Land of Careful Shadows (18 page)

“I don't know what they'll do, Rodrigo. But you stand a better chance of people being sympathetic if you tell the truth: you did it to protect your family.”

Rodrigo closed his eyes and tried to think of what his friend Anibal would do. Wise, calm Anibal. He would tell Rodrigo to trust in God and be truthful. Always truthful. Rodrigo had messed up—no doubt about it. But not this way. Not like this.

He took as deep a breath as he could manage. It felt like a rubber band was wrapped around his chest. “I did not kill her, Detective,” he said as evenly as his shaky voice would allow. “That is the truth. Am I going to go to prison?”

“I think you already know the answer to that one, Rodrigo.” The detective's eyes got hard and shiny. Then he rose from the metal chair and folded it with a finality that made Rodrigo feel as if he were being folded up and disposed of the same way.

T
he hotel conference room was a sea of pink- and white-linen tablecloths and gold-rimmed china. The hundred and fifty or so faces—mostly white with a heavy representation of blondes, natural or otherwise—were the ones Adele expected at such an awards luncheon: directors of nonprofits, defense lawyers, university professors, journalists, and a few wealthy socialites who gave liberally to liberal causes.

The waiters and waitresses were typical, too. Many of them were immigrants—some Latino, some black. A good portion, Adele suspected, were working off fake papers at barely minimum wage. No one else seemed to notice the irony. They were honoring Adele for her work in bridging the gap between immigrants and Americans in her community. But any one of these waiters or waitresses could have told the audience firsthand just how wide the gap was these days. Twenty-five years ago, hard work and clean living could eventually secure an immigrant a green card and with it, the driver's license, education, and business opportunities that bought a toehold on the middle class. The people who came now stood no such chance. One raid, one infraction, one employer who looked at them the wrong way, and they were gone.

Adele was here this Tuesday afternoon to accept an award from the New York State Empowerment League for her work as executive director of La Casa. The award included a check for five thousand dollars—money the center sorely needed. Still, she felt a hollowness inside of her, as hollow as the clink of the empty wineglasses on the table, as the director of the Empowerment League, a dead ringer for Martha Stewart, walked up to the microphone.

Was it really different now, Adele wondered? Matt Rowland, Brendan Delaney, and Eddie Giordano had already been released on bail for the brutal assault on Luis Guzman. Guzman, on the other hand, was still handcuffed to a bed at Lake Holly Hospital. As soon as he recovered enough, he was going to be arraigned for assault with a deadly weapon and transferred to the county jail. No matter that Guzman had no prior felonies. Or that he drew that pathetic pocketknife and exacted a superficial wound in self-defense.

Some dialogue, thought Adele. The police had covered up the murder of that undocumented Latina at the lake until they could come up with another undocumented Latino to pin it on. The Guzman situation was even worse. The police took Guzman's fingerprints and fed them into the database while he was still in intensive care, which automatically alerted ICE that the local police had an undocumented alien in their custody. ICE faxed over an immigration detainer within twenty minutes of receiving the prints. Guzman was now guaranteed of being deported even if the DA's office eventually dropped the felony charges.

Adele was so deep in thought that she didn't realize it was her turn to speak until the audience rose to its feet and gave her a round of applause. She blushed, feeling embarrassed for her lack of attention. She grabbed her notes, dropped them on the floor, then bundled them together and carried them to the lectern in her arms like some magic trick gone awry. She'd had a good speech prepared—all about the symbiotic ways in which Latinos and Anglos helped each other and worked together to make Lake Holly a richer, more vibrant community. A few months ago, she believed it. Now she wasn't so sure. Still, she saw no choice but to give the audience the upbeat speech they had paid for. There was only so much truth people could stomach over coffee and crème brûlée.

She drove back to La Casa after the luncheon. She could feel the tension as soon as she walked through the door. The men were clustered in tight groups, their voices soft and strained the way they got after a raid. Nobody was using the computers to study English today. Even the pool players in back seemed to be doing more talking than playing. Enrique Sandoval was at her heel, his normal shyness gone, replaced by something closer to panic.

