by Mark Gimenez
Change that would threaten their way of life.
But Julio Espinoza did not threaten the Anglos. In fact, he did not threaten anyone: he stood barely five feet eight inches tall and weighed only one hundred thirty pounds soaking wet. He was not a gang member, he did not tag the school campus with gang graffiti, and he did not have gang tattoos all over his back and arms. He did not cause trouble. He was a "good Mexican." So he was tolerated by the Anglos—as long as he stayed in his place. And minded his manners. And did not speak to the pretty Anglo girls. The big German football players always glared at him if they caught him talking to an Anglo girl after an AP class, but he did not glare back and call them cabrónes and throw up a gang sign, as did the tough Latinos.
Julio Espinoza knew his place.
His place that Saturday night was behind the snack bar at the movie theater just south of town, where he worked weekend nights, serving sodas and buttered popcorn and candy to Anglos before the eight o'clock movie began.
"Thanks, Julio."
He handed the large popcorn to Nikki and tried not to stare. Nikki was a senior like Julio, she was smart like Julio, and she took all the AP courses like Julio. But she was not like Julio; she was blonde and she was beautiful and she was German. She was the head cheerleader and the most popular girl in the school. Julio had loved Nikki Ernst since first grade.
"Julio," Nikki said, her white smile blinding him, "after the movie we're all going over to my house to swim. You wanna come? And don't worry, Slade won't be there."
Nikki was also Slade McQuade's girlfriend.
He had often imagined Nikki in a bikini; just seeing her in her cheerleader outfit at school on game days made him feel faint. But Nikki's movie would end at ten; Julio got off work at midnight on Saturdays, after the last movie. Not that he would really be welcome at an Anglo party—he might be a good Mexican, but he was still a Mexican. Julio could only imagine her parents' reaction at the sight of a Latino in their pool: "More chlorine, Hilda!" Nikki was nice, but terribly naïve.
"Can't. Working till midnight."
She put the popcorn on the counter, stuck her hand into her purse, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. Julio took the bill, made change, and held a handful of coins out to her. Nikki took his hand, turned it over, and held her purse underneath to catch the change. It was almost as if they were holding hands, something Julio had often dreamed of. Just the touch of her smooth skin on his made Julio's entire body come alive; he inhaled her scent and felt drunk. The last thing he remembered about that incredible moment was how it ended: huge hands grabbing him by the shirt and being lifted off his feet and dragged across the counter by Slade McQuade.
TWELVE
"Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco …"
Six days later—the night before the election—Beck stood in the kitchen stirring J.B.'s stew in the crock pot, listening to Meggie count to ten in Spanish, and wondering if he should have gone public with the D.A.'s half-Hispanic child. Dirt was part of politics today—but was a child fair dirt? The D.A. had made a youthful mistake when he was young; what if Mary Jo had gotten pregnant when they were in high school? They probably would have married, but he had loved her. The D.A. didn't marry the girl, but he was supporting the child. He was doing the right thing.
But the D.A. campaigned against Mexicans to win the judgeship. Was that the right thing? Illegal immigration was the hottest wedge issue in America today; presidential candidates were wedging for all they were worth. Why shouldn't a local D.A.? Was he to blame or the voters who voted for him?
Beck had faced the same dilemma as a lawyer: Do you work the margins of ethics and the law to win? Most lawyers did because that's where the money is made in the law, at the margins. He never had. But he had still won. And he wanted to win this election—as much as he had ever wanted to win a football game or a trial. He wanted to win for the children, for J.B. and Jodie, and for Miguel Cervantes.
"… seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez."
"That's very good, honey."
The back door opened, and his father walked in with Luke. J.B. came over and patted Meggie on her head.
"Why, you're gonna be the prettiest gal at the game." He then stepped over and sniffed the stew. "Wasn't sure about the garlic powder, but figured what the heck. I think it's gonna turn out okay." He went to the sink and washed his hands. "Hector says Luke's got the makings of a real winemaker."
Luke almost smiled then said, "J.B., the Gator's running rough."
