No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  Timoteo glanced over at Archie, who was snoozing in the corner. “Leave him if you want. I’ll make sure he gets his walk.”

  ***

  Prosperar was located in a modest, one-story, brick building on NE 5th in McMinnville. An unobtrusive sign above the entry read PROSPERAR MEDICAL SERVICES, and a sign in the window promised Aqui Se Habla Español. As I entered, the receptionist looked up from her computer and smiled, and the eyes of at least a dozen people sitting in a waiting area turned in my direction. A couple of young kids in a play area paid me no mind. I was surprised at how busy it was and instantly regretted not calling ahead.

  The young receptionist glanced at my card after I introduced myself. “Is Dr. Leon expecting you?”

  “Uh, no, but this is important. It concerns Olivia Fuentes.” Her smile crashed, and I felt a twinge of guilt. “If she could make some time, I’d appreciate it,” I added with my best smile. The young woman disappeared behind a windowless double door.

  By the time she reappeared, a young couple with an infant had queued up behind me. “Ms. Leon can see you now,” she said to me. “Come with me, please.”

  I followed her down a hallway with treatment rooms on either side. The place had that antiseptic, hospital smell, and a couple of women hurried by in nurse’s garb. Leon’s office was at the end of the hall. The door was open, and she sat gazing at a large monitor. Leather and chrome seating, a standard-issue metal desk, and a photo-filled wall defined the space. The receptionist cleared her throat, and Leon looked up from the screen. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back unceremoniously, her smile was guarded, and her eyes, magnified by wire-rim glasses, looked tired.

  “Mr. Claxton,” she said as she stood and extended her hand, “you look familiar, but I can’t place you.”

  “We met briefly at Olivia Fuentes’s velorio.”

  The smile deepened. “Of course.” She motioned toward a chair in front of her desk. “Please. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m working informally with the Fuentes family to aid in the investigation of Olivia’s murder. I—”

  “Really?” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and her eyes came alive. “Isn’t that a matter for the police?”

  I gave her my standard pitch about being a bridge between a distrustful migrant community and the police, in the hopes of improving the chances of catching the murderer. I made a sweeping gesture when I finished. “I’m sure you’re confronted with similar issues here at Prosperar.”

  She tucked a lock of errant hair behind her ear and nodded. “I take your point. Serving the undocumented does present complications. I’ve already spoken to the police, but since you’re here, I take it the crime’s still unsolved.”

  “It is.”

  “No suspects?”

  “None I’m aware of.”

  “The word in the migrant community is that Olivia’s father was the target. Is that true?”

  “We don’t know. Who told you that?”

  “My staff has been picking it up here and there.”

  “I understand you worked closely with Olivia. Did you notice anything about her behavior that seemed unusual before the murder?”

  “No. Nothing at all.” She paused, let a breath out, and adjusted her glasses.

  I edged forward in my chair. “Small details can be crucial.”

  “Well, I did notice one thing, but I hesitate to bring it up.”

  I waited for her to continue.

  “She was showing some interest in our finance manager, Robert Harris.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “I’m told he’s seeing someone, so it seemed a little out of character for Olivia. She was such a principled young woman.”

  “Did Robert reciprocate?”

  “I don’t really know, but he’s taken Olivia’s death really hard. He hasn’t been himself since the funeral.” She paused for a moment and met my eyes. “Of course, we’re all shaken to the core by what happened.”

  “When did Olivia’s interest in him start?”

  She looked to the side for a moment before answering. “Maybe a month or so before she died.”

  “Did you tell the detectives about this?”

  “No, it just occurred to me, you know, with the way Robert’s been acting and all. Should I?”

  “I’d give Detective Tate a call. She’ll appreciate it.” Not wishing to have Tate learn of my involvement in this way, I added, “It would, uh, be better not to mention my name at this juncture. I haven’t informed her of my involvement yet.”

