Illegal (7 page)

"The court rejects the plea," Judge Kelton said, matter-of-factly.

"What?"

" 'What, Your Honor,' " the judge corrected.

What the fuck, Your Honor, Payne thought.

"Your Honor," he said, politely, "both the State and defense have agreed to the plea after full consideration of—"

"The State withdraws its offer," said Richard Zinn. The fuzzy-cheeked prosecutor lived in Kelton's courtroom, sucked at Kelton's teat, and depended on Kelton's recommendation for a juicy job downtown.

"What the hell, Rich?"

"Address your remarks to the bench, Counselor." The judge eyed Payne as if he'd just tasted curdled milk. "And kindly refrain from profanity."

"Your Honor. Why you busting my chops?"

"Trial is set for next Monday at eleven a.m."

"Judge. Your Honor. Sir . . . " Payne stopped just short of
Your Holiness.
"A trial would be a waste of judicial resources."

"What's wrong, Mr. Payne? Too busy entrapping judges to try a case?"

Payne's headache pounded in his ears. "Respectfully, that's bullshit, Your Honor."

The judge removed his spectacles, blew on them, and wiped the lenses on his black robe. "Tell me something, Mr. Payne. Did you suffer brain damage in that crash on the P.C.H.?"

Payne felt a ball of fire rising in his chest. His cheeks reddened. "What I suffered is none of your damn business."

"They should have disbarred you for that fiasco in the trailer-truck case." The judge pointed a bony finger at Payne. "The justice system requires dignity and respect."

"Only when it's earned." The fireball scorched Payne's throat.

"Now, I know you've had personal problems . . ."

"You don't know shit, you old tea bag. You may not be as crooked as Walter Rollins, but you're twice as stupid."

Bang!
The judge's gavel echoed. "You're in contempt of court."

"Contempt doesn't begin to describe my feelings," Payne shot back. "How about
disgust
? Throw in some revulsion and a pinch of nausea, too."

"Bailiff, escort Mr. Payne to a holding cell. Twenty-four hours, and then we'll hear his apology."

"Gonna take longer than that." Payne felt his ears begin to melt.

"Make it forty-eight hours. Bailiff!"

Orvis Cosgrove, the uniformed bailiff, was a retired airport parking lot attendant with painful bunions. He was nearing seventy and enjoyed napping during trials. He used both hands to lever himself out of his chair, his knees crackling like twigs in a fire. Orvis adjusted the crotch of his trousers, then guided Payne by the elbow through a rear door of the courtroom.

When they were in a windowless corridor leading to the holding cells, Payne said, "Orvis, I'm not going back there."

"You gonna escape, Jimmy?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna punch me?"

"Do I have to?"

"Nah. I'll just say you ran and I couldn't catch you."

"Works for me, Orvis."

"Say, Jimmy, everybody knows Rollins was so dirty he could lose weight by taking a shower. But you broke the code. A defense lawyer can't be a snitch."

"I'm hoping it blows over."

The bailiff's laugh sounded like a man choking on a chicken bone. "Sorry, Jimmy, but you best be thinking of another line of work."

Five minutes later, Payne was driving south on the 101. His seething anger had turned inward. If self-loathing were an Olympic sport, he'd give himself the gold medal. Yep, he'd changed his life all right. He'd plunged straight to the bottom.

Traffic was light by L.A. standards. In twenty-five minutes, he'd exited the freeway at Broadway, crossed Cesar Chavez Avenue, and hung a right on Ord, where he slowed to avoid a homeless man pushing a supermarket cart filled, incongruously, with empty soda bottles and a flat-screen TV.

By the time Payne reached Main and Alameda, he was certain the day could not get any worse. But as usual, he was completely mistaken.

It was morning. An orange glow draped the distant peaks like a silk scarf on a woman's shoulders. Blood trickled down Marisol's leg. Barely slowing, she pinched the spot and pried out the thorn of a prickly pear. The path to the U.S.A., it seemed, was indeed a trail of thorns. For hours, she had climbed canyons and descended into ravines. She was in
los Estados Unidos,
but it still looked and felt like
Méjico
.