"I'll look at it tomorrow."
The phone rang. J.B. dried his hands and picked up the receiver.
"Yep?" He held the phone out to Beck. "Jodie."
Beck swapped the spoon for the phone. He put the phone to his ear.
"Hi, Jodie."
"Beck, Mavis just called me. She said early voting closed out, and the D.A. is up by two thousand votes."
He sighed. He had expected that verdict, but it still felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut.
"You were right."
"About what?"
"Using the D.A.'s kid."
"No, Beck, you were right. I was mad."
"You worked hard, Jodie. I'm sorry we lost."
"We didn't."
"Didn't what?"
"Lose. You won."
"I won? How? You just said he's way ahead, and the election is tomorrow."
"D.A. dropped out of the race."
"When?"
"Today."
"Why?"
"Mavis didn't know. But you're our new judge. Congratulations. I'll see you at the game."
She hung up.
"What's all that?" J.B. said.
"The D.A. dropped out of the race."
"I'll be damned." J.B. turned to the children. "Hey, kids, your daddy's the new judge."
"He's way ahead in early voting but he quits the day before the election? That doesn't make any sense."
"Beck, ain't nothing in a small town makes much sense, especially politics and football."
If you've never played football on a Friday night, you can't begin to imagine what it feels like to be on the field under the bright lights on a warm evening with the fans screaming, the bands playing, cheerleaders cheering, and your body pumping out so much adrenaline and testosterone that you're actually high on hormones. Every cell in your body—nerve, brain, muscle—is alive. In fact, when you're forty-two and you look back on those nights, you realize that you had never been more alive. And if you've never played high school football in Texas, you haven't lived.
High school football in Texas is more than a game. They say it's a religion. It might be an obsession. But Texans don't win or lose high school football games—they live or die high school football games. Few states spend less on education, but no state spends more on football. High schools across the state boast indoor practice arenas like the pros and stadiums like colleges with artificial turf, air-conditioned press boxes, 20,000 seating capacities, and Jumbotron video screens showing instant replays in living color.
The Gallopin' Goats Stadium did not have a Jumbotron. It had a real grass field, an open-air press box, and a capacity crowd of 2,200 that had come to watch the top-ranked high school football team in the state. The Goats wore Angora-white jerseys and helmets and black pants, socks, and shoes. The players were identified by their last names printed on the backs of their jerseys—except the name on the back of the quarterback's jersey was SLADE. The sleeves of his jersey were cut short to reveal the barbed-wire tattoos wrapping around each massive bicep. His long hair was wet and combed straight back. He looked like Samson.
The Goats' opponent for their first home game of the season was the La Grange Leopards. La Grange was a small town east of Austin that would forever be famous for having been home to the "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas." Beck, J.B., and the kids were sitting in Aubrey's reserved seats among the coaches' wives and children. Aubrey gave away his tickets each week because he no longer had a wife or child.
The stadium, the team
colors, the cheerleaders, the band, the fans dressed in plaid, it was all as Beck had remembered—except J.B. had never worn a Tommy Bahama shirt to Beck's football games. The one he had on that night was black with long green and gray leaves stretching across with red and yellow blooms; it was called "Kauai Five-O."
Everyone stood for the opening kickoff. The Goat player returned the kick to the thirty-yard line. The Goats offense ran onto the field and lined up without a huddle. The players spread out from sideline to sideline, with three receivers on one side and two on the other. Slade stood five yards behind the center in the shotgun formation; there was no running back. The center snapped the ball back to Slade; the La Grange defensive line surged forward, but the Goats line held them to a stalemate. Slade stood tall while his five receivers raced down the field. Then Slade's right arm just flicked forward as if he were throwing a dart instead of a regulation-sized football, and the ball flew high and far and fell into the Goats receiver's arms at the ten-yard line—sixty-five yards in the air—and the receiver ran into the end zone.
One play, one pass, one touchdown.
The players' parents sat as a group and wore Goats jerseys with their sons' names and numbers on the back. Beck spotted a tall man in the group with an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth and a SLADE jersey on his back. The other fathers were high-fiving him like he had sired the second coming of Joe Namath. Maybe he had.
