by Gordon Ryan
Arriving at the county administrative office building on Court Street in Woodland, Dan greeted his deputy administrator, Jim Thompson, who was already at his desk working on his second cup of coffee. Thompson, who was originally from Wyoming, always wore cowboy boots, a Stetson, and western-cut suits, often with an Indian string art tie. Well-liked, with a good-ol’-boy air about him, he was often the object of office ribbing. He was the personification of the cliché that regardless of formal education, you can take a boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Working for Yolo County provided for Thompson the best of both worlds.
“So, what did Josiah Rumsey do today?” Thompson asked as Rawlings poked his head in to say hello.
“He thinks if he can get up San Juan Hill before Teddy, maybe he’ll become president,” Rawlings replied.
“Yeah, right,” Thompson said sarcastically to Dan’s back as he continued across the foyer toward his office.
This morning banter about his novel had become a part of their repartee ever since Dan had taken Thompson into his confidence about his writing endeavor. Dan had often wished he hadn’t revealed that he was writing a novel, but sometimes Thompson came up with a good suggestion that he was able to incorporate into the developing plot. Their shared secretary, Patricia Collins, found their exchanges amusing.
“Pat, what’s on the schedule today?” Dan asked as she followed him into his office, notepad in hand.
“Staff meeting at nine, executive director from the Yolo Rice Co-op at ten-thirty, and—this you’ll love—Senator Turner is on the stump at Rotary at noon.” She grinned broadly.
“California uber alles, eh?” he replied.
“And goodbye, America,” Pat laughed. “Think this was how George Washington became the Father of Our Country—by schmoozing the Rotary boys?”
“Beats chopping down our cherry—or maybe in the case of Yolo County, I should say almond—trees,” Dan quipped. “That’s all?”
“Not quite. Sheriff Sanchez called and asked if he could meet with you this morning. I told him you had a staff meeting, but he said it was urgent. I told him I’d pencil him in before your first appointment, but I’d have to call back to confirm.”
“That’s good, Pat.” Dan nodded. “Tell him to come on over as soon as he can get here, please.” Dan leaned forward and pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Jim, would you step in for a minute?”
Pat continued. “You’ve also got the planning commission this afternoon—the rezoning of the Beasley agricultural section, remember? That’s at three.”
“Jim’s gonna be a busy man.” Dan stood behind his desk and stretched, then removed his coat and hung it on the coat rack in the corner just as Jim arrived.
“Jim, Sheriff Sanchez needs to see me this morning, so would you please handle staff meeting? And this afternoon I’ve got a funeral to attend, so I’ll need you to sit in on the planning commission meeting at three. Pat has the particulars.”
Jim nodded. “That’s fine. Is it that guard officer?”
“Yes,” Dan replied. “McFarland. Most of the Cal Guard will turn out.”
“A real shame,” Jim said, shaking his head.
Dan paused for a moment, thinking once again about his wife’s death and his reluctance to attend another funeral—any funeral. “Okay,” Dan said, clapping his hands together to break the moment. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Dan flipped through his daily planner for several minutes after Pat left, pausing to reflect on the entry for Lieutenant McFarland’s funeral in the afternoon. A disturbing vision of the young officer’s distorted face flitted across his memory. The quiet rap on his doorjamb broke his reverie, and he looked up to see Tony Sanchez standing in the doorway.
“C’mon in, Tony. Cup of coffee or a glass of juice?”
“Just had one, thanks. Mind if I … ?” he said, making a gesture to close the door.
“By all means,” Dan nodded, coming out from behind his desk to sit on the sofa on the windowless side of his office.
“I just wanted to keep this information between the two of us.”
“Of course. Got something on McFarland’s murder?”
“Several things have turned up, actually. First, the tire tracks. The treads fit the profile of original equipment on Ford trucks.”
Dan laughed. “Well, Tony, that narrows it down to, what—a half-million vehicles?”
