The Hidden Light of Mexico City Page 2

  “The warrant is signed by Judge Arturo Romero,” Eddo countered. The problem was that the warrant was Secret. Only a handful of people knew of its existence. Mexico’s legal system was so arcane that if Bernal Paz refused to comply there wasn’t anybody who had the knowledge and legal authority to compel him, including the president.

  “You know him. Not just for this.” Bernal Paz made it a statement, not a question.

  “My professor in law school.”

  “Yes. I recall your father saying that.” The older man leaned back in his overstuffed chair. “I suppose now you’ll tell me that if Judge Romero wins the presidency you’re in the administration.”

  Eddo raised his wine glass in a mock toast. “Attorney General.”

  “Will you be the youngest?”

  “I’m already past 40.” Eddo said. “Probably not.”

  Bernal Paz smiled back magnanimously. “I lose track of the years, Eduardo. To me, you’ll always be a boy playing fútbol. Running like the wind with the eyes of an angel.” He wagged a finger at Eddo. “You should be on television.”

  Eddo nodded his acceptance of the compliment even as he indicated the document on the table. “Arturo asked that you personally oversee the warrant.”

  “And when he gets to be president Judge Romero will remember warmly those who were his friends before the election?” Before Eddo could reply, Bernal Paz reached out with a forefinger and slid the warrant toward Eddo’s plate of salmon. “But Romero might not even get the party nomination now that Lorena’s decided to run.”

  Eddo suppressed a grimace. Mexico’s First Lady Lorena Lopez de Betancourt had tried very hard to upstage her husband ever since Fernando Betancourt had been elected president. Her latest antic was to announce that she wanted to be president when her husband’s term expired.

  “You don’t think she’ll get the nomination?” Bernal Paz polished off his steak. The older man’s relief that they were no longer talking about the warrant was palpable.

  “She has no financial backing.” Eddo slid the warrant back to Bernal Paz’s side of the table. “Can you get me the information within two weeks?”

  “Really, Eduardo.” Bernal Paz sounded like a stern schoolmaster speaking to a wayward pupil. “The central bank cannot be involved in dirty politics.”

  “Ministers of the government cannot be permitted to join the cartels.” Eddo kept his voice low, although the effort was nearly killing him. He wanted to jump up and shout, make Bernal Paz see how critical it was that they have the banking records, squeeze the old man by the throat until the numbers popped out of his ears.

  “All the evidence you have so far is circumstantial.” Bernal Paz made a dismissive gesture with his fork. “The land his son supposedly bought from El Toro--.”

  “Reynoldo de la Madrid is 14 years old, Don César,” Eddo interrupted. The sale of a large tract of desert land from a man using cartel boss El Toro’s Christian name to one Reynoldo de la Madrid had been recorded by the town clerk of Anahuac, a small town south of Nuevo Laredo, and reported by a local cop. “Some teenager in the most expensive private Catholic school in the country, with bodyguards around him even at the Santa Fe shopping mall, is not making his own deals with cartels.”

  “Eduardo, you don’t understand.” Bernal Paz pursed his lips and pushed the warrant back across the table. “I would like the central bank to help, but getting this type of information is very difficult. It cannot be done and that is final.”

  “It’s all on computers,” he countered. “No doubt you have a good systems administrator who can get it done.”

  Bernal Paz frowned. “Listen to me, Eduardo. Hugo is a powerful man. If he finds out he’ll bring down the bank.

  “The bank is an institution,” Eddo pointed out. “It will survive.

  Bernal Paz shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No. You ask too much.”

  “So we’re too afraid to save our country?” Eddo pressed, leaning forward. “What will you leave your grandchildren? A country that’s just a playground of violence for the cartels?”

  “Eduardito, that’s enough,” Bernal Paz scolded.

  The childhood nickname was a warning sign and Eddo knew it was time to give Bernal Paz some space. He sat back in his chair and signaled to the waitress. She deftly removed their plates and brought coffee.

  “My father always said if I needed anything I should come to you,” Eddo said after awhile. He poured some cream into his coffee and stirred it. “That’s why he always kept the Marca Cortez money in the Banco de Vieja Puebla.”

