Baja Get Away

by Jinx Schwartz

Jeff squared away the bill, we grabbed another cup of coffee from the office, and we hit Mex One again. Any feeling of well-being I’d felt over the evening hit the dumper.

  Today was the day I’d dreaded for over five years.

  And if I didn’t already worry about the outcome enough, not far north we joined a long line of cars and trucks lined up at a military stop. As we waited, I jumped out with Scruffy to let him take a whiz while crept along in line, and a car with Arizona plates, headed slowly south, stopped next to us.

  “Nice dog. You might as well give him a good walk. They’re stopping every damned car in both directions and taking their own sweet time about it. Must be looking for someone.”

  How did those hungry rats get into my stomach? I swallowed hard and my head went light. I forced a smile. “Uh, thanks. Any idea who they’re after?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. They asked a lot of questions about where we were from, where we’re going, the usual.” Then he fixed me with a stare. “Oh, and to be on the lookout for a redhaired gringa.”

  I’m sure my mouth dropped open before I could regain control.

  “Matter of fact, they gave me this,” he waved a card, “just in case I saw one. Here,” he handed it to me, “you can call ‘em yourself.”

  I almost melted into a puddle of relief. Or a puddle of something.

  “Oh, thank you,” I managed to stammer.

  “S’okay. I don’t much care for cops, and danged sure no Mexican cops. You take care now. And, put on a hat, for cryin’ out loud.”

  ***

  I pulled my hoody over my head, and casually walked back to the van, but it took every bit of self-control I could muster not to run. I was shaking like a leaf when I jumped through the open slider.

  “Red, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “They’re looking for me!”

  “How do you know?”

  I told him about the conversation with the gringo angel from Arizona.

  “Well, crap. Get out your Hetta ID and give me your passport and other IDs.”

  “The man says they’re searching the cars. Once they see me, we are toast.”

  “You want to turn around?”

  “We’re getting too close. I’m afraid they’ll spot us. We’ll have to tough it out.’’

  By the time we were finally waved into first in line, I lay in the bed, positioned so I could see out the driver’s side window. Scruffy was in the copilote’s seat with his big head hanging out his window, but when we pulled up to a harried looking officer, he went plumb bonkers. Jeff was wrestling to control eighty-five pounds of furious dog as the young man, who taken a fast step back, said, “Good morning, sir. Identification, please.” He didn’t reach inside the van for the IDs, and kept a wary eye on the Devil Dawg being held at bay on the other side of the car.

  “Let him come back here, Honey,” I said, my voice warbling. I held out a dog biscuit and Scruffy joined me on the bed. “Good dog,” I whispered.

  Jeff dutifully handed over Hetta Coffey’s driver’s license, his, and Scruffy’s paperwork.

  The young soldier looked at the documents. “I do not need your dog’s papers, sir. Please, turn off your engine and exit the car. Is it permissible to search the vehicle?”

  “Sure. Come on, Scruffy.”

  “No, not necessary! But please, sir, open the back.”

  I put a pillow over my head but let what looked like my bulging abdomen show under my sweat shirt. “What’s going on?” I wailed.

  “Just another inspection station, Sweetheart. We are almost to San Diego, I promise.”

  I groaned. “How much longer?”

  “About an hour.”

  Moaning louder, I asked for water.

  The slider opened a bit and Scruffy rumbled like thunder. Two soldiers, who looked to be around ten years old, peered through the small opening and called to the man in charge, who was questioning Jeff on the other side. When the officer arrived at the door he gave me a look, then checked the driver’s license in his hand. “Miss Coffey? Can you leave the vehicle while we perform an inspection?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, pushing myself to seated, then falling back on my pillow with an, Ooof! “Uh, maybe not by myself.” I extended my hand. “Will you help me?”

  He stared at my rumbling mutt, then my reaching arm, and retreated like I was trying to hand him a rattlesnake. Whipping around on his heel, he left and quickly returned with an older man in full uniform, not just field cammies.

