Grant's Dilemma

Grant’s Dilemma

By

Jim Gibbs

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2004 James Ward Gibbs.

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/13/04

ISBN: 978-1-4184-9153-6 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-9152-9 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004096145

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents

Acknowledgements &

Author’s Notes

Dedication

Grant’s Dilemma

About The Author

And Artist

Acknowledgements &

Author’s Notes

Sometimes, a simple Thank You is not enough. But I would still like to thank Jeanne Hart, my brilliant high school English teacher who helped me edit this long, unwieldy diatribe and get it ready for publication. It was fun working on this project with her because she was always so encouraging, yet so attentive to the kinds of little details that, if left unchecked, could prove embarrassing for the first-time novelist.

As an old newspaper reporter and columnist, I was used to just cranking out relatively small, 15- to 20-inch news stories or columns about this or that. And I was used to writing those stories in 45 minutes or an hour.

This novel was an entirely different animal because it was written over the course of about 15 or 20 years. I would write a few pages, then put it aside for a few months. Then, during a holiday or a particularly dull TV show that my wife insisted that I watch with her, I would crank out a few more pages.

In the fall of 2003, however, when I decided to go back to school to get an MBA, this particular writing project really seemed to take off.

Whenever I would blow an accounting or economics exam, which was often the case, I would go over to the campus library, set up my laptop and escape into the world of Jim Grant, the police reporter who was recruited by the police to help solve a big drug case.

By early December, the 80 pages that I had started with and that had taken me almost 20 years to write had suddenly turned into 150 pages.

By Christmas, I was out of grad school and Jim Grant and I were down in the Florida Keys, trying to wrap up a complicated drug case and doing our best to put the evil Carlos Medrano behind bars where he belonged.

In the spring of 2004, I asked Jeanne Hart to help me edit this book and she graciously agreed. Quite frankly, I’m not sure Jim Grant could have survived without her.

Special thanks as well to C.A. Al Gregory, my old friend from Easton, Maryland, who graciously poured over this manuscript and helped me work out the time line for many of the events that are depicted in this book. Had it not been for Jeanne and Al, Jim Grant would have never slept and would have completed many of the adventures depicted in this book at super-human speed.

I would also like to thank Maria Villa, the daughter of Arthur and Lisa Villa of Glen Rose, Texas, for her hard work on the cover design. Maria is a talented artist and I was blessed to have her help me with this project.

Special thanks as well to C. Jeffrey Bise, who took the Author and Artist photo that appears on the last page of this book; Christine Rohde, who read through a very rough first draft of this book and lived to tell about it; Sgt. Mike Bradshaw of the Mesquite Police Department and many, many others too numerous to mention here.

Last, but not least, I would like to thank my wife Karen, who was very tolerant of the fact that I was often spending more time chasing the evil Carlos Medrano than I was spending time with her.

- Jim Gibbs

July 15, 2004

Dedication

For my parents - Dorothy Lynn Gibbs

and the late Charles Woodrow Gibbs.

From Mom, I learned perseverance.

From Dad, I learned integrity.

Two key qualities for any reporter worth his salt.

Grant’s Dilemma

What do you mean I’m ‘going on a little sabbatical’ and that someone else is now on the Medrano case, I asked my editor. I’ve been following that case closer than anyone for the past six months and now, just like that, you’re sending me on an unpaid ‘sabbatical’? It just doesn’t make any sense."

Well, it’s either that or we can just fire you, said Gus Gorman, the news editor. To be honest with you, Jim, your work has been sloppy lately. Prescott is still hot about the way you handled that whole Medrano case. You have been on that case for months and have little to show for it except for a few little hatchet pieces on Carlos Medrano that both Prescott and I agreed were just totally out of bounds.

Hey, those stories were totally, factually correct and I’ll stand by every word of it, I told him.

You mean you’re telling me that you honestly thought that story was objective? Gus asked sarcastically. Jim, if we would have printed that, we’d all be unemployed right now. Oh, and I almost forgot about those other little ‘investigative’ pieces that you did on Medrano. Looking back, I can’t believe Medrano didn’t sue our pants off when we were insane enough to actually print those.