Six of them—five women and the reptile who called himself "El Tigre"—had spent the night scrambling up slopes, hand over hand, then sliding painfully down rocky paths on the seat of their pants. The trail was overgrown with spiny cactus and hanging vines. The air smelled of sage one moment and skunk the next. A coyote, the four-legged variety, whooped in the distance, and another answered with a series of mournful wails.

Marisol's legs ached, and a blister had formed on her right heel. She heard one of the
campesinas
sobbing. Farther back, the two Guatemalan women had run out of water. An hour earlier, Marisol let them sip from a gallon jug she carried. But how long must the water last? Hours or days?

She recited prayers to keep from losing hope. Remembered the words from Exodus. "I have been a stranger in a strange land." She thought of her father, the nonbeliever, who would laugh at anyone who expected God to provide manna from heaven or water from a rock.

They should have reached the trailhead by now. The American driver should have picked them up and taken them to the stash house in Ocotillo. Did El Tigre have any idea where they were? Huffing and puffing uphill, he carried his big belly like a wheelbarrow filled with bricks. Downhill, he stumbled and tripped, setting off little avalanches of rocks.

Moving gingerly along a rocky ledge, high above a dry wash, Marisol tried to concentrate on every step. But her mind was elsewhere.

Able to contain herself no longer, she shouted at El Tigre, "We are lost!"

"Shut up, woman!" He slashed a hand toward the pair falling behind. "
¡Chucas!
Hurry up! Keep together. We are almost there."

"You don't know where we are," Marisol countered. "You have put everyone in danger."

El Tigre scowled. "Do you know what they call a woman crossing the border by herself?
La chingorda.
The fucked one!" He reached down and grabbed his groin, shaking his sack the way a gambler might jiggle a pair of dice. "Do you know what I have for you here, princess?"

"A vile disease?"

In the fiery glow of the rising sun, his face flared with anger. If ever a man looked like the devil incarnate, Marisol thought, it was this total waste of human protoplasm.

"You are not special,
chica
. To me, you are no better than those Guatemalan cows shitting in the bushes."

He continued along the ledge, muttering curses.

What a fool, Marisol thought.

Perhaps it would be better if the Border Patrol captured her. She would be sent back. Tino was still in Mexico.

She could not know for certain. All she knew was that she must survive. It is what a mother does for her child.

She thought of her own parents, remembering the hard times in the village near Caborca when her father no longer wore the crisp jumpsuit of the Ford Motor Company. When she was twelve—Tino's age now— Marisol would run to her father's job site the moment school was over. She carried buckets of nails, climbed scaffolds, learned to hammer straight and paint without making a mess.

There came a time that Edgardo Perez could no longer find work. Each day, he brought a book to a small cantina. There he consumed ample quantities of Octavio Paz's writing and Tijuana Morena's beer. Her father loved debating politics with his neighbors who— uncharitably—called him a
comunista.

"Make up your minds," Edgardo Perez told them. "
Aristocracia
or
comunista
? I cannot be both!"

With money as scarce as desert rain, Marisol's mother took a job in a small fireworks factory, rolling sheets of cardboard into tubes, packing the casings with gunpowder, inserting fuses. Day after day, for eight years, until a horrific fire and explosion killed her. There was not enough left of her to bury. Grief settled over Marisol like a shroud of ashes. Despair filled her, heavy as oil in a drum.

At first, Edgardo blamed the government for his wife's death. Hadn't inspectors taken bribes and ignored safety violations? Next, he blamed Catholicism— "world's greatest superstition"—for hadn't his wife gone to Mass almost every day for forty years? But most of all, he blamed himself. If he had not lost the job in the Ford plant, his wife never would have needed to work. She would be home now, tending her flowers.

Edgardo halted his daily reading but continued his hourly drinking. Six months after his wife's funeral, he stumbled into the path of a car on a darkened street, and Marisol was alone. Shortly after that, she met Gustavo, who would become the father of her son. But he left town as quickly as a wind through the canyon.