La Grange got the ball but went nowhere against the Goats defense. The Goats were bigger, stronger, and faster. They hit harder and hurt less. They were more aggressive and violent. They knocked the La Grange running back out cold.
After each big hit, the Goats players slapped and head-butted each other; they were high on hormones. The stadium pulsed as the cheerleaders and the crowd chanted "De-fense … De-fense … De-fense." Beck felt a twinge of sympathy for the smaller La Grange team, like when Notre Dame had played Navy.
The Goats offense took the field again and put the NASCAR offense into overdrive: they raced to the line of scrimmage, snapped the ball quickly, and ran the play. Slade completed a pass for twenty-two yards. They raced to the line of scrimmage again and ran another play. An eighteen-yard completion. Three more plays and they scored again. Seventy-eight yards, five plays, less than two minutes. It was frantic football, and it was winning football. By the time the bands took the field for the halftime show, Slade had thrown for four touchdowns, and the Gillespie County Gallopin' Goats led 42-0.
"Beck," J.B. said, "you think the Goats can win state?"
"Only team around here that could beat them plays on Saturdays in the UT stadium."
"Slade's good, ain't he?"
"Yeah, he's good."
"Unreal" was the word that came to mind.
The fans were giving the players a standing ovation as they left the field when Beck smelled perfume and heard a woman's voice in his ear: "Do goats really gallop?"
Jodie Lee stood next to him.
"More like canter."
She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big hug.
"Congratulations, Judge Hardin."
When she pulled back, she had tears in her eyes.
"You okay?"
"I'm happy."
An old man walked by and nodded at Beck. "Judge."
Beck said to Jodie, "Word travels fast."
"Good thing about living in a small town is that everyone knows everything about everyone. Bad thing about living in a small town is that everyone knows everything about everyone. Woman we know, she had an affair—everyone in town knew about it before she had put her clothes back on."
She wiped her eyes.
"Thank God you won."
"I didn't win. He quit. Why would he do that?"
She shrugged. "Who cares?"
She sat and looked away. Beck sat next to her.
"Something tells me I should care. Jodie, you didn't use his kid, did you? To get him to drop out?"
She looked back.
"You think I would do that?"
"They say women are the tougher of the breed."
"They're right. But like I said, I was just mad. I didn't use his kid."
Meggie stepped around Beck with the doll.
"Hi, Miss Jodie."
"Well, hi yourself, girlfriend. What's up?"
"We're sad."
"Why, honey?"
"Josefina asked us to have a sleepover with her."
"Well, that'll be fun."
"We can't go."
"Why not?"
"We might have an accident."
"Oh. Well, you know what you should do?"
"What?"
"Ask Josefina to have a sleepover at your house. Your daddy can put a mattress on the floor for her, and you can sleep in your bed. If you have an accident, it won't be a problem."
Meggie's face brightened.
"We can do that."
She jumped onto Jodie's lap, and they giggled and chatted about the cheerleaders and the dance team called the Goat Gals, and for a brief moment Beck Hardin felt whole again.
Beck had read through a year's worth of Annie's emails to J.B. and J.B.'s emails to her. They had become like father and daughter. His wife had told his father more than she had ever told her husband; and his father had told his wife more than he had ever told his son—about his life, his dreams, his love for his wife, and his love for his son. Beck was about to quit when he found an email dated a year before Annie had died. The first part was more family news, but the last part stopped Beck short.
Gotta run. Doctor's appointment. Routine mammogram, first one. Which sounds like a lot of fun, having my breasts squished flat like pancakes. Can't believe I just typed that. Love, Annie
Beck quickly scrolled down for the next email. It was from Annie to J.B. a week later.
They found a lump in my breast. Had an ultrasound. Needle core biopsy tomorrow. That should be fun, getting stabbed in my breast. (Acting brave here.) I haven't told Beck.
His heart rate jumped. He scrolled down fast and found the next one from Annie a few days later.
