Orange County Noir

by Gary Phillips

  "I'm not making this up," I say. "I just want to help a little girl."

  "Why?" •

  Because even at thirty-two, I'll never forget the helplessness of waiting for someone to pick me up from school or feed me dinner. Because my mother left me when the sheriffs came with her eviction notice and the court gave me to my nana and grandpa. Because I might have had a little girl Pricila's age if things had been different.

  Officer Kravetz leans back in his seat. "I'm having a hard time following you. Who's the dad? You talk to him?"

  "Not really."

  Officer Kravetz doesn't like where this is going. "Got a name?"

  "Jim Westfall. He's with Immigrations and Customs Enforcement."

  The cop's eyebrows arch up and he shakes his head. "You really want me to call an ICE agent and ask about a little girl who an unauthorized immigrant claims is his?"

  "He's the dad. Says so on Pricila's birth certificate." Now I'm beginning to wish I'd gone back to work.

  "All right." Officer Kravetz says it like I've just sealed a very nasty fate. "Let me call this guy and get to the bottom of it, okay?"

  "Okay. Thank you."

  "Want anything to drink? Coffee or some water?"

  "No thank you."

  "Be right back."

  He leaves me in the room with the buzzing fluorescent light.

  I sit back in my chair. My feet ache with cold and I should've eaten something before I got myself into this. Six months ago, my biggest dilemma was which floor plan to pick for my new town home in Newport Beach. Now I'm sitting in a police station, my boss has been calling my cell nonstop, and I live with my grandmother.

  I can't hear anything outside these walls; it's completely soundproof.

  Last night, 8:30 p.m.

  In Santa Ana there are two types of neighborhoods: the historically significant neighborhoods with names like French Park and Floral Park, and the other neighborhoods. My grandma lives in one of the others.

  I turn off North Bristol onto West 3rd and then make a right on Hesperian. Except for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter at Nana's house, the farthest I'd head up on Bristol was the northernmost tip of Nordstrom at South Coast Plaza. Now this is home. Again.

  Nana's two-story bungalow stands on the corner. The skeleton of last spring's sweet peas cling to her chain-link fence, and even though she has the space, she still grows her roses and calla lilies in buckets.

  As a kid, I used to hide in the avocado tree from my cousins. When you're the only blond, half-white kid in a family of small, brown Mexicans from Jalisco, you know you're a grown-up the moment a white-person joke doesn't punch your flight-or-fight button.

  Nana walks out of the kitchen. She's still dressed in her suit but she must have stopped for a pedicure after work. Her toenails are now purple. When she sees it's me, she asks, "Where you been?"

  I open my mouth to begin a litany of grievances against my boss when a sharp report shakes the floor. White light bursts through the windows-the kind you see in alien invasion movies-and where there was a quiet street of parked cars and dim porch lights, SUVs and cop cruisers now block its in.

  "Did you hear that?" Chachi shouts. My cousins run out of the house to the yard.

  Nana shouts at them to come back inside. "Do you want to get shot?"

  As a reporter, I should dash out with my press pass, cell phone, and notepad. But the paper doesn't pay me enough and the walls of Nana's aren't even half as thick as the last Harry Potter book. I follow my nose into the kitchen where a vat of posole simmers on the stove. I make myself a bowl, heavy on the hominy. The oily broth scalds my hand. I've been here almost a year and I'm still not accustomed to the almost nightly visits from law enforcement that remind its we live in the "bad" part of town.

  Someone bangs on the back door. I turn, about to call Chachi an asshole for scaring me. But a woman stares back at me through the window. Her eyes are almost white with terror and then I see the little girl standing next to her.

  I instinctively know to let them in. Without a word, I lead them out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room. The little girl asks in a voice thin with confusion where they're going and the old lady shushes her. Then the little girl cries out, "Mommy! I want my mommy!"

  "Nina, shush!" Her grandma covers her mouth as if the cops outside might hear them. "Esta bien. Esta bien."

  The flashing lights from the police cars dance on the walls and I hear their radios. A dog barks and I think of Jews hiding in attics. My body rocks from the force of my heartbeat.