Men, she thought. So unreliable.

The man promises, promises, and promises. Until he gets it in!

Now Marisol watched the morning sun slowly turn the rocks into the color of melted butter. Surely, they should have reached the trailhead by now. They were lost. Would the driver wait for them at the trailhead? Would he even show up?

Suddenly, a throttling noise overhead.

Helicopter! Shining silver, a dagger in the sunlight. Border Patrol!

She dived off the path into a patch of buffalo grass, snakes be damned. The others scattered. The
whopettawhopetta
grew louder.

She abandoned any thought of surrender. She would run. As long as she was free, she could look for Tino.

And she swore on the spirits of her mother and father that she would find him.

Payne had big news for Sharon. He just didn't know how to tell her. Surreptitiously, he watched her attack a double-dipped roast beef sandwich, pausing only to gobble her fries. He always admired his ex-wife for eating like a cop and looking like a volleyball player.

And she was both.

Sharon had a business degree from U.C.L.A., where she'd also played varsity volleyball. After college, she competed in triathlons and learned kickboxing. Payne long suspected she could whip his ass.

The first time he saw her—a dozen years ago— Sharon was digging the ball off the top of the sand at Will Rogers Beach in Santa Monica. Five foot ten barefoot. Bikini briefs and halter top. Long, tanned, muscular legs. Lips with a natural pucker, as if she never stopped whistling.

Payne remembered sucking in his gut, straightening his posture, and watching her until the sun sizzled into the ocean. A two-on-two tournament, all former college varsity players, some on the professional tour. Payne never took his eyes off her. Reddish-brown hair tied in a ponytail, a sprinkle of freckles, an exuberant laugh when she high-fived her partner. Sharon specialized in defense. Blocking, digging, passing, and setting for her partner, who got all the glory for spiking the bejeesus out of the ball while Sharon swallowed mouthfuls of sand.

It said something about her character, he thought. Never seeking the spotlight, always content to be a team player. They started dating, and Payne discovered Sharon was smart, warm, caring, giving, and funny. To this day, he wondered how he had tricked such a terrific woman into loving him.

Sharon sat at a scarred wooden table at Phillipe, a hundred-year-old dive a block from Union Station. The place served up juicy sandwiches, free parking, and, for old times' sake, ten-cent coffee. Paper plates, sawdust floors, and neon beer signs.

No more bikinis. Sharon wore a glen plaid business suit with a shoulder holster underneath. Sensible black pumps. Her legs still had their definition but not much of a tan. She sat with a young woman prosecutor from the D.A.'s office who picked at a boring green salad.

Payne watched Sharon submerge her French dip sandwich into its juice, then take a bite that would not be called "dainty." The sight never failed to arouse him. Back in his single days, Payne concluded that female carnivores were more ferocious in bed, even if they burped occasionally.

Now he sneaked up on her in mid-chew. "Sharon, we gotta talk."

"Atticus!" She swallowed a chunk of beef and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "What are you doing here?"

He glanced around the crowded restaurant. "Can we go outside a second?"

She popped a fry into her mouth, excused herself, and followed him out the door and onto the sidewalk.

"You look great, Sharon." Warming up, trying to figure where to begin. "How's what's-his-name, the Mouth of the Southland?"

"Cullen's fine. Railing about illegals and Simeon Rutledge, but that's nothing new. He's still waiting to hear about a job with Fox."

"I hope they assign him to Mozambique."

"So, why are you here?"

He just blurted it out. "I'm gonna change my life."

"Too little, too late. And too unbelievable."

"I mean it this time. Going someplace where I can get a fresh start."

She studied him a second as a sixteen-wheeler drove by, grinding its gears. "Are you asking me to go along? To hit the road, get a fresh start with you?"

Her questions hung there like a colorful piñata, so he took a whack with his best swing. "It's occurred to me. Change is good, right? And you're stuck in a rut at the Department. So, why not go for some excitement?"