by Mark Gimenez
"Why did you lie back then?"
"Because it would've been in the paper. Everyone would've said she was just a slut. I didn't want that for her."
"But maybe they could've found the guy that killed her."
"How?"
"I don't know. Maybe track down that limo."
"We saw more limos than you could count."
"Christ, Kim. Who was in that limo? And what happened to her purse? And that cell phone?"
Rudy Jaramillo was holding the girl's purse and cell phone. Sixty-nine days from now, he would be a very rich man.
His criminal career had begun at twelve, when he and some amigos robbed a convenience store. He quickly graduated to narcotics. On his third arrest, he went up for two years. But he was big and he knew how to fight, so he had survived in one piece. When he got out, he went right back to the life and right back to prison. Two strikes. When he got out, he decided to make money a different way: extortion.
So he got his chauffeur's license. He hired out to limo services in L.A., worked short stints for various movie stars and then lucked into the little man. Theodore Biederman. What a name. Hell, he would have changed it, too.
First night driving Theodore around, Rudy knew he had hit pay dirt. He was just too reckless with his dick. Hundreds of girls got into the back seat of the limo, and then that night in Austin when the blonde girl got in, Rudy's retirement plan was funded. Theodore gave her alcohol and he gave her cocaine and she died right there in the limo. They dumped her, and Rudy tossed her shoes into the river. They drove back to Austin, and he dropped Theodore off at the hotel. He parked the limo and checked the back for incriminating evidence.
He found some.
The girl's purse on the floor and down in the folds of the seat, her cell phone; and on the cell phone, Theodore's picture with the girl. What an idiot, letting the girl take their photo together. Proof that they were together that night. And he didn't even wear a rubber; he left his DNA inside the girl. Conclusive evidence that Theodore Biederman had had sex with a minor. That he was guilty of stat rape and maybe murder.
Only problem was, Rudy Jaramillo was an accomplice-after-the-fact.
So he had to wait until the statute of limitations ran for both of them. If the law caught up with Theodore and sent him to prison, his $50-million-a-year income would be history; there would be no money to extort and no leverage against Theodore. The world would know. And Rudy might be in an adjacent cell. So he had to wait until midnight on New Year's Eve.
On January first, Rudy would make his move. He would show the cell phone photo to Theodore and give him a choice: he could either pay Rudy a million a year for the rest of his life or Rudy would go public with the cell phone photo, the girl's family would sue him for wrongful death, get his DNA, and prove to the world that he had given cocaine to a minor, had sex with a minor, and murdered a minor. The studios don't pay $20 million per film to murderers and molesters. Come New Year's Day, Rudy Jaramillo would own Theodore Biederman like a pimp owned a two-bit street hooker.
He opened the phone and looked at the photo of Theodore and the girl again. That photo had become Rudy Jaramillo's most prized possession in life. He treasured it, he protected it, he cradled it to his bosom like a mother holding her newborn; and he had never shared it with anyone.
But the girl had.
She had sent the photo to someone that night, to another cell phone. To someone called "Sis," according to the phone's log. But Rudy had gotten the girl's obituary; she had been survived only by her mother and father. She had no sister. And Sis's phone number had already gone out of service a few weeks after that night when he had called it from a pay phone in L.A.
So he had been diligent in eavesdropping on Theodore's phone calls in the limo, sure the photo would eventually surface and charges and lawsuits would be filed. But nothing happened. Theodore's life had only gotten better: more fame, more fortune, more girls in the limo. And Rudy had made his retirement plans.
But that one question still nagged at him always: Who else had that photo?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Beck snapped a photo of the kids.
Meggie and Josefina were dressed as Munchkins, Luke as the Scarecrow, Danny as the Tin Man, and Libby as Dorothy down to the Ruby Slippers. Jodie was Glinda the Good Witch and Janelle the Wicked Witch of the West. The bookstore was decorated to look like the Emerald City.
It was the Hardin family's first Halloween without Annie.
