“We’ll stop him before he sells or uses that thing.”
“He’s right about that,” said Lansing. Lansing was an imposing man, gray faced and gray haired. His voice was deep and resonant. He was reputed to be intelligent and dour. His overcoat lay on the expanse of table beside him.
Grossly nodded and gave Hood a long look. “Randall, can you fire up that PowerPoint or whatever it is, and just start at the beginning?”
Randall was fortyish, slender, and dark haired, bespectacled. “Hello, Mr. Hood, I’m Randall Schmitz. I’m a Department of Justice prosecutor. Across from me is my associate, Grace Crockett, also a DOJ lawyer. I’m sorry this whole meeting came up so quickly and, perhaps to you, rather mysteriously. I know the timing couldn’t have been worse with regard to what happened to Agent Cepeda. He gave his last full measure. So I thank you for being here at such a difficult time down in Buenavista. But, on the lighter side, I can tell you this is a very informal hearing. You are not being deposed. You will not be placed under oath. We are not here to lay groundwork for a finding or indictment. We are here to help Representative Grossly gather information about certain individuals and policies of ATF, which of course operates within the Department of Justice. Representative Grossly is on the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform, as I’m sure you know. So, we’re here to ask some questions and try to get some clarity on things. Specifically, we’re interested in the smuggling of guns from the United States into Mexico in the summer of two thousand ten. Here-I may as well just start out with the physics of all this.”
Schmitz used his computer to control the images on the large monitor. Hood had never seen the first few pictures but the lawyer’s question was easy enough to answer. “Mr. Hood, can you identify this firearm?”
“It’s a Love Thirty-two.”
“Describe it, briefly.”
Hood ran through the basics. Grossly’s eyebrows knit dubiously upward.
“And these?” Schmitz continued.
“Crates full of the same, it looks to me.” A charge of adrenaline went through Hood. Three years ago he’d seen such guns in crates while peering through a slot basement window of the Pace Arms manufacturing building. That was last anyone at ATF had seen Love 32s until some of them showed up in the hands of cartel sicarios one year later in Buenavista. But he’d never seen photographs of the newly manufactured, crated guns, except for the few he’d taken himself through that window and later included in his reports. These were of much better quality and taken up close. He wondered who took them and why, and how Grossly had gotten them.
“Do you know where these guns were made?” asked Schmitz.
“A thousand of them were made in Orange County, California, by Pace Arms. It’s possible they made others at that time. Or have made them since.”
“What time are you referring to?” asked Grossly.
“August of two thousand ten.”
“To your knowledge, was ATF aware that Pace Arms was manufacturing these guns at that time and in that place?”
“Yes, sir. We opened an investigation into Pace Arms. It’s well documented.”
“And what did that investigation conclude, if anything?”
“We confirmed that Pace Arms was manufacturing the Love Thirty-twos. Because the gun is fully automatic, they’re illegal for most people in California to buy, possess, or sell. We were building our case against Ron Pace and a Los Angeles County sheriff deputy who we believed was planning to transport the guns for illegal sale.”
Next came pictures taken inside the Pace Arms production area. There were workers at the tables, and they looked at the cameraman, smiling with pride and admiration, as if they were in the presence of a celebrity. One of them had puckered his lips for a kiss at the moment the picture was taken.
“Pace Arms again,” said Hood.
“And this?”
Hood watched the video. It showed the backside of the Pace Arms building, apparently evening but still light. Ron Pace and two Latino men-possibly two of the gunsmiths-were loading the Love 32 crates into the cargo hold of a very dirty motor home. Then came a series of still shots taken at night, showing Ron Pace and a pretty young woman loading more of the gun crates into a Ford F-250 and a Dodge Ram. They were dressed in snappy travel wear, and looked as if they were packing up for a pleasure trip.
“ATF shot that video of the shipping dock of Pace Arms,” said Hood. “That’s Ron Pace, and his girlfriend, Sharon Novak. I think the others are the gunmakers.”
“They’ve loaded three vehicles with crates of guns?” asked Grossly.
“That’s what we thought.”
“Thought?”
“Doesn’t it look that way to you?”
“Keep watching.”
Hood watched video of the dirty motor home trundling across the tarmac on a charter company landing strip at John Wayne Airport in Orange County. It climbed a loading ramp into the belly of a waiting CH-47 transport helicopter with Red Cross signage, which lifted into the air. An SUV came skidding into the picture.
“Airport security video,” said Grace Crockett. “Is that one of you ATF agents in the Yukon?” She looked at Hood with a faux innocence. She had a sweet, almost girlish voice.
“It was me,” said Hood.
“That’s what we had deduced,” she said. “Because all of your other agents were down near the Mexican border, correct?”
“Right. They followed the two trucks and I took the motor home on a hunch. There was also a van that left the loading dock, so at that point, we thought the weapons were divided up into four vehicles.”
Grossly leaned forward. “You followed the motor home on a hunch. A hunch that turned out to be very damned right. The motor home had one thousand of these machine pistols in it. Yet still it got past you.”
Hood looked back at Grossly’s incredulous face. “I realized it too late. We were stretched thin and the helo was waiting.”
“You seem smarter than that. Maybe you just did what you were told.”
“Nobody told me to let a thousand machine guns get away. We were trying to stop those guns. When we pulled over the trucks down near the border, they were loaded with gun crates. But the crates were filled with clothing, mostly new pants. The load-in was a good stage play.”
“Pants?” said Grossly.
“Mostly children’s jeans. New ones. Different colors and cuts. Bradley Jones was driving the Ram. He said they were taking the pants down to Mexico for the poor.”
“Did you believe Bradley Jones’s story?” asked Schmitz.
“No. The charity work was just a cover. We chased the jeans one way and the guns went the other way.”
Hood looked at Lansing and wondered where the moral support was. The big man sat back with his arms crossed.
Crockett spoke again in her sweet voice. “You know him, don’t you? Jones. You’re a friend and you attended his wedding.”
“I went to his wedding. We’re not friends, never have been.”
“Why doesn’t he appear in any of these pictures or videos except with the crates of pants?” Schmitz asked.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” said Hood, though it seemed obvious that Bradley himself had a hand in this. “He was at the loading dock.”
“Yet you appear,” said Crockett. “And several other ATF agents.”
“It was our case.” Hood looked past Grace Crockett to the Century City skyline. In Iraq he had worked for Naval Criminal Investigative Service, which put him at odds with the soldiers he was investigating. Over the months he had come to know their distrust and contempt. Now he felt that same enmity coming from the people in this room.
“Who were your Achilles team partners in this?” asked Grossly. Hood named them while the representative and lawyers wrote. “Were you the only LASD sheriff deputy attached to ATF in Operation Blowdown?”