“Was she an active member of your congregation?” Michael asked.
“She came to Mass every Sunday and volunteered to clean the church every week, along with other women in the parish. When she wasn’t working, she would also help cook funeral dinners. María is a wonderful woman who helps anyone in need.”
“Please elaborate, Father.”
“When a family from our parish got burned out of their home, María cooked for them and gave them some of her blankets, though she’s not a wealthy person.”
“Did María ever come to church with injuries?”
“I noticed bruises and cuts on her legs and face. She even showed up one Sunday with a broken arm.”
“Did she tell you how they happened?”
“She didn’t want to talk about it. One evening, however, I saw her cleaning the pews, and she was crying. She finally admitted her husband had beaten her.”
“What did you do when you she told you?”
“I offered to talk with him. But she begged me not to go talk to him. She was afraid he would hurt me, too.”
“Father, you were born in Mexico and later became an American citizen, is that correct?”
“Yes. I love this country, but I am also very proud of my people and my heritage.”
“Are there aspects of your native culture you don’t like?”
“Yes, Mr. Shaw.”
“Like what?”
“I dislike the attitudes of some men towards women.”
“Tell us more, please.”
The priest took off his glasses. Dark curly hair surrounded a face forged out of compassion. “Of course, not all men hold such beliefs, but there are those who think that women are only on Earth to clean, cook, have their children and give men their pleasures. For many, it’s a sign of manhood when they have total control over their women.”
“How do the women usually accept this treatment?”
Father Vásquez talked to the jurors. “Many of the women from Mexico or who are of Mexican descent accept it without question. They view a slap as another part of life with a man, just as that man might caress them with the other hand.”
Michael spotted one of the female jurors nodding in agreement. Her response sent a charge through his body. “Would it be unusual for a woman raised in Mexico not to summon the police for help?”
“Not at all. Mexican people tend not to trust the police in this country or theirs. They will first seek out their own people for help or the church. They don’t believe white policemen will help them, and unfortunately, those beliefs are often justified, Mr. Shaw.”
Michael smiled at the priest. “Thank you, Father.”
Joe Brennan hated to cross-examine clergy, especially those testifying for the defense, because they seemed to have God on their side. He had to proceed with diplomacy. He greeted the priest with respect and then asked, “Would you consider María Curry a good Christian?”
“I would say so.”
Brennan picked up a pile of papers from the prosecution table. “But you are here today because María Curry is charged with stabbing her husband to death.”
“I know.”
Brennan hoped to use religion to his benefit. “Father, is it not only against the state’s law but God’s law to kill?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And wasn’t it in the Book of Matthew that Jesus advised, ‘Whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also?’”
“That is correct, Mr. Brennan.”
“María Curry didn’t turn her cheek that night, did she?”
“No, but I also believe María had turned her cheek for many years to the violence done to her.”
“Didn’t María Curry sin?”
“If she did, Jesus is in the forgiving business.”
“That will be all.”
Brennan sat back down at his table. Forgiveness, his ass. If he never had to cross-examine another religious man, it’d be way too soon.
32
MARTIN SHAW MASSAGED HIS TEMPLES and eyes. He sighed at the enormous file on his desk. Another attorney in the firm had taken over Clark versus Rochester, which was his case before he took time off. But he prided himself on checking the work of every attorney there, even his own son’s. The letterhead carried his name, and any shoddy job reflected on him.
Martin felt foolish after the incident at the airport. Sprawled out on the tarmac, perspiring and laboring for air like a newborn, he had lost command of his own body. He didn’t fear death as much as loss of control. He didn’t recall much after he had fallen, except for everyone’s eyes upon him, all full of concern and pity. Michael had held him like a baby, and he winced from the indignity caused by his betraying heart. In a life where he had dominated most everything, something had slipped past him that day at the airport.
Mrs. Garrison, his secretary, knocked and entered only after Martin allowed it. “Your wife called and reminded me to send you home. She said she doesn’t want you working any more hours this week.”
Martin sighed again at the nagging he endured at the office and at home. Normally, he would have berated his wife and secretary for it. But he was tired. “I’m just finishing up.”
“Mr. Shaw. There’s also a sheriff’s deputy in the waiting room who insists on seeing you. He says it’s of a personal nature, and I quote, ‘It will be worth your while.’ Shall I set an appointment for him?”
Martin picked up the file. “I’m really busy now, Mrs. Garrison, as you can see.”
“I know, sir. But he says he has some important information about your son.”
Martin put down the file. “Wait ten minutes before you bring him in, and then you can go home.”
She nodded and shut the door.
From a shelf across from his desk, Martin picked up a photo of Michael in all his football glory, his arm drawn back for a forward pass. With his handkerchief, Martin rubbed out a thumbprint on the glass and reminded himself to reprimand the cleaning staff for a sloppy job of dusting. Replacing the photograph, he sat down. This deputy had better not waste his time, or he would ensure the man ended up patrolling school crossings for the rest of his life.
Mrs. Garrison opened the door for the man.
