Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

  “We arrived just in time, Mr. Shaw. The dog pound was ready to put Oscar to sleep.”

  He scratched behind Oscar’s ear, and the dog’s runty tail wagged furiously. “Hey, we saved this little guy. That’s a good omen.”

  “Yes, it is.” When he petted the dog, Toni noticed his wedding ring.

  “What were you doing in Phoenix, Miss García?”

  “Graduating from Arizona State. Surprised?”

  “Of course not,” he lied. “What’s your degree?”

  “Education.”

  “Teaching this fall?”

  “No. I couldn’t get a job at a school. That’s why I became an interpreter.”

  “And a good one.”

  “It’s not exactly hard to speak a language you learned growing up. Where’d you go to law school, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Harvard.” At that moment, he felt like a pretentious rich asshole in a sports car.

  “As I thought. An Ivy League type of guy.”

  “What do they look like?”

  She tilted her head. “Just like you.”

  Michael pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. “Over lunch we can talk about María. From what she told us, we might have a good case of self-defense.” He almost believed it.

  “I hope so.” Toni rubbed the dog’s stomach as she glanced at the front door of the Mesa Inn. She had heard of that place and its policies. “Mr. Shaw, they probably don’t allow dogs in this place, and it’s too hot to leave him in the car. I’ll fix lunch at my house.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Pulling out, he glanced back. NO MEXICANS was printed on a small sign under the larger one that welcomed people to the restaurant. Shit. He felt like an idiot because he never noticed the sign before. Still, she didn’t appear offended. Her wry smile hinted she had let him in on a bad joke.

  “Head to the president streets, North Park,” she said.

  The streets in North Park had been named after American leaders and ran according to their terms in office. But they quit after Ulysses S. Grant. Michael had heard the city council agreed off the books to continue the street names in numbers. Council members didn’t think it fitting the presidents should be honored with roads that had become so populated with the poorest people of Borden. A few Negro families, Indians off the reservations and Mexicans, the largest number of inhabitants. Most of them were born in the United States. Their ancestors had fought off Apaches and hard times with the rest of the state, but apparently none of that mattered to the city council. It still voted to save the rest of the presidents for the newer and more affluent part of town.

  Driving in North Park, Michael gripped the wheel more tightly. He had crossed an invisible boundary. The Mexicans he passed shot him looks that could melt the paint on his car. He sped up.

  “How often do you get over to this side of town, Mr. Shaw?” Toni enjoyed odd warmth over his obvious discomfort.

  Michael grinned and lied again. “Pretty often. I know lots of people over here.”

  “Sure you do.”

  He ignored her skepticism.

  “Here’s my driveway.” Her father’s truck was gone, and Toni gritted her teeth. He worked swing, taking the extra shift despite her pleas for for him not to do so. “Come on, I have a place around back.”

  As Michael parked out front, Toni wished they had come up the back alley. Mrs. Hernández was watering her front lawn. The older woman didn’t bother to hide her gawking at Michael as they walked to the backyard. Toni couldn’t run. Best to face the enemy.

  “Buenas tardes, Señora Hernández.”

  Mrs. Hernández’s mouth rotated up. “Buenas tardes, Toni, señor.”

  “Tomorrow it’ll be all over the neighborhood I’m sleeping with a rich gringo,” Toni whispered to Michael.

  “Really?” Michael turned his head and put on a lewd smile for Mrs. Hernández.

  He followed Toni to her place, which turned out to be a garage. Inside, however, it was a home. Cheap imitation Persian rugs covered new linoleum. Indian blankets and multicolored pillows decorated a single bed that doubled as a couch. In one corner, books filled a shelf; in another, a door opened to a small bathroom. Album covers of jazz and blues artists were tacked up on one wall, right alongside pictures of Jesus praying on his knees and the Virgin Mary.

  “Sit down, please. I’ll fix sandwiches.” Toni pointed to a worn stuffed chair in the corner.

