No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  She looked at me, then Zoe, chuckling again. “I’ve offered to teach him, but he’s always too busy.”

  The banter stayed in that light vein until Gertie gave me a piercing look, the one that says, ‘I’m sensing something you’re not telling me.’ She said, “You seem a little off, Cal. What’s the matter?” Not wishing to burden my friend with sad news, I shook my head. But she pressed me. “Go on. Spit it out.”

  Knowing Gertie wouldn’t drop it, I exhaled. “There’s been a murder at Angel Vineyard.” As the words left me, my throat tightened up. I looked at Zoe. “That’s a vineyard not far from here.” To both I said, “A young woman was shot to death last Friday night.”

  Zoe flinched visibly. Gertie said, “Good God, not here in the Red Hills.” I sketched in the situation, and when I finished Gertie shook her head. “My heart goes out to the Fuentes family.”

  “They’re devastated, Mrs. Fuentes in particular,” I responded. “I went to the velorio yesterday. It was, uh, difficult.”

  “What about the Angels? How are they taking it?” Gertie asked.

  “Devastated as well. Hillary told me Olivia was like a granddaughter to them.”

  Gertie gave me a serious look. “Are you going to get involved, Cal?”

  I shrugged. “Olivia’s father asked me to. He said people would be reluctant to cooperate with the police since the raids.”

  Gertie nodded. Zoe said, “Raids? What happened?”

  “ICE conducted a series of sweeps and deported dozens of people in the Willamette Valley, all farm and vineyard workers. Most were men, some with families with kids that are American citizens, like the Fuentes family.”

  “The local police don’t cooperate with ICE, do they?” Zoe asked. “Oregon’s a sanctuary state like Washington and California, right?”

  “That’s right, but the Feds are putting a lot more pressure on local law enforcement, and the migrants know this. What trust there was has been compromised.”

  “What did you tell Mr. Fuentes about getting involved?” Gertie asked.

  “I said I’d discuss it with him. I’m meeting with him and Timoteo on Saturday. Olivia’s funeral is tomorrow.”

  Gertie shot Zoe a knowing look. “He’ll probably take the case.” To me, she added, “I usually don’t encourage these open-ended ventures. You always seem to lose money, and they’re dangerous as hell. But this is close to home, Cal. I hope you can help this family find out who killed their daughter.”

  That was as close to an endorsement as I ever got from Gertrude Johnson. I smiled. “We’ll see, Gertie.”

  Gertie tired soon after that, and Zoe showed me out, walking with Archie and me to the gate separating our two properties. Light from a gibbous moon reflected off one of her earrings, and a breeze riffled and tossed her hair. She took no notice.

  I said, “I apologize for being the bearer of bad news. I wasn’t going to say anything, but your aunt reads me like a book.”

  Zoe laughed at that. “Nothing gets by her.” She wrapped her arms against the breeze and looked out at the twinkling lights in the valley before turning to me. “Are you okay?”

  I kept my eyes on the valley. “Yeah, it’s just…I, uh, I tried to revive Olivia and all.” I exhaled and my throat tightened again. “It wasn’t a pretty sight, and it’s staying with me.”

  “That’s understandable. You’ve suffered a trauma, and you’re grieving, too.”

  “I’m angry. This never should have happened.”

  “Anger’s part of the grieving process, Cal.”

  I considered that for a moment. “That’s true. And the endpoint’s acceptance, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I don’t expect to get to acceptance any time soon. Somebody needs to pay for this first.”

  “Oh, an avenging angel.”

  “Avenging, maybe, but no angel.” After we said our good-nights and I was walking back across the moonlit field, I reminded myself to not let my emotions carry the day. No decisions until you talk to Timoteo and his dad, I promised myself.

  That night, to keep Olivia’s ghost at bay, I resorted to my old friend Rémy Martin once again. Instead of Yo-Yo Ma playing Chopin, however, I opted for a slightly more upbeat “’Round About Midnight” with Miles Davis and John Coltrane. I took that as evidence of progress.

