by Jeff Shelby
“You've talked about him with your dad?”
“Sure. In the context of 'Hey, Dad, maybe you should hire people with better people skills.'” She laughed. “I think he knows Marcus is a little ornery, but he's pragmatic in the sense that the ranch runs smoothly with him in charge. And to be clear, he has a tough job.”
“How so?”
“It's a ton of land and my dad employs a lot of people,” she explained. “The production schedule can be tight. So, in Marcus's defense, it's not his job to make friends with anyone or be nice. He needs to keep everything in line and, trust me, there's a lot to keep in line.”
I nodded.
“What?” she asked after a moment. “You think he's involved?”
I shrugged again. “No, not really.” I really didn’t. “Just when a guy shows up in the woods and points a gun at you, you don't think he's a good guy. Doesn't mean he's a bad guy, though, if that makes sense.”
“It does. I would point out that carrying a gun out there isn't a unique thing. It gets pretty rural out there to the east. You've got animals to be aware of too. It's not just because he's looking to shoot people he doesn't know.”
That was a fair explanation, and Carter had pretty much said the same thing.
“Do you know Beto and his family?” I asked.
She arched an eyebrow again. “Beto?”
I explained who Beto and his kids were and how we had run across them.
Sarah shook her head. “No, I don't think so. A lot of the workers come and go.”
“Seems like he's been there for awhile,” I said and explained the trailer.
“Not unusual,” she said. “Dad has always believed in treating anyone that works on the ranch fairly, and not as people he could take advantage of. He's had people live there before. But they don't sound familiar to me. Probably got there after my time. But if Dad is letting them live there, I'm pretty sure they're good employees. Means he wants them to stay.”
I nodded. That all made sense to me. It didn't put me any closer to helping Henry Dowdell, though.
“I didn't mean what I said earlier,” Sarah said.
“What did you say?”
“That you weren't that great.” Her cheeks flared pink. “I...um...you...”
“It was a great night,” I said, cutting her off, saving both of us the embarrassment of her continuing. “Really. And that's why I did mean to call you and why I showed up here this morning. Not just because I felt bad about flaking, but because I wanted to see you.”
She smiled and folded her arms across her chest. “I'm glad you came.”
“Good.”
We sat there in awkward silence for a moment.
“I think we are married now,” she finally said.
I laughed. “There was a ring in the burrito. If you swallowed it, that makes it official.”
“I just thought it was burnt bacon. But okay.”
I laughed again and so did she.
I liked Sarah.
But I just wasn't prepared to feel that way and I wasn't quite sure what to do with it. It was a broken record inside my own head, but it felt like I was on a treadmill – I knew I liked her, I admitted it to myself, then I'd not feel right about it. I knew that was part of the reason I'd gone to Coronado, to try to step off the treadmill, but I didn’t think it had accomplished anything yet.
She put the foil ball in the paper bag and glanced at the slim watch on her wrist. “I don't want to kick you out, but I have a meeting in 15 minutes.”
“That's fine,” I said, reaching for the bag and depositing my own wrapper in it. “You weren't expecting me.”
“I wasn't,” she said. “But it was a nice surprise.”
“I hope so.”
“It was.”
I stood and then hesitated. “We should...you know. Maybe get together again.”
She blinked, studying me. Then something passed quickly through her eyes and a smile formed on her face. “Okay. I'd be okay with maybe getting together again.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I'm awkward. I haven't done this in awhile.”
She started to say something, but her cell phone buzzed and she glanced at it. “Hey, speak of the devil.” She picked it up and tapped the screen. “Hey, Dad.”
I stood in the doorway.
Any amusement or happiness that had been on her face was now gone and she sat up straight in her chair. She glanced at me for a moment.
I waited.
“Actually, he's here right now,” she finally said, her words tight, clipped. “Hang on.” She held the phone out to me. “It's my father. He tried calling you.”
I felt my pockets and realized I'd left my phone in the car. “Everything okay?”
She shook her head.
I took the phone from her. “Mr. Dowdell?”
“Noah, I've been trying to reach you,” he said, a little out of breath and an edge to his voice. “Something's happened.”
TWENTY ONE
“I wasn't sure what else to do,” Henry Dowdell said, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. “They don't want me to call the police.”
We were standing out front of his home. I'd left Sarah's office and driven straight to the Dowdell ranch in Valley Center. He'd given me the basics over the phone, but asked if I'd come up and I'd agreed. I still didn’t have all the details.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell it all to me again.”
Henry took a deep breath. “About 45 minutes ago, I got a call from Beto Torres. You met him.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He nodded. “So Beto called me and I could barely understand him. I speak Spanish but he was talking so fast, it was hard to keep up. He was upset, and something was clearly wrong. I was over on the southeast quarter of the ranch, so I made my way to his home.” He took another deep breath. “He and his wife were out front. His wife was crying.”
“Right. You told me that. And then something about his brother?”
