Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries

by Diane Kelly

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I hope it all gets sorted out.”

  Brett and his crew chief sat down next to the other four men and exchanged greetings, the crew chief launching in to a whispered discussion with the men in Spanish, occasionally turning to Brett to translate for him.

  Although Nick and I wouldn’t be permitted to sit in on the men’s private discussions with the attorney, we hoped to meet with the men and the lawyer immediately afterward to see what information they could provide about Salvador Hidalgo. I hoped the information would not only give the Border Patrol grounds to keep the coyote in custody, but would also give me grounds for obtaining a search warrant for Hidalgo’s bank records.

  Promptly at ten o’clock, a Latina attorney opened the door that led back to the private offices and conference room. She stepped through, stopping to speak with the men in Spanish first. When they stood to follow her, she looked my way, “Agent Holloway?”

  I stood, too, walking over to her and extending my hand. “That’s me.”

  “Mimi Ibarra.” She shook my hand. “Depending on how things go, this may be a while.”

  “We’re prepared to wait as long as necessary.” I’d brought some work with me, and if by some miracle I finished that, I had the app on my phone and could watch episodes of the telenovela until they finished. I couldn’t get enough Amor y Vengaza. “Of course, I hope it won’t be too long. Border Patrol needs their testimony to keep a dangerous human smuggler behind bars. He’s already been in custody nearly three days.”

  The attorney nodded, indicating she understood. “I’ll try to be as efficient as possible.” She turned and led the men through the door. When it closed behind them, I resumed my seat, reaching down to retrieve my briefcase.

  While Nick and I looked over spreadsheets and financial records, analyzing evidence in various tax evasion cases, Brett and his crew chief pored over a sketchbook, discussing a landscaping design Brett was working on.

  As the minutes ticked by, I eyed my watch repeatedly. Hurry up! I silently willed the men and the attorney. ¡Ponte las pilas!

  Just before noon, the door opened again and Ibarra reappeared. I was on my feet in an instant. She motioned with her arm. “Come on back.”

  Nick stood and began to follow me.

  Brett stood, also. “Can I come, too?” he asked. “Those men work for me.”

  Mimi looked to me to answer the question. “Your call.”

  Nick emitted an almost inaudible grunt. I knew exactly what it meant. Sit your ass down, pretty boy, and leave the real work to us law enforcement agents.

  “Sorry, Brett,” I said. “Our questions will involve confidential information we aren’t permitted to share with anyone not directly involved in the investigation.”

  He looked disappointed but said, “Understood.”

  We followed the woman back into the hallway and she led us to a conference room. The men were all seated on the far side of the long table. She took a seat at the end, holding out an arm to indicate that Nick and I should take seats facing the four.

  Being that Ibarra billed somewhere in the range of three hundred dollars an hour but was doing this case pro bono, she wasted no time getting down to business, every minute here costing her enough to buy a large latte. “These men are from Honduras. They were riding home from work on a public bus when they witnessed a murder. A gang chased down one of the local prosecutors who’d convicted a drug dealer and shot him dead, right there in the street. The gang members boarded the bus and threatened to kill anyone who reported what they’d seen. These men”—she gestured to the four seated at the table—“worked at one of the textile factories. They were wearing their work badges around their necks when the gang boarded the bus. One of the gang members yanked their badges off and took them. A few days later, members of the gang accosted each of the men outside their homes and beat them. The gang must have tracked the men down by their names on the badges.”

  I looked over at the men as if truly seeing them for the first time, my eyes searching for evidence of the beatings. Two had significant scars on their faces, one a thick scar that bisected his eyebrow, another that ran all the way from his upper lip to his nose.

  Ibarra continued. “They feared the gang would kill them and their families if they stayed in Honduras any longer.”

  Invisible hands encircled my throat. “That’s horrible,” I squeaked out.

  “Horrible, yes,” Ibarra agreed, “and unfortunately all too common right now.”

  I found myself involuntarily leaning toward her, as one might toward a savior. “Does that give them grounds for amnesty?”

  “Not amnesty per se,” she said, “but possibly asylum or humanitarian relief. The good news is that refugees from Honduras have been given temporary protected status for another few months, so we’ve got some time to work on this.”

  The invisible hand that had been choking me released its stranglehold and my breath released of its own accord. “I’m so glad to hear this.”

  “Me, too,” Nick said.

  “Given these circumstances,” she said, “I’ve advised them that speaking to you can only help their cases. Prosecutors can also stay deportation for witnesses who testify in criminal cases here in the U.S.”

  “So they’ll talk now?” I asked. “About Salvador Hidalgo?”

  She nodded.

  With Nick acting as interpreter, I launched into my questions, writing the men’s answers down on my notepad. “What are your actual names?”

  As it turned out, Julio Guzmán was Ricardo Montoya, Pablo Perez was Patricio Santos, Miguel Gallegos was Gonzalo Gutierrez, and Diego Robles was Andrés Fonseca. After writing their names down and verifying the spelling, I asked when the shooting occurred and when they had left Honduras.

  Gonzalo responded and Nick translated. “In late December two years ago. They fled La Paz with their wives and children on Christmas Eve when they thought there would be less chance the gangs would spot them.”

