Troubled Waters (31 page)

But I didn't know what happened next. “Let's think that out a little bit,” I invited. “The DEA guy stops Jan and Joaquín, thinking he's Rap. And then somebody shoots the poor guy dead and leaves him in the road. Joaquín disappears into the ozone and is never heard from again, and Jan runs away and hides for fourteen years. But why? Who shot Krepke? Jan or Joaquín? And how did Joaquín get out of the country?”

Harve rubbed his chin. His basset hound face looked grave as he replied, “They must have intended to meet somebody else. Somebody who was going to get Joaquín into Canada. Rap used to meet a Canadian boat called the
Esmeralda
.”

“So maybe Jan did shoot Krepke,” I mused aloud. “Or maybe Joaquín did it, thinking Krepke was with the Border Patrol. Or maybe the people they were meeting lost their heads and started shooting.”

“Whatever happened out on that road, it was bad news for Koeppler.” Harve mopped his forehead with a handkerchief I hoped wasn't the same one he'd just used. “The
Blade
came down pretty hard on him at the time, and Cathy Sawicki over at the U.S. attorney's office quit her job and left town.”

“She's in Washington, D.C. now,” I said. I filled Harve in on my conversation with Stoddard. “It seems her new crusade is nailing your former son-in-law for making and selling counterfeit airplane parts.”

“I wish her luck,” the old man replied. He lifted his empty coffee cup as if offering a toast. “Go get the
mamzer
,” he said to the invisible U.S. attorney.

“I imagine she'd appreciate a little help.” I didn't dare look the veteran defender in the eye. “If Dana wanted to turn state's evidence, she could probably cut a deal.”

He raised his eyebrows, a thicket of gray hairs that went well beyond bushy. “I didn't raise my daughter,” he said, “to be an informer.”

“Unless of course she's lying to the police,” I murmured.

The old man's only response was a grin that wavered between innocence and cunning. Whatever Dana thought of her father, she was his daughter through and through.

In court, Harve explained in detail what Judge Noble must have known from the news reports. He agreed to a longer adjournment and then turned to Luke Stoddard. “Can you turn over discovery material at this time?”

The U.S. attorney handed Harve a pile of documents and a manila envelope. I leaned over and whispered, “Where's mine?”

Stoddard answered by declaiming, “The United States wishes at this time to move for dismissal of all charges against Ronald Jameson.”

The judge raised the same eyebrow I was considering elevating. “Is there any condition attached to this motion, Counselor? Does this dismissal depend upon Mr. Jameson's testifying for the government at Ms. Gebhardt's trial?”

“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor replied, his deep voice ringing through the courtroom. “There are no conditions. Which is not to say that Mr. Jameson might not be subpoenaed at the proper time, but he is under no obligation beyond that of any citizen to testify truthfully.”

The judge banged a gavel and stood up to leave the bench. I wanted to say something, to ask why, but there was no precedent for a defense lawyer objecting to a dismissal. I was, in the court's view, getting a gigantic Christmas present in October, and mine was not to reason why.

But I wanted to know.

Stoddard picked up his file folder and moved for the door. I stepped after him, tripping over my own feet in my anxiety that he might disappear without an explanation.

“Luke,” I called. He turned, an expression of angelic innocence on his shiny black face.

“Yes, Counselor? What else can I do for you, having already given you more than you could possibly have hoped for?”

“You can tell me why. You can tell me what game this is. You can tell me—”

The deep-sea smile split his face. “You can't think of a reason? You can't see that maybe I didn't like the idea of trying a man in a wheelchair? Or of forcing that man to testify against his own wife?”

The answer was no. No, I didn't think for one minute that this decision was prompted by charity, or even by the publicity factor. Something else was going on, and I was at a grave disadvantage not knowing what it was. But before I could formulate a question, Stoddard opened the door behind the judge's bench and disappeared into the back corridors of the courthouse.

He left me standing in the courtroom, suddenly and powerfully aware of one simple fact: I was free.

I could go home. Ron didn't need me anymore. Not as his lawyer. Maybe as his sister. But that was only a maybe, and my role as his legal representative had been solid, real.

Without that role, what was I doing here?

