Dream Things True (21 page)

It was too much.

 

 

Evan slowly turned off Brady Road, following a line of cars into the parking lot. The lot was surrounded by a wasteland—fenced-in plots of unnaturally gray soil with abandoned cars and trucks strewn across. Amid such harsh terrain, the county jail seemed out of place. It was a new building made of red brick with tinted-glass windows gleaming below a large bronze sign that read “Office of the Sheriff, Gilbert County Jail.”

The lot was full. He had to circle twice before finding a spot. He waited, idling behind a cab with “Taxi El Palmar” written across the sides. An elderly woman emerged and shuffled toward the door. He parked near a line of deputies' cars, aware that he was being watched. He glanced toward the brick building, looking for the visitor entrance. It wasn't hard to find. Dozens of people gathered around the glass door, pressing in to read notices taped to the inside.

Alma had been right. This was not good. His eyes closed briefly against the bright morning light. He let out a deep sigh and headed toward the throngs of people.

There was a subtle shifting of bodies, and anxious conversations fell silent around him. He felt the gaze of curious eyes as the crowds parted to let him through. Posted on the door was an alphabetical list titled “Current Detention Center Population,” with hundreds of names, almost all of them Spanish. When he arrived at
G
, his eyes fell upon the names he didn't want to see:

Garcia, Eduardo

Garcia, Ra
ú
l David

A young officer opened the door from the inside.

“We need an orderly, single-file line, folks. Sign in on the clipboard and take a seat.”

Evan went in and waited for the clipboard. By the time his turn came to scratch his name onto the list, the pencil had been worn down to a nub. He considered asking the young officer to sharpen it, but he sensed the urgency of the people pressing behind him. He turned to hand the pencil to a small woman wearing a housedress embroidered with bright flowers.

Then a door slammed behind him and an arm caught his shoulder. Evan turned, startled by the grasp. Sheriff Cronin stood looking at him with a broad, silly grin spread across his face.

“Evan, my boy, what the hell are you doing here?”

Evan, confused by the sheriff's jovial tone, was unable to produce an answer.

“Aw, hell, son,” he exclaimed with a long Southern drawl. “Don't you go tellin' me that the after-party over at your place got out of control.”

Evan shook his head slowly. He couldn't produce a word.

“I know, son. I was young, too,” he said, jostling Evan's shoulder lightly. “I guess it's time for you to call in a favor to your old Uncle Buddy, huh?”

His eyes swept across the crowd gathered in the waiting room.

“You picked a hell of a day to do it.” He scratched the back of his head. “So which one of your partners in crime landed himself in the slammer?”

Sheriff Cronin ushered Evan through a door, and they sat down on molded plastic chairs.

“What's the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?”

Evan looked down at his feet and grasped the edge of the chair.

“Don't worry, son. Old Uncle Buddy has seen just about everything. Hell, remember those stories your momma used to tell?”

Hope flickered in his mind. Uncle Buddy
could
help, couldn't he? He was, after all, the sheriff. “Uh, nothing happened last night at the party, Uncle Buddy.”

“Go on and spit it out, boy,” the sheriff said.

“It's my friend Ra
ú
l. He and his dad are here. I need to figure out what happened and try to post bail.”

“Well, where the hell is the rest of his family, Evan? You don't need to get caught up in this.”

“Like I said, his dad's in here, too. He doesn't have a mom. I mean, she died a long time ago, and his sister, Alma, uh … You know, my girlfriend? She asked me to come.”

Sheriff Cronin leaned back in his chair and shook his head slowly.

“It was a mistake, Uncle Buddy. They're good people.”

“Your girlfriend's daddy, huh?” He spoke slowly, processing the information coming through Evan's anxious words. “You're talking about your momma's gardener, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Evan replied, “Mr. Garcia has a landscaping business. He does our yard.”

“Damned shame,” Sheriff Cronin replied, shaking his head again. His jovial Uncle Buddy tone was gone. He had shifted into his Sheriff Cronin voice.

“What the hell was your momma thinkin' hiring an illegal to do her yard? “

Evan shrugged.

“Doesn't she know what a mess this will be for Sexton?”

Suddenly, the word “illegal” surged into Evan's awareness, bringing on a bout of vertigo.
How did he know?
He leaned back into his seat and held on.

Sheriff Cronin stood up.

“Well, son, I can take you back there to see them, but don't waste your time postin' bail. We'll have to keep 'em here till Immigration comes.”

Evan's throat produced a sound he didn't recognize. “But what did they
do
? What
happened
?”

The sheriff held the door open and urged Evan out of the interrogation room.

“I haven't got a clue, son. All I know is they're here because they don't have the paperwork to prove that they're in the country legally. It's my responsibility to make sure they get on back to where they belong.”

Evan felt his muscles begin to twitch as the heat rose to his face.

“Since when is it your responsibility?” Evan's anger surprised him. “You're the local sheriff. You can't just go and deport people for no reason.”

A smirk spread across Sheriff Cronin's face.

“You've been brushing up on immigration law, have you?”

“I don't know much,” Evan replied, struggling not to raise his voice, “but I know that immigration is a federal issue, and you're a county sheriff.”

“So you think I'm gettin' too big for my britches, huh?” Sheriff Cronin asked, chuckling softly. “Look, son. I need you to keep this quiet for now because we don't want to stir up commotion. But our county and a few others in Georgia are gonna start helping ICE deal with this illegal-immigration problem. You know what ICE is?”

“Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” Evan said slowly.

“Some of our deputies got trained by ICE, and they're gonna make sure that anyone who we pick up in Gilbert County has permission to be here. If they don't have permission, we'll turn 'em over to ICE and they'll be deported.”

Evan stood up and ran his hand through his hair. “So, you're saying that Ra
ú
l and his dad broke a law?”

