Land of Careful Shadows

by Suzanne Chazin

  “Yes, it’s true,” said Adele calmly. “Luis was in a fight last night with some teenagers.” She changed “beaten” to “in a fight.” She left out the inflammatory word, “white” and the three-against-one odds as well. Her voice was stiffer than usual. A school principal’s voice. In these situations, she had to step back and maintain a cool distance. She could not run the center without it. “Both sides have been charged,” she added. “The teenagers, for beating Luis. And Luis, for stabbing one of the teenagers with a knife.”

  “But the teenagers are free,” Enrique countered. For a group of people who spoke little English, the men were amazingly well versed about what was happening in town.

  Adele tried to give Enrique and the growing group of men around her a brief explanation of the American legal system with its notions of bail and presumptions of innocence.

  “Then why can’t Luis have the same thing?” Enrique asked. “He is in the hospital and everyone says he will go directly to jail after this.”

  “Because Luis has no papers, no permission to be in the United States, so he has to be detained. He may still be found innocent on the assault charges,” Adele explained.

  “So if he’s found innocent, he will go free?”

  “No,” said Adele. “If he’s found innocent, in all likelihood, he’ll be deported. If he’s found guilty, he’ll be sent to an American jail.”

  “So he goes back to Guatemala if he’s innocent and he stays here in the United States if he’s guilty? That makes no sense.”

  Welcome to United States immigration policy. “I’m afraid that’s the way it works, Enrique. I wish I could do something. I understand Scott Porter will be representing him so he’ll have a good attorney at least.”

  Adele noticed Anibal standing off to her right side, running the thumb and forefinger of his good hand down his mustache. He kept his gaze respectfully down. She sensed he wanted to speak to her, but he understood she was busy. She turned to him and stood perfectly still until he realized with a hint of surprise and delight that he had her attention.

  “Excuse me, Señora Adele,” said Anibal with a slight bow of apology. “I just wanted to know what is happening with our friend Rodrigo.”

  “He hasn’t been charged yet as far as I know,” said Adele. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the police determine.”

  “He is a good man,” Anibal said softly. “I am praying for him. Is there anything else my cousin and I can do?”

  “There is nothing any of us can do, I’m afraid.”

  She moved past the crestfallen men. She hated seeing the disappointment in their dark eyes, the powerlessness they felt through all of it. They were smart and resourceful but they were no match for the law. She pushed Luis Guzman and Rodrigo Morales to the back of her mind and tried to concentrate on the things she could affect. She and Rafael needed to decide whether to repair or replace the microwave. She was expecting a shipment of donated toiletries from the Junior League that had yet to come in. The computer cable was on the fritz again. One of the alternative rental properties being suggested for La Casa needed a yes or no by today. Everybody had an urgent problem. Everyone needed her undivided attention.

  But inside, she felt like she had failed them in some fundamental way. Her clients needed her protection and reassurance more than they needed any microwave or a shipment of toiletries. Maybe she couldn’t change what was going to happen to Luis or Rodrigo, but she had a duty to make sure that the police knew they owed the Latino community an explanation.

  She called Vega but he didn’t answer his cell. Someone at the station told her he was out and they didn’t know when he’d be back so she asked for Detective Greco instead. Greco sighed audibly when he realized it was Adele on the line.

  “What? Did Ortiz finally decide to give me something I can use?”

  “I’m not calling about Ortiz,” said Adele. “I’m calling because the Latino community is in an uproar over what you’re doing to Luis Guzman.”

  “He attacked a man with a knife, Adele. An Eagle Scout, he ain’t.”

  “I know what you’re doing and so do my clients: you want to get Guzman deported so he can’t testify against three local football heroes, one of whom is the fire chief’s son.”

  There was a pause. Adele sensed Greco was going to say something but checked himself. “You want my department to explain the finer points of police investigation to the Latino community? When the heat’s off, I’d be happy to answer all your questions. But right now, I’ve got more important things to do than defend my tactics or my department. I don’t tell you how to do your job, Adele. Don’t tell me how to do mine.”

