Where to Choose

by Penny Mickelbury

  They rode in silence for a long while, Carole Ann assessing her feelings based on viewing the attack on her mother from a different perspective. Not that she could accept or excuse it, but she thought she could understand it. People who are treated like animals often behave like animals. But what of people like the Gutierrez men? What could one say about them? And what could she say for herself? Where did she fit on the continuum? For an instant she wished that she could trade places with Mr. Asmara, that it had been Gutierrez she’d killed and not one of the contraband. And immediately she re­gretted being glad she’d killed anyone, and that she’d thought of an­other human being as contraband. What the hell was happening here?

  She must have made a noise of disgust or dismay because An­thony asked if she was all right and she shook her head. But before he could inquire further, she committed a major no-no: She offered unsolicited, free legal advice. “You know, you can do more than get your record cleared. With Gutierrez on the block, you can get rein­stated. With pay, benefits, the works.”

  He gave a funny look, one she couldn’t read. “That’s just what Miss Allen said. Come to think of it, you’re a lot like her.”

  “Really,” she said dryly, fully regretting having opened that door. “Are you an Addie Allen kind of lawyer? Do you bill the rich early and often so you can help the poor for free?”

  She was silent for so long she knew he thought she’d dozed off. But she was wide awake. She was silent because she wanted to an­swer his question and found that she could not. She didn’t know what kind of lawyer she was. At the moment, she was no kind of lawyer. She didn’t practice law. And she didn’t want to. She thought of what Addie and Warren did and knew that she no longer wanted to fill her days and nights with the technical aspects of lawyering. She recalled the buzz she got when she thought of representing Hamas Asmara. Warren had been right about what she wanted to do. But the feeling had been fleeting. She didn’t want to do what they did, not anymore. But she believed in what they were doing. So where did she fit in? Who needed, who wanted, a non-practicing at­torney? She looked out the window and tried to remember the last time she’d been this far south of L.A. and could recall only that A1 had not been with her on that trip; she and Marge had made the drive to the spa and had spent the day in various hedonistic pursuits, chief among them mud baths and massages. The desert was a perfect place for such endeavors. It was too hot during the day to do much of anything but relax, and too cool in the desert night to venture too far from the fireplace and a good book.

  It was too dark to see the landscape, but she knew what was out there: Scrub grass and cacti and the homes of the hardy or the fool­hardy, as sparsely placed as the foliage. Despite years of overdevel­opment of the Los Angeles Basin and everything around it, there were sections of the desert that refused to be controlled, where wild­ness prevailed. Carole Ann always had loved these places and the places her imagination took her as she speculated on the nature of those who chose to live in the wild, and the reasons for their choices. At this very moment, she felt a keen understanding of those motiva­tions.

  For an instant she indulged fantasy and imagined herself living in the desert, surrounded by the aloneness with which she had become so familiar in the last year. Out here, she wouldn’t be required to be an Addie Allen kind of lawyer—or any kind of lawyer. Out here, she could be nobody. Or somebody about whom nobody else har­bored expectations.

  “You’re the lawyer who beat Griffin’s dirty-cop rap, aren’t you?”

  Carole Ann jumped. She’d been so lost in her own reverie, lulled by the vehicular motion and the mesmerizing calm of the desert, that she’d lost touch with the present. She looked over at Anthony, still wearing the flight attendant’s uniform, still looking like Marvin Gaye. “Yes, I am,” she replied.

  “If you beat the charges and got him reinstated, why’d they fire him?” Anthony was looking at her, not at the road. Not that it mat­tered; nothing out there but jackrabbits, snakes, lizards, and spiders.

  She hesitated before answering. Her first and natural response would have been to tell Anthony to ask Tommy, that it wasn’t her place to answer for him. Given the circumstances, however, she waived client duty and told him how Tommy’s walking off the job at Jake’s direction to rescue her from certain death at the hands of a venal Louisiana politician created a stink that spread wider and deeper than all the swamps and bayous. Tommy had violated all manner of departmental and jurisdictional rules and boundaries. Terminating him was an infinitely simpler process than explaining or justifying his behavior. So the D.C. police department terminated him.