  Near the window over the bed she started a standing fan that pushed air into the room. She opened an old refrigerator in another corner that made up a tiny kitchen area. A white tablecloth and sunflowers in a vase topped a wooden table.

  Michael liked watching Toni’s relaxed movement about the room, propelled by a sense of home. As she passed by him, he no longer smelled honey and sage, but soap and lotion. She got out milk and poured some into a bowl for Oscar. Carefully choosing a record, she placed it on the player sitting on a chest of drawers. Within seconds, Billie Holiday sang “God Bless the Child” as Toni worked on the sandwiches and occasionally threw ham Oscar’s way.

  “There you go, boy.”

  She turned and saw that Michael stood near the door, still holding his briefcase and examining the room with a slight mix of curiosity and disbelief. She put down a piece of bread. Vance Johnson stood there. Mrs. Larson the counselor stood there. Toni wiped her hands on a dish towel.

  “Did you think I’d serve you tacos and beans for lunch? Maybe a little shot of tequila on the side.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you staring?”

  “I’m looking at the jazz albums, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Were you expecting mariachi music, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon?”

  She came from around the table. They only were a few feet apart.

  “You’ve never visited this side of town. You’ve never even had a Mexican friend.” Her voice lowered with disdain.

  “Hold on.”

  “Your big house is probably full of Mexicans. Cooking your dinner, cleaning your toilets. Doing jobs white people don’t want. But then, we don’t mind being poor and uneducated, do we? We’re ignored except when you want someone to hoe your crops or do your dirty work. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

  “You don’t know what I think.”

  “You’re not denying anything.”

  Michael set down his briefcase and took one step toward her. She didn’t move.

  “You’re so observant.” She had nailed everything, which made him mad. “My father’s house is full of Mexicans—in the kitchens and the fields. Some of those people I’ve known all my life, and I still don’t know the names of their children. Feel justified now?” He picked up his briefcase. “But you can’t stand there and tell me you had lots of white friends and that you didn’t learn to distrust us like we distrusted you. Gringos don’t have the market cornered on prejudice, Miss García. Now excuse me. I’ll find another interpreter for María Curry.”

  Toni hadn’t expected the truth, and certainly not from this man. Vance Johnson and Mrs. Larson had vanished. She touched Michael’s arm. “Mr. Shaw.”

  “What now? Want to insult me some more?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The change in her voice was enough to make him stay. “Well, I apologize for raising my voice. That’s terrible behavior for a lunch guest.”

  “And I’m glad my father didn’t see how I treated you, especially when you’re helping someone who really needs it. The sandwiches will be ready soon, Mr. Shaw.” Toni set plates and napkins on the table. Billie’s singing soothed the little house.

  “Michael, please. After we fought, we should at least be on a first-name basis,” he said and took a seat.

  “All right then. Call me Toni.”

  He swore her eyes became a deeper color of brown. “Toni. I like that.”

  “People tell me I have my mom’s temper,” she sa
id.

  “People tell me I have my father’s money.”

  She laughed.

  “I do like your house, Toni. It has character, and you can’t buy that with any amount of money.”

  The compliment made her smile. “It’s good to have your own place.”

  “So you can bring home rich gringos?”

  “A Harvard one, to boot.” She put a ham sandwich on his plate. “Not on the Mesa Inn’s menu, but it’ll do.”

  He didn’t pick up the sandwich. “Toni, I didn’t volunteer to defend María. A judge appointed me.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “I really tried.”

  Toni smiled and threw Oscar another piece of ham.

