“Then who is to blame?” Julia asked, her anger rising.
“There are two sides to this story, Julia. Yes, Jorge did things to you that a man should never do to his wife. But you cheated on him. You fell in love with Hugo. And when you found out the baby wasn’t Hugo’s, you got an abortion. That’s what I’m talking about!”
Julia stood in stunned silence. The accusation was so outrageous that she could barely muster a response. “Who told you I had an abortion because it wasn’t Hugo’s child? Jorge?”
“No! Hugo!”
It was like a punch to the gut, but Julia wasn’t completely shocked. Jorge’s abuse was in a class by itself, but Hugo had his own brand of machismo. She’d tried to tell Hugo that she’d been raped. She’d tried to tell him that Jorge had forced her to have an abortion. But after hearing the word abortion, the self-centeredness that seemed embedded in the Y chromosome kicked in, and there was only one thing Hugo cared about: Was the baby mine?
She’d told Hugo what he wanted to hear and suffered alone.
“You believe everybody but me, your own sister,” said Julia.
“I believe that Beatriz deserves better.”
Almost immediately, Cecilia seemed to want the words back, and Julia wished she hadn’t heard them. But they were out there, the unspoken feelings that a sister should never say to the mother of her niece.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” Julia said in the calmest voice she could muster. “You’re entitled to your beliefs.”
The eye contact lasted a moment longer, and then Julia looked away. Neither woman spoke as Julia walked past her sister. She crossed the street but didn’t even slow down at the bus stop, never looking back as she continued down the sidewalk to wait for the bus on another block.
Chapter 61
Rosa was asleep on the bed in their room at the Flamingo Motel. She lay on her side in a deep state of unconsciousness, her arm dangling over the edge of the mattress. She looked almost lifeless, but Jorge could see the subtle rise of her rib cage with each silent breath. The syringe, metal spoon, water bottle, and Jorge’s cigarette lighter were on the nightstand, beside the open foil package of heroin.
Rosa had successfully planted the GPS tracker in Beatriz’s backpack. The app on Jorge’s cell verified that much, allowing him to monitor Beatriz’s movement every three minutes. Hard work had its rewards, and he’d delivered the promised packet upon their return to the motel. Rosa was shaking with anticipation, and he’d offered to cook it for her, but when the going gets tough, the addicted get going. Red was a self-injection machine, heating it in the spoon, filling the syringe, and dispensing the drug into the overused vein in her forearm with the determination of a wounded soldier on a final lifesaving mission.
On the other side of the dimly lit room, one of the last remaining tube televisions in Miami was tuned to ESPN deportes. Real Madrid was delivering a serious ass-kicking to a lesser club de fútbol, but Jorge wasn’t watching. His gaze was fixed on the image displayed on his cell phone. His image.
Social media is an effective tool for law enforcement, and the South Florida Homicide clearinghouse puts it to good use. A BOLO issued by the Miami-Dade Police Department’s Homicide Unit spreads quickly, not only to law enforcement but to the community at large. Any citizen with Web access can easily find out if police are looking for someone in the neighborhood just by checking the MDPD Facebook page and links to local watch groups.
It worked equally well for a criminal who wanted to know whether the police were actively looking for him.
“Shit!” Jorge shouted, as he kicked the plastic trash can across the room. Rosa didn’t stir.
There were two BOLOs from MDPD. The first was for Rosa’s car, which didn’t concern him. It had long since been chopped, and the parts were probably on a freighter to the Caribbean or South America. The second BOLO was the problem. Jorge’s face was clearly visible in the grainy freeze-frame from surveillance video at Rosa’s apartment building. It even had his name below the photo. And Jorge knew who to blame.
“Damn you, Julia!”
