WITH EVERYTHING THAT HAD GONE WRONG, IT WAS A MIRACLE THEY’D made it to an indictment without José suddenly fleeing to Mexico and the protection of his brothers. Luckily, José seemed too preoccupied running his rapidly expanding empire to be suspicious. Increasingly, much of his time was also spent planning, along with his wife, Zulema, a lavish wedding for their twenty-one-year-old daughter, Alexandra, to a young Marine.
The family was sparing no expense, and the large wedding would be held the first Saturday in June at the historic Adolphus Hotel in downtown Dallas. For Lawson, it was hard to believe that after nearly three years the raid was little more than a week away. But Lawson couldn’t resist one more chance to collect evidence for their case. The wedding would be high-profile and everyone from the racing world would be there. He didn’t think Omar or Miguel would take the risk of coming to Dallas, but there was always the possibility of another member of the cartel making an appearance at the wedding. In case they did, they’d have a Dallas SWAT team on standby.
As the guests filtered into the hotel, Lawson stationed himself on a stool at the bar near the entrance of the ballroom. He worried he might be spotted by José or Nayen, but he was the only agent, other than Perez, who could quickly identify the players in the conspiracy. He wore his Glock hidden in an ankle holster under his business suit. As he nursed beers at the bar, he tried to look like a businessman unwinding after a long day. Lawson noticed Doc Graham come into the lobby, along with other respected members of the racing community, an indication of José’s growing stature in the racing world. Track magazine, a well-known industry publication, was even covering the wedding, which was being touted as one of the highlights of the year. Tyler Graham had received an invitation but had had to decline. He was serving as best man in another wedding on the same day.
José and Zulema, standing in front of the banquet room with etched crystal doors, greeted the guests as they arrived. What they didn’t know was that the room had been wired for video and audio. Upstairs, the FBI had a suite in the hotel equipped with video monitors and a tech team that would record everything that went on during the wedding. As Lawson sipped his beer, he wondered why Fernando Garcia hadn’t shown. Neither had Carlos Nayen, but this was less of a surprise since it appeared that Garcia was now running things for José. Lawson supposed that José was being careful and keeping anyone from the money laundering crew away from his daughter’s wedding.
Lawson milled around the lobby and bar pretending he was waiting for someone. Suddenly two large tour buses pulled up to the front of the hotel and a seventeen-piece band unloaded brass instruments, guitars, and drums. The men in their matching velvet suits drew stares as they filed through the lobby to the ballroom to set up for the entertainment after dinner. On the sides of the buses it read “Banda el Recodo.” Lawson texted a Mexican source and found out that the band was from Sinaloa and was Miguel’s favorite group. They typically charged $250,000 a performance, his source said. He supposed the drug lord had sent the band as a special gift for the newlyweds.
Lawson and another agent alternated hanging out at the bar. When he wasn’t downstairs, he was upstairs watching the festivities over the live video feed. Other than a few racing industry insiders like Doc Graham, he didn’t recognize anyone of note. By the end of the evening, it was clear they weren’t going to get anyone on their most wanted list. José had not stayed under the radar all those years without being cautious. Lawson had taken a few photos in the lobby with his cell phone to add to their file of evidence. But there was no need for a SWAT team. The only sign of José’s brothers was in the ballads crooned by Banda el Recodo’s two suave front men to the beaming bride in her long, white gown.
WITH THE WEDDING NOW out of the way, Perez, Lawson, and Pennington met with other agencies at the FBI’s San Antonio headquarters to review the final details of the raid planned for the early morning hours of Tuesday, June 12. At the meeting were representatives from nine different FBI field offices, the IRS, the DEA, and the U.S. attorney’s office. José’s Oklahoma ranch was under round-the-clock surveillance by the FBI, and so were Nayen, Garcia, and his other associates at racetracks in New Mexico, Texas, and California. Since early April they had been discussing every detail over video, phone, and email. It would take an army of twelve hundred agents and support staff to target four states in simultaneous raids. If any of José’s associates were tipped off in advance, they’d flee to Mexico. The whole operation would have to be executed quickly and flawlessly before word reached any of their targets.
But there was one crucial thing that Perez and Lawson still hadn’t worked out. The investigation had dominated their lives for nearly three years and both looked forward to its culmination at José’s ranch in Oklahoma. They relished the idea of meeting him face-to-face and snapping the handcuffs on his wrists before he was whisked away in an armored SUV. But after the Tuesday meeting, Villarreal had asked them to stay behind for a moment to talk.
“Which one of you is going to work the command center?” he asked. Perez and Lawson were silent. They both knew that having someone at the command post in San Antonio to coordinate the sweeping raid and direct the agents across four states was crucial. No one knew the case better than they did. Only they and Steve Pennington knew exactly what evidence to look for during the raids, and how the intricate web of straw buyers and limited liability companies was connected.
They’d never had a serious argument, which was an accomplishment for two people who spent so much time together. But now there was a tense silence between them as they stood in the hallway facing Villarreal. Good cases fell apart because of ego, because of bad blood between partners that led to bad decisions. A rift between them could jeopardize everything they had worked for in the last two and a half years.
“So,” Villarreal said, this time with a note of impatience. “Who will it be?”