The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2006

The Leap

by Jim Keim

One could suggest that the leap is an act of rebellion, a challenge to the logic of that which corners us…

- Arednuk

In the midst of an elegant party on the seventh floor of Bogotá’s British Banker’s Club, Magdalena felt the tingle of death move up her spine. She turned and spied them both at the same moment, the American she had come to the party to meet, and the gunmen who had come to steal her away. In that instant of recognition, all of her imagined future evaporated, and a singular task remained. With the gift of slowed time endowed to the condemned, Magdalena measured the distance to the ballroom’s open, six foot tall picture windows. She started to move. The air felt strangely thick around her, and her body pulsated with the wild beat of her own heart. She kicked off her shoes and, just two paces from the windows, caught sight of the lead gunman. She saw him advancing too casually, saw the smug excitement on his face. As she stepped up onto the window sill, Magdalena observed the slap of recognition darken his face, the realization that she would again elude him. She saw his mouth move, heard his words. “It’s no trouble at all” she replied. She smiled, stepped backwards out the window, and was gone.

Would you know your own shadow were it not pasted to your feet? I think not. Your soul is a stranger to your heart and only a passing acquaintance to your head.

- Friar Eztoc

“May we give you a brief body search, sir? It’s required now, as you know.”

I nodded, spread my legs, and held out my arms. It wasn’t required; as a Lieutenant of the Judicial Police, I should have been waved through the security check. But these guards were from the Federal Security Police, a competing and very different agency from my own, and I was being treated with the customary lack of respect. Even so, the more than casual check of my groin caught me by surprise.

“Hey,” I snapped, but this only increased their amusement. The Federal doing the search smiled, slapped me lightly on the behind, and gestured me into the building. I walked forward past the blast-proofed concrete of the entryway, my face burning, and ignored the laughter of the guards behind me.

I entered the lobby of the National Law Enforcement Center, the NLEC, an impressive headquarters shared by the Directors of Colombia’s five law enforcement agencies. I was to attend a meeting between the director of my own Judicial Police and a representative of the United States Embassy. And I really didn’t have the slightest idea why I had been invited.

At the time of this visit, I was a 33-year-old Lieutenant and had never in eleven years of service been called to the Director’s office, at least not on professional business.  I was merely a threat assessment specialist from the Judicial Police, an agency whose sole purpose is to protect the lives of judges. My job bore no responsibilities related to foreign nationals.

Earlier that morning, in the shoddy apartment afforded by my Lieutenant’s salary, I had taken my dress uniform out of the closet and given it a quick brushing. I realized how unusual it was to be wearing it for an occasion other than a funeral. Of the twelve graduates of my Judicial Police Academy graduating class of twelve, five had been killed over the previous decade in the line of duty.  My own survival was in no small part due to the very low profile of my job. As Chief of Threat Assessment, I only analyzed threats to judges and passed my findings onto others; my position never involved arresting anyone or giving court testimony. I didn’t even carry a gun. And I studiously avoided any high-profile cases of the sort that I was being drawn into at Headquarters. Later that morning, as I stepped into the elevator of the NLEC, I could not help but feel like a netted parrotfish being hauled upwards to a waiting boat.

“Good morning Officer Guzman!” Delores sang as I stepped from the elevator. She was the Director’s senior secretary, a perfectly coiffed woman in her fifties. She eyed my uniform suspiciously, stepped out from behind her desk, and straightened my tie. It was such a good-natured act that I temporarily forgot my anxiety and the groping at the hands of the Federals. After declining an offer of coffee, I was escorted to a comfortable sofa. On a corner table was a copy of that morning’s Bogotá Times, and the headline read “Woman Escapes Into Thin Air.” Delores saw me eyeing the paper and, in a discreetly emphatic tone, mentioned that I might want to read the story. That was my introduction to Colombia’s newest heroine, Magdalena Belmadorra.