Deputy Herb Bell held back his shoulders. Everyone in town knew Martin Shaw could run men out of town, put them out of business or ruin them in some other way if they got on his bad side. Bell had seen him at the courthouse but never talked with him. Martin Shaw had money and power, so Bell had planned carefully what he would say. The deputy swallowed, but he had to show the rich man he was serious minded.
He stuck out his hand. “Mr. Shaw, I only have the highest respect and regard for you and your son. That’s why I am here today.”
Martin didn’t offer a seat or his hand.
Bell stood in front of the sizeable desk. “You may not know it, but I have worked for the county for six years.”
“That’s not why you’re here, is it? What’s your name again?” Martin asked dryly and inspected his nails.
“Deputy Herb Bell. I work at the jail. I see lots of stuff. I hear lots of stuff. You might call me the Walter Winchell of the lockup. Well, sir, it’s about your son.”
“What about him, Deputy?”
Bell dared to take a closer step to the desk. “He’s involved with a Mexican woman. Everybody’s talking about it. I’ve even seen the two of them together myself.”
“What Mexican woman?”
“Some gal from North Park who’s working with your son on that murder case. She’s the interpreter for the Mexican who killed her husband.”
Martin contemplated the file on his desk. Although his first instinct was to crush Herb Bell with one fist, he said, “Go on.”
“See, Mr. Shaw. You got a quality job and a beautiful office like a king and probably a beautiful home. But I work hard there among the criminals and undesirables. I don’t get much pay, but I’m a public servant and I felt it was my duty to come here today.”
Martin clasped his hands together on the desk and finally faced the informer. Like all those who had something to sell, the deputy’s eyes were dusky with want. “Tell me what you’ve seen and heard, and you may be rewarded for your public service.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Shaw. You are my kind of people. And whatever I tell you, believe me, sir, it will stay strictly between the two of us.”
Though he wasn’t invited to, Bell sat down in the chair as if it were made of gold.
Tommy, the bartender, brought two more beers to Michael and Adam, who sat in a corner booth talking and laughing more loudly with each drink. He shook his head at grown men acting like kids, but he wouldn’t be in the bar business if he judged them too harshly. And these boys were first-class paying customers at eight bottles apiece and counting.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Michael said.
“Sure thing, Mr. Shaw.”
Michael hadn’t been with Toni for the past few nights because she was caring for her father, who had suffered another attack from his besieged lungs. Michael loved to be with her but was also wearied each time, not only because of their urgent lovemaking, but also because of the will it took to leave her and go home. He more than welcomed Adam’s invitation to get out of the apartment. Jenny had pouted and sung Broadway tunes out of key because he refused to buy the ostentatious house with the flamingos. When she had asked why, he shouted at her to leave him alone and quit pestering him about the goddamn house. The next night, he took her to an early movie and dinner as an apology. Afterward, Jenny looked at him like he had killed her dreams, which he had. But they were her dreams, not his.
He and Adam hadn’t talked much during the trial. Occasionally, Adam dropped by the courtroom, listened to a few minutes of testimony and left. To save his nights for Toni, Michael missed several Sunday games so he could work on María’s trial and catch up on his other cases. So when Adam called to go out for a beer, Michael declared war on sobriety. He hadn’t gotten smashed since he and Toni first slept together. But as Michael got drunk at Tommy’s place, he had the uneasy feeling he was cheating on Toni.
After finishing the last bottle of beer, Adam stared at Michael, grinning and touching the top of his crew cut.
“What is it, Adam?”
“I’ll bet you’ll be sorry when this case is over.” Adam sputtered like a pot boiling over. “You know.” With his elbow, he poked Michael hard in the ribs.
“What?”
“You’re doing that little interpreter of yours. I’ve seen her.” Adam wolf whistled so sharply the other bar patrons shifted in their seats.
Michael said nothing. Drunk as he was, it was safer to buy a front-page ad in the newspaper than tell Adam, who deemed tact as something involving horses.
Adam no longer grinned. “Mike, buddy, I’m really hurt you didn’t tell me. We’re old friends, but I had to hear about your little affair from courtroom cafeteria gossip. I want all the nasty details, man. They might improve my dull married life. Fess up.” He poked him again.
“No, Adam.” Michael set down the bottle of beer he was about to drink.
“I never held out on you. I told you about the teenage whore I had in Tijuana.”
“I never asked you to tell me anything.”
Adam’s eyes went yellow from the beer and spotting weakness in Michael. “Then tell me this, my old friend. Is it true love or just screwing around?”
Michael dragged himself out of the booth. “I’m going home.”
Adam followed. “Don’t ignore me.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Which one? Your wife’s or that Mexican tart’s?”
Michael lunged at Adam. They knocked over two tables. Glasses crashed as they scuffled, a fight of drunken men, one of clumsy swagger.
Lawyers or not, Tommy wasn’t going to let them wreck his bar. He picked up each man by the collar of his nice shirt and hauled them to the back door. “I like you, Mr. Shaw. But it’s time to say good night. I’ll put the beer and the broken glasses on your tab.”
With efficient ease, Tommy threw them out the door and into the alley. Michael stumbled to the ground. Adam landed on his feet, twisted around and pinned Michael to the ground. “What’s wrong? Tap a nerve, did I, buddy?” Adam said.
