Latitude 38

by Ron Hutchison

“It is stunningly beautiful.” Cutbirth nodded him closer. “One other thing, officer....”

  Raul hesitated, and then took a step toward Cutbirth. Rising up from his cab seat, Cutbirth whispered in the man’s ear. In a low voice, Raul said something to Cutbirth, then turned his head and looked into the galley where Adriana and Diego sat. Cutbirth immediately pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it discreetly to Raul. He stuffed the envelope into his jacket pocket and handed the travel documents back to Cutbirth.

  Diego uttered an audible sigh and the muscles in his bowels relaxed. Looking across the table at Adriana, he smiled and squeezed her ice-cold hand. She gave a faint nod.

  With military efficiency, Raul made his way into the living room, scrutinizing the photo- IDs and Travel Passes of Yong, Sam, Rosie, and Henry, swiping the magnetic strip on each ID through the reader of his palm computer. Satisfied that their documents were in order, Raul moved into the galley where Adriana, Diego, Sissy, and Emily sat at the table.

  Raul looked down at Adriana with a smirk and said, “I understand you don’t have a Travel Pass. Is that correct?”

  Adriana hesitated, then said, “Yes, my ID has expired and—”

  “Don’t you know travel isn’t permitted without a Travel Pass?”

  What the hell’s going on? Diego thought. He looked at Cutbirth, who had gotten out of his cab seat and stood at the front of the motor home. Cutbirth shook his head and shrugged.

  Adriana said, “Yes, I understand that, Officer”—she glanced at his oversized name patch—“Perez.”

  “Traveling without a Travel Pass is punishable by six months in prison.”

  “Yes, officer, I know,” Adriana said.

  Damnit! What’s this little bastard up to?

  Raul leaned down slightly and pointed out the galley window. “Do you see that mountain in the distance?”

  Adriana turned and looked out the window. “Yes, I see it.”

  “There’s a prison on the other side of that mountain,” Raul said. “It isn’t really a prison. There are no walls or buildings, just barbed wire and tents. There is no segregation. Men and women share the same tents. The same toilets. The same showers.” His gold teeth glimmered behind his smile. “Many women are raped. It is a dangerous place for a woman, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I would,” Adriana said, seeming to shrink into herself.

  “Next time I suggest you have your Travel Pass,” Raul said. “I would not like to send a beautiful woman like you to such a place.”

  Adriana thanked Officer Perez for his kind consideration, and he moved on to Sissy.

  As Raul scanned Sissy’s ID and Travel Pass, Emily raised her camera and snapped his picture.

  Raul glared at her. “Why are you taking my picture?”

  Emily smiled broadly. “I’m taking pictures of everyone we meet on our trip.”

  “Erase it this instant!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so, that’s why!”

  “It’s a good picture of you. Want to see?” Emily turned the camera toward him.

  “Erase it, I said!” His voice grew louder.

  “Erase the picture, Emily,” Sissy said nervously.

  “Darn.” Her face sagging, Emily did as she was told.

  “Give me the camera,” Raul ordered.

  Emily handed him her camera and Raul examined the images to ensure that his picture had been erased. “I should break this camera,” he said, holding it over his head as if he intended to smash it onto the floor.

  “No, please!” Emily cried.

  Continuing to hold the camera aloft, Raul smiled. “I would suggest you refrain from taking pictures of immigration officials,” he said with great self-importance. He lowered his arm and handed the camera back to Emily. “There are times when officers such as myself work undercover. We do not need our pictures taken.”

  Bullshit, Diego thought.

  “Okay,” Emily said quietly.

  Raul handed Sissy her ID and Travel Pass, then seemed to notice Emily’s hair for the first time. “What did you do to your hair? It looks strange.”

  “I dyed it,” Emily said. “I dyed it so Mom and me would have the same color hair. Do you like it, sir?”

  Raul leaned in and ran his hand through Emily’s reddish mane. “No, I don’t,” he said. “It looks stupid.” Raul glared at Sissy, an accusing glint in his eyes. “This your daughter?”

  “Yes,” Sissy said with a faltering smile.

  “You let your daughter do this to her hair?”

  “She’s a bit of a nonconformist,” Sissy explained, her nervous smile widening.

  An unsightly grimace darkened Raul Perez ’s face. “Nonconformist?” Given Raul’s reaction, one might have thought Sissy had portrayed her daughter as a mass murderer. “You people street freaks or what?”