Jodie was sitting on the floor surrounded by kids; she was reading scary stories. Janelle was painting the children's faces like Munchkins. The Wizard of Oz was playing on a big-screen TV. Jodie had asked J.B. to dress up as the Wizard, but he had said, "That'll be the day." So instead he was handing out candy and wearing another loud Tommy Bahama shirt, which was scary enough for the kids. Beck was the official photographer.
This was a kid-safe Halloween. The candy was safe, the place was safe, and the kids were safe. Jodie took a break and walked over to Beck. He snapped her picture and said over the noise of the movie and the kids, "You're a sexy witch."
Her mouth fell open. "What did you call me?"
"I said, you're a sexy witch."
"Oh. I thought you said I was a sexy bitch." She smiled. "Thanks."
"How's Luke doing, working here?"
"We're talking."
"He'll talk to everyone but me."
"He'll come back to you, Beck. Be patient. But when he does, be there for him. Hug him. That's what he needs. Is J.B. really building him a baseball field?"
Beck nodded. "With bleachers, like in that movie."
"I love J.B."
My dearest J.B.,
Beck's taking the children trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. His first time. He's trying to be a father now, but he's got a lot to learn. He thinks plaintiffs' lawyers are hard cases, wait till he meets the mothers in the PTA. (Hurts when I laugh.) Taking care of children 24/7 makes 3000 billable hours seem like a vacation. I have a pain specialist now. Beck refuses to talk about my dying.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Maria Espinoza coughed against the stench of turkey shit.
She reached her hand inside the next cold turkey and stuck her finger into the hole and pushed out any shit remaining in the dead bird's bowels. She had pushed shit out of almost fifteen thousand dead turkeys that day—but more birds kept coming down the line. She did not count. She knew that was the plant's daily quota during the months before Thanksgiving. If the quota was not met today, the line would run even faster tomorrow.
Her hands ached as they always ached after twelve hours on the line, from the work and the cold. They had reduced the temperature on the line to fifty degrees; the colder temperature slowed the growth of bacteria so they no longer needed to stop the line at mid-shift and wash the shit off the floor. Now, the line never stopped, more turkeys could be processed each shift, and Maria was standing in a twelve-hour pile of turkey shit. She looked at the clock on the wall: 2:47. Her shift ended at 3:00.
This would be Maria Espinoza's final day at the turkey plant.
Maria had moved with Rafael to Fredericksburg to work in the turkey plant nineteen years ago, when she was only seventeen. Representatives from the plant had come to Piedras Negras to recruit workers; they said the Americans had given illegals amnesty a few years before and surely would again. They had promised them jobs and good pay and housing. They showed them pictures of nice little houses and a clean new plant with smiling employees; it was not their house or this plant or these employees. Their house was not nice. This plant was not new. The employees did not smile.
But Maria was smiling this day.
With the money Señor McQuade had paid to Julio, she would no longer have to work the turkey line. But she had to finish out the month or she would not be paid for a month of pushing the shit out of turkeys. She wanted her last paycheck. She had earned it.
Beginning tomorrow, she would be a stay-at-home mom. They would move out of the barri
o and into the country. Rafael would build a little house with a yard for the children to play in instead of Rose Street where they now played. Two new families from Mexico had already joined together to rent their house from their Anglo landlord when they moved out.
She again looked at the clock on the wall: 2:52.
For nineteen years, she had lived with the smell of turkey on her; she could never escape the disgusting odor. She wanted the last eight minutes to hurry past because she wanted to get the smell of turkeys off her forever.
And because she needed to pee very badly.
The mid-shift wash-down, when the line was stopped for a short time, had been the workers' only break. They had hurried to the bathroom and to eat lunch; they had to be back when the wash-down was done and the line again started. But when the mid-shift wash-down had been eliminated, so had their only break.
