Salvation (21 page)

A light went on in Tosa’s eyes, followed by a sudden cringe. “Well…no.” He reached down and retrieved the hat. “But the torch was right there in her locker, man.”

“Judge Robson,” Salva said, “I move that the witness’s testimony about Miss Mendoza’s confession be stricken from the record.”

“Motion granted,” the judge concurred.

“I have no further questions for this witness.” Salva sat down.

Luka tossed an eraser at him, then called up Pepe.

Who strode forward bearing a lined piece of paper with the word
Warrant
scrawled across it.
No doubt written thirty seconds ago
. When he and Tosa crossed paths, Pepe snagged his partner’s hat, then slid it on backward, continued to the witness chair, and sat down.

As expected, Pepe was full of BS. He claimed he had been working as an undercover agent, overheard Char admit to planning the theft, and then, due to his stealth skills, witnessed the entire heist.

This time, as Luka gave up the floor, he cast a wary eye at his opponent.

The clock on the wall gave Salva only ten minutes. He rounded the edge of his desk. “Mr. Real, can you please describe for the court your relationship with Miss Mendoza?”

That
woke up the audience. Laughter engulfed the room.

“How much of a description do you want?” Pepe said, feeding the laughter.
Good.
That was what Salva needed—Pepe the showman.

Salva’s pulse began to speed. “What is your relationship to the defendant?”

“We’re dating, all right. Not my fault His Honor put us on different sides of this thing.”

“Move on, Resendez,” said Coach.

“So, Officer Real.” Salva was standing about five feet from the witness. “When your girlfriend told you, in confidence, that she had been assigned to steal the torch,
you
chose to spy on her. Is that correct?”

“Yeah.” Pepe blew a green bubble with his chewing gum.

“So you didn’t, as you claimed earlier,
overhear
her plotting. She actually told you her assignment, right?”

The bubble popped. “Yeah, well, like I said, it wasn’t my fault.”

“And did your girlfriend have a plan when she first told you about her assignment?”

“Uh…”

“Come on, Pep”—Salva switched to informal address. Messing with his opponent’s game. “It was you who created the plan for stealing the mascot, wasn’t it?”

“Objection,” Luka said. “Leading the witness.”

Give me a break!
There was no chance Char had stolen that torch on her own.

“Overruled.” said Robson.

Yes.
Salva glided up to the witness chair. “Take the credit, bro, it was you who created the plan for stealing the mascot, and you who stood guard to make sure no one stopped Char when she did it, huh?” He was in the zone. Adrenaline rushed through his entire body. Pepe probably didn’t even realize he was nodding. This was better than football. It took all the same skills: fake-outs and shifts and the ability to read the players.
But this wasn’t about points. Salva shot a glance toward Char. It was about
people
. “In fact, Officer Real, there is no evidence that the defendant would have successfully stolen the mascot without your help, is there?”

Pepe’s mouth locked on open for a couple seconds. Before he shrugged. “Yeah, all right. But I’m not the one on trial.”

You should be.
“The defense rests.”

They were out of time. Luka was called for his closing statement and did just as dynamic a job as he had earlier. But the guy had no real argument. And Coach cut him off after three minutes.

Salva walked up to the jury. “I submit to you, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “that the defendant had no plan for the actual theft, that she acted under the leadership of the very man who arrested her, and that then she was deprived of her rights. All the significant evidence against her comes at the word of one man—a man who has demonstrated incompetence and admitted to having a personal relationship with the defendant. His actions are clearly an abuse of power. But that is another trial. This is the trial of Charla Mendoza. The burden of proof lies upon the prosecution, and there can be
no
doubt that they have not met that burden.” Salva stopped, did his best to make eye contact with each of the jurors, then took his seat.

The jury pushed and shoved one another from the room.

“Do you think it worked?” Char asked. She had gnawed off the rims of two fingernails.

He had won every point. But Salva could feel his hands beginning to shake. This wasn’t football. There was no scoreboard.

