The Governor's wife

by Mark Gimenez

  Ms. Rodriguez's voice cracked. The auditorium was silent.

  "We drove to other small towns along the river and the men, they took other children just as they took me. Thirteen in all. We went far into the desert where the river had run dry and the men drove us across. Into Texas. We drove north to the mountains where the men met another man named Manuel, who took us onto a ranch with strange animals, such as the buffalo and the antelope and even the lion. The Americans would come to the ranch and hunt for the animals. We often heard loud guns. They took us to a camp which became our home for many days. They forced us to clear a field deep in the trees and plant the marijuana for the gringos, they said. If we did not work hard enough to please them, they would hit us and not give us food. They drank the alcohol every day. We were very afraid. Until one day the men tried to get on top of Josefina but she fought and they slapped her and tore her dress and she ran into the trees to make the escape. We again heard the big guns and we thought the men had shot Josefina so we hid in the tall plants. Then we heard her voice, telling us to come out, that we had been rescued. We saw the big man with the yellow hair. He said he was the governor of Texas. And I felt the happiness in my heart once again."

  Jesse drove his pickup to the shanty where the girls had been stashed. Lindsay rode next to him, and Pancho rode in the back. When they arrived, he saw a truck parked outside the shanty, so he parked down the dirt road.

  "Shouldn't we call the police?"

  "As I said, the police do not come into the colonias."

  "What about the Border Patrol?"

  "There is no time. If he takes these girls out of the colonia, they will disappear forever."

  Jesse handed one syringe to his nurse.

  "If the man does not go down with the first needle, stick that in him."

  "How will I know?"

  "You will know."

  He got out of the truck and uncapped the other hypodermic needle. He walked toward the shanty. He felt his heart racing. He was a doctor, not a hero. But if he did not act now, eleven girls would be lost. Lindsay got out and followed. As they came closer, he heard a man's voice from inside. He took a position just outside the metal door. He looked at Lindsay and put a finger to his mouth. They waited.

  But not for long.

  The metal door opened, and a large man backed out. Jesse stabbed the needle into the man's neck and emptied the Botox into him. But the man did not go down. He was a big hombre and very strong. He swung around and grabbed Jesse by the neck. Jesse tried to knock his arms off, but it was as if he were hitting tree trunks.

  Lindsay knew. She held the syringe like a knife and stabbed the needle into the man's neck and emptied the Botox. Then she jumped on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck and choked him. He swung around with her clinging tight and Jesse fighting him. He was strong, but she soon felt his body slowing. Weakening. Finally he collapsed to the ground.

  "You are a tough woman," Jesse said.

  "Like wrestling a calf at spring roundup."

  "Well, he will not have wrinkles for some time," Jesse said. "Bring the truck."

  She drove the truck over. The girls came out and helped them load the big man into the back. Jesse covered him with scrap wood and metal.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "He is a coyote. That is what they call men who bring Mexicans north. I would like very much to kill him, but I cannot. Hippocratic Oath. So I will drive him far into the Chihuahuan Desert and dump him. There he can live among real coyotes. Or not."

  "What about the girls?"

  "Take them to the clinic and feed them. When I return, we will take them to the Mexican consulate in Laredo. They will reunite them with their families. Come on, Pancho."

  He got into the truck and drove off.

  The governor's last press conference in the State Capitol had drawn two local print reporters and no cameras. But that day he walked into a press room crowded with twenty-five reporters and a dozen cameras; it was the first opportunity for the local media to question Bode Bonner, American hero.

  "Governor-are you going to run for president?"

  "No, I'm happy being governor."

  "Oh, give it a shot, Governor."

  Carl Crawford, being funny again.

  "I told you, Carl, I can't bear to leave you."

  "Really, it's okay."

  "Nope. Won't do that to you. Heck, if I weren't governor, what would you write about? What would you do with your life if you weren't searching for scandals about me?"