  As they move into my bedroom, I look down on the little girl's head. I hold back from brushing my hand over her French braid because she's not mine to do so.

  "Mommy, what's wrong? What's happening?" Pricila asked as her mother pulled her away from the kitchen sink.

  "You have to go. Now!"

  Nana's hands were wet from washing the dishes. Pricila looked down at the drops they made on the floor.

  Mommy pulled her close and held her tight. Then she pushed Pricila away. For a moment, her mother stared into her eyes. Her voice shook when she said, "Go, baby. Go with Nana, okay? I'll catch up with you."

  And then that terrible bang happened and Nana pulled Pricila into the yard and they ran in the dark.

  They made it to the house next door. Pricila sat at the table, pressed as tightly as she could against her nana. She tried not to look at anyone or wonder where her mommy had gone. She thought about Sleeping Beauty dancing with the animals dressed in the prince's clothes. She thought about her friend Heaven, who brought blue glitter nail polish to school. She wondered if Mommy would still rent her a movie for getting 100s on her spelling tests last month.

  "Senora Duran-"

  "Por favor, senora, please call me Bettina," Pricila's nana said.

  "Bettina," the old lady continued, "are you sure you won't have some posole?"

  "No thank you. Coffee is fine."

  "Do you have anyplace to go?" the pretty blond lady asked.

  Pricila peeked out. The blond lady didn't talk like a princess but she looked like one with curly hair and big brown eyes. She had a deep, serious voice and when she caught Pricila looking at her, she smiled crookedly.

  "He'll find us," Nana croaked. "He's the one who did this. To get Pricila. He don't want her. He want to punish my Gina."

  Pricila's chest froze with fear as Nana started to cry. The old lady reached out and took her hand.

  "Who will find you?" the pretty lady asked.

  "El padre de la nina."

  The pretty lady frowned. The old lady, who Pricila guessed was her nana, then asked, "He called la migra on you?"

  Pricila knew Nana was talking about her daddy. She hadn't seen him in a long time. Mommy said she and Daddy were mad at each other. Even though she said Pricila hadn't done anything, she knew they fought because of her.

  "No, no," Nana sniffled. "He is la migra."

  "Danielle, take Pricila to watch TV" the old lady said.

  Pricila held onto her nana tighter.

  "We have some good movies," the pretty lady said.

  Pricila breathed in her nana's smell but her nana started to push her away.

  "Go, nina," Nana said. "Let me talk to Senora Melendez, okay?"

  Pricila shook her head, fighting to stay close to her nana. Her throat burned as she bit down to keep from crying. Another hand touched her back but then pulled away. Pricila could feel it hovering close.

  The pretty lady named Danielle leaned in and whispered, "My nana doesn't know this but . . . " She paused and Pricila couldn't help but look into her brown eyes. "I have some chocolate ice cream hidden in the freezer. Would you like some?"

  Mommy never let her have ice cream on a school night and only when they could afford it.

  "Go on, nina," Nana said. "I'll be right here."

  Pressing her chin to her chest, Pricila slid off the chair. Danielle offered her hand and Pricila took it.

  Today, 7:45 a.m.


  My body tells me I've reached an age where I'll be stiff after a night tossing and turning on my nana's ancient couch. I kept thinking about nine-year-old Pricila Ruiz sleeping in my room.

  Before I left for work, Nana gave me the rundown on the raid next door. Even though it was awkward-I've never really spent much time around kids-I was glad to have taken Pricila into the TV room last night so she didn't have to relive the feds breaking down her front door.

  My friend Jake, who got me this job, now sits next to me in Warren Ramsey's office. I can see the empty lots that the city bought along Santa Ana Boulevard for a "gateway" to downtown. My Aunt Eloisa's little craftsman bungalow was sold two years ago and then leveled, only to be fenced off. I see the ghost of that house when I drive by it and remember how she'd walk me to the depot to watch the trains.

  Warren is the news editor and the one I have to convince to let me branch out from entering calendar items into the system and writing briefs published under my team leader's byline. A story about last night's raid might be a front-page clip and make this whole reporting thing worth it. I've never hustled so hard for so little money, but advertising got hit hard by the economy and this job is better than nothing.

