"I am in a very delicate situation," says Arroyo. He adds that he is not allowed to say anything to anyone about De La Garza without permission from Robert Stabe, the assistant U.S. attorney who is the lead prosecutor in De La Garza's case.
But asked about Schaffer, Cogdell and the $50,000, Arroyo's inhibitions quickly fade. He didn't suggest the bribe, he says. As he speaks, he pulls his cuffed hands from behind his back and makes a circular motion with his forefinger: It was the other way around. The deal, he says, was the lawyers' idea.
Since De La Garza's indictment, Arroyo has been working for a mining company in Brazil, where he lives with his wife and children. He says that last month, after he returned to Houston to testify against De La Garza, he learned that Schaffer had been trying to reach him by phone at his Brazilian number. So he returned Schaffer's call -- and did it at the local DEA headquarters, taping the conversation with a DEA recorder. That tape, Arroyo insists, proves that the bribe was Schaffer and Cogdell's idea.
So why is Arroyo in jail?
Arroyo shrugs. His face reads, "You figure it out."
Apparently Arroyo is telling the truth about recording his conversation with Schaffer. But according to Harris County first assistant district attorney Don Stricklin, nothing on the tape suggests wrongdoing by either of the lawyers. Stricklin also says Arroyo may have made a second tape -- possibly of the meeting in the restaurant -- but the prosecutor has neither seen nor heard it. Schaffer and Cogdell say they hope there is a tape of the meeting at the restaurant, that it would completely clear them of trying to pay Arroyo to disappear.
Such a tape might also clear them of an even more devious plot: setting up Arroyo to appear to solicit the money, thus ruining his credibility as a witness in the case against their client. Clearly, that's been the outcome of the affair. On the stand, if Arroyo says he didn't extort money from the lawyers, they have a tape to prove him a liar. And if he says he did extort the money, then he's obviously a crook. Either way, a jury isn't likely to believe his testimony against De La Garza.
Schaffer dismisses the notion that he and Cogdell engineered the sting for their client's sake. "I couldn't give myself that much credit," he says. Still, he admits, such a scheme would have been ingenious.
The cases against Daniel De La Garza and Jorge Arroyo are both pending.
The De La Garza trial has been reset for October. With Arroyo's credibility severely damaged, the federal prosecutor says he's rethinking his strategy. Schaffer and Cogdell believe the case against De La Garza has been mortally wounded; the government has no case with Arroyo, and no case without him.
A state court has charged Arroyo with witness tampering, but so far, the U.S. Attorney's Office has yet to file charges against him for planning to literally go south on them. District Attorney Holmes finds it hard to believe that his counterparts haven't taken the action. "The feds ought to be outraged," he says.
Arroyo remains in jail without bond. In the jail interview room, he talks about wanting to return home to his family in Brazil. Then, shifting emotional gears, he puts his right forefinger and thumb close together, signaling that this case is small potatoes to him.
Just then, a guard bangs the door. Arroyo gets up from his chair and begins to walk away, his occupational paranoia taking hold. He seems suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps he has said too much to this stranger.
"Hey," he asks the reporter, "who do you really work for
?
