Mouse Trapped

by Manda Mellett

  I promise to visit again soon, then take my leave of Billy and his family, and go back to my bike to ride home. While we used to be neighbours, when my mom and gramma moved, it put a fair distance between us.

  A sudden gust of wind takes me unawares. My bike stays steady, but the strangeness of the breeze blowing up out of nowhere gets to me. Despite scoffing at myself, I look in my rearview mirror, half expecting to see a coyote lolloping after me. Mouse, you’ve been listening to too many stories. But still, as I ride on, I keep checking behind. What seems impossible in Tucson isn’t inconceivable here.

  Laughing at the feeling of relief I get when finally I draw up, unmolested by a skin-walker, outside the hogan, I put down the stand and am conscious of my phone vibrating in my pocket. Trouble? Could be.

  “Mouse,” I answer without thinking, expecting it to be Drummer.

  “Er, I wanted to talk to Tse?”

  “You got him.” Hardly anyone apart from my family calls me by my government name. I grow cautious. “Who’s this?”

  “You might not remember me, but my name’s Drew. Andrew De Souza. Mariana’s brother.”

  Mariana. The girl I can’t get out of my head. The girl, last night, I dreamed about. “What’s happened?”

  A noise which sounds suspiciously like a sob reaches my ear. “She’s been arrested.”

  “What for?” I ask sharply, while clenching my fist. Someone was after her. The authorities. My dream had been right to warn me.

  “I’m not sure, she rang me, but we didn’t have long to talk. I didn’t know who to call, but you’d left your number. The card was stuck to the fridge. Shit, Tse, I’m sorry. I just… There’s no one. What should I do?”

  “Slow down. Take a breath. What did they arrest her for?”

  “She was stopped at a red light. Someone ran into her.”

  That isn’t a crime. What’s going on?

  “Tse, I’m scared.” His voice quivers.

  Fuck. He would be. Sounds like the police could have used a trumped-up excuse to pick her up. “Have you got a lawyer?”

  I know it’s a stupid question as soon as I ask it. He’s a fifteen-year-old kid for fuck’s sake. But I still listen to the answer. “No.”

  “Any friends you can call to help? What about one of your teachers?”

  Now there’s a definite sob. “No. We never tell anyone our business. I wouldn’t know who to trust.”

  He trusts me.

  “I’m so scared she’s going to be deported.”

  So am I. All my thoughts of the past few weeks assault me. The idea that I might have lost my chance to get to know Mariana better is chilling. Now that I can’t go visit her, I realise how important seeing her again was to me. I don’t understand it, but something in my blood, whether it’s Anglo or Navajo, sees my strange yearning for her as significant. She could be something to me. But I won’t get a chance to find out. Not if she’s back in Colombia.

  “You at home?” When I get the grunt in confirmation, I make a hasty decision. “I’m not in Tucson right now, but I’m going to come back, okay? Sit tight, we’ll work it out.” I try to sound confident, when inside I’m already worried this is likely to be one problem I can’t find a solution to. “I’ll be there by morning, okay?”

  His exhaled breath, heavy with relief, shows I’m doing the right thing. Can’t leave a boy that age to worry alone.

  Mom’s used to me being called away, so doesn’t question or push me to provide a reason, only worried I’m making the three-hundred-mile journey at night. But there’s an inexplicable sense of urgency driving me. Knowing the feeling eating at me would prevent me sleeping, I might as well use the night hours to get back to Tucson.

  There’s barely any traffic, and I make the trip in under seven hours, bypassing the Satan’s Devils’ compound and going directly to the trailer park where Drew and Mariana live. I don’t think about removing my cut in my urgency to find out what’s happening. During the journey, I’ve started to think Drew’s right to be concerned. This could be the first step in Mariana being deported. What happens next might be down to me. There’s little a fifteen-year-old boy with no support can do.

  Trouble is, I’ve fuck all idea of where to start.