  “What about Rodrigo Morales? Are you going to charge him too?”

  “At this point? It’s a strong possibility. Vega’s out talking to Maria’s former employer to pin down a few particulars. If she comes through, yeah—we’re gonna charge him.”

  “And you’re sure he killed her?”

  Again a pause. “What are you? My boss? I’ve got enough for probable cause. That’s all I need. Porter knows it too.”

  “You’re going to ruin his life if you’re wrong.”

  “And I’ll lose a lot of sleep over that, I can assure you.” He hung up.

  The harsh twang of the dial tone resonated through Adele’s chest cavity. Here she was, a Harvard-educated lawyer, and she still felt fourteen around cops. Nothing could erase the memory of that long ago day with her father at the police station when he tried to report the theft of his business. She still burned with fury at the greedy neighbor and those contemptuous cops. But her greatest anger was reserved for herself, for the girl she had been—so meek that her voice never rose above a whisper when she translated her father’s words. So cowardly, that when she left the station house, it was her father she silently raged against. For his broken English, his earnestness in the face of their mockery and his naïveté. She told herself that her father’s inability to get justice that day was the reason his heart gave out two years later. But on those sleepless nights Adele lay alone in bed after the divorce, she wondered if the thing that really broke his heart was the look of shame that day on his daughter’s face.

  She had to prove to herself, if no one else, that she wasn’t that cowardly little girl anymore. If Greco wouldn’t listen to her, she’d make damn sure Vega did. Greco said Vega was interviewing Maria’s former employer. That had to be Cindy Klein who lived over in The Farms. Adele had the address in her files.

  She told Rafael and Kay she’d be gone for about an hour, then headed east out of town along Lake Holly Road. She rolled down the windows, hoping to wash away the shameful memories of her childhood. The skeletal branches of the trees caught the sun and held it like the tines of a fork. There was a golden strain to the light that hadn’t been there even a few days ago. Everything seemed just a brushstroke more alive.

  She typed Cindy Klein’s address into her GPS and wound her way along the wide, immaculately groomed streets of The Farms until she was in front of what looked like a French castle on at least an acre of front lawn. A black Ford pickup was parked along the curb. It might have looked more out of place in the neighborhood except for the fact that there was a gardener’s pickup parked in front of it with wooden slats on the sides and gas canisters and lawn mowers in back. In the distance, an older Latino man pushed a mower across Cindy Klein’s lawn while a lanky teenager took a Weedwacker to the edges of her Belgian-block driveway. The volume of noise brought to mind an airport runway.

  A third Latino man, burly and stoop-shouldered, was fiddling with a piece of machinery in the back of the gardening truck. He lifted his gaze and smiled when he saw Adele. She got out of her car to greet him.

  “Ay! My day is more pleasant for having seen you in it,” the man shouted above the noise. To Adele, Jeronimo Cruz was a charmer. He’d crossed the border from Mexico about thirty years ago, worked his way up from a day laborer with a fourth-grade education to an American citizen who
owned his own landscaping business. But several of her clients told her that Cruz nickel-and-dimed his workers, charging them for every mistake.

  “How are you?” Adele asked.

  He pulled out his wallet and flipped to a picture of an attractive young Latina in a bright blue graduation cap and gown. “My Ana Rosa. She just graduated with honors from SUNY Albany. She’s been accepted to New York University Medical School.”

  “Congratulations!” said Adele.

  Cruz beamed. “I tell her she must study hard. No work. Only make good grades. And she listens to me. Always she listens to her papi.”

  Adele went to ask what kind of doctor Ana Rosa wanted to become, but Cruz excused himself for a moment and stormed off across the lawn to the lanky teenager working the Weedwacker along the driveway. Adele watched Cruz gesturing angrily. The teenager froze beneath the onslaught, tense and coiled, then nodded without a word and went back to work. Cruz returned, shaking his head.

