Blood on the Threshold

by Karin Richmond

  So, for very different reasons in my mind, each of them agreed to support a legislative effort that targeted tax incentives for the border community. It was going to be a long and uphill battle in the upcoming Texas legislative session.

  Over the years, I would reflect on my relationships with these two men. One moved from being a state representative to a state senator and sat on the committee that set the law for parolees and the number of beds in the Texas criminal justice system. Both interests directly affected my life in hugely important ways.

  The other man retired from the Texas Senate and dabbled in politics and a little film acting. I still recall—with some bitterness—that for personal reasons he worked behind the scenes to prevent my ascension to a state board as a governor’s appointee. But that happened much later, after I was to testify before the committee he chaired that April morning—without me. He was still spreading his power and charm around me and others and I was unaware of his unstated agenda. Consumed by the lobbying work, I did not see it coming.

  My work to influence the governor and his staff was more circumspect, and as it happened, the key to this door was presented to me one afternoon in the back row of my community town hall during a presentation made by the governor—live on stage. I was pretty sure the governor was going to issue the same platitudes and the same false camaraderie I had heard a zillion times, it seemed. And, quite frankly, I had other things to do. But my boss cajoled me into going to the presentation. I grabbed my purse, slung on my strap heels, and walked over across the Spanish-styled plaza in the blinding heat and sunlight of the semitropical afternoon. I quickly glanced at my reflection in the solar glass as I passed an office window and saw my pink lipstick was perfect.

  The town hall was modest, suited to our needs. It was newly built and had the latest technology in an amphitheater-style auditorium. Most of all, the air-conditioning was cool on my hot skin. Light was dim over the rear aisle. I took a quick look around and slid into the last row, leaving a score of empty rows between me and the nearest concerned citizens, each hoping the governor would give them a patrician glance. I touched up my face with powder. No telling who I might run into at these political gigs. “Be prepared for anything” was my Campfire Girls motto, and I held onto that mantra with hoops of steel. I took in the room. No one unexpected today. The usual city leadership men were up in front shaking hands with the governor—well, at least that is what I assumed.

  I pulled out some of my light office reading material to try to make some good use of my time as the governor droned on the stage below. Not that I did not appreciate what he was trying to do; I had heard that particular speech sooooo many times and he was staying on message. I felt a light tap on my right shoulder. I looked up through the dim light.

  I had no way of knowing, but there was someone else in the room who had spied me from a distance. As I was to learn later on, he was working in the background, running from his last meeting where quiet introductions were made among men in dark suits and white guayabera shirts, to get back into the auditorium to watch the crowd’s reaction to the governor’s message. Scanning the audience, he saw me—someone he considered a young, very attractive woman—my thumb on my chin, apparently deep in thought, but not on the man on the stage. He drew near and looked closer. Hard to tell why I was there. No name tag that he could see. But nice perfume. Being the curious man he was and a natural people person, he tapped me gently on the shoulder.

  “May I sit here?” he asked politely, motioning to the empty seat right next to me. I slowly moved my eyes up into his deep green eyes and viscerally reacted to his intense gaze. My spine went taut.

  I was a little puzzled, but flattered, as his intent was clear. “Sure, of course.” I could tell he had been out in the tropical heat, too, as he still bore beads of perspiration on his forehead. “Not a bad package,” I said to myself. He settled into the adjoining seat and offered his hand. “How are you?”

  “To tell you the truth, I was a little bored … until this moment,” I coyly replied. I tossed my hair, reacting to the tingle up my spine. I had not caught his name just yet, but didn’t press. I would wait for the moment. “You are not from here.”

  “That’s right, I’m from Austin.”

  “You must be with him,” I said, my pen pointing toward the stage.

  “Yes, and I am a little upset that you were bored with his speech!”

  “Oh, brother!” I said, rolling my eyes and mimicking a deep southern accent. “Does he ever say anything different?” He asked why I was here and I said, “Under duress,” with a little sarcasm in my hushed voice.

  His eyes held a softer expression as he looked directly at me and asked, “What is your favorite thing to do in your favorite place in the world?” I was slightly taken aback, yet impressed with the question. “Now this is someone worth talking to!” I said to myself.

  I was experienced for my twenty-something years and had enjoyed quite a few special places in my past, some that evoked exquisite memories. So I paused to think. I had to choose carefully with this man. “I think it would have to be walking along Seven Mile Beach in Cayman, playing my flute at sunset and wearing a silk flowing dress with no underwear on.”

  We both grinned at each other. I could tell he took an instant liking to me. “Go on.”

  Not to be taken in, I stuck with the game and asked, “How about you? Surely a handsome, educated man like you has had some delicious places to recall. What is your favorite thing to do?”

  Being a sophisticated and professional man, wary of prying ears, he borrowed one of my manila envelopes and wrote on its back a provocative poetic reply to my question. Two sultry stanzas. I really had to stifle a little squeal of delight. I realized from his fleeting smile and a slight jut of his chin that he was impressed with himself for sharing a secret. Something he rarely did these days.

