CHAPTER EIGHT
July 15, 1982
Rap held up his hand for silence. Behind him, Dana watched the lazy lake waves lap the shore. Trees grew along the edge of the beach, giving shade and cover. That was the blessing of fresh water; near ocean, they’d have been exposed on all sides.
“Do you hear something?”
Dana listened. At first, nothing. Just a wan, overheated breeze ruffling the leaves of the trees that sheltered the little inlet from the road. The persistent lapping of the waves, the pitch and toss of the boat. Then, underneath but growing louder, a whine like a mosquito circling your head on a hot summer night, zeroing in for the kill.
A siren. Close. Too close.
“I’d better get the Layla out of here,” Rap said, moving toward the boat, lying lazily in the hazy sun. “Jan could be in trouble.”
“Jan!” Dana’s wrath, heated by the relentless sun, exploded. “We should have known better than to let her make a run by herself. I should be with her, not out here with my thumb up my ass. Who knows what she’s gotten us into?”
“Which is why I should move the boat. We don’t want her impounded if the cops roll up.” He turned toward the rickety pier where the cabin cruiser was tied.
Something about Rap’s haste rang a bell in Dana’s mind. Something about his eagerness to cast off, to take the Layla out of reach of the police—
“Rap,” she said sharply. “What the hell have you got on that boat? And don’t give me that innocent look. I remember the first run, when it turned out you had Roberto pay you in—”
She broke off, panic and anger struggling within her. “You didn’t. You couldn’t be that stupid. That greedy. Oh, Jesus, tell me you don’t have dope on that boat.”
Even as she said the words, even as Rap opened his mouth to protest his innocence, she knew the truth. Of course he had dope on the boat. He was ferrying people who were fleeing the drug wars of South America; what better currency for them to pay their passage with than white powder?
“Fucking shit!” She wheeled around in frustration. “This is supposed to be a rescue mission, you asshole. We’re taking these people to Canada because their lives are in danger. And you’re using the trip to make a buck. I can’t believe—” Words failed her; she regarded her former husband with a loathing she did nothing to conceal.
A sinewy hand reached up and grabbed her T-shirt, pulling it into a hard knot. The other fist rested lightly against her damp cheek. Rap’s gray eyes were granite chips and he spaced his words with a deliberate slow contempt she’d heard before.
“What the fuck do you think I am, babe? The fuckin’ Red Cross? You think I take this boat out, risk going to jail, just to help suffering humanity? You and Father Jerry wouldn’t have an underground railroad without me.”
His hot breath licked her face; she glared into his eyes, praying the deep fear in her stomach didn’t show on her face. She went rigid, just listened, let him blow it off. Like always.
“So don’t ask stupid questions about what’s on the boat, and we won’t have any trouble. Okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered. Then gathered courage and said, “Get the boat out of here before the cops come. I don’t want to get busted on your drug rap.”
The siren had stopped now, but that was no guarantee of safety. Cops could be on their way along the dune road even as they spoke. Rap let her go, let the T-shirt knot go limp, and sauntered toward the Layla.
As she watched her former lover, former husband, the father of her son amble, then trot toward his beloved boat, Dana knew that as long as white powder made its way north, Rap would make money from it. And as long as she was part of the sanctuary movement, needing Rap and his boat to ferry refugees to safe Canadian water, she would live in dread of the day he was caught and his boat thoroughly searched.
For today, she could live with it. But she swore to herself that next time she would take the hull apart with her bare hands before she loaded the refugees on board.
The siren zeroed in on them, homing like a missile seeking its target. Jan speeded up at first, then slowed as she bowed to the inevitable. Next to her, Miguel turned eyes huge with fright on her. “Qué pasa?”
Jan shook her head. What was happening? The worst, probably.
In the back seat, Pilar began to moan. “La Migra,” she repeated, over and over, her voice a lament. “La Migra will find us. Madre de Dios.” She rocked back and forth, keening like an Irish widow. Panic turned Pilar from self-assured professor’s wife to peasant. She had never played her role better.