  9

  WHENEVER A METAL DOOR CLANKED in the jail, María Sánchez Curry thought of the beaches of Puerto Vallarta. The concrete enclosing her stank of piss and cleaners, which only brought to mind the smell of salt and moisture wafting over her like baptism water. When the women inmates cried at night, María remembered the waves hushing at the shoreline. She looked through the gray metal bars and saw the thickness of green rising on hills and palm trees saluting the wind. The two places were as far apart from each other as God was to the cell in which she sat. Hundreds of miles away lay the town where she was born. And the ocean, a color bluer than God’s eyes. Waves undulating with the heart of the world. Sand the same color as soil washed clean of sin. Whitecaps winking at her. As a girl, she believed the Almighty watched as she stood on the beach and prayed to be rescued from loneliness.

  Her father was a hulky fisherman, so their family always ate the catch that was too small or damaged for him to sell at the market. Her mother worked at a fruit cannery. That left María to take care of her younger brothers and sisters, who were thankless and mean. When her father wasn’t on his boat, he drank and called María his “ugly little fish.” Pececita fea. He sang it out as his eyes glazed from tequila and spite. María looked in the mirror and realized his description was more accurate than cruel. She did have an insignificant face, large eyes and lips like fishing line. Her body was straight as a boy’s.

  Meanwhile, María’s mother offered no protection from the taunts. The woman worked, ate, slept and ignored her own children. Her mother remained passive as a windless day when her husband slapped her or pinched her breasts before shoving her into their room at night.

  That was María’s life, and she thought she might as well have changed the direction of the tide. Still, sometimes she wished her beloved ocean would sweep her father overboard and fill his lungs with salt water. After such a fantasy, however, she felt so terrible she’d run to the priest for confession.

  Men paid no attention to María as a young woman and looked right through her, the older she became. After her sisters and brothers married, her parents expected half of the money she earned at the cannery. María spent her nights sewing in her room while her parents argued in theirs. Only at the beach did she feel alive.

  One afternoon Ben Curry sat down on the sand next to her. He actually looked at her, smiled and asked her name. She returned the smile, hiding her mouth with her hand because her father said she had a fish smile. And Ben told her, “You shouldn’t hide.”

  That winter, fancy hotels cropped up along the beach for rich tourists who were beginning to discover the beauty of her home. On her way to work, María passed the steel structures and knew she’d never make enough money to see the inside of one when they were completed. Ben supervised an American crew building the Mexicana, a behemoth of luxury. Some days, she would see him as she passed the construction site. He spoke Spanish perfectly. He said he had lived near Mexicans all his life in a town in Arizona and had an ear for the language.

  With protruding ears, piggish eyes and only wisps of reddish hair left on his head, Ben was not handsome or even young, but then her years had gone, too. He did show powerful arms under his short-sleeve shirts and looked as if he could crush her, which excited María. He began to come by for her after her shift. They would remove their shoes and walk along the beach. She said little of her life, only of her love of the ocean. Ben talked about his work and how the rest of the men on the job were incompetent. He had an opinion about everything except family, which made María worry he was married. After a few weeks, he admitted to her that no one in the world would care if he lived or died. He hated his loneliness as much as she hated hers. María fell in love right then. She had long abandoned any hope of getting away from her mother and father, who told her she was destined to take care of them in their old age. But when Ben kissed her, his warmth moved inside her and weakened her legs. His arms held her so tight, she couldn’t breathe. It was as if he was taking her breath and giving her his. She had never been kissed before.

  María began wearing lipstick and bought new dresses. She paid no mind when her father called her a puta.

  After two months, Ben announced he was headed back to the States. When he turned to leave, María grabbed his arm. “We don’t have to be alone anymore,” she had blurted out. “Take me with you.”

  “Take me with you,” María repeated in her cell at the Mitchell County Jail.

  She lay back on the lumpy, smelly bed. She had killed Ben, the man she loved. The man who had finally looked at her. The clank of a metal door came from another part of the jail, and she again thought of the beach in Mexico. She thought how far she had come to this place with no view of water the color of God’s eyes.

  10

  TONI ADJUSTED HER SUIT JACKET and entered the courtroom, which immediately reminded her of a funeral parlor. It had hardwood floors and dark wood on walls and railings. Tall windows behind the judge’s bench had been shuttered closed and muted the sunlight. People talked in muted voices, as if they did not want to disturb the deceased. Rows of chairs as if for mourners. How could justice reside in such gloom?

