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Hez smiled. “Thanks, you anticipated my next two questions. If he was fishing without a license, might that explain why he didn’t have his lights on and why he tried to evade law enforcement?”
Jenkins’s eyes widened. “I . . . I can’t speculate on that. He would’ve come a long way just to fish.”
“And if he threw his illegal catch overboard while being chased, that would explain both what the Coast Guard saw and why your divers haven’t been able to find any drugs, correct?”
Tiny beads of perspiration dotted Jenkins’s hairline. “Again, I can’t speculate on that. It wouldn’t explain why he was ‘fishing’ at the time and place indicated by our source.”
“Is illegal night fishing unusual in that area?”
“I have no idea.”
“Switching gears, drug smuggling in the Gulf of Mexico is controlled by the Mexican cartels, correct?”
“In general, yes.”
“And when individuals associated with different cartels are incarcerated, they’re separated to prevent violence, correct?”
Jenkins eyed Hez warily. “I can’t comment on Bureau of Prisons policies.”
Hez turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I have a witness who can testify to this policy, but I believe it is well known to both the court and the prosecution, so hopefully a stipulation will be possible.”
Judge Montpelier nodded. “Hopefully. And if not, I’ve handled enough of these cases that I can take judicial notice of it.”
Hale stood. “The government so stipulates.”
“Will the government also stipulate that cell block B, where Mr. Morales is currently housed, is not used to house cartel prisoners?”
Hale sighed and shuffled through the papers in front of him. He picked up the jail records Hez recognized from his prep session with Ed. “This is getting very far afield, but yes, the government will stipulate to that.”
“Thank you.” Hez turned back to the judge. “Pass the witness.”
Judge Montpelier looked at Hale. “Any redirect?”
“Just one question. Agent Jenkins, do you continue to believe there is probable cause to support each and every element of each of the offenses alleged in this complaint?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions. The government rests.”
“You may step down, Agent Jenkins,” the judge said. “Mr. Webster, please call your first witness.”
Hez reached back to the table to get his binder of witness notes. “Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Alfred Smith.”
A weathered old man with rheumy blue eyes ambled up to the witness stand just vacated by the FBI agent. He wore a wide-lapel powder-blue three-piece polyester suit that had doubtless been the height of fashion in 1979. He situated himself in the witness chair and the clerk swore him in.
“Mr. Smith, what is your occupation?”
“I’m a shrimper.”
“Do you know the waters off Pelican State Park?”
The old man bobbed his head. “Know ’em better than my own bathtub.”
“Is the fishing good?”
“Some of the best fishing in the South,” the old man said with a touch of pride.
“Good enough to make someone drive from Biloxi?”
