She rubbed her cheek a little. “Sir, is that like an eye for eye? If it is, then yes, I do.”
“I don’t know about the theology, but as far as I’m concerned you deserve a spot in the jury box.”
Michael hid his dismay when Brennan got rid of Elsie with one of his challenges.
Toni didn’t like the older woman up next for questioning. She had eyes like a dead cat, and her body was wound as tightly as her thick stockings.
“One Mexican boy stole my car last week.” Maggie Billard’s words barely passed through her tight lips. “They caught ’m good and sent ’m back across the border, where he belongs. Then, another Mexican kid broke into my neighbor’s house. They’re thieves, sir. That’s how I feel about ’em. They should be thrown back where they came from.” Maggie folded her arms with triumph.
As far as Michael was concerned, Maggie Billard could go back where she had come from.
He couldn’t believe there could be anybody worse than Maggie until the bailiff called Simon Smith, a farmer of thirty going on sixty-five. Smith believed in capital punishment, not self-defense. He believed Mexicans deserved less than white people. “They rob jobs from respectable ’mericans. A lotta them don’t even bother to learn English. If they’re gonna live in this country they better learn American.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith.” Michael cut in.
“Those Mexicans’re drinkers, too.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Smith.”
“Ever see their homes?”
“Your Honor.”
“Mr. Smith.” Judge Hower’s stare was enough to shut the man up.
Michael wanted to get rid of Simon Smith, but he wanted to keep Joshua Kinney, a janitor at the high school. On the stand, Kinney scratched his chin with nervousness but answered with sincerity. “They’s hard-workin’ folks. I worked with lotsa them down at the mill one summer, and I grew up in North Park.”
“The defense will be based on self-defense. How do you feel about that?”
Kinney scratched a little more. “Don’t know the legal stuff, but I’d do everything I can to protect myself or my family.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kinney.”
Jury selection took most of the day and part of the next. By the time Judge Hower brought down his final gavel, they had a seven-woman, five-man jury, including Joshua Kinney. Michael was pleased. Now the work really started: convincing twelve different people of one truth, that María Curry did what she had to do to defend herself.
Deputy Herb Bell arrived from his place in back of the courtroom to fetch María Curry back to the jail after another trial day had ended. “Let’s go,” he told the woman he considered pathetic. He also stared down at Toni, who was too pretty to be a nice girl, Bell reasoned. That’s probably why Mr. Shaw looked her over like she was the main course at a restaurant.
Toni hugged María before she was taken away. “I was sure Ben Curry’s brother would be here,” Toni told Michael.
“He will. He’s going to be a prosecution witness,” Michael said. “So we have that to look forward to.”
After the courtroom cleared, Michael sat down at the defense table. Toni leaned against the railing across from him. The staid courtroom made her feel how far apart she and Michael really might be. She tapped her heel against the floor for thinking of herself more than María.
“Is it a good jury, Michael?”
“Not bad. We’ll have to put them in María’s shoes, and I hope to hell I can do that.”
Michael entered his apartment at five-thirty, carrying law books and a briefcase heavy with notes for the trial. He could have worked at Toni’s house, but doubted he would make any progress there. They would have ended up making love. So he went home, if only to stop Jenny’s nagging about why he was never home. He planned to see Toni later that night.
Jenny was yelling. A rarity, even after the time he had spilled whiskey on her pale green carpet.
“You did it on purpose! You’re so stupid! Are you listening to me?” she shouted.
Michael rushed into the kitchen, where Jenny had a finger pointed at their housekeeper and cook, Lupita Cordova. The remains of a broken serving dish were spread over the floor.
“What the hell is going on, Jenny?”
“She dropped the dish my mother gave us for our wedding. It’s an heirloom.” Jenny’s cheeks fired up with an angry red. Her blond hair had fallen into her eyes.
“I was cleaning and accidently bumped it with my hand. I swear to God, Mr. Michael, that’s what happened,” said Lupita, who was Josita’s daughter and looked just like her mother.