Henry nodded. “Yes. Beto's brother, Arturo. Beto said he received a phone call telling him that they had Arturo and they'd kill him if they didn't pay to release him.”
He'd explained that in a hurry to me over the phone, but he'd sounded so out of sorts that I figured I'd get a better picture if we spoke in person. That's why I'd driven to Valley Center so quickly.
“And do you know Arturo?” I asked.
Henry hesitated, then nodded. “I do. He's been working here for about a month.”
There was something about the way he said the words that made it feel like there was more to the story. I waited, but he didn't offer anything else up.
“But?” I finally asked.
Henry shuffled his feet. “Arturo's not documented. I'm paying him under the table.”
That would explain the hesitancy.
“Look, it's not something I do a lot,” he explained. “I like to do things by the book. But when my people bring in family or friends and vouch for them, I don't like to turn them away. Not to take advantage of them. I don't do that. I pay them a standard wage, same as I pay anyone I employ.” He set his hands on his hips, almost as if he were gearing up for a fight. “But I know what a lot of these folks go through to get here and I don't think it's my place to tell them no. If they want to work and we've got work for them, then I'll find a place for them.”
“You don't have to defend anything to me,” I said.
His expression was steely, his mouth set in a firm line. “I know it can get me in trouble,” he said. “I'm well aware of potential consequences. But good people are good people. We work with them to get documented and to do things by the book but they don't always have time to wait for all that to happen. They need to work so they can eat and live. Red tape is red tape and I don't have much patience for it.”
It sounded like Sarah's characterization of him had been spot on.
“Again, no need to defend,” I said. “I'm with you.”
Something like surprise flickered in his eye
s.
“No one should have to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or whether or not they’ll have a place to sleep. Whether or not they’ll be safe.”
He rubbed at his chin. “Pretty much.”
“So Arturo's been here a month?” I asked, trying to get us back on track.
He nodded. “Yeah, maybe a week or two longer. Would have to look at my books to get the exact date. But Beto told me that he was coming and asked about work for him. Beto has been with me for awhile now and he's as good as I have. I would trust him with anything. Good man, good family. So I wasn't going to say no.”
“Makes sense. Where is Arturo living?”
Henry Dowdell frowned and shuffled his feet against the drive. “Out in one of the encampments.”
“Encampments?”
“On the very eastern edge of the property,” he said. “The most remote part of the ranch and pretty hard to reach. We have...some of our workers out there. We've cleared some land, run some electrical and plumbing.” He paused, rubbed at his chin again. “These people need shelter and a place to live while they're getting their feet under them. I'd build a damn hotel out there if I could.”
I nodded. I was glad I wasn't in his position to have to make decisions like that. I wasn't sure what I would've done, but I definitely leaned in his direction. He was trying to be humane and practical.
“Why wasn't he staying with Beto?” I asked.
“Good question,” Henry said. “I thought that's where he'd be going, too. But Beto told me Arturo wanted to stay with the men he’d traveled with. He came with two others and they really don't speak English. Arturo gets by and he didn't want to abandon them. He knew Beto didn't have room at his place, so he said he was going to stay with them until everyone was settled in.” He shrugged. “Not an uncommon thing. They take care of each other when they come over.”
I thought I knew a lot about the undocumented world, having lived in San Diego my whole life, but I felt like I was getting an education the more I spoke to Henry.
“The other two men,” I said. “Did you hire them as well?”
“I did. Beto vouched for them, as well. Good enough for me.”
I nodded. “Sure. Okay, so what exactly occurred?”
Henry took a deep breath and his shoulders went rigid, like he was trying to support weight laid on top of them. “Last night. Arturo was apparently working out in one of the groves late. Not an unusual thing. But he didn't return. After awhile, his two friends got worried. They contacted Beto to let him know. Beto hadn't seen him, so he organized a group and they went out looking for him.” He paused. “And then Beto got a phone call.”
I waited.
“They told him that they had Arturo,” Henry said, his face pinched with worry. “That they were still owed for his trip over the border and they weren't waiting any longer.”
“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “Owed for his trip?”
Henry nodded. “Whoever brought him over, he didn't pay in full. I don't know the details but I would guess he paid something like half up front and then made arrangements to pay the balance when he could.” He sighed. “Again, not unusual. These couriers charge ridiculous fees to bring people over. It's hideous. But it's the way it works.”
My stomach tightened. “Coyotes.”
He nodded. “That's right. Haven't heard of one yet that isn't some kind of bastard.”
My own experience was the same. “Right.”
“So they told Beto that they wanted twenty grand or they'd kill him,” Henry continued. “And if they called the police, I.C.E would be here, breathing down their necks, ready to cart them back to Mexico and cause trouble for me.”
“Are you worried about that?”
“I'm worried about Arturo,” Henry said firmly, looking me in the eye. “I can handle anything that comes my way. I'll handle my business. But I'm worried that someone I've employed is in danger.”
“Did Beto get other details? Date, time, anything like that?”
“They said 48 hours,” Henry said. “They would call back. That was it.”