  He looked up. His moment with me had reached an end, the governor was into the last section of his speech, the one my new companion knew too well. He felt like he had been on a mini-vacation, simply being beside me. Duty called. He pulled out his business card (I had never really caught his name) and scratched through the name and number of a law firm with some political acclaim. “This is where I used to work, but here is my new number. Call me if I can ever be of any help when you are in Austin.” Then he looked quickly to the stage and moved confidently toward his commander in chief.

  I did not realize what had exactly happened; it was all too sudden and surprisingly intense. I turned over the card in my hand. The paper was stiff. The print was raised and embossed. I was unfamiliar with his name, but the law firm scratched out was internationally known. I placed the card in the inner pocket of my purse for safekeeping. I didn’t realize until later that he had not returned my manila folder with the sultry poem written especially for me. But I could recall the stanzas word for word.

  After a few handshakes with other attendees and a nod from my new friend, I almost glided back across the courtyard to my office, my spirits in a much better place. “How’d it go?” Clayton asked.

  “Fine, nothing really new.” I smiled to myself and hummed a few bars of “The Girl from Ipanema.”

  The next few months I was consumed with the development of an idea for Texas to grant incentives to companies to locate in poor areas. Nothing was straightforward as there was no legislation in the state code that resembled what I was trying to do. So I traveled to Washington, D.C., to a conference that focused on what other states had done in this tax arena in recent—very recent—years. A few other states—Virginia, Illinois, New York—had implemented their own version of inner-city revival tax incentives. And there was a whiff of federal interest in the rarefied D.C. air of a federal statute in the making. Eventually, it would become the Kemp-Garcia Enterprise Zone bill. And eventually it would become the law of the land, but I did not know that then. I did not know that I was to have a particular hand in the passing of that bill in the year to come.

  R
ight then, I needed some examples of current state legislation to bring home for cobbling a legislative draft of a Texas bill. The bill I eventually pulled together was called the Texas Enterprise Zone Program. Before software was invented for a “cut and paste” editing tool, I literally cut and pasted the state bill together from copies of bills I collected in Washington. And can you imagine my astonishment when the receptionist called me up front for a “special delivery”? She was very curious! The draft bill for the Federal Enterprise Zone Program had been included in an upcoming congressional hearing before the Ways and Means Committee preliminarily scheduled for November 1983. I was floored and flabbergasted when I received my formal letter from the committee staff inviting my testimony. “Well, well, well. Looks like I’ll be spending some time in Washington next November!” I said aloud in response to the letter.

  Over the ensuing months prior to the Texas Legislature convening in January, the day-to-day duties of my position kept me busy long hours. Intermittently, I would travel to both Austin and Washington, D.C., to attend factfinding meetings and gather political insight. I recall the Christmas that year was especially endearing with my grandmother hosting a large family soiree. The cool December weather was perfect for taking my quarter horse out for rides weaving in the citrus groves and under tall palm trees.

  New Year 1983 came and went. The state legislature convened and I had already made a few trips to the capital preparing the politics and meeting with legislative staffers on the enterprise zone bill.

  And now it was April, and what a fine spring day in Austin, Texas, it was. I was almost giddy when my chamber colleague walked me from the foyer to my room on the security level of the hotel overlooking the pink granite capitol building a few minutes before midnight—to be sure I was safe. The delegation needed me the next morning.

  But violence intervened.

  4

  SECURITY MIS-MEASURES

  Henry Gonzales had already made his security rounds throughout the hotel. He had gone over some bids for some upgraded security equipment he had suggested to the hotel management team. Sometimes running a hotel security department was paperwork, lots of paperwork. “On the other hand,” he thought to himself, “the alternative to drudge paperwork meant something or somebody had broken his security protocols. And that would be a bad thing all around.” He found some nearby wood to knock on for good luck. Being Catholic instilled a little superstitious behavior now and then. He chuckled at his own silly habits.

  It was late in the afternoon, his legs were stiff, and his wife had called to ask him to come home early to help her at home. She was both his lifelong love and in chemotherapy. It hurt him to see her suffer as she endured the weekly rituals. She was taking the ordeal like a trooper and so, when she actually asked for help, he knew she was hurting beyond her normal pain.

  Henry got up and decided to check out the kitchen and back areas of his hotel. Great smells were already seeping out of the kitchen as the sous-chefs were slicing and dicing with their flashing knives for happy hour hors d’oeuvres and dinner entrees. He grabbed a sausage and grinned at one of the chefs. “Better watch your waist, young man. You may have to run down a bad guy someday!” said the chef good-naturedly.

  Going into the back pantry area, Henry noticed a recently hired room service employee. He searched his memory for his name … “Leroy. That was it,” he thought. He nodded to Leroy, but Leroy barely acknowledged him and kept his eyes downward. Henry thought it was somewhat odd that he had a perhaps perloined large Tabasco bottle, but he assumed he was fetching it for the kitchen staff. The guy unnerved him for reasons Henry could not put his finger on. But it wasn’t his job to do the hiring, and no one had asked him his opinion of the new housekeeper. After radioing his deputy with a “heads-up, you’re on,” Henry continued on his walk around the property and slipped outside to his car before the evening rush hour began in earnest.

