Surprise Witness: A. Stein & Associates Thriller Read online

  Lunch did not arise as a topic until, at 3:00 p.m., Marlon announced that he was starved. And exhausted. Allen was a runner and unfazed by the hours of wandering around on the cobbled streets. Marlon did not believe in exercise, as a rule. On the rare exception when he exerted himself, it took its toll, as it had today. Paco suggested that Marlon and Allen return to their hotel and have a siesta. He would retrieve them at 6:00, and they would go to Paco’s humble home, as he put it, for cocktails and dinner.

  After leaving his new friends, Paco imagined Marlon and Allen speculating about him.

  With his auburn hair pulled back into a short tail, freckles, grey eyes, and flat English vowels, Paco was certainly an American by birth. Paco had admitted to being born in Texas but avoided specifics, as he did when telling Marlon and Allen that his occupation was as a teacher and historian.

  A mystery: An intelligent, widely read, late-middle-aged, American man living alone in a Mexican hill town for decades, friendly, but with a watchful reserve. Paco did not intend to enlighten them.

  Two hours later, Paco led his guests up a narrow, stone staircase to the second floor of a worn, stucco house next to the cathedral. The first floor of the building served as the rectory, where the resident priest lived, Paco explained. He opened the narrow wooden door at the top of the stairs and bade his guests enter.

  Paco watched his guests take in his one-room apartment. A bar with three stools divided the room into a living space on the left and kitchen on the right. The appliances in his kitchen had aged gracefully, Paco thought. The narrow, one-doored refrigerator had a weathered ivory hue, as did the four-burner gas stove. Gleaming, steel-colored pots, pans, griddles, and sieves of professional quality hung on hooks above the bar. The molé sauce bubbling in a pot on the stove wafted a rich smell through the room.

  Paco had furnished his living area with a low couch covered with an unadorned red cloth and two wooden, upright chairs. He chose the simple, unobtrusive furniture to highlight the room’s centerpiece: A magnificent, twenty-square-foot area rug, a tapestry embroidered with an enormous, green and scarlet quetzal in full flight on a background of variegated jungle greens.

  Past the living area, on the left, an area curtained off from the main room signaled Paco’s sleeping quarters. On the right, against the far wall, stood his nondescript desk on which sat a PC and three monitors. When Paco gave them a brief tour, nodding towards the door catty-corner to the desk with a “WC” stenciled on it, Allen’s gaze turned toward the Dell tower on the floor beside the desk. He had noticed Paco’s high-end computing capacity.

  Paco sat his guests in the living area and offered them martinis. He knew from the day’s meandering conversations that Marlon and Allen both preferred very dry gin martinis for cocktail hour. The three chatted while Paco completed dinner preparations in the kitchen.

  “Are you the artist?” Allen asked, pointing to the wall across from the kitchen, on which hung a dozen eight-by-ten, black-and-white photographs in clear, lucite frames.

  Paco laughed. “I took the pictures, if that’s what you mean,” he answered.

  “You’re far too modest,” Allen responded. “Those are the work of an artist.”

  “You seem to have a thing for birds,” Marlon said, sipping his drink. “Are all of them local?”

  “Yes,” Paco answered. “This area supports a rich diversity of flora and fauna because of the varying altitude, rainfall, and vegetation in the surrounding district. I am particularly drawn to the beauty and grace of the birds. Watching them disappear, high in the skies, lifts my spirits.”

  Paco served empanadas with the molé, black beans, rice, and corn tortillas, accompanied by several glasses of Malbec. After the meal, Paco excused himself and disappeared into his curtained sleeping nook.

  A couple of minutes later, Marlon exclaimed, “The Pearl Fishers!” as the opening notes of “Au fond du temple saint” from Bizet’s opera filled the room. “Amazing sound,” Marlon continued. “What kind of equipment do you have?” he asked as Paco lifted the curtain and reentered the living area.

  “An old vacuum tube amplifier,” Paco answered, smiling. “It’s been a beast to keep working, but you can’t beat the quality. And a turntable and vinyls.”

  Marlon nodded his head appreciatively. “Why am I sure you’ve got quite a collection of those vinyls, Paco?” he asked wryly.

  Paco grinned. “We’ll work our way up, in terms of emotional intensity, starting with this aria. We’ll end the evening with Don Giovanni. Drink up, for the night is young.”

  Three hours later, Allen began abstaining from Paco’s offer of refills. Marlon, however, stumbled on his return trip from the loo.

  Paco leaned his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. The alcohol and opera in such good company had disarmed him. He felt a tear run down his face. He leaned forward, put his face in his hands, and wept. When he had calmed himself, Paco told his story.

  It was 1968. People’s Park in Berkeley was far away, but Paco, a senior in high school, was doing his best to get in on the revolution. He would not have gotten very far except his girlfriend had an older cousin who lived in Austin. The cousin, Linda, had gotten a scholarship and was attending the University of Texas. Linda was a flower child, as she put it. Every so often, Paco and his girlfriend saved up enough from their occasional jobs to take the bus into Austin to stay with Linda. Paco learned a lot from Linda and her friends. Linda even let him try a toke of marijuana, though she would not let a “little kid” try her hash brownies.