  "Well, now that you mention it, Governor, I did want to ask you about your last campaign expense report, which shows several questionable charges."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as a seven-hundred-dollar charge at Cabela's for a three-fifty-seven Magnum handgun and"-he read from a document-"a camo cami with matching thong."

  A camo cami?

  Bode glanced over at Mandy. She winked. He turned back to Carl.

  "We used the gun in a commercial."

  "What about the camo cami?"

  "I expect I'll see that camo cami pretty soon."

  The other reporters laughed. Who could begrudge a hero a little fun with a camo cami?

  "Anything else today, Carl?"

  "Yes. There was also a three-thousand-dollar charge at the Gap here in Austin and a six-hundred-dollar dress at Ralph Lauren on Rodeo Drive in L.A."

  Bode pointed at Josefina standing by the door with Mandy. She was wearing the yellow dress.

  "I bought that yellow dress for her. And clothes for the kids. And I paid for glasses and dentists and doctors for them. You got a problem with that?"

  "Uh… no."

  Carl shut up and sat down. Kim, the student reporter, stood.

  "Governor, can we talk to the children?"

  "Sure."

  He motioned to Mandy. She led the kids into the room then Bode introduced them. Cameras flashed, and reporters gathered close to the children. The reporters asked no questions about the budget deficit or mistaken executions or even the governor's work schedule this time. All of their questions were directed at the children. Josefina called him " el hombre " and " mi heroe " again.

  These Mexican kids were the best thing that ever happened to Governor Bode Bonner.

  "?Futbol? " Ruben said.

  "No. Football americano. " Bode pointed out to the field. "See?"

  " Si."

  "No. See. Watch."

  They had stopped off at the UT stadium. The Godzillatron showed a clip of Bode Bonner, number 44, running an interception back for the winning touchdown against Oklahoma. That was a hell of a game. ESPN wanted to interview him at halftime.

  "Governor!"

  The star quarterback ran over to Bode and gave him a high-five and a football signed by the entire team. The scene played out on the massive HDTV screen. The crowd cheered. The quarterback jogged back onto the field. The head coach hurried over to Bode and stuck his hand out.

  "Governor! Good to see you! Thanks for stopping by. So what do you think about the team?"

  They were playing another orange-white spring practice game. The Mexican boys were excited even though they didn't have a clue what was going on. Mandy was bouncing like a cheerleader, but the attention that day was on the governor of Texas.

  "They look like national champions."

  The coach said something into his mike then turned to Bode.

  "Third and one. What do you think, Governor?"

  "Play action. Go long, Coach."

  The coach called the play, and the quarterback threw the ball. Long. For a touchdown. The coach high-fived Bode.

  "I better watch out," the coach said, "you might take my job."

  "Don't worry, Coach. I've got an even bigger job in mind."

  "Hidi, Governor!"

  "Looking good, Gov!"

  "We got your back, Bode!"

  "I'm a follower!"

  Even Democrats were not immune to celebrity. And Bode Bonner was now a certifiable celebri
ty in Austin, like Lance Armstrong and Sandra Bullock. So he received no "You're a fucking Nazi!" greetings that day while jogging the lake with Ranger Hank.

  "Hi, Governor," a young woman said with a coy smile as she jogged past.

  Bode glanced back at her and saw her glancing back at him. Damn. The other runners greeted him with big smiles and high-fives as they jogged past. They asked him for autographs and cell phone photos. Democrats! Even the local newspaper called him a hero.

  "Everyone loves a hero," Ranger Hank said.

  Maybe Democrats weren't all left-wing lunatics. Maybe living in the capital city wasn't that bad after all. Maybe he'd build his presidential library in Austin.

  "The boss really gonna run for president?"

  Jim Bob looked over at Eddie Jones sitting on his couch as the sun set over Austin.

  "Yep."

  "Can he win?"

  "Yep."

  "Can I help?"

  "You will."

  "I feel like I'm not earning my paycheck."

  "You're like the fire insurance policy on my condo, Eddie. I pay the premium every month and hope to hell I don't need to make a claim. But if my condo catches fire, I'll damn sure need to then."

