by Cara Putman
It only took a few more minutes to determine that if Maricel knew anything more, she wasn’t saying. The woman was here to gain answers and closure. As she listened to the mother’s grief-soaked words, Hayden’s heart broke. To have a son die before his time would be terrible, but to know he had been murdered . . . Hayden would use all the resources at her disposal to find answers.
“Tell me about your son, Maricel. What was he like?”
“Smart. Very smart. He could fix anything he touched. He programmed computers since he was just a boy. He wanted to study here.”
“Why not come on a student visa?”
“He wanted to live here. Permanently.”
“What did he like to do?”
“Tease people. All the time he had humor. Most of the time people loved it.”
“Was he ever mean with his humor?”
“No.” The response was immediate. “He was softhearted. Always helping others.” The woman twisted the Kleenex in her hands until it lay shredded in a pile on the mahogany conference table.
Hayden made some notes, but this information wasn’t what she needed. Maybe if she returned to key questions, she’d get more. “When did he die?”
“The paper tells me.”
Hayden looked up. “What paper is that? Do you have it with you?”
“No. I do not know the kind of paper.” She shrugged. “A letter. From an agency.”
“ICE?”
“What is that?”
“Immigration and Customs.”
“Yes, from them.”
Hayden jotted a note. “Does it list a cause of death?”
“I do not know.”
“Can you bring me the paper?”
“Later.”
Hayden studied her firm jaw. Should she press? Probably not while she was trying to build rapport. “How do you know he was murdered?”
Maricel’s gaze drifted past Hayden to the wall. “I received a picture.”
“In the mail?”
“No. E-mail.”
“Can you forward it to me?” Hayden pulled out a card from those she’d clipped to the front of the file. She circled the e-mail address before handing it to her. “At this address.”
Maricel accepted the card, her hooded expression cautious. “I will try. Jorge will help.”
“Thank you.” Hayden sat back and considered her wary client. The woman looked like she might bolt any moment. “Who sent the e-mail?”
“My husband.”
Again her husband. Was he the real force behind the lawsuit? What would he gain from it? “Why do you think he sent it?”
“To warn me.” She shuddered, and her eyes filled with tears. “My baby . . . I cannot remove his image.” She wiped a shaking hand across her forehead. “It is always here.”
Hayden could feel her grief, a palpable presence in the room. She let silence settle while Maricel wiped the tears that slid from her eyes. “Why would your husband warn you?”
“Remind me of his power.”
The answer settled on Hayden, unsatisfactory in its weight. It also reinforced her initial reaction that the man was controlling even across the border. “If your husband is powerful, why would he need to remind you?”
“He wants all to fear him. His reach is far, but he needs something. Something he thinks only I can get.”
“Did you emigrate to escape him?”
The woman’s shrug was eloquent in what she didn’t say. “We have visas. We can stay two years, possibly longer.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Three months ago.”
And on the questions continued, yet the more she asked, the less Hayden learned. It was almost as if Maricel wanted to appear cooperative without really helping Hayden solve the puzzle.
Finally the woman asked her own question. “Can you help me get his backpack?”
“Backpack?”
“Miguel traveled with it.” She wiped under her eyes. “I have nothing of his. I asked Campbell for it.” She hesitated. “I need something from it.”
“Yes, he has requested it. I will let you know as soon as we receive it.” Hayden made a note to follow up with the prison. “What outcome are you hoping for with this lawsuit, Señora Rodriguez?”
“I want my son’s killer.”
The only way to do that was to identify him, and that could be extremely hard—especially if there had been any kind of cover-up at the detention facility. “I will do all I can.”
As she said the words, Hayden meant them to the core of her soul. This mother was exactly the kind of client she wanted to help. One who couldn’t make progress without a skilled advocate. This was why Hayden had worked so hard in law school—so that when people came for help, she could give it to them. “Get me that e-mail, and I’ll work on the backpack.”
She’d do much more, too, because if the United States hadn’t detained him, Miguel Rodriguez would be alive today, and with his mother and brother.
CHAPTER 7
SATURDAY, APRIL 1
Maricel’s story was a burden Hayden couldn’t shake when she arrived home Saturday night. She kicked off her shoes and trudged upstairs to her sanctuary, which consisted of her bedroom, the landing/home office, and a bathroom. Hayden craved the sunlight the windows let in.
Emilie had the basement level, all the better to cocoon in for her late hours writing. She was a freelancer for one of the Beltway’s online investigative sites and seemed to prefer it to the full-time practice of law. However, she still found fulfillment in working with domestic violence clients at a local shelter—working with women who needed help reclaiming their lives and moving forward.
As Hayden stepped into yoga pants and a comfy long-sleeved T-shirt, she felt like she’d gone ten rounds with Maricel Rodriguez and was no closer to the truth than she’d been before meeting her. For one who wanted answers so badly, Miguel’s mother was reluctant to share details about her murdered son.
What if it hadn’t been murder?
What if her son had simply died?