Gus was a short, stocky, balding little man with coke-bottle lenses. At six-feet-two and 185 pounds, I towered over him when we were standing next to each other. Usually, we got along very well. Today, though, it was all I could do to keep from socking him in the mouth.

What’s gotten into you, anyway? Gorman said, shaking his head as if he were a disappointed father. You seem to have lost your objectivity. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.

We had been sitting down. Now, I was on my feet.

Listen, Gus, I said, trying my best to stay calm. There was nothing wrong with any of the stories that I’ve turned in to you. My question is, ‘What’s happened to you?’ Apparently, nobody around here is interested in the truth anymore.

Gus got up from his chair, sat on the corner of his desk and put his hand on my shoulder.

Listen, Jim, he said, quietly. We’ve been friends for a while and you know that I have nothing against you personally. And, up until you started working on this Medrano case, your work has been fine. But I’m really getting a lot of heat from upstairs on this.

Prescott?

Yep.

Winston Prescott was the publisher of the North Carolina Ledger and Gus said that Prescott was very concerned about some of the stories that I had written about Carlos Medrano.

Yes, I am aware that the police think that Medrano is involved in a drug smuggling operation and I know how you feel about him, Gus said. "You’ve never been one to hide your feelings. But we have an obligation to be fair with Medrano. Remember, in the United States, you’re innocent until proven guilty, and quite frankly Jim, you’ve already got the guy tried and convicted.

Carlos Medrano is a big man here in Raleigh. He’s built one of the largest hospitals in town. He’s raised thousands of dollars for various charities. He was also the keynote speaker at the annual Chamber of Commerce banquet this year.

Well, I think that the police have a somewhat different opinion of him, I said.

Sure, I know the police think he’s up to something, but he may not be, Gus said. They’re not perfect, you know, and they make mistakes just like everybody else. You have to be honest with yourself, Jim, and realize that you’re simply too close to this one. This isn’t like you. You used to be levelheaded and reasonable. You’ve been here for three years now and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get personally involved in a story before.

By now I was getting frustrated.

Look, Gus, I said, trying to measure my words carefully. Objectivity is fine and nobody is more objective than I am or at least as objective as I try to be. As journalists, we all owe it to the public to do that. But we also owe it to the public to tell the truth. And what you need to realize here is that Medrano is a bad man who’s doing bad things.

Yeah, he’s a real devil, Gus said. That’s why the Chamber of Commerce wanted him to speak at their banquet this year and I guess that’s why he’s built a hospital and an orphanage. Yes, Jim, you’re right. How could I have missed the fact that we have our own Al Capone right here in North Carolina? Do you think you could share with me just one tiny bit of information that leads you to believe that Carlos Medrano is evil incarnate?

Unfortunately, I couldn’t. So all I could do was grimace and turn away.

After a short pause, Gus moved his head around so that his eyes met mine.

Maybe six weeks without pay will help you put things back into perspective, he said, flatly. Also, while you’re gone, start studying up on the Lifestyle Section of the paper. That’ll be your new beat when you get back.

You mean I’m going from a police reporter to writing about weddings and social events? I asked in shock.

For the first time in a long time your reporter’s instincts are correct, Gorman said. You may have to actually start ironing those khakis and polo shirts of yours when you get back. Now get out of here and start your little sabbatical. Also, before you go, give all your notes on the Medrano story to Beverly. She’s going to be our new police reporter. I’m also going to need your police scanner and the company cell phone.

Beverly? Our Lifestyles editor? I asked. The same 22-year-old Beverly who graduated from Dartmouth with a degree in home economics?

Yes, Gorman said. I know it sounds a strange, but Prescott likes her creativity. Besides, we could use someone with a little objectivity on this case. Something you seem to have forgotten in spite of the fact that you actually have a degree in journalism. Remember Edward R. Murrow? Have you forgotten how important it is to keep your own opinions out of the news? Well, take some time off, Jimbo, and think about it.