I looked around for Harve, as if he could offer me guidance. But he was gone. He'd scooped up the massive pile of discovery documents and hustled to the next courtroom, the next case.

I walked slowly out of the massive marble building onto the busy downtown street. There was a formal garden, filled with yellow and bronze chrysanthemums, surrounding a statue of William McKinley, one of Ohio's contributions to the presidency. A maple tree with half green and half rusty-orange leaves waved in the brisk breeze. The sky was a bright postcard blue, with little white cloud masses scudding along.

Nature. I was actually noticing nature for the first time since I'd stepped off the plane. The hard knot of fear in my stomach was beginning to melt. Ron was not going to jail. Ron was safe.

But Jan wasn't. Jan wasn't safe from Luke Stoddard, and she wasn't safe from whoever had tried to batter her to death.

And now she was conscious. Now she was aware. And the closer she came to regaining her memory, the greater would be her danger.

I wasn't going anywhere. Not until I knew who had attacked Jan and who had killed Kenny and what really happened to Dale Krepke out on that lonely road.

I got into the little red rental car and drove toward the hospital. As I waited for a light to change on Monroe Street, I realized why I'd been so insistent on making Luke Stoddard explain his sudden dismissal of the charges against Ron.

I wanted him to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn't because Ron had made a deal with the feds back in the summer of 1969.

The light changed. I surged forward in the jackrabbit style favored by those who have driven the streets of New York City.

Ron hadn't wanted to get involved with the parathion demo. Not really. He'd done it because I was going to do it come hell or high water, and he wasn't the kind of older brother who'd let me do it alone.

Had he arranged for us to be arrested before any real damage could be done? Had he called the cops on us?

For our own good, of course. More to the point, for my own good.

I didn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. But it wasn't as completely impossible as I'd insisted to Ted.

What was impossible was that Ron would have handed a poisoned joint to a sixteen-year-old kid.

I parked the car and took the familiar path through the lobby to the elevator leading to the ICU.

Jan was awake, propped up in bed by pillows, her head still held in place by a brace. Ron's chair sat as close as possible to the bed and his hand rested on her bare arm. The expression on her face was meant to be a smile, but one side of her mouth drooped and saliva drooled down her chin.

“How is she?” I supposed I was talking to Ron, but Jan herself said, “O-ay.”

Since she couldn't turn her head, I conveyed my skepticism to Ron with a facial expression. His almost imperceptible nod reassured me.

I mouthed the words
What year is it?

Now Ron frowned slightly. So it was still 1982.

Which might not be all bad. Maybe Jan couldn't tell us who'd hit her on the head two nights ago, but she ought to be able to fill in a blank or two regarding the death of Dale Krepke.

I pulled a chair over to Ron's side of the bed and placed it in what I took to be Jan's line of sight.

Some of the swelling in her face had gone down, but there were railroad-track stitches along her shaved scalp and the bruises had turned yellow and purple. I swallowed hard and worked at treating her like an intelligent adult in spite of her obvious limitations.

“You were taking Joaquín Baltasar to—”

She tried to shake her head. Since she couldn't move, her neck muscles bulged. She flailed her arms and moaned, “Noooooo.”

“No, you weren't? But Harve said—”

“Nnnnn-aaaaaakeeeen. Caaaaaaa-daaaaaa-saaay.” Jan's face wore an intent expression that begged me to understand.

“Yeah, you wanted to get Joaquín to Canada,” I said. “We know that part.”

More frantic hand-shaking. Ron lifted his hand and caught one of hers. “Relax, Jan. Please.”

“Maaaaaa. Naaaaaaa. Waaaakeeee.” Now her tone was purely annoyed, as though she couldn't believe she was talking to people who were this dense.

“Does Waaa-keee mean Joaquín?” Ron asked.

Jan's face relaxed into a relieved smile. “Eeeeess.”

At this rate, it would take us three weeks to figure out what Jan was trying to say. I opened my mouth to try another question when my beeper vibrated.

“Back in a minute,” I said. In truth, I hoped that Ron would have more luck than I and that I'd come back to find him in full possession of Jan's message.

“Law offices of Harvey Sobel,” a deep female voice said after three rings.

“Dana?”

“Who is—oh, Cassie. Harve's right here.”