  “Sounds like they had just cause,” Anthony opined.

  Carole Ann actually grinned. “That they did,” she agreed.

  “So, first you saved his ass. Then he saved yours. Now you’re sav­ing his again. You two plan on going through life saving each other from the clutches of death and disaster?”

  This time she laughed out loud, her mirth falling into the “laugh to keep from crying” category, for it did seem that lately she’d been rushing from one crisis to the next. Not that she sought them, or wanted them. Perhaps Jake was right. Again. Maybe she was a shit magnet. She said as much to Anthony and he laughed, too, re­peating the phrase to himself a couple of times.

  “You know, that’s a perfect description of my life the last year or so. But I feel that cycle coming to an end. Busting these asshole smugglers closes a big, shitty chapter in my life.” He laughed again. “Maybe I’m demagnetized now. You, too, you know?”

  She smiled. “It’s a nice thought, Anthony. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. And I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier. You’re OK, just like Griffin and Addie said.”

  Feeling no response was necessary, she rode in silence for a while, still peering out into the darkness, straining to see something and wishing it were day so that she could. Then she did see something ahead. Lights. And as she began to recognize shape and form, the truck began to slow and she tensed. Their destination obviously was a tiny gas station ahead on the right. It was closed, she could see that much from the weak glow of the spotlights on the side of the concrete building. As they drew closer, she could also see at least half a dozen vehicles parked in the lot. And as her brain was forming around the situation that was shaping up before her, Anthony turned off the lights of his Bronco, downshifted, and coasted into the exit off the freeway and toward the gas station.

  “I’m going to need you to stay put while I explain why you’re here,” he said in a different tone of voice. A cop’s tone of voice. “It’s bad enough that I’m unauthorized.”

  “This is not just about getting Tommy back, is it?”

  “Uh-uh. This is about bustin’ their asses. Gutierrez is gone, and so is Mrs. Nunez—”

  Carole Ann snapped to attention. “Mrs. Nunez? You mean Luisa? She’s gone where?”

  Anthony shrugged. “Back to Mexico, I guess. They’ve felt the walls closing in on them. She’s been gone for three days, so she’s probably already there. But Gutierrez just left this morning, so we think he’s still on this side. At their safe house, where we think they’re holding Griffin.”

  Carole Ann was numb. All of a sudden, this expedition had turned dangerous. Not that she’d expected to walk up to this safe house, knock on the door, and ask if Tommy could come out and play. But she hadn’t expected a full assault. She scanned the parking lot and could discern flak-jacketed and helmeted INS agents and compo­nents of the LAPD SWAT unit.

  Anthony opened the door, stepped out of the Bronco, removed his airline jacket, and tossed it into the backseat. Then he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them. And, opening the back door, he retrieved a bundle that, as he unraveled it, pre­sented itself as black combat clothing, boots included. He was dressed in a matter of seconds. He gently closed both doors and walked around to the passenger side. Carole Ann lowered the win­dow and was face-to-face with him as he leaned in toward her. His expres
sion was grave. She’d seen Tommy look like that, and Jake. It was cop like.

  “Can you shoot a gun?”

  She shook her head.

  “I know you’re a martial arts expert, but hand-to-hand combat may not be of much use here. But,” and he shrugged elaborately, “you never know. Just concentrate on staying back and out of the way.” And he walked off toward the cluster of vans at the rear of the tiny gas station.

  She sat still in the chilly darkness feeling fully aware of the extent of the danger facing Tommy Griffin, and of the extent of her own fear. For him and for herself. Then she tried to imagine how he must have felt as he embarked on his mission to save her. He was a cop and therefore acquainted with danger, that she knew. But he was a stranger to Louisiana and to the bayous and to Warren and Herve, the men he’d had to trust in order to save her, and that must have frightened him. He must have contemplated the possibility of fail­ure.

  “No,” she whispered. He wouldn’t have. Any more than Jake would have. Or Warren. Or Herve. So, she could not. And as she eliminated from her reasoning the possibility of failure, she felt the gripping fear release its hold on her innards. She felt her chest open and her breath flow. Her stomach ceased its cramping, her nails their skin-bruising attack on her thighs.