  Once, while in Austin, Paco joined Linda and her friends in a march protesting the Vietnam War. The university students told Paco about draft dodgers fleeing to Canada to avoid fighting in an unjust war. Paco thought the draftees had another reason to escape. The images he saw on the evening television news of the fighting in the jungle frightened Paco. Still, it was all far from Paco’s remote, rural community deep in Texas.

  Paco registered for the draft when he was eighteen, as required by law.

  One week after his high school graduation, Paco walked out to the street in front of his house to get the mail. He recognized the return address on the one envelope lying in the box. Heart pounding, he extracted the single sheet bearing his draft notice.

  “As many times as I run it through my head, the next few days remain a blur,” Paco told his guests. “I do know I skipped the date I was supposed to report for duty. I sold my bike and took the bus to the airport in Houston. Canada seemed too far from home, so I bought a one-way ticket to Mexico City at the TWA counter.”

  “Did you have your passport?” Marlon asked. He looked like he was sobering up quickly.

  “No, of course not,” Paco answered. “I didn’t have one. I didn’t know I needed one. I didn’t know where or how I would live in Mexico, or anything about the consequences of dodging the draft. I was only eighteen. Young and stupid.” Paco smiled wanly.

  “The ticket agent, a pretty blonde lady in a red uniform, pointed me towards the gate for my flight. I joined the handful of other passengers in the departure lounge. Everybody but I wore a business suit and had their faces buried in a newspaper. I sat on one of the hard, plastic seats and stuffed my mom’s battered blue Samsonite between my feet.”

  “I reached into my duffle for the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had brought. I stopped and sat upright when a man in a Texas State police uniform walked into the lounge. The officer scanned the area, then started towards me. Maybe the nice ticket agent sent him, I thought in a last burst of hope, because she had directed me to the wrong gate. The police officer grabbed my arm.”

  “He took me into a room marked ‘official personnel only’ and sat me down on a straight wooden chair. A minute later, two other men in suits, not uniforms,
came in. One pulled an ID card from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it out. I have no recollection of the name on the card, but he was FBI. He told me I was under arrest for the federal crime of violating the Selective Service Act. I must have looked confused because he said, ‘dodging the draft, coward.’”

  “How did they find you?” Marlon asked. “And so quickly! What would have been the penalty if you’d been convicted? Do …”

  “I don’t know any of that,” Paco interrupted. “All I know is what happened. I was scared shirtless on top of being tired and confused. I remember thinking I deserved what was coming. I’d screwed everything up. My dad would …” his voice trailed off.

  Abruptly, Paco hauled himself to his feet. “I need one more shot,” he said. “Anybody else?” Allen and Marlon demurred.

  Paco silently strode to the bar and poured Tequila into his glass. He took a swig and, still standing, wrapped up his story.

  “The FBI agent said I had one alternative to jail. If I renounced my U.S. citizenship, I could go free. Not back home, but on to Mexico. I had my boarding pass, and that’s all I would need. So, that’s what I did. Took an oath and relinquished the U.S. of A. For good. Forever.”

  Paco lifted his empty glass in a mock toast. His knees buckled. He slid down the side of the bar onto his backside, landing heavily, eyes closed.

  He felt a touch on his forearm, then Marlon’s voice. “We’ll be back tomorrow with a pot of coffee from the café. Around noon.”

  ***

  A chime from Outlook woke him. Paco sat up abruptly and looked at his watch. He had fallen asleep over his reminisces.

  Paco opened his laptop and read the email from Marlon, excitement growing. His friendship with Marlon had become, over the years, the focal point of his otherwise dismal existence. Paco had not thought that this relationship could grow in importance. Yet, it had. Marlon had just handed him his ticket out. Perhaps.

  Chapter 4

  Undocumented

  Will rose from his chair and walked to the wall of windows on the east side of Aaron’s office. The spring dusk softened the top of the Capitol Dome, barely visible at the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue. He began to pace.

  “Okay, I dealt with José during the afternoon session,” Will began. He stopped and glanced at his colleagues. “But I’ve got another problem.”

  “Go on,” Aaron commanded. The other attorneys sat quietly, prepared to conference all night if Will needed them.

  “I’m not sure what to do about Mauricio,” Will said. He resumed his pacing.

  Mauricio was Will’s star fact witness on liability. Mauricio managed J&A’s building materials on-site. He would tell the jury how the company purchased, transported, stored, and handled those materials. Based on Mauricio’s testimony, or the factual foundation he would establish, Will’s two expert witnesses would opine that J&A’s processes met industry safety requirements. In other words, J&A did not cause the defect in the plywood. The culprit had to be the defendants.

  “I planned on calling Mauricio to testify tomorrow, in fact,” Will concluded, “but I need to know what’s coming in terms of his status before I do. José is a citizen, but what do I know about Mauricio? Nothing. I’d like you guys to be here for Mauricio’s story and then help me decide what to do.”

