He’d been wary at first of answering questions in any depth, but Curt, as a seasoned, nationally known reporter, had interviewed princes and popes. Adding a wary drug lord to the list wasn’t much of a challenge. Emm read over his shoulder and saw that he was, indeed, making copious notes that would aid in his story. Nothing incriminating; more of the history of Arturo Cervantes and how he did, indeed, support not just an army of men but their families. He’d put more than one poor boy through private school and into university. The morning waned into afternoon as Curt’s pad grew full. A waiter brought tea and scones and finger sandwiches. Emm would have laughed at the pretension if she hadn’t been so tense. She was too nervous to be hungry, but she forced herself to eat, not knowing when she’d get the opportunity again. The clock struck five p.m. as Cervantes obviously grew restless. Curt thanked him and then led Emm forward. Emm heard something about “casa” and more that sounded like her credentials.
