40

POLICE CAPTURE AMERICAN FUGITIVE!

The story was front-page news in Listin Diario the following morning, just as Remo had predicted.

Ron Sacco, the mastermind of a billion-dollar, illegal gambling operation, was apprehended in Puerto Plata by local police, along with his top associate.

Once Remo had known what he was looking for, finding the red Cherokee was relatively easy. Ron—either through arrogance or stupidity—had made no attempt whatsoever to hide it. It was parked right in front of the Paradise Beach resort, where he and Tony were hiding out. Once he’d spotted it, Remo immediately alerted the one person he knew would be more interested in apprehending Ron than in taking a bribe from him. For Sanchez-Castillo, arresting Ron Sacco was a pivotal moment. Not only did it put an end to an embarrassing political situation, but it also guaranteed his promotion to Chief of Police.

The capture of the world’s most notorious bookmaker had gone off without violence or bloodshed. Ron believed right up until the end that his money would somehow save him.

“How much is it going to cost to fix this?” he reportedly asked Sanchez-Castillo when he and Tony were apprehended.

Dominican authorities described the capture as a major arrest in a foreign country, and speculated that Sacco would be returned to California to stand trial.

It was good to see the news in black and white. It finally felt real. I was also thankful that Tony had not been mentioned by name in the paper. He would remain under guard at Clinica Abreu until his leg was stable.

While Ron and Tony were safely in custody, though, I now found myself with a bigger problem. I was unwittingly at the center of an FBI double-cross that could send my closest friend to a federal penitentiary for twenty years. In the last few hours of my confinement my mind had been feverishly dissecting Remo’s plan, testing it for holes. It was a huge gamble, but I knew I had no other choice.

A guard interrupted my thoughts by calling my name. It was showtime.

I stepped outside as the metal door clanged shut behind me. My heart began to pound in anticipation of what was to come. I attracted curious stares as I followed the guard down a crowded hallway past the main entrance and into a courtroom at the other end of the building.

I was told to take a seat in the center of the large room. My eyes darted around, taking in my surroundings. In front of me was a tall wooden platform with an imposing desk set upon it. I assumed that this was where the judge would sit. Running along the walls on either side of the room were the lawyers’ podiums. Mine was the first case of the morning. The room was already filling up. In the public gallery I saw Peterson and Navarro sitting by the back wall.

According to Remo, Navarro would be armed, since he was here on official Bureau business, while Peterson—who had not received permission to enter the country—would be unarmed and on a tourist visa, just like everyone else. The men’s clothing confirmed this. Navarro looked stiff and uncomfortable in a suit jacket. Peterson was casually dressed in a short-sleeve navy polo shirt and khaki pants.

I was not surprised that they looked so miserable. When Remo didn’t show up for their “celebration dinner” last night, they realized that their plot to ensnare him had failed.

Perhaps Peterson had an inkling that Remo had taped their incriminating conversations. Maybe he suspected that all of those false promises he had made to Remo were on record. The fact was that while Remo was free, Peterson had a lot to fear. Remo had collected hard evidence that Peterson had been using a fugitive to gather information without permission from his superiors or the Dominican government. Should it ever come to light, that kind of illegal behavior could deal a damning blow to Peterson’s career.

As for Navarro, he also had good reason to be displeased this morning. He was not going to be credited with helping to capture one of America’s Most Wanted, as Peterson had promised him. Instead he would merely be escorting Ron Sacco out of the country.

Just before eight o’clock, the proceeding got under way. Several stern men in long black robes marched into the courtroom. A uniformed officer called for everyone to rise. A door at the front of the courtroom opened and a small, dark-skinned man in a black robe stepped inside. His purple cap identified him as the judge. He climbed the few steps to his desk and took his seat.

Despite the ridiculous purple hat, Judge Severino looked like a force to be reckoned with. His white hair was cropped tightly against his skull. His skin was paper-thin, his cheeks hollow. His eyes radiated intelligence as he called for the first case to be presented. I had heard Severino’s name before. The women in the cell referred to him as “the hanging judge.”

He regarded me with the kind of disdain that a strict parent reserves for a naughty child. He shook his head that someone like me had gotten myself so deeply involved in this mess. The lawyer Remo had hired to represent me leaned over and reminded Judge Severino that the two men the police were really after were currently in custody.