“Wait, I—” But the clank of receiver on desk top told me to save my breath.

Harve's rich, phlegmy baritone greeted me. “Cassie. Two things I thought you should know. One: Koeppler had a wiretap warrant in '82. Planted a bug at Our Lady of Guadalupe. Two: Stoddard dropped the case against Ron after he got a call from bigwigs in Washington.”

“FBI?”

“I don't know. All I do know is that he was told to make this whole thing go away. He called to offer me a very sweet deal for Jan. As soon as she's able to talk, I'll tell her about it.”

“Actually, she's doing pretty well for somebody who thinks Ronald Reagan is still president.”

The old lawyer rumbled a laugh. “Poor kid,” he said. “I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.”

When I got back to Jan's room, Father Jerry had joined the team. He sat in the chair I'd vacated, asking Jan more or less the same questions I had. With, it seemed, little better luck. Jan's face was screwed into an expression of frustrated urgency. Whatever she was trying to say, it was of vital importance in her battered mind.

“Caaaaaa,” she said and paused. Then she opened her mouth again. “Neeeeyaaaa.” Another pause. “Daaaaaa.” She fixed Father Jerry with pleading eyes. “Saaaaaay.”

He repeated her sounds, one by one. “Ca. Neeya. Da. Say.”

“Essss. Naaaa. Waaakeeeen.”

“You were taking Joaquín—”

“
Naaaaaattt
. Keeeen.” She struck at her hips with her flailing fists, willing us to understand.

“Sounds like she's saying ‘not Joaquín,'” Ron pointed out.

Jan's face melted into delighted agreement. “Essss. Essss. Yeeee-essss.”

“Now all we need is the other part,” I said.

“I'm not sure,” the priest began, “but maybe—” He leaned closer to Jan. “I think she's saying
‘Caña Dulce.'
”

Tears started in the blue eyes and spilled unheeded down her cheeks. “Essss. Esssss. Caaaa Daaaa Saay.”

“Sugar cane?” I turned to the priest. “But why would she be talking about—”

“It's a name.” Father Jerry looked at Ron. “Remember?”

Ron nodded. His face was grim.

“Will somebody tell me what's going on?”

“
Caña Dulce
was listed with Amnesty International as one of the worst torturers in Guatemala,” the priest said. His face wore a troubled expression. “He killed three Jesuit priests. The sad thing,” he continued, shaking his head, “is that our own CIA trained him.”

“So Jan's saying—”

Ron finished my thought. “That the man we thought was Joaquín Baltasar was really
Caña Dulce
.”

I flashed back to Dana's account of the extra refugees, the ones who carried guns. She'd said Rap made night trips; what if he was ferrying the death squad torturers to Canada?

And what if the federal agency that pressured Stoddard into settling Jan's case wasn't the FBI but the CIA?

Which raised another, very pressing, question: Assuming any of this was true, who could we tell? Who could we trust?

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

Who could we trust? If Harve was right, this conspiracy went all the way to Washington. So it was unlikely that Ohio state troopers or lower court federal judges or the county sheriff was going to be able to help. Assuming, that is, that they'd even listen to wild talk about CIA operatives spiriting a Central American priest killer across the border.

When I returned to Jan's room, she was asleep. Worn out from the ordeal of making us understand.

I wheeled Ron's chair into the hall and told him what I'd learned. “We might try Wes,” I said tentatively. “He'd know the right people.”

The look on Ron's face convinced me that I was grasping at straws. He pursed his lips and said, “Well, there's always the press.”

I nodded. Memories of Watergate flooded my mind. When all else fails, there's Woodward and Bernstein. “I'll try to get Ted on the phone.”

Ron raised a single eyebrow. “You think the
Plain Dealer
has enough clout to—”

“I don't know,” I called over my shoulder as I made for the phones, “but he's the only reporter we know.”

I called the number Ted had given me. From the background noise, I deduced he was talking from his car phone. I explained what I'd learned and concluded, “It's got to be Rap, doesn't it? He probably got caught running drugs back in '68 or '69 and cut a deal with the feds.” I felt oddly disappointed. For all his dangerous ruthlessness, Rap had been tender with me the night I got drunk and maudlin.