I was not really sure how I felt. I was mad at Gus, but I was even madder at our publisher, Winston Prescott. What was he doing? And what did Prescott have against me? I rarely even saw him and when I did, our conversations usually turned to superficial subjects like the weather and sports. There were times when I wasn’t even sure he knew my name. And now he wanted me off the Medrano case?

2 It was only about 10:30 a.m. on this particular Valentine’s Day when I got in my 1985 black Monte Carlo Super Sport and drove out of the parking lot of the North Carolina Ledger. Usually, I would have already been at the police station, checking with various detectives about different cases or maybe having a cup of coffee with the police spokesman, Andy Andrews.

Andy and I had gotten to be close friends since I had started covering the police beat at the Ledger more than a year and a half ago, and now as I drove past Sunny’s Convenience Store and made my way back into town, I couldn’t help but think how much I would miss Andy’s one liners as he would read the list of various police cases aloud from his computer screen.

Andy had worked for the Ledger at one time, covering the now defunct Manassas Mudhens of the old Carolina baseball league. Even though he was now in law enforcement, he still kept a hand in the game, umpiring Little League and high school games on his nights off. Growing up in the era of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris and Yogi Berra, he was naturally a big fan of the New York Yankees. And I, growing up in the era of George Steinbrenner, was naturally a self-proclaimed Yankee Hater.

We would often talk baseball as much as we talked about police matters, as I would get just enough facts for a good story and then quickly redirect the conversation to a recent Yankee losing streak or another $10 million player that the Yankees had who would not hit .230.

Good-naturedly, Andy would often shoot back that, unlike my favorite team, the Baltimore Orioles, the Yankees at least tried to make some moves that would help them win a pennant. At least, he countered, they were doing something besides letting their best players go the way of free agency.

Yes, I thought, I would miss those little talks between the rundowns of how a particular detective thought a murder had occurred or how a local bank had been robbed by an extremely polite suspect who always said Yes, sir and No, sir to his bank teller victims.

As I made my way down to the police station one last time, I couldn’t help but think of all the police stories that I had covered while I had been on the police beat. It would be tough to say goodbye.

I pulled into the parking lot of the police station and got out of my car. I tucked in the back of my faded blue knit shirt and took the left leg of my pants out of the top of my left sock.

Walking by the main security desk, I nodded to Ed Fowler, the officer on duty, and he nodded back. I walked past him and down a short corridor to Andy’s office.

Listen, I don’t care what you say, the Red Sox ain’t gonna win no pennant this year or any other year, said a voice, unmistakably Andy’s, from his office down the hall. He was talking to one of the other officers who had dropped by to find out the overnight happenings in the city and to also get Andrews’ thoughts on the upcoming baseball season. You know what they say, Andy continued, ‘When the leaves turn brown, the Sox fall down.’

I walked into the office and Andy looked over at me.

Isn’t that right, Grant? he said, not missing a beat and barely looking up.

I’m afraid he’s got a point, I said, smiling.

You guys are crazy, said the officer, shaking his head. I’m getting out of here. We’ll find out who’s right in October, eh?

With that, the officer left and I lowered my head.

What’s wrong, Jim? Andrews said. Are you feeling okay?

I’m feeling fine, but I’m really not in the mood to make any predictions about the upcoming baseball season, I told him. After today, I probably won’t be seeing you guys in October or any other time. I said.

What’s that supposed to mean? Andy said. You get another job with a bigger paper? Are you leaving town on us?

No, I said. I’ve been re-assigned to the Lifestyle Section.

You’ve gotta be kiddin’!

I wish I were, I said. Our publisher hasn’t been too happy with the way that I’ve handled the Medrano case and I’m being sent on a six-week, unpaid leave of absence. When I get back, it’ll be weddings, funerals and bar mitzvahs for me.

Andy leaned back in his chair, surveying me, and said, Great, just when my only daughter decides to get married, you’ll be the one writing it up. What do the gods have against me?

Andy was trying to be funny and I managed a smile.

They seem to think that I’ve lost my objectivity, I said. At that point, I realized that Andy’s door was open and I lowered my voice. But there’s no way I can explain to them how much I know without really getting into trouble. Can’t you just see their faces if they found out that I was an undercover informant on the Medrano case for you guys? They’d really have a conniption fit if they knew that.