The jury bounded back into the room. His stomach rolled. They hadn’t even taken five minutes.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you have a verdict?” Coach Robson asked.

The entire group confirmed at once. Which led to a delay. The teacher reminded the jury members that only one person should speak on their behalf. Nobody could remember who had been selected, but someone new was finally chosen.

Salva clenched his shaking hands into fists. Luka couldn’t have been right. Even a group this incompetent had to know that the case for the defense had been stronger.

The newly chosen student stood up.

Char stood as well.

Salva’s chest had gone tight.

“Char Mendoza,” said the jury member, “you have been found guilty on the count of theft and are sentenced to five years of fake prison.”

Crap.

The room erupted. With laughter. And Pepe’s and Tosa’s cheers. Then the bell rang, and the entire audience jumped out of their seats. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow!” Coach yelled over the noise. But no one cared. A flood of audience members rushed for the door.

Pepe emerged, slinging an arm around Char. “Tough luck, sweetheart,” he said. “Nice try, Resendez.”

Nice try? The whole thing sucked. How could Salva have lost? But the answer was all around him, jury members crowing about having the power.

“Hey, well argued, man,” Luka said, slapping him on the back and then disappearing.

In a matter of seconds, everyone had left.

Except Beth. Who was standing near Salva. Waiting for him.

“It isn’t fair,” he muttered.

“No.” She started gathering his things.

“But it
should
be. Justice. That’s what we’re supposed to be learning. The law…the
law
should be fair. Power should be used fairly.” The whole thing felt too real. Too close to what his father was always saying about cops and why you should never let them notice you. Because if they did, you’d be the one on trial, and it’d be their word against yours.

“You’re right,” said Beth.

“Then why doesn’t anyone else
care
?” His voice was rising, and he knew it shouldn’t. “They just—they blew it all off. I
hate
it when people do that!”

“I know.” She held out his books, then cocked her head and met his gaze. “Does calculus ever make you feel this passionate?”

Salva tried living in denial. All week. In math he tried to care about inverting functions. In science he tried to care whether the variable in his lab was dependent or independent. He would do almost anything to convince himself that he could love engineering—to preserve the pride he had heard in his father’s voice last Saturday. But there was no way Salva could afford State without the engineering scholarship.

It’s not about the school,
Beth’s words from Monday drilled into him.

And maybe it wasn’t, but his father…

Oh God,
the thought of telling
Papá
his son wanted to reject the scholarship made Salva’s entire body crumble from the inside out.

By lunchtime on Friday, though, Salva knew his grasp at denial had failed. All his friends were excited, making plans for the big Cinco de Mayo party downtown that evening. But
he couldn’t make plans. His father would be home early, due to the holiday. And there would be time to talk.

There was no future after that.

The afternoon passed in a foggy blur. When the final bell rang, Salva dumped his physics stuff in his locker, retrieved
The Aeneid
for homework, then glared at the cover. He hated Aeneas. The guy was supposed to be a hero just for bowing to his fate. Salva dumped the book back into his locker.

He didn’t want to go home.

But then Beth arrived, assuming he had stalled to walk with her. Ten minutes later he found himself stumbling into a pothole in the street.

She rescued him and continued her pace. “You’re thinking with your head,” she told him.

Which made no sense. The problem was he couldn’t think. He wished he could.

A scratchy electronic sound came from the direction of downtown, then a few seconds of badly recorded
conjunto
music. And more scratching. Someone must be testing the sound system for the celebration.

“Most people think with their heads,” Salva said, letting his fingers wind into her hair.

Another thirty seconds of accordion notes screeched from downtown.

“That’s where they mess up,” Beth replied, still walking.

He needed her to stop.

His hand caressed the back of her neck. “I think that’s why they don’t”—he lowered his voice—“mess up.”

“Maybe not the small stuff.” She turned to face him. “But sometimes their lives.”