“Get off me, you fucking gorilla.”
“Let’s go down memory lane to those old days in high school when we got tanked and drove to North Park. Remember, we threw paper bags of cow shit at the Mexicans? Or how about the nights we hunted down the greasers in our car to see how fast they could run?”
Michael quit struggling.
“See, you remember. I bet you haven’t told your spic sweetie about those good times.” Adam let Michael go and stood up.
Luxuriating in the brief payback, Adam understood even through the drunkenness that he would ultimately be the one to pay for his actions. As he did playing football, the only thing he knew was to charge ahead.
“Think on it, Mikey. All those years, your old man screwed over those Mexicans at his ranch with dirt pay and back-breaking work. Now, you’re screwing one. Damn, it’s a Shaw family tradition.”
Brushing dirt off his pants, Adam felt his pockets for keys. “Whew, I’ve had enough fun. Be sure to lay a kiss on your little gal for this gringo.”
Michael sat there on the gravel in the alley. Adam had gone but left the truth behind.
Toni waved at the cigarette smoke as she sat on the bed in her little house. Her skin felt tightened around her bones, and her eyes itched with dryness. Five days ago, her father’s cough had intensified to the point he did the unthinkable, at least for him. He called in sick for work and asked her to drive him to the doctor. A tall man with sympathetic eyes, Dr. John Custer asked her into his office while her father got dressed in the examining room. Francisco had bruised a rib from the coughing and should rest in bed for three days, the doctor advised. He also increased the medicine to ease the cough. She again asked if her father could be healed. He answered there was nothing to be done and put a large hand on her shoulder. She had called Michael at his office to tell him about her father and that he shouldn’t come over for the next few nights. As they had prearranged, Toni identified herself as the secretary of a lawyer in Phoenix who needed to talk with Michael about the Sullivan case.
While Francisco stayed home, Toni ordered him back into bed whenever he tried to mow the lawn or cook. He asked if it was okay to lift his fingers to play the guitar, and she said yes, but warned him not to be a smart aleck.
After his sick days had passed, her father insisted on going back to the mill that very morning. She and Carmen tried to talk him into quitting, but he refused. Staying at home wouldn’t heal him, he said. The sisters finally agreed to let him go if he promised to ask for easier duties. So Toni made his lunch and watched him drive off. She called Michael at his office and asked him to come to her house. The nights without him had left her disjointed and aching.
Nearing eleven, she finally heard his footsteps outside her little house. Oscar growled. “Cállate, little one.” She petted his ears and stubbed out her cigarette. “We don’t want to scare this one away.”
Michael opened the door of the dark room and stood in the doorway. His eyes focused on her in the shadows. They met in the middle of the room, crushing their bodies together with need. Something crashed through the window near the door and landed on the floor with a thud. Michael put his arms around Toni to protect her. Oscar barked and jumped on the bed. Dogs around the neighborhood answered Oscar.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell was that?” Michael picked her up and placed her on the bed. He grabbed the brick that had been thrown through the window. “I’m going to catch the son of a bitch.”
He dashed outside. “Damn him,” he hissed and couldn’t wait to pound Adam, whom he expected to be waiting for him. But there was no Adam or anyone else he could see in the moonless night.
The lights f
lashed on in Mrs. Hernández’s windows. Michael ducked into a shadow. He didn’t want to cause more trouble for Toni. He crept back to the little house.
“Goddammit.” He gripped the brick more tightly.
“Oscar, quiet,” Toni shushed the dog as Michael came in the door. “Let me see it, Michael.”
“No.”
She held out her hand. He gave the brick to her. “GREASER BITCH” was written in red paint.
“Oh, God.”
He sat down next to her on the bed.
Carmen rushed in through the door. “Toni, what happened?” She didn’t acknowledge Michael. Whatever had happened, it was his fault.
He hurried to his feet from the bed, a look of guilt on his face.
“Nothing, Carmen. A stupid kid threw something in the window. Please, go back to bed. I want to clean up the glass. I’ll sleep in the house tonight.”
“But Toni.”
“Carmen, now go in, please.” She repeated it in Spanish and touched her sister’s arm.
Carmen nodded. She couldn’t look at the man who had caused Toni these problems.
“What’s going on over there?” Mrs. Hernández yelled from next door to no one in particular.
“Don’t say anything.” Toni squeezed Carmen’s hand.
Carmen gave a sharp nod and walked to the fence to tell Mrs. Hernández that kids had broken a window.
The older woman listened to Carmen’s excuse but could not get anything more out of her. Yet Mrs. Hernández’s radar told her Toni wasn’t alone in the little house.
While Michael found her slippers, Toni held onto to Oscar. “Here, or you’ll cut your feet.” He put them on her.
“Who did this, Michael?”
“I don’t know. When I find out, I’m going to shove that brick up his ass. You sure you’re all right? Shit, your cheek is bleeding.”
He got a towel from her bathroom, wet it and gently dabbed at her face. “There’s a piece of glass.” He pulled it out. She grimaced. “I’m so sorry, Toni.”
“Why? You didn’t throw that brick. But you better go.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
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