Tony grinned. “Something like that, but don’t forget, police work is long, tedious, and usually mundane, but each data point narrows the possible permutations.”
“I know, Tony. I’m sorry. Please, what else?”
“Well, the lab has analyzed the vomit found on the scene.”
“The what?”
“One of the people at the scene puked his … or her … guts out.”
“I’d be terrified if I were facing a lynching, wouldn’t you?”
Sheriff Sanchez nodded. “I’m sure I would’ve, but it’s not McFarland’s.”
“And that means?”
“It means that someone else at the scene wasn’t used to seeing such violence. He lost his ham and egg sandwich when he vomited in the dirt.”
Dan nodded. “That makes sense. So, we have a half-million trucks, and one terrified person.”
“This will go a lot smoother if you’ll just listen for a minute.”
Dan smiled. “Sorry. What else?”
“The autopsy showed that McFarland had been brutally assaulted—tortured, actually—prior to his hanging. Every finger was broken, and he had construction-type staples in his knees and elbows.”
Dan winced. “Good grief, his death might well have been a relief.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Sanchez replied. “Deputy Collins, on the other hand, died instantly. He took a military-style .45 caliber slug through the head at extremely close range, judging from the powder burns on his forehead. Fortunately, we recovered the bullet where it had impacted the bridge after exiting Collin’s head, and it appears that Collins got two shots off before he was killed.”
“Was there any other blood at the scene? Perhaps from someone Collins shot?”
“No.” Sanchez pulled a plastic sandwich wrap from his carrying case and held it up for Dan to see. “Do you recognize this?”
Dan looked closely at what appeared to be a slender piece of metal, about two inches long.
“It’s a … a sliver of something?”
“Look closer, but don’t take it out,” he warned.
Dan took the plastic wrapper and held it up to the light, his eyes focusing on the object. Suddenly his eyes grew larger.
“You recognize it, don’t you?”
Dan looked at Tony, then back again at the object. “There aren’t as many of these as there are Ford pickups, but it’s still circumstantial.”
“True, but it narrows it down, doesn’t it? In fact, two of my deputies regularly play pool with Kenny, and he constantly has this—or a similar—silver toothpick hanging from his lips. He drops it in his shirt pocket when he really concentrates, but it’s as much a part of your brother-in-law’s clothing as that sweat-stained ‘A’s’ baseball cap he always wears backwards.”
“Lab tests?” Dan asked.
Tony shook his head. “Can’t match it to the vomit. Not enough saliva remaining on it. Technicians said the ants and insects probably had a go at it. I’m afraid we didn’t spot it until the following day when we did a thorough ground-eye search.”
“Still,” Dan added, “if Kenny doesn’t have his toothpick anymore, then …”
“Exactly. That’s one reason I came to see you this morning.”
“Why would he be involved?”
“The FBI is convinced this was a militia job. Kenny’s been identified—in fact, he’s been bragging about being part of the Shasta Brigade.”
“He’s never said anything to me,” Dan said. “But we haven’t really talked much more than to say hello—at least since Susa
n’s death. We never really hit it off, even after I married his sister. I see him occasionally at church, but he only attends when he’s visiting them.”
“Could you see if you could, uh, find out about this?” Tony asked, holding up the bag and then replacing it in his case.
Dan stood up and took a deep breath, then walked toward the window. “Where’s this all gonna go, Tony? If they did this … if Kenny did this … how far will these people go?”
“If the brigade is responsible for these killings, apparently they’ll go as far as they need to go. One more thing, Dan. This may be confidential, and maybe you can’t answer, but was McFarland on assignment for the Army? Working with you, perhaps?”
Dan turned immediately to face Sheriff Sanchez and nodded. “I can’t fill in the details until I see General Del Valle, but McFarland was undercover, on an assignment that had something to do with the brigade. In case you don’t know, some of your deputies are also in the brigade. But that’s all I can share with you, Tony. I’m sorry.”