  Chapter Nine

  That Saturday morning, I stood at my kitchen window watching fast-moving clouds sweep in from the south, thankful I’d stopped drinking in time to avoid another bad hangover. Rain billowed down from the distant front, and the wind it sent up the valley swayed the firs along my fence line like graceful dancers. In the foreground, sunlight bathed the valley in yellow light, bringing the soft autumn colors to full bloom.

  I waited as my espresso machine squeezed out two shots to which I added hot, foamy milk—my first double cap of the day, and without the aspirin this time. Sipping the heady brew, my mind drifted back to mornings I’d spent commuting to the Parker Center when I was a prosecutor for the city of Los Angeles. It all came back—the dirty air, the insane traffic, the looming stress of the day’s work. That seemed two lifetimes ago, at least. I shook off the annoying flashback, reminding myself that things could be a lot worse.

  Two sharp barks from Archie announced the arrival of Timoteo and his father at my office at ten that morning. “Have you heard from Detective Tate?” I asked after we exchanged greetings and they were seated.

  Carlos Fuentes locked his deep-set eyes on mine. “I spoke with the detective this morning. They have no leads.” He wore a long-sleeved shirt with pearl buttons, dark blue jeans with a wide leather belt, and finely tooled cowboy boots.

  Timoteo glanced at his father before speaking, his jeans, crewneck sweater, and cross-trainers in sharp contrast to his dad’s attire. “Actually, the detective said the investigation was progressing, that they couldn’t share what they’d found.”

  Carlos puffed a dismissive breath. “Por dios. If she had something, she would’ve have told us. ¿Verdad?”

  I waved a hand. “It’s hard to judge. They’re not going to be very open with you at this stage. In any case, I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you, okay?” They both nodded. “Let me start with Olivia that night. She was set to pick you up, Timoteo, but she had a conflict. What happened?”

  Timoteo leaned forward in his chair, his face darkening at the mention of his sister. “She was late to a fundraiser in Newberg for Prosperar, the nonprofit she’s…ah…was working for. She asked Luis to come get me.”

  I looked at Carlos. “She took your truck. Was that normal?”

  He shrugged. “It was parked behind our other car. She hates the truck. It’s a stick shift, but she probably didn’t want to take the time to move it.” A wistful smile flickered and died on his weathered face. “Olivia was always in a hurry.”

  I turned to Timoteo. “She was wearing Luis’s hoodie that night. Why was that?”

  “It was probably hanging on the coatrack next to the door. She grabbed it to keep the rain off.”

  To both of them I said, “Do you know of anyone with a reason to hurt Olivia?”

  They looked horrified, saying in unison, “No.” Timoteo added, “Olivia was loved by everyone. No one wished her harm.”

  “You mentioned Prosperar, the nonprofit health organization. What did she do there?”

  Timoteo smiled sadly. “What didn’t she do? She was in charge of their office operations, scheduling, keeping medical records, writing press releases, you name it. She was a tech whiz, too. She had that organization humming, everything computerized.”

  “Did she work for the director, Sofia Leon?”

  “Yeah. She started out working for the office manager, but Leon fired him and didn’t replace him. So, Olivia got the job de facto.”

  “This fundraiser Olivia was hur
rying to… I gather the people attending knew she was coming?”

  “Um, yeah. She was on the agenda. I know because she showed me. She was proud of it.”

  “So, the approximate time she would have left your house was known to the Prosperar group and the attendees? Anyone else know when she was leaving that night?”

  Timoteo’s eyes told me he’d caught my drift. “Um, no one I know of.”

  “Why didn’t Luis come with you today?” I asked next, changing the subject.

  Carlos dropped his gaze to the floor in front of him. Timoteo said, “Luis left. We haven’t seen him since the funeral.”

  “He left? Why?”

  Timoteo flinched at my words. “We don’t know. I think it was my fault.”

  “Was it about the confrontation you had the night of the murder?”