“Señora Adele—is it true what happened? That three white teenagers beat Luis Guzman last night and he is the one being charged? Everyone is talking about it here. Everyone.”

Adele gave a quick glance around the room. She could feel the men watching her and pretending not to at the same time. Some began to gather around them. The playfulness she normally felt in them was gone, replaced by fear mixed with rage and frustration. A lot of them probably knew Luis. He was no poster boy, certainly. He drank too much and passed out sometimes in Michael Park. But he was not a violent drunk. If he was in a fight with three white teens, it was not because he started it.

“Yes, it's true,” said Adele calmly. “Luis was in a fight last night with some teenagers.” She changed “beaten” to “in a fight.” She left out the inflammatory word, “white” and the three-against-one odds as well. Her voice was stiffer than usual. A school principal's voice. In these situations, she had to step back and maintain a cool distance. She could not run the center without it. “Both sides have been charged,” she added. “The teenagers, for beating Luis. And Luis, for stabbing one of the teenagers with a knife.”

“But the teenagers are free,” Enrique countered. For a group of people who spoke little English, the men were amazingly well versed about what was happening in town.

Adele tried to give Enrique and the growing group of men around her a brief explanation of the American legal system with its notions of bail and presumptions of innocence.

“Then why can't Luis have the same thing?” Enrique asked. “He is in the hospital and everyone says he will go directly to jail after this.”

“Because Luis has no papers, no permission to be in the United States, so he has to be detained. He may still be found innocent on the assault charges,” Adele explained.

“So if he's found innocent, he will go free?”

“No,” said Adele. “If he's found innocent, in all likelihood, he'll be deported. If he's found guilty, he'll be sent to an American jail.”

“So he goes back to Guatemala if he's innocent and he stays here in the United States if he's guilty? That makes no sense.”

Welcome to United States immigration policy.
“I'm afraid that's the way it works, Enrique. I wish I could do something. I understand Scott Porter will be representing him so he'll have a good attorney at least.”

Adele noticed Anibal standing off to her right side, running the thumb and forefinger of his good hand down his mustache. He kept his gaze respectfully down. She sensed he wanted to speak to her, but he understood she was busy. She turned to him and stood perfectly still until he realized with a hint of surprise and delight that he had her attention.

“Excuse me, Señora Adele,” said Anibal with a slight bow of apology. “I just wanted to know what is happening with our friend Rodrigo.”

“He hasn't been charged yet as far as I know,” said Adele. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see what the police determine.”

“He is a good man,” Anibal said softly. “I am praying for him. Is there anything else my cousin and I can do?”

“There is nothing any of us can do, I'm afraid.”

She moved past the crestfallen men. She hated seeing the disappointment in their dark eyes, the powerlessness they felt through all of it. They were smart and resourceful but they were no match for the law. She pushed Luis Guzman and Rodrigo Morales to the back of her mind and tried to concentrate on the things she could affect. She and Rafael needed to decide whether to repair or replace the microwave. She was expecting a shipment of donated toiletries from the Junior League that had yet to come in. The computer cable was on the fritz again. One of the alternative rental properties being suggested for La Casa needed a yes or no by today. Everybody had an urgent problem. Everyone needed her undivided attention.

But inside, she felt like she had failed them in some fundamental way. Her clients needed her protection and reassurance more than they needed any microwave or a shipment of toiletries. Maybe she couldn't change what was going to happen to Luis or Rodrigo, but she had a duty to make sure that the police knew they owed the Latino community an explanation.

She called Vega but he didn't answer his cell. Someone at the station told her he was out and they didn't know when he'd be back so she asked for Detective Greco instead. Greco sighed audibly when he realized it was Adele on the line.

“What? Did Ortiz finally decide to give me something I can use?”

“I'm not calling about Ortiz,” said Adele. “I'm calling because the Latino community is in an uproar over what you're doing to Luis Guzman.”

“He attacked a man with a knife, Adele. An Eagle Scout, he ain't.”

“I know what you're doing and so do my clients: you want to get Guzman deported so he can't testify against three local football heroes, one of whom is the fire chief's son.”

