A Blossom of Bright Light (23 page)

“Papi doesn't
know
Mia!” he said more forcefully. Vega was losing his patience.

“Look, Neto, at this point
nobody
knows Mia. Except you.”

Neto pointed to the photograph above the cash register.

“He does. Mia lives with him. In the birdhouse.”

Chapter 28

S
teve Schulman's campaign headquarters was in a former car dealership a short walk from his law offices in Broad Plains. The building—a large one-story showroom with floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows—offered the unusual advantage of being both a command center for the campaign and a walking billboard. All the windows were filled with posters of Schulman looking robust and commanding. He was ten years older than his opponent, John Sawyer, and his habit of hunching his shoulders made him sometimes appear scholarly and disengaged—like more of an observer than a doer, though that really wasn't the case.

Schulman wasn't expecting Adele, but she knew he'd be here this evening, running through his speeches for tomorrow night's gala. She knew Charlie Gonzalez would be here too, working the phones and conferring with Schulman's biggest supporters in the Hispanic community. She could have called to talk to Schulman, but then she'd have had to run the gauntlet of assistants and college interns. This request was too important not to deliver in person. So she'd asked the mom of Sophia's good friend and soccer teammate to take the girls for pizza after practice. Sophia grumbled that she wanted to go home instead. But a man's life was on the line. Sophia couldn't understand why that trumped her needs. Adele hoped one day she would.

A perky young college intern met Adele at the front door of the campaign headquarters and thrust a flyer and button into Adele's hand. It took Adele ten minutes to convince the intern that she really, really needed to see Schulman and nobody else would do. It took another ten minutes and five more people before Schulman finally appeared, saw that it was Adele, and ushered her into his temporary office.

He had a big hopeful smile on his face. “You came all the way over here tonight to give me your answer?”

“Um, no.” She had no excuse—no excuse at all. But she tried for one anyway. “I'm sorry, Steve. I can't yet. This whole situation with Manuel Serrano has been occupying my mind nonstop. I'll be able to think much more clearly when it's resolved.”

“I thought it was,” said Schulman. “Not to our satisfaction, mind you. But . . .” He spread his hands.

“I thought so too. But I have good news.”

Schulman walked over to the door of his office. “Mind if I bring Charlie in? He'll want to hear this.”

“Absolutely. He can share it with Manuel's children.”

Schulman leaned out his door and collared another perky intern. A different one, Adele thought. But she couldn't tell. They all looked like fresh-faced Mormons at their first missionary event. There was something Adele could only describe as religious fervor in their eyes.

A few minutes later, Gonzalez appeared in the doorway.

“Doña Adele! What a pleasant surprise.” He shot a quick glance at Schulman, who gave the slightest shake of his head. Adele read their unspoken exchange. Clearly Gonzalez too had thought she'd stopped by to accept the position.

Gonzalez closed the office door. He and Adele took seats while Schulman sat behind his desk, stretching a rubber band between his fingers. Adele realized she was taking up valuable campaign time. She'd try to make it brief.

“I've spent the better part of the last two days working through friends and former colleagues to secure a personal contact at the Board of Immigration Appeals,” said Adele. “About an hour ago, I finally got a call back from Judge Quentin Hallard.” She read a look of concern pass between Schulman and Gonzalez. “Don't worry. I didn't involve Steve's candidacy in any stage of the process.”

“That's good,” said Gonzalez.

“But see, the thing is”—Adele addressed Schulman with her words—“Judge Hallard has Manuel's case on his desk. He's willing to read the whole thing and render an opinion right away. But he says he wants to speak to Steve first—”

“Adele, no,” Gonzalez interrupted. “Steve can't do that—”

“Off the record.” Adele felt as if the room were filling with fire, as if she had just seconds to break the glass and vent the smoke or she'd be consumed. She ignored Gonzalez and focused entirely on Schulman—her mentor, her support in those early years when she'd needed it most. “Judge Hallard promises confidentiality. He just wants reassurance from Steve that John Sawyer won't get into office and find a way to punish him. He's not even promising he'll intercede on Manuel's behalf. But he's willing to look at the case. It's Manuel's only chance. Once he goes back to Mexico, who knows what anyone can do? Even Steve. Even from the position of an elected senator. Manuel's still on U.S. soil. All Steve has to do is make the call.”

