Con Law (39 page)

A hundred trips, and all had worked just fine. He had remained partners with Wesley Crum because he was the dumbest Anglo Angel had ever met. But Wesley chose that night to become smart.

What had brought Angel Acosta, son of Carlos and Consuelo Acosta, devout Catholics both, to where he now stood in life, on the bank above the great Rio Conchos waiting to kill two more innocents? He had grown up in Marfa and lived as all Latinos lived in Marfa: out of sight and out of trouble. The old sheriff, he had put the fear into every Mexican’s heart with his harsh law and order; but it turned out he was a drug runner, in the law for the money. Angel wanted to believe that he did what he did for some noble cause, but in the end, it was just about the money for him, too. He wanted to have something in life. A life. With things. Everything. He wanted the finer things in life, just as the Anglos from New York enjoyed. Good wine and Gouda cheese. A sports car. A fine home behind tall walls on the north side of the railroad tracks. On the Anglo side of town.

And why should he not have what they had, the Triple As? Were they smarter, better, worthier than he? Every attorney he had met was a borderline criminal, out of jail just because his form of criminal activity had been deemed legal by lawyers who write the laws. Every artist he had met was a queer stoner trying to win the Marfa art lottery and become rich and famous. And every asshole he had met was … an asshole. Why were the attorneys, artists,
and assholes entitled to more than he? He did not feel that what he did was morally wrong … well, perhaps killing his partner was wrong. He would say a rosary for Wesley’s soul, such as it was. But his other illegal activities were no worse than rich people’s legal activities. How many rich people earned their fortunes through shady dealings on Wall Street and political favors? Through favorable laws gained by legal bribes called campaign contributions? Through legalized corruption? Joe Blow goes to prison for trading stock on insider information, but senators and congressmen go to the bank for doing exactly the same thing. How can that be constitutional, for members of Congress to exempt themselves from the very laws they impose on the people? Perhaps he would ask the professor before he killed him.

He fixed the night-vision goggles to his face. He could now see into the night. He could see the pickup truck driving fast toward him, the wall of fire behind it. Smoke filled the air. He aimed the AR-15 and fired.

The windshield blew out.

‘Get down!’ Book yelled.

Bullets peppered the truck. The shooter had a perfect line on them. There was only one place to go.

‘Hold on.’

‘They’re between a rock and a hard place,’ Lance the pilot said. ‘Wildfire’s chasing them straight at the shooter. No place for them to go.’

Or so Lance thought. Dwight Ford watched the screen as the pickup truck drove straight off the road and flew into the Rio Conchos.

‘Shit, they drove into the Conchos!’ Lance yelled. ‘They’re fuckin’ crazy!’

‘They’re fucking alive!’ Dwight said.

Two figures were visible
on the screen emerging from the pickup truck as it sank into the river. Above on the bank, the Border Patrol agent fired more shots at them.

‘Not for long,’ Lance said.

Angel had them dead in his sights. He would not be able to get an answer to his constitutional law question from the professor. Oh, well.

‘
Adiós
, Professor.’

But he could not pull the trigger. He could not move his body. He could not hold the rifle. It fell from his hands. His eyes turned down to his chest. A large hole now gaped in his uniform shirt and his insides hung out. Blood gushed forth. He turned and saw the big sheriff standing there, smoke from the barrel of his handgun hanging in the air.

‘
Adiós
yourself, podna,’ the sheriff said.

Angel Acosta fell over dead.

Sheriff Brady Munn holstered his .44 Magnum and searched the Conchos for the professor and Carla in the moonlight and the light from the fires. He spotted them; they were being swept downriver toward the point a mile east where the Conchos joined the Rio Grande. Which was just as well since the wildfire was coming Brady’s way fast. He turned and ran north and crossed over the dry Rio Grande riverbed. The Conchos turned hard east so he lost sight of the professor and Carla.

