Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“What is it exactly that you want, Mr. Madriani?” says Yasuda.

“First, I want my client released into my custody and I want it done before I leave here today. Apparently from what Hannah just said you’ve already cut the paperwork on this. Second, I will prepare the final written settlement agreement as regards the sum owing to Mr. Betz under the IRS Whistleblower Act. Your accountants can talk with our accountants as to the precise amount owed.”

“What about the records?” says Yasuda.

“What assurance do we have that your office will pursue them? Investigate and prosecute?” I ask.

“None,” he says. “That’s a matter of prosecutorial discretion.”

“In which case you already have my terms on that issue. We’re prepared to release them to you simultaneously with a release to the media.”

“That’s unacceptable,” says Yasuda.

“Fine. Then we can sort out the claim on the Whistleblower Fund by filing suit in the tax court. We will lodge an appeal in the Ninth Circuit regarding the manner in which you charged and thereafter incarcerated my client. I’m sure the court will be very interested in learning why you charged him in the manner you did, particularly given the evidence at trial regarding his extraordinary efforts of cooperation that you spurned. But before I do any of this, I will gather up the records of Mr. Betz, make a sufficient number of copies, and send them to every media outlet I can find.”

“That would be highly irresponsible,” says Yasuda. “Give us a moment.”

“Take all the time you need.”

He and Parish turn their backs and huddle at the table. I’m wondering if I should turn on the white noise for them.

Finally they turn around. “Let me lay it all on the table for you,” he says. “If we release Mr. Betz, what assurances can you give us that he’ll be safe? You know the risks.”

“I do.”

“Why don’t you let us put him in witness protection?” says Yasuda.

“Of course, the final decision on that belongs to Mr. Betz. But I suspect he’s had about enough protection from the federal government for the time being. If you’re asking if I can give a guarantee as to his safety, the answer’s no. But perhaps with a little assistance on your part we can afford him a reasonable amount of security until we can make other arrangements.”

It is not Betz’s security that is their primary concern. It is the security of the documents that they want.

“Good,” says Yasuda. “Then we’re agreed as to that issue. As for the money, we have no problems. We are more than willing to negotiate a corrected amount, consistent with the code and the regulations regarding the whistleblower award.

“It’s the last item that’s the problem,” says Yasuda. “What will you do with the records if we do nothing more here today?”

“We will hold them for the time being,” I tell him. “In point of fact, you’re aware, as I am, that as long as these remain hidden with the risk that they will be delivered to the media if anything happens to Mr. Betz, they provide some added measure of security.”

“Then can we agree to discuss this at a later date?”

“It’s fine by me, but I wouldn’t wait too long.”

“Good.” Yasuda looks at the supervisor sitting at the end of the table. “Please make the arrangements for Mr. Betz’s release immediately. Get him some street clothes and some cash, a generous amount. We will treat it as an advance on the award.” He looks at me. “You and I need to discuss security arrangements.”

Yasuda doesn’t know the half of it.

The day after arriving home from the ordeal at Supermax, I dispatched Harry to meet with Alex Ives’s father. At Ives’s office at the airport, the two of them made all the necessary arrangements. The small air cargo jet would return to Mexico, pick up Alex and Herman, and bring them back, at least partway.

I’ve been pushing everything else off my desk to deal with all of this, and I have a growing stack of mail and telephone messages screaming at me. One of them is from the judge’s clerk downtown as we edge toward the meeting I’m trying to avoid, and another from the guy out in Del Mar, Becket.

As soon as Harry returned to the office he gave me the details, time and date for the pickup at the dirt strip east of Ixtapa. I sent a message to Herman on the Internet bulletin board in Tampico, Mexico: “It is time to come home.”

In cryptic terms I spelled out the details. He already knew the location. I let him know that I would watch the board for any message coming the other way in the event that they couldn’t make it.

Because Alex lacks a passport we cannot fly him back the way he went out, directly across the border on the jet. Landing at a US airport, TSA, which does air cargo security, and ICE, Immigration and Customs, would nail him. They would probably see to it that the company transporting him lost their license, too. Alex would end up back in the pokey for violating the terms of his bail, and Harry and I would be sitting on a hot seat in front of some judge downtown.

With all of the stories about people walking across the southern border, the fact is, it isn’t that easy.

So the jet, loaded with a light cargo of consumer electronics, will fly south to Mexico City and drop off part of its load. It will then make a quick detour west, taking less than an hour to the dirt strip, pick up Alex and Herman, and then head north. It will land again at Tijuana to deposit the rest of its cargo. Because the connecting flights, the two cargo drops, are within the country, Mexican authorities at Tijuana are not likely to take a hard look at the plane.

Herman and Alex will be picked up by a car near the cargo terminal at Tijuana. Alex’s father has made arrangements for this. They will be driven to the fishing port at Ensenada, and from there, they will board a fast forty-two-foot sport fishing boat owned by an American buddy of Ives. He will transport them well out to sea, then north, up the coast, where they will land at Mission Bay, the boat’s home port.

On board will be three American sport fishermen with bad sunburns, along with a couple of large yellowtail tuna that the skipper will buy off the docks in Ensenada.

If all goes well, Alex and Herman should be back in San Diego within two days. The question of where to hide Alex has also been solved, at least for the time being. I will hide him with Betz. Alex has always wanted to meet the whistleblower. Here is his chance.

Before I left the Supermax facility in Colorado, I made a phone call to another acquaintance in Washington, D.C. His name is Zeb Thorpe. Harry and I call him “Jug-Head.” A former marine, Thorpe is actually the executive director for the National Security Branch of the FBI. At one time he held my life, along with Harry’s and Herman’s, in his hands. To the extent that you can trust anybody in circumstances like these, I trust Thorpe.

I asked him if he knew Fenton Yasuda. He did. According to Thorpe, Yasuda is a straight arrow, a career prosecutor who has worked his way up within the Department of Justice. Although the position he currently holds is an exempt appointment, he is no political hack. Thorpe says he is someone I can trust. So I do. Thorpe also gave me some other advice and said he would make a few phone calls.

With that, Yasuda and I, out of the presence of everyone else, made a deal. As agreed, the government transported Betz and me back to Miramar, the Marine Air Station near San Diego, where they will temporarily house Betz until other arrangements can be made. It was Thorpe who called ahead of me to the station and cleared the way.

The fact is, we have no other choice. I can’t take Betz to my office or to my house. Neither place would be safe. The minute they knew he was there, they would descend on both of us.