  What a way to spend the holiday. Too bad Santa hadn’t picked them up and given them a safe flight to the U.S. in his toy-laden, reindeer-led sleigh.

  Nick spoke softly. “Ironic that they had to flee from La Paz due to violence.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because paz means ‘peace’ in Spanish.”

  Ironic, indeed.

  I continued my questions, learning that the men and their families made it through Honduras and Guatemala via a mix of public transportation, walking, and hitching rides with compassionate strangers. It was when they reached the border between Guatemala and Mexico that they first came in contact with a man from Salvador Hidalgo’s network.

  “What did he tell you?” I asked.

  Nick asked the question and relayed their answer. “That he could get them safely to Dallas for one hundred eighty thousand Honduran lempira.”

  “What’s that translate to in U.S. dollars?”

  Nick shrugged. “I can translate words, not currencies.”

  Fortunately, technology filled in where our skills left off. I searched the Internet on my phone, found a currency converter site, and ran a quick computation. “Looks like that many lempira is around eight thousand U.S. dollars.”

  They indicated that they paid the man they met at the first border a quarter of the amount to get them to Chihuahua, which sits only a hundred and fifty miles from the American border. They paid the remaining amount, around six thousand dollars each, to Hidalgo when they met him in Chihuahua. He was supposed to get them across the border and take them to Dallas. One of the men had a cousin here in the city who had offered to let the men and their families stay at his house until they were able to get on their feet. I could only imagine how crowded the house had been with four married couples and their young children staying there.

  I jotted the information down and turned back to the men. “How did Hidalgo’s man get you across Mexico?”

  Nick asked and provided their response. “By passenger train.
He gave them false Mexican papers to use while traveling there, but took the paperwork back when they arrived in Chihuahua. He rode with them on the train, but he sat several rows away and told them if there was any trouble they were not to look to him for help.”

  In other words, he’d pretend not to know them if the poop hit the fan.

  “Ask them what happened once they arrived in Chihuahua. How did Hidalgo get them over the border?”

  Nick asked the question, and the men told us that Hidalgo met them at the train station when they arrived. He gave them a car to drive. He was in a separate car. They drove to the northeast for around three hours to a remote area. When the road ended, they left the cars and Hidalgo gave them the paperwork showing that they were U.S. citizens. From there, they traveled on foot for several days and camped at night at sites designated by Hidalgo. They said it was very cold at night and all they had were a few sleeping bags to protect themselves from the elements, no tents or shelter other than a few nights they spent in caves. Hidalgo had a small pup tent he used, though he would pitch it a mile or so from where he left his charges, probably to avoid being rounded up with them if Border Patrol came upon them.

  Eventually, Hidalgo led them to a road where a man in a large tanker truck picked the migrants up in the middle of the night. They climbed down through the top hatch and hid inside, only a flashlight to fight the darkness. In the morning, the driver stopped the truck, opened the hatch, and ordered them to get out. They were left on the side of the road just outside Odessa, Texas.

  Gonzalo spoke, his voice fast and loud with emotion. Though I wasn’t sure what he was saying, it was clear he was angry.

  Nick listened and shook his head in sympathy. “He says he told the truck driver that he couldn’t leave them there, that they’d paid to be taken to Dallas. The driver said he’d only been paid to transport them as far as Odessa. If they had a problem with that, they could take it up with Salvador Hidalgo.”

  As if that were actually an option.

  With no other alternative, they’d walked into the city, found a bus station, and bought tickets to Dallas with the last of their money. They’d arrived in north Texas with less than a hundred dollars left between them, as well as untreated frostbite. Patricio’s wife also had walking pneumonia.

  “Were the four of them and their families the only ones who traveled with Hidalgo? Or were there others?”

  Patricio responded to that particular question.

  “He says there was another couple with a young boy, but they were the only others.”

  A couple with a young boy? Could this other couple have included Julio Número Uno? I had to know. I reached into my purse and pulled out the stuffed animal. “Any chance you ever saw the young boy with this dog?”

  Patricio’s eyes brightened with recognition at the sight of the dog and all four nodded their heads. “Sí, sí.”

  This was the first good news I’d heard in days! “Do they know where the boy is now?”

  Nick asked the question and turned to me. “They don’t know,” he said, “but Miguel’s wife and the boy’s mother became friends on the journey and keep in touch. They said the boy’s name was Joaquín and that he called the dog Pepito.”

  I looked down at the love-worn dog. “We’ll try to get you home as soon as we can, Pepito.” Was it my imagination, or had he wagged his tail?

  Mimi assisted me in preparing the affidavits and, once they’d been printed, I placed each man’s affidavit before him. Other than the names and contact information, the affidavits were identical and provided written testimony under penalty of perjury that Salvador Hidalgo had taken money from them in return for smuggling them across the border. The document further noted the details of their arrangement and journey through Big Bend National Park, as well as the fact that Hidalgo had not honored his word to transport them safely all the way to Dallas.

  After Mimi translated the document aloud for them, I handed Ricardo a pen. He signed his affidavit and passed the pen down the line so that the others could sign theirs, as well. Patricio handed the pen back to me when he was done. Mimi’s legal assistant promptly notarized each of the documents.

