by Rebecca York
“Unfortunately, there’s more.” Hunter gave them an apologetic look before continuing. “He’s going to campaign on a law-and-order platform. And he’s starting with a personal tragedy. The story is that a Dr. Miguel Valero murdered his cousin, Carlos Jurado, over a drug deal gone bad. He’s offered a reward for information leading to Valero’s capture and he’s circulating a drawing of your new face.”
Jessie gasped. Miguel cursed softly.
“At least he doesn’t have a photograph,” Hunter offered.
“You need to prove that you operated on Jurado—that you made him into Andres Cuento,” Jessie said.
“I can’t!”
“There must be a way. What about DNA evidence?”
“You need cell samples for that.” Miguel closed his eyes for a moment. Then he grabbed Cuento’s file again, shuffling to the medical records, which included a dental chart. “What about this?” he asked in a gritty voice as he studied the notations. “Jurado had several teeth that were capped and plenty of fillings. They won’t match Cuento’s dental work.”
Hunter nodded. “We can check it out, if Jurado hasn’t assassinated his dentist.”
The men talked long into the night. Jessie sat in the living room with them, listening. Once she asked why they couldn’t send anonymous articles to the newspapers in San Marcos telling the story of what had happened. Hunter told her they’d already thought of that, but Jed had said that Jurado had too firm a hold on the press for the scheme to work without proof.
That was the crux of the problem. They needed some kind of proof—of Jurado’s identity and Miguel’s. Since Miguel couldn’t prove who he was, he was in danger of being deported at any time. And until they pinned down Jurado’s s masquerade and got him arrested, Miguel’s deportation to San Marcos would be fatal.
Finally, around 3:00 a.m., Hunter left. In bed, Jessie sought Miguel’s warmth, and he held her, kissed her, told her that everything was going to be all right. But she knew he didn’t believe it inside, where it counted. Because he’d dared to be optimistic, she was sure that the news from San Marcos had left him more frustrated than ever.
The next morning, when he said it would be safer for her if he left, she really wasn’t surprised by the announcement. Yet she tried to lift his spirits.
“What about the dental records?” she asked softly. “Won’t they make a difference?”
“Yes, maybe we will get lucky this time,” he muttered, but she knew he couldn’t let himself believe it. He’d learned all too well to adapt to the role of fugitive.
As they talked across the breakfast table, she realized there was nothing she could do to help him—except let him believe he was keeping her safe by staying away.
So she kissed him goodbye, and sent him off with a smile. As she watched him drive away, she told herself that a man with less strength would already have cracked under the strain. But that wasn’t much consolation.
After putting the dishes in the dishwasher, she sat with her fingers pressed against her mouth, trying to think of what to do. The last time she’d gotten involved, she’d only made things worse, she silently acknowledged as she remembered the episode with her friend Donna at the Organization of American Nations. Jessie had been too impulsive, and she wasn’t going to make that kind of mistake again.
Still, the anxiety had become intolerable—for both her and Miguel. No matter how much he kept saying he loved her, the bottom line was that she saddled him with a wife and a baby on the way, which made everything worse for him.
She wanted with all her heart to make the nightmare vanish, but she couldn’t come up with any way to help. Then, two days after he’d delivered his “bombshell,” Hunter stopped by with copy of a hospital birth certificate that Jed had faxed from San Marcos.
As she scanned the official-looking document, her hope surged. This piece of paper bore Miguel’s real name, as well as his mother’s and father’s, and his birth date, plus facts like his birth weight and length.
She let her excitement build—until she tried to figure out what it really proved. All the document said was that a baby had been born in San Marcos thirty-two years ago, and that his mother had been an American. Unfortunately, there was no way to connect the infant whose birth had been recorded with the man who had become her husband, now that his parents were dead.
Or was there? she wondered, as a plan began to form in her mind. Carefully she examined all the angles. She’d made a mistake before when she’d called Donna, and she wasn’t going to do it again. But she was so worried about Miguel. She simply couldn’t sit around and let the man she loved suffer when she might be able to help him.
By the afternoon, she was convinced she knew what she was doing. After donning a huge ski jacket that she’d gotten from a secondhand shop, she pulled a winter hat down over her hair. The outfit was one of several that she wore when she went shopping at grocery stores remote from her neighborhood
Driving to a shopping center on Liberty Road, she dialed a number she’d gotten from the phone book. It was for the local field office of the INS, and the very thought of contacting them made her throat clog. Yet who else was in a better position to tell her how to prove a person’s identity and U.S. citizenship? And what was the risk in calling from a pay phone at a shopping center?
Still, she felt her heart pounding inside her chest as she asked the secretary to connect her with one of the agents.
“Can you state the nature of your business?”
Jessie gave a brief summary of her reason for calling.
“Just a moment,” the woman said.
The agent who came on the line next was Ramón Martinez, one of the men who had been notified by Officer Waverly and then had hounded her at the recreation center. When he identified himself, she almost dropped the phone. Then she cleared her throat and asked if anyone else was available. Unfortunately, the rest of the staff was out of the office. It was Martinez or nothing—and she was too keyed up to wait another day.
