by Jace Killan
Joaquin glanced at those magic blue shoes. He wore them now as he had since his grandfather gifted them to him. He’d had a hiccup. Even though he hadn’t yet used, he’d tripped, again. Could he get back up? Could he choose another way? Or was he destined to repeat his past?
To use now, he needed to be angry. Anger served as fuel to the pain—the pain he’d suppressed with meth. But he held no anger, only contempt for himself. And the pain came from within. He caused it. Meth didn’t suppress it, only postponed and exacerbated the pain. If he used now, he might not deal with the effects right away, but he’d feel all the pain when forced into institutionalized sobriety again.
He looked at the shoes again. What was he doing? This life, as familiar as it seemed, belonged to part of that world he’d left. He had lost so much already and he’d be damned if he would lose any more. He turned on the car and sped away, emptying the small baggie’s contents into the street. How stupid was he? What if he’d gotten caught while trying to purchase meth? He’d be back in for hard time. Now he was angry. And he’d use this anger to fuel his sobriety. He hadn’t used. Brina hadn’t cast her disappointed eyes down upon him. Instead, he’d conquered, and she smiled. He’d finished the race in those magic shoes.
Joaquin’s phone had died and he purposefully let it stay that way. He didn’t want to deal with his suspecting mother, or Spencer, or anyone else who might try to talk him out of using. And as strange as it was, he experienced incredible satisfaction with the fact that they hadn’t talked him out of it. He had talked himself out of using. And now that the moment passed, it seemed so trivial, even foreign to him.
It took a moment for his phone to charge in the car. The first three messages were from his worried mother. Spencer surely called, but hadn’t left any messages. The only other communication was a text from Gomez telling Joaquin that Guzman had travelled to Phoenix and wanted to meet.
Joaquin had expected this. He owed a debt, not of money, but of time and skill. And that debt would need to be repaid. The fact that Guzman was now involved meant that the debt would be repaid soon and with interest.
Something tugged at Joaquin’s thoughts. Guzman, a jefe in the Sinaloa Cartel, had been Joaquin’s benefactor while in prison. Joaquin had needed protection and the cartel gave it. But not without a price. Everyone who received anything from the cartel repaid the cause. To refuse invited death.
He thought about telling Spencer of his predicament. But what could Spencer do about it? What would the FBI do? And he couldn’t very well go to the police. Some of them were on the cartel’s payroll—he’d be found out, and then he’d be dead.
He needed to face the music. Do the job they gave him without question, without hesitation. But he had already hesitated. He had hoped it would just go away. It hadn’t. The meeting with Guzman would happen, if Joaquin wanted to live.
Maybe he could take Guzman out? That’d be heroic, right? Removing one of the three cartel jefes might set them back.
No, it wouldn’t. They had twenty more in line to take Guzman’s place.
How would his CIA father feel about Joaquin meeting with Guzman? Would he have desired such a meeting? Maybe it was a rare opportunity. The jefe wouldn’t come out of hiding for just anyone. Joaquin and Guzman had grown close behind bars.
Joaquin knew things that Guzman’s own men didn’t know. At one time, he held the jefe’s trust. What if he could use that trust to infiltrate the cartel, learn their secrets and relay that information to Spencer, or Lisa? The thought had promise and carried excitement, the likes of which Joaquin hadn’t experienced since leaving prison.
He picked up the phone and dialed. Not Guzman’s guy, but Spencer. Joaquin relayed to him his predicament and the inevitable meeting with Guzman.
“The Guzman?” Spencer sounded shocked.
“Yeah. We were in Graham together.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why you?”
Joaquin did take it the wrong way. Spencer still saw him as a junkie. Not even worthy of criminal accolades. “I don’t know. I helped him on the inside. And he told me things. Things his guys didn’t even know.”
“Like what?”
Joaquin thought a moment. “You remember the dozen cartel guys that were killed a couple years ago, heads chopped off, with notes pinned to their chests?”