Schulman removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It's past six p.m., Adele. On a Friday night. By Monday, Serrano could already be in the process of being deported across the border.”

“Judge Hallard realizes that. So he gave me his cell number. He's leaving the country Saturday night on a two-week trip to China. He told me if you can call him by nine tomorrow evening, he could probably get one of his assistants to put together the paperwork Sunday and rush it over to the jail in Pike County first thing Monday morning. The sooner you call the better, since Judge Hallard has to look over the case and make phone calls, and he can't very well do that from the plane.”

Schulman looked up from his hands and sighed. “Adele—maybe this is one we have to let go—”

“No!”

“But why Serrano? Why him?”

“Because . . .”

Because of Luna.
When Adele looked at Luna, she saw herself, the girl she had once been, the daughter of undocumented immigrants who placed all their hopes and dreams on their oldest and most serious child. Luna read voraciously, just as Adele always had. She got straight As in school. She dreamed big. She worked hard. She gave her heart to her family. She kept her feelings to herself. If ever there was a girl who brought back every hope and fear of Adele's adolescence, it was Luna Serrano.

But there was something else, too. Something more basic. No matter how well intended everyone tried to be, the simple fact was, children need their parents. Where would Adele be today if her parents hadn't been there to guide and support her?

“Those children need their father, Steve. He's all they've got left. You talk in your campaign about the importance of family. Well, here's a family. They need your help.
I
need your help.”

Adele waited. Schulman twirled a rubber band between his fingers. He and Gonzalez exchanged glances. Outside the office, phones rang, copiers churned, and televisions blared with campaign commercials. Schulman shot the rubber band into the garbage like a little kid scoring a three-point basket. He nodded to himself as if there were two people inside of him having an argument. Then he held out a hand.

“You have Hallard's cell?”

Adele was so excited; she walked around the desk and hugged him. She probably would have agreed to the job in D.C. right then and there if he'd asked. But he didn't, and for that, she was grateful. She handed him the slip of paper with all the contact information neatly typed out.

“Thank you, Steve. I owe you.” She turned to Gonzalez and swept him up in her gaze. “I owe you both.”

She started for the door. “Adele?”

She turned. Gonzalez grabbed a campaign envelope and a sheaf of papers on Schulman's desk. “Can you do us a favor?”

“Anything.”

Gonzalez folded the papers, inserted them into the envelope, and licked the envelope shut. Then he handed it to her. “This is the section of Steve's speech for tomorrow night that deals with his position on immigration. Can you look over the wording and see what you think?”

Adele tucked the envelope in her bag. “Of course. I'd be delighted. I'll read it over tonight.”

“Good. Thank you.”

 

Gonzalez watched Adele practically skip through the maze of phone banks and computers. Then he closed the office door and stared at the piece of paper on Schulman's desk with all of Judge Hallard's contact information. Schulman tented his fingers in front of him and said nothing for a long spell. When he did speak, it was one word:

“Well?”

Gonzalez and Schulman went back years together politically. One word was all that was needed.

Gonzalez sat back in his chair, his belly like a small pillow in front of him. He studied his fingernails. He kept them clean now. Scrupulously clean. He hadn't always had that luxury.

“Adele is very—enthusiastic at times, yes?” asked Gonzalez slowly.

“And this is bad?”

Gonzalez gave Schulman a painful look. “She does not always understand the situation.”

“Speaking of situations, I didn't like making that call to the county police yesterday. I don't like to play bully.”

“I understand, Steve. I don't think it will be a problem again. That's why we need to deal with this the right way. We need to understand that there are
issues
involved.” Gonzalez held Schulman's gaze.

“And by issues, you mean personal issues?” asked Schulman.

“Yes. Personal issues.”

Silence.

