“What’s going to happen to Lani?” Caroline asked. It might not be her business, but she couldn’t help wondering.
Jake grunted. “Getting off the street’s hard. Can’t get no job if you got no address. Can’t get no apartment if you got no money.”
“There must be a way for someone like her to earn some money or find a bed.” But even as she said the words, an obvious answer occurred to Caroline. Perhaps Daryl was Lani’s pimp.
Meanwhile, Jake shook his head.
“Money?” he repeated. “You don’t want no cash on the streets. People get robbed all the damn time. You get cash, you turn that cash into something else. Something you can barter with.” He jutted his chin toward the piles of shoes and blankets bordering the sides of the distribution center. “You turn them shoes into cigarettes or whatever. Something you can trade for toilet paper.”
It was the longest soliloquy Caroline had heard from Jake. His effort to educate her in the ways of the homeless struck her as both kind and depressing. She hoped she wouldn’t need the knowledge he sought to impart.
Eyeing the piles of supplies, Caroline contemplated Jake’s words. Her gaze settled on the pile of shoes . . . shoes that could be traded for cigarettes . . . that could be traded for toilet paper. Metamorphosis. A transformation of one good into another in a world where cash was unusable.
A shiver ran down her arms.
Where cash was unusable . . .
She swung around to face Jake.
“I need that phone. Now.”
CHAPTER 16
“What’s that sound I hear in the background?” the court clerk asked.
Caroline winced at the homeless woman raging twenty feet from where she stood. It had taken ten minutes to pull the ranting woman off the telephone. Now Caroline risked losing the hearing because she couldn’t hear herself think over the sound of shouting. She wished the ancient phone had a mute button that worked.
“Nothing,” Caroline answered, hunkering closer around the phone. “It’s just someone out in the hall of my firm. How long before the Hidalgo matter is called?”
Caroline waved frantically for Jake to give an assist.
Jake bit the inside of his cheek as he regarded the woman. Then he took her by the arm and guided her out of the distribution center, diverting her attention with some question that made her ravings grow in intensity as she disappeared out the door.
“Case number 579297. In re Matter of M. H.,” called the clerk. “Caroline Auden appearing telephonically on behalf of Mateo Hidalgo. Rogelio Gonzalez in pro per.”
“Welcome, Ms. Auden,” said Judge Flores’s voice, coming onto the court’s speakerphone. “Welcome, Mr. Gonzalez.”
Caroline heard Rogelio Gonzalez’s muffled greeting in response.
“When we parted company,” the judge continued, “Ms. Auden was going to gather evidence of Mr. Gonzalez’s gang affiliation or drug activities. I see that she has filed certain materials, including a declaration describing conversations with the warehouse manager. Plus, she has asked the court to take judicial notice of certain Border Patrol records in Mr. Gonzalez’s brother’s criminal file.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Caroline confirmed the recitation of the evidence she’d proffered.
“There’s no such thing as guilt by association, Ms. Auden. That Mr. Gonzalez’s brother is currently serving time for drug activities will have no impact on this court’s determination of the guardianship petition currently pending before it.”
“I understand, Your Honor, and that is not my argument.” Caroline took a breath. She had only one chance to persuade the judge there was a reason to stall granting Rogelio Gonzalez’s guardianship petition.
“Then what is your argument, Counsel? You can’t see it, but I have a full courtroom sitting here today.”
“Floriana Perez’s family owns a shipping company. Perez Shipping. They’re the company that ships lingerie down to Mexico for Rogelio Gonzalez.”
“Yes, I saw that in your papers,” the judge said. “So what?”
“Perez Shipping has misstated the amount of lingerie it shipped for Mr. Gonzalez.”
“And we know this how?” the judge asked.
“Border Patrol records. They searched Mr. Gonzalez’s shipment of lingerie to Mexico in December 2015.”
