Living Proof

by Peter J Thompson

  But if he crossed the border, it would mean that he was running away. He would be alive, but for what? The hope of proving his innocence had kept him going throughout all the long years in prison. When he had nothing else, he still had his self-respect. Running away now would mean it was all a sham. Ramon looked down at the bag he’d taken from the Humvee. And whatever was going on at the army base would continue to go on. People would die, innocent people. It would mean that Green had thrown his life away for nothing. Ramon picked up the bag, turned, and walked toward the center of town.

  Walking through the streets of McAllen, Ramon had felt out of place. It was strange to be walking out in the open in broad daylight – he seemed so exposed and vulnerable. But nobody else appeared to notice. He was just another man of Mexican descent on a street filled with the same. Nobody looked, nobody stared. He blended in naturally. In a way, he was an invisible man—and it’s hard to find an invisible man.

  After a little while, he relaxed. The danger didn’t seem so close. He was safe enough for now. But how would he survive? His stomach already growled with hunger. He had no money, no change of clothes, and no form of identification. There was no one he could go to for help. The flip side of invisibility was helplessness.

  Ramon had wandered through the town most of the day. That first night, he’d slept by a dumpster in an alley behind a grocery store. At one point, he was so hungry, he rummaged through the dumpster for his meal.

  The next morning, he woke up before dawn to the sound of trucks rumbling by. He staggered up and followed them around to the front of the building. A group of men were waiting by the corner. Two large trucks with open beds, the kind used to transport produce, pulled to a stop in front of the crowd.

  Ramon walked over to see what was going on. A stocky man with a cowboy hat and a gray mustache that covered his lips, got out of the lead truck and walked over to inspect the group. All were Hispanic men, ranging in age from young to middle-aged, most with the frightened-eyed look of strangers in a strange land.

  The man scratched his gut as he walked around the crowd. “All right,” he called out in a deep Texas drawl, “Ah need forty – cuarenta. Any uh you habla ingles?”

  Ramon stayed silent. A short young man with a thin mustache stepped forward, “Si, senor. I speak ingles.”

  The cowboy-hatted man pulled on his moustache and looked skeptical. He called out again, “Anybody else habla englais?”

  No one in the crowd responded. The older man shrugged.

  “Okay, Frenchy, I guess that makes you my foreman. Here’s the deal. Ah need forty men for a solid month. Ya get room and board. We pay at the end of each week. It’s hard work, we need sturdy men. Who’d you come with?”

  “My brudder and my cousin.”

  “Bring ‘em along. Let’s pick out the rest.” He walked through the crowd, pointing at the people he wanted, the youngest and strongest of the group. As they were called, they’d move over to take their places on the trucks. When he saw Ramon, he stopped. “We got a big mule here.” The man checked Ramon up and down. “This’n don’t look like the others. You speak English?”

  Ramon didn’t respond.

  “Habla ingles?” the man tried again.

  “No. No ingles.” Ramon looked down at the ground.

  The cowboy-hatted man shrugged. “Well, get him on the truck anyway.”

  And that was how he’d come to the farm. He’d been there three weeks now and felt safe. The farm was an hour and a half north of McAllen, off the beaten path. No one was looking for him here. For all they knew, he was just another migrant worker. At first it was strange to speak nothing but Spanish. But that didn’t last long. Spanish was his first language and returning to it was like riding a bicycle.

  Ramon kept mostly to himself but was accepted by the other workers as one of their own. Now he had some money in his pocket and a taste of what freedom was like. He was finally starting to make plans for the future. Maybe another week on the farm and he could risk the outside. Maybe he could even risk phoning his old attorney Barry Resnick.

  Lost in thought, he reached the end of the row and his sack was filled to the top with beans. With a jolt, his mind returned to the present. Ramon wiped the sweat off his forehead and hefted the bag onto his shoulder. He walked along the edge of the field toward the center aisle where the boss parked the truck. As he came up, he saw that several other workers were in front of him, ready to empty their bags into the truck.