Jorge went to the closet and sifted through his weapons bag. He’d discarded the .22-caliber he’d used to off Hugo, but the semiautomatic 9 mm pistol from Hugo was a keeper. The extra ammunition clips would come in handy later. He grabbed the titanium diver’s knife with the mixed serrated and nonserrated edges and went into the bathroom. The smooth side of the blade made quick work of his medium-length hair, and he pitched fistful after fistful into the toilet before flushing it away. When he was down to a patchwork of stubble, he soaped up and shaved his head clean with the razor. A shaved head had been his regular look as a teenager, and he’d almost forgotten about the “18” tattoo on his scalp behind his left ear. It made him smile to see it again.
Jorge gathered up the toiletries and the knife, went back to the closet, and stuffed them into the weapons bag, along with his shoes, clothes, extra cash, and everything else worth taking. He turned around and took a look at Rosa. She was still out cold, floating along somewhere with Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.
Jorge had strongly suspected that the police might be on his tail, which was why he’d chosen to lie low, put off his plans for Theo Knight, and monitor Julia’s movements via the GPS transmitter in Beatriz’s backpack. But the BOLO made it impossible for him to stay another minute at the Flamingo Motel. A. Bitch at reception had promised not to say anything to anyone, but she’d seen his face, she’d pointed out “the redhead” waiting in his car, and she could not be trusted. Nor could he be seen carrying Rosa like a corpse out of the motel room to the car. He had to do what he had to do.
Jorge put down his bag and took a seat on the edge of the mattress near the nightstand. Rosa had carefully measured out her dosage, having left enough heroin in the foil packet for another five injections. Jorge emptied the entire package into the spoon, added a few drops of water, and fired it up into an injectable liquid with his lighter. The vinegary odor told him that this batch wasn’t particularly pure, but it didn’t matter. He drew every bit of solution into the syringe. He tied Rosa’s arm with the tourniquet, found a vein, and inserted the hollow hypodermic needle at an acute angle.
Rosa just lay there, making not a flinch, not even as he pushed the plunger slowly and injected the deadly dosage in the direction of her blood flow, toward the heart.
“Night, night,” he said, as he tossed the syringe aside and removed the tourniquet.
Jorge rose, grabbed his bag from the floor, and opened the door. He glanced back at Rosa on his way out. She’d been pretty good to him, but he managed to feel just fine about himself and how things had turned out.
Unlike so many others, Rosa would die a happy girl.
Jorge closed the door and headed to the car, checking the app on his cell for Beatriz’s latest location.
Chapter 62
On Wednesday morning Jack was in court for the final day of Julia’s asylum hearing—alone.
“Are you stag today, Mr. Swyteck?” the judge asked.
Julia had called to tell him she wasn’t coming, to which his initial reaction was, “You need to be there.” But after hearing her out, Julia’s explanation had made sense. Jack put his best spin on it for the court, recounting the meeting with Detective Barnes and the assistant state attorney that confirmed the identity of Jorge Rodriguez.
“Your Honor, the fact of the matter is that my client is afraid to step out of her apartment. She recognizes the importance of this hearing, but she is especially fearful coming to this courthouse when her exact destination and precise time of arrival are matters of public record. Retaliation by her husband is a very real possibility.”
“It’s her choice,” the judge said. “She doesn’t have to be here if she’s represented by counsel. May I see the BOLO, please?”
“I have it,” said Jerrell, and she happily handed it up to the judge. “It was just upgraded to a probable-cause-to-arrest BOLO. The
image in that BOLO is from a surveillance video of Mr. Rodriguez leaving the apartment of a college student named Rosa Fields. Ms. Fields was found dead this morning in a motel room. The manager confirmed that she was staying with Mr. Rodriguez.”
The news hit Jack hard, but not as hard as the judge’s glare. “Were you aware of that, Mr. Swyteck?” the judge asked, as if the actions of Julia’s husband were his wife’s fault.
“I was not, Your Honor. But I did want to share with the court a letter from Assistant State Attorney Phillip Arnoff acknowledging my client’s assistance in the investigation. Her identification of Mr. Rodriguez in the video was extremely helpful.”
