The doors open.
Wait. What?
Sounds of engines fill the air, and it’s not LA traffic. Those sounds are from planes taking off and landing. I’ve been brought to an airport.
Calm, calm your breathing, Mariana. Maybe the courthouse is nearby. But the embryonic thought doesn’t get the chance to take hold when we descend from the truck and are led to a terminal. I may never have seen the outside of a courthouse before, but I’m certain it wouldn’t look anything like this.
The guard practices his Spanish on me, I shake my head and he repeats it in English. “No bag?”
My voice so weak, he leans forward to hear me. “My lawyer was bringing it to the courthouse. I’m supposed to be there, not here. My immigration hearing…”
“You’re right where you’re supposed to be, Miss. You’re going back to your own country.”
“But my country is here.”
“Ha. What they all say, isn’t it, Tom?” One of the other guards laughs and not in a nice way. This is the one who pushes at my shoulder. “This way.”
My hands are still handcuffed, but that doesn’t stop me. All my life I’ve done what I’m supposed to, so afraid of otherwise drawing attention to myself. But my one thought today is to get the time in court that I deserve. I turn and run…
I fall flat on my face as a massive bolt of pain jars me, my arms twitch and I can’t stop them. Gasping air into my lungs I try to get them working again. I’ve been tasered.
“I advise you not to try that again,” the guard tells me without any sympathy. “Now get up and follow the rest.”
I have no idea how long it normally takes to get through an airport even when you’re travelling to somewhere you want to go; I’ve never experienced it. Here, we’re led to a room and kept hanging around, but I don’t mind waiting. Somebody’s got to realise their mistake. I’ve been put on the wrong transport. Or perhaps it had been done on purpose, my case not worthy of a determination by the judge in person. Eventually we’re on the move again, and being loaded on to a small charter plane, and my hand is handcuffed to the arm rest.
There’s no entertainment, nothing the TV had prepared me for. Just a utilitarian flight to a country I’ve never seen, never wondered about and never researched. I’ve no love or fond memories of the place of my birth.
I want the flight to last forever, I don’t want it to end. I want it to turn around and take me back to Los Angeles.
What lies in store for me? I’ve no plans, no idea what to do. The one thing I won’t do is make any attempt to contact my father. He is not a good man.
An announcement in English and Spanish, and a change in engine noise and air pressure signal we must be landing. I look out on an alien landscape, then move my head so instead I’m staring down at my hands. Burying my head in the sand like an ostrich. If I ignore it, it can’t be happening.
But it is. A bumpy landing. It’s raining, hard from what I can see. I don’t even know what city we’ve come to. What’s underneath me doesn’t look like it would qualify as a big town, but not having bothered to learn anything about the country, I don’t know if they have skyscrapers, or even the low-rise buildings like in Tucson. This is certainly not like a large American airport. There’s no bus from the plane to the rundown looking terminal. We’re walked across the tarmac into what’s little more than a ramshackle shed. There’s a desk where we stand in line.
I’m at the back. Everyone’s speaking in Spanish, and I keep wiping the tears from my eyes. It’s not home, it’s foreign. Even the air smells different. If I was on vacation it might be exciting, but I’m not, and instead it’s terrifying.
“I don’t like this,” I overhear one of the guards saying.
My ears prick up as his companion replies, “Pilot told us he had to divert the plane due to a traffic control hitch in Bogotá. But I agree, soon as we get off the ground and back to civilisation again, I’ll feel easier.”
“Sent us to the back of beyond. Just look at this place.”
“Soon as the line moves through, we’ll be back on the plane. Can’t be quick enough for me.”
My intrigue is piqued by their conversation and that we’ve arrived at a different airport, though why should it worry me where I am? I’m standing on Colombian soil, and I’d have no sense of coming home, whether I was here or in a big city.
There’s a heated conversation going on in Spanish at the desk in front of me. Suddenly a man turns and glares at the US guards. “We need bus to Bogotá. Not good you bringing us here.”