  It’s six am when I arrive. It’s only when I approach the trailer I realise how tired I am. As I hear movement inside, I wipe my hand over my sore eyes. I need coffee. And, for the first time in weeks, I could do with a joint. The latter will have to wait until I return to the compound, I don’t carry my gear with me.

  “Tse. You came.” There’s such a look of relief on his face as he unlocks the padlock on the chain-link fence, that I suspect he thought I wouldn’t.

  I’m carrying my laptop that I got out of my saddle bag. I’ve had a hundred thoughts during the long journey. I’m a hacker. Why the fuck hadn’t I given Mariana a new identity before now, legit paperwork, everything? But I’d thought she’d been safe, protected under the DACA program. Never did I consider she’d bring herself to the attention of the cops. And I hadn’t admitted I cared what happened to her. Thought myself crazy for not being able to get her off my mind. I thought I was doing right by staying away.

  “Have you heard anything more, Drew?”

  “No. I don’t know what to do, Tse.” Poor lad is rubbing at his face, he sounds distraught. Like me he looks like he hasn’t slept a wink.

  I’m playing it by ear too. I frown. “If the police are holding her, then she might need a lawyer. First thing we can do is get down there, see if she’s been charged and why they are keeping her.”

  “Do you know any lawyers?” he asks hopefully. I notice a little colour has come back into his cheeks, confirming I was right to drive through the night to be here.

  I do know a lawyer. Whether she’d be able to help or not is another question. “Grab me a coffee, and I’ll give someone a call in,” I glance at my watch, “another hour or so.”

  In the meantime, I open my laptop and do some digging. A search on Mariana’s name reveals a short newspaper report. I skim it, my brow creasing. “Drew. Mariana told you she was stopped at a red light?”

  “She did.”

  That’s not what the news says at all. He’s clearly curious, so I turn the laptop so he can see it, then sit back and fold my arms, mentally going over what the article said.

  Insurance Fraud

  Todd Jenkins reports he was driving his Ford Explorer towards a green light this morning when the car in front of him, driven by Ms Mariana De Souza (20), slammed on the brakes, causing him to run into her.

  Police have arrested Ms De Souza and are questioning her about a possible attempt to commit insurance fraud.

  Short and sweet. Also, totally untrue. Might not have spent much time with her, but her number one priority was not to draw attention to herself and to obey every fucking rule of the road.

  Drew turns his wide eyes toward me. Not for the first time, I notice he’s got the same features and expression as his sister, and it strikes me how wrong it seems that he’s a US citizen, and she might already be facing deportation. Splitting up families seems all wrong. He’s just a kid. He still needs her.

  “This is crazy.” Drew looks back to the screen. “That’s not Mariana. She’d never do something like that. Tse, she wouldn’t.” He looks like he’s trying to convince me, as though I might think she’s not worth saving if she’d commit a crime.

  “I know,” I reassure him quickly. “Last thing she’d want. Something’s off. If anyone’s committing a fraud, it’s this Todd Jenkins.” Who might be persuaded to tell the truth if my brothers and I paid him a visit. But in the meantime, “I’ll place that call now.”

  “Want some privacy?”

  “Nah, stay put. Might need some info.”

  Dart, now the VP for San Diego, answers the phone in a sleepy voice. “Mouse?”

  “Yeah. How you doing? How’s Tyler?”

  “Fine and fine. But you don’t fuckin’ ring at god-awful o’clock
to shoot the shit. Whaddya want, Brother?”

  “To talk to Alex.” His wife’s our new club lawyer. He’ll not bother asking me why I want to speak with her. It’s obvious, and not unusual for her to get a call early in the day.

  There’s a mumbling at the other end of the line, then Alex’s voice. “What can I do for you, Mouse?”

  After telling her all that I know, there’s a moment of quiet. “You think this was a set up?”

  I do. “Yes.”

  “By this Todd fella, or the cops?”

  I hadn’t thought of the latter. “Either is possible.” We’re in Arizona after all.

  “Having DACA status, she’s only safe if she doesn’t get arrested for a felony.”

  “Is fraud a felony?”