  “Nobody knows how to do anything right anymore. I tell the kid: be careful with the stonework. You think he listens? I wouldn’t even let him work for me except his father’s a good worker and the kid needs money for college. What can I say?” Cruz shrugged.

  College? Adele focused on the boy now. He was dressed like the other men—loose jeans smeared green with bits of fresh-cut grass, scuffed work boots, a frayed hoodie, and a faded baseball cap pulled low across his brow. But there was something about the way he carried himself that suggested a certain detachment from the work. The men Adele saw regularly at La Casa radiated hunger. Their eyes always roamed a room; their bodies seemed forever poised to pitch forward on some new quest—for work, for food, for survival. They wore their desperation like a second skin. It lingered in the set of their jaws, in the way their faces always seemed to pose the questions: “Can I make it? Will I make it?” This boy had none of that.

  “Is that Kenny Cardenas?”

  “Yes. His father, Cesar, is out there mowing the lawn,” said Cruz. “Hector, my usual employee, cut his hand and Kenny was free today so I asked Cesar if his son wanted to pick up some extra cash. I should have just handed the kid a couple of bills. He’s going to cost me more than he’s worth.”

  “He’s very smart,” said Adele. “Our board just awarded him a scholarship.”

  “Cesar tells me he’s smart,” said Cruz. “All the time. But I can’t see it. There’s book smart. And then there’s life smart. Some of these kids, they only got the first one.”

  Adele wondered which category Cruz put his daughter Ana Rosa into. Cesar Cardenas had the same ambitions for his child. He just crossed the border too late.

  Cruz picked up a set of electric pruning shears and excused himself to do some work. Adele went back to her car and waited for Vega to come outside.

  He emerged from a side entrance about ten minutes later. She watched him begin the long walk down the driveway, back to his truck. He took out his cell phone and punched in a number. While he was speaking, he caught sight of Kenny Cardenas and offered a brief nod. Kenny did the same, like they were both embarrassed to see each other. Clearly Vega knew him and clearly Kenny wished he didn’t. Vega finished his cell call and noticed Adele for the first time walking toward him.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Not now. I’m under the gun.”

  “Guzman or Morales?”

  “You know I can’t talk about it.”

  She kept pace beside him. “My clients are going nuts, Jimmy. First you detain Rodrigo Morales without any real evidence—”

  “—Oh, we’ve got evidence now, believe me.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll know when he’s charged.” Vega stopped at the end of the driveway and looked at his watch. “I just spoke to Greco and asked him to start the booking process. He’ll be arraigned in an hour. I’ve gotta go.” He unlocked his truck and went to get in.

  “How about Luis Guzman?”

  Vega made a face. “Not my case.” He opened the driver’s side door of his truck.

  “Don’t hand me this, ‘it’s not my case’ bullshit. You could do something about this if you wanted to—”

  “—Adele—”

  “—You could convince Greco to back off his little ploy of getting Guzman deported so that three white football players won’t have to go to jail—”

  “—Adele!” he shouted over the noise of the mower and Weedwacker. “I was the one who told Greco to charge Guzman, okay?”

  “You? How could you?”

  He slapped the side of his truck. “Get in. I’m not having this conversation on the street.”

  She sat stiffly in the cab. The closed doors of the truck muted the roar of the gas-powered equipment. It did nothing to tamp down her fury.

  “Is this your own vehicle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A pickup. It figures.” She checked the rearview mirror.

  “What?”

  “I wanted to see if you have a gun rack.”

  “No gun rack. No deer antlers in my living room or collection of unusual beer cans in my garage. And I don’t run a check of unpaid parking tickets on every person who pisses me off either. Though in your case, I might make an exception.”

  “Why did you tell Greco to charge Guzman?”

  “Because otherwise Guzman will split the moment he leaves the hospital. Greco wants those teenagers to see justice as much as you do. He needs Guzman to make that happen.”

  “But you’re punishing the victim.”

  “Who also happens to have been a drunk with a knife. Sooner or later, that scenario was gonna turn ugly.”