There was a pause. Adele sensed Greco was going to say something but checked himself. “You want my department to explain the finer points of police investigation to the Latino community? When the heat's off, I'd be happy to answer all your questions. But right now, I've got more important things to do than defend my tactics or my department. I don't tell you how to do your job, Adele. Don't tell me how to do mine.”

“What about Rodrigo Morales? Are you going to charge him too?”

“At this point? It's a strong possibility. Vega's out talking to Maria's former employer to pin down a few particulars. If she comes through, yeah—we're gonna charge him.”

“And you're sure he killed her?”

Again a pause. “What are you? My boss? I've got enough for probable cause. That's all I need. Porter knows it too.”

“You're going to ruin his life if you're wrong.”

“And I'll lose a lot of sleep over that, I can assure you.” He hung up.

The harsh twang of the dial tone resonated through Adele's chest cavity. Here she was, a Harvard-educated lawyer, and she still felt fourteen around cops. Nothing could erase the memory of that long ago day with her father at the police station when he tried to report the theft of his business. She still burned with fury at the greedy neighbor and those contemptuous cops. But her greatest anger was reserved for herself, for the girl
she
had been—so meek that her voice never rose above a whisper when she translated her father's words. So cowardly, that when she left the station house, it was her father she silently raged against. For his broken English, his earnestness in the face of their mockery and his naïveté. She told herself that her father's inability to get justice that day was the reason his heart gave out two years later. But on those sleepless nights Adele lay alone in bed after the divorce, she wondered if the thing that really broke his heart was the look of shame that day on his daughter's face.

She had to prove to herself, if no one else, that she wasn't that cowardly little girl anymore. If Greco wouldn't listen to her, she'd make damn sure Vega did. Greco said Vega was interviewing Maria's former employer. That had to be Cindy Klein who lived over in The Farms. Adele had the address in her files.

She told Rafael and Kay she'd be gone for about an hour, then headed east out of town along Lake Holly Road. She rolled down the windows, hoping to wash away the shameful memories of her childhood. The skeletal branches of the trees caught the sun and held it like the tines of a fork. There was a golden strain to the light that hadn't been there even a few days ago. Everything seemed just a brushstroke more alive.

She typed Cindy Klein's address into her GPS and wound her way along the wide, immaculately groomed streets of The Farms until she was in front of what looked like a French castle on at least an acre of front lawn. A black Ford pickup was parked along the curb. It might have looked more out of place in the neighborhood except for the fact that there was a gardener's pickup parked in front of it with wooden slats on the sides and gas canisters and lawn mowers in back. In the distance, an older Latino man pushed a mower across Cindy Klein's lawn while a lanky teenager took a Weedwacker to the edges of her Belgian-block driveway. The volume of noise brought to mind an airport runway.

A third Latino man, burly and stoop-shouldered, was fiddling with a piece of machinery in the back of the gardening truck. He lifted his gaze and smiled when he saw Adele. She got out of her car to greet him.

“Ay! My day is more pleasant for having seen you in it,” the man shouted above the noise. To Adele, Jeronimo Cruz was a charmer. He'd crossed the border from Mexico about thirty years ago, worked his way up from a day laborer with a fourth-grade education to an American citizen who owned his own landscaping business. But several of her clients told her that Cruz nickel-and-dimed his workers, charging them for every mistake.

“How are you?” Adele asked.

He pulled out his wallet and flipped to a picture of an attractive young Latina in a bright blue graduation cap and gown. “My Ana Rosa. She just graduated with honors from SUNY Albany. She's been accepted to New York University Medical School.”

“Congratulations!” said Adele.

Cruz beamed. “I tell her she must study hard. No work. Only make good grades. And she listens to me. Always she listens to her papi.”

Adele went to ask what kind of doctor Ana Rosa wanted to become, but Cruz excused himself for a moment and stormed off across the lawn to the lanky teenager working the Weedwacker along the driveway. Adele watched Cruz gesturing angrily. The teenager froze beneath the onslaught, tense and coiled, then nodded without a word and went back to work. Cruz returned, shaking his head.