  “Marca Cortez and Banco de Vieja Puebla go back together for more than 200 years.” Bernal Paz loaded his coffee with sugar and looked at Eddo meaningfully. “This is what matters in Mexico. Family. History. Tradition. Not your silly secret warrants.”

  The words were thick with significance. Eddo didn’t reply but again let the silence draw out, watching the older man sit impassively across the table, reproof etched on his patrician features. Bernal Paz’s refusal to conduct the bank investigation had nothing to do with his fear for the central bank or even, really, of Hugo de la Madrid Acosta. No, it was Eddo’s insolence in growing up and attaining a position of power over not only his elders but his peers in Mexico’s highest social class, the criollos who could still claim a pure Spanish bloodline. Tradition meant preserving the social order and Eddo was threatening to upset it. What he was doing simply wasn’t done by one of their own.

  “Marca Cortez values the relationship with Banco de Vieja Puebla, of course.” Eddo sipped some coffee. The caffeine hit his stomach and set it alight. “I still sit on the board of directors and Uncle Bernardo and I speak frequently.”

  “And Octavio oversees Marca Cortez’s financial interests just the way I did when I headed the bank.”

  Eddo carefully centered his cup in its saucer. “I’m just a little concerned that Octavio might be, ah, how shall I say . . . distracted.”

  Bernal Paz frowned, the white eyebrows dipping toward his nose.

  “Three months ago a certain Senorita Vida Sandoval Arnez bore Octavio fine twin boys,” Eddo continued softly. “They live in a fine new house in Cuernavaca that Octavio bought at a cost of three times his annual salary from the bank. He’s a frequent visitor. Of course, it must be heartbreaking to be away from Elena and the children so much. And his duties at the bank.”

  Tension hung in the air, stretched by silence. “How do you know this?” Bernal Paz finally asked.

  “Octavio’s private life is between him and Elena,” Eddo replied. “But a bank with a distracted director is not a safe place for Marca Cortez.”

  To the old man’s credit he didn’t flinch. They both knew that if Eddo recommended it, his uncle Bernardo Cortez, Marca Cortez’s chairman, would move the company’s money elsewhere. Banco de Vieja Puebla would collapse and the Bernal family fortunes along with it.

  A muscle in Bernal Paz’s jaw bunched. “How long have you been director of the Ministry of Public Security’s Office of Special Investigations?”

  “Over four years,” Eddo said. “I was the first official sworn in after the election.”

  “Four years.” Bernal Paz’s voice trembled with anger. “In all that time you’ve been concealed. Lurking in the shadows. Oh, you’ve caught some people and made a few statements. But even when you were seeing that blonde television woman no one knew who you were.”

  Eddo nodded once in acknowledgment. For the year they’d dated he’d managed to stay on the periphery of Elsa’s fame. She’d hated his reserve and avoidance of the limelight right up to the day they’d agreed to go their separate ways.

  “This is not what your father wanted for you.” Bernal Paz jabbed a finger into the air at Eddo. “You were a disappointment. He wanted you to take over Marca Cortez. To be its lifeblood the way he was. Instead you run off to that fancy norteamericano college. Let Romero fill your head with crazy ideas in law school and then you threw away all that education by joining up with the p
olice. You were with scum and you’ve become just the same.” Spittle flew from a corner of his mouth. “Never marrying, never carrying on the Cortez name. You wipe your feet on tradition, Eduardito. And now this. You’re the man who lifts skirts to see the shit underneath.”

  Eddo pushed the warrant back to Bernal Paz’s side of the table. “Two weeks. Whatever you find send to the office at Marca Cortez.”

  Bernal Paz snatched up the warrant and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his superbly tailored suit jacket, his face tight with suppressed fury. “I do this only because when I pray for the repose of your father’s soul I can say that when his son asked for help and invoked his name I gave him the help he asked for.”

  Eddo nodded.

  Bernal Paz pushed out his chair and stood. The man was older, more frail than when he’d entered the restaurant two hours before. Eddo stood up, too, and at that moment their status and power were equal.