The Bogotá Times article was a great story. At a party on the 7^th floor ballroom of the prestigious British Banker’s Club, an attractive, expensively dressed young woman was approached by gunman. She walked to a window, gave an enigmatic smile to her would-be kidnappers, stepped out, and plunged downwards. After the gunmen withdrew, the partygoers crowded to the ballrooms windows and looked down onto the street below to see… nothing. The woman’s body was nowhere to be seen. The witnesses reported that the gunmen exited the building and fanned out on the street below. They looked frantically about the ground, screaming  at each other, and departed in three white vans. There was no fire escape or other structure that Magdalena could have stepped onto, grabbed, or hit; she seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

This was a particularly Colombian story. A beautiful, sexy woman chooses death over dishonor and departs this world with a sexy, mysterious smile. She disappears without a trace, a rather saint-like ending especially appropriate for a Catholic country like Colombia. The press was going to be following this story for weeks to come.

I was so entranced by the newspaper story that I did not notice Director Ochela’s entry into the room. He called out “Guzman, so nice to see you. Join me.” I saluted, followed him into his office, closed the door, and greeted him. “Hello Uncle.”

My Uncle Ochela was my mother’s brother. He was a Ricardo Montalban look-alike and affected similar interests in polo and women; in fact, Ricardo is a very, very distant relative, part of the Mexican side of our family, according to my late Grandmother. Ochela loved my mother and was a good brother to her. With one exception that I will relate soon enough, he showed no interest in his nieces and nephews. He only arranged my entry into the academy as a favor to my mother. Truth be told, Uncle Ochela considered me a mild embarrassment despite my good reputation as a threat assessment specialist. He believed me to be a coward.

“Guzman, Guzman” Ochela said as he pointed to a chair. “I have an important task to ask of you.”

“I am at your service, Uncle.”

“Did you read this morning’s paper? The story of the woman who leapt from the window?”

“I was just reading it.”

“Delores clued you in, yes?”

“Uh… yes.” I am usually a religious reader of newspapers; it was only because of this morning’s appointment that I veered from form.

“I think the Bogotá Times story summarized things nicely. But there is an additional piece that concerns us today. That woman was an informant of the US DEA. She was supposed to meet with Hap McPhaul at the party she attended. Do you know who Hap McPhaul is?”

“A very senior DEA agent… operates out of the US Embassy in Bogotá.”

“He’s meeting with us today, Guzman, in a half hour, and he wants our help. He was there, you know. He saw the woman jump from the window. She was supposed to give him something. Something apparently very important.”  

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know yet, but he specifically asked that you be here.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know” Ochela answered. I wasn’t sure that I believed him.

My job had nothing to do with foreigners, nothing to do with helping people who were already dead. The role of a threat assessment specialist of the Judicial Police is to determine whether a judge’s life is in danger. Although threats from drug traffickers are the most serious focus of my work, the most numerous are those from stalkers, emotionally disturbed citizens, or from people pretending to be traffickers in hopes of intimidating a judge’s work. Any time there is a threat made against a federal judge anywhere in Colombia, it comes to my desk. It is through my recommendation that guards are assigned; it is my task to say which threats are real, are fake, are of concern, or are of low or high levels of threat. I do not mean to overstate my position’s importance, but it is one of many indispensable cogs in the workings of the Federal Police. If every threat to a judge’s life had to be responded to equally, the Judicial Police would be stretched beyond all capacity. Yet it was unclear how these skills could be of interest to the US Embassy.

 “Maybe one of your college friends recommended you,” my uncle added. This was a reference to another embarrassment in my uncle’s eyes, my having attended Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland rather than a Colombian university. My college years in the US made me just a bit suspect in my uncle’s view. I always felt a bit less than a “true” Colombian in his presence.

“We will find out in a few minutes, Guzman.” Ochela’s mood was neutral. I could tell that the consummate politician in him saw an opportunity for gain in the upcoming meeting. And I could also sense the Colombian’s traditional unease in doing business with the Gringo, an expectation of cultural misunderstanding mixed with the experience of previous heavy-handedness.

When Hap McPhaul strode into my uncle’s office, he looked like nothing so much as a bowling ball on sturdy legs. His roundness prevented his arms from hanging straight down, but he walked with the grace and jaunty carriage of an athlete half his fifty-four years. Hap emanated good cheer that was graced by a grin of perfect teeth.