“And they found no drugs or any other sort of contraband,” the judge noted, his voice flat. Caroline could hear a frown in it—she had stood in his courtroom often enough to read impatience in his studied ambivalence.
“Yes, but Border Patrol did find there were twelve, not six, pallets of lingerie in the shipment. That’s six more than Perez Shipping’s manifest states. Why does this discrepancy matter?” Caroline asked, preempting the judge’s question. “It matters because this may be how Rogelio and his brother are turning drug money into something else.”
“I’m not following,” Judge Flores said.
“If you sell drugs in the United States, you end up with a bunch of cash, right? You can’t deposit that cash in a bank without raising red flags. As a result, you can’t move that cash out of the country. So what do you do?”
“I’m sure you will tell me.”
“Transactional money laundering,” Caroline said, talking quickly. Outside the distribution center, the woman who had monopolized the telephone now spoke emphatically to a tree. Caroline hoped the tree was holding up its side of the conversation.
“I’m not familiar with that,” said Judge Flores.
“Transactional money laundering is how you turn illegal profits into clean money,” Caroline said. She’d heard about the technique in her criminal law class. “The way it works is, you buy some sort of easily transportable, easily sold thing. Like lingerie. Now you’ve turned your drug money into—”
“Undergarments,” the judge finished, his voice holding a hint of prim amusement.
“Exactly. You take those undergarments down to Mexico and sell them there—essentially turning them back into cash.”
“Pesos.”
“Right. Then you can use those pesos to buy more drugs.” Caroline paused. “Or a big house in Guadalajara. Or some fancy cars and boats.”
This was where a trained attorney would object to her speculation. But in place of an objection, Rogelio’s outraged sputtering drew a sharp word from Judge Flores.
There was silence on the line while the judge considered Caroline’s theory.
Caroline wished she could see Judge Flores’s face. She couldn’t gauge his mood.
If she’d been in court, she would have pointed to each page of evidence, handing the judge the shipping manifest, then the Border Patrol report, leading him through her line of thought. But with only an earpiece and a receiver connecting her to the courtroom on Hill Street, she could only try to persuade the court with her words. And she couldn’t gauge whether those words were landing squarely or missing the mark.
“If Mr. Gonzalez is understating the amount of lingerie he’s purchasing wholesale in the United States and then shipping to Mexico to sell, it would certainly raise the specter of money laundering,” Caroline pushed. “Understating the amount is a way of obscuring just how much money you’ve turned into other goods.”
“Has the DA’s office looked into any of this?” Judge Flores asked.
“I’ve been in touch with them, so it’s possible. Given more time, I would be happy to find out, Your Honor.” Without a phone, laptop, a good meal, or clean clothes, she added silently.
“Mr. Gonzalez, are you willing to make your shipping records available so we can get to the bottom of this?” the judge asked, evidently now turning to Caroline’s opponent.
“No,” Rogelio answered quickly.
Caroline resisted the urge to cheer. The reflexive response suggested something to hide. Surely the judge had heard it, too.
“Then you leave me little choice, Mr. Gonzalez.” The judge shuffled through the printouts on his bench. “I will continue this matter again, pending
contacting the DA’s office to determine the status of any investigation.”
A smile blossomed on Caroline’s face. The judge couldn’t see her anyway, so she could fully express her joy.
But then the judge exhaled.
“Unfortunately, this means we will need to move Mateo to another temporary home.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor?” Caroline asked.
“The proof of service here says you got the notice of Mateo’s temporary guardians’ emergency filing this morning,” the judge said.
“I apologize. I must’ve missed it. I’ve been out of the office.”
“Mateo’s temporary guardians have run into some issues. Mateo needs tutoring. Counseling. They’ve been doing their best, but now Francisco Castillo has some immigration issues, as well. It’s all become too much for them.”
Caroline resisted the urge to ask for specifics. It was bad enough that she hadn’t seen the papers the temporary guardians had filed.