  “I don’t like that word, sir,” Emily protested. “They’re not freaks.”

  “What are they then?”

  “They’re homeless.”

  Raul shifted his gaze toward Sissy. “A child takes a picture of an immigration official and now this same child is arguing with him. What am I to make of that?”

  Her teeth clenched, Emily said, “My teacher told me that—”

  “Emily, that’s enough!” Sissy cautioned in a firm voice.

  Tucked into Henry’s arms, Rags growled.

  “Officer, please,” Adriana said, looking up at the loathsome little man, “she’s just a child.”

  “She doesn’t always think before she speaks, officer,” Sissy said apologetically.

  Raul looked at Emily and said, “Perhaps we should go into my office and discuss this matter further, little girl.” Raul grabbed Emily by the wrist. When he tried to yank Emily to her feet, she uttered a soft cry. In one quick motion, Diego leaned across the table, grasped the repugnant little man’s own wrist, and squeezed as tight as he could.

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Diego said.

  Raul snorted and pulled away from Diego’s grip. “Who are you to obstruct the duties of an immigration official?” He released his hold on Emily, who promptly scooted closer to her mother.

  “I’m the girl’s father.”

  Raul stood motionless, perhaps considering his next move.

  Cutbirth strode quickly back to where Raul stood in the galley. Cutbirth handed the officer another envelope. “I will discipline this child on your behalf later,” Cutbirth told the man. “You have my word.”

  Raul glanced at the envelope in his hand, straightened his back, and tugged his jacket back into place. “See that you do.” Raul stuffed the envelope into his jacket pocket and then looked at Diego. “Your ID and Travel Pass! Quickly!”

  Diego handed the man his photo ID and Travel Pass. Raul scanned the ID first. Reading the tiny screen he said, “I see by your profile that you have no children. I read that your wife has had two miscarriages, and you are childless.” He pulled his eyes away from the monitor and looked at Diego. “But you say you are this girl’s father. What am I to make of that?” Raul paused. “One more lie would prove unwise, tough guy.”

  A wild story took place in Diego’s head. He could say he had just adopted the girl, but the paperwork had not been finalized. The story was a stretch. Too much of a stretch. The far-reaching database would list Sissy Frost as the mother, not Adriana. The story would never hold water.

  “The...uh...profile is right,” Diego admitted. “I’m a friend to this girl. A fatherly friend.”

  “So you have lied to an immigration officer? Is that correct?” Raul’s eyes sparkled with a bright sickness.

  Diego hesitated. He could not unring the bell. “I apologize. I did lie. My only wish was to protect the—”

  Looking at the tiny monitor, Raul interrupted. “I also see that you have been summoned to appear at the Criminal Justice Department next week.”

  Diego cringed. He knew what was coming next.

  “Tell me,” Raul began, “
how can you travel all the way to Missouri, take a five-day camping trip, and then return to San Francisco in time for your hearing?”

  “I think there is ample time,” Diego said. It was a lie any fool could see through, but it was the best he could do on short notice.

  “You think there is ample time?” Raul asked, leaning in toward Diego.

  “Yes.”

  “There is not ample time and you know there is not ample time,” Raul said in an angry voice, glaring at Diego with beady eyes. “Three days travel-time to Missouri on very bad roads, five days camping, three days travel-time back to San Francisco on these same bad roads. That is not ample time!” Raul roared, spraying Diego with a saliva mist.

  Diego fell silent, knowing that he was digging the hole deeper.

  “And now it is not one, but two lies that you have told an immigration officer.” Raul held up two fingers. “Two lies!”

  Diego’s plan to smuggle Adriana across the border seemed doomed, and a voice inside his head confirmed it: This is the end of the line, bud!

  “Okay, tough guy, on your feet! Follow me!” Raul turned with a knightly flourish and strode through the living room toward the door. When he reached the top of the stairs he turned and faced Diego, who had not moved. “Did you not understand what I said?” Raul asked sharply. “Or do you want some of my fellow officers to help me physically remove you?”

  Feeling scraped raw, Diego glanced at Adriana—the fear leapt from her eyes—touched her hand, and slowly got to his feet. He followed Raul down the motor home steps and into the gatehouse where another immigration officer was seated at a computer. Raul told the man, “Close this lane. I won’t be long.” The officer grunted his understanding.

  Diego followed Raul across the dirt parking lot and into the small stucco building that sat at the edge of the desert. Raul led Diego down a narrow hallway lined with cardboard boxes labeled with names—Diego caught Chad Linder, Carlos Ruiz, Sarah Wright as they passed—and filled with clothes, shoes, and hats. They strode past several closed doors.

