THE LAREDO DIVISION IN THE SOUTHERN DISTRICT OF TEXAS WAS ONE OF the busiest in the country, with little more than a dozen federal prosecutors filing more than two thousand cases a year. Most of these were bridge cases: drug dealers and smugglers caught moving people or kilos across the river. As Lawson and Hodge showed their FBI shields to the security guards at the entrance of the federal courthouse, they knew they had a high bar to overcome. They would be asking an already overtaxed prosecutor to invest several months, maybe even years, in a complex money laundering case involving racehorses.
But without a federal prosecutor signed on to the case, they couldn’t expand their investigation. They needed authorization from an assistant U.S. attorney for the subpoena for the Title 3, and more important, they needed an aggressive prosecutor who would help them build a body of evidence they could bring before a grand jury to secure an indictment.
As they took the elevator up to the second floor, Lawson felt his anxiety building. He’d put everything he had into this case, and today would determine whether they could take it to the next level.
Lawson and Hodge sat down before a desk piled high with manila folders and documents. The assistant U.S. attorney sitting behind the desk, the owner of the piles, scarcely looked up from the paper she was signing as they took their seats. A court clerk stood at her side, waiting to whisk the document away to a federal judge somewhere within the bowels of the courthouse.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” she said finally, handing the document to the clerk, who quickly left the room, shutting the door behind her. The prosecutor looked tired, and as if she had much more important things to do.
Hodge introduced them and then Lawson started to pitch the evidence they’d gathered so far. He told her about their source, Tyler Graham, who was inside the operation, and the money that was being paid to him through structured funds, and the backpack filled with cash. He was about five minutes into his pitch when he heard the prosecutor clear her throat.
“No venue,” she said.
“Excuse me?” said Lawson, confused.
“Sounds like your source and your money are in Austin. That’s the Western District. It’s out of our venue,” she said.
Lawson looked at Hodge. He wasn’t sure what to do. Should he try to argue that it wasn’t out of her venue, because Miguel Treviño and the Zetas were from the border, or was there any point?
But the prosecutor was already rifling through more papers on her desk as if the matter was settled. She’d moved on to the next task, and was just waiting for the two agents to remove themselves from her office.
“Thank you for your time,” Hodge said, standing up.
Lawson was still sitting in his chair, dazed. He’d expected more than five minutes, maybe a few questions about the case at least. Hodge tapped him on the shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he said, motioning with his head toward the door. The prosecutor was already fully absorbed in another document she’d pulled from a file.
Lawson got up from the chair and followed Hodge to the door.
“Please close the door on your way out,” the prosecutor said, without looking up.
When they got out into the hallway, Lawson exploded. “What in the hell was that?” he said. He could see that Hodge was agitated too, but taking the rejection much better than he was.
“It’s better not to make enemies,” Hodge said. “You’ll have other cases.”
Lawson tried to calm down. The worst thing was that Hodge was right. He’d be back in her office again before he knew it. And he couldn’t risk getting on her bad side.
“You know, Austin isn’t a terrible idea,” Hodge said, pressing the down button on the elevator.