  The ceiling fans creaked like her father’s knees, and everyone wiped at sweaty foreheads. Still, Toni shivered. She felt as cold as Ben Curry in the grave. She shivered for María, who sat at a table up front. María wore another drab jail shift.

  “I don’t like this place,” María whispered to Toni when she joined her.

  “This is the first time I’ve been in a courtroom, too. You and I will stick together and get through this.”

  María sat up. “I’ll try to be brave.” Knowing Oscar was safe helped.

  Toni had listened patiently to all the instructions about what her dog liked to eat. “Shreds of chicken. Warmed-over Spanish rice. And he loves strips of dried tortilla. You’ll see how he drags them onto his bed to chew them. But don’t give him any fish, Toni. It will give Oscar gas, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  Under the table, María’s legs were restless. “All the white people look at me with blaming eyes,” she said.

  Toni glanced around. María was right. She recognized disdain. Toni held María’s hand. “Don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right. You’ll see.”

  Toni also wanted to convince herself. She had the notion the walls of the courtroom might fold over on María and encase her like a coffin. The only person who could hold them back was Michael Shaw.

  When he entered, he winked at them. On the first day of a trial, Michael always attempted to show optimism for his clients. “Good morning, ladies.” But he couldn’t stand the hope in their eyes, so he glanced over at prosecutor’s table to size up the opposition. Unfortunately, Mitchell County Attorney Joe Brennan sat there.

  Brennan’s wire-framed glasses mirrored the overhead light as if the man had no eyes. After working together in the county office, Michael had learned Brennan could be brutal to people both on the witness stand and off. Coworkers had joked, “Best not turn your back on Brennan unless you have a death wish.” Brennan loved to wear sharp three-pieces suits and to humiliate anyone who couldn’t fight back or wasn’t well connected. He was ambitious in life and dangerous in court.

  “Joe.” Michael mustered his most professional voice.<
br />
  “Michael.”

  “Didn’t expect to see you.”

  Before Brennan could answer, Ben Curry seemed to have risen from the dirt and come through the doors of the courtroom. María screamed.

  “Who the hell is that?” Michael asked María, who crossed herself and shook with confusion.

  “She said she doesn’t know,” Toni answered after translating. “He doesn’t look happy, whoever it is.”

  “That’s the deceased’s older brother, Daniel.” Brennan looked meaner when he smiled. “He came from Prescott to make sure justice is done for his kin. It will be.”

  Daniel Curry strode up to María, who cowered as if confronted by an avenging spirit. He had more hair than his dead brother and was thinner. Other than that, they could have been twins. The work clothes he wore were worn in places but were clean and pressed, although they smelled of beer and cigarettes.

  “Damn you. You killed my only brother.” He pulled María up by her collar. “He was all the family I had.”

  Toni shot up from the chair and put a protective arm around María, who turned limp with fright. “Leave her alone.”

  Michael stood up and grabbed Curry’s arm, forcing him to release his grip on María’s dress. “Now back the hell off.”

  Curry did so. “Greaser murderer,” he barked at María.

  “Shut up, or I’ll see you’re tossed out of here,” Michael said.

  “You and what army? And just what the hell is a white man doing standing up for that piece of brown trash? You turning against your own?”

  “My own what? Morons like you?”

  Deputy Herb Bell rushed from the back of the room and pulled at one of Curry’s arms. “You’ll have to settle down, mister. This ain’t no way to act in court.”

  Brennan also stood. “Deputy, he’ll be fine.”

  “Are you nuts? That man’s a menace, Joe,” Michael said.

  “All rise,” said Bailiff George Roy, who stepped into the room without noticing the scuffle. “The Superior Court of Mitchell County is now in order. The Honorable Milton M. Hower presiding.”