Steve Martini - The Arraignment

“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 Yucatan. 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 Cancun on the highway, down toward Tulum, 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?”