  There’s a slight pause, the type which suggests what I’m going to hear next isn’t good. “Could be,” she says, quietly.

  Fuck, that doesn’t help.

  “Look, I’ll be honest, Mouse, I don’t know much about immigration law. Just that it’s a minefield. You need someone who knows their stuff. I can try to find a reputable person in Tucson, but it will cost.”

  I live at the club. Don’t spend my money on much except my bike and computer. I don’t even hesitate, don’t have any second thoughts about my life savings going to help a stranger. “I’m good for that.”

  “Okay. Give me a chance to make some enquiries, alright?”

  That’s as much as I can ask. I thank her, and end the call.

  Having an idea, I reach for the laptop again, checking where it said the incident took place. I sigh, it was never going to be easy. There are no red-light cameras left in Tucson, they’ve all been removed due to a vote by residents a few years ago. Now it seems I’ll have to check any shops or businesses which could have CCTV cameras.

  Drew’s staring at me as if I can wave a magic wand and get answers. I wish that I could. All I can do is my best, and keep him busy. “Got our work cut out for us, kid.”

  Chapter 9

  Mariana

  They come to collect me again. This time, they put handcuffs on me. As I hold them out, my hands are shaking. I’m downright terrified. I don’t know whether I’m going to be deported straight away or taken to an immigration centre. It’s not anything that’s happened to me before. I can’t understand why I’m being treated like a criminal. I’ve done nothing wrong. How the hell did I, obediently stopped at a red light, break the law?

  The police woman, a different one from the one who escorted me to the doctor, throws some words at me in Spanish. I just look at her, puzzled. Okay, I still understand a few words, but not when it’s spoken so fast. This is what it would be like in Colombia. I feel tears start dropping from my eyes, unable to easily wipe them away as my hands are literally tied.

  “I don’t speak Spanish,” I manage to say in little more than a whisper.

  “Sure, you don’t,” she huffs, looking at me disbelievingly.

  I’m taken to a room like the ones you see on TV. A table, some kind of recording device on it, two chairs either side. I’m pushed toward one of the chairs with its back to the wall and facing the door. The police woman folds her arms and stands against the wall. After a moment two men in plain clothes come in. They take a moment settling themselves, seeming to finish off a conversation they were having outside, and pulling papers together.

  At last they sit down, look at me, and introduce themselves.

  “Detective Daniels,” one points to himself, then, moving his hand toward the other man, “Detective Geary.” For a second I wonder whether I should introduce myself, but he continues almost without a pause. “So, Ms De Souza. You’re an illegal immigrant, I see.”

  My indignation momentarily wins out over my fears. “I was brought here by my mother when I was four. I’ve got DACA status.”

  “At the moment, you have,” Daniels agrees. “But that could change if you’re convicted of a felony.”

  “But I haven’t done anything.” My voice isn’t working too well. Felony? I cough to clear my throat. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  They exchange a look, then the second man speaks, tapping his forefinger on the folder in front of him. “I’ve a witness statement that states you were driving up to a green light, then suddenly slammed your brakes on so the car behind you was unable to stop.”

  My eyes widen. “That’s not true.” I look from one to the other. “I was stopped at a red light, as I told your colleague at the scene. The car behind rammed me. Surely there’s something you could check?” I ask the latter hopefully.

  “We’ve examined the scene. There’s nothing to support your version of the story.” This from Daniels.

  Geary’s looking at me with a tired expression on his face. “Why did you do it, Ms De Souza? Couldn’t get a legal job? Needed the insurance money? Compensation for the injury your accident caused?” He must have noticed the way I’m sitting, breathing shallowly due to the pain in my chest. He’ll have the doctor’s report too.

  “You’re wrong,” I object, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. Hoping I sound indignant. “That story you’ve been told is completely wrong.” But watching their faces, they’ve already tried and convicted me. I bet their witness is white. Who is it? I didn’t see anyone around until after the crash. It must be the other driver. Thoughts are flitting around my head. There’s something I should be doing, asking for. Mentally I try to get them to slow down so I can grasp hold of a notion and act on it. But along with trying to decide what to do, all I can think about is being convicted. I’d lose my DACA status. And of course, they’ve already found that out. My fingerprints would be on record with all my immigration status information. Is this something they’ve concocted to get an immigrant off the street?