  “Señora, do you speak Spanish,” he asked me in Spanish.

  “Poco.”

  “Are you here on vacation?”

  I started to answer, but Jeff intervened, in English. “Yes, sir. We left Bahia Concepcion earlier than planned because my fiancé is having pain. She is only eight months, but better safe than sorry, you know.”

  The first officer translated.

  By now the young soldiers were half-heartedly rifling through our glove compartment, tapping on the sides of the car, looking under any seat out of striking distance of the dog, and checking under the hood.

  The big kahuna barked some orders and left. The hood slammed shut and the original officer handed Jeff our papers. “When you get to the border, please go into the medical lane crossing.”

  ***

  “Man, oh, man, what a rush,” Jeff yelled. “Scruffy, when we get to San Diego, I’m buying you your own steak. Those guys couldn’t wait to get rid of us.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get too cocky, Chico. I think that was the last inspection station, but you never know. They spring up without notice sometimes.”

  “You played that perfectly, Red. I especially liked the groans and requests for water. But the best was when you asked him to help you out of the van. That was sheer genius. You should be in Hollywood. I can’t wait to introduce you to my friends and family. They are going to love you like I do.”

  I didn’t reply to that, because I had a huge lump in my throat.

  Despite the road delay, we had plenty of time to make our veterinary appointment in Tijuana, and as we were told it would, the pet clinic appointment went smoothly.

  They looked at the papers from PAWs, charged us for a vet visit and, for another twenty bucks, gave us a pass for the medical lane at the border crossing.

  When we got back to the van, Jeff said, “I’m not so sure we should split up, but one thing for certain, I am not going to cross that border until I know for sure you’re on American soil. It’s taken me thirty-eight years to find you, and you’re not going to get away. I am in love with you.”

  “How do you know so soon?”

  “Don’t you?”

  I couldn’t stop a tear from escaping. “Y…yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “I’m not, really. I’m just plumb wore down by tension.”

  “Let’s find a room and I’ll fix that.”

  In spite of my jangled nerves, I smiled. “Sex fiend.”

  “It’s your fault. Okay, let’s get this crossing over with. Show me where to let you out, and then I’ll see you on the other side.”

  I checked a map the veterinarian gave me. “Okay. As soon as I leave the van, go up one block, then enter where it says FAST PASS AND MEDICAL ONLY, or something like that. I’ll call you as soon as I clear the pedestrian crossing.”

  We shared a long kiss, I gave Scruffy a tight hug, and then I stepped out into the chaos of Tijuana’s border crossing area.

  As Jeff and Scruffy pulled away, I cursed myself for every stupid thing I’d done to land me in this mess. But, it was time to pay the piper.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I walked slowly toward the Ped West pedestrian crossing, trying very much to emulate a lost tourist, while using my rubbernecking techniques to scan for anyone who seemed to take an obvious interest in me. Well, other than hawkers, who all took an interest because I looked like a lost tourist. Me thinks I need to bone up on my avoidance skills.<
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  Sure enough, as I was handing an old man in a wheelchair a hundred peso note, my stomach gave a little jump; across the street, two Mexican men, who fit the profile of the so-called undercover federales I’d become familiar with in Cabo, were scrutinizing US-bound foot traffic. Despite that sudden stab of fear, I inwardly groaned at their piss-poor disguises. Clad in plaid shirts, jeans, and cowboy boots, they were practically in uniform. When they were seriously making a bust, they’d have a gun tucked, gangsta-style, into the back of their belts.

  Just as one of them zeroed in on me, I stepped into Ped West, joined a rush of bodies, and sighed with relief, knowing I’d reached the sanctuary of United States territory.

  I thought it a little too obvious to kiss the concrete—not to mention there was no amount of hand sanitizer to overcome such a gesture—so I chanted silent hurrahs, and took a moment the contemplate how lucky I was to be an American.