  “Mark my words, Eduardito.” Bernal Paz’s voice was so low Eddo had to strain to hear. “Hugo de la Madrid Acosta is a powerful man. He’ll learn of this investigation and when he does, you’re a dead man. A dead man.”

  Eddo met Bernal Paz’s eyes. “Maybe I already am.”

  “Two weeks,” Bernal Paz spat. “And you will not be welcome in my house again.”

  The old man stalked out of the restaurant, acknowledging no one although he probably knew most of the patrons.

  Eddo sat down. A wave of nausea hit him and he had to lift his chin and gulp air to prevent the searing bile from coming up.

  “Señor?”

  The waitress in her elaborate pleated paper gown smiled at him inquiringly as she lifted away the remains of the meal. “A postre, señor? I could show you the dessert tray.”

  “No, thank you,” Eddo said hoarsely. A sugar rush was the last thing he ever needed. “A brandy, please.”

  The waitress brought a balloon glass and Eddo sipped the brandy, listening to the hum of unspoken deals and the slick murmur of political wheels being greased. The nausea passed, leaving his body churning with tension and residual adrenaline. The exchange with Bernal Paz had been a hell of a way to end the week, especially given his lack of sleep. He was dealing with the pressure of the investigation with his usual prescription of running and working out, but it was turning him into a chronic insomniac.

  At least tomorrow was Saturday, the day when he’d go to La Marquesa, the big area of scrubby parkland between Mexico City and Toluca. He’d played fútbol there every Saturday since his earliest police days.

  That’s when he’d run and run until he was nothing more than two feet and a pair of lungs, until he coughed blood and stank of sweat and forgot for an hour or two everything that he was and what he had to do and the people who’d get hurt along the way.

  Chapter 3

  Watching the news on Saturday night with Juan Pablo was the highlight of Luz’s weekends in Soledad de Doblado.

  Maria heaved herself off the sofa when Sabado Gigante, the popular variety show, ended. “Time for bed,” she said to Martina and Sofia. Lupe yawned and followed them all upstairs. Tío grunted something and disappeared into the kitchen. Luz heard the back door open and shut.

  Tío was not really anyone’s tío, or uncle, but they had always called him that. Luz’s father and grandfather had taken him in years ago as their young apprentice in the ironworking business. When they died, Tío had simply stayed on, living as before in the small shed in the back yard near the now-abandoned forge. He was handy and fixed things for people, earning money here and there, which he usually turned over to Maria.

  “I told Mama he’s drinking too much,” Juan Pablo said after they heard the door latch. “Sometimes he’s gone for days and comes back smelling like a distillery. But she says he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Luz sighed. Tío had lived on the fringes of the Alba family’s life for so long he was like another piece of furniture. Silent and worn, but still marginally useful.

  Juan Pablo followed Luz to the kitchen as she went to make tea. He told her about his teachers and his heavy load of science and language classes. Luz listened wistfully as she boiled water from the garrafon and got out the mugs. Santa Catalina was the best private school in the small town and Luz had adored her years there. She’d been an outstanding student and artist, expecting to take the medal for the highest grades in French and English and winning regional art prizes, right up to the day she’d been called to the office and Sister Milagros had told her that her father and grandfather were dead. Maybe Luz’s future had been crushed by a bus, but things would be different for Juan Pablo.

  He took another step toward manhood every time Luz saw him. Juan Pablo was tall like her, and lean from hours spent playing fútbol as Santa Catalina’s team captain. He looked like her, too, with the same café skin, broad shoulders, high cheekbones, wide mouth, and even white teeth. He kept his hair short so it wouldn’t get in his eyes when he ran but it stuck up in front, making him all the more irresistible to high school girls.

  They brought their manzanilla tea to the living room. The colorful oil paintings Luz had done years ago hid the cracks in the room’s concrete walls and made the sofa and chairs, all angled toward the precious color television, seem a little less faded. Maria’s candles had burned themselves out, leaving the glass cups sooty from the cheap wax. The shrine was dark.

  The big news story that Saturday night was about a group called Los Hierros, supposedly a secret brotherhood of police officers sworn to be incorruptible. The group had reportedly infiltrated every police force in the country, both national and local. There was no proof that Los Hierros--The Iron Ones--actually existed, but there was growing speculation.

