The Territory (Josie Gray Mysteries #1)(60)

“Do you have any other law enforcement in the county that knows what’s going on? Prosecutor? Sheriff?” he asked.

“The sheriff knows some. I think he’s square, but with one of his deputies possibly involved, I haven’t confided much. I haven’t talked to the prosecutor yet, because I don’t have my facts in order. Right now, you know as much as anybody outside my own department.”

“Your top priority right now has to be getting those prisoners out of town safely and immediately.”

Josie sighed, frustrated, and rolled her eyes at Otto, who was staring at her intently from the couch. “I’ve been telling the mayor that, but I can’t get him to take me seriously. Can you make that call?”

Escobedo breathed out heavily. “I don’t think we want to do that just yet.”

*

At one o’clock that afternoon, Josie and Otto met Escobedo at the Arroyo County Jail. At the suggestion of Escobedo, Josie had called Sheriff Martínez and asked if she and Otto could use the interrogation room to talk with Gutiérrez. It was Saturday, and Martínez had the day off. He agreed and told Josie to ask the intake officer to show them up to a room per his order. Josie did not mention that Warden Escobedo from the federal penitentiary would also be meeting with the prisoner in the sheriff’s jail. She felt guilty about the omission, but Escobedo made it clear that Martínez was to be kept out of the loop. Escobedo viewed Martínez as an unknown at this point and didn’t want to risk the chance that Martínez might blow the operation. Because Gutiérrez had already been remanded into the federal prison system, Escobedo was in the jail in his official capacity as warden.

The jailer, Maria Santiago, set the three up in an interrogation room and asked one of the guards to escort the prisoner from his cell. Ten minutes later, the jailer brought in Miguel Gutiérrez, shackled and handcuffed, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. His arm was still in a sling from the gunshot wound at the Trauma Center, and he winced as the guard chained the handcuffs to a bar that ran the length of the metal interrogation table. Escobedo and Otto both pulled their chairs back away from the table several feet to signify that Josie was in charge.

Gutiérrez had been in custody for six days, and he appeared as if he had not eaten. His face was gaunt and ashen, his thick black hair brittle and dry. Slumped forward in his seat, he looked like an old man on the verge of dying.

“I came to fill you in on the latest bad news with your former family. As you might imagine, they want you dead. Three of them crossed the river illegally with a horse trailer filled with enough explosives to blow this jail sky high. Fortunately for you, we caught them at the river. You had a half ton of TNT designated specifically for you. Your uncle wants to blow your body parts all over West Texas,” she said. “And that pisses me off to no end. That puts every employee in this jail in jeopardy every second you spend in my country.”

She stood, knocking her chair over behind her, walked around the table, and punched Gutiérrez square in the jaw.

He slumped back, but the handcuffs held him in his seat. Once he’d recovered, he pulled himself upright in his chair, his expression shocked and angry, his face finally animated. He looked from Otto to Escobedo, who turned their heads in unison away from the table.

Josie hit him again, but he ducked and the punch landed across the top of his head. The handcuffs slid across the metal bar as he tried to cover himself. He screamed for a guard, and Josie scowled at him.

“Look around. See any cameras? Any two-way glass? We’re soundproof and secure. The jail is made for guys like you. I could beat the life out of you and claim a pretty hefty bounty. I’d be a hero to the Bishop himself.”

Gutiérrez leaned away from Josie, who stood directly over him.

“The way I see it, you have one chance at making it through this mess. You can’t go back to Mexico. You’d be dead by nightfall. You can’t stay here. Your only chance is a transfer to solitary maximum security.”

His eyes widened, and he looked to Otto and Escobedo as if they might be ready to escort him out of the jail.

Josie pointed to Escobedo. “This is Warden Escobedo of the federal penitentiary in Houston.”

Escobedo nodded. He was wearing a navy suit, white shirt, and red tie with a flag tie pin: polished, neat, and trim. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at Gutiérrez. “We need a reason to get you out of here. We need an actual attempt on your life before the prison system will make the move.”

His eyes wide, Gutiérrez pointed at Josie. “She just said those explosives were aimed for me!”

Escobedo rubbed at his jaw. “Trouble is, we can’t prove that load was intended for you. We suspect it, but that’s not the same as proof. See what I’m getting at?”

Gutiérrez looked confused and desperate. Escobedo’s story was just that: a story. They had already arranged transport for all four prisoners, but they hoped to use Gutiérrez’s knowledge of the Medrano cartel in the process.

“Here’s what we do, then.” Escobedo went on, “You work for me. I’ll bend the rules to get you out of here.”

Gutiérrez’s expression changed. He looked expectantly to Escobedo, who now appeared to hold the keys to his life. “Tell me what you want.”

Josie said, “You’re going to pretend to be a Medrano today.”