  She eyed me for a moment as if considering my request. “Okay. I’ll contact the detective and leave you out of it.”

  I followed up with more questions about Olivia and Robert but didn’t learn anything of significance. I was curious about Prosperar and asked her about the organization.

  “We’re a nonprofit focused on the medical needs of farm, nursery, and vineyard workers and their families in the north valley. Virtually none of these workers have health insurance. They don’t seek medical care until their problems become acute. Then it’s often too late. It’s a huge problem.”

  “I live in the Red Hills, yet I know so little about your clinic. I’m embarrassed to say that.”

  She flashed a smile. “That’s by design. Most of our clients are undocumented, so there’s always the potential for controversy.” She rolled her eyes. “The last thing we want is to have some white supremacist group harassing us. We tend to fly under the radar.”

  “How are you funded?”

  “Privately, through the growers—some of the growers, the generous ones—and we have a cadre of medical staff who volunteer their time—wonderful, committed people. We have the clinic here, and we also go to some of the larger work sites to give flu shots, vaccinations, and the like. We make house calls, too, when transportation’s an issue.”

  “Impressive. I’m sure you’re having a big impact out there.”

  A hint of pride in her smile. “We are. And we’re planning to expand into California and Washington.”

  We exchanged cards, and as I was leaving I asked where I could find Robert Harris. “Second office past the exit to the lobby.” She looked at her watch. “Better hurry. He’ll be off to lunch soon.”

  Harris’s office was locked, and when I asked the receptionist about him, she said, “He just went out. You might catch him in the parking lot. He drives a silver BMW.”

  Robert Harris was just getting into his car when I called out to him. He turned around and eyed me through dark glasses until I caught up with him. He was narrow in the shoulders with sandy hair, a slight paunch, and a decided lack of chin. Not exactly what I expected. I introduced myself and handed him a card. “I’m hoping you could spare a few minutes to talk about Olivia Fuentes. Maybe we could—”

  “I’ve already talked to the police,” he said, cutting me off. His face grew taut. “I’m, ah, running late. If you want to know what I said, maybe you can talk to them.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  He turned and got into his BMW, a Z4 sports car, and rolled down the window. “Sorry, gotta run.” I started to argue, but his cell phone chirped, and he took the call. I walked back and got into my car just as the Z4 purred out of the parking lot and accelerated down NE 5th.

  Hmm. That was odd.

  Chapter Twenty

  When I got back to the office, Timoteo was bent over his laptop, his fingers a blur on the keyboard. He looked up when I came in the back door. “How’d it go?”

  I plopped down behind my desk, and Archie came over to greet me. “Interesting. Sofia Leon didn’t seem to know much, but she did confirm what Mariana told us—Olivia and Robert Harris seemed to be at least in the flirting stages of an affair, but with a couple of twists. First, Leon was a little taken aback because, according to her, H
arris has a girlfriend. She thought it was out of character that Olivia would pursue him.” I paused, giving Timoteo an inquiring look.

  “She was right about that. Olivia wouldn’t hit on a guy who was taken.” He looked away with a wistful smile. “She had guys lining up to date her.”

  “Not under any circumstances?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe the guy was breaking up with his girlfriend, or he lied to her about it, or…maybe she wanted something from him. She’d have to want whatever it was really bad to violate her code of ethics.” The wistful look again. “She was the most honest person I’ve ever known.”

  “This guy was no catch, believe me, so I tend to discount a romantic motive on her part. The other interesting thing was that Leon said Harris was upset since the funeral, ‘Not himself’ is the way she put it.” I described my encounter with him in the Prosperar parking lot. “He was hard to read,” I summed up. “Maybe he’s shut down by the shock of Olivia’s death, but I got a whiff of something else—fear, maybe.”

  “What would he be afraid of?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “How?”

  “We keep digging, that’s how. Olivia sent Luis to the cantina to find out what was going on there. At roughly the same time, she started cozying up to Harris at Prosperar.”