The guard shrugs as though it’s none of his business. The men behind the desk ignore everything that’s going on. There are a couple of Colombian guards who openly show their interest in the man who’s spoken, their hands resting on their guns. He throws up his hands and backs down.
“Señorita De Souza,” a man announces as at last I get to the front of the short queue. A process of elimination, I suspect, as I’m the only ill-fated passenger left.
“That’s me,” I say, timidly.
He spurts a string of words so fast I can’t make out any of them.
“I don’t speak Spanish. Yo no hablo Español,” I add in case he doesn’t speak English.
But he does. It seems, surprisingly well. “Your work permit and identity card are here, Miss De Souza. And so is your ride.”
My ride? Does he mean the bus like the others were asking about? Is there somewhere I’ll be staying? A hostel perhaps? For the first time in hours the future doesn’t look quite so bleak. If I’ve got a work permit, maybe there’s a job lined up too.
I start to open my mouth to ask him, when the rugged looking man standing behind him steps up. Opening his wallet, he takes out a wad of cash and hands a large stack of notes over to the man who gave me my papers.
Then the man who’d passed over the money looks at me scornfully, clearly having overheard. “You don’t speak Spanish?”
I shake my head, taking an instant dislike at the sight of him.
“Your father will be disappointed. But perhaps it won’t matter. I doubt he needs you for conversation.”
Chapter 24
Mouse
I was lost, adrift, before I found my place with the Satan’s Devils. Brought up as an all-American boy, then taken to embrace my Navajo heritage, feeling like I had been torn apart, ending up neither one thing nor the other.
To my counterparts at college I was a Native American, to the people on the Rez, I was a white man.
That bike I’d restored so lovingly opened up a new life. Having got a scholarship from the Rez, I’d returned to Tucson to attend college, going back to the place that I’d known, immediately thinking I’d feel at home. But my years on the Rez had changed me, I wasn’t the same person who’d left. I made friends, or rather, acquaintances, as I was out of touch with the life they’d been living. The music, culture, drinking and parties, a far cry from life on the Rez. Starting to prefer my own company, I kept to myself. There were two things I enjoyed far more than socialising: losing myself in code, and riding that rat bike.
I’d been out riding one spring morning, no real destination in mind, when a kid in a souped-up Chevrolet overtook me at speed, cutting in front of me to avoid a group of bikers coming in the other direction riding two up. I had to act fast to avoid him clipping my front tire, braking too quickly and swerving, resulting in me laying my bike down by the side of the road.
As the car disappears into the distance, I lie there, gingerly flexing my muscles and limbs, cataloguing possible injuries. I realise with relief I’ve done no serious damage, and recovering from being winded, I start to sit up.
“You okay, man?” a gruff voice sounds from above me. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I look up into concerned eyes, and for the first time notice a group of bikers surrounding me.
You don’t live in Tucson without hearing about the Satan’s Devils, a notorious motorcycle gang who’ve got a nasty reputation. Fuck. I’d gone for a pleasant
ride, a chance to clear my head, and karma’s biting me hard. First that fucking car, now who knows what the fuck is going to happen to me. Was I on their turf? Shouldn’t I have been? As all manner of thoughts cross my mind after I’ve seen the patch on the leather jackets they all wear, I realise I haven’t answered the question, when I hear another man say:
“He seems out of it. Think we should call him an ambulance?”
I snap out of it fast, pulling myself into a sitting position. “I’m fine. Bruised, scuffed. But I’ll be alright. Just needed a minute.”
One of them has picked up my bike, and has it leaning on its stand. “Got some scrapes on your ride, man. Shit. Fender’s bent, and has gone into your tire.”
Fuck! As I go to stand up, I gratefully take the hand held out to assist me. Brushing sand off my jacket and jeans, I go to examine my bike. Yeah. Cosmetic damage, that doesn’t bother me much as the bodywork wasn’t that good as it was. But as the biker had said, the tire is a mess.
“I can take it back to our shop, get it fixed up for you.”
Their shop?