Sanchez stood, picking up his case and stepping toward the door.
“That’s enough … for now, Dan. And yes, I know I have a few deputies in the brigade. Thanks for your help. If Kenny was involved, I’m truly sorry. His parents have already been through enough for one lifetime, losing their daughter and all.”
“That they have. I’ll find out how much of the brigade information I can discuss with you, Tony. And I’ll let you know if I can contact Kenny. He lives up near Redding in a small trailer near Shasta Lake, but he comes back to Woodland often enough.”
“Fair enough. You going to the funeral this afternoon?”
“Yeah. Most of the guard will turn out. The general wants a full military honors funeral.”
“From what I could see, the kid deserved it. The department will bury Collins with full honors tomorrow over at Knight’s Landing. It’s been a lousy week!”
“That’s the shame of it, Tony. In any war, here or on a beachhead—even in law enforcement—it’s mostly the young ones who pay.”
The sheriff snorted. “Look in the mirror—we are the young ones. I’ll see you at the funeral,” he said, departing and waving to Pat as he left.
Dan moved back to the window and felt, rather than saw, Pat come up behind him.
“Dan, Mr. Franchi and Mr. Alverez are here to see you.”
Dan held silent for a moment and took another deep breath, exhaling slowly. He thought of the day he had interviewed McFarland for an undercover assignment and how confident the young officer had been. McFarland had even said how proud his wife would be. He had become momentarily deflated when Dan explained that he couldn’t tell her.
Finally, he turned to face Pat.
“Thanks, Pat. Show them in, please.”
The Yolo Rice Co-op was Yolo County’s largest rice dealership and had contracts with most of the growers for their harvest. More than sixty percent of Yolo rice ended up in Korea. The primary stockholder in the co-op was the Franklin Group. They owned the trucks, the rice that was hauled to the Port of Sacramento, and the ships on which it was transported to Asia.
Situated in the heart of an agricultural county, Woodland’s Chamber of Commerce boasted that anything that grew anywhere in the world could be grown in Yolo County. Primary crops were rice, tomatoes, almonds, walnuts, sorghum, and saffron. Promoting international commerce had become a major part of Dan’s job as county administrator.
Since the early fifties, when smaller farms found it difficult to make a go of it, only the larger holdings or corporate conglomerates had succeeded in showing a profit. To complicate matters, weekenders from the San Francisco Bay area had discovered Rumsey Valley, and since it was only a two-hour drive from the city, buyers had begun to snatch up small plots for recreation homes. For some years, the Yolo County Board of Supervisors had been limiting subdivisions to a minimum of twenty-acre plots, which temporarily delayed the influx of recreationally minded people. The pressure was now on to loosen that zoning requirement to allow for two-and-a-half acre mini-lots. So far, the planning commission had been able to resist additional development by warning that the installation of multiple septic systems in close proximity would contaminate the local aquifer. The legal and financial pressures were on for development, but the older families who had descended from the valley’s original settlers, like Dan’s grandfather—Jack Rumsey—were resisting the change.
As the two men entered Dan’s office, Pat closed the door, and Dan stepped to greet them.
“Good morning, Dan. Good to see you again.”
“And you, Ted,” Dan responded to Franchi.
“I’d like to introduce Hank Alverez. Hank is with the MexiCal Labor Services.”
Dan shook hands with Alverez and motioned for both to take a seat. Dan sat on the couch opposite them. “So, Ted, how’s the crop look this year?”
“Up about eight percent. It’s going to be a bumper harvest. That’s part of the reason for our visit. We’re going to need additional labor for harvest and transport, and Hank has contracted with us to provide temporary workers.”
“I see. Where will these workers come from, Mr. Alverez?” Dan asked.
“Throughout the state, Señor Rawlings. We will obtain our field laborers from other commercial concerns, where they are already employed.”
“Documented workers, Mr. Alverez?”
“Oh, sí, Señor.”