  “Luz, this is going to change things,” Juan Pablo exclaimed. He shifted excitedly on the sofa. “Cops won’t know who might be in Los Hierros so they’ll all be looking over their shoulders. Maybe it’ll be so strong the dirty cops will be outnumbered.”

  “If it is real, which I’m not saying it is,” Luz cautioned. “The dirty cops and their cartel friends will pick off Los Hierros faster than they can recruit new members.”

  The news cut to commercials advertising soap and shampoo while the government subtitle “Cleanliness is Healthy” ran at the bottom for poor people who needed to know why to buy soap and shampoo.

  “Whoever started this thing is powerful,” Juan Pablo said. “Maybe even the president.”

  “Betancourt?” Luz nearly laughed. “I doubt it.” She’d voted for President Fernando Betancourt, but he had run aground, seemingly helpless as the drug cartels challenged state and local governments in the northern part of the country. The army tried to keep order in the worst areas but the drug-related violence was creeping south. Betancourt’s administration from the National Action Party, or PAN, faced daily opposition from the Congress of Deputies dominated by the Institutional Revolutionary Party, known as PRI. The leftist Party of the Democratic Revolution constantly demonstrated in Mexico City’s huge Zocalo square. All the parties were jockeying for position as Betancourt’s administration struggled on toward the elections in a little over a year. By law Betancourt could not run again and the next presidential election would be pivotal in the fight to save Mexico from the drug cartels.

  The show came back on, following up the exposé about Los Hierros with a wide ranging discussion about official corruption in the country. The least corrupt state--and eponymous state capital--was deemed to be Oaxaca, mostly due to the tough court system there, led by a law professor-turned-judge named Arturo Romero. Under Romero, Oaxaca’s prison system had been reformed, police salaries had risen so that cops were being a paid a decent wage--reducing their incentive to take bribes--and criminal charges against dirty cops had been made to stick.

  It was well after midnight when Luz and Juan Pablo turned off the television and went upstairs, both yawning and sleepy.

  “Luz, I’ve been thinking.” Juan Pablo paused on the stair landing. “You know, abo
ut Lupe being pregnant. I should quit Santa Catalina. It’s too expensive.”

  “No,” Luz exclaimed, suddenly wide awake.

  “I should get a job,” Juan Pablo argued. “Go back to school next year after Lupe’s had the baby and things are a little easier around here.”

  “Nobody ever goes back,” Luz said. “You’ll graduate this year. Then college.”

  “Luz, stop it.” Juan Pablo rubbed his eyes. “I’m not going to college and watch my family starve.”

  “We’ll manage, sunshine,” Luz said firmly. She kissed his cheek then slipped inside Lupe’s bedroom before he could say another word.

  She stood in the darkness with her back against the door, her sister and nieces breathing rhythmically, until she heard Juan Pablo finish in the bathroom and close his bedroom door. When his light went out Luz crept back downstairs and dumped the pesos for her new perm into the money jar.

  '

  They went to the early Mass. Luz sat and stood and knelt mechanically, lost in thought. Pitted against her own salary and Maria’s paltry income from the dry cleaner were school and college tuitions, gas and electric and water bills, clothing and shoes, and diapers for the new baby. No matter how she juggled the amounts, they didn’t balance. She barely noticed when Mass ended; Juan Pablo had to elbow her out of the pew after Father Santiago led the processional down the tiny aisle.

  The little white church of Santa Clara and Father Santiago were one and the same. He’d baptized Luz, given her First Communion, watched her play Mary in the children’s Christmas posada pageant, stood by the bishop when she made her Confirmation, blessed her coming-out event when she turned 15, buried her father and grandfather, and gently forgiven her when she’d knelt terrified in the dark confessional booth and admitted for the first time to the sin of sex without benefit of the sacrament of marriage.

  “You frowned your way through Mass, Luz de Maria.” The gray-haired priest always greeted his congregants in the church’s front garden after the service. Father Santiago was shorter than Luz, portly but spry, with kind eyes and the patience of a saint. “Was my sermon that bad or were you thinking of the recent robberies?”