“These personal issues,” said Schulman. “Is it too late to, um—deal with them another way?”

“In the time frame we're talking about? Yes. I would say so.”

Schulman reached across the desk and crumpled the piece of paper with Judge Quentin Hallard's cell phone neatly typed out. He tossed it in his trash.

“These issues will remain personal this time, I trust?”

“You have my word.”

Chapter 29

A
soft rain dripped off the leaves and glistened under the streetlights as Vega made the familiar rights and lefts that had come to feel second nature to him now. He wondered if this would be the last time he'd pull up in front of Adele's little blue Victorian on Pine Road. Last summer, he'd replaced the floorboards on her front porch and rehung a couple of doors. A few weeks ago, he repaired some of the shingles on her garage roof. It wasn't even his house and he felt so much nostalgia for it. He was happy here. He was happy with Adele. He couldn't imagine being happy without her ever again.

Adele's porch lights were on, but her house was dark. Vega found a parking spot four doors down and decided to wait a while to see if she'd come home. He sat in his car—watching the street, watching her driveway—and brooded about the case. None of it made any sense. He had a teenage mother dressed in Joy's hoodie who had died in childbirth, and the only person who could identify her was another teenager with the IQ of a five-year-old. He had her baby, abandoned to die in the woods, and the only witness was a delusional alcoholic who was now dead himself from poison that no one could find. And he had one of the most politically powerful Hispanic couples in the county linked in very tenuous ways to all of it. By a disabled teenager, a drunk, and his ex-wife's maid. What was he missing?

Vega was positive that Esme knew the girl and knew she was pregnant. The fact that Esme hadn't come forward suggested she was covering up for someone. The baby's father? A few days ago, Vega would've thought that it was some love-struck, pimply-faced nephew of Esme's who'd panicked that his girlfriend was about to give birth. But that was before the DNA came back on Neto. Now Vega knew he was looking for a man who had to be pushing forty, at least, to have fathered both children. So he was looking for a forty-something-year-old man who had fathered a child with a fifteen- to seventeen-year-old girl. In New York State, that was a felony—reason enough for Esme to want to cover it up.

It had to be Charlie Gonzalez.

Still, like Greco said, Vega needed more than the word of a mentally disabled teenager. He needed something to prove that this might have happened before. He clicked on his dashboard computer and typed “Carlos Gonzalez” into the Department of Motor Vehicles database. Hundreds of Carlos Gonzalezes appeared on the screen. Vega typed Gonzalez's address into the system and eliminated all but one. The file before him contained Gonzalez's date of birth and the Social Security number that had been issued to him after he became a U.S. citizen. Vega copied those and fed them into a national crime database. He expected to find nothing. Gonzalez had a reputation for being squeaky clean. He wasn't even much of a drinker.

One arrest did come up, however. It took place nineteen and a half years ago, when Gonzalez was twenty-seven, before he became a citizen. The charge? Sexual assault of a minor. The alleged victim was a girl of fifteen.

Inés?
The age corresponded to Neto, but there was no way to tell. Police work was an entirely different game two decades ago, much less about science and much more about witnesses. The victim's name had been expunged from the record because of her age. There was no DNA, and apparently by the time the charges were brought, no physical evidence either. The victim eventually dropped the charges. It would have been a hard case to prove without physical evidence anyway. In all likelihood, if Gonzalez had gone to trial, he would have been acquitted—

Unless Neto was the product of that rape.
Neto's paternity could have been tested. Neto's birth would have made the case stick. And since Gonzalez only had a green card at the time—not citizenship—a conviction would not only have meant jail time, it likely would have resulted in deportation. Clearly, Charlie Gonzalez had a lot to lose.

So what happened? How had the two families managed to coexist and even thrive in the same town under such a shameful secret? They didn't avoid each other, that was for sure. Esme shopped at Claudia's store. Neto worked at Charlie's car wash. How was this possible if Gonzalez had done this terrible thing?

