Sweet Mary

by Liz Balmaseda

  But the next day, just as morning began to dissolve into afternoon, I had no news from my father. According to my mother, he had left the house early and had not returned or called. I did, however, receive a visitor. Under normal circumstances, I might have run in the opposite direction at the sight of him, for we had ended our relationship on bitter terms. But on this day, I welcomed my ex-husband as if he were some long-lost friend.

  Tony, his coiffed brown curls tousled across his forehead, greeted me with what seemed to be genuine concern.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked, pressing a manicured hand on the Plexiglas division between us. His crisp denim shirt brought out the blue of his eyes—eyes like Max’s—and he seemed almost kind.

  “When did you get back?” I said.

  “Two days ago,” he said. “I came back as soon as I heard.”

  “But I called your office two days ago and they said you were in Greece,” I said.

  “They were confused. That’s not important. What’s important is that Max is doing quite well,” he said. “Fantastically well.”

  “You saw Max?”

  “I picked him up yesterday,” he said. “I wanted to reassure you that you don’t have to worry anymore about Max. He’s with me.”

  I wasn’t too sure how I felt about the news. On one hand, I was thrilled Max was out of the foster home. On the other, I felt stung by the fact that no one had bothered to contact me, not Tony, not the social worker, and certainly not Agent Green. Besides, I didn’t trust Tony. But, considering where I was at the moment, I had no choice. I had to trust him.

  “Make sure he visits my parents,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Tony.

  “And, please, don’t tell him where I am. Tell him what I told him in a letter: I’m working with the police on a special kind of job. I don’t think he’ll buy it, but it’s better than telling him I’m in jail. Are you with me on this?”

  “Of course, chérie. It’s for his own good that he doesn’t know. In fact, just to ensure his safety—until you are back home, of course—I’m going to the family court today.”

  “What do you mean you’re going to family court?” I said, alarmed at the news.

  “It’s a very normal thing. I just filed a motion asking the family court to give me temporary custody of Max. No big worries. They will decide very soon.”

  I knew exactly what Tony meant by “no big worries.” In that serpentine language of his it meant “Why don’t you just look the other way, chérie, so I can do what I want?” I should have known he was up to something the minute I heard him tell the guard in the visitors’ area that he would like to spend some alone time with his “lovely wife, Maria”—meaning, of course, me. It was just like him to try to schmooze and confuse his opponent before delivering the knockout punch.

  “That is entirely unnecessary,” I said. “You already have custody—joint custody. What is there to ask the court about?”

  “I want to protect our son.”

  “Protect our son? From whom, Tony? Who would take him away from you?”

  Tony glanced off in that way he does when he’s about to say something really horrible.

  “I don’t know what kind of problems you’re involved in,” he said.

  That passive-aggressive metro prick. I rapped on the glass to force him to look at me.

  “The charges are bogus. You can’t possibly believe this is real,” I said.

  “I just want to make sure,” he said.

  “This is basic, Tony: I’m stuck in here; you take care of Max. That’s always been the deal. If one of us is somehow incapacitated, the other steps up. Basic. But here you go turning a nonissue into a damn federal case.”

  “I’m not the one in jail. On a federal case.”

  Sooner or later, without fail, Tony reveals his darker motives. And there it was. He had me where he wanted me, confined. With me out of the way, he could speed ahead to his goal, to take full custody of Max and complete his new family. His new wife, Victoria, a shrill, highly ambitious woman who favored garish pantsuits and apricot lipstick, could not have children of her own. At age forty-five, she was three years older than Tony but didn’t look it at all—she looked a good twelve years older. She was the rebound love he turned to after I left him, a woman who was my opposite in every possible way. (I guess that was the point.) I was the woman he wanted to mold into his ideal Cocoplum socialite wife. She was already there, a regular on the gala circuit Tony so desperately wanted to access. She became his Svengali and her whims became his honey-do list. And, somehow, that list grew to include a ready-made family. Now the two of them were barreling ahead with their instant-family plans at my son’s expense, and at mine.

  “Guard,” I called out, because I couldn’t look at Tony another minute.

  As I got up to leave, I leaned into the glass partition and narrowed my eyes on him. He shifted in his seat, coward that he was.

  “Watch yourself,” I said to him. “I won’t be in here forever.”

  I called Casey as soon as I could get to a pay phone. I told him about Tony and his custody plans.

  “He can’t do this. We have to stop him,” I said.

  “I’ll check in on family court. But that’s secondary right now,” Casey said. “We need to keep your head clear for federal court. I want you to be one hundred percent at your court appearance. Got it? There will be plenty of time to deal with everything else.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but I decided I needed to trust my lawyer and put Tony and his schemes on the back burner. Of course that didn’t mean I could not obsess over Max. My son was all I could think of as I walked the dingy courtyard during exercise hour or when I sat alone at mealtime, barely touching the food, those sandwiches of stale white bread and processed yellow cheese slices. I didn’t eat because I wanted to think about Max. I didn’t sleep because I wanted to think about Max. I avoided conversation because I wanted to think about Max. In the next two weeks, I came to believe that if I thought about him hard enough, he would not only know it—he would be able to hear it. I would drift into a deeply meditative state and try to send him messages in sharp telepathic bursts.