  ICE agents arrested Pricila Ruiz's mother, Gina. The little girl's nana, Bettina, claimed the arrest was set up by ICE agent Jim Westfall after Gina threatened to fax a copy of Pricila's birth certificate to his wife's office if he didn't help her get a green card.

  Gina had come to the U.S. on a student visa in 1996 to attend USC. Bettina came to the U.S. on a visitor's visa to see Gina graduate magna cum laude and together they stayed. She was doing pretty well with an accounting job at Arthur Andersen that sponsored her work visa. But the company laid her off in 2001 and Gina couldn't get another job with a company that would sponsor her green card. Pricila had just turned a year old.

  Bettina said Westfall and his wife couldn't have kids, but I didn't tell Warren that. Westfall promised to marry Gina and streamline her citizenship process so they could be a family. But the divorce and the papers never came to pass and Gina ended it, making threats to force Westfall to at least fix her legal status. He disappeared from Pricila's life and then Gina received a court order to leave the country. She texted Westfall his wife's office fax number, as a reminder of what would happen if he didn't help her. But then ICE agents busted down her door.

  I try to catch my breath when I finish my pitch. Jake nods her head at me with approval. She says that my losing my advertising job is good for my karma. I think she likes it now that she makes more money than I do.

  Warren sighs and then types something on his keyboard. "Don't go toe-to-toe with this guy," he says, and Jake's knee starts bouncing. "Don't go anywhere near him with this. Jim Westfall gets awards from anti-immigration groups-like the crazy kind-from all around the country."

  "But he set up the mother of his child to be deported. I sat with that little girl last night."

  Warren gears up to reply but then his phone rings.

  "Hold on." He answers his call and tells one of his reporters to stay on the street. Apparently, some guy has been driving around to elementary schools in Santa Ana, trying to get little girls into his car. Warren hangs up.

  He leans forward to turn his monitor around. The desk leaves a temporary imprint against his belly. I'm staring at a file photo of Jim Westfall.

  I scoot closer. Westfall wears a too-tight white shirt under a flak jacket with big white letters: ICE. Behind his sunglasses, I sense the condemning gaze of an inquisitor.

  "Okay, so you want to go to this guy, an acknowledged elder-in-training in one of the biggest churches here in Orange County, and ask about how he set up his mistress to be deported?" Warren pauses to let this sink in. "What do you think he'll say to you, if you have the proof?"

  "We took on America's Sheriff," Jake chimes in. "We knew he was dirty."

  "When the feds had evidence of his wrongdoing," Warren says as he turns his monitor back around. "Okay, here's what we can do. Mario is following the ICE activities-"

  "Raids," Jake interrupts.

  "Activities," Warren insists. "Maybe Mario can make this part of a larger story."

  Mario Landrey is the reporter who covers immigration issues. They call him "Ice, Ice, Baby," and he posts online pictures of himself with agents and their guns. According to Jake, Mario hasn't written one word about the ICE vans parked outside Santa Ana's elementary schools or the day-worker stops. But he's spilled a lot of ink about the arrests of illegals with warrants for drug dealing, rape, and murder. Mario guards his territory like a pit bull.

  "Dani should have this story," Jake pleads.

  "We have a good relationship with law enforcement and I want to keep it that way," Warren says, standing up to dismiss its. "Even if it's true, Dani's not ready for this kind of story."

  I stay in my seat. "But I know the grandmother. She'll talk to me."

  "Mario has a lot of connections in the Latino community. He's got the expertise to handle guys like Westfall." Warren grins at me. "Sorry, Dani. Westfall would eat you alive."

  My nana calls me. Gina phoned her mother's cell from Central Jail in Santa Ana. She had been questioned and was offered the option of waiving her right to a court hearing, which would've put her on the first bus to Mexico. Gina told them no and now she's waiting to be arraigned.

  "Gina and her mother were fighting over the phone so I took the little girl outside to pick lemons." Nana keeps her voice low and I strain to understand her.