  She wondered whether Anthony or one of the other cops had an extra Kevlar vest for her to use; and she wondered to what extent it would impede her range of motion and movement. She could not, she decided, kick the shit out of people smugglers strapped into a bulky vest, and therefore concluded that she’d simply have to stay out of the way of stray bullets.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He couldn’t see very much and he could understand nothing of what he heard, but Tommy Griffin considered himself to be in much bet­ter condition than the people around him. He didn’t know all C.A. knew about the smuggling ring—she hadn’t had the chance to tell him—but he did know that Mexican citizens were being smuggled into the United States and he surmised that the two dozen worn- out-looking people sharing the locked room with him were not there by invitation of the president. He was almost grateful for the semi­darkness; he could feel and smell the misery around him. He didn’t need to see it.

  The single, glass-encased candle positioned on the windowsill il­luminated the room sufficiently for Tommy to count his companions and to determine their gender: fifteen women, eleven men. No chil­dren, though at least three of the females appeared to be quite young—barely pubescent, he guessed—and took the grasp that three of the more adult women had on the younger ones to be con­firmation of his surmises. Mothers and daughters. All but three of the men sat near the women, suggesting to Tommy that they were relatives of some kind, husbands, fathers, brothers. The three who sat apart from the crowd also sat apart from one another. Each one a stranger to all.

  They all sat apart from Tommy, who, in addition to the fact that he wasn’t Mexican, was bound, hands and feet. In any culture, a sign of trouble. They didn’t need to be told to keep their distance. He struggled to sit upright and grimaced as a line of pain radiated from his groin down both legs. Ricky Nunez had kicked him, the cowardly little bastard, waiting until he was tied and supine. The weirdo of a grandmother had watched in silence, and Tommy couldn’t tell whether her brain was actually registering what was transpiring around her.

  He’d also recognized Pablo Gutierrez, though he didn’t know his name or his function. He just knew he’d seen the man around Jacaranda Estates. And it occurred to Tommy that there was more than a loose connection between Jacaranda Estates and smuggled Mexicans.

  Damn! but he wished he could talk to C.A. To Jake. To Anthony. To Addie. To anybody! And barring that, he wished he spoke Span­ish, so he could talk to the poor people locked in this room with him. Though, he concluded, it wasn’t likely that any of them would be willing to make a break for it with him. Where could they go but back to Mexico? Who in their right mind would pick up a bunch of Mexicans hitchhiking in the middle of the night? For that matter, who in their right mind would pick him up? He didn’t imagine that the Black population in whatever part of California they were in—were they still in California?

  That thought jarred him, then he settled himself. Certainly they were in California because these people had just arrived, shortly af­ter he did, from Mexico. And he’d heard that asshole, Ricky, say something about not wanting to cross the border until sunup, and Tommy thought there was something cruel in the way he said it. Then he realized how cruel: Ricky was an American citizen with a passport. He could cross the border, legally, in broad daylight, when­ever he chose.

  He wiggled his toes and flexed his fingers and performed a series of isometric exercises, which caused the pain to jog up and down his legs again. He had to keep his circulation going. He had to be pre­pared to act when the time came. He didn’t imagine for a second that his captors planned to haul him to Mexico. After all, there couldn’t be much profit in smuggling Americans into Mexico. He knew they planned to kill him. He also knew he had no intention of making it easy for them. He hoped it was the Nunez punk, but he knew better. The kid was a druggie and a coward. He couldn’t kill anything that might strike back.

  He closed his eyes, saw Valerie’s face, and popped them open again. That definitely was the wrong thought to have. He had no in­tention of giving in to the maudlin. He was a cop. His wife was a cop. They’d handle whatever they needed to handle. His eyes slid closed again. This time the screen showed his sparkling convertible. He re­ally liked that car! And he hoped Robbie Lee had the good sense to move it from that crummy parking lot.

  Poor Robbie. He’d probably called C.A. in a panic.... Oh, shit! C.A. in a panic was not a cheery thought. She would have called Jake.