  "Huh?"

  "I'm happy to pay you, and I hope I don't need your services. But I might. Especially once we get the 'Bode Bonner for President' campaign in full gear. A national campaign always has a lot of unforeseen, unexpected, unpleasant moments."

  The governor of Texas could be dead in a matter of days.

  Five hundred seventy-five miles due west of Austin, DEA Agent Rey Gonzales sat in his El Paso office and stared out the window at Mexico. On his desk lay the results from the investigation of the shooting in the Davis Mountains. Specifically, the fingerprint results. Two of the men the governor had shot and killed were exactly who Rey figured they were: throwaways. Street boys recruited by the cartel in Nuevo Laredo. Their prints were in the system due to prior detainment in the U.S. and deportation to Mexico. No one cried for them.

  But the third man was not a throwaway.

  His prints were in the system for a different reason: he was an American citizen who held a U.S. passport. Born in the USA. Houston, to be exact. His name was Jesus de la Garza, the first-born son of Enrique de la Garza, alias El Diablo, head of the Los Muertos cartel.

  The governor of Texas had killed the son of the most dangerous man in Mexico.

  Now, if a politician in Mexico had committed such a foolish act, he would be dead before the sun again rose over the Rio Grande. As would be his wife, his children, his parents, his relatives, his neighbors, and his dog. After being cut into pieces, beheaded, and burned beyond recognition. Every politician in Mexico-every person in Mexico above the age of six-knew this fact well.

  Consequently, such a politician would immediately gather his family and drive as fast as possible to the nearest border crossing, throw himself and his family on the mercy of America, and beg for asylum and protective custody from the United States government. In the likely event that his request was denied, he would commit suicide. At least then he could control the manner of his demise.

  But politicians in America do not understand such harsh facts of life and death. They have lived under the rule of law all of their lives. They have lived under the protection of police and state troopers and the FBI and the DEA. They have not lived in constant fear of abduction, death, and dismemberment by drug cartels. They do not have tracking chips implanted in their bodies so they can be found with GPS if the cartels abduct them. That is not an American politician's life.

  They don't have a clue.

  The governor of Texas didn't have a clue. So what did he decide to do after killing the son of El Diablo? Did he decide to lay low until the media frenzy died down? Did he decide to stay out of the public eye? Did he decide to update his last will and testament and get his affairs in order? No, he did not decide to do that. He decided to go on a nationally televised victory tour, like a football team returning home after victory in the Super Bowl.

  He decided to flaunt his foolish act to cheering crowds.

  Which, of course, was not the most prudent course of action. In fact, the most prudent course of action would be to sign up for the Witness Protection Program and move to the middle of Alaska. If Rey Gonzales knew his Mexican drug lords-and he did-El Diablo would come after the governor. Hard. Even as Rey sat there in El Paso that Monday evening, sicarios might already be tracking the governor, waiting for the opportune moment.

  To kill him.

  So Rey had taken the information to his station chief and suggested 24/7 security for the governor. The chief laughed.

  "You want me to call headquarters and ask for round-the-clock security for the same Texas governor who's hammering the boss over border security?"

  "Yes!"

  "No!"

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Politics."

  "Because he's Republican?"

  "Because he's gonna run against the boss."

  "So?"

  "So how you figure that's gonna play in D.C.? The president himself came here to El Paso and stood right by the river and declared to all the world that the border is safe and secure. Three months later, the governor of Texas kills three Mexicans running a cartel marijuana farm and holding thirteen kids captive eighty miles north of the border. How's the president gonna explain that in the debates? Now you want the president to admit that we can't stop a Mexican drug lord from sending hit men across the border to kill a U.S. governor?"

  "But what if they kill the governor?"

  The chief shrugged. "He won't be running against the boss."

  "But-"

  "But nothing, Rey. That information doesn't leave this office. Fact is, we've got no credible leads, no evidence of a plot, no information leading us to believe that the governor is in imminent danger… we got nothing except your vivid imagination."