  Two field bosses were leaning against the truck, watching. They both had beers in their hands and their eyes were bloodshot—it looked like they’d been drinking for a while. One of the men, Ramon knew as Slim. He was in his late thirties or early forties, thin as a rail, and missing one of his front teeth. He spoke Spanish fluently and didn’t ride the workers too much.

  Ramon didn’t know the other one. He was younger, probably in his twenties, and big. He had the look of a linebacker—strong and mean-looking with a big square face and unevenly cut hair. Ramon could hear their conversation as he came closer to the truck.

  “Whadaya think makes ‘em so skinny? I think it’s cause their women eat all the food before they get a fuckin’ chance.” The big one paused to spit out a stream of tobacco juice. “I was down in Reynosa the other week ‘n some of the whores down there were so fat, they could swallow two ah these beaners whole.”

  Slim giggled as he swigged on his beer.

  “Shit, it’s a mystery to me. We let these skinny fucks come up here—they never even bother to learn the fuckin language and pretty soon they’re gonna be takin' all our jobs.”

  Ramon stared straight ahead and tried to ignore the conversation.

  “Well, you don’t really wanna be pickin’ them beans down there, do you, Duane? I say let ‘em have it. It’s sure not a job I’d want,” Slim responded.

  “Hell no, but that’s how it starts. It won’t be long ‘fore they got your job. Why pay you when they’ll work for less? Mark my words, pard, it’s happenin.” He drained his beer, crumpled the can in his hand, and dropped it to the ground along with the other empties. He looked over at the workers unloading their bags into the truck. “Ya gotta keep ‘em in line or they’ll push us right out. Watch this.” He walked over to the worker in front of Ramon. “Hey, Chico, you want my job?”

  The worker tried to smile. “No se, senor. No ingles.”

  Ramon looked away. He didn’t want trouble. He’d seen Duane’s type before—a bully picking on those who couldn’t fight back. But this wasn’t his battle. If he just kept quiet, it would blow over soon. The other workers were staring at the ground, trying their best to be invisible.

  “See what I mean?” Duane looked over his shoulder at Slim. He turned back and gave an open handed punch to the worker’s shoulder, sending the smaller man backwards. “Talk English, ya little monkey.”

  Slim giggled nervously. “Come on, Duane. You’re gon’ a get us in trouble.”

  The worker regained his balance and put his hands in front of his face defensively. “No, senor…”

  Duane wasn’t listening. He slammed his fist into the worker’s stomach, dropping the man to his knees. Duane then kicked the worker in the chest, knocking him into the dirt.

  Ramon dropped his bag. He couldn’t keep quiet. He’d been passive long enough. If he didn’t make a stand, no one would. “That’s enough,” he said.

  Duane spun around to face Ramon. “Well, I’ll be damned. This monkey talks American.” Duane stared at Ramon in surprise and did a double take. “God damn, Slim, now I’ve seen everything. A blue-eyed wetback.”

  “Come on, Duane, that’s about enough…” Slim crossed his arms nervously.

  “Shit, Slim, I’m just havin’ some fun.” Duane sneered at Ramon. “This monkey wants to play.” He smacked Ramon’s shoulder with his open palm. Ramon uncoiled like a set spring. He exploded. The energy of his body converged into an uppercut that connected with Duane’s jaw, dropping him like a stone, unconscious on
the ground.

  Ramon’s body swelled with adrenaline. He balled his hands into fists and tensed his body for combat. Duane lay motionless on the ground. Ramon spun around to face Slim, who backed up against the truck, holding his hands out fearfully. “I didn’t do nothin’, man. I tried to stop him, you saw it…”

  Ramon dropped his arms and looked around him. The Mexican workers were as frightened as Slim was. So much for invisibility. Now he had to leave. Ramon turned away and walked with slow deliberation toward the workers’ quarters. He needed to gather his things and go.

  It was mid-July when Lena flew out to Washington. Most of her belongings were already packed and she’d even found someone to sublet her apartment. Her affairs were in order from the Austin side, but she still had no idea where she’d be living once she moved to D.C. She found some possibilities on the Internet, but it was shocking how much higher the rents were than in Texas. Then again, with the move, her salary was going up and there was a cost of living adjustment on top, so she knew that everything would work out fine.