Hap’s hands were gigantic, and he shook mine with a warm smile that made me briefly feel like I was in an Irish bar with a long lost friend. I liked him immediately despite a nagging sense that this was a man whose problems I should avoid making my own.

As soon as Hap was seated, Delores entered with a Bloody Mary for him which he accepted without surprise. Apparently, my uncle had neglected to mention that Hap had visited before. While exchanging pleasantries, McPhaul opened his brief case, took out a tape player, and set it on the edge of the desk.

“I thank you Señor Director and Officer Guzman for meeting me on such short notice. I am sorry to trouble you, but I’ve come on rather important business and have but a simple favor to ask. You will have not only the gratefulness of the United States but also of me personally if you can help.” Hap nodded to my uncle, who nodded back. “May I launch right in, Director Ochela?” My uncle graciously gestured for him to continue.

“I was there last night.” Hap turned and looked at me with purposeful transparence. Whatever he had witnessed had left him distraught. “I was there to meet a person who had given the DEA something very special. And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you the critical background information first.” Hap looked again to my uncle for permission to continue, and with a nod Ochela assented. For all of his physical mass and easy cheer, Hap was turning out to be quite the diplomat.

“In 1985, a respected DEA agent, Kiki Camarena, a personal friend of mine and the father of three children, was tortured to death in Mexico City. It was evil work. He died very badly.” Hap’s distress was vivid and infectious. He paused, turned in my direction and added, “They used stingray barbs on him, Guzman.” Hap continued to detail Kiki’s torture and such was Hap’s magic that, despite my best intentions to remain professionally detached from the case, I was beginning to grieve for Kiki as well.

“Although we recovered his body and know how he died, we had no idea of who his torturers and killers were. Until this showed up.” Hap held an audio cassette in the air before him, placed it into his tape machine, and sat back. “This is going to be hard to listen to.”

At first, there was only the sound of a man’s labored breathing. Then a sharp inhale. And then an electrified moan, a trembling, soul-grinding sound of pure pain. A calm, almost fatherly voice broke in. “Kiki, Kiki, you are lying to me. Your story is changing. You are disappointing me, Kiki, so let’s try it again.” And then the same voice. “Shit, he’s passed out. Wake him.” And then a different man’s voice, this one nervous. “Look, his blood oxygen is down; his heart may be starting an arrhythmia.” Then the first voice again: “You can keep him alive?” Then the second voice again: “You’ve got to stop with the jellyfish and stingray barbs. They are affecting his heart. It’s not the pain… it’s the neurotoxins in the venom.” “So what do you recommend?” “Go back to shocking his balls. Or his ears. Just wait for this lidocaine to stabilize his heart.”  

Hap stopped the tape and fixed me in a stare of honest grief. “The woman who jumped… she is the one who gave us this tape. This is a tape of Kiki being tortured to death.”

“I’m really so sorry for what happened to your friend, Hap” Ochela said. “The DEA must be hot on the trail of the torturers, yes?”

“No,” Hap replied. “That’s just the point. The woman sent us the tape without any accompanying information. We know their voices but not their identities. We need the names of the people on this tape.” Hap downed the remainder of his Bloody Mary.  “Which brings me to the point of my visit, and to my request, Director Ochela.” Hap shifted forward in his chair, looking my uncle directly in the eye. “With your permission, I am here to ask a favor. It is large in importance, large in the amount of gratitude that it will gain from us. And yet it is in some ways… rather small.”

And there we were. This was the moment that my uncle and I had been waiting for. He tells us what the DEA wants, and he offers us something in return. I had never seen this sort of negotiation before and was quite interested.

Hap continued. “As you understand, Kiki’s death is mainly a Mexican matter, mainly an issue for Mexican and American law enforcement. I certainly don’t want to complicate your lives by involving you in arresting any of the parties directly involved.” Ochela nodded his head to Hap, appreciative of this bit of common sense.