“In Guaymachil?”
“Yeah. News said it was some vigilante, right. But it was Guzman. He had his guys killed because the capo got out of line for doing some drug trafficking on the side. Guzman was pissed so he green lit the whole crew.”
Spencer breathed deep. “Guzman told you this?”
“Yeah, and a lot more.”
For a moment only silence followed. Joaquin checked his cell to make sure he hadn’t accidently ended the call.
“Jaqui,” Spencer said in a hushed, submissive tone, “that’s how your dad died. He had an asset on that crew. He rescued him, saved his life, but...”
A chill rushed through Joaquin’s body. Coincidence? Karma? God? Something moved inside him. A feeling deep down swelled and tears formed in his eyes. He connected to his father in that moment. He sensed his presence, his love, his embrace. He smelled his father’s cologne. In the deep recesses of his mind, all the hatred and resentment against his father stored deep down, exploded, manifesting in deep uncontrollable sobs.
Spencer didn’t speak, but didn’t end the call either.
A moment that felt like an hour passed before Joaquin gained his composure and stuffed the emotion back down where it had come from. “I can be your inside man. Let me do this. Let me...let me make up for all I’ve done.”
"Jaqui, you know I love you. You’re my brother’s brother. I’m glad you’re trying to do the right thing here. And I’m certain that that makes your dad proud. But what you’re proposing is a bit out of our ordinary. If you really have an in with one of the jefes, then you could be of value to us and we’d exploit that—as much as you let us. But know that as your friend, I think you’d be putting yourself in a very dangerous situation. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. You’re all your mom has left.”
“I get it Spence. Really. But I’m meeting with Guzman either way. I don’t have a choice here. The only choice is whether I help you or not.”
Spencer sighed deep. “Your dad died for getting in the way of these guys. If you’re discovered, they won’t just kill you. They’ll take your mom, too.”
“Can’t you protect her?”
“No. I mean, you know I’d do whatever I can for her, but the agency would never approve that. And I don’t want to mislead you.”
“Don’t you see, Spence? This is my shot at redemption.”
“I get that Jaqui, I really do. It’s admirable. But you’ve got to know what you’re risking. I mean, how’s this Guzman guy not going to know that your father was CIA?”
“Guzman thinks I hate my dad, cause I did. I told him he was ICE. And a cheater. He didn’t care. Like I said, he trusts me. Whether that’s merited or misplaced or whatever. He treated me like a son. And look, who cares if he finds out and I get wacked. I’ll die a hero, like my dad and my brother. You just got to promise to keep mom safe.”
Silence followed for a long while. Silence meant Spencer considered his proposal. Finally, Spencer let out a long sigh that sounded much more like a groan. “Okay, Jaqui. You might be onto something. I’ll talk to my boss and if he’s cool with it, I’ll take it to the joint task force. Best have your meeting with Guzman and see where it goes. Are you sure you’re up for this? I mean, this isn’t a game. Maybe I can train you on some spy craft.”
“Hey, I’m an addict. Lying and pretending, that shit’s easy.”
Part 3
Captivity
I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the hig
hest respect for law.
- Martin Luther King Jr.
14
Joaquin couldn’t see straight. How could his father do this to their family? To him? Part of his brain attempted to explain it away, but common sense stood its ground. His father was having an affair. The man that Joaquin had looked up to for as long as he could remember was actually living a lie.
He felt completely alone. Chorch fought in Afghanistan or something like that. He couldn’t tell his mother—that’d be the death of her. She’d find out, but not from him. Joaquin could write Chorch, but what good would that do? So that only left Brina.
He texted her again. Still no answer.
Probably in class. Brina and Joaquin were the same age—technically both were seniors, but Joaquin spent his days at the community college, gaining both college and high school credits for his generals. He had debated this idea. Part of him wanted to just take a bunch of electives, so he could kick back and enjoy his senior year, but at his father’s persuasion he took the more challenging route, getting a jump on his college education.
