Above The Law Read online

Casey saw now that the outside bathroom door was ajar and the small stream issuing from it bounced merrily along the broken pavement, glinting in the sunshine as it made its way toward the street.

  Casey looked down at her soaking foot and cursed before heading to the spigot on the near side of the building. She cranked it open and washed off her foot, shoe and all, before taking the shoe off and wiggling her toes under the cold water. The clients waiting patiently in the front craned their necks and watched politely. No one said a word when she rounded the corner and let herself in to the reception area. Along the one big window that remained sat five women in the folding lawn chairs used to stage the prospective clients before they were seen by a lawyer.

  In the chair closest to Stacy's counter sat Maria Delgado. She stood when she saw Casey and clasped her hands together, muttering a prayer.

  "I had no idea it got into your office," Stacy said, touching Casey's arm. "The whole place smells like shit, so I had no idea. They should be here any minute to get things pumped out. It's just the bathroom and the file room in the back. And your office. Everything else is okay, except the smell. We opened all the windows we could, so it's hot. I kept the air on, too, and I told them outside not to smoke."

  "Smoke?"

  "The gasoline floating on the surface," Stacy said, "so it doesn't explode."

  "Nice," Casey said. She looked from Stacy to Maria and back to Stacy. "Can you just get me a legal pad and a pen? I'll use the conference room. Is Tina here?"

  "I sent her to get some rubber boots so we can get files," Stacy said, "but you won't need her for now. Maria speaks English."

  Casey extended her hand to Maria, whose red and swollen eyes moistened anew. Casey felt the weight of the burger in her stomach like a stone as the trembling woman clutched her hand and began to thank her repeatedly before she'd even done anything.

  "Let's go in here and talk," Casey said softly as she accepted the supplies from Stacy.

  They passed the open door to Donna's office. Donna sat behind her desk, pinching her nose and interviewing an elderly woman. Casey removed her hand from her own face when she got inside their conference room. Casey offered Maria a chair and sat down opposite her, trying to resist the temptation to plug her nose.

  When Casey finally persuaded Maria to stop thanking her, Maria said, "My sister is in jail. They took her baby. Her husband was killed."

  "Okay," Casey said. "Settle down. Relax. Who put your sister in jail? Was she arrested?"

  "ICE agents," Maria said. "For a week, she was in the jail. Finally they let her call me and she tells me it's tomorrow they take her to the judge. How can this be?"

  "All right, wait," Casey said, jotting notes. "Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents arrested her and put her into what jail?"

  "Right here," Maria said. "The county. I went to her. I saw her."

  "You said she has a baby. Where is the baby?"

  "Paquita, she is in a foster home. They took her."

  "Maria," Casey said, setting her pen down and leaning toward the young woman, "your sister has to have more going on than just being undocumented. Is she involved with drugs?"

  "Never," Maria said, shaking her head violently. "Isodora is a good girl. Always good."

  "Because ICE doesn't do things like that unless there's something going on," Casey said. "You said the husband was killed. What happened? Was he involved in something? Drugs or rebels or something?"

  "He was a good man," Maria said. "Good like her. They said it was an accident, but my sister and her husband, they are not citizens. They have no green cards and then Ellie was killed, and now people know about them."

  "What accident? Why would they make her leave?"

  "Ms. Jordan," Maria said, her eyes filling now, "this man is very important. I am so scared."

  Casey reached across the table and took her hands and said, "Tell me what happened, Maria. I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Elijandro would go sometimes with the wife of the boss," Maria said, "but he never did nothing."

  "So, he had, I mean, it looked like he was involved with his boss's wife?" Casey said, forgetting now about the smell and the heat pressing in on them.

  "She would come for him at night sometimes," Maria said. "Not like that. The wife, she didn't speak Spanish and she needed Ellie to do that for her. My sister, she said she knew Ellie didn't do nothing else."

  Maria shrugged and her eyes darted into her lap.

  "What was the accident?" Casey asked.