He jumped into his SUV, fired up the engine, and stomped on the accelerator. He drove east on the river road a mile past where the Conchos merged in, then slammed on the brakes. He cut the engine and got out. He opened the back liftgate and retrieved his rope. He ran down to the river.

The current was strong with the Conchos’s water. He searched the river for the professor and Carla, but he couldn’t find them. He yelled for them, but got no response. Just when he was about to run back to the SUV and drive farther
down-river, he spotted them.

‘There!’

He yelled to them, and they saw him. He fashioned a loop with the rope then twirled the loop above his head as if he were about to rope a calf in a rodeo competition and flung the loop at the professor. He missed. He reeled in the rope and flung the loop again. The professor grabbed the rope this time. He hung onto the rope with one hand and Carla with the other. Brady dug the heels of his cowboy boots into the earth, leaned his two hundred twenty pounds back, and pulled with all his strength against the current that tried to take them downriver. The rope burned his bare hands, but Brady felt no pain. His hands bled by the time he pulled them to dry land.

Dwight Ford threw his fists in the air. ‘Yes!’

The professor and Carla lay there coughing and spitting water, but alive and unhurt. Finally, the professor knelt up and stuck a hand out to Brady. He grabbed the professor’s hand and yanked him to his feet. The professor then helped Carla up. They stood there on the bank of the Rio Grande and gathered themselves as one does after having barely escaped death. To the southeast, the sky brightened with the breaking dawn; to the southwest, the sky burned bright with fire. The wildfire came to the river, but did not cross. No doubt it had scorched everything and everyone in its path. Just as well. What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico. After a moment, the professor turned back to Brady.

‘Sheriff—thanks for the help.’

‘Now that wasn’t so hard, was it, Professor?’

Sheriff Brady Munn stretched his big body and gazed upon Presidio County and Mexico beyond. The border carried a harsh beauty and a harsher justice. He shook his head and exhaled at the grandeur of it all. Damn, but he loved the desert at dawn. He grunted.

‘You folks want to get a cup
of coffee?’

The desert had changed John Bookman. He had come to this harsh land and paid off an overdue debt. And while he would never be a father, he would now be a godfather. To Nathan Jones Jr. Brenda had asked Book when they had said their goodbyes.

‘Final exam, Nadine. What did you learn in Marfa, Texas?’

‘A, I like to hit bad guys in the head with beer bottles. B, I’m a lot tougher than I thought. And C, I matter. To you. To my dad. To myself.’

‘Very good. You made an A on this field trip.’

‘Can we go home now?’

‘Yes. We can go home now.’

It was Friday morning. Book had brought Nadine back to the Paisano the day before. He and Carla had given written statements to the sheriff and the FBI, DEA, and Border Patrol and an exclusive interview to Sam Walker for his next edition. Nathan Jones had not been killed by an evil oil company or a greedy fracker, but by his best friend who needed a job. But Billy Bob Barnett sat in the Presidio County Jail pending transfer to federal court in El Paso
on criminal environmental charges. And his lawyer, Tom Dunn, was under investigation for aiding and abetting his client. But the videotape had been lost, and the tankers burned, and there were jurisdictional issues since the dumping occurred in Mexico. Hence, conviction of either man was doubtful. They were innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That was constitutional law in America.

Book sat astride the repaired Harley outside the courtyard of the Paisano Hotel; Pedro had done a good job. Nadine sat behind him with her right leg in the cast secured to one side and her left arm in the cast secured to the other. Sheriff Brady Munn and Carla Kent stood next to them.

‘Official line is, those two Border Patrol agents died in the line of duty,’ the sheriff said. ‘Drug bust gone bad.’

‘Figures. Thanks again, Sheriff. For your help.’

‘It’s what we do out here in this desert, Professor.’

Carla bent down and kissed Book on the cheek.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

‘Make sure Billy Bob’s convicted. And fight fracking.’

‘It’s good to be busy.’