  “Mommy loves you.”

  “Mommy will be home soon.”

  “Mommy sends you butterflies each time you are sad.”

  If Max was doing the same, I knew he must have been thinking some pretty horrendous thoughts. All I kept seeing was my son, a waif of a boy, cooped up in that Grove Isle penthouse, in a home where he was not allowed to run or scatter his toys on the mahogany floors or eat Frosted S’Mores Pop-Tarts for breakfast. I could see him peering down from the second-floor railing at that floral chintz living room, where every object had its aesthetic purpose and its place. How Max would have loved to spread out his action figures on the soft blue rug, engineer his battles and quixotic matchups from behind those perfectly fluffed sofa pillows. But instead I’m sure he stood behind that railing and watched as Victoria spent hours each night with the ladies of her politically connected coffee klatch, plotting her campaign for a seat on the county commission.

  “Vote Victoria Ramonet,” went her election slogan. “For leadership and family values.”

  FEDERAL COURTROOM—DAY 21

  Mary, in her green prison jumpsuit, sits at the defendant’s table beside Casey.

  The judge assigned to my case had a sterling reputation. Judge Darius Rolle, veteran of the bench, was a respected civil rights pioneer, a man of few words with a keen bullshit detector. That’s what I had heard about him anyway.

  “In the matter of The United States of America versus Maria G. Portilla…” he began, then interrupted himself: “This is a Texas case?”

  The prosecutor, a fortyish woman named Anita Butler, rose to respond. She wore a navy suit, her golden tresses tucked into a bun.

  “New Mexico, Your Honor. And good morning,” she said. “Assistant U.S. Attorney Butler appearing on behalf of the United States and its agency, the Drug Enforcem
ent Administration.”

  “Got it. Will the defendant, Maria Portilla, please rise?” said the judge.

  I had warned Casey I would no longer respond to that name, so he quickly stood up instead.

  “Elliot Casey, Your Honor, for Ms. Dulce Maria Guevara Santos.”

  But the judge didn’t catch the name discrepancy. He shot me a nasty look from the bench.

  “Will Ms. Portilla please rise?” he said again.

  I did not. I turned around to scan the courtroom to make my point: I, too, was looking for Ms. Maria Portilla. As I looked around the courtroom I spotted Gina, who waved a discreet hello. My parents sat next to her. A few rows behind them sat Agent Green. He would not look at me.

  Casey responded again on my behalf.

  “Your Honor, this is a case of mistaken identity. My client is an upstanding member of her community. She’s a PTA mom. She’s a successful real estate agent. She’s a reputable woman who has never committed a crime. Yet she was dragged out of her house in front of her young son—in shackles, mind you—and wrongfully arrested…”

  The prosecutor raised her hand to interrupt, but Casey steamrolled over her intentions.

  “…She is not even remotely the same woman the court is seeking,” he continued. “Not only was she born in a different country— this country—she was born on a different day in a different year. The only thing she shares with this alleged drug queenpin is the fact that she is of Latino heritage. Pardon my candor, but it seems to me the DEA has once again suffered an unfortunate case of Hispanic Panic.”

  “We’ll dispense with the satire,” said Judge Rolle, flipping through some documents. Then he looked up and directed his words at me: “When I ask you to stand up, I’m not asking you to enter a guilty plea or an innocent plea. I’m just asking you to stand up. Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

  “In my courtroom, everybody gets a chance to be heard. But you’ve got to show me some respect,” he said.

  The judge turned toward the prosecutor with a hard look.

  “Ms. Butler, if this young lady was removed from her home as a result of yet another wrong house raid, I don’t want her in my courtroom one more minute. Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said. With a certain swagger she reached into her briefcase and fished out a document.

  “We have a law enforcement officer from New Mexico who can make a positive ID,” she said.

  “Objection,” said Casey. “About this witness, judge: Why didn’t we hear about him before today?”

  “Overruled,” said the judge. “Check the updated list, Mr. Casey.”

  Apparently, the prosecution had covered its behind by filing an extensive list of potential witnesses, this law enforcement officer among them. But as luck would have it, this particular witness’s flight was delayed.

  “Bad weather on his layover in Dallas–Fort Worth, Your Honor,” explained the prosecutor. “He should be here by two o’clock.”

  “We’ll recess until after lunch,” said the judge.

  As Judge Rolle left the courtroom, I leaned over to Casey with an urgent question: “Who the hell is this witness and how can he possibly make a positive ID?”

  FIVE

  DURING THE BREAK, Casey and I huddled in a small conference room and lunched on take-out subs. He had no information about this witness other than the fact that he was some kind of “special crimes” investigator.

  “It doesn’t matter who this guy is. You’re innocent,” Casey said.

  As we returned to the courtroom, I caught a glimpse of Agent Green talking to the prosecutor. He glanced up and finally acknowledged my presence with a nod. I nodded back as the courtroom rose for Judge Rolle’s return.

  “Where are we on this witness?” the judge asked, back in session.

  “He screeched in just in time, Your Honor. We’re ready to go,” said the prosecutor, sounding pleased with herself.

