The Perk

by Mark Gimenez

  "So why aren't they happy?"

  "Because those newcomers brought the outside world here with them. And the old Germans, they don't like their town anymore—too many Democrats and Mexicans."

  "Liberals and Latinos."

  Grady nodded. "They want to go back to the days when Main Street businesses were owned by Germans talking German eating German and drinking German—and the government was sending them checks. They go over to the goat auction and talk German and pretend their world ain't changing. But it is. It already has."

  "So why don't they just stop selling their land and renting their buildings to people they don't want here?"

  " 'Cause they want the money. I heard one old boy complaining about Ausländers in town so I says to him, 'Didn't you sell your land to a Californian?' And he says, 'Yep, but I was forced to sell—the bastard paid me five million. Cash!' "

  Grady chuckled.

  "Grady, you're German."

  "Full-blooded, but I ain't like that. Fact is, Beck, most Germans here ain't like that. Most are good people, just working hard to make a living, keep this a safe place for their kids, don't believe God made them better just 'cause they got white skin and a German name. But every town's got a few folks figure they're entitled to run the show. Ours just happen to be German."

  "So what's all that got to do with Slade?"

  "Hold your water, I'm getting there."

  The second finger.

  "Then there's those newcomers opened those tourist businesses—Spunky Monkey, Zertz, Dogologie. How you figure you can make a living on a store selling stuff just for dogs? And we got spas where they'll wrap your whole body in seaweed—what's that all about?" He shook his head. "Anyway, the Main Street business owners, they're white but they don't sprechen Deutsch, if you know what I mean. They just wanted to get out of the big city, move to a better place to raise their kids, make a good living."

  The third finger.

  "And then there's the Mexicans. The old Germans figure the Main Street business owners for renters and Mexicans for trespassers. They're a third of the population now, not that you'd know it walking down Main Street. Some legal, more not, so they stay out of sight over in the barrio, working at the turkey plant. But we got a few Mexicans looking for a cause. Heard they're trying to start up a La Raza Unida chapter."

  "There's a barrio now?"

  "Down on South Milam, across the creek. Migrants, they used to come up here, work a while, make some money and take it home. But like I said, the Feds clamped down on the border, so now once they get here, they stay. They just wire the money home."

  "The law of unintended consequences."

  "The law of dumb-asses in Washington don't got a clue."

  "That's three groups—Germans, Main Street business owners, and Latinos. What about African-Americans?"

  Grady chuckled. "You only been gone twenty-four years, Beck, place ain't changed that much. Best I know, Gil's the only black person living in the county."

  "Grady, this is real interesting, but what's it got to do with Slade?"

  "Competing interests, Beck. Like I said, the Main Street business owners, they just want to make a living. And they make most of their living between now and Christmas."

  "Let me guess: White football player beats up a Latino, Main Street's worried those activists might make it a political cause, generate bad publicity, and that'll hurt the tourist trade?"

  Grady nodded. "That's all this town's got now, Beck. A million tourists are gonna come here to shop in the next three months. Holiday shopping. You kill that, you kill this town. City hall protects this town's image like the old-timers protect their daughters' virginity." That amused him. "Y'all got homeless people in downtown Chicago?"

  Beck shrugged. "Yeah."

  "You see any homeless people on our Main Street?"

  "No."

  "They show up here, city cops pick them up, drive them down to San Antonio, and dump them out."

  "You're joking?"

  "Nope."

  "How do they get away with that? If Chicago cops did that, the media would be all over it."

  "No media here. No local TV or radio, just a weekly paper that only prints the good news. See, Beck, city hall don't want nothing in the paper about cheerleaders snorting coke or homeless folks camping out in the Marktplatz or Mexicans marching down Main Street. They want nice news. They want white people to come here and be happy and shop. People in Dallas and Houston, they got homeless people and blacks and Mexicans up in arms about something all the time. They don't come here for that. They come here to live life the way it used to be—at least for a weekend."

  "The perfect all-American, all-white, crime-free town."