Sheriff Cronin stood and reached out to grasp his shoulder. “Evan, son, I'm real sorry that your friend and his dad got mixed up in all of this. I'm sure they
are
nice folks, but if they're here in my jail, it's because they're illegal. With any luck, they'll be back home in Mexico in a few weeks.”

Evan tried to imagine Ra
ú
l in Mexico, to reconcile the words “home” and “Mexico” with everything he knew about his friend.

He pulled away, anger coursing through him. “So, no favors today?”

“Son, you know I'd do just about anything for your family. But
this
I simply cannot do. You have no idea the shitstorm it would cause if I released your girlfriend's family from this jail. I can guaran-damn-tee you that I wouldn't be doin' nobody any favors, especially not your Uncle Sexton.”

Evan's phone emitted a high-pitched noise. He looked down to see the text.

ANY NEWS?

Evan wanted to shove the phone back into his pocket, but he gestured for Sheriff Cronin to wait and typed a quick reply:

IT'S NOT LOOKING GOOD. I'M SO SORRY. ON MY WAY TO SEE THEM NOW.

Evan tried with all of his might to keep the tears from coming.

FIFTEEN

Hometown

Terror surged as Alma processed the words in Evan's text. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to imagine the serene face of Our Lady of
La Leche
while she said a silent prayer. She saw the black eyes and pink cheeks, and the way she held tightly to her son.

Dios te salve Mar
í
a, llena eres de gracia …

If Evan, the eternal optimist, was acknowledging that things weren't good, then they must be very bad. Alma slumped to the ground.

El Se
ñ
or es contigo.

Trying to calm her mind, she walked along the road in front of Maplewood Elementary and made a mental list—a list of any facts that could possibly offer hope. Her father had a valid driver's license.

Bendita t
ú
eres entre todas las mujeres …

It would expire soon, and since the laws had changed in Georgia, he wouldn't be able to renew. But it was still valid—for now.

Y bendito es el fruto en tu vientre, J
é
sus.

Neither her father nor Ra
ú
l had ever been in trouble with the law—not even a speeding ticket.

Santa Mar
í
a, Madre de Dios …

Alma's phone rang. Evan. She fumbled to answer.

“Evan?”

“Nah, Alma. It's just me. Sorry to disappoint.”

To her surprise and relief, Ra
ú
l's voice came through the line.

Alma placed her hand over her heart, trying to calm the rapid beating. This was good, right? If Ra
ú
l was talking to her on Evan's phone, then he wasn't in jail.

“Ra
ú
l? You're out. What happened? Where's Dad?”

“Alma, slow down. We're not out. Your boyfriend must have the hookup with the cops cuz they brought him back here to us
and
they let me use his cell phone to call you.”

Ra
ú
l chuckled. He was trying hard to calm her with his cheerful tone, but Alma heard worry pressing through his voice.

Instinctively, she began to pray again silently.
Dios te salve Mar
í
a, llena eres de gracia …

“Evan said you heard about the checkpoints on the radio,” Ra
ú
l said.

“Uh-huh,” Alma replied.

“Dad came up to one on Athens Highway.”

“I knew it,” Alma said.

“I was on my way home, too, in the work truck. I left a few minutes after him. He called to tell me I should turn around. They were checking for driver's licenses, so Dad got through. But while we were talking on the phone, he said a cop was trailing him with his lights flashing.”

Ra
ú
l paused, and Alma slumped deeper, staring at a crack in the pavement.

“We hung up, and he pulled over to talk to the cop. I didn't know what happened to him until I saw him here a couple hours later. I turned around and went the back way, you know, toward the lake. But there was another checkpoint back there.”

“Oh, no,” Alma said.

“I got stopped for not having a license. I'm telling you, Alma, they had the whole neighborhood blocked off. There was no way out.”

“So do you have to pay a fine, or something?”

“That's not all, Alma. You know the machete—the one dad keeps behind the seat?”

“Yeah.”

“They said it was a concealed weapon, and I'm supposed to have a permit.”

“The machete? Did you tell them it was just a gardening tool?”

“Yeah, they didn't buy it. They said if it was for gardening, then why weren't there any other landscaping tools in the truck?”

Every Friday afternoon Alma's dad took the tools from the bed of the truck to clean them. This Friday had been no exception.

“But it's not like it was hidden. It's just there so it doesn't rattle around in the back.”

“They charged me with a misdemeanor, Alma. They weren't all that interested in the details.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Alma said. “What about Dad?”

“The cop stopped him because something was wrong with the Bronco.”

“Dad's Bronco?” Alma asked, incredulous. He kept it in impeccable shape.

“Yeah. You know those little lights next to the license plate? There's one on each side?”

“Yeah,” Alma replied, not sure whether she did, and wondering how this conversation had anything to do with her dad being in jail.

“One was burned out, and they stopped him because of that.” Ra
ú
l's voice thickened as he continued in a low growl. “They were just looking for a way to stop us, Alma. They were trying to find any excuse.”

“Oh, God.” Alma said.

This was bad.

“Everyone's freaking out in here. People are saying they've called ICE to come and get us. They're not even allowed to do that, are they?”

“No,” Alma replied, dazed. “I don't think so.”

“We'll get out of here when they figure out they screwed up.”

Alma heard a rustling on the other end of the line.

“Hold up a sec, Alma.”

Muffled voices crossed the line, and whoever was speaking seemed angry.

“Listen, I've gotta go,” Ra
ú
l said anxiously. “People are getting pissed that I'm using Evan's cell phone. They're asking the guard why they can't use theirs.”

“But can't I talk to Dad?”

“Later, OK? He's fine, Alma. Don't worry.”

“Give Dad a hug, OK?”

“Yeah, sure.
That
will help me make friends in here—if I go hugging on other men.”