“I know you didn’t mean to break the dish, Lupita. Why don’t you go home early. Call it a night off.” He touched her wide back.
“Mr. Michael, I’ll pick up the mess.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Gracias.” Lupita gathered her purse before Jenny started yelling again.
Michael accompanied Lupita to the door.
“Tell Miss Jenny I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think she was really yelling at you.”
“No?” Lupita’s face scrunched with bewilderment.
“Never mind. See you tomorrow.”
Back in the kitchen, Jenny kneeled on the floor, picking up what was left of the white ceramic dish decorated with yellow daisies and pink roses along its border. “It’s shattered. We’ll never fix it.” Crying, she held a couple of pieces in her hands.
“Don’t worry about it, Jenny. To be honest, I’ve always thought that dish was really ugly.”
“Michael! It was a wedding present.”
He kneeled beside her. “I’ll buy you a new one. A pretty one.”
She stood up. “It’s all broken.” Jenny threw down the ceramic pieces, ran to their bedroom and slammed the door.
On the way to his small study, Michael poured a drink.
“Son of a bitch.”
Jenny knew.
Now that she did, he should march into the bedroom and tell her the rest. Instead, he opened the law books and took another drink.
25
BORDEN FOOD TOWN had opened two months ago. Carmen considered it more of a grocery palace than store. Usually, she went to the corner market in the neighborhood. Mr. Morgan, a fleshy man with a pleasant nature, ran the small store. While the vegetables were sometimes less than fresh, Mr. Morgan made up for it with friendly chat about anything from the weather to who had a new baby. He carried lots of Mexican spices and threw in a candy bar for regular customers who spent more than twenty dollars. Because of that, Carmen felt like a traitor for shopping Food Town, but the girls at work had called it beautiful.
The store featured a new and expanded bakery resembling a stainless steel cathedral. Beautiful glass windows housed hefty loaves of bread, rolls, maple bars, apple fritters, doughnuts and cinnamon rolls. Carmen lingered nearby, enjoying the smell, but they were all too sweet for her. On her way home, she planned to stop at the Sánchez Panadería for Mexican bread. She loved the vague sweetness of the conchas, buns with swirled toppings of sugar made to resemble seashells. She put a hand on her stomach, sending a message to the baby: You’ll like Mexican bread.
Pushing her cart slowly down the aisle, Carmen looked for tomatoes for the salsa to top the chicken tacos they were having for dinner. When she and Toni were kids, they tried to best each other at eating the most tacos. Their dad pulled the tacos from the frying pan, and as soon as they cooled, she and Toni each grabbed one, blowing on their fingers because they were still hot. They’d pile on lettuce, yellow cheese and salsa. Toni held the record for eating six tacos in one sitting.
Placing ten tomatoes in a paper bag, Carmen smiled a little. She was eating for two, so she might break Toni’s record.
“Carmen.”
Mrs. Hernández and her daughter, Anita, hustled toward her with their cart. Anita looked more like Mrs. Hernández’s twin. Anita, however, was nastier than her mom, as Carmen had found out when they were kids. No one
dodged Anita’s insults or mean tricks.
Carmen wanted to wheel away, but their carts trapped her in the aisle. “Hi.”
“Congratulations on your baby.” Anita gave Carmen a hug with no feeling behind it.
“Thanks. I’m very happy.”
Mrs. Hernández nudged Carmen in the ribs. “You and your husband didn’t wait long after the wedding, did you?”
“Víctor and I both wanted children.” Carmen’s words were clipped; she was annoyed at Mrs. Hernández’s suggestion.
The women disregarded the tone. Anita grinned at her mother, who winked back. “And how’s Toni these days? I haven’t seen her for a long time, not since school.”
“I forgot you dropped out to get married before we graduated.” Carmen had to rub it in that she and Toni did graduate from high school. “Toni got a college degree and everything.”