  The gardeners turned off their equipment and began packing up. The silence felt so unexpected at first that it seemed to have a weight of its own. Adele couldn’t think straight while those engines were roaring. She wondered what it did to the men who operated them all day. She knew most of them wore some sort of ear protection. But even so.

  Jeronimo Cruz and Cesar Cardenas were wrestling lawn mowers and equipment onto the truck. Kenny had a leg up on the bumper. He was trying to scrape a coating of fresh-cut grass and mud from the lower legs of his jeans. The men teased him for worrying about a little dirt. He looked embarrassed. He pulled his baseball cap down low and didn’t wave good-bye as he climbed into the cab.

  “I saw you nod to Kenny Cardenas earlier,” said Adele. “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah.” Vega fiddled with his car keys.

  “He cuts my grass,” said Adele.

  “He dates my daughter.” It had the whispered angst of a confession.

  “Really? You know he’s—”

  “—Illegal. I know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I was going to say, ‘a really nice, smart kid.’ And no one’s illegal, only undocumented.”

  “Call it what you will. Without that precious paperwork, he’s got no more hold on this town than Guzman or Morales.” Vega checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the station.”

  “Can I at least tell my clients what you’ve told me about why the police charged Guzman?”

  “Sure. But do me a favor? Don’t say it came from me. Guzman’s not my case. Greco might get sore.”

  “Deal.”

  She got out of his truck and into her car, intending to follow him back to town. But like all cops, he drove too fast, as if the laws of the road didn’t apply to him. The sun was blinding at this hour. To her left, the lake reflected the light with the hard brilliance of liquid mercury. She cracked a window and felt the breeze on her face. It would be a long time, if ever, before Rodrigo and Luis felt such a breeze again.

  She tried to keep up with Vega’s truck but he took the bends at a much faster clip than she was used to. She would not want to be with him on a car chase. She sensed he’d actually enjoy it. She looked away for just a second to adjust her visor. Something large and gray scampered in front of Vega’s pickup. A young buck. Antlers like two halves of a rib cage, eyes like
a puppy. Adele could see its panic as Vega’s truck bore down on it.

  Vega swerved the wheel, missed the buck, and pulled back sharply into the bend of the road without even braking. But the animal seemed momentarily disoriented. It froze an instant in front of Adele’s car. She could see the sharp in-and-out breaths along its sinewy torso, the whites of its eyes. She turned her wheel. There was a thud—not nearly as big a thud as Adele had expected. But still a jolt. A counter jolt. A jostling of plastic and metal that took milliseconds to fold and would take thousands of dollars to unfold. Adele pulled her car to the side of the road. The deer scampered off into the deep brush on the other side. There was a snap of dried twigs as the white tail rose up in the air and disappeared.

  She wasn’t hurt. Her air bag hadn’t even deployed. Mostly, she was embarrassed. And annoyed. Vega shouldn’t have been driving so fast. She shouldn’t have been trying to keep up with him. She was competing with him even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  Vega’s pickup did a one-eighty and screeched to a halt behind her car. He ran up to the driver’s side. She opened her door.

  “You okay?” he asked breathlessly.

  “I’m fine. Just a little shaken up. You shouldn’t drive so fast.”

  “I didn’t have the accident.”

  “You could’ve.”

  He pulled out his radio and called for a patrol car and an ambulance.

  “No ambulance,” she insisted. “I’m fine.”

  “At least to check you out?”

  “No!”

  He relayed that they just needed an officer on the scene. Then he hung up and walked around to the front of her car to inspect the damage. “It’s just a broken headlamp and a little hood compression. The cosmetic damage will set you back a grand perhaps. But you could probably drive the car forever with just a headlamp replacement. Pop the hood, will ya?”

  She did as instructed. He stuck his head inside and nosed around.

  “What about that deer?” asked Adele.

  “What about him?”

  “You think he’s okay?”

  “If this is all the damage he did, he’s not hurt, either.” Vega closed the hood.