  Maria sighed heavily and said, "Ellie was a hunter, the best. He would take people from the ranch, guests, important people. I have seen these pictures of Ellie with them. My sister, she woke up and Ellie was gone. He left a note that he was with the husband to hunt. When the policeman came, he told her there was an accident, that Ellie was dead."

  Casey began to write again.

  "My sister didn't believe it," Maria said. "She wouldn't believe it. Then the ICE people, they came and took Paquita and they put Isodora in the jail."

  "But why would they do that just because the husband was killed in a hunting accident?" Casey asked.

  "Because people know about them now," Maria said. "And my sister is illegal. It is all on TV. Did you not see it?"

  Casey looked at her blankly.

  "On CNN," Maria said. "On Channel Six. Everywhere."

  "There was a hunting accident a week ago," Casey said, her nostrils flaring and delivering a sudden blast of the stench, "out at Lucky Star Ranch, but that's not what you're talking about."

  "Yes, it is," Maria said, wringing her hands, "this is my sister's husband."

  "But," Casey said, "that's Senator Chase."

  "Yes, the senator," Maria said. "This is why we are very afraid. They said it was an accident, but it was the senator who killed Elijandro."

  CHAPTER 9

  TEUCH LET THE HALF-BREED FOREMAN, ELLS, PUSH HIM AROUND just as he did the others, but Teuch promised himself that if he had the chance, he'd put a bullet between Ells's beady eyes when the time came. Teuch got a good look at the main house since they were working on a bad septic line. Teuch toiled alongside a Mex named Gomez, digging out the shit hole most of the day, but all the while keeping one eye on the comings and goings of fancy people, expensive cars, and the army of staff at the big house.

  After the first hour the stink stopped bothering him and the next time his red bandana slipped down off his face he let it stay there and soak up the sweat on his neck. By noon they had their shirts off and the lady of the house-a blonde bombshell with cleavage-stopped and shaded her eyes to look them over before she climbed into her Range Rover and sped off in a whirl of dust down the gravel drive. When they climbed up out of the hole just after three, Teuch dropped down beside the water bucket, his back against one of the ancient oaks. He ladled the tepid liquid onto his head, drinking from the rivulet that ran down alongside his nose.

  When he looked up, he saw the half-breed staring at his chest.

  Teuch looked down at the ink, a hooded demon, then offered Ells a wink. If Ells hadn't blinked, Teuch might have thought the foreman's face had turned to stone, so cold was his expression.

  "You one of them Latin Kings?" the foreman asked.

  Teuch grinned and shook his head. "I dropped the flag."

  "I thought they say once a Latin King, always a Latin King."

  Teuch shrugged, ladled a cup of water for himself, then spit out some grit.

  "We don't want no bangers around here," the foreman said, scowling.

  "It's just ink," Teuch said, surveying his arms and torso. "I got a lot of it."

  The foreman circled him, pointed at the back of his shoulder, and said, "That's a prison tattoo. What were you in prison for?"

  Teuch looked at him for a minute, sighed, then said, "Cunnilingus."

  The foreman narrowed his eyes and balled up his fists.

  Teuch waggled his tongue and said, "You believe they got a law like that? It ain't no crime i
n Mexico, but up here? A man don't know how to care for his woman is all. I know you Comanches don't do it. That's why we get at all your sisters."

  The foreman took out his wallet, counted out a five and five singles, and flipped them Teuch's way. They fluttered to the dirt and the foreman pointed at the driveway leading out to the main gate.

  "Get your greasy ass outta here," he said, still stone-faced. "Don't come back."

  Teuch smiled and spat at the money. "I got what I need and it ain't your money."

  He extended his thumb, forefinger, and pinky, the Latin King high sign, and said, "Amor del Rey."

  Love of the King, his gang's creed.

  Then he walked toward the driveway, studying the house from the corner of his eye as he went. With his shirt over his shoulder, he ambled along down the center of the gravel drive for nearly a mile until he reached the main gate. A camera mounted atop the wall whirred and swung his way. The gates hummed open. Teuch held up his middle finger and the camera moved with him as he walked through and headed down the last stretch of driveway to the road. He hung a left and headed toward town, sticking out his thumb at every passing vehicle.