  "With a German festival." He chuckled. "Remember when the Mexicans marched in the streets all across the country over that Arizona immigration law? Not here they didn't. City cops keep a tight lid on this town."

  "So the business owners wanted the D.A. to keep the Latinos happy—"

  "At least until after Christmas."

  —"by filing charges against Slade?"

  "Yep."

  "So did he?"

  "Yep. But it took some convincing."

  "What kind of convincing?"

  "Well, Julio's folks are illegals. So Junior figured he could use that to get Julio to drop his complaint."

  "What'd he do, threaten to deport them?"

  "Way I hear it, that's exactly what he did. But the activists, they got Julio a lawyer out of San Antonio, used to be in Congress, name's Felix Delgado."

  "I've heard of him."

  "Anyway, Delgado came up here and jumped on Junior like a vaquero giving the spurs to a bronc. Said he'd file a federal civil rights lawsuit, bring in the national media—white football star beats up a Mexican and walks, D.A. blackmails Mexican parents … 60 Minutes, Dateline, they'd eat that up. Said he'd have our little town on national TV looking like Mississippi back in the sixties, except with Germans instead of the Klan as the bad guys. And he threatened street protests on Thanksgiving weekend."

  "Why that weekend?"

  "His wife comes up here to shop that weekend every year."

  "So?"

  "So he knows that's the biggest shopping weekend of the year, make-or-break for Main Street. Mexicans marching down Main Street, that'd kill the tourist trade, Californians would take their money somewhere else, property values would plummet, sales tax revenues would decrease … this place won't be another Santa Fe, it'll be another Odessa after oil prices crashed."

  "So the D.A. backed off Julio's parents?"

  "Yep."

  "And took Slade to the grand jury?"

  "Nope."

  "Grady, you said he filed charges."

  "Yep. See, when we arrested Slade, law requires we take him before a magistrate. Justice of the Peace. Walt Schmidt. Walt read him his rights then released him. Until the grand jury hands down an indictment, the case stays in J.P. court."

  "Is Schmidt a lawyer?"

  Grady shook his head. "Goat rancher. Ran for J.P. when his mohair checks stopped coming, finally had to work for a living. If you call being J.P. working."

  "So when is the D.A. taking the case to the grand jury?"

  "He ain't."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause if Slade's indicted, he's suspended from school, his football season is over and so is any chance of winning state, and he'll lose his scholarship at UT."

  "So?"

  "So his daddy don't want that to happen. He wants Slade at UT and then in the pros."

  "Slade committed a crime. He's got to answer for that."

  "Not if Quentin McQuade has anything to say about that. You heard about him, his big development out west?"

  "Some."

  "Well, whatever you heard, it's worse. Day after the arrest, he came out to the house. Tried to get me to drop the charges, wipe the arrest off the books. Quentin don't want his boy to lose his football career just for beating up a wetback. At least that's what he
told me when he made me an offer."

  "A bribe?"

  "Couldn't prosecute on what he said, he's too smart for that, but that was the deal."

  "What'd you tell him?"

  "I told him I don't need his money. He laughed."

  "Do you? Need his money?"

  Grady shook his head. "Year ago, I sold a hundred acres of the homestead to a Californian with more money than sense. He paid two million. I'm what you call 'independently wealthy' now."

  "A millionaire sheriff?"

  "Yep."

  "Why do you still do it, the job?"

  "For Dee Dee Birck and Heidi and kids like them. That Californian made me immune to politics, but Quentin's got most of the politicians in the county—including Junior—in his pocket, one way or the other."

  "So why are the old Germans siding with McQuade?"

  "Well, that's another competing interest—two, actually. First one is, they want that state championship bad. Ain't had one since you played. That was a helluva game, Beck."

  "Football can't be that important."

  "It can and it is." He chuckled. "You been in Chicago too long, Beck. You forgot the way it is here, football."

  "What's the other competing interest?"

  "What else? Money.

  "Where's the money?"

