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, includinga 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 longeach 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?” “It’s possible. I can’t remember.” This is not looking good. “What if the prosecutor subpoenas them?” “I’ll give them what I can find. What the hell else am I supposed to do? If I can’t find ’em, I can’t find ’em. Right?” “You said one of the witnesses was a former secretary to your company. How many office employees do you have?” “One. Sometimes I don’t have any. People quit, come and go. Stuff gets lost. I told my gal in the office to get whatever was in the files, like you asked. That’s what she got.” He points to the few letters on my desk. “And what if your secretary is called to testify. What will she say?” He gives me a steely-eyed look. “That she gave me everything she could find,” he says. “And that this is it?” “Yeah. Sure. I’m not trying to be difficult,” he says. “It’s just that I can’t give ’em what I don’t have.” “Of course.” “That’s all I can tell you.” “Tell me, did you sign a contract on this business in Mexico?” “We never got that far.” “Did they pay you anything, compensation?” “Like I said, they paid for my trip down there.