  I want to ask about Drew, want to tell them. But if I do, what happens to him? He’ll get caught up in the system. He’s too young to look after himself. I bite my lip. While I’ve still got a chance of getting out, I’ll keep quiet about my brother. Don’t want to lose him and not be able to get him back. I hope he called the number I asked him to during our all too brief telephone conversation that they permitted. But what would Tse care? I only met him the once. What could he do? I couldn’t think of anyone else to get hold of.

  “I want a lawyer.” Suddenly I realise what I should have asked before. It’s what the people on TV do. “I’m not saying anything else until my lawyer is here.”

  “Have you got a lawyer, Ms De Souza?”

  I look down at my cuffed hands, feeling those tears running again. They have zero effect on the men seated opposite. In fact, they start gathering their papers together. “If you don’t have a lawyer, then we’ll have to get a public defender for you. That will take time. I doubt we’ll be able to resume until the morning.”

  I’ve got to stay here? All night? What about Drew?

  “Don’t I get bail or something?”

  Detective Daniels leans over the desk. “You haven’t been charged yet. When we’ve completed our investigation, you will be. Then you’ll go in front of a judge. But between you and me, you won’t get bail. We’ll argue an illegal immigrant is a flight risk.”

  “You’re going to keep me locked up?” Now I’m croaking. This morning I left for college as normal. Everything the same as it usually was. Now I’m being held for a crime I didn’t commit. My mind is whirling, unable to come to terms with it.

  “That’s the long and short of it,” Detective Geary agrees, almost cheerily. “And if I were you, Ms De Souza, I’d start getting used to the idea that your days in the USA are numbered, and you probably won’t see the country as a free woman again.”

  I’m led back to my cell, the door clanging behind me. I sit on the bunk and place my head in my hands. You won’t see the country as a free woman again. This time, when the tears start, they don’t stop. Drew, oh Drew. How many years would it be before I could see him? How will he cope? Who’s going to look after him?

 
; My position is hopeless. Unless I can get them to see I’m innocent, which they seem completely unwilling to do, I’m never going to be free again. I doubt if they care, DACA or not, one more illegal off the street probably pleases them.

  Night falls. Lights are dimmed but not switched off. I lie down, my eyes open. Sobs are wracking my small frame. What can I do? Will a court-appointed lawyer be of any help? If he’s one chosen by the police, I very much doubt it.

  I’ll never admit I’m guilty, because I’m not.

  But that’s what they try to persuade me to do the very next morning. “The position is this, Ms De Souza.” My court-appointed lawyer breaks off and rubs his hand over his bald head. “We might be able to get a deal as it’s your first offence. Admit you’re guilty, and you will be deported. Continue to protest your innocence, and if convicted, you’ll serve time in jail. And then be deported. The outcome is the same, just depends whether you want to go to prison first or not.”

  My jaw drops. Admit to something I haven’t done? The person who should be prosecuted is getting away scot-free, and with money from my insurance company. It isn’t fair!

  “I’m innocent,” I tell him again, this time more forcefully.

  “You have no way of proving it.”

  “It’s my word against a white man’s, I presume.”

  “If that’s how you want to look at it, yes.” He shrugs, as he doesn’t even try to sugar-coat it.

  What can I do? This lawyer isn’t going to help me. From the way he keeps looking at his watch, he’s got more important things to do. Other people he’d rather be representing and helping. Helping? He’s been no help to me at all. Just emphasised I’ll be deported, whatever I plead.

  I’ve had no sleep, my heart’s pounding to get blood around my veins, my pulse is racing. I’ve been stressed since yesterday morning, I can’t cope. Can’t think. I just want to be home with Drew. But the chances of that happening seem highly unlikely.