  The chief paused a moment then almost pleaded.

  "Rey, I'm up for a promotion… to headquarters. That promotion is my ticket off this fucking border-and I'm gonna punch it."

  DEA Agent Rey Gonzales now stepped to the window and gazed down at the Rio Grande. That sliver of water served as an international border. But a line on a map would not stop El Diablo. Rey sighed. The governor was hoping to be elected president next year. He should be hoping to survive the next day.

  Six hundred miles downriver of El Paso, the governor's wife sat on the back porch of the doctor's house. When Jesse had returned from the desert, they had taken the girls to the Mexican consulate. The girls had hugged her, then Jesse had taken them inside. She had waited in the truck with Pancho. They had saved eleven Mexican girls' lives that day. She now pointed up at a group of birds, like ducks flying south for the winter. But these were flying north. And they were too big to be ducks.

  "Are those eagles?"

  Jesse stared into the night sky.

  "Drug smugglers, flying ultralights."

  Lindsay now heard a low buzzing noise as they came closer. She saw the flying machines. Six of them, flying in formation.

  "Together they carry about a ton of dope, probably heroin or cocaine. They drop their loads in the desert. Their compadres on this side track them with GPS. Sometimes they fly too low and are decapitated by power lines."

  He paused.

  "Drugs, money, guns, girls-it all comes and goes across the river."

  TWENTY

  "Killing Mexicans has been an effective strategy for Texas politicians since the Alamo," the lieutenant governor said.

  The jet engines hummed and ice tinkled in glasses filled with bourbon as the Gulfstream ferried the governor of Texas, the lieutenant governor, the speaker of the Texas House of Representatives, and Jim Bob Burnet down to Houston for the biggest Republican political gathering of the year. Ranger Hank rode up front with the pilots.

  "Made Sam Houston a legend. Looks like it's doing the same for you."

  The lieutenant governor downed
his bourbon. His second, and they weren't even over La Grange. Mack Murdoch was seventy years old and had served in the state senate for forty years and as lieutenant governor for the last twenty-four. When he got drunk, he recited Barry Goldwater like other people recited Walt Whitman.

  But even Jim Beam couldn't improve the speaker's mood.

  "We're twenty-seven billion in the hole," the speaker said, "but all my House members want to talk about are Mexicans and abortions."

  Bode groaned. "What now?"

  "Voter ID and sonograms."

  "Sonograms?"

  "They want to make a woman getting an abortion see a sonogram of the baby."

  "Before or after the abortion?"

  "Before. And make the woman listen to the fetal heartbeat."

  "Shit, that's creepy."

  "They want to force girls to have babies they don't want and can't afford," the speaker said, "but they don't want to pay more taxes to support and educate those kids once they're born."

  Speaker of the House Richard Warren was forty-three, young to hold the most powerful elected office in Texas-hence, he had not outgrown his nickname "Dicky"-and considered far too liberal to be a Republican in Texas because (a) he didn't believe abortion was murder, (b) he didn't believe in the death penalty, (c) he didn't believe the Second Amendment applied to assault weapons with thirty-round clips, (d) he didn't hunt, and (e) he didn't cuss. And worst of all, (f) he had chosen college at Yale over UT or A amp;M, always a subversive act in Texas.

  "An abortion is a helluva lot cheaper than funding twelve years of school and ten-to-life in prison," the lieutenant governor said.

  Bode shook his head. "Sonograms. Do these abortion folks just sit around all day dreaming this shit up? Don't they have jobs?"

  "Governor," the speaker said, "I need you to declare the voter ID and sonogram bills emergency legislation so we can ram them through in the first week after opening gavel, then I can get my members to focus on the budget. House Bill One is going to be ugly."

  The Texas legislature met every other year for one hundred forty days. The first bills introduced each session in the House and the Senate were the general appropriations bills, traditionally designated House Bill 1 and Senate Bill 1. The speaker presided over the House of Representatives, the lieutenant governor over the Senate.