The Racketeer

for the trips arranged by the U.S. Marshals Service, Nathan has never ventured more than two hundred miles from Willow Gap.
    “It’s a happening place. Beautiful beaches, gorgeous girls, wild nightlife. I got a divorce four years ago and I’m enjoying the single life again. I spend about half the year there. The other half, I’m on the road filming.”
    “How do you film a documentary?” he asks, then knocks back some beer.
    “It’s far different from a feature film. It’s usually just me and a cameraman, maybe a technician or two. The story is the important part, not the scenery or the actor’s face.”
    “And you want to film me?”
    “Absolutely. You, maybe your mother, maybe other members of the family. I want to go to the place where your brother was killed. What I’m after here, Nathan, is the truth. I’m onto something, something that could really be big. If I can prove the DEA systematically knocks off drug dealers, that they murder them incold blood, then we might be able to bust these sumbitches. My nephew was breaking bad, getting deeper into the crack trade, but he was not a hard-core dealer. Stupid, yes, but not dangerous. He was seventeen and unarmed, and he was shot three times from point-blank range. A stolen pistol was left at the scene, and the DEA claims it belonged to him. They’re a bunch of liars.”
    Nathan’s face slowly contorts into anger and he looks as if he wants to spit.
    I press on: “The film will be the story of three, maybe four of these murders. I’m not sure if my nephew’s will be included because I’m the filmmaker. Maybe I’m too close to his death. I’ve already filmed the story of Jose Alvarez in Amarillo, Texas, a nineteen-year-old undocumented worker who was shot fourteen times by DEA agents. Problem is, no one in his family speaks English and there’s not much sympathy for illegal immigrants. I’ve filmed the story of Tyler Marshak, a college boy in California who was peddling marijuana. The DEA broke into his dorm room like a bunch of Gestapo goons and shot him dead in his bed. You may have read about it.” He has not. The Nathan Cooley I knew played video games hours a day and never looked at a newspaper or magazine. Nor does he have the innate curiosity to check out either Skelter Films or Cove Creek.
    “Anyway, I have some great footage of the dorm room, the autopsy, and statements from his family, but they’re currently tied up in a lawsuit against the DEA. I may not be able to use this.”
    Lunch arrives and we order more beer. Nathan rips chicken off the bone and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Why are you so interested in my brother’s case?”
    “Let’s say I’m curious. I don’t know all the facts yet. I would like to hear your version of what happened and walk through the drug bust at the scene. My lawyers have filed Freedom of Information applications to get the DEA records and also the court file. We’ll plow through the paperwork, but there’s a good chance the DEA has covered up everything. That’s what they typically do.We will slowly piece things together, and at the same time we’ll see how you and your family look on camera. The camera doesn’t like everyone, Nathan.”
    He says, “I doubt if the camera likes my mother.”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Not so sure about that. She probably won’t do it. You mention anything about Gene’s death and she falls all to pieces.” He licks his fingers and selects another wing.
    “Perfect. That’s what I want to capture on film.”
    “What’s the time frame here? What are we looking at?”
    I take a bite of my sandwich and chew for a while as I ponder. “Maybe a year. I’d like to finish all the filming within the next six months, then have that much time to cut, splice, edit, maybe reshoot some stuff. You can tinker with these things forever and it’s hard to let go. As far as you’re concerned, I would like to shoot some initial footage, maybe three or four hours, and send that to my producers and editors in Miami. Let them see you, hear you, get a feel for the story and your ability to tell it. If we all agree, then we’ll keep shooting.”
    “What’s in it for me?”
    “Nothing, other than the truth and exposing the men who killed your brother. Think about it, Nathan. Wouldn’t you love to see these bastards charged with murder and put on trial?”
    “Damned right I would.”
    I lean in fiercely, my eyes on fire. “Then do it, Nathan. Tell me his story. You