Andy laughed and I just shook my head at the improbability of it all. Here I was a reporter and now, through a weird series of events, I had actually become part of a case that I was supposed to be covering.

It hadn’t started out that way, of course. But when one of the narcotics officers gave me some specifics about Medrano’s possible drug-running operation at his restaurant, the Blue Fountain, I was curious. I hadn’t had a lot of contact with Medrano prior to that, although I had seen him at various city functions. He was a member of almost every civic organization in town and he was well thought of in the community. The idea that he could be smuggling drugs was almost inconceivable to just about everyone, including me. But then again, I didn’t really know him that well and didn’t have a definite opinion of him one way or the other.

For years, there were rumors of Medrano crossing the line. The small-time drug dealers knew it. The police suspected it. But, to the general public, Medrano held a golden key to the city because of his good deeds and because the police could never seem to find a smoking gun.

In fact, he had threatened to sue the city for harassment if he wasn’t left alone.

Maybe it was because I was a fresh face. Or maybe the police had simply run out of options. But, whatever the reason, they had sent me undercover to see what I could find out about Medrano and any drug activities.

After four months of buying drugs from both Medrano and his brothers on a number of occasions as what the police called an unofficial undercover narcotics agent, I had found Medrano to be an interesting study in human nature.

On one day, he was donating thousands of dollars to a local hospital for a new children’s cancer facility. The very next day, I had him on tape, talking in the most earthy of terms about buying and selling cocaine.

Those tapings and my testimony alone may have been enough to send Medrano and his brothers to the pen for a few years. But where was he getting the drugs? For the past few months, it had been whispered around the police station that Medrano had a drug lab down in the Florida Keys. Agents had gone down there, but after searching every island in south Florida and exhausting every possible lead, they came up with nothing. In fact, the evidence they did find was even more incredible─they found that Medrano had built a homeless facility in Key West, where he would feed those who were down on their luck. Incorporated with all that was his team of motivational speakers who would urge those in attendance to get in touch with their inner feelings and to find the wealth that is all around them.

Medrano’s message was not exactly religious, but neither was it the message of your typical motivational speaker. Part Horatio Alger, part Hindu philosophy, his speeches seemed to be an unusual cross between Zig Ziglar and the Dalai Lama.

And, while all of this seemed strangely bizarre, investigators could find no evidence that Medrano had done anything illegal down in the Keys, much less any signs of a drug lab.

I thought about all of this as I sat talking to Andy.

For four months, I had spent every spare minute I had working on this case. Between the stories on the burglaries of habitation, the new retaining walls that were required by the city council for an occasional new business and the mindless features that I was required to write on fascinating topics such as the lady down at Whispering Winds Nursing home who just turned 102, I was on the Medrano case.

In just the past two days, two of Medrano’s brothers, Orlando and Mercado, were arrested on suspicion of drug trafficking. But both Andy and I knew that the charges would probably not hold up.

Orlando and Mercado were released on bond yesterday, Andy said. Manuel, the other brother, is still in, but he probably won’t be there long.

They’d only been in a day! I said. And bond on each one of those guys was set at a million dollars!

You and I both know that that is pocket change for the Medranos, Andy said. Besides, it is going to be hard to pin anything on them. The one undercover officer we had on the case was shot and killed on an unrelated assignment, and just before the raid, the Medranos managed to get rid of most of the drugs. To be honest with you, Jim, the chief has told me that he’s getting tired of sending people out there.

There was the Blue Fountain Restaurant in the southern part of the city. I would later find out that the Medranos had been using it as a front for their drug smuggling operation for years.

3 As it turned out, undercover drug agents had been buying drugs at the restaurant for more than two months before I found out about it. But, at the request of Andy and the other officers, I had kept quiet about it, not wanting to jeopardize the success of the operation. Needing someone outside the department, but also someone they were familiar with to help conduct surveillance, Andy had talked Sgt. Bob Ingram into letting me play a minor role in the undercover operation.

If we get a civilian killed on this case, it’s going to mean my badge, Ingram had