He didn’t see the point of that now. Why would he try to please a man who lived two lives?
Joaquin pulled up to Queen Creek High School, indicated in gold letters across a purple background. A large bulldog statue stood guard on top of the building.
After speaking to the receptionist and then the attendance admin, Joaquin made his way to Brina’s room, up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor. He didn’t hesitate at the classroom door. He entered and waved, making eye contact with Brina.
“Sorry, Mrs. Sanders.” Brina grabbed her stuff. “I’ve got to go.”
Seeing Brina, seeing her worry and concern, invited the tears like prisoners at an open cell door. But like prison guards he fought to keep the tears at bay. That fight ended when he buried his face into her neck.
“What’s wrong, Jaqui?”
Minutes passed before he calmed down enough to talk. They walked out to his car before he revealed the news about his dad.
She seemed shocked, and started to quiz him on the validity of his observation. He stood firm on what he’d seen and let a few choice words fly to describe the woman that’d destroyed his family.
This led to another embrace and more tears. It surprised Joaquin how emotional he’d become over the actions of another. Maybe because he idolized his father as most boys did. Or maybe because he had friends whose families were disrupted from divorce and affairs. Joaquin had taken comfort in knowing that he’d never have to worry about such things. But now he did.
“I got your back,” Brina said. “How can I help you?”
“Let’s get out of here.”
They went to Filibertos with the hopes that some carne asada fries might cheer him up. He barely touched them. They drove around, eventually ending up in Tempe, near Arizona State University.
Joaquin drove the Rio Salado Parkway to the riverfront. The Salt River widened and passed under a long cement bridge, flanked with elegant lights. It’d be nice to walk across if it weren’t so damn hot outside.
On either side of the river stood tall office buildings filled with accountants, lawyers, and financial gurus. He and his dad had come to this spot and fished several times when the buildings neared completion.
“Jaqui,” his father had said, “do you know what it takes to construct such a massive building?”
Joaquin shrugged.
“Guys mined the steel, made the beams, cast the bolts; the wood was farmed and the cement quarried and mixed. There are so many moving and working parts to create something so beautiful and enormous. They say pyramids took 20 years to build and they don’t even compare to the size and complexity of those skyscrapers that’ll be done within a year.”
Joaquin hadn’t ever thought of that before. Now the tall metal skeletons were suddenly fascinating.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jaqui,” his father said, “you can be whatever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. You could be the guy that mines the steel. You could be the guy that builds the beams. You could be the guy that draws the plans for the building or gets them approved by the city. Or you could be the guy that works in one of the offices. Maybe a stockbroker or an attorney or an accountant. You’ll find your place in this world, son, I have no doubt of that. Some aren’t smart enough and they become whatever the world tells them to become. But you, Jaqui, you’ve got greatness in you.”
Those words echoed in Joaquin’s ears. He hadn’t come to the riverfront to reminisce. It seemed his father’s voice was everywhere.
He needed to get it out of his head so he turned his attention to Brina. Beautiful Brina. With her brown eyes, deeper than the darkness he felt. Her long bangs pushed back over her ear, exposing the tip like the elves in Lord of the Rings.
She wore a friendship bracelet, braided for her by her younger sister. The dirty strands, blended in with her tan skin. Joaquin put a hand on her thigh. She wore bellbottom jeans, and flip flops, exposing painted nails and a silver flower toe-ring.
He found a spot near the waterfront and threw the car into park, but left it running for the AC. He cuddled up to her. She let him kiss her again and again.
Lewis, a kid from his English 101 class had passed out invitations to a party near the ASU campus. It wouldn’t start for a few hours, but it might provide some distraction. Brina agreed to tag along, though she expressed concern about drinking and drugs. He assured her that it wouldn’t be that kind of party.
“C’mon, Lewis is a good guy.”