“Yeah, Blade. Get a prospect here with the crash truck.”
I eye the half-dozen men standing around me. A couple have lit cigarettes. They look rough, tough. Would they steal my bike? It’s not worth much, except to me, but apart from my computers, it’s about all that I’ve got.
“Thank you, but I’ll get it sorted.” How the fuck, I’ve no idea. It’s not able to be ridden and I’m certainly not a member of the AAA.
The man with the gruff voice looks at me shrewdly. “The name’s Drummer,” he informs me. “I’m the club’s president. I know the rep we’ve got, but we do run an auto-shop for citizens. It’s Blade here’s baby.”
“Tse,” I automatically respond.
The man who’s been eyeing my bike nods over. “You can’t ride it. I’ve got a tire in stock that will sort you, won’t take long. Won’t be pretty, but will get you mobile.”
It’s tempting, but still I have doubts which are clearly visible.
“That kid in the Chevy, well, it was his fault. But he swerved because of us.”
“Drummer.” I use his name for the first time, not knowing at that time just how much he, and the rest of the men, would come to mean to me. “Not your business, you were just riding on the road.”
“Can’t leave a fellow biker stranded,” he insists.
Giving in, simply because it was easier to say yes than argue, I wait until their crash truck arrives, then travel back sitting alongside a man who simply has the word Prospect on the back of his vest.
Their auto-shop is on their compound. As we drive in, my eyes open in wonder. I remember this being a vacation resort, though the name escapes me now. I hadn’t realised who’d bought it up after the fire destroyed it. At the gate, there’s no immediate evidence of a fire now, just a spanking new garage, and further up, buildings which look like they’ve been rebuilt or restored. But beyond that there are burned-out shells. Still working on it, I suppose.
They’re efficient. Have my bike downloaded and jacked up fast. I wince as Blade pulls out the fender, but at least the tire’s free and can be removed. A new one is wheeled out quickly.
I’m leaning against a workbench. I’d assumed the president would probably have better things to do, but he comes and stands next to me, and his eyes watch Blade working.
“So, Tse. Nice bike.”
I huff. It was before it got smashed. “I restored it a few years back.”
“Good work,” Blade shouts out. “Nice. Shame it got scratched up.”
I shrug. Things get broke, get fixed. “I’ll just have to work on the paintwork again.”
“You got anywhere to do it?”
I live in a one-room apartment without a yard. Perhaps it will wait until I visit the Rez. Fuck, I’ll hate riding around on my baby looking like that. The shake of my head gives Drummer the answer.
“You’re welcome to work on it here.”
His offer takes me by surprise. As I turn to him with my eyes wide open, I start re-examining my impressions of the Satan’s Devils. “That’s great, man, I may well take you up on that.”
That’s how it starts. A week or so later, while I am respraying the paintwork, Blade is swearing about the shop’s computer system going down. I handle that shit fast. He’s picked up a virus, I restore the lost files.
Blade is a strange man, mostly serious. When I learn he’s the club enforcer, I’m not surprised. Working alongside him, I suppose we share a few tales.
“Hey, Tse, you back again?”
“Viper, yeah.” I grin at him. “Not for much longer, it’s almost done now.”
“Looks like fuckin’ new.”
I preen at the compliment. Yeah, it’s turned out better than ever. Helps when you’ve got the right equipment, and access to spare parts.
“Guess you won’t be seeing so much of me.” If I sound disappointed, I am. I’ve met a number of the men, and get on with them all. I’ve begun to enjoy the camaraderie, the good-natured jabs, and seeing the relationship between them. I’m an outsider looking in, but I envy what they have.
Wraith, who I’ve learned is the VP, is watching me carefully. Then he says something I don’t expect. “Always looking for good prospects.”
That night, I spend time reviewing the future I thought I’d seen in front of me. A job working with computers. Maybe eventually my own business. A corporate life. But is that for me? The white side says it’s right and proper, and what I should do. But the side that lived on the Rez chimes in that I wouldn’t be able to bear the restrictions.