  “Is Mauricio here?” Marlon asked.

  “No,” Will answered. “José is, though. It took some real convincing to get José to tell us what he knows about his father, by the way, which confirms that I do have a problem.”

  “I understand why José would be reluctant to spill the beans,” Cassandra said. “If Mauricio is exposed as undocumented, he could be arrested and deported. His life, and his family’s, destroyed in a heartbeat.”

  “I know,” Will said impatiently. “That’s why we’re here, after all. I can’t do anything to risk Mauricio’s secrets coming to light. José wouldn’t want me to, either. I’m certain. But I need Mauricio’s evidence in this trial.” Will massaged his forehead heavily.

  Will signaled Jim, who stood post at the closed door to Aaron’s office. A few minutes later, Jim returned with José.

  “Have a seat, José,” Will motioned, “and tell us about your dad. Start with when and how he came to the United States, please.”

  “Dad crossed the border from the state of Tamaulipas in Mexico without papers when he was sixteen, fleeing his family’s extreme poverty. He made his way to Houston, found a room in the home of another Mexican migrant, and got day jobs in construction. Dad settled into the local immigrant community.”

  José looked at Will, who flashed an approving smile. José continued.

  “Dad could fill his stomach in his adopted country, for which he was grateful, he told me. He was also hard-working and ambitious, despite his lack of any formal education. Dad wanted more than hauling lumber and pounding nails for the rest of his life. His undocumented status stood in his way. Dad knew he had to become a U.S. citizen to succeed.”

  “Dad’s status bothered him for another reason, as well. Dad was raised a Catholic, and he sat in the village church with his family every Sunday morning. He heard the village padre warn, time and again, that lying was a sin. Sinners went to hell unless the sinner confessed and was given absolution in the sacrament of penance. Nobody at the construction sites where Dad worked ever asked him if he were legal. Technically, then, he had not lied, but he still felt guilty. Dad feared confessing to a priest in America, however. He knew a Mexican priest could not disclose what was said in the confessional, but he was not sure about American priests.”

  “Wait a minute,” Miranda interrupted José’s story. “I thought employers were required by law to check the immigration status of prospective employees. But nobody asked your father?”

  José shrugged. “The rules change over time, and so do enforcement efforts. Back then, at least in Texas and in construction, nobody asked. Nobody cared, I guess, because the undocumented Mexicans were cheap labor.”

  “Still are,” Marlon observed. “I mean, way underpaid for the backbreaking work they do, like shingling roofs and harvesting grapes.”

  “Soon after my dad got back from the war, things changed,” José continued. “Companies weren’t hiring without social security cards, and that’s when Dad bought his counterfeit card.”

  “He what?” Miranda asked.

  “What war?” Will asked simultaneously.

  “Vietnam,” José answered. “Back to your question in a minute, Miranda. Just after Dad turned eighteen, one of the older immigrants he had befriended told him about the service-to-citizenship opportunity. Dad jumped at the chance. He asked around, found out where to go, took a bus, and presented himself at the closest Army Recruitment Center to enlist. He was shipped off to Vietnam.”

  “Interesting,” Marlon observed, rhythmically tapping the fingers of his right hand on his knee as though caressing the keys of a piano.

  “Dad served his tour, returned to Texas, and sent in his application for citizenship, along with a copy of his separation papers. To his dismay and disbelief, his application was denied. He had no idea to whom to complain because he did not know who was responsible for the decision or why it had been made. So, he sent letter after letter to various offices at the State Department and Department of Defense. He received a few canned responses—’this office has no jurisdiction over the events at issue’—but nothing at all helpful.”

  “Dad took a bus to Annapolis and found the office of his district’s representative in the Maryland State House. Lacking an appointment, he waited for hours. Finally, an aide to the representative met with Dad and listened to his story. When Dad finished, the aide shrugged and said the Feds had made their decision,
presumably the right one. There was nothing his boss could do.”

  “Dad gave up. He bought his counterfeit social security card, as his old friends in Houston had advised. He went back into construction jobs, fell in love with my mom, Berta, another undocumented Mexican, and married.”

  “Mom was pregnant with me when she traveled to see her parents’ family physician in Mexico. Mom needed medical care, a pregnancy-related complication, I was told. My folks couldn’t afford the treatment in the States. I was born prematurely in my grandmother’s house in Mexico. Because I was not born in the States, I was undocumented, like my parents. I bought my own counterfeit social security card to get jobs. When I married Alicia, an American citizen, I became a citizen.”

  “After which you sponsored your father for his green card, I suppose?” Cassandra asked. Cassandra would never take on the representation of a client in an immigration matter, as she was far from an expert in that field. She worked pro bono at an immigration law clinic earlier in her career, however, and had some basic knowledge of the rules.

  José shook his head, no. “You can’t adjust someone’s status unless the preexisting status is legal, which Dad’s wasn’t,” he answered. “Except, in some circumstances, through marriage. I got lucky.”

  The room fell silent.

  Will stood.

  “Sit down, Will,” Aaron said testily. “It’s getting late, and your pacing is getting on my nerves.”