Matthew was buttoning his new shirt, then froze. In all the excitement over new clothes, he hadn’t noticed the dozen new guerrillas who’d descended upon them. Matthew didn’t recognize any of them as being from Joaquin’s group, though they were all just as young and dressed similarly in fatigues, bandannas, and a variety of hats. It was a goofy thought, but Matthew was suddenly reminded of the Friday’s restaurant chain in the States, where all the waiters wore the same uniforms but showed their individuality through hat selection. These new guys could have been FARC, but the dragon insignia was conspicuously absent.
“I think they’re ELN,” said Jan.
Over dinner one night, Emilio had told Matthew about the National Liberation Army, or ELN, Colombia’s other major Marxist guerrilla organization, second in strength to FARC and equally prolific at the kidnapping trade. Crossing the canyon by cable had evidently taken the prisoners into the ELN’s territory.
“What do they want?” asked Matthew in a voice just loud enough for Jan to hear him.
“Us.”
Matthew finished buttoning his shirt, watching the guerrillas closely. Joaquin was talking intensely with one of the ELN, a short guy with a thick black mustache He and Joaquin were the only two guerrillas in the entire group who looked to be over the age of twenty. They spoke back and forth for several minutes, and then finally Joaquin brought him and two other ELN guerrillas down toward the prisoners.
The ELN guy strutted past Matthew, then Jan, then the Japanese. He stopped before each of them, glanced up and down, then moved to the next, as if he were General Patton inspecting his troops. When he’d finished, he and Joaquin walked to one side and continued their discussion.
“Joaquin’s selling us,” said Jan. “That’s why he gave us all a bath and cleaned us up.”
The thought of being spiffed up like a used car before trade-in infuriated Matthew. “He tried to sell me once before. To FARC.”
“You better hope the ELN gives him his price. If he gets the idea that you’re unsalable, that’s not a good thing.”
“I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“We’re already in trouble. I’ve said it all along: We’re too many for Joaquin to handle. If ELN won’t give him his price, he’ll have to get rid of at least one of us.”
“Maybe he’ll turn one of the women loose.”
“Dream on, fisherman. It’s going to be either you or me. And he isn’t going to sell us off too cheap, and he isn’t turning anyone loose.”
From a distance Matthew watched Joaquin more closely. The discussion with the ELN leader was well out of earshot, but they were standing in the open, and Joaquin was waving his arms with emotion. It was clear from the expression on his face that the negotiations weren’t going his way.
Finally Joaquin shouted something in anger and stormed away.
“?Vamos!” he told his men.
The guerrillas rounded up the prisoners. Without another word to the ELN, they headed back into the jungle, single file down the same path that had brought them there. No one talked, except Joaquin, who was cursing FARC and the ELN for their greediness. He was fuming, and as they continued down the overgrown path, it made everyone edgy, even the other guerrillas.
The path was becoming treacherous. The footing was unsure, and a misty rain made the rocks even more slippery than on the way up. The warm waters of the pond had actually made Matthew’s legs rubbery, and after a full day of marching, fatigue was taking its toll. He forced himself to concentrate, especially on this narrow stretch of path along the cliff with the deep ravine below. For some reason going down was proving to be more difficult than climbing up. The grade seemed steeper on the descent, and if you focused on the river two hundred feet below, vertigo could easily overtake you. The group proceeded one at a time. Three guerrillas went first to show the prisoners the proper technique. They didn’t walk straight down the path but took half steps sideways with their backs to the cliff and their chests toward the mountainside. Two hands were on the face of the mountain at all times.
Next it was Matthew’s turn.
Despite the danger and his need to focus, he couldn’t clear his mind of a terrible sinking sensation. He remembered what Emilio had told him after the FARC deal had fallen through. The worst place for a kidnap victim to be was with a rogue criminal like Joaquin. The survival rate was better with an established Marxist group that had the resources to hold prisoners for longer periods of time.
A scream pierced the jungle, the desperate cry of a dying man.
It was hard to tell where it had come from-Matthew could have sworn it was below him. Confused, he hurried ahead to the base of the narrow pass. He looked back and saw Jan, the Swede, and he was immediately concerned. The order of descent had been Matthew, the Japanese man, and then Jan.
Behind Jan was Nisho, the Japanese woman. She was hysterical. One of the guerrillas grabbed her and carried her down the rest of the way. Two other guerrillas were at the cliff’s edge. Matthew hurried over and looked down into the ravine.
The Japanese man lay dead, facedown, his body smashed on the rocks near the river a hundred feet below. The wife was screaming inconsolably. Grief was what Matthew thought at first, but she was swinging wildly and cursing in Japanese, seemingly more angry than anguished. One guerrilla wasn’t enough to control her. Two others finally came over to subdue her.
Joaquin was last on the scene, having doubled back from his lead position. “?Que paso?” What happened?
Jan answered quickly, “?El americano le empujo!”
Nisho was still screaming wildly, and Matthew wasn’t sure if he’d heard Jan quite right. “I pushed him?” he said, incredulous.
Two guerrillas grabbed him. “No, no!” said Matthew.
“Si, si,” said Jan. “?Matthew le empujo!”
Matthew locked eyes with the Swede. In a flash, that earlier nervous talk of Joaquin’s having more prisoners than he could handle came back to Matthew, and he realized what Jan had done: Some prisoners needed to be eliminated, and Jan had made sure that he wouldn’t be one of them.
The crying widow was fighting to break free of the guerrillas’ grasp, trying to crawl on her hands and knees to the cliff’s edge to see or perhaps join her fallen husband. The guerrillas restrained her to the point of exhaustion, but the wailing continued.
Joaquin had fire in his eyes as he walked up to Matthew and, without warning, delivered a monstrous sucker punch to the solar plexus. Matthew doubled over, sucking air, but the guerrillas held him up, forcing him to stand on his own two feet.
“He’s lying,” said Matthew, barely able to speak.
“You’re lying,” said Joaquin. He grabbed Matthew by the hair and yanked him straight up to the standing position. “And don’t think you won’t pay for this.”
He unleashed another blow to the same spot. Matthew went down onto his knees, gasping for air. Another guerrilla kicked him from behind, an army boot directly into his left kidney, which sent him sprawling face first into the dirt.
Matthew coiled into the fetal position to fend off any further blows. He could hardly breathe, and the dizziness was making it almost impossible to see. Mustering all his remaining strength, he managed to turn his sights on the Swede, but his fellow captive just looked away. Jan had been saying it for days, though Matthew hadn’t wanted to believe him. Now he knew it was true.
They were becoming their own Pitcairn Island. It was every man for himself.
34
The Miami-Dade County courthouse was practically ancient by Miami standards, an imposing stone tower and distinctive bump on the city’s modern skyline. My first visit had been on a field trip in middle school, though it wasn’t the massive fluted columns or tiered granite steps that had impressed me so much I’d decided to become a lawyer. It was the unbridled energy, the almost perpetual state of confusion.