  Just before five, a battered white pickup pulled over in a dusty cloud and two Mexicans wearing cowboy hats drove him to the motel. He cleaned up, then went out for some cold beer. The back window of his room looked out over the scrub brush and some power lines to the west. With his feet up on the open windowsill, he sipped at a couple of forty-ounce King Cobras while the sun bled itself to death in a bed of purple clouds.

  After a time he heard ringing in his ears and a pleasant light-headedness settled in. He felt good about how far he'd come and where the immediate future would take him. He felt a little too good actually, but he could sober up a bit with a meal at the Applebee's he'd seen one exit up on Route 45. The food supplies stacked up on the dresser would go to waste, but he hadn't expected to get as close as he had to the house on the very first day. Part of his success with the Kings came because he knew an opportunity when he saw one and he never hesitated to grab it. He'd grab this one.

  He packed up the few things he had and pulled on a gray hooded sweatshirt over his T-shirt and jeans. He lay the MAC-10 next to the canvas duffel bag on the bed and banged into the bathroom door on his way to take a leak.

  In the mirror he caught sight of himself, the sparkle in his dark eyes, the jaunty smile full of yellow teeth beneath a pencil-thin mustache. He gave himself a wink and bent over to wash his hands when someone began hammering on the front door. He marched across the room and grabbed the door handle.

  "The fuck, homes?" he said, yanking it open.

  A tall serious cop with a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a gold star that read chief, and a six-shooter on his hip let a hardened fist fall to his side. The cop's cold blue eyes scoured Teuch, then swept past him, casing the hotel room. Purple twilight glowed behind him and the evening air buzzed with crickets.

  Teuch grinned at the police chief. He didn't mind dealing with cops and their laughable set of rules.

  "Hey, Officer," he said, laying the accent on thick, saying off-fee-sour.

  "Mind if I come in?" the police chief asked in a manner as polite as his tan uniform shirt with its sharp creases and its dark brown tie.

  "Oh, sorry, homes," Teuch said, holding the edge of the door and knowing that a cop denied entry couldn't use anything he found inside to put you in jail, whether it was a MAC- 10, a bag of reefer, or someone's severed head, "but I'm going out for dinner so if you want to talk to me, you gotta talk outside. Let me get my keys and I'll be out."

  Teuch started to close the door. He had turned for his things when the police chief kicked it open and marched into the room.

  Teuch stumbled and spun and said, "You can't do that shit, man. I know my rights."

  The police chief's eyes skipped to the bed, where the machine gun lay, then right back to Teuch. The tall cop drew his revolver like a silver-screen gunslinger, drawing back the hammer with his opposite hand and a click that cut through the musty air of the thirty-dollar room.

  Teuch raised his hands and felt his bowels loosening. "I didn't do nothing."

  "What's that for?" the police chief asked, wagging his head toward the MAC-10. "I heard you got kicked off the work crew out to the senator's place."

  "Fuck the senator," Teuch said, angry at the jelly in his gut and confident in his freedom of speech.

  The pistol's muzzle flashed, the explosion deafening Teuch instantly and the shot knocking him off his feet. He came down on his rump with a jolt. His head banged back into the leg of the desk. He groped at his chest, feeling no pain, but aware that his hand came up soaked in blood before everything went black.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FEMALE SERGEANT ON DUTY AT THE JAIL KEPT ON WRITING. She said visiting hours, even for attorneys, didn't begin until after lunch, but she looked up when Casey said her name.

  "Not The Casey Jordan Story Casey Jordan, are you?"

  Casey's cheeks burned. She averted her eyes and nodded.

  "Oh my God," the sergeant said. "My mother and I taped that show. We watched it three times. You look so much younger than I thought you would."

  The sergeant stood up and extended her beefy hand. "I am so honored."

  "Thank you," Casey said, taking her hand and eyeing the name tag on her uniform, "Belinda. Do you think you could help me see Isodora a little early? I've got a million things I'm trying to get done."