“Gee, Mom, Toni was always a smart one in school,” Anita said.
“I bet she’s real busy with the murder case I read about in the paper,” Mrs. Hernández said.
Carmen knew where they were headed. She wanted to get the hell out of Food Town.
Anita’s brows knitted in nastiness. “Toni and that lawyer fella must be working hard at it. Mom sees him coming and going all times of the night from Toni’s house in the back.”
Mrs. Hernández smiled with success at making her neighbor squirm. “All the time. Right, Carmen?”
“Mom says he’s very handsome and rich, too. Oh, and married.” Anita giggled.
Carmen planted her feet. “He’s defending a nice Mexican woman.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s a very good job for Toni,” Anita said. “I wish I could get me some of that nice work.”
Carmen tugged her cart. “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to finish dinner.”
“’Bye, Carmen. Tell Toni hello for me.” Anita and her mom waved as Carmen rushed off.
“See, what’d I tell you, Anita?” Mrs. Hernández said.
“You’re right, Mom. It’s about time Toni García got what she had coming. She acts like her shit don’t stink, with her fancy-ass education. And now, she’d rather go out with white guys who’ll spend money on her.”
“She’ll get everything she deserves.” Laughing, Mrs. Hernández put a dozen oranges in a bag.
Carmen peeked around the corner. Mrs. Hernández and her daughter poked each other with joy. Carmen clenched the cart handle until her hands hurt. She should have told them to mind their own damn business. But if she did, it would support what everyone on the block already seemed to know about her sister.
Carmen left the store without buying anything.
Francisco sat on a kitchen chair, softly strumming his guitar and singing a ballad in Spanish. He couldn’t recall where he had heard the many songs he knew. Some dated back to the Mexican Revolution and the days of his hero, Emiliano Zapata. Toni had checked books out of the library and read to him about Zapata, who looked like he had a lot on his mind in the old photographs. He was saddened such a hero had been killed by other Mexicans.
Francisco made up songs about Zapata as well as about own his life. Musical stories about how he had traveled around working in the fields. About his mother and his time without her. His special songs were about Maricela. How his heart ached without her laughter and love. Part of his soul went into the grave with her, went one of his songs. He only played it when he was alone, because he didn’t want his daughters to cry.
In the kitchen, Toni and Carmen washed dishes and listened to their father’s music. Víctor had gone out to the store for a pack of cigarettes. Francisco’s playing and the dishes clattering in the water filled the silence between the sisters, which was unusual for them. Carmen was wondering if she should tell Toni about Mrs. Hernández.
Bumping her sister with a hip, Toni held up a soapy dish. “You still mad I ate more tacos than you?”
“No. But I’m warning you, I’ll break your record someday.”
“Dream on.”
Carmen dried her hands on a dish towel and kissed the top of Francisco’s head. “Hey, Pops. Tell that story again about how you met Mamá.”
“Ay, you’ve heard it a hundred times.”
“Come on,” Toni agreed, although she and her sister had almost memorized the words he used.
“Okay, okay.” It never took much persuasion. Francisco strummed his guitar as he told the story he loved.
His friend had talked him into going to a dance with the promise they’d meet a lot of girls. He was twenty and had a job at the steel mill. In an old hall on the edge of town, a band that had come all the way from Dallas was playing. Admission was only fifteen cents per person. Francisco spent most of the evening staring at Maricela. Wearing a blue dress with a little white collar, she sat with her legs crossed at the ankles. She twisted her hands from nerves. To his happiness, she stared back. They danced, but she kept asking the time. She had sneaked out of the house with a girlfriend and had to be back by eleven, before her dad returned from work at the mill. Following the dance, they met again and again. Each time, Maricela’s sweetness eased his rough life.
Two months later, she sneaked out again, and they got married in Bisbee. That night, she snuck back home, too afraid to tell her family. After three weeks, Francisco wanted no more sneaking around. He went to meet her father, José, who could be terrifying when he didn’t smile. With as much respect as he could manage, Francisco told José about their marriage.