Manuelito whimpered. Jan’s high dissolved in a cold-sweat bath. The danger rush had congealed into the certainty that this trip wasn’t going to end well, that capture was at hand. She had a sudden, sharp memory of wheeling Manuelito in a shopping cart while they bought him clothes for the journey. He’d pointed and giggled and kicked his little feet into her stomach.
For one wild moment, she considered speeding up, racing the cops to the water’s edge in a mad hope that the family could get on the boat and make their escape before she was caught.
Jan pulled to the side of the road. There wasn’t much shoulder; the road edged off into a ravine designed to catch rainwater.
The car was a blue and white Ohio Highway Patrol vehicle, but Jan wasn’t surprised when the man who strode toward the van, sun glinting off his glasses, was Walt Koeppler of the Border Patrol.
As if he’d known they’d be on this road. And driving this van.
The van was the first line of defense this time. It wasn’t the church van, with Our Lady of Guadalupe written on the side in Gothic script; this was Ron Jameson’s specially designed vehicle, with a hydraulic lift for the wheelchair. He sat in the back, strapped in, wearing a bathing suit, an orange towel draped over his whale-white bony shoulders. Playing his part of cripple being taken on an outing by a friend.
The theory was that the police would be watching for the white, green-lettered church van, not a red van with no lettering on the side. The theory was that not many cars travelled the old dune road to get to the lakefront. The theory was that the stop three days earlier had been a fluke, a coincidence, not to be repeated.
The theory was full of shit.
Second line of defense: the forged papers, the indignation bit. Jan watched Walt Koeppler’s determined glare as he approached the van, accompanied by a uniformed Highway Patrol cop. She decided abruptly to jettison the tantrum. He’d already seen Dana do that number. It wasn’t going to work a second time. Just be cool, pass the papers to him, and act as if the whole thing were a giant hassle. Boring, annoying, but hardly threatening.
Koeppler’s first words were less than reassuring. “You again. I thought I warned you about transporting illegals.”
“Who said they were illegal?” She tried for the flip, bad-girl tone that came so easily when she’d had a few belts. It was a lot harder to pull off sober.
“You gonna run phony paper on me again?”
Stay cool. Not easy, with relentless farm-loving sun beating down on the roof of the van. Not easy, when a family’s life hung in the balance, dependent on the nerve of a woman sober seventy-nine days.
Not easy, when your eyes were level with the single cyclops eye of a blue-barreled gun.
“I’m going to give you the identification this man gives me.” Her voice shook slightly, as did her hand when she passed the documents from Miguel to Koeppler. Once again, they were phony birth certificates from Texas, a driver’s license with Miguel’s picture superimposed upon that of Eduardo Peña, a genuine Mexican-American migrant. A letter from the van Wormer farm certifying them as employed for the sugar beet season.
Koeppler took the documents and tossed them into the dirt. “These are crap, lady. We both know that. Now get out of the car—slowly—and tell Pancho there to do the same.”
This time the indignation wasn’t rehearsed. “His name isn’t Pancho,” she replied, her voice steady now. “And none of us is armed, so you d
on’t have to be so—”
“—the fuck do I know you’re not armed? Just get the hell out of the van. Now.” The softer Koeppler’s voice got, the more dangerous he seemed. Jan opened the van door and was relieved to see Miguel doing the same. No heroics, she prayed. Please, no heroics, no arrogance, no challenge to Koeppler’s authority. Just be cool. Snow-cool, coke-cool.
Pilar whimpered as she hauled herself out of the back of the van. She’d been sitting on a jumpseat next to where the wheelchair locked in place. She pulled Manuelito close and looked at Koeppler with terror-filled eyes. In her world, la policía shot first, asked questions later. “No my baby,” she pleaded. “Don’ shoot mi niño.” In some corner of her mind, Jan wondered how much of Pilar’s incoherent pleading was real and how much role-playing. They’d worked long and hard to turn this well-to-do San Salvador couple into passable migrant workers; Pilar at least was believable.
