Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

Because few in the crowd believe what is now the government’s explanation of Parada’s death, that he was a victim of mistaken identity, that the Barreras’ sicarios mistook Parada for Guero Mendez.

But the talk of conspiracy is subdued. Today is a day of mourning, and the thousands who wait patiently in the serpentine line and then move into the cathedral do so mostly in silence or in quiet prayer.

Art Keller is one of them.

The more he learns about Father Juan’s death, the more troubled he is about it. Parada was riding in a white Marquis, Mendez in a green Buick; Parada was wearing a black sourtane with a prominent pectoral cross (now missing), Mendez was garbed in full Sinaloa cowboy chic.

How could anyone mistake a 6'4?, sixty-two-year-old, white-haired man wearing a soutane and a crucifix for a 5'10” blond guy wearing narco-cowboy gear? At point-blank range? How could an experienced killer like Fabian Martinez do that? Why was an airplane waiting? How could Adan and Raul and all their hitters get on board? How could they get off in Tijuana and get escorted right out of the airport?

And why, even though dozens of witnesses described a man identical to Adan Barrera at the airport and on the plane, did a Father Rivera in Tijuana-the Barreras’ family priest-come forward to announce that Adan Barrera was the godfather at a christening performed at the exact time that Parada was gunned down?

The priest even displayed the baptismal records, with Adan’s name and signature.

And who was the mysterious Yanqui a dozen witnesses saw cradling Parada’s body? Who was carried on the plane with the Barreras and has since dropped out of sight?

Art says a quick prayer-there are people in line behind him-and finds a seat in the crowded cathedral.

The funeral Mass is long and moving. Person after person stands up to speak about what Father Juan had done in their lives, and the sound of weeping fills the large space. The atmosphere is quiet, mournful, respectful, subdued.

Until the president gets up to speak.

He had to be there, of course, the president and the entire cabinet and a score of other government officials, and as he gets up and walks to the pulpit an expectant silence falls over the crowd. And El Presidente clears his throat and begins, “A criminal act has taken the life of a good, clean and generous man-”

And that’s as far as he gets because someone in the crowd shouts, “?Justicia!”

Justice.

And then someone else picks it up, and then another and within seconds thousands of people in the cathedral and then thousands more outside start to chant “Justicia, justicia, justicia-“

– and El Presidente steps back from the microphone with an understanding smile as he waits for the chant to stop, but it doesn’t stop “Justicia, justicia, justicia-” it just gets louder “JUSTICIA, JUSTICIA, JUSTICIA-“

– and the secret police start to get nervous, whispering to each other in their little microphones and earpieces, but it’s hard to hear over the chant of “JUSTICIA, JUSTICIA, JUSTICIA-“

– which builds and builds until two of the police nervously hustle El Presidente away from the microphone and out a side door of the cathedral and into his armored limousine, but the shouts follow him as his car pulls out of the plaza “JUSTICIA, JUSTICIA, JUSTICIA-“

Most of the government men are gone by the time Parada is interred in the cathedral.

Art hadn’t joined in the chanting, but sat there in amazement as the people in that church declared that they’d had enough of the corruption and faced the powerful leader of their country and demanded justice. And he thought, Well, you’ll get it if I have anything to do with it.

Now he gets up to stand in line to file past the casket. He carefully maneuvers his place in line.

Nora Hayden’s blond hair is covered with a black shawl, her body draped in a black dress. Even with all that she’s still beautiful. He kneels beside her, puts his hands up in prayer and whispers, “Pray for his soul and sleep with his killer?”

She doesn’t answer.

“How can you live with yourself?” Art says, then gets up.

He walks away from her soft crying.

By morning the national commander of the entire MJFP, General Rodolfo Leon, is flying to Tijuana with fifty specially selected elite agents, and by afternoon they’ve broken into heavily armed, combat-ready squads of six officers each, sweeping the streets of Colonia Chapultepec in armored Suburbans and Dodge Rams. By evening they’ve smashed into six Barrera safe houses, including Raul’s personal residence on Caco Sur, where they find a cache of AK-47s, pistols, fragmentation grenades and two thousand rounds of ammunition. In the enormous garage they find six armor-plated black Suburbans. By the end of the week they’ve arrested twenty-five Barrera associates, seized over eighty houses, warehouses and ranches belonging to either the Barreras or Guero Mendez and arrested ten of the airport security police who escorted the Barreras off Flight 211.

In Guadalajara, a squad of real Jalisco State Police stumbles on a pickup truck full of fake Jalisco police, and a chase through the city ends with two of the fake cops being trapped inside a house and shooting it out with over a hundred Jalisco cops all night and into the morning, when one is killed and the other surrenders, but not before they’ve killed two of the real police and wounded the commander of the state police force.

The following morning, El Presidente goes in front of the cameras to declare his determination to crush the drug cartels once and for all, and to announce that they’ve just exposed and fired and will criminally charge over seventy corrupt MJFP officers, and he offers a $5 million reward for information leading to the capture of Adan and Raul Barrera and Guero Mendez, all of whom are still on the loose, whereabouts unknown.

Because even with the army, the federales, and every state police force scouring the country, they can’t find Guero, Raul or Adan.

Because they aren’t there.

Guero’s across the border in Guatemala.

And the Barreras have also crossed the border.

Into the United States.

They’re living in La Jolla.

Fabian finds Flaco and Dreamer living under the Laurel Street Bridge in Balboa Park.

The cops couldn’t find them, but Fabian hit the barrio and people told him stuff they weren’t going to tell the cops. They tell him because they know if they stone the cops, the cops might harass them and shit, but if they stone Fabian, he’ll fucking kill their asses, and that is the cold truth.

So Flaco and Dreamer are dozing one night under the bridge when Flaco feels a shoe dig into his ribs and he jumps, thinking it’s a cop or a fag, but it’s Fabian.

So he looks up at Fabian with big eyes because he’s half-afraid the tiro is going to put a bullet into him, but Fabian smiles and says, “Hermanitos, it’s time to show you have heart.”

And he thumps his chest with the inside of his fist.

“What you want us to do?” Flaco asks.

“Adan is reaching out to you,” Fabian answers. “He wants you to go back to Mexico.”

He explains how the Barreras are taking all the heat from the death of that priest, how the federales are putting pressure on them, busting their safe houses, arresting people, and how it’s not going to settle down until they get someone who was involved in the shooting.

“You go down and get yourselves arrested,” Fabian says, “and you tell them the truth-we were going after Guero Mendez, he ambushed us instead, and Fabian mistook Parada for Guero and shot him by accident. Nobody ever meant for Parada to get hurt. One of those things.”

“I don’t know, man,” Dreamer says.