He starts talking. This is his fourth or fifth visit to Atlas. He usually had a different girl; that’s what he likes about the place, the variety. Three hundred bucks a pop. No paperwork, of course not. He was recommended by a friend at the car dealership. Everything is kept very quiet. Yes, he has vouched for two other buddies. Recommendations are required; security seems tight; confidentiality ensured. Inside, there is a small reception area where he always meets the same man, Travis, who wears a white lab coat, tries to look the part. Through a door there are six to eight rooms, all about the same—small bed, small chair, naked girl. Things go quick. It’s sort of like a drive-through sex shop, in and out, unlike one time in Vegas where the girl hung around and they ate chocolates and drank champagne.
No smiles from the FBI. “Any other men there?”
Yes, maybe, seems like there was one other guy one time. Everything’s real clean and efficient, except the walls are pretty thin and it’s not unusual to hear some rather graphic sounds from other therapy sessions. The girls? Well, of course there is a Tiffany and a Brittany and an Amber, but who knows what the real names are.
Ben is told to go and sin no more. He speeds away, eager to run tell his buddies to stay away from Atlas.
The raid happens moments later. With all doors blocked by heavily armed agents, there is no time to even think about resistance or escape. Three men are handcuffed and hauled away. Six girls, including Jiliana Kemp, are rescued and taken into protective custody. Just before 3:00 p.m., she calls her parents, sobbing hysterically. She had been abducted thirteen months earlier. And, she had given birth in captivity. She has no idea what happened to her baby.
Under enormous pressure, one of the three men, an American, takes the bait and starts singing. Names pour forth, then addresses, then everything else he can think of. As the hours pass, the web grows rapidly. FBI offices in a dozen cities put everything else on hold.
One of Mayor Woody’s banker buddies has a corporate jet and the guy is eager to send it. By 7:00 p.m. on a day when she would normally be ending another nightmare at Atlas and preparing for a night of stripping and table dancing, Jiliana Kemp is suddenly flying home. A flight attendant takes care of her and will later say she cried all the way.
Once again, Arch Swanger slips through the net. There is no sign of him after he disappears into the cornfield. The police think they could have caught him then and there, but since they were ordered to wait until after the raid, they somehow lost him. It’s apparent that he has an accomplice. From the point where I picked him up at the stop sign in Jobes, it’s about forty miles to Dr. Woo’s sign beside the interstate. Someone had to be driving a getaway car.
I doubt I’ve heard the last of him.
After dark, Partner and I drive to the jail to deliver the great news to Tadeo. He is being offered the deal of all deals—a light sentence, an easier prison, a guarantee of early parole for good behavior. With some luck, he’ll be back in the ring in two years, his career bolstered by the ex-con aura and that famous YouTube video. I have to admit I’m getting excited thinking about his comeback.
With great satisfaction, I lay it all on the table. Or most of it. I spare him the details of the Swanger adventure, and instead place emphasis on my prowess as a negotiator and much-feared trial lawyer.
Tadeo is not impressed. He says no. No!
I attempt to explain that he cannot simply say no. He’s facing a decade or more in a tough prison, and now I’m delivering a deal so fantastic that the presiding judge can’t believe it. Wake up, man! No.
I am stunned, incredulous.
He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, such an arrogant little punk, and says no over and over. No deal. He will not plead guilty under any circumstances. He has seen his jurors, and, after a few doubts, he is once again confident they will not convict him. He will insist on taking the stand and telling his side of the story. He is cocky, hardheaded, and irritated by my desire to see him plead guilty. I keep my cool and go back to the basics—the charges, the evidence, the video, the shakiness of our expert testimony, the composition of the jury, the bloodbath that awaits him on cross-examination, the likelihood of ten or more years in prison, everything. Nothing registers. He’s an innocent man who sort of accidentally killed a referee with nothing but his hands, and he can explain it all to the jury. He’ll walk out a free man, and when he does, well, then it’ll be payback time. He’ll find a new manager and a new lawyer. He accuses me of being disloyal. This makes me angry and I tell him he’s being stupid. I ask him whom he’s listening to back there in the cell block. Things go from bad to worse, and after an hour I storm out of the room.
I thought I might sleep tonight, but it looks like I’ll go through the usual pretrial insomnia.