  “Muchas gracias,” I told the men.

  Miguel said something to Nick, and Nick turned to me. “They said to thank you for getting them this appointment with the lawyer. They are very relieved to know they will be able to stay in the United States legally. They said their wives will be very happy to hear the news.”

  I nodded and gave the men a smile, holding out my hand to shake each of theirs. I did the same with Mimi Ibarra and her assistant. “We may have just saved lives,” I said.

  Mimi glanced over at the men. “I know we did,” she replied.

  I sent the affidavits via e-mail to Castaneda, following up with a text to let him know they were on their way.

  He replied a moment later. Got them. On way to courthouse.

  With any luck, the judge would keep Hidalgo in jail on human trafficking and kidnaping charges.

  As we walked back into the reception area, Brett and his crew chief stood. While Gonzalo explained things to the crew chief and he, in turn, translated for Brett, Nick and I headed for the door.

  “Tara!” Brett called after me. “Wait a second.”

  Nick and I stopped and turned around. Brett walked over and thanked me, too. He’d retain his best workers, and they’d keep their jobs. It was a win-win for everyone at Ellington Nurseries. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

  Unfortunately, while the situation might be over for Brett and his men, it wasn’t over for federal law enforcement and wouldn’t be until Hidalgo’s minions were tracked down and the kidnapped girls found. But no sense pooping on their party. I responded with a simple “yep” and a smile.

  chapter twenty

  Making Up Is Hard to Do

  Nick was quiet as we rode the elevator down to the parking garage to retrieve my car.

  I looked over at him. “You still mad at me?” Or should I say, mad at me again?

  “Yes. And I’ve got every right to be.”

  “Let me make it up to you,” I implored him.

  He scowled at me. “How?”

  “I’ll buy you lunch. Including a huge platter of sweet potato fries.”

  “You’re the one who’s addicted to the things.”

  “True.” Still, who didn’t like them? Only crazy people with malfunctioning taste buds, that’s who. “I’m trying here, Nick. Put yourself in my place. I said I was sorry. Please?”

  He looked at me, and I tried my hardest to look pathetic and penitent. I saw his resolve melting a little. He heaved a sigh. “Lunch isn’t going to get you completely off the hook,” he said. “But it’s a start. I’m also going to expect some really raunchy makeup sex.”

  “Duly noted.” And anxiously anticipated.

  After rounding up my car, I drove to a café at the edge of downtown and a few minutes later we were seated at a table, perusing the menus. As I scanned the entrées, my phone pinged with an incoming text from my mother. What do you and Nick want to do for your send-off? Traditional rice? Flower petals? Some people use bubbles but they might leave spots on your dress. How about mini beach balls, ribbons, bells for the crowd to ring, flags, streamers, or confetti poppers?

  Clearly, she’d been playing around on Pinterest, looking for wedding ideas.

  I broached the subject with Nick.

  “This is Texas,” he said. “We should give everyone a shotgun and let them fire it in the air.”

  “In other words,” I said, frowning at him. “You don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “Exactly. Who cares whether we get pelted with rice or flower petals? All I really care about is making you mine.” A naughty grin tugged at his lips. “And then consummating our marriage. I hear it takes twenty or thirty times to make sure it sticks.”

  His words warmed my heart. Something a little lower warmed, too. “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”

&nb
sp; “Hell, yeah, I’m still mad at you,” he said. “But it’s not the first time you’ve pissed me off and I sincerely doubt it’s going to be the last.”

  He knew me well. “I’ll admit I was wrong not to tell you about going out to Brett’s place,” I said, “but you’ve got to admit you’re overreacting. There’s no reason for you to be jealous or worried. Nothing is going to happen between me and him.”

  “I know that,” he replied, setting down his menu. “It’s what’s happened between you two in the past that gets me riled up. I don’t like to think about it.”

  “Then don’t.” Really, it was that easy, wasn’t it? “Besides, it’s not like you never had girlfriends before you met me.”

  Okay, I was being a total hypocrite here. I once trailed Nick to the home of his former fiancée, Natalie, whom he’d taken on a date again after she’d popped up as a match for him on a dating site. Of course, Nick and I had not been dating at the time. I’d been struggling to decide whether to stay with Brett or take a chance with Nick. Seeing Nick with the woman he’d once been engaged to had given me an incredibly icky feeling, even though he’d been the one to realize they weren’t right for each other and had ended things with her. Could I really blame him for being so angry with me? I had no right, really.

  Fortunately, the waiter arrived to take our order. When he left, Nick changed the subject back to our wedding send-off. Though I knew he hadn’t quite forgiven me yet, I was glad not to be talking about my dishonesty any longer.

  “Confetti poppers could be fun,” he said. “Let’s go with that.”

  “Works for me.” I sent a return text to my mother. Confetti poppers.

  One more wedding detail taken care of. Hooray!

  As we waited for our food, Nick sat back in the booth, a distant expression on his face as he gazed off into nowhere, lost in his own mind.

  I nudged his foot with mine. “You okay, jefe?”