Now, once the line started, she could not leave her place to eat or to go to the bathroom. She could not allow the turkeys to go past with the shit still in their bowels. She drank no water before her shift so she would not have to pee during her twelve hours on the line. She did not like to squat at her place on the line and pee into the pile of turkey shit on the concrete floor, even though all of the workers on the day shift line were also Mexican women and they also squatted to pee.
But she would not make it until end of shift.
She did not want to pee in her clothes because she would then be cold and wet. So she quickly yanked her pants and underwear down below her bottom, grabbed hold of the rail, and squatted. She peed into turkey shit, being careful not to pee into her rubber boots. When she finished, she stood and pulled her underwear and pants back up and glanced around. She had peed on the floor many times, but still she was embarrassed by such a public act; but none of the other workers had even noticed. Their eyes had never left the turkeys.
Today, they were processing free-range turkeys.
She had missed five turkeys while she peed. Perhaps quality control would push the shit out of those birds; perhaps not. They came down the line so fast; she had less than three seconds to push the shit from each bird because the next bird was already upon her. Working the line was all about the speed: ¡Más rápido! ¡Más rápido! ¡Más rápido! And injuries. Many workers suffered the injuries. But no one ever complained or missed a day of work; to complain or miss work was to get fired.
Maria did not like pushing shit out of turkeys, but it was much better than working on the kill line or the evisceration line, standing in turkey blood or guts all day, or cutting the heads and paws off the turkeys. There were many injuries on those lines, and Maria often threw up. She only threw up sometimes pushing the shit out, usually when she was pregnant.
She wanted to have another baby.
Rafael said they now could. Tonight would also be his last shift at the plant. He was right now in the changing room putting on his white suit and rubber boots and gloves; he worked on the night cleanup shift. For the next twelve hours he would scrub and clean and wash down the line. She would kiss Rafael on her way out. But when he returned home tomorrow morning, they would be free of the turkey line. They would be free of the barrio. They would be free-range Mexicans, Rafael had said.
The day-shift line started at exactly 3:00 A.M. each day and did not stop until the clock on the wall again showed 3:00. It had never stopped before end of shift in her nineteen years. But now, suddenly, the turkeys stopped. They swayed gently there for a moment, hanging by their necks on the line, then fell still. The entire plant had fallen still. The workers stood frozen in place, as if life had stopped.
The line had stopped.
Maria looked at the clock: 2:56.
Seven blocks north of the turkey plant, Beck checked his watch: 2:57. Chicago was in the same time zone as Texas. He picked up the phone and dialed. When the receptionist at his old law firm answered, he asked for Ruth Moore and was put on hold.
Heidi Geisel had not been murdered by a local from Fredericksburg, an illegal from Mexico, or a college boy from Austin. She had been murdered by a movie star from Hollywood. A movie star who had given her a lethal dose of cocaine and then had sex with her, a man who was more than three years older than Heidi. Which made him guilty of murder and statutory rape. A murder conviction was unlikely, but his DNA made a statutory rape conviction a certainty. A movie star was going to prison—if Beck found him in the next fifty-nine days, obtained a DNA sample, had it tested and matched to the DNA from Heidi's body, and got the grand jury to indict him.
He needed DNA samples from five of the biggest movie stars in Hollywood. But how does one go about getting a movie star's DNA? Do you walk up to him at the Academy Awards with a DNA Saliva Collection Kit and ask him to open wide, stick a swab inside his mouth and obtain a sample of his saliva, and then place the swab in an evidence bag and say, "Thank you"?
Do you push the buzzer on the intercom outside the entrance gates to his Hollywood mansion and request a urine sample?
Do you call his Hollywood agent and ask for a publicity photo and a vial of blood?
Beck didn't think so.
And issuing a subpoena for a DNA sample was out of the question. First, Beck was a judge, not a cop; he wasn't supposed to be investigating the murder of his buddy's daughter. So while he would officially have jurisdiction over the case once a suspect was indicted, he was not officially on the case.