  Finding an apartment was easier than expected. The second one she visited was a studio in a converted brownstone in the Georgetown section. It was smaller than she wanted, but the location was perfect. It was right in the middle of all the activity, close to the government administration buildings and some of the trendiest restaurants and clubs. It seemed that everyone in the neighborhood was young, successful, and involved in some way with the government. It was all that she’d hoped for. She wrote out a check for the security deposit on the spot.

  Lena expected it to take longer to find an apartment. She was scheduled to be in Washington for three full days, and already her biggest task was behind her. Now there was time to explore and get acclimated to her new surroundings.

  She drove around the capital the rest of the day. With a guidebook and a list, she checked off each place as she found it: the White House, the Pentagon, the House and Senate, each of the Cabinet buildings, and the Watergate Hotel. All of the places that made up such a big part of the nation’s news. It was exciting being so near the center of things.

  She finished the tour and made it back to her hotel just before rush hour. A message was waiting for her to call Bill Wentworth, the senior correspondent whose position she would be filling.

  She made the call. Wentworth answered on the first ring and came right to the point. “Lena, I thought you might like a glimpse of how the real Washington works.”

  There was a function that night put on by the Commerce Department on behalf of a Chilean trade delegation. Wentworth put Lena’s name on the list for press credentials. It was at these parties, he assured her, that contacts were formed, rumors exchanged, and the truly powerful made their alliances. Lena arranged to meet him at the party at nine o’clock.

  The affair was held in the Grand Ballroom of a downtown hotel. She arrived early, feeling underdressed. She’d worn her best blue suit and a string of pearls. But as she entered the hotel, she followed a couple in formal attire—he in a tuxedo, she in an evening dress—and knew she’d guessed wrong. The hotel staff checked to verify her name was on the list before letting her in.

  The room was a large space, with red carpets, high ceilings, and opulent fixtures that were probably new at the turn of the last century. Waiters in tuxedos moved around the room, offering canapés and flutes of wine. Tables were set around the perimeter of the room, but most of the people were cruising the interior.

  Lena slowly moved through the crowd, looking for Wentworth. She made a full circuit of the room. There had to be several hundred people there. Some of the faces were familiar from TV news shows—but no sign of Wentworth. As she walked, she heard fragments of dozens of conversations—the prospects for passage of the new gun control bill, whether the new budget would be passed, the effects of a proposed house bill on economic development. The same issues, over and over.

  This was not going at all like she’d expected. It reminded her of a high school party where everyone else knew what was going on and she didn’t, a club where all the others belonged and she wasn’t included. She didn’t know a soul in the room and didn’t suspect that would change soon.

  Lena cut through the crowd and headed over to the sidelines, where she found a spot across from the bar. If this was how things worked in Washington, maybe it wasn’t what she wanted after all. By nature, she tended to go in her own direction. The stories that interested her most were those with a strong human angle. Here, it seemed that everyone was recirculating the same news, taking the spin and reporting it as fact. Pure pack reporting. She checked her watch. She’d had about as much of the Washington scene as she wanted for that night.

  As she turned toward the door, Lena bumped into a man next to her, spilling his drink across the front of his tuxedo.

  “Oh god, I’m sorry.” Lena touched him on the shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  He dabbed at the wet spot with a paper napkin. “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It was only soda water anyway—it won’t stain.” He looked up and smiled. He was short and slim, with thick dark hair and a wispy goatee. He appeared to be in his late twenties, but the effect of the tuxedo was of a young boy playing dress-up. He stuck out his hand. “Jason Ulmer, I’m with Defense.”

  “Lena Dryer, I’m with the Austin Star.”

  “You’re a reporter? That’s great. How long have you been in Washington?”

  “Well, actually, I’m not really here yet. I’ll be transferred here at the end of the month. I’m just in for a few days now.”

  “Really? You’re going to love it. This city is spectacular.”

