Agent Anton Boswhite is at the San Bernardino office when Paulie and Tania arrive with their suspect. Boswhite motions for two burly FBI agents to take Lopez-Martinez to an interrogation room and then directs Paulie and Caldwell to follow him. He leads them to an office where they’re surprised to find Supervising Agent Orosco sitting at the desk.
“Agents Caldwell and Andrews, sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I, like some others, was surprised when Agent Baranson assigned you two to this case. I figured he had a strategy. But my concerns were appeased somewhat when he also assigned Agent Boswhite to help you. In retrospect, considering Baranson’s potential collaboration with the Sinaloa Cartel, I find it odd he made that call. Regardless, you’ve done well.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Caldwell says.
“You can cut the ma’am, crap. I’m only forty. Do I look so old to you?”
“No ma—sorry,” says Caldwell, blushing.
“In any event, you leave Baranson to me. Understood? What’s left for you to do is to bring this case home as quickly as possible, but by the book. You hear me, Andrews?”
“I got it,” Paulie replies, his mind flitting back to Vincent.
“If I uncover anything from Baranson that can help you, I will you inform you. Any questions? No? Good. Then get to work.”
Orosco leaves.
Boswhite picks up where Orosco left off. “Okay, you’ll interrogate Lopez-Martinez. If he does not cooperate, we’ll let him stew in an isolation cell until he does—let him know what’s in store for him.”
With legal pads at the ready, Paulie and Caldwell enter the chilly interrogation room where Juan Lopez-Martinez sits shackled.
“Mr. Lopez-Martinez, as you may recall, I’m Agent Paul Andrews, and this is my partner, Agent Caldwell. You are in the custody of the FBI. Before we begin, I am going to read you your rights.”
As Paulie does so, Lopez-Martinez looks into space without emotion. It’s not clear if he understands what Paulie is saying.
“Do you understand your rights, Mr. Lopez-Martinez?”
“I wanna lawyer,” he says.
“It appears you do understand. Then we can proceed.”
“I wanna lawyer.”
“Do you have a lawyer? If so, we will call him for you. In any event, you are now under arrest.”
“Por que?”
“Is Juan Lopez-Martinez your real name?”
“Pinche guero. I tol you I wanna abogado—lawyer.”
“We heard you, sir. As I stated, if you do not have a lawyer, one will be appointed for you. Now, you will be taken downstairs to be processed. Once they are done, you will be given a phone call. Do you understand what I have told you?”
“Calmate.”
Lopez-Martinez motions to his trouser pocket. “Mi, uh, billatera… Ah, wallet.”
Caldwell reaches into a tray holding Lopez-Martinez’s effects and plucks out the wallet.
“El nombre de mi abogado está ahí.”
Caldwell opens the wallet. She holds up a business card of thick, expensive stock.
“This it?”
“Si.”
“Bueno,” Caldwell says. Then she signals to the agents outside, and they take Lopez-Martinez away.
“Well, that went just peachy,” Caldwell says.
“You really didn’t believe he’d say anything to us, did you?”
“No, Paul. But I really fucking wanted him to.”
“Okay, let’s go tell Anton.”
They meet with Boswhite and update him about Lopez-Martinez. In turn, their boss informs them that the deputy U.S. Attorney’s office is still processing the paperwork for the search warrants. Boswhite lets them know that a grand jury is being discussed and that the agents should remain on standby.