  Raul stopped at the last door and opened it. His pulse hammering in his temples, Diego followed Perez into the room. It was little more than a broom closet. A set of vertical track blinds covered one small window. The perpendicular slats were open and cast a row of evening shadows on a grungy metal desk and wooden swivel chair, both of which one might find at a used furniture store. A computer and several stacks of paper sat on the desk. A row of two-drawer file cabinets lined one wall. A photo of País Nuevo President Antonio Torres hung above a long metal rod that extended the length of another wall like a ballet barre. Five sets of manacles were attached to the barre by chains. A map of País Nuevo hung on the wall opposite.

  Raul shut and locked the door, then went over and closed the blinds. There was a light overhead, but it was turned off, and the room was a murky gray. Raul sat on the edge of a file cabinet and looked at Diego with a confident sneer.

  Raul said, “Is this trip to Missouri so important that you would risk missing such an important meeting at the Justice Department?”

  “It’s that important.” Diego tried to find some spit, but his mouth was sandpaper dry.

  “Yes, I imagine it is, because you have lied not once, but twice to an immigration officer. Do you not realize that I have the authority to transport you and your wife to our detention center? I could do it just like that.” Raul snapped his fingers. “Would you like that?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not.”

  Raul leaned to his right and opened the top drawer of an adjacent file cabinet. He removed a small, worn cushion. The cushion was about half the size of a regular pillow and had the words Cinco de Mayo – Bullhead City stitched into it in red.

  “Or I could hold you and your wife in this office until the authorities arrive from San Francisco. They can be here by morning. Would you and your wife like to be shackled in this room all night?” Raul nodded at the shackles and patted his leg lightly with the cushion. His eyes never left Diego.

  “No.”

  “Of course not.”

  His nerves hanging together by a thread, Diego said, “I don’t care what you do to me, officer, but please allow my wife to continue on.”

  “I think I know why you have lied not once, but twice to an immigration officer,” Raul began, continuing to pat his leg with the Cinco de Mayo cushion. “I think you and your friends are making a run for the border.” Raul’s eyes narrowed and he gazed intensely at Diego. “Are you making a run for the border, tough guy?”

  “No.” Diego fought the alarm bell that was tolling wildly in his ears.

  “Do you know the risks involved in trying to cross the border?”

  “We’re going on a camping trip. You saw the canoes….”

  “Ah, now a third lie,” Raul said, stroking his leg with the commemorative cushion.

  “I admit lying about being the girl’s father,” Diego confessed, the words stumbling helter-skelter out of his mouth. “But we fully intend to camp in Missouri. Mr. Cutbirth will be our guide. His company is Adventure Tours. The name of his company is printed on the side of the motor home.” The thin veneer of calm holding Diego together began to disintegrate. He could feel it flaking from his body.

  “If you continue to lie, it will only go badly for you.”

  “I swear….”

  “If I send you and your wife to the detention center, the male prisoners will beat you unconscious and rape your wife. It happens all the time. We are helpless to prevent it. And just last week several prisoners tied a man to a chair and made him watch his wife being raped. Would you want that for your wife?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not.”

  Diego fell silent. There seemed little he could say in his own defense.

  “So what will it be for you and your wife?” Raul asked. “A trip to the detention center or an overnight stay here in my office shackled to the wall? For your wife’s sake, I suggest you take the shackles.”

  His heart pumping furiously to stay alive, the sound in Diego’s head was deafening. It was the sound of his world crashing down on him. “The shackles,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, the shackles. A good choice,” Raul said. The cushion had come to rest on his leg.

  Shoulders slumped, Diego dropped his head and looked down at the floor, his eyes burning with tears. Any of a million images could have appeared in Diego’s brain at that moment, but only one surfaced. It was that of a former co-worker named Will Kline, the ad agency’s graphics art director. Four times married and a lover of opera, Will had a rather terse philosophy of life. Diego could hear Will speaking the words: “You’re born. Bad shit happens. You die.”

  Raul Perez looked at Diego, his face brightening. He said, “There is, of course, a third choice.”

  “A third?”

  His eyes gleaming with perversion, Raul tossed the cushion to Diego.

  Diego caught the cushion and in an unsteady voice asked, “What’s this for?”

  Raul showed his gold teeth. “For your knees, tough guy.”