Second, there was the Fourth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution: "No Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause …" And there was no probable cause for a search warrant to obtain a DNA sample from any of those movie stars. The mere fact that Heidi and those five stars had all been in Austin on the night Heidi had died did not add up to anything resembling probable cause. He had no evidence placing Heidi in the company of any of those stars, other than Kim's statement that Heidi had sat down at Teddy Bodeman's table in a Sixth Street bar.
And third, even if a Texas judge issued a subpoena, a California judge would have to enforce it; and no California judge would enforce it against a movie star with high-powered California lawyers who put that judge in office and could take him out.
Beck could not go through the normal legal channels.
He needed DNA samples from five stars: Teddy Bodeman, Joe Raines, Eddie Steele, Zeke Adams, and Chase Connelly. Heidi had had intercourse with one of them that night, he was sure of it. One of their DNA matched the DNA found inside Heidi. He had researched them on the Internet. They all ranged in age from twenty-nine through thirty-eight. They all had been big stars five years ago. They all were married and had suffered rumors of drug use. They all had been in Austin that night. They all had DNA.
One was shooting a film in Chicago.
Unlike polygamists in Utah, lawyers in the U.S. may legally have two wives: the one at home and the one at the office; the latter is called a secretary. Most lawyers only have sex with the one at home. Ruth Moore had been Beck's wife at work. She had taken care of every aspect of his professional life. She had typed documents, filed pleadings, arranged conferences (office and phone), scheduled lunches, meetings, and travel, ran errands, and shopped for presents for his children and his other wife at home. For seventeen years, any activity that wasn't worth $800 an hour had been delegated to Ruth Moore. She answered.
"Beck, my God! How are you?"
"We're doing better. How are you, Ruth?"
"I'm fine. How are the children?"
"Luke's still pretty quiet and Meggie …"
"The doll?"
"Yeah."
"Are you practicing?"
"No. I'm judging."
"You're a judge?"
"It was that or work at the Wal-Mart."
"Close call. Must be pretty boring, a small-town judge."
"Not as boring as you might think. Which is why I'm calling you. I need your help."
"Sure, Beck, anything."
"It's a long story, but bottom line I'm trying to get someone's DNA sample."
"Someone here at
the firm?"
"No. Zeke Adams."
"Zeke Adams? Are you serious? Why?"
"I am serious, and Ruth, you don't want to know why."
"You want me to get his DNA?"
"He's filming a movie in Chicago."
"In downtown. All the girls go over at lunch and watch."
"Are you going today?"
"Yes."
"Can you get close to him?"
"They put up barricades, but he comes over and signs autographs and takes pictures. He's real nice."
"Good. Take a plastic bag and tongs—you still got a pair in your desk?"
"Of course."
"Okay, take them and watch Zeke. Look for anything that might have his DNA on it."
"Like what?"
"Chewing gum, hair, cigarette butt, saliva, blood …"
"Blood?"
"Well, don't cut him. Just watch him closely. If he spits out gum, use the tongs, pick it up, put it in the bag, and overnight the bag to me at the Gillespie County Courthouse in Fredericksburg, Texas. Can you do that?"
"I can do that. When will you tell me what this is about?"
"One day, Ruth. And thanks."
"Beck … take care of yourself."
Beck hung up, then dialed again. One movie star down, four to go. They all lived in L.A. And Beck knew a guy in L.A., a private investigator he had used in a corporate espionage case. The guy had gone dumpster diving to get the evidence Beck needed to win the case. He answered on the first ring.
"Wes, Beck Hardin."
"Beck, how long's it been?"
Wes was yelling. No doubt he was driving the L.A. freeways in his Mustang convertible.
"Five, six years!"
Now Beck was yelling.
"You don't gotta yell!"
"Sorry. Wes, I need your services."
"You got 'em, buddy. What do you need?"
"DNA."
"My specialty. From who?"
"Eddie Steele, Joe Raines, Teddy Bodeman, and Chase Connelly."
"I hear you right? You want me to get DNA from four of the biggest stars in Hollywood?"