  "Building those two hundred homes in Quentin's development. That's two, three hundred million in new construction, more than this town sees in twenty years. Old Germans stand to make a lot of money building those homes, but they gotta keep Quentin happy 'cause he decides who shares in that pot. That's why he thinks his balls clank when he walks down Main Street."

  "So Quentin bought himself a German name?"

  "So to speak."

  "But how can the D.A. not take this case to the grand jury? Slade put Julio in the hospital, you've got witnesses."

  "Well, Slade's lawyer, ol' Judge Stutz—"

  "Stutz? I thought he had a heart problem?"

  "Yep, problem is, he don't have a heart. Meanest bastard I've ever met. I figure it's 'cause he never got married, couldn't find a woman desperate enough, not even here." Grady sighed. "But he was the judge for damn near fifty years, so he knows everyone's secrets. No one screws with Stutz."

  "So he's representing Slade?"

  Grady nodded. "Demanded an examining trial—magistrate determines if there's probable cause to send the case to the grand jury. I've never seen one in thirty years 'cause the D.A. always takes felony cases straight to the grand jury."

  "So why isn't he doing that?"

  "Because this ain't a criminal case … it's a political case. Quentin don't want Slade indicted, so Junior and Stutz cooked up this little end run to keep the case in a friendly J.P. court. J.P. don't find probable cause, the case don't ever get to the grand jury. No grand jury, no indictment."

  "But how does that keep that time bomb from going off?"

  "I'll tell you how, least the way they figure it: First, Junior filed charges against Slade to keep the Mexicans and Delgado happy, at least for now. Second, he kept the case in J.P. court and set the examining trial for January, after the playoffs and the holiday shopping season when there ain't no tourists in town—that made the football fans and Main Street happy. And third, it keeps the lid on this thing long enough to buy some time, maybe let this ruckus die down."

  "And what do you figure?"

  "I don't figure Delgado for a fool. I figure he'll make good on his threat."

  "A Thanksgiving weekend protest?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, that's their free speech right."

  "No, Beck, that's a time bomb. City cops, they'll try to arrest the whole bunch of 'em. And that could turn Main Street into another Alamo, only with the Mexicans losing this time. All it would take is one trigger-happy cop … or deer hunter."

  "Thanksgiving still the biggest hunting weekend?"

  "Yep. We'll have more guns in town that weekend than they got in Baghdad. Every pickup and SUV in town'll be packing thirty-aught-six rifles and deer hunters, both loaded. One dumb-ass and we got dead Mexicans on Main Street."

  "So that's what, eight weeks from now, before that time bomb goes off?"

  "Yep."

  "And all this happened three weeks ago?"

  "Yep."

  "One week before the election?"

  "Yep."

  "That's why the D.A. dropped out of the election."

  "Chicago lawyers, y'all are real smart. Yep, they needed Junior in the D.A.'s office to pull it off. If he's in your chair on the second floor of the courthouse, he can't control the case. Another D.A. might've sent Slade straight to the grand jury. Junior, he wasn't happy about it, but they promised him the judgeship would be his for life. Starting next year."

  "And you told me all this because …?"

  "Because Slade walking on this don't sound like justice …"

  There was that word again.

  "… And I don't like it when some people figure they're above the law. Figured you might not like it either."

  "I don't. But I don't have jurisdiction until the grand jury indicts him. And the grand jury can't indict unless the J.P. finds probable cause and refers Slade over."

  "Which ain't gonna happen … unless you do something about it."

  "Such as?"

  "You got original jurisdiction over all felony cases. You can order Slade's case transferred from the J.P. court to the district court. Then you preside over the examining trial. You decide if there's probable cause to send Slade to the grand jury."

  "Will the grand jury indict Slade if his dad's connected?"

  "Fifty-fifty. But there's three Mexicans on the grand jury, that's the law now, so there can't be a cover-up. I figure if Slade goes to the grand jury, he'll plead out."

  "Only problem is, Grady, I've got to have good cause to transfer the case out of J.P. court or Stutz will just appeal my order and the appeals court will kick it back to the J.P."