Figuring it didn’t make a difference whom she talked to, she took a deep breath and tried to come across as matter-of-fact—like a customer calling an appliance repair service. “I have some questions about a man who is suspected of being an illegal alien.”
“You have some confidential information for our office?”
She kept her voice steady. “No, that’s not what I meant. I want to find out how someone goes about proving that he is—in fact—an American citizen when he wasn’t born in this country.”
“Does he lack proper documentation?”
“He ran into some unusual problems in the country where he was born and had to, uh, leave suddenly.”
“He broke the law?” Martinez asked bluntly.
“No. He was framed for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Um.”
“I’m sure people tell you that all the time,” she answered defensively. “In this case, it’s true!”
“Well, it sounds like a rather complicated case,” the agent replied, his voice becoming a bit more sympathetic.
Jessie sighed. “Yes.”
“Are we talking about a man from an Asian country, or Eastern Europe, Latin America, or the Middle East?”
“Is that relevant?” she asked.
“It could be.”
“I’m not sure I should go into that”
“Okay. What is your relationship to this guy?”
“I’m his wife.”
“And you are an American citizen?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re afraid that he will be deported if we catch up with him?”
She swallowed and said, “Yes,”
His next suggestion put her on guard. “Why don’t you come down to the office so we can discuss it?”
Sure, she thought. And why don’t I give you his name and address while I’m at it? “I don’t want to do that,” she answered.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Maybe you can’t.” She starte
d to hang up.
“Wait!”
The urgency in Martinez’s voice stayed her hand.
“Wait... Ma‘am, are you there? Ma’am?”
“I’m still here.”
“Don’t hang up. It sounds like you need advice, and I have a suggestion. I realize this is a very emotional issue for you. Also, you’re worried about giving away your husband’s identity because you don’t know if you can trust me. And you’re right, of course. I’m a federal agent, and I have to act in accordance with the law.
“Why don’t you think a little more about what you want to tell me. And...I’ll also think about my options. If your husband could offer me information that might be useful to the U.S. government, that would count in his favor. But we’ll both be better prepared if you call back tomorrow. If you phone me about the same time, I’ll make sure I’m in the office and available to you.”
She thought for a moment. “I... All right.”
“Why don’t you use a code name, in case you need to leave a message for me?”
“What do you mean—a code name?”
“You could be, uh, Mrs. Jefferson, and I’ll know it’s you. That way, you won’t have to give your real identity.”
“All right.”
“If you need to get in touch with me at any time, use that name.”
“Thank you.”
After replacing the receiver, she stood staring out at the passing traffic. Nobody paid her any particular attention. The only risk she was taking was leaving the house, she told herself. Martinez didn’t know who she was. In fact, he’d been sympathetic, although she knew she’d be crazy to trust him. Still, there was no way he could get to Miguel through her unless she gave away too much. And she wasn’t going to do that.
JESSIE SPENT THE REST of the day alternating between feeling hopeful and worried. Once she picked up the phone to discuss her strategy with Randolph Security but changed her mind. They had been working on this for months, and Miguel was no closer to freedom. She was trying something else, and she was desperate enough not to want any negative opinions of her plan.
The next morning, she spent half an hour trying on and discarding several disguises and finally settled on a long tweed coat, high black boots and a wool scarf that went over her head and tucked inside her neckline. She would have added sunglasses, but when she came out she found that it was snowing, although it wasn’t sticking to the roads.
She eyed the sky with misgiving. Yet she’d worked herself into a state where she felt it was imperative to talk to Martinez, and she knew she couldn’t do it from home. So she drove slowly toward the Old Court Shopping Center on Reisterstown Road. By the time she got there, the flakes were thicker, and the parking lot was starting to fill with shoppers panicked over getting snowed in without necessities. She’d better confer with Martinez and get right home.
This time, he came on the line almost immediately. “Mrs. Jefferson?” he asked, using the name they had agreed on.
“Yes.” The phone clicked, and she thought for several seconds that they had been disconnected. “Are you still there?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m right here. We’ve been having some trouble with the phones. I apologize. But I’ve been thinking about our previous conversation, and I’ve got a couple of options for you.”
“Thank you,” she answered, then caught her breath as her stomach clenched. Lord, all she needed right now was stomach problems. Her hand tight on the receiver, she waited for the spasm to pass.
“Is something wrong?” Martinez asked.
“No. I’m fine,” she lied.
“Okay, I need more information before I can make any sug—” There was static on the line, and she waited tensely, hoping she wasn’t going to lose him.
“Sorry,” he said as the noise cleared and the volume increased several notches. “I guess the storm must be interfering with the phone connection.”
Jessie made a small noise of agreement as she looked toward her car. In the few minutes since she’d gotten out, a blanket of white had covered the windshield. At least she was standing where the overhanging roof of a grocery store sheltered her from the worst of the snow. Still, she had started to shiver from the cold. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on as she kept hold of the phone.
