The Creed of Violence (5 page)

She stared at the note, at the men, then she just sat there within
the confines of a complete sadness. I understand you, he thought, I'm
as alone here as you are. The men were getting restless. John Lourdes
took the notebook and wrote: Be no4 afraid. God and I will See 4o
your we/fare.

He passed her the notebook again. She looked at it, then at him
with the naked honesty of a child. She took the pencil and began to
write, line after line, and when she was done John Lourdes read aloud:
Yes, I can read and write. I am much better in Spanish than English.
But I can do both. I was not born deaf. That happened when I was ten.
Before that I went to the nun's school at Our Lady's Church.

John Lourdes asked the commander, "What now, sir?"

"Ask why she was going back and forth across the border."

She watched as he wrote, and then wrote back: Will / be in
4rouble?

He wrote: No.

She wrote: I was carrying money s4i4cl,ed into my c/o4i es.

He read that aloud. The agents looked and talked amongst themselves. The commander instructed John Lourdes, "Ask what the money
was for."

She answered: My fa4ier ordered me 4o co i4. So / did 4.

Lourdes wondered and wrote: Tie man wl,o brovjl,-I you -/o 4e
border, 4I,e one wi-{I, 4e revolver. Wl o is l e?

She wrote with trepidation: He . .. is my fa4l,er. She added: Wl,a4
wi(( happen 4o me now? /fly fa4er saw me Oaken. He will demand 4o
know. / will 1,ave 4o exp/ain. / am afraid.

John Lourdes looked at justice Knox, who spoke. He was sober and
deliberative. "Money coming from the south. It certainly is not narcotics.
Contraband ... weapons. That's most likely. So we possibly have linkage
to a smuggling operation. How deep does it run here and across the border? What political ramifications does it have? We don't want to disrupt them till we know more. That means the girl has to go back. Otherwise
they might assume the worst and restructure their operation."

"Threaten the man through his daughter," said Howell. "Jail her.
Give her a few days in the pit, then bring the father here."

"That's a three-wheeled idea, sir," said Lourdes. "The father might
be nothing more than a pair of boots."

Justice Knox removed his glasses. He rubbed at the pinch marks on
his nose. He asked one of his agents about the immigration statutes.

"There are restrictions, sir, against the morally suspect, the diseased, those engaged in contract labor-"

"The LPC provision," said John Lourdes, "that would make the
most sense."

"Yes," said the agent, "the-likely-to-become-a-public-charge statute. It would, sir, make sense in her case."

Knox, after some consideration, concurred. "Have Immigration
write her up for an LPC. Lourdes, explain it to her, then have her
released."

Later, he requested permission to make sure the girl got safely
across the border. Knox agreed, and so John Lourdes drove her to the
nun's school at the church. He advised her to go there and have one of
the nuns escort her home, believing it would lend validity to the LPC
charge and assuage any fears or suspicions her father might have as to
why she'd been picked up and interrogated by Immigration.

As they sat in front of the church, where the smoky light from the
sacristy cast a warm gold upon the night, justice Knox received a phone
call at his office from Burr. He wanted to meet, that evening if possible,
to negotiate a deal for his client with the BOI, offering in exchange
relevant information about a smuggling operation.

The girl pointed to John Lourdes's pocket for his notepad and pencil. She wrote: / do/i4 4 even know your name.

He wrote: John Lourdes. I know yours-Teresa. /4 is a lovely name.

She drew on a new page a simple cross with lines from it fanning out.
He pitched up his arms and shoulders as if to ask what this means.

She wrote beneath the cross: God will signs down of you when you
are mos4 i/1 need.

He thanked her and slipped the pad into his pocket. He sat with a
far-off stare and when he finally turned to her, she looked away. She'd
been looking at him too long and too intensely and when she realized
it, she became self-conscious.

He suddenly had this feeling of boyhood, of who he'd been before
... the fall of angels, so to speak. The feeling was all around him in
the scented dark, in the light from the church doorway, on the dry sage
breeze. And above all, in the simple portraiture of that young girl with
hands folded across her lap.

The pure aesthetic of being truly alive and filled with possibility
possessed him. He closed his eyes and tried to completely absorb the
feeling and so hold on to it. Then she touched his arm to say she was
getting out of the car.

He tried to sleep that night, but he could not. He lay in bed in the
tiny room he rented that was his whole world. This day in 1910 had
washed upon the opposing shores of his existence, and while he lay
there a deal was being exacted that would cast him upon the shores of
yet another existence.

In the morning he was awakened by his landlord. There was a call
on the hall phone. Justice Knox ordered him to come immediately to
the courthouse, and to speak with no one. Rawbone was going to be
released.

HE DOWNTOWN COURTHOUSE was an ornate three-story edifice that stood out grimly against the Spartan timelessness of the
west.

There was no official federal courthouse; the U.S. court and federal
offices were housed on the second floor. The building had a dome, and
light from that dome spilled down through a ceiling well.

Justice Knox was in conversation with an attorney when John
Lourdes arrived. He waited impatiently, the coming sunlight from
the dome hot against his neck until the conversation was done. Knox,
alone, approached him.

"Mr. Lourdes. I appreciate your promptness. We have a lot to-"

"Sir. Am I to understand that-"

"Mr. Lourdes, you will understand when I am done explaining.
And then you will have no need to jump-start my conversation."

"My apologies, sir."