For a moment Koeppler looked almost ashamed, almost human. Manuelito at three was a beautiful kid, all huge black eyes and infectious grin. Understanding nothing but his mother’s fear, he looked up at the cop with a face full of incipient tears. He clung to Pilar’s shapeless dress, carefully chosen to add to her migrant farmwoman appearance, like any kid gone suddenly shy in the presence of a stranger.
It was time for the third—or were they up to the fourth?—line of defense. Miguel, true to his instructions, let himself be searched. Let Walt Koeppler put his free hand into the pockets of the baggy shorts, gun held at stomach-level. Let La Migra find the Mexican identification papers that would at least guarantee deportation to a country that wasn’t El Salvador, a country that wouldn’t torture the little family.
Once back on Mexican soil, they could try again, perhaps going through Arizona instead of Texas. There were churches down there ready to help.
It all depended on how much Walt Koeppler knew. He’d known they’d be on this road, driving a vehicle other than the church van. How much else did he know—and how had he learned it? Jan studied the immigration officer’s deceptively bland face, searching for a clue that wasn’t there.
“This is more like it,” he said. “At least these papers show a little finesse. A little style. I like that. Of course,” he added, giving Miguel a shove with the gun, “they’re just as phony as that batch.” He waved the gun at the papers he’d thrown in the dirt. “Where are you really from?” he asked Miguel, his tone conversational. “El Salvador? Guatemala?”
Jan sighed softly, exchanging a glance with Ron, who sat rigid in his strapped-in chair. Walt Koeppler knew a lot more than he had three days earlier. Then he had been content to accept the Texas forgeries; now he questioned even the Mexican papers. Then he had let her and Dana go; now it was clear arrests were in the picture. She glanced uneasily at the Highway Patrol cop who stood guard behind Koeppler. He was a tall blond with a bright sunburn; his hand rested lightly on the handle of his gun.
A second officer stood next to Pilar; his gun was out and pointed directly at her. They’d come prepared to take prisoners.
Oh, God, prisoners. She and Ron were prisoners. Her first crazy thought: Would they handcuff Ron? Was there any point to handcuffing a man who needed braces to lift his arms as far as his shoulders?
For the first time she felt true kinship with Miguel and Pilar; for the first time she felt vulnerable. How, goddamn it, how had this happened? How had Koeppler found them? Short answer: Somebody told him.
Somebody who knew she’d be on this road, in this van, ferrying people who weren’t Mexican-Americans, who weren’t even Mexicans, had tipped off La Migra. She looked again at Ron, still locked into the back of the van. His chest and arm muscles strained against the strap; he looked as if he wanted to break his bonds and fly, Superman-like, to the rescue. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and visibly willed himself to a stillness she knew wasn’t natural.
Who? The question burned in her brain even as she watched Koeppler reach for the handcuffs on the back of his belt. Who would do this to them? Who would send this family back to hell?
As the cuffs closed on Miguel, Manuelito squirmed free of his mother and ran toward Koeppler. “Papi, Papi,” he screamed, his three-year-old lungs bursting with anguish. Tiny fists beat on Koeppler’s khaki-clad leg.
“Manuelito, no,” Pilar cried, rushing toward her son.
“Don’t come any closer, ma’am,” Koeppler warned, pulling his gun from his waistband and pointing it at Pilar.
“You,” he said to Jan, “get this kid off me.”
Jan stood numbly at first, unable to will her body to move. Both Highway Patrol cops had drawn their guns. “Everybody stand still,” the older, dark-haired cop said. Jan would have felt better if his voice hadn’t been shaking.
She moved with a speed she couldn’t believe. She snatched Manuelito around the waist, registering in a few accelerated seconds the child smell of his damp hair, the pudgy roundness of his tummy under her thin arms, the red of his new K-Mart sneakers. She pulled him away, breaking the hold his tiny hands had on Koeppler’s pant leg. It was like pulling a kitten off a sweater.
At the same time, Pilar rushed forward, keening. Not even Spanish, just the wordless howl of an animal mother watching her young face a predator. Her body, lithe under the shapeless housedress, moved with speed and power. Koeppler turned the gun on her, his hand shaking.