Jack handed up the letter, which Arnoff had delivered in keeping with his promise. The judge read it quickly.
“Nice letter,” the judge said. “But I don’t see how the respondent’s cooperation with law enforcement is relevant to her claim for asylum.”
“Not to beat a dead horse,” said Jerrell, “but the letter actually supports the department’s position that Ms. Rodriguez’s claim for asylum is conclusively foreclosed by her admission that Jorge Rodriguez is here in Miami. She has no reason to fear anything by returning to El Salvador.”
“Understood,” the judge said. “Does that conclude the parties’ submission of evidence?”
The lawyers acknowledged that it did.
“Thank you, Counsel,” the judge said. “I have an extremely crowded calendar again today, so I’ve decided to receive closing arguments by written submission. Have them delivered to my chambers by the end of the day.”
“Is there a page limit?” asked Jerrell.
“Technically, no. But I’m a firm believer in the old adage ‘If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter,’ which is to say, I stop reading at twenty pages, so I suggest you not go any longer than that. Anything else?”
“When can we expect a ruling?” asked Jerrell.
It was the question that most lawyers never asked a judge—ill-advised, at best; impertinent in some courtrooms—but it was a sure sign of the department’s supreme confidence in the outcome.
“I would not expect a ruling anytime before I’m ready to issue it,” the judge said flatly. “Are there any intelligent questions?”
Silence.
“Then we are adjourned.”
With the pistol-shot crack of a gavel, Julia’s hearing on her claim for asylum was over.
Jack gathered his files and headed for the exit to call his client. The hallway was bustling with scores of undocumented immigrants and their families, some with lawyers and some without, some who still had hope and others who’d lost it. Jack found a relatively quiet place at the end of the hallway by the fire exit and dialed Julia on her cell.
“Did the judge deport me?” she asked.
Jack didn’t want to say no for fear that she’d misunderstand. “He hasn’t ruled yet.”
“What do you think is going to happen?” she asked—or at least that’s what Jack thought he heard. The background noise on Julia’s end was terrible.
“It’s kind of hard to hear you, Julia. Where are you?”
“I’m outside,” she said. “I don’t want Beatriz to hear me. Tell me the truth. What do you think will happen?”
Jack took a breath and delivered it to her straight. “I think we are going to have to take this to the Board of Immigration Appeals.”
“How long does that take?”
“In a way, that’s the good news. An appeal can buy you months of time. Maybe more than a year.”
“Another year of looking over my shoulder for my crazy husband.”
“His days are numbered. MDPD upgraded the BOLO to include probable cause to arrest. They found a—”
“I know,” she said. “Theo showed me the article online. It said possible drug overdose, but I don’t believe anything is accidental when it comes to Jorge.”
“The police would probably agree with you,” said Jack. “But I do think they’ll catch him soon, which means you and Beatriz won’t have to worry about him.”
“So I take a year or more setting up a life for Beatriz and me in Miami,” she said. “And then I lose the appeal. What happens?”
“You would be deported.”
She didn’t say anything. Jack heard only the clatter of background noise.
“Julia?”
“I think I get the picture, Jack.”
“I know this is not what you were hoping to hear. After the judge rules and I read the actual written order, I’ll have a better sense of your chances on appeal. In the meantime, we can talk whenever you need to. Just call.”
“Thanks, Jack. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”
Jack said good-bye, but she didn’t. The noise in the background ceased, and the phone call was over. Julia was gone.
Julia put her phone away in her purse. Beatriz, seated across from her at an outdoor table, took a bite of her onion ring. A spring breeze snatched Theo’s hamburger wrapper and sent it flying across the parking lot. Theo chased it down before it sailed over the railing and landed somewhere in the ten lanes of interstate fifty feet below them.
The Varsity, the largest and arguably the most famous drive-in fast-food joint in the South, was perched on a concrete ledge overlooking one of the busiest stretches of interstate in America, Atlanta’s Downtown Connector near Georgia Tech. It was their first stop, other than bathroom breaks, since leaving Coconut Grove the night before. Theo had loaded up his car with bar food, Julia packed their belongings, and, without a word to Jack, Cecilia, or anyone else, they’d taken to the road.