  As Jason was talking, an elegant couple passed by. Jason turned his attention away from Lena towards the couple, gave a small wave, and called out, “Excellent showing on the budget compromise, Langston. You came out very nicely.”

  The man gave a tight smile and a nod of his head as he continued walking. Jason turned back to Lena. “That was Langston Dwyer; he’s an Under Secretary at Interior. The talk was that their appropriations were going to be axed, but they came out pretty much intact.”

  Lena nodded. Jason continued, “This is a nice party tonight. A lot of the major players are here.” He motioned over to a pair of white-haired men standing by the buffet table. “That’s Charles Norton over there, right next to Congressman MacAfee. Norton’s the main lobbyist for the NRA. That new gun control bill doesn’t have a chance of going through.”

  “You seem to know a lot of people here.”

  Jason beamed. “Oh, sure. Washington is really a closed system. There’s some kind of function nearly every night of the week. You get around and you get to know people.”

  A tall, distinguished man with chiseled features and silver hair passed by. “Good evening, Senator. Great to see you again,” Jason called out.

  The man flashed a smile and gave a quick wave as he proceeded on to the bar.

  “Wasn’t that—”

  “That’s right. Randall Morgan, from Wisconsin. A true class act if you ask me. There’s talk he’ll be running for president, and I hope he does. They say he has no chance, but it’s rare to see a man with true integrity.”

  Lena noticed another man, wearing a tuxedo and carrying a clipboard, walking directly toward them. As he came closer, Jason glanced around nervously.

  The man stopped in front of Jason. “Excuse me, sir. Can I have your name? I need to make sure you’re on our list.”

  “Uh, well…”

  Lena could see that there was a problem. Jason had seemed too enthusiastic, too happy to be there. He was clearly some kind of political groupie. Her first instinct was to step back and distance herself from the situation. If he wasn’t on the list, that was his problem. But he seemed so harmless—and she’d felt much better after talking with him. Against her better judgment, she broke in, “I’m sorry, he’s with me. I didn’t realize that would be a problem.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we can’t allow unauthorized pe
ople here. It’s a clear violation of our policy.”

  “I understand, and I can see how that could be a problem. But I thought it was okay to bring a date. Can we make an exception—just this time?”

  The man looked at them skeptically. “Look, Ma’am, we’ve gotten complaints. This happens all the time; you get gate crashers who want to be part of the scene – ”

  Lena moved in a little closer and softened her voice. “Couldn’t we make an exception? Just this one time?”

  The man sighed, then turned to face Jason. “I’ll let you go this time, buddy. But if I hear you so much as breathe on one of our guests, I’ll have you thrown out and arrested for trespassing.” He gave a polite nod to Lena. “Goodnight, Ma’am.” He turned and walked back the way that he’d come.

  Jason sheepishly smiled. “I guess my secret is out. Thank you for that. That was embarrassing, and very nice of you.”

  “No, no problem at all.”

  Jason reached into his pocket and removed a business card, which he handed to Lena. “If I can ever help you with anything, just let me know. I’d better mingle before he changes his mind.” A moment later, he was in the crowd.

  Lena studied the card, it said:

  Jason Ulmer

  G8 Systems Analyst

  Department of Defense

  She smiled as she placed it in her purse.

  She was heading toward the door when a heavyset bald man stepped out of the crowd and waved her over, “Lena, over here.” It was Wentworth. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “So did you make any big connections yet?”

  Lena just smiled.

  Captain Parker Cain had spent a frustrating three weeks looking for clues to Ramon’s whereabouts. The search started with the surveillance photographs taken from the helicopters. In the initial search, as the choppers crisscrossed the road, pictures were taken of each vehicle traveling through. Once the film was developed, they’d narrowed the search down to a total of fifty-seven vehicles that were on that stretch of road in the time frame directly after the subject fled the compound. The images of the fifty-seven vehicles were enlarged to the point where they could isolate the license plates. It took another day to run the license numbers through the national computer and locate the addresses and phone numbers of all the owners.