“Are you living with your husband?” Martinez asked in a businesslike tone.
She hesitated. “Not exactly. He visits me when he can.”
“But you’re in communication with him?”
She lowered her voice as a harried-looking shopper rushed past. “I wait for him to contact me.”
Martinez went on to another topic. “Does he have relatives living in the U.S.? Is he staying with them?”
“He has relatives here. He hasn’t called them.” Miguel had told her he had an uncle and aunt and several cousins in the D.C. area, although he hadn’t contacted them because he didn’t want Jurado’s men coming after them. She told Martinez that they were living in another state.
“Have they met him as an adult? Could they vouch for his identity?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, thinking that she didn’t know much about her husband’s background.
Martinez kept on with a string of questions, sometimes interrupted by crackling on the line as if the phone signal were getting stronger and then weaker again.
Whenever she thought the response to a question might betray Miguel’s identify, she said that she couldn’t give an answer. Each time that happened, Martinez immediately dropped the subject and went on to something else. But finally, she began to get the feeling that he was simply trying to hold her on the phone for as long as possible. As that thought surfaced, she felt goose bumps rise on her arms. Maybe contacting the INS had been a bad idea, after all. Perhaps her innocent answers were somehow incriminating.
“I have to hang up,” she said suddenly.
“Please, Mrs. Jefferson. I can’t help Miguel unless you give me your full cooperation.”
“Miguel?” she gasped.
On the other end of the line, Martinez made a low sound that might have been a curse. Jessie slammed the receiver into the cradle and turned toward the parking lot.
In the twenty minutes she’d been standing there, the snowy pavement had been trampled by a mass of footprints as shoppers hurried in and out of the store. Making her way past empty carts, Jessie hurried toward her car. But the pavement was slippery, and her foot slid out from under her as she took a step toward the curb. Arms windmilling, she tried to stay upright. But her center of gravity had shifted, making it hard to keep her balance. She lost her battle with gravity and crashed to the sidewalk, landing hard on her bottom. For a moment she simply sat there, too stunned to move. God, what if she’d hurt the baby?
“Let me help you.”
At the sound of a stranger’s voice, Jessie cringed. Then she looked up and saw a gray-haired woman who had just come out of the store. Abandoning her grocery cart, the lady reached down to give her a hand.
“Thanks.” Jessie heaved herself to her feet and took stock of her condition. She was shaken up but otherwise seemed okay.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
“I think so. But I have to go.” All at once, the tension of the morning—the tension of her life—was too much, and she felt tears welling in her eyes. She’d tried to help Miguel, but it looked like she’d made a bad mistake.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt, dear?” the woman asked anxiously. “Your baby must be due soon.”
“I’m fine. It’s my husband. He’s in trouble,” she blurted, part of her shocked that she was revealing so much to a stranger.
“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman said, her gaze fixed on Jessie’s protruding belly.
It was then that she saw a man striding purposefully toward her down the sidewalk. It was Martinez, momentarily stalled as a shopper pushed a cart into his path.
Oh, Lord. He’d zeroed in on her location by t
racing the phone call. She reached out and grabbed the woman by the hand. “Please, you’ve got to help me. This is an emergency. Call the Light Street Foundation. Tell them Jessie Douglas is in trouble. Tell them where I am.”
“What?”
“Please. Please, just tell them!”
Whirling, she crossed the strip of dry sidewalk and sprinted through the door into the crowded store. If she could lose herself in the throng, she could get away.
Inside, breathing hard, she darted down the first aisle she saw. With a sick feeling, she thought about how she’d been tricked. All the time she’d been talking on the phone, Martinez had been tracking the call. That had to be illegal—which meant he was probably working for somebody else besides the U.S. government. How could she have been so naive?
As she lumbered past the meat counter, a large hand wrapped itself around her arm. Turning her head, she saw Martinez.
“Don’t make a scene, Mrs. Jefferson,” he warned in a raspy whisper. “I have a gun, and I’m prepared to use it.”
Maybe he was lying, but she could feel something hard pressing into her side.
“How did you know it was me?” she gasped.
“It wasn’t difficult.” He laughed. “After you called the OAN, we did a profile of you. There was a sixty-eight-percent chance you’d call the INS if you were pushed in the right direction. So we arranged for the birth certificate to arrive from San Marcos. Then I had our calls screened.”
“Oh, God,” she breathed. She’d done exactly what Jurado had wanted—what he’d expected.
“Come on,” he growled as he yanked on her arm.
Stiff-legged, she let him lead her out of the store. The woman who had helped her was just pulling up beside a cart full of groceries. She stared at Jessie and Martinez as if she wasn’t sure what to do.
Jessie gave her a beseeching look. “Please!” she mouthed as her captor hustled her away.
A gray van was waiting at the curb. Martinez pushed her inside. As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, the vehicle jerked forward, sliding in the snow as it headed for an exit
“Watch it, you idiot!” Martinez growled in Spanish at the driver.