“How ’bout those rings?” Theo asked, as he returned to the table.
“Good,” said Beatriz.
“Did you know they’re made with kale?” asked Theo.
“Seriously?”
“No,” said Theo, in his “get real” voice. “One thing I know for sure is that the deep-fry vats of the Varsity will never be polluted with kale.”
Beatriz laughed, but Julia was in a serious mood.
“Not good news from Jack?” asked Theo.
She shook her head.
They’d talked about it at length before leaving. Julia had expected bad news from the immigration court, and she’d been talking to Theo about plan B for days. The fact that her husband was in Miami made it easier to put plan B into action sooner than she might have, even before the judge issued the ruling that they all expected.
“Sounds like we’re doing the right thing,” said Theo.
Beatriz checked Google Maps on Theo’s cell. “Can anyone tell me why we’re going through Atlanta? The map says we should go straight up I-95 through South Carolina, North Carolina, and all the way up.”
“There are two good reasons,” said Theo.
“I hope they’re good,” said Beatriz. “It adds two hundred miles to the trip.”
“Number one, your mother is not supposed to leave Miami-Dade County. I’m not saying they’re going to come looking for her, but I’d rather not make a trail of credit card charges and other shit that makes it easy for ICE to figure out that the two of you are making a run to the Canadian border.”
Canada: plan B.
“That makes sense,” said Beatriz. “What’s the other reason?”
Theo took a huge bite of his hamburger and swallowed. “We get to eat at the world-famous Varsity. That good enough for you?”
Beatriz smiled, and her mother smiled with her. “Good enough,” said Beatriz.
“We should get going,” said Julia.
Theo gathered up the trash and threw it away. Julia grabbed her purse. Beatriz slung her backpack over her shoulder, and the three of them walked to Theo’s car.
Chapter 63
Jack drove to Coconut Grove for lunch.
The phone call with Julia had left him with an empty feeling, and twice he’d tried to follow up with her. She didn’t answer, and he totally understood her need to be left alone. He’d called and texted Theo to ma
ke sure she was okay, and it wasn’t like Theo to ignore him. Jack was getting a strange vibe.
He entered Cy Place’s a little before noon and found none other than Uncle Cy himself behind the bar. He was technically Theo’s great-uncle Cyrus, and Theo just called him Cy, but to Jack he’d always be an uncle.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
It was an expression no one had ever heard Uncle Cy use until he turned eighty, which made Jack wonder if there was some form of dormant nucleic acid in the human body that kicked in on the eightieth birthday and made people say the things that octogenarians have been saying since the beginning of time.
“Where’s your nephew?” Jack asked as he settled into the barstool.
“Yeah, it is a nice day, isn’t it?” Cy said in a cheery voice.
Jack didn’t know what to make of the apparent disconnect. Hearing loss was common among old musicians, especially nightclub stars like Cy, who’d spent countless nights blowing a saxophone until the wee hours of the morning, powered by gin, cigarettes, and God only knew what else. But this seemed more like a change of subject than an auditory issue.
“I asked, where’s Theo,” said Jack.
“I heard you the first time,” said Cy. “I swore not to tell you.”
Jack was getting somewhere. “Okay, let’s stop the dance. What’s Theo up to?”
The old man shot him one of those lonely hound-dog looks. Cy was tall and thin as a reed, and he had a sax player’s stoop even when he wasn’t playing, as if his chin were glued to his sternum. He could cut to the soul when he looked at you, head down, through the tops of those sad eyes. The man just didn’t play fair.
“Don’t give me that look,” said Jack. “Seriously, what’s going on?”
“They left last night,” said Cy.
“Who left?”
Cy told him, and Jack felt both betrayed and stupid. “Call him,” said Jack.
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