CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nadine Begaye drove a fifteen-year-old Toyota Tacoma with a cracked windshield and a bumper sticker that said SOVEREIGNTY IS NOT A METAPHOR, and she carried her case files in a canvas tote bag that looked like it had survived law school and every year since.
She was small—five-two, maybe, in boots—with short-cropped hair and a face that gave nothing away until she wanted it to.
Daniels had talked to her a dozen times on the phone and formed an impression of a sharp, combative attorney with no patience for process when process was being used as a weapon.
Meeting her in person didn’t change that impression. It sharpened it.
She arrived at Helen's house on a Thursday evening, having driven from Window Rock after a full day of court appearances. Ben met her at the door. She looked at his ankle monitor, then at his face, and said, "You look better than the last time I saw you. Must be happy getting off federal food."
He merely grunted and held the door open for her.
She went inside and set the tote bag on the kitchen table. Daniels and James were already seated. Ruth was in the back room—present, as always, but at a distance she chose for herself.
Begaye pulled out a manila folder thick enough to strain its fasteners and opened it between them.
“I’m going to show you something that took me two weeks to compile, and I want you to understand what it cost. I called in favors from three federal public defenders, a retired U.S.
attorney, and a paralegal at the ACLU who has access to case databases she’s technically not supposed to share.
If any of them find out I’ve shown this to a current FBI agent”—she looked at Daniels—“my professional relationships are finished.”
“Understood,” Daniels said.
“The agents who arrested Ben are part of a pattern.” Begaye spread a series of printouts across the table—case summaries, agent assignment records, outcome reports.
“Over the past nine years, I’ve identified eleven federal investigations involving companies or individuals connected to Devco Holdings’ corporate network.
Fraud cases, environmental violations, labor disputes, one wrongful death suit that got referred to the Bureau.
Eleven investigations, eleven different case numbers, spread across three field offices in New Mexico and Arizona. ”
She tapped the stack. “Every single one ended the same way. Charges dropped, evidence ruled insufficient, witnesses discredited or recanting. Eleven for eleven. The statistical probability of that happening organically is functionally zero.”
James leaned forward. “How are the agents connected?”
“That’s what took the longest to find, because the connections aren’t obvious.
Different lead agents, different offices, different years.
But when you map the full team assignments—not just the leads but every agent who touched each case—a cluster emerges.
” Begaye pulled out a second document, a spreadsheet with names highlighted in yellow.
“Six agents appear in three or more of these investigations. Not always as leads. Sometimes as support, sometimes as liaisons, sometimes just listed on the team roster for a few weeks before rotating off. But they’re there.
Consistently. Across years and offices.”
Daniels scanned the names. Two he recognized. One hit him in the chest.
“Rivera.”
“Special Agent Miguel Rivera. Currently assigned to the Phoenix field office. He appears in five of the eleven cases—more than any other agent on the list. He was the lead on two of them, including the investigation that followed the discovery of Evan Naalnish’s remains.”
Ben, who had been listening with his arms crossed and his back against the kitchen counter, spoke for the first time. “Rivera shut us down. He froze Kari and me out of the Naalnish investigation and then closed it in three days. Ruled the death inconclusive, despite obvious evidence of homicide.”
“That’s consistent with his role in the other cases,” Begaye said.
“Rivera doesn’t fabricate evidence or frame people.
That’s not his function. He controls access.
He determines who gets to see what, who gets to interview whom, what evidence makes it into the record and what gets lost. He’s a gatekeeper. ”
“And Garza?”
“Different function.” Begaye found another page.
“Special Agent Hector Garza appears in four of the eleven cases, but always late—in the final stages, when the investigation is being wrapped up. He’s a closer.
He conducts the interviews that produce recantations.
He writes the reports that recommend dropping charges.
And in Ben’s case, Garza’s the one who executed the arrest warrant and conducted the interrogation. ”
Daniels looked at the spreadsheet and tried to see it as a jury would.
Six agents, eleven cases, a pattern of outcomes that defied probability.
It was compelling but circumstantial. A defense attorney would argue coincidence, staffing patterns, the natural attrition of complex cases.
What made it more than circumstantial was the consistency of the outcome—not just dropped charges, but investigations that collapsed in ways specifically beneficial to Devco’s interests.
“Can you connect any of these agents to Devco financially?” Daniels asked.
“Not directly. I don’t have access to their financial disclosures—that requires either a subpoena or an internal affairs investigation.
But I found something else.” Begaye pulled out a final document.
“Three of the six agents, including Rivera, attended a law enforcement leadership conference in Scottsdale four years ago. The conference was sponsored by a nonprofit called the Western Law Enforcement Foundation. The Foundation’s board of directors includes an attorney named Philip Cahill. ”
Daniels went still. “Cahill, Wentworth and Rowe.”
