees?”

“Well, no, no, it was . . . actually, it was a security deposit.”

“Security for what?”