Maybe I’m throwing away my education, but armed with my degree, I join the Satan’s Devils. And I never look back.
Especially today.
“Mariana’s had her initial hearing,” Carissa updated me earlier. As she’d expected it had only taken fifteen minutes, so she’d warned me it wasn’t worth me going along. That they’d schedule another was, as the lawyer had advised me, a foregone conclusion. “Her full immigration hearing is on Tuesday,” I update my brothers in church. “I’ll be going down to LA.”
Prez stares that steely stare. “What are her chances?”
“Good, I think, Prez. It’s a public hearing, but Devil’s been in touch with the lawyer. She’s going to ask that part of the hearing is conducted in private. She’s got a sealed envelope to give to the judge. I don’t know what’s in it, but assume it will state her special circumstances, and that she should be granted asylum to stay in the US.”
“Yeah, Devil said he was going to do something.”
“You gonna be bringing her home, Brother?”
I fucking hope so, I think as I answer Blade. “In most cases, Carissa’s said, the judge will give an oral decision. But he could wait to give a written one, if he wants to take longer to consider. She may have to stay locked up until he comes to a conclusion.”
Blade’s considering something. “I can’t understand it. Drew and Mariana are brother and sister. Got the same Mom and Dad. But he’s an American, she’s an illegal even though she’s lived almost all her life here. Where’s the fuckin’ sense in that? Should keep blood together.”
At times I don’t understand it myself. “Place where you’re born determines your nationality, Brother.” I purse my lips and sigh. “I can only hope the judge thinks the same way as you.”
“Be hard sitting through that, Brother. Don’t want you there on your own. I could do with a trip to LA.”
My eyes shoot to Prez. I didn’t expect to have company. But if it goes south, it would be good to have support with me. “I won’t be riding,” I warn him. “Just in case, I’ve got to take a bag of stuff down for Mariana.” It was hell packing and preparing for something I hoped would never happen. I had to involve Drew, returning to that trailer to pick up some mementoes and photos as well as clothes. He was brave, but the implications hit him hard too.
Blade’s brow is creasing; he wipes his hand down hi
s face. “Reckon you could do with your brothers with you, Mouse. I don’t mind tagging along. Get Matt to come along with the crash truck.”
“Good idea, Blade.” Drummer nods.
“I could do with a ride,” Viper holds his hand up.
This brotherhood, men jumping in to give moral support as well as physical, is the reason I joined the MC. A slight uneasiness washes over me as I wonder whether they think the immigration case will fail.
But that’s washed away when Dollar snaps his fingers. “I’ll come with too. Want to see this woman who Mouse has claimed.”
Nosy fuckers. When Marvel says that’s a good fucking point and he’s up for it as well, the corners of my mouth turn up.
That’s how I find myself riding to Los Angeles with my brothers, in formation, two up. When we pass a lone biker coming our way on the opposite side of the road, my mind flits back to that day I’d been the lone rider, and how the Satan’s Devils had stopped. I’ve never regretted my decision to join them. Not once.
If I’d been travelling alone, I’d have worried the whole journey. With my brothers at my side I feel invincible. We’re going to win today. Mariana will be coming home. As the bike rumbles and growls beneath me, I feel ghost arms holding my back. I can’t fucking wait for Mariana’s flesh and blood ones to be around me.
We arrive, park up. Our cuts safely stored in our saddle bags as they have been since we left our territory, the prospect instructed to watch over the bikes. I go inside, taking my place next to my brothers at the back of the courthouse.
Carissa’s sitting at a table, a mound of paperwork in front of her. Someone who I assume is an ICE official, similarly equipped, is close by.
My leg bounces in anticipation, longing to see Mariana again. My eyes are on the door I’m expecting her to come through. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s close to two pm. She should be here any minute. I then run my eyes over the men seated around me, Prez, Blade, Viper, Marvel and Dollar, wondering what they’ll make of the woman I’ve claimed. Hoping they take to her as much as I do.
Mouse Trapped Page 19