“The same firm that sent the legal threat to Sandra Reyes at the Arizona Republic. The same firm that represents unnamed clients connected to Devco’s shell company network.
” Begaye closed the folder. “It’s not proof.
It’s a pattern. But patterns are how you build cases, and this pattern points in one direction. ”
The kitchen was quiet. Outside, the wind had picked up, pushing against the house with the low, steady pressure that preceded weather changes in this part of the reservation.
Daniels could hear Ruth’s loom in the back room—not the steady rhythm of weaving, but the slower, intermittent sound of someone adjusting thread. Listening, maybe.
“This changes the approach,” Daniels said.
“I’ve been treating the FBI corruption as a complication—something to work around.
But what you’re describing is an infrastructure.
An organized capability within the Bureau that’s been protecting Devco for at least nine years, probably longer.
Going through normal channels—even going through my own chain of command—risks triggering the same protective response that killed every other investigation. ”
“Which is why I’m here,” Begaye said. “I’m not an FBI agent.
I’m not bound by your internal procedures.
And I’ve already been building this case independently, for Ben’s defense.
Everything I’ve shown you is in my case file, which means it’s part of the legal record.
Garza can’t make it disappear the way he can disappear a bureau report. ”
“Smart,” Ben said from the counter.
“I’m a tribal attorney in a system designed to work against my clients.
Smart is the minimum.” Begaye looked at Daniels.
“What I can’t do is take this to the Department of Justice.
I’m a defense attorney representing a man charged with murder.
My credibility is inherently suspect—anything I present will be viewed as advocacy, not evidence.
This needs to come from inside the Bureau. From someone with standing.”
“Someone like a senior agent with thirty years of service and a reputation that hasn’t been compromised,” James said, looking at Daniels.
Daniels understood what was being asked.
He’d been thinking about it since the phone call went dead at the Arizona Republic—the growing certainty that the local FBI infrastructure was not a tool he could use but an obstacle he had to circumvent.
Going to DOJ directly meant going over his own bureau’s head.
It meant burning relationships, triggering internal reviews, possibly ending his career.
It meant committing to an outcome that couldn’t be walked back.
“I’ve already made contact with the Public Integrity Section,” he said. “Through back channels. They’re willing to listen.”
“Then give them something worth listening to,” Begaye said.
“Whitmore’s laptop. My pattern analysis.
Anna’s research. The financial documentation.
Package it and deliver it in person, not through email, not through intermediaries.
Walk it into their office in Washington and put it on someone’s desk. ”
“That alone won’t be enough. They’ll want physical evidence from the site.”
“Then get it.” Begaye looked at each of them in turn—Daniels, James, Ben. “Get whatever you need to make this case so heavy that no one in a corner office can pick it up and file it in a drawer. Because that’s what’s going to happen if you give them anything less.”
She gathered her folder and put it back in the tote bag with the same decisive motion she’d used to set it down.
“I’ll have copies of everything couriered to you by Monday.
For the record, I never showed you any of this.
We discussed Ben’s bail conditions and upcoming court dates. That’s what my notes will reflect.”
“Understood,” Daniels said again.
Begaye left the way she’d arrived—quickly, without small talk, the Tacoma’s headlights sweeping across the yard as she turned onto the dirt road and headed east toward Window Rock. Daniels watched the taillights until they disappeared, then turned back to the table.
Ben hadn’t moved from the counter. James was reorganizing the printouts Daniels and Begaye had been examining, his hands steady, his face set.
“Washington,” James said.
“I’ll fly out Monday. Present everything in person. But I’m not going empty-handed. By the time I sit down with Public Integrity, I want the physical evidence to back up every document in that package.” He looked at Ben. “Which means we need to talk about the airfield.”
“I’ve been ready to talk about the airfield since I got out.”
“Not tonight. We plan this properly—routes, timing, contingencies. And we wait for Kari. She’s close to finishing her case. When she does, Marshall comes with her, and we have federal authority that isn’t compromised.”
Ben pushed off from the counter and stretched, the ankle monitor visible for a moment as his jeans rode up. “How long?”
“Days. Maybe less.”
"Then let's use the time. I'll draw what I can of the airfield from memory—the trailer, the hangar, the access road I crossed on the way out. It's not much. I wasn't exactly taking a tour. But it's a starting point."
James found a legal pad and a pen. Ben sat down at the table and started drawing—slowly, hesitantly.
Daniels watched him work and thought about the distance between where they were and where they needed to be.
Washington. The airfield. The DOJ office where someone he’d never met would decide whether twenty years of conspiracy and murder warranted the full weight of the federal government’s attention.
The wind pressed against the windows. Ruth’s loom had gone silent. Tomorrow the planning would start in earnest.
Tonight, Ben drew maps.