  He gave a slight shrug. “Luis started hanging with some guys I didn’t like. I jumped to conclusions, I guess. I was out of my head that night.”

  Carlos raised his eyes. “We worry about Luis. He hasn’t found his way yet.”

  Timoteo said, “Luis hates school, but he’s an amazing artist.”

  “Art?” Carlos scoffed. “Unless you are Diego Rivera, it is useless. You cannot support yourself this way.”

  Timoteo shot me a frustrated look before saying, “He’ll find his way, Papi.”

  “He also has a temper,” Carlos went on. “About a year ago he got into a fight with a white man who spit on him and told him to go back to Mexico. We have tried to teach our children to walk away from such ugliness, but Luis is a fighter.”

  Timoteo said, “The white guy wasn’t charged with anything, but Luis got arrested. We were terrified he was going to be deported, but the guy never pressed charges, so Luis was released.”

  “Do you know this man’s name?”

  “I can get it for you,” Timoteo said. “I have a copy of the police report.”

  “Do that. What about these guys he was hanging out with? Tell me about them.”

  Timoteo curled up one side of his mouth and shook his head. “I don’t know much. The disaffected, I guess. They gather at a little cantina in Lafayette. You know, they hate whites, blame them for everything but do nothing to help the situation. Okay, Latinos don’t always get a fair shake around here, but playing the victim doesn’t help.” He exhaled a breath in frustration. “I told Luis he’d be judged by the company he keeps, but he didn’t listen, of course.”

  “You thought one of them might’ve had it in for Luis for some reason?”

  Timoteo shook his head again. “I was wrong. Luis said there was no problem.”

  “But he took off. Do you think he’s in danger?”

  “He’s left before. He was pissed at me, probably needed to get away. He was very close to Olivia. Our house’s a depressing place right now.”

  “Was Luis going out that night?”

  “He was going to the cantina, I think.” Timoteo said.

  “Would they have known he was coming?”

  He shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Did Luis or either of you tell Detective Tate any of this?”

  Carlos shook his head. Timoteo said, “I didn’t. I don’t know for sure what Luis told her.”

  “Unless he suspected someone of the shooting,” Carlos added, “Luis would tell them nothing. He is the least trusting of us all.”

  I looked at Carlos. “What about you? Do you have any enemies? It was dark, it was your truck, and like Luis, Olivia’s about your height.” I nodded in Timoteo’s direction. “He’s the tall one in the family.”

  Carlos’s shoulders sank as he let out a slow breath. He looked at Timoteo, then drilled his dark eyes into mine. “Timoteo says that you are a man we can trust. I hope this is so, because I am going to tell you something I do not wish you to share with anyone else.”

  “You have my word, Carlos.”

  Timoteo shifted in his seat, signaling interest in what his father was about to say.

  “I grew up in a village near Guadalajara in the state of Jalisco. My father died when I was five—a simple infection that was never treated—and my mother struggled to raise me and my two older sisters. We, ah, had no money and often very little to eat. When I was seventeen, I was recruited by a cartel.”

  Timoteo sucked an audible breath. “A cartel? You never told us this, Papi.”

  Carlos turned to his son and opened his hands. “Why would I? I was young and desperate. I knew it was wrong, but when your grandmother had her stroke, I became the breadwinner.”

  Timoteo’s mouth dropped open. “Which cartel?”

  “The Guadalajara. When I was eighteen, I met your mother,” Carlos continued, allowing a wistful smile. “She captured my heart that first day, but she would have nothing to do with me because I was a Guadalajara.”

  Timoteo laughed in spite of himself. “No surprise there.”

  Carlos smiled. “I was a good organizer, and I rose rapidly in the organization.” He stopped abruptly and eyed his son. “I was in operations, not security. I never hurt anyone during that time, I swear, Timoteo.”

  “Of course, Papi.”