“I’m willing to assist the Castillos with whatever I can in order to stabilize the situation,” she said. “I’ve got some experience with immigration matters, and I’m willing to help them at no charge—”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Auden, but this family’s guardianship obligation has ended. They’re asking to be relieved. Although we have not yet resolved the question of whether Mr. Gonzalez will be a suitable placement, we must move to another temporary home in the interim.”
“Please, Your Honor, I can help.” Caroline felt like she had a front-row seat to the fraying safety net. Mateo. The Castillos. Uncle Hitch. The other lost souls she’d seen on the streets. People without the legal or social services. Never enough resources. Never enough help.
“I’ll tell you what, Counsel. I will extend your offer of pro bono assistance to the Castillos and let them decide how to proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Caroline said, even as she wondered how she was going to provide help to the Castillos while she was fighting for her life.
“We’ll meet back here in two weeks. Anything further, Ms. Auden?”
A half dozen answers ran through the gates of Caroline’s mind, all impulses to beg for justice in the matter of her current predicament. But if she told the judge what was happening, she’d sound insane. She’d hurt her credibility and undercut her ability to represent Mateo.
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” she said quietly.
“Good. We’ll meet back here on October 11 at 1:30 p.m. I’m moving to Department 17, so please be sure to go to the right courtroom,” Judge Flores added.
As he gave the information, Caroline looked for something to write on.
She reached into the back pocket of her jeans for a scrap.
There, she found two sheets of paper. The first was the Spreadsheet of Death. The second sheet was the first page of the title report. The one for the property on Parrino Court that Oasis owned. Crumpled into her pocket, the two documents gave testament to how far she’d fallen. In the short time since she’d stood in the kitchen of her apartment studying those pages, she’d been locked out of her entire life.
Hanging up, she noted Jake leaning against the door frame, chewing on his lip. His expression exuded impatience.
Ignoring his consternation, Caroline turned her attention back to the phone. Western Union could take delivery of a wire transfer from her father or a friend. She could get off the street and regroup. She could get a room somewhere. Maybe even a rudimentary computer.
She considered whom to call.
Sudden movement from the corner of Caroline’s eye made her freeze.
Through the open door, she watched a green van pull up in front of the distribution center. Although the door frame blocked her view of all of the words on the side of the van, she knew what they said: HELPING YOU HELP YOURSELF.
“I thought you said Oasis didn’t sponsor this place,” said Caroline.
“They don’t,” said Jake, reaching for her arm.
But Caroline was already in motion, hurrying out the opposite door. The one farthest from the goons in green shirts.
Caroline and Jake sat beneath the bridge at East Seventh Street. A graffitied shelf provided them with shelter from the wind, if not the noise of cars passing overhead.
But it wasn’t the noise that weighed on Caroline. It was the time.
It was almost 6:00, and her uncle still hadn’t appeared.
Caroline considered her predicament. She hadn’t planned to spend the night in the fire truck sleeping bag. She’d planned a dozen other futures, none of which involved climbing through a break in a fence and scrambling down a concrete embankment toward a sleeping spot located steps away from the Los Angeles River.
But despite waiting for over two hours, her uncle was a no-show.
She considered leaving to try again to find someone who would loan her a phone or money, but she nixed the plan. Her earlier efforts had been thwarted by the same sorts of rebuffs she’d given panhandlers in the past. Everyone she’d tried to approach had walked the other way. She’d needed a moment of kindness. Instead, she’d found indifference.
Plus there was another problem: she was depending on her uncle to find a prosecutor. He’d promised he’d known someone who could help. She wasn’t confident he’d find someone, but she had no leads, no phone, and no money. And so she was doomed to wait. With each passing minute, her chances of arranging some other place to sleep were slipping farther away.
Beside her, Jake opened his rucksack.
With methodical movements, he untied his sleeping bag and tent.
When he finished setting them up, he straightened.
“Hitch’s got his own tent,” Jake said, gesturing with his chin toward Caroline’s sleeping bag.