  “So, there’s a link between Diego Vargas and Robert Harris?”

  “Perhaps.”

  His face became animated. “Let me follow Harris, see what he’s up to.”

  I had to chuckle at his eagerness. “Let’s see what Nando Mendoza can find out about both of them first.”

  Timoteo’s look grew concerned. “This will show up on our bill, right? How much does he charge us for a search like this?”

  “For a straightforward background check, he’ll use a cloud-based system, Experian or TransUnion, probably. So, maybe seventy-five bucks each. He’s agreed to run your work at his cost.”

  Timoteo looked surprised. “Why did he agree to do that?”

  I smiled. “Because he arrived here from Cuba in a homemade boat without a dime.”

  “He did? When?”

  “Oh, fifteen years ago, now. He understands what immigrants go through.”

  Timoteo shook his head. “Wow. That’s so cool. I had no idea. Tell him the Fuentes family appreciates this very much.”

  While I talked to Esperanza about the searches, Timoteo slipped across the highway and returned with sandwiches and coffee. As we sat down to eat, he handed me a couple of printed pages. “I recommend you go for a summary judgment on the lawsuit.”

  I think I did a double take. “You’ve finished the memo already?” He nodded, and I read through it while we ate and drank. “Not bad,” I said, looking up when I finished. “You found the key point—there’re no outstanding issues of material fact on the table now. When that’s the case, the suit becomes a question of pure law, and a judge can rule on it without a trial.”

  “Thanks. That was fun. I think the case’s a slam dunk.”

  I smiled. “It would be in any other state, but in Oregon, it turns out, it’s hard to convince a judge to consider summary judgment. If there’s any factual dispute whatsoever, the policy of the court of appeals is to allow the party to have their say in front of the jury or a court.”

  That led us to a discussion on the details of summary judgments, and when we finished, Timoteo said, “Can I see the motion when you finish writing it?”

  “Sure.” God forgive me, the cynical corner of my brain whispered, another lawyer is born.

  ***

  Later that afternoon I was on the phone with a client when Timoteo’s cell chirped. He took the call and then looked over at me, his forehead scored with worry lines. “What’s up?” I said, after disconnecting a few moments later.

  “That was Hillary Angel. She’s sitting with Mamá this afternoon. She said two ICE agents came to the door asking for Luis.”

  “What did she tell them?”

  “She said he wasn’t living there anymore and that our family had no idea where he was.”

  I got up and alerted Archie with a flick of my head. “Let’s go. I want to talk to her.”

  We closed the office, and ten minutes later, I pulled in behind Timoteo’s car at the Fuentes’s house. Small in stature with bright, inquisitive eyes, Hillary met us at the front door wearing a worried face. After she described the encounter, I said, “Are you sure they were ICE agents? Did they show you their badges?”

  “No, they didn’t. I should’ve demanded ID, but I was shocked, to tell you the truth. They wore black vests that said ‘Police’ on them. Big, burly men, both of them. Their car was black, unmarked.”

  We heard footsteps in the hall and turned to see Elena Fuentes staring at us, her body clothed in a tattered terry cloth robe, her face horror-stricken. She looked thin and emaciated. “What is it? Has something happened to Luis?”

  Timoteo rushed over to her. “Nothing’s happened to Luis, Mamá. He’s safe and sound. Some people wanted to talk to him, that’s all.”

  She pulled away from him, glaring at all of us, her eyes lit with fear. “I heard you say ICE. They want only one thing—to deport us, to destroy our lives here.”

  “No, Mamá. They don’t know where Luis is. It’s okay. They’ve gone.”

  Her eyes clouded over with grief, but no tears flowed. She put her hands on either side of her head as if she were going to scream. Hillary went over to her. “Come on, Elena, let’s go back to your room. I’ll make you a cup of hot tea. It’s okay. Luis is fine. He’s safe.”