“‘Maricela! Your husband is here,’ José yelled.” Francisco imitated his late father-in-law’s rumbling voice. “Your mother went and hid under the covers in her room. Finally, she came out. José pointed at her and said, ‘Your place is with him.’”
“I like that part,” Carmen said, which Toni hushed her.
Maricela’s mother put her clothes in a paper sack. When Francisco took her to his tiny room in a boardinghouse, he feared she would run back to her father’s house. He did what he hated most and borrowed money from as many people as he knew to put a down payment on a house one block away from her parents. Eventually, he and José became friends.
“She was the prettiest thing I ever saw.” Their father always concluded with the same line.
“That story gets better every time I hear it.” Carmen wiped the table.
Toni kissed her father’s cheek. An increased dosage of medicine had helped quiet the coughing, but her father was losing weight. His coloring had become ashen. Be happy for each day with him, she told herself. Still, she was tempted to hold on so tight that death would have to take them both.
After her father went to bed, Toni packed the trash in the can behind the house and lit up a cigarette. The night was clean and untroubled. She jumped when the back door opened with a squeak. Carmen came out wringing her hands, a nervous habit she had inherited from their mother.
“Okay, Carmen, spill it.” Toni took a long draw. “You’ve been acting strange all night.”
“I was in the store and stupid Mrs. Hernández and her daughter stopped me. You know how nosy they are.”
“What’s your point?”
“Mrs. Hernández spotted that white guy coming over a lot, and at night.” She spoke softly, even though they were alone.
“Michael.”
“You mean it’s true?”
“For once, Mrs. Hernández is right.”
“Holy shit. Does Dad know?”
Toni choked on the smoke. “No, and I’m not going to tell him. Michael is married.”
“Madre de Dios.” Carmen crossed herself. “I thought you were the smart one in the family.”
“Me, too.”
“When we were teenagers, we used to say white guys only wanted one thing from Mexican girls.”
“He already got that.” Toni smiled.
“I’m trying to be serious.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“I know.”
Toni took her sister’s hand and studied the
sky. The moon slept somewhere else, making it a night for hiding, for sharing secrets. She let go of her sister’s hand and faced her.
“Carmen, you don’t have to tell me anything I haven’t already told myself. Michael and I … well, it’s nothing like how Mom and Dad met. But I’ve never wanted anyone as much.”
“Oh no, Toni.”
Toni drew a few more puffs of her cigarette. “And that’s precisely, my little sister, why it scares the hell out of me.”
26
AS OFFICER SAM JONES sat in the witness box, his weapon stuck to his side. He concentrated on not sweating into his newly ironed police shirt. How much safer to be on the dark streets arresting crooks instead of up on the stand in front of men in suits. He wished those damn lawyers would hurry up and quit all the legal mumbo jumbo. For more than an hour he had already testified about finding Ben Curry’s body and how María Curry had signed a confession, not only in English, but another written in Spanish by one of the detectives, who had lived in Mexico. When the prosecutor submitted the confessions as evidence, Jones thought that should have ended the trial right there. But the lawyers still wanted more from him.
From under a file and with a bit of theatrics, Joe Brennan yanked out a bread knife with a seven-inch blade. “Do you recognize this?”
“Yes, sir. It was stuck in Ben Curry’s chest,” the police officer said.
Holding out the knife, Brennan walked slowly in front of the panel. Spots of dried blood covered the brown wooden handle. One female juror gasped. María sobbed. The prosecutor continued his questioning, content with the response.
“Officer Jones, before the night of the killing, were you well acquainted with Ben Curry and his Mexican wife?”
“Don’t know if ‘acquainted’ is the right word, sir. Not social like. But we did break up lots of their fights.”
“What did you usually find when you answered those calls?”
“Well, Ben and María would be drunk most times. They’d be yelling and throwing things at each other and disturbing the neighbors.”
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