  The sergeant's face bloomed with a knowing smile. "I can still see Susan Lucci's face when she says, 'A woman like me can't rest when another woman is in need.' And here you are. I can't even believe it."

  She picked up the phone and barked a couple of orders, regained her smile, and escorted Casey down a long hallway to a small interview room.

  "Would you mind signing this?" the sergeant asked. "I swear, I never ask for autographs, but, well, my mother won't even believe me."

  Casey felt her entire face go up in flames. "Sure."

  The sergeant had a pad of paper and she held it out to Casey with a pen, her round cheeks red and nearly glistening. Casey asked the mother's name and signed the paper with best wishes before handing it back.

  "Oh, this is perfect," the sergeant said. "Thank you so much."

  "My pleasure," Casey said.

  "You must get this all the time."

  "Not really, but it's my pleasure."

  "Well, I've got to get back to the desk," the sergeant said, stealing an appreciative glance at the autograph, "but she'll be right in."

  Casey sat down and pinched the bridge of her nose. After only a couple of minutes the door opened.

  The guard who escorted the bedraggled Isodora into the interview room shot Casey a dirty look from under a cap of short dark hair. The dough of her pasty white face bore permanent lines of displeasure. She pointed Isodora toward the metal chair with her scarred baton.

  "Sit down," she said, and Isodora did.

  Casey held the guard's gaze until the big woman stroked her shadow of a mustache, grunted, and told them they had ten minutes and that was it.

  "We're not supposed to be pulling them out of meals," the guard said, continuing to glare at Casey.

  "You were so kind to do it, though," Casey said.

  The guard slammed the door on her way out.

  Casey breathed in. The small square room smelled like a dirty mop tinged with the sour scent of vomit. Above them, the fluorescent tube flickered like a coming storm. Casey turned her attention to Isodora, her bony frame swallowed up by the orange prison jumpsuit. Behind the disheveled curtain of long dark hair hid the petite and pretty tearstained face of a woman who looked too young and too meek to be sitting in a jail.

  "It's all right," Casey said, reaching across the battered table for Isodora's hand.

  Isodora flinched.

  "Maria sent me," Casey said. "I'm Casey Jordan."

  Her red-rimmed eyes darted up through the tangle of hair and her hand relaxed unde
r Casey's touch.

  "I'm going to try to get your baby for you," Casey said with a squeeze. "Did anyone talk to you about Hutto?"

  Hutto, the detention facility the Department of Homeland Security used for undocumented alien families, was a former prison run by a private company. The old fortress had generated some negative publicity, but it was still the best option for undocumented aliens with children because it allowed them to spend much of their days together.

  "What's her name?" Casey said. "Your little girl?"

  Isodora sucked in her lower lip and nodded tightly. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "Paquita," she said in a whisper, her entire frame trembling.

  "That's a pretty name," Casey said. "Let's work on this. Now you have to tell me everything, Isodora. I'm your lawyer, and that means no matter what you did, I'm going to help you.

  "Did you ever have a granny? An abuelita? That's what I'm like. Anything you did is okay with me, but I need to know. Now, did you do something wrong?"

  Isodora's face crumpled and a sob escaped her.

  "I did nothing," she said, gasping out the words between great gulps of air. "They took Paquita. Elijandro is dead. I don't care where I go. Just make them give her back to me, Miss Casey. Please."

  Casey swallowed and squeezed her hand again.

  "You're sure there's nothing?" she asked softly. "Drugs? Bad people your husband was with? Because I can't figure out why this is happening."

  "They said I'm illegal," Isodora said, still sobbing. "Undocumented."

  "Okay," Casey said gently, "but there's something more. Maybe it's a mistake. It's a big government."

  Gently, Casey presented a slew of possibilities-drugs, weapons, smuggling people, and bad politics-but at every suggestion Isodora swore both she and her husband had done nothing wrong. Several times she excitedly broke into Spanish and Casey had to ask her to say it again.

  Finally Casey asked, "What about the senator's wife, Isodora?"

  Even through the curtain of hair, Casey could see the young woman's face redden.

  She shook her head and said, "No, no. He did nothing with her. He was a good husband. A good man."