Vega had an idea how. He typed Claudia Aguilar's name into the database. No arrests came up, but ICE records showed that the person who sponsored Claudia and Inés for green cards was Carlos Gonzalez—who had obtained his own citizenship less than a year after his unnamed victim dropped her assault charges. Vega dug a little deeper and found real estate records that showed that Gonzalez bought the building Claudia's store was housed in within a year after the dropped charges. Gonzalez also cosigned a loan to help finance the opening of the store.

Vega sat back from the glow of his screen and felt a vague queasiness come over him. Up until this moment, he'd always loved walking into Claudia's bodega. He loved the lemony scent of ripe guavas, the rows of prayer candles, the exotic foods and spices that served as poignant reminders of a motherland that for him, at least, was as imagined as it was real. But he felt something dark and unsettling now when he thought of those rough-hewn plank floors and ropes of yellow and green plantains hanging from the ceiling. Beneath the homespun comfort there was something rancid. Something that smelled to him an awful lot like blood money.

Up ahead, he saw two headlights pull into Adele's driveway. He got out of his car and jogged over, pulling his collar up against the rain. Sophia jumped out of the car and ran under the eaves of the porch.

“Hey there, Sophia.”

The girl smiled back shyly. She was all stick limbs and big teeth, just like Joy at that age. Vega had a sense the child liked him but was afraid to show it too much out of loyalty to her dad. Vega never pushed. He didn't want to become Wendy's Alan in some other divorced father's life.

He noticed that Sophia was still wearing her soccer uniform and cleats. “Little late for practice, isn't it?”

“I had dinner afterward with my friend Katie. Mommy had to work—
again
.”

Vega noticed Sophia didn't mention D.C. He wondered if he wasn't the only one who'd been left in the dark. He found himself getting annoyed with Adele that she hadn't told her own daughter yet. It didn't seem fair to spring it on her all of a sudden. Not his business, he supposed. But still.

Adele got out of her car and walked up the front steps carrying a bulging briefcase. She didn't look happy to see him.

“I can't talk tonight, Jimmy. I haven't eaten. Sophia needs a shower before bed, and I've got part of Steve's speech for tomorrow night to look over.”

“I'm happy to spring for pizza or Chinese for the two of us while Sophia takes a shower.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.” Adele didn't like doing “dates” when Sophia was in the house. Vega knew that. But this was important.

“I really think we need to talk.”

Rain hammered the porch roof. Adele remained rooted in place.

“Guess what?” Sophia blurted into the silence. “I'm taking guitar lessons!”

One more thing Adele hadn't told him.

“She's only had one lesson so far,” said Adele, as if to excuse the omission.

“Can you show me how to play chords?” Sophia asked Vega.

“Uh—” Vega looked at Adele. “—If your mom says it's okay.”

He was playing good cop to Adele's bad, just as he used to do with Wendy over Joy. Old habits die hard.

Adele sighed. “You can stay for pizza. And then I have to work.”

In the house, Adele seemed preoccupied and tense. Vega tried to stay out of her way.

“The teacher wants me to strum ‘Kumbaya,' ” said Sophia, leading Vega into the living room and handing him her nylon-stringed guitar. “That's so boring.”

The guitar was out of tune. Nylon strings always went out of tune quickly. Vega preferred steel. He tuned it up. “What do you
want
to play?”

Sophia named a song Vega didn't know by an artist who was probably the current bubblegum favorite.

“Can you sing it?” he asked.

She did—better than her mother, though Vega would never tell Adele that. He quickly picked out the melody and figured out the chords. He had a good ear and could usually replicate a pop song on the guitar note for note in under ten minutes. He handed the guitar back to Sophia and began to show her the fingerings. She tried to do a bar chord, holding her entire finger horizontally across the strings, but they just buzzed. She looked disappointed.

“Don't worry. You'll get it in time,” said Vega.

Adele called out from the kitchen. “Time to take a shower, Sophia.”

“But Mom—”

“Now.”

“Just five more minutes?”

“I said now!”

