Santa Fe Edge

57

Lieutenant David Santiago was shown into the office of the chief deputy district attorney and asked to sit down and be quick with his report.

Santiago handed the man his completed request for an arrest warrant for Eleanor Keeler. The deputy D.A., whose name was Warren, opened a copy of The Wall Street Journal and handed it to Santiago. “Does your request for a warrant refer to this Mrs. Eleanor Keeler?”

Santiago read the article quickly. “I believe so,” he said.

“Play me the tape recording,” Warren said, placing his feet on his desk and leaning back in his chair.

Santiago played the recording.

Warren smiled. “I compliment you on the thoroughness of your questioning and the quality of your recording,” he said. “I did not see any reference to the discovery of the murder weapon or any physical evidence connecting Mrs. Keeler to the murder of Mr. Cross,” he said. “Did I miss something?”

“No, sir. I believe Mrs. Keeler may still be in possession of the weapon, though, and a search warrant might bring it into our possession.”

“Lieutenant, are you aware that the Feds have procured an extradition warrant for Mrs. Keeler, and that as soon as she is arrested, she will be returned to prison in Mexico?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, rather than involve this office in what would be an incredibly long and hideously expensive trial against the kind of defense team that only large sums of money can provide, and without the weapon or any physical evidence, I think it is in our best interests to let the Feds return Mrs. Keeler to Mexico to serve out her sentence. Perhaps during her twenty years to life there you will develop other, stronger evidence that can be used to prosecute her here when she gets out, should either of us still be alive when that occurs.”

“Yes, sir,” Santiago replied, getting to his feet.

Warren stood and shook his hand. “Good day.”

ON HIS ARRIVAL in Mexico, Raoul Estevez checked into his hotel, dined in his suite with the beautiful young woman associate he had brought with him, screwed her thoroughly and got a good night’s sleep.

The following morning, having phoned the previous day for an appointment, he breakfasted with the deputy minister of justice, a civil servant who had run his ministry with an iron hand through many governments over many years, and who was routinely deferred to by the political appointees above him, who were happy to deal with the trappings of office instead of the responsibilities. Their conversation took place in the garden of the deputy’s home in a Mexico City suburb and was conducted in elegant and nuanced Spanish.

“Raoul, it is good to see you,” the deputy said, embracing the lawyer warmly.

“Benicio, it has been too long.”

A large breakfast was brought by servants while the two men chatted amiably about fast horses and brave bulls. When the garden had been cleared of servants the deputy sat back, folded his hands and simply nodded.

“Benicio,” Estevez said, “I wish to bring to your attention a very serious matter which could cause a great deal of trouble both domestically and internationally for your ministry.”

The deputy made a concerned face and nodded again.

“More than three years ago two American women made the acquaintance of a young man who subsequently beat and raped both of them. One of them got her hands on a knife and killed him, then removed the penis from the corpse.”

“Ahhhh,” the deputy said, nodding.

“I knew you would know of this, Benicio. The woman who wielded the knife is now dead, but her sister, in the midst of an angry divorce, was kidnapped by operatives of her husband and taken aboard a yacht into Mexican waters, where it was met by a police boat. After a brief and highly prejudicial trial the woman was convicted and sentenced to a prison term at the El Diablo prison in Tres Cruces, run by a Capitán Pedro Alvarez.

“There she was raped and otherwise sexually abused by Alvarez on nearly a daily basis. Finally, unable to bear further ill treatment, she managed to drug the capitán and escape through a window from his apartment. She eventually made her way back to El Norte, and now her former husband, who has political influence, has intrigued to have her extradited from the United States and returned to prison.

“The woman, formerly known as Barbara Eagle and now as the recent widow of Walter Keeler, a very wealthy man from San Francisco, has inherited his wealth and is in a position to fight the extradition in the most public and time-consuming manner. Once her story is told and retold ad infinitum by the media on both sides of the border, both our countries will be faced with the worst sort of publicity, and in the end, she might well avoid extradition.

“I believe it would be to the advantage of both your ministry and Mrs. Keeler if you could suggest a discreet resolution to this affair. Mrs. Keeler understands that such a resolution would involve considerable expense and would see that your ministry does not suffer the costs.” Estevez sat back in his chair and waited for the deputy to speak.

“Where is the woman at this time?” the deputy asked.

“It is my understanding that she has left the United States, possibly for Italy.”

“So, that would complicate even further any attempt to return her to Mexico.” It was not a question.

“I am very much afraid that it would.”

“The prison warden, Alvarez, has already been dealt with,” the deputy said. “He is now supervising a prison work program in the jungles in the south of the country, and all records relevant to the woman have been removed from his former office. It is as if she was never there.”

“I see,” Estevez replied.

“I believe the simplest solution to our mutual problem would be if our president issued a pardon.”

“My client would be extremely grateful if that could be effected, Benicio.”

The deputy produced a notebook. “What is your client’s full name?” he asked.

“Eleanor Eagle Keeler,” Estevez replied.

“What time is your flight home?” the deputy asked.

“At one P.M. from the general aviation terminal,” Estevez replied.

“And the aircraft registration number?”

Estevez gave it to him.

“I calculate that the costs of this transaction will come to”-the deputy did some quick counting with his thumb against his fingers-“two million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He wrote something on a page of his notebook, tore it off and handed it to Estevez. “Here is an account number.”

“Will you excuse me for a moment while I telephone?” Estevez asked.

“Of course. I will go and put on a necktie for the office while you call.”

Estevez made the call and waited for the deputy’s return.

“The funds will be in the account by the time you reach your office,” he said.

“Oh, good. Upon verification the pardon will be prepared, signed and delivered to your aircraft in time for your departure. Come, walk with me to our cars.”

Estevez fell in step with him, and the two men linked arms. “There is one further step I would be very grateful for,” Estevez said.

“Please.”

“If you could telephone the United States attorney general, explain that Mrs. Keeler has been pardoned and is no longer a fugitive in the U.S. and that her extradition warrant should be canceled, then she could resume her normal life immediately.”

“Consider it done, Raoul.” The deputy stopped at his open limousine door and offered his hand. “It is always good to see you, Raoul, and, of course, always a pleasure to do business with you. Go with God.”

Estevez shook his hand and got into his own limousine, where his associate waited.

“How did it go?” she asked, placing a hand on his thigh.

“Perfectly and profitably,” Estevez replied, adjusting his position so that her hand could better reach its target.