The judge brushed him away. For a split second a mad urge came over me. I would tell him that the two FBI agents at the back of the room were planning on taking me out of the country against my wishes and under false pretenses. I bit my tongue. I knew that the FBI’s influence was such that no one—not even Severino—would dare challenge their authority. He held my gaze without a glimmer of patience or compassion.

Remo had assured me that my case would be dismissed, since I had never been formally charged with a crime. Severino made a brief statement to the court, then handed down a caution and a fifty-peso fine. I struggled not to show any emotion as the verdict was announced. I had escaped with a fine and a slap on the wrist.

Court was adjourned, but I felt no relief. This had been the easy part. The next few minutes would prove pivotal. I walked as nonchalantly as possible to the back of the room. Peterson and Navarro descended upon me immediately and ushered me into the hallway outside. Peterson tried to assume an expression of joviality, but the strain was obvious under his phony smile. I was his star witness and he’d already let one of his quarry slip through his fingers.

“You must be relieved that’s behind you, Marisa,” Peterson said.

“Yes,” I agreed, picking up my pace, “because I need to use the bathroom.”

Peterson caught up with me and hooked his arm through mine. He wasn’t going to let me go that easily. Instead he tried to swerve me toward the side exit, which was only meters away. “We’ll have you home soon,” he cooed. “You’ll have plenty of time to freshen up before the flight leaves.”

I stopped dead, looked him straight in the eye. “Jack, I just spent two weeks locked in a holding cell with twenty women, no running water, a hole in the floor for a toilet, and no privacy whatsoever. I’m not kidding when I say I have to use the bathroom.”

I broke free of him and marched toward the ladies’ room, my breath coming in short, ragged huffs. Please… please … please … To my dismay, Peterson followed me inside, his face filled with suspicion. Having already lost Remo, he wasn’t going to take any chances. He needed me to testify against Ron, or at least provide a sworn affidavit. I waited anxiously as Peterson inspected the bathroom to make sure there was no other exit. It was a small room, with two stalls and a window too small and high to be used as an exit. When he was satisfied, he smiled apologetically and left me alone.

I knocked slightly on the left-most stall. With a click it was unlocked from the inside.

Rosa let me in.

We had no time to waste. Rosa pulled my T-shirt over my head as I kicked off my sneakers and rolled up my jeans. She placed a pair of sandals in front of me, and I jammed my feet into them while she wrestled a long cotton sundress over my head, making sure it completely concealed the jeans. Next came my auburn wig. I pulled it onto my head and smoothed it down hurriedly.

Rosa stuffed the discarded clothes into a plastic bag. She handed me a purse, whispered, “Good luck,” then slipped out of the stall and left the bathroom.

I put on a pair of sunglasses and took a deep breath. My heart was pounding so loudly I could barely hear anything else. I felt faint, sick from adrenaline. I opened the door and calmly walked out, holding the purse with both my hands in an effort to conceal how much they were shaking.

Navarro and Peterson were valiantly helping Rosa to her feet after she had conveniently tripped next to them. I doubled back down the corridor, past the courtroom and toward the main entrance. The urge to run was overwhelming, but I walked slowly with my feet turned slightly inwards, just as Remo had instructed.

“A person’s stride is unique,” he had coached me. “So change your gait; walk differently. And for God’s sake, don’t look over your shoulder.”

I kept advancing down the busy corridor, forging stiffly through a group of people milling around by the courtyard. The guard who had only an hour ago escorted me to the courtroom paid no attention to me as I walked past. My mouth was dry and my palms sweaty as I walked out of the main entrance and into the glorious early-morning sunshine. It felt exhilarating to be outside again after weeks cooped up in the prison’s gloom. I could scarcely believe that the plan had gone so smoothly. I was only a short walk away from freedom now. All I had to do was stay calm as I waited for Remo to drive around the corner to collect me. In another few minutes we would be on our way to his “uncle’s” place in Cabarete, on the north shore of the island.

My heart leapt as I recognized the vehicle Remo had described. With tinted windows, it appeared to be four different models of car haphazardly welded together. In other words, it looked like every other car in the country, except for the tiny telltale Dominican flag attached to the radio antenna.

I began descending the broad staircase from the courthouse entrance, trying to blend in with a group of women in front of me.