The entire thing sounded a bit odd, but I admittedly didn't know much about trafficking and what was accepted and what wasn't. My experience had been personal, so it was hard to look at it from any sort of objective viewpoint. If you were a coyote, you were bad. Period.
But I still wasn't clear on one thing.
“So why did you call me?” I asked. “I understand Beto not wanting to call the authorities, but what can I do?”
Henry pursed his lips for a moment. “The caller.”
“The caller?”
“The person that called Beto,” he said. “That person was a young woman.”
TWENTY TWO
“I immediately thought of the girl in the photos,” Henry said.
We were in his truck, bouncing on the dirt path, headed for Beto's home.
“I don't have any young women like that working on the ranch,” he continued. “We have older women, who are wives and mothers, and we have younger children. But women in their twenties, the age of the woman in the photos?” He shook his head. “We do not.”
“And how did Beto know it was a young woman?” I asked.
“I'm not sure,” he said. “But he said he was positive it was a girl.”
I glanced out the window out the thick groves. “And you think it’s the same girl?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But it seemed odd. And you were the closest thing I could think of to a police officer who isn't a police officer. I'll pay you for your time.”
“I'm not worried about that, Henry,” I told him. “My concern is the same as what it was before. I'm not sure I can be of much help to you. I have some police connections and I could put you in contact with them. But I don’t know what else I can really offer.”
“I really don't, either,” he said, wearily. “I'm at a loss here. But will you just talk to Beto and tell me what you think? If you think I'm jumping to conclusions, that's fine. Tell me and we'll move on.” He shook his head and downshifted the truck. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. I’m in completely unchartered territory.”
I understood his frustration. He wanted to help and he was concerned, as he needed to be. A worker of his was missing, and all signs pointed to him being kidnapped. He felt helpless.
So did I.
He pulled the truck to a stop in front of the Torres home. Beto and Marcus Sloan were standing out front. They didn't seem to be talking and I was happy to see that Sloan wasn't armed. Beto wore a faded Padres cap tucked low on his head, a long sleeved work shirt, and denim jeans over work boots. Sloan was dressed similarly. Beto removed the cap from his head as he approached the truck.
He nodded at me as I exited the truck. “Mr. Braddock. Hello.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Any more word?” Henry asked, coming around the back of the pickup.
“No, sir,” Beto said, shaking his head. “No. Mr. Sloan was just asking me the same.”
Sloan nodded. “Just came over to see if there was anything I could do.”
Henry grimaced, then gestured toward me. “I asked Noah to come up and talk to you, Beto. About what's going on. I'm hoping maybe he might be of help.”
Beto eyed me cautiously.
“I know that you've been warned not to go to the authorities,” I said. “You have my word that I won't talk to anyone unless you want me to. I have no intention of putting your brother in any more danger than he may already be in.”
Beto blinked several times, then nodded. “Yes. Okay. Thank you.”
“Can you tell me about when your brother disappeared?” I asked.
He clutched the cap with both hands. “Arturo, he was working out in southeast quad.” He looked at Sloan. “Yes?”
Sloan nodded. “That's right.”
“He has been working there for a couple weeks now,” Beto said. “You know that...you know that he came over, yes?”
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br /> “Henry explained how he got here, yes,” I answered.
Beto swallowed, nodded. “He came over and came here. He knew I have a good job and was hoping for same.” He paused. “So he was out working and the trees were not done and he decide to stay out to finish his work. Because he is a good worker and he care very much.”
“He is a good worker,” Sloan interjected. “Hasn't complained a bit since he got here and offered to do a whole lot more.”
“Then he did not come home,” Beto continued. “Not to here, but he live out with some other workers at east side of ranch. They got worried when he did not come home and so they go to look for him. They could not find him and so they call me. I went to look for him.” He shook his head. “We could not find Arturo.”
“Tell me about the phone call,” I said.
Worry lines formed on Beto's forehead. “The phone call. Yes. They call me and tell me they have taken Arturo. I am confused at first. I do not understand. Then they tell me they will hurt him if we do not pay what he owes.”
I held up my hand. “Okay, let's stop there. Tell me about what Arturo might owe and who he owes it to.”
He clutched the cap tighter, the bill now rolled nearly into a cylinder. “When Arturo decide to come to the United States, he save money. For almost a year. It is expensive. The men who do this, they are not cheap.”
“The coyotes,” I said.
“Yes,” Beto said. “The coyotes. When he met with the man who say he would bring him over, they tell him an amount and Arturo said okay. When they get to border, they change the amount. They say he owe more.”
“Like I said,” Henry interjected. “They change the rules all the time.”
“They bleed 'em,” Sloan added. “For every penny.”
Beto nodded in agreement. “Yes, they change rules always. It is unfair. But what choice can we make?”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“So this coyote, he tell Arturo he will owe more after he gets here,” Beto continued. “Arturo is mad, but he know this is how things work, so he say okay. He will pay when he can. They bring him over. Arturo tell me all of this. So we start saving to pay.”