Sophia returned her guitar to its case and stomped upstairs to the bathroom. She slammed the door. When Vega was sure the child was out of earshot, he walked over to the kitchen and leaned in the doorway. Adele was standing at the counter with her glasses on, reading what appeared to be Schulman's speech and scribbling in the margins. She didn't lift her head to look at him. Vega could see the soft swells of her breasts pushing against the buttons of her pale pink blouse. He felt the same tug he always felt—in his loins, his lips, his arms, but most of all, his heart.

“She was having fun,” said Vega softly. “You could have let her continue a little longer.”

Adele put her pen down and flipped her glasses on top of her head. “Sophia's beginning to get attached to you—in case you haven't noticed. Why are you making what I have to do even harder? Or is that your plan?”

“My
plan?
”

“Coming over here tonight unannounced. Charming Sophia. Trying to stir up dirt on the Gonzalezes yesterday.”

“You think this is some sort of
plan?
To get you to stay?” Vega clenched his jaw and tried to control his anger. “I came here tonight to warn you, Nena. You need to be careful.”

“In other words, I need to turn down the job in D.C.” Adele crumpled up an envelope sitting next to her paperwork and threw it in the garbage.

“You're not even listening to me.”

“I am. And what I'm hearing is that you don't think we can put a few hundred miles between us and keep a relationship going.”

“That's not it.” He paced the kitchen. “Okay, maybe it was before.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But not now. Now, it's something real. Something you need to know.”

He finally had her attention, and he wasn't sure how to start. He took a deep breath. “You texted me this afternoon that Inés told you she was raped at fifteen, yes? And the man who raped her is Neto's father.”

“That's what I gather.”

“I'm pretty sure I know who the rapist is.”

“Who?”

“Charlie Gonzalez.”

“What?
You're crazy.”

“Gonzalez was arrested nineteen years ago in Lake Holly for the sexual assault of a minor. The victim eventually dropped the charges, and less than a year later, Gonzalez not only sponsored Claudia and Inés Aguilar for green cards, he bought Claudia's building and cosigned a loan so she could start her grocery store.”

“He's a very generous man.”

“You know any other businesses he's done that with?”

“I haven't asked,” she said coolly.

“Adele, the police have DNA that says Neto Rivera and Baby Mercy were fathered by the same man. So Baby Mercy's father is at least around forty—”

“For all you know, Baby Mercy's mother is near forty too, so whatever the relationship was, it was completely consensual.”

“It couldn't be. Not in the eyes of the law.” Vega held her gaze.

Adele saw the truth without him saying. She gripped the edge of the counter. “Oh God, Jimmy.” She looked pale and shaky. “That teenage girl on Joy's campus. You're not saying she's—”

“I'm not saying anything, Nena. As a police officer, I can't. Do you understand?”

She closed her eyes and tented her fingers to her lips as if in prayer. “That's two young teenage girls over the space of two decades,” she whispered. “If what you're saying is true, they can't be the only ones.”

“I suspect not.”

“I trusted him.”

“That's what molesters do. They get people to trust them.”

The pizza deliveryman rang the doorbell. Sophia opened the bathroom door and called down the stairs that her shower was over and she was ready to say good night. Adele looked suddenly overwhelmed. She sank down in a chair and put her head in her hands. “Oh God,” she mumbled. “Oh God.”

“How 'bout you say good night to Sophia while I pay the pizza guy, okay?”

Adele nodded and went upstairs. Vega paid for the pizza and moved Adele's papers to one side on the kitchen counter to make room for the box. On top of the first page he noticed some handwriting:
Adele—can you look this over for Steve? Thanks, Charlie
. Vega stared at the handwriting then stared at the torn envelope in the trash. He felt something percolating in his gut—part hope, part fear. It would answer all their questions. It would generate a hundred more.

When Adele returned to the kitchen, Vega pointed to the envelope in the garbage.

“Did Gonzalez give that to you?”

“Yeah. It contained Steve's speech.”

“Did he lick it?”

“I think so. I don't remember.” And then it dawned on her. She was still enough of an attorney to realize what he was asking. “Oh no, Jimmy. No! You don't mean—”