Caroline nodded her understanding. Apparently her uncle had been too hammered the night before to manage his tent. At least if he showed up, she’d have shelter for the night.
“Hungry?” Jake asked.
Caroline nodded again. They’d eaten nothing since their visit to the distribution center.
Jake pulled two crumpled brown paper bags from his backpack. More bready sandwiches from the distribution center, plus two bottles of water.
“Thanks,” Caroline said, taking one of each. The thin slice of ham was slimy, and the lone piece of lettuce was limp, but she ate the sandwich anyway. She didn’t know when she’d eat again or where the meal would come from.
Another hour passed, and the sun sank behind the curvature of Earth. Darkness fell in earnest. Soon, only the strobes of light from passing cars and the ambient glow of the rising half-moon provided any light.
In the darkness, Caroline reconciled herself to another night outside. It seemed inconceivable that she’d remain there, and yet her options had narrowed with the setting sun. She only hoped her uncle returned with his tent.
Jake pulled a candle from his rucksack. He struck a match on the concrete wall beside him then touched it to the wick. With a guttural hiss, it caught fire.
Placing a plastic bottle with the top and bottom torn off over the candle, he shielded it from the wind that stirred the trash under the bridge.
Caroline watched the candle lick at the sides of the old soda bottle.
The situation would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. She’d left the tech world and gone to law school, renounced a plush firm and hung out a shingle as a solo practitioner. She’d worried about attracting enough clients to pay the rent, worried about finding time to go to the grocery store. About eating too much fatty meat and about where to run for exercise. And here she was anyway, waiting to see if her homeless uncle joined her under a bridge.
But why not? some dark part of her mind queried.
Her mother had disintegrated into periodic madness. Her uncle had caved to alcohol. Caroline had lived the fantasy that she was different, but she’d never had any proof of it.
She tried to push the despair away. Corrosive and dangerous to the soul, it would weaken her when she needed streng
th. She had no choice but to shackle herself to the investigation that had put her in her dire straits. Somehow, she had to find the proof she hadn’t been able to locate even when she’d had all her resources.
A scraping sound brought her out of her reverie.
Jake had taken out his knife. In the wavering dance of the candle’s golden glow, he whittled a tree branch he’d found under the bridge.
“What are you making?” Caroline’s voice echoed under the bridge.
“Snake,” Jake answered.
“What kind of snake?” Words flowing between her and another human being would provide a sense of normalcy, something to cling to like a life raft in shark-infested waters.
“He hasn’t told me yet,” Jake said. “Could be poisonous. Could be a garden snake.”
Caroline considered his words. She’d heard about sculptors who peeled away stone to reveal the image that hid within.
A shuffle of movement from the fence up by the road made Jake’s whittling stop.
The knife in his hand pivoted slightly, facing the fence.
But then he grunted. “Hitch,” he said and began whittling again.
Moments later, Caroline’s uncle stumbled down the slope looking like a troll with gray hair frizzing around his head. He used his right hand to steady himself as he reached the encampment. In his left hand, he held the cords of a sleeping bag and tent.
Caroline’s shoulders relaxed, releasing a tension knot she hadn’t known she’d been carrying.
He hadn’t left her. He’d returned.
She rose to help him set up the camping equipment.
Right away, the putrid-sweet scent of alcohol poured off her uncle. It permeated his clothes and emanated from his skin.
Her joy dissipated.
“Have any luck at the bar?” She heard the bitterness in her own voice.
“I had to go to a bar,” Uncle Hitch said. “That’s where the guy is who knows the prosecutor I’m trying to reach. It was nec . . . necessary . . .”
Caroline imagined her uncle sliming into a bar and sidling up to some off-duty police officer or public defender drinking buddy to ask a favor. Asking some currently employed civil servant to hopefully, maybe, get in touch with some other guy. She’d bet her uncle had mooched some booze off whomever he’d contacted. A twofer.
Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2) Page 17