  And how I had abused a privilege of birth that others were literally dying to obtain.

  Now that I was one of the throng of the twenty-thousand people who cross from Mexico into San Diego on a daily basis, I started to relax a bit, hoping those numbers were in my favor.

  Much like a security line at any airport, we shuffled forward, put our bags on a belt for inspection by X-ray, and maybe a more thorough look, if necessary. At least I didn’t have to pull my shoes off. When it was my turn, I presented my real passport.

  An agent looked at it, entered something into a computer, and asked, “How long were you in Mexico?”

  Should I lie? If I said over five years, that would certainly raise a red flag. However, I was pretty sure that computer data base already told him something, so do they know when someone goes south? We don’t check out of the country, after all.

  I tossed a mental coin. Heads. “Three months,” I lied, fully expecting some secret lazar ray to read my blood pressure and sound a loud alarm.

  “And what are you bringing back?”

  I held up my backpack. “This is it.”

  “What are you bringing back from Mexico?”

  “Oh, some tee shirts, sandals. That’s it.”

  “No medications?”

  “Only birth control pills.”

  While I was mentally taking inventory of my backpack’s contents, he was inputting info into his keyboard. He stood, and as my temples pounded, waved me into what I figured was secondary. “Please, wait here.”

  Wait, where was the “welcome home” thing?

  Within seconds, two female agents escorted me through a door into a small room.

  Busted. But what for? I decided to clam up until I had a hint.

  After some further questioning and a second search of my backpack, but not, thank goodness, a strip search, I was taken to another room. Small and windowless, there was a desk and a chair bolted to the floor.

  The moment that door closed, I took my phone from my pocket, hoping to call my sister in Texas, but I had no bars. I was staring at it in dismay when the door banged open and they asked for my phone. Oh, what the hell; I had no service anyway, and they already had my iPad.

  “Uh, could I have some water?” I pleaded.

  “Sure. I’ll be back,” an older woman told me. She was in uniform, but didn’t seem, like, a meanie, as Muffie would probably say. That made me smile.

  After another hour, and no one arrived with water or any questions, I convinced myself I was going to be sent packing back to Mexico, then argued with myself that they couldn’t do that to an American citizen, could they? At least not immediately?

  Finally, the female agent arrived with two paper cups of cold water. “Sorry, honey, we got busy out there,” she said sweetly.

  “Can you tell me why I am being detained?” I asked, my voice a little shaky.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t know, but even if I did, I couldn’t tell you,” she said, less sweetly.

  “Above your pay grade?”

  “What?”

  Now I had her full attention, probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. But I was tired, hungry, and if they were going to arrest me, why not go ahead and do it? “I want to know how long I’ll be here, and why.”

  She shook her head and turned to leave, but as she did, I yelled, “I want a lawyer.”

  Gee, that felt good, but evidently wasn’t the right thing to say, either.

  After two more hours in that godforsaken room, I crawled onto the table, curled up in a ball, and cried myself to sleep.

  ***

  When the door opened again, I had absolutely no idea what time it was, whether it was dark or light outside, or how long I’d slept.

  “Okay, Ms. Haskamp, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” a new female officer said, handing me a bottle of water. “You got caught in a shift change.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A couple of hours. You hungry?”

  “Yes. For a Big Mac. In San Diego.”

  She semi-smiled. “Not quite yet. There are people who need to talk with you.”

  “Are they Mexicans?” I blurted.

  She tilted her head and studied me for a moment. “Not that I know of.”

  Thank you, thank you, thank you, God!

  ***

  My new digs had a bunk with a thin rubber mattress, which I was grateful for. After the past few hours I felt like I had upgraded to a Four Seasons. However, lack of information was gnawing at my guts. Why hadn’t I Googled information about my situation before crossing back into the US?