  "Good cause, huh? Like the J.P. biased in favor of Slade?"

  "That'd be good."

  "Like the J.P. biased against Mexicans?"

  "That'd be better. But, Grady, I've got to have evidence."

  "Evidence, huh? Like a tape recording?"

  Beck laughed. "Yeah, a tape recording of a judge exhibiting bias is pretty good evidence, Grady, but in my experience those recordings are kind of hard to come by."

  "Oh. Okay, I'll see what I can do about that."

  "You do that."

  "You'll be in the rest of the day?"

  Beck nodded. "After the next court session." He picked up Heidi's file. "Mind if I keep this a while longer?"

  Grady shook his head. "I know where you work." Beck stood, and Grady said, "Funny, ain't it?"

  "What's that?"

  "Tourists. Every weekend they come to town, shop on Main Street, go to a festival at the Marktplatz, eat at a nice restaurant, think the place looks like a picture-postcard, figure living here must be damn near perfect." Grady shook his head. "But they don't have a clue what's really going on, right below the surface of this small town."

  FIFTEEN

  One walk up and down Main Street had convinced Robert and Lisa Davenport that Fredericksburg, Texas, was just the kind of small town they wanted to retire to. They had grown tired of the crime and cold winters of Cleveland and wanted to spend their senior years in the crime-free country and warm climate of Texas. They bought a two-acre tract just outside the city limits and built their dream home. They moved in on the first Friday in November a year ago. They fell asleep—with their windows open, something they had never done in Cleveland—around 10:30 P.M. to the sounds of a quiet country night.

  They awoke at 6:55 A.M. to the sound of gunfire.

  Deer hunting season in Gillespie County had begun at sunrise that Saturday morning. Their neighbor, William Raymond Boenker, aka Billy Ray Boenker, enjoyed passing the time of day by sitting on his back porch popping off the tops on beer cans and rounds from his .30-06 Remi
ngton rifle at any deer that dared show its face on his property; from his rocking chair, he had an unobstructed view of his entire four acres. His back porch was only two hundred feet from the Davenport's back patio; at that distance, his .30-06 sounded like a six-inch cannon. By Billy Ray's own estimation, he fired off three hundred rounds a day seven days a week through the first weekend in January, when deer hunting season officially ended.

  Not being native Texans, the Davenports assumed that Billy Ray's hunting practices were illegal; they called the sheriff. The deputy dispatched to their home explained that while some Texas counties required a minimum of ten or twenty acres for deer hunting, Gillespie County had no such minimum acreage requirement. City ordinances prohibited the discharge of firearms within the city limits, but since Billy Ray's property was outside the city limits, his actions, while stupid, were not criminal.

  The Davenports then filed a civil suit seeking a permanent injunction against Billy Ray's hunting on such a small tract; they alleged nuisance, harassment, and intentional infliction of emotional distress. Both parties had filed various motions, culminating in Billy Ray's Motion for Summary Judgment, which had been pending when Judge Stutz abruptly retired.

  Beck had inherited the case. He was sitting behind the bench facing the Davenports and their lawyer and Billy Ray Boenker and Lawyer Polk. Again with this guy.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Davenport," Beck said, "Texas law is clear on this point. It's asinine, but it's clear. Mr. Boenker is entitled to hunt deer on his four-acre tract. Therefore, I must grant his motion and rule in his favor."

  Beck turned to Billy Ray Boenker. "Billy Ray, how far can a thirty-aught-six bullet fired at shoulder level travel?"

  He shrugged. "Forty-five degree angle, maybe two miles."

  "Two miles. Which means you could fire your rifle from your back porch and the bullet could travel across your land and the Davenport's land and a few other people's land?"

  "I ain't aiming their way."

  "It doesn't matter where you aim, you don't own enough land to keep the bullet on your property."

  "I aim down."

  "Don't you understand how dangerous it is for you to sit on your back porch and fire off a rifle?"