She continued her protest, “I don’t want to get hit on by a bunch of college guys.”
“You’d like it,” Joaquin said. The thought made his stomach turn. Rage pulsed in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’d knock ‘em out.”
“Ahh. You’d do that for me?” Brina said.
“Of course. Just say the word and they’re dead.”
“So you’re a hit man now?”
“Dad always said I could become whatever I put my mind to.”
The conversation died in an awkward tension. They returned to making out.
After a half an hour or so, he tried to take it further, thinking that this time unlike the few others, she’d allow it given his emotional state. He needed this. He needed her. But she didn’t oblige. And unlike the other times, he reacted with more than a shrug. She wasn’t on his side. He couldn’t count on her. And this fueled the rage beneath.
His mind told him to keep it buried. But it surfaced just enough that their make-out session ended and Joaquin funneled some of that anger into the car’s accelerator. They sped up the road back to University Drive. He squealed the tires around the corner and noticed Brina tense as she gripped the dash.
“Slow down, Jacqui.”
He ignored her. Brina didn’t want to go to the party now, but that didn’t matter to Joaquin. She didn’t have his back like she claimed.
He parked the car down the street, behind a line of other vehicles leading to the frat house.
“Later,” he said, and tossed her the keys.
He entered the house, turned around and spotted Brina coming up the walkway. He suspected she would stay, but he ignored her, letting her follow him around like a puppy dog.
In the corner stood a beautiful blonde, in a low cut top. Out of instinct, Joaquin looked away, but she caught his glance and smiled—Hanna from his English class. A stupid sly idea came to him and he made his approach, Brina not far behind, but just enough.
“Hey, Hanna.”
“Hey.”
“You look nice.”
“Thanks,” she smiled. Perfect.
Brina came to his side catching Hanna’s attention.
“Oh, this is Brina. She’s still in high school.” Not, she’s my girlfriend, my best friend, my life. He would replay this scene over and over in his head while in prison. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. But at that moment
, it was part of their dance. She’d hurt him so she deserved to be hurt.
He’d never forget the pain in her eyes, the fear, and insecurity, but most of all the disgust. She said nothing—she didn’t have to. She just shook her head and left.
Joaquin knew he should’ve followed her. But he convinced himself that she’d left him, abandoning him when he needed her most.
Hanna turned her attention to a few other guys and just as well. Joaquin couldn’t stand her in class. She had this annoying habit of consistently asking questions that the professor had answered seconds earlier.
Joaquin found Brandon who introduced him to Wizzy. No explanation for the odd name and Joaquin didn’t ask. Wizzy lit a black cigarette. When it came to Joaquin, he realized it was actually the front half of a mechanical pencil, the inside mechanism had been discarded and the front hallowed out, alongside the narrow tip. A rubber hose formed a grip around the back.
“What’s this?” Joaquin asked.
“This? This is freaky awesome!” Wizzy said. He sifted something that looked like pink rock salt into the hallowed out tip. “Hold it here.”
Joaquin took the rubber hose between his thumb and forefinger and held the plastic pencil tube up to his mouth. Wizzy opened his lighter and placed the flame underneath. “Now, breathe in.”
Joaquin did, feeling the warm air with a chemical taste. There wasn’t a lot to breathe in, but it only took a second for the feeling of elation to hit his mind. He’d later read how meth would trick the brain’s receptors into picking up the chemical, thinking it dopamine, resulting in a pleasure filled euphoria unlike any Joaquin had ever experienced before.
He could see.
He could breathe.
This world that had been hell-bent on bringing him down had disappeared in the awesome. Who cared about his father and his father’s mistress? Who cared about Brina not putting out? Who cared about the war on terror or high school or college or anything? Joaquin could do whatever he wanted to do. His road opened up before him. Invincible. Nothing would ever hold him back or bring him down again. He had found the secret to happiness, the pathway to self-actualization. They called it meth.