‘‘Then we’ve got a deal,’’ Melissa suggested, having never discussed her pay. ‘‘You get the story. I get creative autonomy.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Stevie agreed, ‘‘we have a deal.’’
CHAPTER 4
aMoia delivered the medical examiner’s preliminary report on the three Chinese illegals who had died in the container. The report, though scientifically stated, remained indecisive, an enigmatic confusion that did little to support the investigation’s pursuit of homicide charges for the three deaths. The illegals had succumbed to malnutrition and dehydration, ‘‘aggravated by symptoms consistent with those caused by a virulent strain of influenza, as yet unidentified.’’ Doc Dixon’s emphasis expressed his unwillingness to draw firm conclusions—at least at the stage of the preliminary report. The prelim went on to say that the corpses had sustained postmortem contusions, likely the result of being tossed around at sea. Tissue samples were being forwarded to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), Atlanta, in an effort to identify the particular strain of flu. The extent of malnutrition and dehydration suggested to Boldt the possibility of filing charges of ‘‘depraved indifference to human life’’ against the captain and crew that had transported the container. This, in turn, might lead to plea bargaining and names of those responsible for the trafficking in human lives. A strategy began to reveal itself, not much different than a drug raid or organized crime sting. But more than anything, he also recognized Doc Dixon’s underlying interest and curiosity in the unidentified flu strain, and the memo’s carefully worded, intentionally vague language. Dixie was holding his cards close to his vest, buying himself time for that CDC report.
For Boldt, the fastest way to the name of that ship, to the captain and crew, was the illegals themselves—the passengers—the nine women who had survived the passage and were currently being detained by the INS.
Fort Nolan was no longer an army base. Only its golf course had survived the budget cutting of base closures in the late 1980s. Congress could evidently see its way clear to losing a few hundred civilian jobs and a thousand infantry, but an eighteen-hole course was not to be sacrificed under any conditions. The result was that retired and active officers alike regularly shanked, hooked, pitched and putted only a hundred yards from former barracks that currently housed indigent Asians and Mexicans unlucky enough to have been caught and detained by the INS. The more fortunate among them found themselves in service as ground maintenance crew or caddies, enjoying a limited freedom, spending their days outside the razor wire and receiving the occasional gratuity.
The base’s hasty remodel by the INS had come as a boon to the chain-link contractors in King County. Boldt pulled his department-issue Chevy Cavalier to a stop at the guard gate. He and Daphne Matthews displayed their badges and stated their business. In the far distance a man wearing khakis and a lime green crew shirt made a nice chip shot onto the green. Attorneys and government employees came and went with regularity at Fort Nolan, but a pair of Seattle cops was clearly something new, for the guard studied their identification badges carefully and, asking Boldt to pull over inside the gate, made a phone call. They were provided an over photocopied map of the facility upon which the guard hastily drew directional arrows. Daphne navigated.
‘‘Shouldn’t John be with us?’’ Daphne asked. ‘‘In fact, shouldn’t you be at the office and John be here?’’
‘‘He’s lead. He gets the joy of the paperwork,’’ Boldt replied.
‘‘Are we in denial of our rank, Lieutenant?’’
‘‘Hill and I disagree as to the job description,’’ Boldt said. ‘‘Let’s just leave it at that.’’
‘‘Will she leave it at that? Would you have tolerated Phil Shoswitz in the field?’’
‘‘It’s different.’’
‘‘Why? Because it’s you, not Shoswitz?’’
‘‘Exactly.’’
‘‘Have you heard the term
bullheaded
?’’
‘‘Are you familiar with the word experience?’’ he fired back at her.
‘‘I certainly am. And my experience,’’ she said, intentionally cutting him, ‘‘is that both you and Hill are bullheaded. Something’s got to give there—and she’s got rank on you, Lieutenant.’’
Boldt pursed his lips and pulled up to the curb. She shot a look at him that could have caught a bush on fire.
The interview room, plain and bare, contained two long metal tables with Formica tops surrounded by metal chairs with worn plastic cushions. On the wall hung framed portraits of the president and the regional INS director, Adam Talmadge. The interpreter was a Japanese-American woman in her forties who stood five feet tall in shoes with heels and dressed with a simple elegance.
The detainee was young and silently defiant. Her head and eyebrows were shaved, lending her an otherworldly look. She wore over-washed denim pants and a thin denim shirt with no bra. Her blue rubber sandals slapped the gray cement floor in a steady, insistent rhythm. An aide delivered four cups of tea.
Boldt cupped his hand and whispered to Matthews, ‘‘Do you recognize her?’’
‘‘No,’’ Daphne answered. ‘‘But I only saw photos.’’
‘‘Yeah? Well I was there, and she . . . I don’t know.’’ Boldt went through the formalities of introductions. Through the interpreter he attempted to explain that the police had no interest in pressing charges against this woman or any of her companions. Then, pen ready, he said to the interpreter, ‘‘Please tell her we need the name of the ship that transported the container.’’
The interpreter told him, ‘‘You’ll never get that out of her. To give you that would put not only her at risk, but her relatives here and at home. Perhaps agent Coughlie should brief you before—’’
‘‘Translate the question, please,’’ Boldt said, interrupting.
‘‘Wait!’’ Daphne interjected, catching the interpreter’s warning eye. She whispered into Boldt’s ear.
He shrugged and deferred to her saying, ‘‘Go ahead.’’
Daphne addressed the detainee, ‘‘You paid a great deal of money to be brought to this country. What if we could get that money back for you, erase that debt?’’
Boldt wrote on his pad where Daphne could read it:
smart
.
The Chinese woman replied through the interpreter, ‘‘Yes. We pay money to be brought America. We in America. Yes?’’
‘‘She’s an illegals poster child,’’ Boldt mumbled.
Daphne tried another tactic. ‘‘What if we arranged for you to remain in the United States legally? Would you help us then?’’
The interpreter interjected, ‘‘I will not be party to this kind of sham.’’
‘‘What sham?’’ Daphne argued.
‘‘The Service will never agree to such a deal. Have you spoken to Agent Coughlie? Of course you haven’t! Brian Coughlie never makes such deals.’’
Boldt inquired, ‘‘Then how do they obtain information from these people?’’
‘‘Listen, I’m only the translator, but I’m telling you: I’ve never offered a deal to any female detainee. It just isn’t done. The operating premise is that the women don’t know anything. They are rarely, if ever, even interviewed. The male detainees, the various gang members occasionally rounded up—the coyotes—they’re a different story. But in terms of the women, Fort Nolan is nothing but a big bus terminal, with all the buses headed home.’’