  “I saved some money, and six years later I moved my mother and sisters to a small village in San Luis Potosi in the dark of night. We had cousins there. I found a job in a vineyard. I was just a field laborer, but that’s where I learned to love growing grapes and making wine.”

  Timoteo leaned toward his father. I felt like I was intruding on an intimate father-son conversation. He smiled. “What did Mamá think of that?”

  Carlos returned the smile. “I snuck back to Guadalajara a month later, but she wouldn’t see me. I came back again a year later, and she agreed to come back with me. A priest married us at the vineyard. But it was a hard life, and there was no chance of advancing. After you and Luis were born, the call of El Norte was too strong, so I slipped across the border with a coyote. I was ambitious, and your mother and I wanted a better life for you both. You know the rest.”

  Timoteo looked thunderstruck. “Wow, I had no idea. There was no way out of the cartel?”

  Carlos smiled bitterly. “The penalty for deserting Guadalajara was death for you and your family. You learn that the first day of training and every day after. Even though the cartel has now splintered into several factions, they vow to hunt you down if you desert.”

  “Even after twenty-some years?” I said.

  The bitter smile. “They might. Fanáticos, all of them. My disappearance was a big thing at the time.” Carlos dropped his gaze. “And I took some of their money when I left. Finding and killing someone like me here in America after so long could send a strong message, I think.”

  “Do you think they may have found you?”

  He shrugged. “It is possible. I made some inquiries in Guadalajara to someone I trust, but he no longer has a source in the cartel.”

  “Do you fear that you and the rest of your family are in danger?”

  Carlos’s face grew hard. “In Mexico, they would kill us all. Here in America, they might not risk it. Perhaps killing a man’s daughter is enough. But we are being cautious.”

  “That’s wise,” I said, then moved to another question. “I looked around the vineyard after I left the velorio. I noticed what looked like a new lock on the gate behind your house. Is that where the killer entered the vineyard?”

  Timoteo looked surprised at my revelation but answered without questioning me. “Yes, we were told the lock was found open, which meant the killer had a key or was able to pick it.”

  I looked at Carlos. “Who had access to the key?”

  “Many people. It hung in the storage barn. Now I have the only key to the new lock.”

  “Do you suspect anyone of providing a key to the killer?”

  Carlos shook his head. “No one. But some of the wor
kers are new, and I don’t know them well.”

  “Did you hire them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “Do you have a list of names, their contact information?”

  “I have given such a list to the detective,” Carlos answered. “I’m afraid some of the information may not be accurate.” He smiled. “Not even I am trusted completely these days.”

  We fell into silence. Archie got up from his mat in the corner and stretched, sensing the meeting might be over. Finally I said, “Anything else you think I should know?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  I leaned back and ran a hand through my hair. “It would be best if you told Detective Tate about the cartel, but I understand why you feel you can’t. If you and the rest of the migrant community fully cooperated with the police, it would make little sense for me to be involved, but since that’s not going to happen, maybe I can find a way to help.” I put an index finger up for emphasis and moved my eyes from father to son. “I’ll need your assistance, especially in convincing people it’s safe to talk to me.”

  Carlos nodded, and Timoteo said, “We can do that. No problem.”

  It was a huge commitment, something I had no business taking on, but the crime was so personal, so deeply affecting. Did I have a choice? “We can discuss fees later, but there’s one item we can dispose of right now,” I continued. “I’ll need your permission to share details about the case that could be construed as confidential in the attorney-client setting. I’ve learned the hard way that I need that flexibility to be effective in a situation like this, where I’m straddling the line between investigator and attorney. You’ll have to trust my judgment that I’ll be careful. Is that agreeable?” They said it was, and I drew up an informed consent agreement. After a discussion, Carlos signed it.

  He stood, looking relieved. “Thank—”

  I put a hand up. “Don’t thank me, please. I haven’t done anything yet. How’s Elena?”

  Timoteo shook his head. “Not good. She stays in the bedroom with the blinds closed. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t go to work, no cooking, and she’s hardly eating. And she won’t talk to Father Mallory.”