 “If the woman is alive, we want her. But every indication is that she’s dead. And if the woman is dead or beyond your reach, then all we want to know… is the identity of the gunmen who came for her. Really, that’s it. We are not asking you to make arrests or otherwise divert your energies beyond this basic question. It is enough if you can tell us who the people were who came through the door of the seventh floor of the British Banker’s Club. Period.”

“You don’t seem to hold much hope that she is alive, Hap,” my uncle noted.

“I heard her hit the ground, Director.” Hap lowered his head and continued. “I was there. I counted the seconds after she jumped. I know that her body wasn’t seen by witnesses or recovered by the police, so I suspect the gunmen removed it before witnesses got to the windows.”  Hap raised his head and noted, “I know the sound a body makes when it hits the ground from high up.” I swallowed audibly. “If the woman is alive, well then shame on me for my assumptions. But between you and me, the search for her is body recovery, not rescue. What will move this investigation along is the identity of the gunmen.”

“Mr. McPhaul, may I ask you a question?” my uncle asked.

“Of course Director.”

“I ask this with the utmost respect for your departed friend and for the need for a good investigation, Mr. McPhaul. You requested that Officer Guzman, who I think you know is my nephew, be the investigator in this case. Would you mind telling us more about this choice? As you know, he is an investigator and threat assessment specialist, not an arresting officer.”

“Ah, but that is precisely the point. This investigation only asks the question of ‘who did it.’ It involves no arrests. And it requires someone with a good knowledge of drug cartels. And it requires someone who prefers to avoid publicity.”

Ochela took out a piece of stationary, wrote a short note on it, and handed it to me. “Guzman, do give this note to Delores. It is a request to the Director of the Federal Police for his department’s complete cooperation in this case.” And with those words, my participation in the meeting was over. I shook hands once again with Mr. McPhaul, saluted my uncle as required before a foreign dignitary.

I left Ochela’s office, smiling warmly at Delores on the way out. I felt disappointed that I would not be able to hear the negotiations over how much my services would cost the Americans. I felt almost sorry for them; my uncle would enjoy making them pay dearly for what he and I both knew was likely to be a fruitless investigation. And at that moment, an uncomfortable thought occurred to me. Had the Americans truly asked for me to be the investigator? Or was it possible that my uncle had at the very least planted the idea in their heads, banking on a mediocre performance by his embarrassment of a nephew?

I remembered Hap’s comment about needing someone who preferred to avoid the limelight. Hap said this as if he knew this to be my character in addition to being a requirement of my position. Here again was the fingerprint of my uncle.

To live in the shadow of a dead brother is to have one’s life eclipsed by a manner of darkness.

- Reprah Lee

In order to understand my position at the Judicial Police, there is something else you must know about me. I am the brother of a dead hero.

My older brother Carlos was one of the more likeable people that I’ve known. He was warm, humorous, good natured, and yet still self-deprecating. At the time of his death, he was a quickly advancing officer within the Judicial Police and was dating the winner of that year’s Miss Bogotá beauty pageant, a woman who is now one of Colombian TV’s leading broadcast journalists. His life was the picture of success. I was twelve years his junior, and I loved him dearly, as did my whole family. Even my uncle Ochela. Perhaps especially my uncle.

Here is what befell Carlos. In 1981, leftist guerillas attacked and seized the Supreme Court of Colombia. Carlos, the officer in charge of security of the Judges Chamber, backed the justices into a secure room and, automatic rifle in hand, stood by the chamber’s door and held off the guerillas until he was killed by a shot to his head.

After my brother was shot, the justices were taken hostage. Three days later, they were killed to a man in a botched rescue attempt by the Federal Police. In the storm of accusations of police incompetence that followed, my late brother received acclaim for being the sole example of bravery and dedication to duty.

I still have dreams in which I discover that Carlos is not dead, that he is really still there at the entrance to the judges’ chambers, that he is just sleeping and needs to be woken up. In another dream, he is for some reason caught under the floor there, and someone just needs to grab a sledge hammer and break through the marble tiles to free him.  I wake from these drenched in that raw sorrow that only the nakedness of dreams makes possible.