  But she hadn’t called Jake. Addie Allen had called Jake. And had been treated to a first-class Jacob Graham explosion. She had been properly impressed and entertained and had not, until his tirade was sputtering to a close, realized the true nature of his emotion: The man was frightened. She’d never met him; had conducted busi­ness with him via telephone on Warren Forchette’s introduction; had sent him a contract, which he’d signed and returned with a check; had heard enough about him to know that people she liked and respected—Warren, Carole Ann Gibson, Tommy Griffin— revered the man. She didn’t know that the feeling was mutual. Didn’t know that he thought of Tommy Griffin as a son; thought of C. A. Gibson as a blend of all the women meaningful in his life. To contemplate both of them simultaneously in danger was more than he could bear.

  “I’m catching the next plane out there.”

  “No!” Addie issued the command before she could talk herself out of it. So startled was he that she had sufficient time to recover her equilibrium and fashion a more appropriate response. “Mr. Graham.” She took a deep breath. “Your coming here would serve no purpose. I promise you that things are as under control as they can be in such circumstances. Miss Gibson is with my chief investi­gator, who also is ex-LAPD. And both federal and local officers are en route to the location where we believe Mr. Griffin is being held. This situation will be resolved long before you could get here.”

  Jake felt more helpless than when C.A. was captive a year earlier. Back then, he couldn’t walk, so there was nothing he could do. Now, at least, he had use of his legs, but still there was nothing he could do. Addie Allen was correct. No point in his rushing out to Dulles Airport and making an ass of himself, demanding to get on a flight, and then spending the next five or six hours sitting down.

  “Will you keep me up to date on what’s going on, Miss Allen?”

  “That I will do, sir, and that’s a promise. I’ll call you every couple of hours whether or not there’s anything new to report.”

  “I’m very grateful. What time is it out there? Five o’clock?”

  Addie glanced at the clock and shuddered. “Barely,” she replied.

  “You haven’t been to bed, have you, Miss Allen?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t,” Addie answered.<
br />
  “Then I guess I’m not the only one who’s concerned. I get carried away sometimes. I apologize for my outburst.”

  Unexpected tears formed in Addie’s eyes and she swiped them away. She understood their source; instinctively she knew that Jake Graham was not the kind of man who apologized to people, and to receive his apology was tantamount to a benediction.

  “Apol­ogy accepted, with appreciation. And Mr. Graham?” She paused and awaited his acknowledgment.

  “Yes, Miss Allen?”

  She opened her mouth and took breath to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. And no wonder: She’d been prepared to say that C.A. and Tommy would be fine. But that was a silly thing to say. For all she knew they could both be dead. Instead she said, “You’re not in this alone,” and hung up the phone.

  Carole Ann was received with a mixture of ire and awe among the assembled law enforcement troops, thirty women and men, sinister outlines of shadow lurking in the dark. They all knew who she was. Most displayed indifference to her presence. They didn’t object as long as she didn’t interfere. Several openly welcomed her, and three were overtly hostile. But since the officers in charge of each squad accepted her presence as long as it didn’t extend to participation, she was permitted to remain—if she followed orders. She was to continue riding with Anthony since he, too, officially was little more than an observer. She would not have or use a weapon, which was ac­ceptable to her. And she would obey any direct order, which she agreed to in principle. Certainly she had no wish to disrupt their op­eration. But it was their operation. If they apprehended the smug­glers and shut down their trafficking in human cargo, excellent. But her objective was to secure the safe release of Tommy Griffin and she would permit nothing to deter or detract her.

  She overheard enough snatches of conversation to learn that a “shipment” of Mexicans had arrived at the house that very night, and that while no one had seen Tommy arrive, the Caddy low-rider that abducted him from the gym was parked in the yard, along with two windowless vans. “Contraband transport vehicles,” the cops called them. Their excitement crackled in the air like August light­ning. They expected to capture the leaders of the ring, as well as perhaps two dozen illegal immigrants, with a kidnap victim thrown in for good measure. It would be a productive night.