Knox took him by the arm and they paced off a few steps. Knox
spoke privately about the previous night. The district judge had given
Knox use of his private office so as few people as possible would know
about the meeting. Knox had sat behind the judge's desk. He'd removed
the one comfortable attorney's chair, leaving only a stiff-backed shaker
for Burr when he arrived. Burr, dressed in an elegant evening suit, could
well have been going to the opera. He'd sat in that rigid chair with his
legs crossed and smoked with one hand while letting the ashes drop
into the palm of the other.

"You had an operative in the Mills Building when my client arrived," he said.

"Yes," said Knox.

"And unless he was having coffee at the Modern Cafe or shopping
at that pedestrian department store, he was on duty."

Knox did not proffer an answer.

"We both know what profligates that building has started to attract since it became apparent there was going to be an insurrection. As
I have indicated, my client possesses information you might find acutely
relevant to an ongoing or future investigation."

"We'll have him deposed and if his information proves to be reliable and valuable, then-"

"I have no intention of allowing my client to rely on the future
goodwill of the federal government."

"I see. That being the case, in what small way can you be of service
to us?"

"My client has unique access to certain parties operating in strict
violation of American law. My client has a singular curriculum vitae
that allows him to come and go freely and without exception amongst
the very element that you need to unearth, investigate and ultimately indict. In short ... for my client's services, you guarantee in writing an
earned immunity."

Burr stood. He walked to the window, opened it, then flicked his
ashes out into the night. He let time pass before coming about. He was
smiling when he did. "It seems one of the judge's chairs is missing."

"Really?" said Knox. "I wouldn't know."

"It was here last week when I came to see him. No matter." He
remained at the window, leaning back against the sill.

"One day, Mr. Knox, the government will come to the purely utilitarian decision that to efficiently and successfully deal with profligates
it must enlist the services of efficient and successful profligates. As a
matter of fact, I could foresee a time when our law enforcement hierarchy, the backbone of your prized bureaucracy, will all be onetime
members of that wayward class."

"I guess that means my job would be in jeopardy under your definition of government service."

"Is it better to hire good men and fail, or solicit men who are ...
contra bonos mores ... and succeed?"

Knox leaned forward. Thoughts were forming, possible plans of
action, the weighing of realities. He rested his elbows on the table, set
his chin on clasped and upturned hands. He studied Burr. The electric
light from the wall sconce left the lawyer's complexion all the more sallow; his neck was noticeably too thin for the ruffled shirt collar. "Was
it the drugs?" he asked.

Burr exhaled a rail-thin line of smoke.

"The morphine. It is morphine, that-"

"Turned me into a dissolute." Burr fingered his cigarette out the
window. "I have had a taste for the unsavory . . . ever since childhood. Perhaps that's what makes me such an effective and successful
attorney."

"What you are proposing would demand crossing the border,
would it not?"

"Yes."

"We have no authority there."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't, or shouldn't, send an operative with him, for the gathering of evidence, the ascertainment of fact,
against individuals or groups that have the potential to negatively affect
domestic security. This operative could have authority over my client.
We would agree to that."

"How does one have authority over someone with his biography?"

"There's a way."

"You said a few minutes ago you would never allow your
client-"

"To rely on the future goodwill of the government. I emphasized
the word-future."

When John Lourdes heard justice Knox say "earned immunity"
he wanted to vomit with rage. He stood in the light of that great dome
trying to grasp the implications of the meeting with Burr.

"Now," said justice Knox, "there will be an operative with him
when he goes into Mexico. That operative will have complete authority,
or at least tactical control. I'm considering you for this assignment."

"Sir?"

"You don't have the most field experience, but you're the only one
who's truly bilingual. I'm going to be honest. I have reservations."

He kept hearing himself say, "Sir?"

"It's about character."

"Character ... my character?"

He could feel the anger coming through in his voice.

"Not a lack of character. It's ... I noted your reaction to Howell
when we were interrogating the girl. I heard the anger in your voice
just a minute ago when I told you what is going to happen. I do not question your dedication. But I need to be assured the operative I send
can remain dispassionate and view this as ... a practical application of
strategy. Just as I have to remain dispassionate in my judgments."

Dispassion had been an essential condition to John Lourdes's successes. And rulership of the self demanded extreme concentration and
commitment, so in certain respects justice Knox was correct. He had
failed.

"Once in Mexico, sir, I would have no legal authority over him."

"No."

"How do we control him?"

"He knows if he fails to live up to his responsibility by trying to
desert, abandon or escape, your orders are to kill him. He knows if he
should pose a threat to you, your orders are to kill him. He knows if
anything happens to you, even if it's no fault of his, it will be the same
as if he failed his responsibility. He must get you back here alive."

"Why should he follow through with any of this, if an opportunity
arises?"

"Because we have something he wants."

"And that is?"

"The ability to erase his past ... earned immunity."

There was a selfish purity to that he could understand and believe
of his father,) ust as he could feel it in himself.

"You mean he has his own `practical application of strategy."'

Justice Knox's forehead furrowed deeply.

"Correct ... now, what about my concerns with regard to you?"

"Sir, I will go wherever the practical application of strategy demands I go."

A DUFFEL AND weapons lay ready on the bed. John Lourdes sat at
the desk in his room. When he'd finished his last will and testament
he folded the paper neatly and edged it with a thumb, then inserted it into an envelope along with his bank book. He sealed the envelope
and wrote on it: To be opened in 4e eve/4 of my disappearance or
dea4.