  Hillary guided Elena back down the hall. I glanced at my watch. “Do you know where the nearest ICE field office is?”

  Timoteo said, “On the highway, just south of Newberg. Brand-new concrete building, no sign out front, just the street address. Looks like a Gestapo headquarters.”

  “I’m going there now to see if I can learn anything. Alert your father about this and stay here with your mother. Don’t go to the door if they come back. They can’t enter without a search warrant. I’ll be in touch.”

  Timoteo was right. The ICE facility was unmarked, although in front a large U.S. flag waved atop a flagpole. I’d driven by it numerous times when it was under construction. I suspected I wasn’t the only one who didn’t realize the building was part of the federal immigration control system. With two stories of buff-colored concrete and narrow windows, the structure had a wide, fenced-off driveway leading to an underground parking area on the left and a double-door entryway on the right.

  Relieved that the lobby at least was open to the public, I presented myself to a young male receptionist as a uniformed security guard looked on. An anxious-looking Latino woman with two toddlers sat in an adjacent waiting area, where a smattering of potted plants and bad art failed to soften the bleak institutional atmosphere of the place.

  I showed the receptionist my Oregon Bar Association card. “Earlier this afternoon, two of your agents showed up at the house of a client of mine and asked for him. I’d like to know what this is all about.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  He looked up at me for the first time, his brows scrunched down in disbelief. “Then I can’t help you.”

  “Of course you can,” I snapped back. “Who would know whether you dispatched agents to arrest someone in this area earlier today?”

  “That would be Field Supervisor Drake, on the ICE side of the house.” I must have looked confused because he added, “I work for NEO. We’re a contract agency.”

  “What does NEO do here?”

  “Everything except make arrests—that’s ICE’s job. We’re a holding center. We handle security, processing, and transportation of detainees to our regional detention center in Tacoma, Washington.”

  Noti
ng the name on his badge, I said, “Look, Ron, I need an answer here. This is part of a murder inquiry I’m involved in.”

  He reappraised me for a moment. “Okay, Drake’s kind of pissy, but he might be willing to talk to you. Take a seat and I’ll see if I can get you in to see him.”

  I sat down in the waiting room, and the two toddlers came over to me like a couple of curious kittens. The mother called them back in Spanish. I smiled at her. “They’re beautiful. Twins?”

  She nodded and tried to smile but failed. Her eyes were the color of dark chocolate and laced with fear.

  “Are you having problems with La Migra?”

  She studied me warily for a few moments before answering. “Sí. My husband, he went to the court to pay a traffic ticket yesterday. He was picked up there. I have come to see him before they take him to the detention.”

  “I’m sorry to—”

  “Mr. Claxton?” a voice interrupted. “Would you please come with me?” I got up, took a card from my wallet, and handed it to the young mother. “I’m a lawyer. If you need help, you can call me at this number.” No way I was looking for any immigrant business, but what could I say to her?

  I followed a middle-aged woman through a set of double doors and up a flight of stairs to an office at the end of an echoey hallway. “We prohibit the solicitation of business on the premises, Mr. Claxton,” she said along the way, her tone just short of haughty.

  “I’m not an immigration lawyer, but I can put the young mother in touch with one,” I replied. “Looked to me like she could use some help.”

  Field Supervisor Curtis Drake had a weight lifter’s build, a chiseled face with a meticulously cropped Vandyke beard, and small, narrow-set eyes. I entered his office, and he stood with a definite military bearing. “Mr. Claxton. What can I do for you?”

  I handed him a card and sat down in front of his desk, arrayed with neat stacks of paper, a retro penholder, and a coffee cup that had “Go ahead, make my day” written on it. “I represent a family from Dundee. This morning two men identifying themselves as ICE agents came to their home and asked for one of their sons. They didn’t show any identification, and there’s no reason for ICE to be asking for him.” The last part wasn’t necessarily true, but I didn’t want Drake to know that.