‘You ever get up to Santa Fe, look me up, cowboy.’

‘Comanche.’

Book, Carla, and Nadine had eaten take-out from Maiya’s on Rock’s outdoor patio the night before. They drank too much wine and beer. Nadine had fallen asleep, so he had carried her to Liz’s bed and tucked her in. Then Carla had collected on her rain check. They had danced under the stars to music drifting over from Padre’s Marfa. And they had spent one last night together. Book fired up the Harley and pulled on the doo-rag.

‘You know,’ Carla said, ‘you really should wear a helmet. You’re lucky you didn’t get brain damage in that crash.’

‘It’s already damaged.’

‘Well, you are a half-crazy Comanche, but you
can still find your way home.’

‘So far.’

She stared at him then abruptly took his face and kissed him full on the lips. A long kiss.

‘There would be romance,’ his intern said.

Carla finally released Book and stepped back. The sheriff stepped forward and stuck a hand out.

‘I ain’t kissing you.’

They shook.

‘You take care, podna. You too, little lady.’

Book turned his head to his back-seat passenger. ‘You ready to roll?’

Nadine strapped the goggles on over her black glasses. ‘Yep. Got on my last pair of new underwear. I’m good.’

‘Over-share.’

Book slid on the sunglasses. The sheriff touched his finger to his cowboy hat.

‘
Adiós
, podna.’

Book shifted into gear and gunned the Harley south on Highland Avenue. Nadine raised her good arm into the air. Sheriff Munn and Carla Kent smiled at the bumper sticker on the back
of Nadine’s seat that read:
I
JUDD
.

‘Mr. Stanton, if the federal government can force an American citizen to buy health insurance, can it also force you to buy a Chevrolet vehicle since the government now owns twenty-seven percent of General Motors?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Why not?’

‘That would be unconstitutional.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I drive a Beemer.’

The class laughed. But not Ms. Garza. Her T-shirt read
I ♥ OBAMACARE
in honor of that day’s Con Law topic.

‘Let’s turn to the majority opinion of Chief Justice Roberts in
National Federation of Independent Business v. Sebelius, Secretary of Health and Human Services
. It was a five-to-four decision actually, it was two five-to-four decisions—with Roberts being the deciding vote both times. The law under the Court’s review was the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, also known as Obamacare, the key provision of which is the so-called “individual mandate.” Essentially, that
provision
requires all citizens
not covered by
a government or employer plan to buy private health insurance. If they fail to do so, they must pay a penalty to the government. What was the idea behind the law?’

Ms. Garza’s hand shot into the air.

‘Ms. Garza.’

‘The individual mandate
requires everyone to pay into the health insurance system in order to prevent cost-shifting. If you go uninsured, my insurance premiums will increase to subsidize your care. You will be shifting the cost of your medical care to me. We must force everyone into the system. That’s the only way Obamacare works. That’s the only way to make the healthcare system fair.’

‘Ms. Garza, is fairness the issue before the Supreme Court?’

‘It should be.’

‘Not my question.’

‘No.’

‘What is the issue before the Supreme Court, in this or any other case, when the Court reviews a Congressional act?’

‘Whether Congress acted within its constitutional authority.’

‘Correct. Mr. Stanton, what was the plaintiffs’ main argument in that regard?’

Mr. Stanton’s head was down. He was texting on the back row.

‘Mr. Stanton, if you please.’

‘Sorry, Professor, I’m selling my Whole Foods stock. Bought it at seven after the crash, selling it at ninety-four.’

‘The appellant’s main argument, please.’

‘That the individual mandate exceeded Congress’s power under the Commerce Clause.’

‘And the Commerce Clause authorizes Congress to do what?’

‘Regulate foreign and interstate commerce.’

‘But the business of health insurance is clearly interstate commerce—commerce that crosses state lines. Why did the plaintiffs think the individual mandate exceeded Congress’s authority?’