  I knew nada, nothing, Jack doo-doo, about the rules of engagement for being busted. Cop and lawyer books, and TV dramas, enlighten us somewhat about being arrested and jailed by regular cops, but I tried to remember if I’d ever seen or read anything, other than Border Patrol rounding up illegals, about what happened next if Homeland Security got their mitts on you. Did they owe me an explanation of any kind as to why I was being detained?

  I could certainly think of at least two things, but I wished they’d tell me so I could at least feign indignation. For all the good that would do me.

  “Can you tell me why I’ve been arrested?” I asked, for what seemed the umpteenth time.

  “We do not arrest people, we only detain them until their legal status is ascertained.”

  “I’m an American citizen. I gave you my passport.”

  She eyed me. “You asked for a lawyer, so we are waiting for one before you can be questioned further.”

  “Can I at least have my phone or iPad back?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll ask. But I doubt it.”

  “Okay,” I huffed, “how about this? Do I have any rights at all?”

  She lowered her voice and almost whispered. “You have no idea how lucky you are. You could be in a holding cell with a dozen or so more people and one toilet bolted to the floor. We are overwhelmed here. I’ll make sure you get food soon.”

  Shutting the door behind her, she left me to ponder my “luck.”

  Funny thing about that. Once I was given a ham and cheese sandwich, a coke and a bag of potato chips, and I had occasion to utilize my own private toilet, I considered myself pretty lucky. And, I wasn’t in jail. Yet. Strange how small things become blessings in the face of alternatives.

  So, I was evidently being given somewhat preferential treatment, but wondered if it was because I was a bona fide American citizen. It doesn’t take long in a tech vacuum to really, really, miss Google. Once again I lamented my stupidity of not doing my homework.

  Perhaps, Becky, because you and Jeff were humping like rabbits?

  Jeff! How long had it been since I left the van? Was he trying to call me? If so, would the agents answer? Crap, they couldn’t. They didn’t have my PIN.

  I banged on the door, and it swung open.

  “I want to give you my iPhone’s PIN, in case someone calls.”

  A male agent told me to standby and returned with another female agent. Witness?
So they can later prove I gave them info willingly?

  They led me to another room, where there was a desk, a couple of chairs, and obvious cameras. I gave them the PIN for my phone and iPad, they said thank you, gave me a piece of paper to read, and returned me to my cell. Okay, it felt like a cell, no matter what they called it.

  I held onto that piece of paper like a treasure. For someone who keeps books at hand at all times, the past hours of staring at the walls had been a torture.

  Relishing having something, anything, to read I was disappointed at its brevity.

  In a nutshell, it told me the Fourth Amendment did not apply in border areas. Probable cause and reasonable suspicion are not needed to search people, American or not.

  So, I was flagged. But for which crime?

  Curling up and bawling for a while numbed my whirling mind a bit.

  I splashed water on my face and decided to reflect on the pros and cons as I knew them.

  On the bright side, if I was this frightened on US soil, I could only imagine what a nightmare it would have been to be detained on suspicion of murder in Mexico.

  I didn’t kill Barry, so at least that was one crime I was innocent of.

  I have a fabulous new dog.

  Despite the mess I found myself in, I was falling in love with a great guy, who said he loved me back. At least until he found out who I was.

  On the downside, none of the above meant squat if I was headed for long vacation in Club Fed.

  And that love thing? I’d fallen for what I thought was a good guy once before, and it ended up in disaster. Jeff probably wouldn’t or couldn’t visit me in the hoosegow, and my dog? What would happen to him?

  Another downer: Innocence is in the eyes of the court, which I’d avoided by heading for Mexico, thereby showing them how guilty I was.

  Only one thing became crystal clear: I needed a shower.

  ***

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Miss Haskamp? Wake up. We need to talk.”

  In my dream, Jeff rode toward me astride a large, golden, rough-coated stallion, galloping in to free me from a Mexican prison.

  I raised my arms toward him and wrist loops lifted the skirt of my long, rust-colored, gauzy gown as I did so. But he started to fade, and why was he asking me to wake up?