He knew she was right. Had known all week. But he didn’t want to discuss the scholarship. Didn’t want to think about the conversation that was waiting for him at home.

Instead, he tried to pull her toward the cover of a scraggly tree.

She pulled back. “Salva, you can’t hide from yourself.”

Why
couldn’t he?

“You can’t decide what you are going to do based on what is logical,” she insisted. “You have to
feel.
”

He kissed her. Right there in the street. Deep. Her body answered, and he pulled her to him. Tight. Intense. She was the only thing between his soul and the swirling maelstrom in his stomach. Her touch was his only hope for escape. She
was
feeling. And heart. His hands clung to her shoulders. “I
feel,
Beth,” he told her, then breathed her in.

Vroom. Cough!
The scent of exhaust interrupted.

He jerked back, thrusting her away. Too late. He could see the green duct-taped pickup chugging past.

Beth’s eyes were wide. Injured. She turned and fled around the corner.

Oh, this was great. Great!
En el nombre de Dios.
Salva sprinted after her.

She had at least a block’s lead.

“Beth, would you…wait!”

She stumbled, and he gained ground. “Look, I’m sorry, all right? I—” His hand snagged hers.

She jerked away. “You’re ashamed of me.”

Ashamed?
That was so far from the truth he lost his ability to argue.

“You don’t want your father to know you’re with me,” she added.

Okay, well, that was accurate, but not because Salva was ashamed. He’d figured she was in the same situation—that neither of their parents was too keen on the whole cross-cultural thing. He regained his voice. “You haven’t exactly been in a hurry to introduce me to your
mother
.”

But Beth was shaking her head—no, she was literally shaking. “That’s different,” she whispered. “That’s…” She stepped backward.

What had he missed? What didn’t he know? He reached for her again.

And then froze, for the first time noting the crumbling stones around her.

His entire body went hollow.

“Salva?” She was talking, but he couldn’t follow her words. All he could take in were the white markers of their surroundings. The hallmarks of death.

“Salva, you’re hurting me.”

Hurt?
That was all he was. A frozen statue of pain.

His hand lifted, and he realized she was prying her wrist from his grip. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she
gently clasped the back of his hand. Maintaining touch.

Why the graveyard? How could she have run toward the graveyard?

Without permission his eyes began to scan the tombstones.

Beth eased an arm around his waist. “These are the older plots,” she whispered. “The newer ones are this way.”

And he let her guide him. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t tell his body to walk. But it moved like an empty glass being slid across a table. She curved around a central, almost gardenlike section of the cemetery, past naked rosebushes and trees by clearly grouped family plots.

Then she led him over a small rise and down. Into a shadeless grassy plain of stones.

He tried to breathe, and his chest vibrated with the effort.

Beth paused. Again his eyes scanned the stones.

But she pulled him forward past the rows. One. Two. Four. How did she know where to go?

Because she’s stronger than me.

She turned him toward the eighth row.

He couldn’t move.

Her hand slid up to his shoulder, the touch propelling him forward.

And there was the name, at the center of a slender tombstone etched with lilies.

A
ZUCENA
I
MELDA
M
UÑOZ
R
ESENDEZ

Salva dropped to his knees in the grass.
“Mamá.”
His voice broke, then flowed into solid Spanish. Apologizing. It all spilled out: his confusion about the future, the need to reject the scholarship, his terror of telling
Papá
. But those confessions were far from the worst.

Salva had made his mother all kinds of promises that last day in the hospital. He had sworn never to quit, never to lie.
Never to fail.
If she would
just
get better.

His mother had laughed, even though she hadn’t had enough strength in her body to turn over her hand and clasp his own.

And that same night, she had died. As if his promises were worthless.

They had been. He’d broken every one of them.
“Lo siento, Mamá. Lo siento.”

He apologized for letting her down. For being a hypocrite. For claiming he would help
la familia
when all he wanted to do was escape from them.