  5

  DEADLY INTENT

  As my chamber of commerce colleague accompanied me to my room, I was feeling especially good and somewhat heady about my role and the testimony I was to deliver in the morning. My friendly, outgoing smile was in full bloom and my sassy sense of humor in play. I was not shy in any sense as evidenced by my bantering with the hotel’s bartender and the front desk manager earlier that afternoon, and now as I said good-bye and turned to enter my room for the night.

  “Good luck tomorrow at the hearing!” he beamed proudly.

  My comfy bed had been turned down—the fluffed pillows and chocolate all in order—but I noticed that the pink silk blouse I had asked the hotel staff to press that afternoon had still not found its way back to the closet of my temporary home away from home. “That’s not a good thing,” I thought. That was the blouse I had planned to look my very best in at the hearing in about ten hours from that moment. A little miffed, I picked up the bedside phone to admonish the front desk clerk, in a teasing sort of way, in hopes that my perfect pink blouse was en route to my room. I slipped off my shoes and noted once more the gold foil–wrapped chocolate on the fluffy pillow glinting in the bedroom lamplight. I deeply breathed in the dark hazelnut scent.

  6

  A CRIMINAL MIND

  Life in Crockett had been simple. Small town. One high school. Friday night football was the social highlight of the week. Leroy was not much involved with the team, unless you wanted to call the occasional marijuana score for the players “involved.” He was an angry young man, a small-time drug dealer who hung out on the sidelines of the field and, truth be told, on the sidelines of life. But he was fascinated by one of the cheerleaders and was drawn to her over and over again.

  “Oh, lord, she is one tall glass of water. Uh-uhm. Can just feel my hands runnin’ through that strawberry blonde hair, her lookin’ up at me with that radiant smile of hers. Sure does look good in those short skirts, showin’ off those long, lean legs. Man, she make those gymnastic feats look so easy. Wish she’d try some out on me. And her breasts just perfect little teacups for me to lick the rim of. Every time she climb up on that team pyramid, her back all arched and legs spread wide apart, I can’t take it. Gotta go under these bleachers and jerk off to get relief. That ain’t right; I should be givin’ it to her. Damn, why won’t the cunt even look at me!”

  Sometimes he would find a reason to bump into her in the high school hallways. Once he “accidentally” knocked her backpack to the hall floor. He picked it up in hopes of a friendly thank-you. But one of the football players called to her from across the corridor and she waved back. She gave Leroy no mind. Hardly knew he even existed. Leroy understood deep down that he and Catherine were miles apart, even standing next to each other between bells. His hurt from even a denial of a look from those green eyes stuck in his soul for a long while. His mama told him to forget about it and go on. And he did go on—for a time.

  Several summers after graduation Leroy’s life was still just slow and hot. A series of dead-end odd jobs and the occasional bag delivered in the shadows of the late afternoon. Got him by at least. One night, full of cicada buzz and sticky warm air, he eased up to the local EZ In store to grab a soda. “Shit, man, that’s Catherine inside the phone booth.” Cold sweat started running down his arms and neck. “Fuck! Thought I’d forgotten all about her but I sure do want that bitch now that I see her again. Want her to SEE ME. Want her to say hi and smile. Need her to taste me and cry for more of what only I can give her.”

  He leaned his rickety bicycle against the corner of the building and felt for the switchblade in his pocket. It felt so familiar in his palm. Leroy’s ears picked up the click and he ran his finger against the sharp secure blade. Now he knew what he wanted to do. “I’ll show you who I am, bitch. I’ll show you I’ve got power over you, make you feel my raw strength. Teach you to look at me and show me some respect.”

  Catherine had her face to the phone and was completely unaware of the present danger. She had returned home for a short visit with her mom and brother. A nurse who
now lived in Austin and had a job in an ER, she was talking to a girlfriend, a former cheerleader, and making plans to meet her later that evening. The conversation segued into a little trash talk about a mutual friend getting knocked up the previous month and speculating on the father. Leroy approached the dirty glass front door of the convenience store and moved as if to enter the building. The cashier had his back to the door, so Leroy seized the moment. Without any verbal warning, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the blade, and stabbed Catherine in the upper shoulder.

  “Shit—what the fuck?” She dropped the receiver and it dangled from the pay phone, swinging side to side. Leroy raised the blade and stabbed her again, this time closer to her slender neck. She screamed and tried to push herself inside the booth for protective cover, but he stuck his size-13 boot in the door and pried it open. One more time, the blade hit her shoulder muscle, but this time when he pulled it back for another go, the blade broke and the knife hit the grimy sidewalk. Blood was oozing through Catherine’s summer blouse. Leroy looked directly at her. “Leroy, what the hell?” She screamed his name as loud as she could. “She does know my name after all,” he thought, and threw his head back and hooted. The cashier turned to the front of the store. Leroy took off and ran, forgetting the broken knife and his bike still leaning on the corner of the store.