Dan reclaimed some notes from the credenza behind his desk, then returned to his seat. “Ted, I had a visit last week from the Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration Services, asking for our cooperation in locating farms where illegal immigrants are working.”
“I see,” Ted replied. “What’s immigration worried about in Yolo?”
“Same as everywhere. Illegal workers being preyed upon and jobs lost to local laborers. Will these additional workers be employed by the co-op?”
Franchi hesitated momentarily, glancing at Alverez. “No. As with most temporary workers, including those clerks you use here in the county building, they’ll work for a temporary agency. That’s where Hank comes in. MexiCal Labor Services will employ the workers and assign them out to us for the duration of the harvest.”
Great dodge, Dan thought. No taxes, no benefits—and deportation for anyone who complains. “I see. How can we help?”
“Housing. We’d like to contract with the county to house some of these workers in the facilities at the county fairgrounds. We’ll provide the bedding, but we’ll need the toilets and showers activated and electricity to the buildings turned on, including the kitchen facilities.”
“I see. As I recall, you’ve arranged this before, haven’t you, Ted? Before my time?”
“Yes, we have. Supervisor Hernandez put forth the first proposal about eight years ago, and since then, whenever we’ve needed to bring in a larger group of workers, the temporary housing has been provided at the fairgrounds.”
“Fine,” Dan said, standing. “I’ll add the proposal to the next agenda packet. Mr. Alverez, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. Please come again.”
The two men rose, and Ted offered his hand. “Thanks, Dan. Coming to Rotary today?”
Dan laughed. “We’ll have near perfect attendance. Everybody wants to see Senator Turner’s dog and pony show.”
“He makes a lot of sense, as proven by the election results. Californians are fed up with all the garbage rules and regulations coming out of Washington.”
“Could be, but killing a couple of federal judges who disagree with you seems a rather harsh approach, wouldn’t you say?”
“Turner didn’t kill anybody.”
“Really? His rhetoric goaded those who did, and they don’t need much goading, especially from a United States senator, to make them feel in the right. You know, my grandmother used to warn against throwing the baby out with the bath water. We still get some benefit from being part of this nation. Besides, the last time a state tried this, it brought on a devastating war.”
“Granted, we don’t want a war, but Washington saddles us with a lot of regulations and expensive welfare requirements for which we don’t get any federal money. I like Turner’s thinking, and so do millions of Californians.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Dan said, seeing them to the door and following them out into the foyer. “Thanks for coming.”
After Dan’s visitors entered the elevator, he stopped in Jim’s office and closed the door. As Dan took a seat on the couch, Jim looked up from the staff classification project he was working on and smiled.
“Days like this, do you wish you were a financially secure author?”
“I suppose I’d trade places with John Grisham—and he was once a humble lawyer, too,” Dan replied. “I don’t know, Jim. It seems we’re caught in the middle here.”
“How so?”
“Well, I just met with the rice co-op about housing for migrant workers. The Feds want California to crack down on illegals, but the farms in the county need the labor.”
Jim smiled again, leaning back in his chair and placing both hands behind his head. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, and I get to do the staffing paperwork,” he drawled, nodding toward the stack of papers on his desk.
Taking a big breath and exhaling forcefully, Dan leaned back, resting his head on the couch. “Time was, as my grandfather says, when the braceros came up from Mexico legally, worked the fields through the harvest season, and earned enough money to last them through the winter. All that came to a halt years ago when many of them stopped going back to Mexico and became illegals. Now, we deny them the legal right to work, but at the same time covertly foster their illegal work to raise profit margins. Then we require our government agencies and schools to provide all health, welfare, and education services that they need, whether they’re here legally or not. It’s a lousy system, and it needs to be fixed.”
Jim stood and tucked in his shirttail. “Tell you what, Daniel. Let’s go see what Turner’s solutions are. Maybe he knows a way to make all these problems disappear,” he said, grinning. “He’s still drumming up support to overturn the court injunction against the governor proceeding with the secession.”