  “Proceed.”

  “The people call Special Crimes Investigator Lieutenant Earl Winrock to the stand,” said Butler.

  I turned to catch a look as the witness made his entrance. He was a large guy, in his early seventies, bushy mustache, ruddy cheeks. His eyes appeared bloodshot, as if he had been traveling for days. As he took the stand he surveyed the courtroom, seeming rather impressed to be there.

  The prosecutor smiled at him and began her interrogation.

  “Lieutenant Winrock—”

  “Earl.”

  “Earl. Please describe your involvement with Operation Colombian Snow.”

  “I was lead investigator on that case for the EPD.”

  “Sorry, can you tell the courtroom what ‘the EPD’ stands for?”

  “That would be the Española Police Department.”

  “And just recently you were visited by two federal agents regarding this case. Correct?”

  “Yes, miss. They said they had some kind of fresh lead.”

  Winrock shifted his weight in the seat and cleared his throat.

  “Thing is,” he continued, “at the time of the original infraction, our two principal subjects fled to parts unknown. We set up a perimeter. But it being the rugged terrain of New Mexico, well…the trail got cold.”

  “Lieutenant Winrock—”

  “And, as unfortunate timing would have it, I entered into voluntary retirement soon thereafter upon—”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “—at which time my superiors believed it would be best to forward the findings of the investigation thus far to our colleagues at the federal level—”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, but let me ask you—”

  “—being that we were no longer equipped with the investigatative expertise of my presence. And, well, a few hundred gray hairs later, here I am.”

  Casey and I exchanged perplexed glances: What the hell did he just say?

  “Lieutenant, do you see in this courtroom the perpetrator you were seeking?” asked the prosecutor.

  “Yes, miss,” the witness said, nodding at me. “That would be the young lady right there.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Butler.

  “That’s the defendant, isn’t it?”

  Casey objected.

  “That’s not a positive identification, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Mr. Casey, you’ll have your shot,” said the judge.

  Butler asked the judge if she could approach the witness. He obliged.

  She placed a photograph in front of Winrock.

  “I want you to be very sure of what you are saying,” the prosecutor said. “Is this the same woman you videotaped on your stakeout during Operation Colombian Snow?”

  Winrock carefully studied the picture.

  “Yep.”

  “Let the record indicate that the witness has identified the defendant’s police mug shot,” the prosecutor said, placing another photo in front of the witness. “Same girl, Lieutenant?”

  “You bet.”

  “The witness has identified a still photo from the surveillance footage. No further questions. Your witness, Mr. Casey.”

  Casey got up from the table but didn’t begin right away. He seemed lost in thought for a long moment.

  “Lieutenant, maybe you can help me understand something,” he began. “Your suspect was— is a Colombian national, correct?”

  “She is.”

  Casey put on his reading glasses and peered at a document from his open briefcase.

  “I’m looking at a list of Colombian nationals—all Maria G. Portillas, Maria Guevaras, Maria Portillas. And variations on the theme…”

  He handed the sheet to the witness.

  “Here are their alien registration numbers.”

  He handed Winrock another sheet.

  “Here are their corresponding fingerprints.”

  “I see,” said the witness.

  “My client is not among them. You see, she has no alien number. American-born citizens aren’t assigned suc
h numbers, as you may know in your investigatative capacity.”

  “Birth certificates can be forged, counsel,” said Winrock. “People run away from who they really are—they do it all the time.”

  Up to then I had been the courtroom’s most patient observer, but I had heard enough. Against my better judgment, I stood up.

  “I didn’t forge my birth certificate, sir,” I said directly to the witness, sending a ripple of surprise through the courtroom.

  In the hum, a voice bolted out from the audience: “How can a baby forge a birth certificate?”

  Daddy. He waved an old, folded document in his hand.

  “I have my daughter’s birth certificate. I’ve had it since the day she was born. It’s the same one you have there. I gave it to the lawyer. Nobody forged anything.”

  Judge Rolle slammed his gavel.

  “You, sir, sit down,” he said, pointing a finger at Daddy before turning to me. “And you, Ms. Portilla, take your seat.”

  “With all due respect, Your Honor, may I ask you to call me by my real name?” I said.

  Judge Rolle had had enough. His eyes narrowed at me as he spoke to my lawyer.

  “Mr. Casey, please explain to your client what it means to be held in contempt of court. Because I’m about ready to call it if she doesn’t take her seat,” he said.

  Casey tried to quietly calm me. As he did, I happened to look inside his open briefcase and something in it caught my attention.

  “What’s that photograph over there?” I whispered to Casey.

  “You mean this one?” he said, reaching for the picture.

  “I have an idea,” I said, leaning over and whispering the thought in his ear.

  When he heard my idea, Casey beamed. He got up with a new resolve and continued his cross-examination of the witness.

  “Lieutenant Winrock,” he said, “you’d recognize this woman from a mile away?”

  “I’ll never forget her,” replied the witness. “I’ve cracked more than a few drug cases, but I’ll never forget this one.”

  “Why’s that?” said Casey.

  “Because it was owned, operated, managed, and controlled by a female. Can’t ever forget that,” said the witness.