The Arraignment Read Online Free Page A

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 Yucatán. 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 Cancún on the highway, down toward Tulúm, 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