  "Do you think Gina will get deported?"

  "You're the one with the college degree, mi'ja. What do you think?"

  "What about Pricila? If she was born here-"

  "She'll go with her mama. It's the way things are. You know that."

  Anger gathers in my throat, like I'm being suffocated from the inside out. Westfall is a bastard for doing this. No, wait; under his commando posing, he's a cowardly bastard for trying to hide his little girl. If people don't want kids, they shouldn't screw around.

  It's moments like this that I think I made the right decision when I was twenty-three and starting my advertising career. I'd be like Gina now, irrevocably shackled to a man who might hate me for having his kid. My mother got off easy. Her husband, whose last name I bear, kicked her out when he discovered she'd been sleeping with a fellow grad student. She thinks my real father is a guy from England.

  "Is Pricila still there?"

  "Yes," Nana sighs. "Ay, Dani, you shouldn't have gotten its involved in this. I had to take the day off and I have briefs to type up for Mr. Levine-"

  "You think I should've shooed them from the back door?"

  "No, but-"

  "I'll come home."

  "And do what?"

  "Interview the grandmother. I'm a reporter. I'll write a story to help them."

  "Don't. You'll only make it worse, mi'ja."

  My boss and team leader Jolene buzzes me right after I hang up. Checking the mirror taped to my monitor, affixed there so no one catches me checking job listings online, I see Jolene painting her nails with her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.

  I pull my purse strap over my shoulder and slip out before she hunts me down in the newsroom.

  When I turn on Nana's street, there's an unmarked white Suburban parked facing the wrong way in front of her house. The shotgun mounted in the center console is a dead giveaway that it's the cops.

  As I get out of the car, I sense eyes watching from behind curtains. Even the dogs are quiet as everyone is on full alert that The Man has entered the forest.

  Through the screen door, a man I instinctivley know is Jim Westfall turns; my heart freezes when our eyes lock. Bettina is sitting on the couch, her hands behind her back. I make out Nana sitting in Grandpa's chair.

  "Wait outside!" Westfall barks.

  His partner then walks out and approaches me with his hand hitched on his gun. "Which one works for you?" he asks.

  "My grandmother lives her
e." The wind blows hard against my back and a spray of water dripping off the eaves sprinkles my cheek.

  He smiles instead of apologizing for assuming I'm a Newport mommy here to fetch my nanny. "Well, your grandma has been harboring an unauthorized immigrant."

  So that's what they call them now, huh?

  "We don't card our neighbors when they're afraid to sleep in their own homes."

  "You know Bettina Duran?"

  "Yeah, she's our neighbor."

  "You know where the little girl is?"

  "In school, I guess."

  He surveys the street from behind his sunglasses. I want to flash my press badge and yell, Stop right there, bud, I demand you let my grandma go!

  The screen door hits the front of the house as Westfall walks out with Bettina. She doesn't look at me and I'm hoping Pricila is upstairs.

  But she's not. Nana pulls me inside and tells me that a woman with a baby came to the house less than twenty minutes before Westfall showed up. Bettina bundled Pricila in a white coat and her backpack and sent her out the door with her birth certificate and a hundred dollars cash.

  "Where did she take her?"

  Nana shrugs as she checks her briefcase. "Mexico."

  "By herself?"

  "This is not our business. Let it go."

  "Does Gina know?"

  "Yes. That's why they were arguing."

  My cell phone buzzes angrily. It's Jolene ordering me back, no doubt. I think about sitting with Pricila in the TV room last night, watching Justice League and explaining Wonder Woman to her. Girls these days, they don't even know who Wonder Woman is. Then again, a girl like Pricila has more important things on her mind, like if her mom will be there when she comes home from school.

  "Danielle, listen to me. We have no concern in this and we don't want nothing to do with the police. Understand?"

  "But they came to us for help! Where are they sending Pricila? What if something happens to her along the way?"

  Nana sighs.

  "I'm supposed to just let it go, huh?"

  "Yes, mi'ja. Let it go."

  Today, 1 p.m.

  Obviously I refuse, and that's how I wind up in the Santa Ana Police Department.