Pathology came back positive. "Invasive ductal carcinoma." Not good. MRI tomorrow, surgery soon. I'm scared, J.B. I've got to tell Beck. Tonight.
"Perfect" had ended that night for the Hardin family of Chicago.
THIRTEEN
Alfred Giles died a Texas goat rancher.
But he had been born an Englishman. Alfred wanted to be a minister; he became an architect instead. After studying at King's College in London, he traveled to the United States and settled in San Antonio in 1873. He had suffered rheumatic fever as a boy, and Texas' hot, dry climate suited him.
He arrived just as Texas' two hundred fifty-four counties embarked on a kind of courthouse competition, each trying to one-up the other. They called in great architects to design grand structures: Romanesque, Classic, and Renaissance Revival, Beaux Arts, Second Empire, Art Deco, and even Mediterranean. Now, Texans might not know Romanesque from Beaux Arts, but they know what they like; and they liked their fancy new courthouses.
Gillespie County entered the competition in 1881. But the Germans in Fredericksburg were nothing if not frugal; they simply could not bring themselves to spend good money to hire a great courthouse architect. So they held a contest. Sitting in his office in San Antonio one day, twenty-eight-year-old Alfred Giles opened the newspaper and saw an ad offering a $50 prize for the winning design for a new Gillespie County courthouse. Two architects answered the ad; Alfred was one.
Alfred designed a Renaissance Revival courthouse that would sit on Main Street surrounded by oak trees and one unusual three-trunk deodar cedar tree. His two-story structure had a footprint in the shape of two Ts set end to end. The north and south façades were symmetrical with wide balconies, as were the east and west façades with smaller balconies. The walls would be yellow limestone blocks, the trim white limestone, and the arched windows encased in pine wood and secured in place with square-headed nails. The doors would be pine and the door
knobs copper with a raised hummingbird etching. The building would be topped by a green standing-seam roof above ornamental cornices and a cast-iron cresting. Alfred's design was grand, and it won. The Germans liked the style, the symmetry, and the cost: $23,125.
The Gillespie County Courthouse earned Alfred a reputation as a great courthouse architect. He went on to design ten other courthouses across Texas, including the Presidio County Courthouse in Marfa, generally regarded as the grandest county courthouse in the state. When his mother died in 1885, Alfred sold off her London real estate and bought thirteen thousand acres of land south of Fredericksburg. He named his new ranch Hillingdon, after his birthplace in Middlesex, and stocked the land with Angora goats. He later founded the Texas Sheep and Goat Raisers' Association. Alfred Giles, the Englishman turned Texan, raised goats on his land in the Texas Hill Country until he died in 1920.
Alfred's courthouse still stands on Main Street, shaded by those same oak trees; but that lone three-trunk deodar cedar tree is gone. A year before, James Brazeal, a "chainsaw artist," had carved the dead cedar tree into the image of an eight-foot-tall eagle with its wings spread as if taking flight; smaller eagles sat atop each wing. Locals call it the "Eagle Tree."
Beck walked past the Eagle Tree to the front door and entered the courthouse. The first floor housed the district clerk's office, the district attorney's office, the justice of the peace, and the judge's chambers. Dual staircases led upstairs to the second-floor courtroom where for one hundred twenty-five years justice had been dispensed in Gillespie County.
Beck stood there dressed in a custom suit; the last time he had been in this courtroom he had worn jeans. It was the summer before his senior year. Two boys had been arrested for smoking marijuana—in the same pickup at the same time. One was German; the other was Latino. Both were Beck's friends. The German boy's family hired a good lawyer; the Latino boy had a public defender. Beck had sat in the courtroom on sentencing day and heard old Judge Stutz say "probation" to Merle Fuchs and "one year in the state penitentiary" to Miguel Cervantes, and his face had burned hot. He stormed out of the courtroom and into the fresh air outside. He sat on a bench and watched Merle leave through the front door with his parents and Miguel through the back door with deputies. He had decided then that he would become a lawyer. The matter of Miguel Cervantes haunted Beck to that day.