Just a little farther …

I heard the heart-stopping sound of running feet. For a moment everything seemed to freeze. I realized that Navarro and Peterson were looking for me already, much faster than I’d anticipated. They must have checked the bathroom and realized I’d escaped. We were now engaged in a frantic game of cat-and-mouse. I heard their approach as they pounded down the stairs, their footfalls getting closer and closer. I forced myself not to run. If I did, they’d pick me out from the crowd straightaway. It took every ounce of self-control I had, but I kept my steps slow and even.

They were closer now. Only a few feet away from me.

“Fuck!”

Peterson was standing right behind me, scanning the crowd for a short-haired blonde in blue jeans. I kept walking, steadily, casually. He was completely unaware that the brunette in the sundress was me.

“Goddammit!”

The rage in his voice was terrifying. I kept walking calmly toward the car, which was parked fifty meters away on the other side of the street. I heard Navarro next, yelling at Peterson to come check the other exit again. I allowed myself to breathe again when I heard their frantic steps heading back up the stairs.

We did it! I could scarcely believe we had pulled off the escape.

Just then I heard Justine’s voice, as clear as a bell, calling out to me from the idling car.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

The door burst open and she bolted out of it, right into the street. Rosa jumped out and pulled her back inside, but it was too late. Dominican children don’t call their mothers “Mommy.”

I heard Navarro yell, “She’s over there!”

I glanced behind me. Peterson and Navarro were hurtling down the steps toward me, pushing people out of the way and yelling at me to stop. With a kick of adrenaline I started to run for the car, but tripped over my sandals. I regained my footing and shook them off, sprinting barefoot across the warm tarmac to the car. I vaguely heard a screech of brakes and the furious honking of a horn as a taxi almost hit me. I kept on running, oblivious to the driver’s furious curses. All I could hear were Peterson’s footsteps as he bounded after me. He was gaining on me. I wasn’t going to make it.

Suddenly Remo jumped out of the front seat.

“You have no legal hold over her!” he screamed at Peterson before he took off running in the opposite direction, sprinting alongside the row of vendors who were selling their wares on the busy sidewalk. Peterson shifted his focus from me, and took off in hot pursuit of Remo.

Navarro was a few paces behind me. I wrenched the door open and dove inside. I pushed the lock down moments before Navarro reached the car. He began wrenching at the door. Rosa screamed and from the corner of my eye, I saw him reaching into his holster for his gun. I twisted the key in the ignition. The engine turned over. I crushed the stick into first gear and floored the gas. We took off along Avenida Fabio Fiallo with a screech of rubber, leaving Navarro flailing in the street.

Justine squealed with happiness and reached forward to grab me around my neck. Rosa had to hold her back. We weren’t out of the woods yet. Although we hadn’t anticipated the plan going quite so wrong, thankfully Remo had the foresight to discuss a backup plan. I knew exactly where he would be heading.

“Hold on!”

I rounded the next corner at full speed, just as if I were driving in the Can-A-Mex rally again. I didn’t slow down until we had entered the back parking lot at the Clinica Abreu. I pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance.

Please. Please be okay …

I prayed that Remo had managed to lose Peterson among the labyrinthine hallways and corridors of the clinic. Like me, Remo knew that hospital like the back of his hand. If he was able to outpace Peterson even for a few seconds, he would have a significant advantage.

I kept my eyes glued to the building. I knew that with each passing second the likelihood that Remo had escaped was diminishing. My heart thumped in my chest and I gripped the steering wheel. I would not leave without Remo. I couldn’t.

Come on …

With a crash the emergency room doors burst open and Remo came flying into the parking lot. His head swiveled from side to side as he searched for the car. I took off in his direction, pulled up and flung open the passenger door. As Remo dove inside, I saw Peterson sprinting out of the clinic. Remo slammed the door shut and I pulled away with a screech, leaving a trail of smoke and burning rubber behind.

“We did it!” I screamed. In the rearview mirror I caught one final glimpse of Special Agent Jack Peterson—his face a mask of utter disbelief—as we tore away, our euphoric cheers still hanging in the air.

I turned the corner and eased into the monolithic morning traffic. Our car instantly became anonymous as we joined the sea of similar vehicles on the appropriately named Avenida Independencia.