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Melba opened a door marked SECURITY. “If you mean, do we look at every bag belonging to a person of Mexican descent, the answer is no.” She frowned. “We don’t search people on ethnic, gender, or age grounds.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
“Let me show you,” Melba said. By this time they were in the Customs area. The liaison pulled back a couple of ribboned barriers, and the group walked to one of the carousels, where travelers waited for their luggage from a Paris flight. “As I was saying, we don’t have a specific profile for smugglers because we know that they’re trying to blend in. So we look at where travelers originated. Did someone start out in Bogotá and switch planes in Guadalajara? We consider the time of year, especially for narcotics. Obviously, we’re more vigilant during the periods after the harvest seasons for marijuana and opium poppies. We look at trends in other ports around the world. Handbags. Pharmaceuticals. Diamonds. And we’re always looking for products manufactured in embargoed countries. In other words, we’re looking for anything made in Iran, Iraq, or Cuba.”
“You just do random inspections?”
Melba Mitchell laughed. “Hardly.” She pointed to a man and woman wearing uniforms and carrying walkie-talkies. “Those two inspectors wait with the passengers. They’re looking for people who look nervous or fidgety, if they’re sweating, if they just got off an Air France flight like this one and have a whole new set of Louis Vuitton luggage, if they’re wearing clothes that are inappropriate.”
“Like?”
“Like an overcoat on a flight from Cabo San Lucas.” Melba watched the passengers silently for a moment. “We also look for people who don’t look like international travelers. I’m talking poor people. We often catch folks who earn maybe two hundred dollars a year but have been asked to carry something for seven hundred. But what you see right now is only part of it. We also have agents out there in plainclothes who appear to be waiting for bags. They mingle, look around, and usually find things for us before the passenger even gets up to the inspection area.”
“Are you getting many Chinese immigrants in here with forged passports?” David asked, changing the subject.
“Actually that’s an INS function, but we’re all together down here and do a lot of our work jointly.” Melba looked nervously at the Chinese delegation.
To put Melba at ease, Hulan said, “We know that a lot of Chinese are caught at Kennedy airport in New York.”
“We made several arrests out here a few years ago. But again, it’s a trend. The immigrants—rather the snake heads who run them—realized it wouldn’t work in Los Angeles. But I will say that we’re preparing for a big rush later this year. You know, people wanting to get out of Hong Kong.”
Peter looked grim. “How will you catch them?”
“Immigration has a great computer system,” Melba explained. “They keep track of names, entry, and exit dates, how much money people are traveling with, how long they’ll be here.”
“We have dates of entry and exit for Guang and Cao,” Hulan said. “Could you do a search checking those dates for other people following the same pattern?”
“That information would be protected by the Freedom of Information Act,” Melba said.
“Don’t you work with the Department of Justice and FBI?” David asked.
“Yes,” the woman from Customs answered. “But…”
“You’re worried about our visitors,” David acknowledged. “Let me assure you, they are here on business that affects our country and they are here as our guests.”
When the liaison still seemed reluctant, Jack Campbell said, “I’ll vouch for them, and if you don’t want to take my word for it, I’ve got a couple of names you can call to get clearance.”
Melba passed on the phone calls and took them over to the immigration area along the back wall. She stopped at one of the booths, where an INS officer was just about to take a break. She explained the situation and they began their search. The officer typed in the dates, then waited for the information to come up on the screen.
“Look at that!” David put his finger on the screen where the name William Watson appeared sandwiched between Wang and Wong. “Can it be our Billy Watson? Do you have more information?”
The officer typed in the name and a new screen popped up, showing the data collected on William Watson, twenty-one; born Butte, Montana; permanent address, Beijing, China.
“How many times did he travel back and forth to China?” Hulan asked, her voice echoing David’s excitement. Together they counted. Billy Watson had made the trans-Pacific journey once a month for eighteen months before his death.
“Can we go back to the previous screen?”
The officer hit a couple of keys and the earlier screen appeared. The list contained fourteen names, including those of Watson, Guang, and Cao. Of these, some had made the trip only once, others had made it as many as ten. None of them had stayed in Los Angeles—assuming that was the final destination—for longer than seventy-two hours. None had been detained for further questioning when they passed through Immigration or Customs.
“Your flight’s arrived,” Melba announced. “The passengers should be down here in about five minutes.”
“Is there a way you can highlight these names and let the other Immigration people know we’re looking for these individuals?”
“You bet. I’ll put it through on everyone’s computer right now. As soon as an officer types in the name from the passport, the data will come up.”
“Do it. And thanks!”
“Do you want us to make an arrest?” Melba asked.