“Stop right there,” he shouted. Miguel, hands cuffed, lowered his head and drove into Koeppler’s stomach like a bull, butting him backward onto the dirt road. Both uniformed cops ran toward him, dust flying under their hard shoes.
A shot rang out. Jan screamed; Pilar shrieked. Manuelito began to howl. “Fuck,” Koeppler shouted, then repeated the shout as blood appeared on his khaki shirtfront.
The two Highway Patrolmen reached Miguel at the same time. One reached for the handcuffs in his belt; the other shook his head as Miguel fell forward into the dirt.
“God, no.” The words were wrung from Ron; his face gray, he gave up all pretense of stillness and pushed himself against his bonds. The claw hands stiffened into what might once have been fists. Pilar threw herself over the still body of her husband, and Manuelito sobbed, “Papi, Papi.”
Jan begged God to take back the last five minutes. She’d stay sober, she’d give up smoking, she’d go back to Toledo and have nothing to do with refugees ever again if that was what He wanted. She had the message now; please don’t make Miguel pay for what she had to learn.
Please, God, take back the last five minutes, let them all be sitting in the van, air conditioning on high, bumping over the dirt road on their way to the lake. Let Manuelito point at the agua like any little kid on his way to a beach.
The blood on Koeppler’s shirt was Miguel’s. The Immigration officer holstered his gun and then bent down and lifted Pilar to a standing position. She shook her head and fought, but the uniformed cops cuffed her hands behind her and walked her toward the waiting car.
Koeppler knelt in the dust and turned Miguel over. He opened one eye, then bent over and breathed into Miguel’s open mouth.
One of the Highway Patrolmen came back from the car, but made no move toward the wounded man. His drawn gun caught the bright sunlight and made reflections as hurtful to the eye as the glinting lake water.
Back at the blue-and-white, with Pilar sobbing in the back seat, the other cop picked up a hand radio and called for an ambulance. But how far away was the nearest hospital?
Jan stood motionless except for the hand that stroked Manuelito’s damp hair. The boy was still crying, but it was quieter now, as if even he understood that what was happening couldn’t be changed by tears.
Miguel made an ugly noise somewhere between a gasp and a clogged drain. His hands grabbed at his shirt, sodden with blood where the bullet had struck. The shirt grew redder and redder.
“Grab a towel or something,” Koeppler called out. “Somebody stanch the blood.”
Jan moved toward the van, Manuelito hefted on her hip, her bre
ath coming in short puffs. There were towels in the back, orange beach towels just like the one draped around Ron’s shoulder. Camouflage in case they were stopped. She opened the hatch with one hand and pulled them out, her hands shaking.
Ron was shaking too, still rocking, working to break free of the straps that held him in place. She reached out a hand, wanting to touch his cold flesh, to reassure even though she knew he could feel nothing. Then she pulled back. It was Miguel who needed her now. Ron would have to wait.
This couldn’t be happening. Not on her first run without Dana.
One of the patrolmen stepped up to Koeppler. “County says they can be here in fifteen minutes, give or take.”
Koeppler’s eyes told Jan Miguel didn’t have fifteen minutes. She leaned on the van, suddenly light-headed, dropping the orange towels onto the road. Getting them dirty.
No. They shouldn’t be dirty. Miguel needed them, needed them to stop the bleeding. They shouldn’t be dirty. Jan leaned down and picked up the towels. First one, then the other, with careful precision. She had to do this right, had to get the towels over to Miguel. If she did it right, he would live until the ambulance came. If she dropped them again, if they got dirty, he would die.
It was that simple.
CHAPTER NINE
My beeper vibrated against my waist. I looked down at the number. Local. I nudged Ron and said, “Don’t answer any questions. I’ve got to return a call.” I pushed my way through the press crowd and walked back into the courthouse.
The phone was picked up on the second ring. “Governor Tannock’s campaign headquarters,” a woman’s voice announced.
John Wesley Tannock. The man I’d lusted after in 1969, the man who’d gone on to an active career in Ohio politics. He’d been governor for only one term and was now running for the Senate.
“May I speak to the governor, please.” I deliberately lowered my voice at the end, making it a statement and not a question.
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