It wasn’t common, but it happened. A seemingly healthy youngster, cut down in the prime of life.
The photo would be a start.
Hayden walked to her desk and glanced around as she woke the computer. Something wasn’t right. She felt as though someone was watching her, but that was ridiculous.
No one waited in the shadows. Her odd conversation with Maricel had put her on edge. She headed for the stairs. “Emilie?”
“Hey.” Emilie bounced out from the kitchen. “I thought I heard you come in.”
Hayden went downstairs and grabbed a carrot stick from the bowl Emilie held.
“You were gone all day.”
“Met my new client.” Hayden sank onto a barstool. “Hey, Em, did you go into my office today?”
“Yep. Grabbed the three-hole punch. It’s always easy to find yours.”
“You could find yours, too, if you kept it in its place.”
“Sure, but it’s easier to nab yours. I put it back.”
At least Hayden knew why her office had felt invaded. She rubbed her forehead and told herself not to be crazy. “This case would make a great law school problem. It doesn’t fit any clear area. And I’ve got to move it out of the court it was filed in.”
“Sounds like a real puzzle.”
“It is.” Hayden grabbed the last carrot stick. “Remember Professor Richards, who always warned us our clients would lie? I didn’t want to believe him.”
“What makes you think your client is lying?”
“All the things she isn’t saying.” Hayden brushed nonexistent crumbs from the counter. Her brain felt like everything had mushed together into a congealed mass. “Tell me about your day.”
Emilie grinned and pointed at the notebook she’d set on the countertop. “I simply organized the community fair for Andrew.”
For someone who couldn’t keep her space clean enough to locate a three-hole punch, Emilie had a talent for even
t planning. “So what will the kids do?”
“You name it, they’ll do it. I’ve found arcade games, a few rides. Even got someone to donate pony rides. It’ll be great.”
Hayden laughed as Emilie held up her hand for a high five. “If anyone can pull it off, you can.”
“Yep. There’s plenty of time for the event to fall apart or come together. But at least the outline is here for Andrew. With his dad gunning for that Senate seat, he’ll have less time than he expects.”
“I saw that on the news this morning.”
“Didn’t take the congressman’s staff long to circulate the word. Makes me wonder if they anticipated the resignation and were prepared.” She shrugged as she put the empty bowl in the sink. “I hope he leaves Andrew out of it. He hates campaigning. Always has. Which sort of put a damper on his father’s plans for his life. Did you know Andrew started law school and dropped out after getting all A’s his first semester?”
Hayden gulped. She hadn’t had all A’s any semester, no matter how hard she’d worked. “Why didn’t he stay?”
“Convinced himself he’d never become his own person. I love my aunt and uncle, but their family dynamics are a little . . . different. I can’t imagine Andrew bringing someone home from school without a full vetting first.” Emilie grinned. “Not that I ever did that.”
Hayden laughed. “And I’m glad.” Those had been some of the best breaks of law school. She’d spent a few days with Emilie’s family several times, when the breaks were too short to travel home to Nebraska. She’d needed the reminder that families could be loving and whole and that school wasn’t her identity. Sometimes she still needed that reminder.
“I’ve got plenty of jobs for you at the fair, by the way. If all the New Beginnings kids come, it’ll be nuts.”
“I met one of Andrew’s kids today.”
Emilie straightened. “You did? I love working with them when I can.”
“His name is Jorge. His mom is my client. Neither of us realized the connection till we were all there together in the ice cream shop. It was . . . awkward.”
“Awkward. Not usually a word people use to describe interactions with Andrew. He has the Wesley charm in spades.”
“Maybe with others. Clearly, he didn’t like me meeting with the mom. End of story.” Hayden sighed. “I wish she had been more open with me. I got the sense she doesn’t trust me.”
“Is this the wrongful death case?”
Hayden nodded. “Only it can’t be wrongful death. Not if I’m going to move it to a court where I have a shot. To do that I need more facts, and right now she won’t give them to me.” Hayden looked at her friend. “Maybe you can help, with your journalism connections.”
Emilie held up her hands and backed away. “Hey, you know those aren’t for sale.”
“I need help pinpointing which detention center he was in. The complaint left it vague.”
“And she wouldn’t tell you?”
“Wouldn’t or couldn’t. But I know you can find out.”
Emilie’s impish smile emerged. “You’re right. I’m your girl for this.”
Emilie had a network that extended throughout DC’s layers. If anyone could track down the information, she could.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re definitely helping me with Andrew’s street fair now.”
“Wait a second . . .”
“You know you need this information. Spill the beans and I’ll get to work.”
Hayden chewed her lower lip and considered the wisdom of her impulsive request. She really needed Emilie’s help. “Okay, here’s what you need.” She grabbed a pink Post-it from the junk drawer and jotted a note.
“I’ll have your answer by Monday.”
Hayden headed upstairs and found an e-mail from Maricel Rodriguez waiting. She opened the attachment and stared at the image of a young Hispanic man lying on a hard concrete floor, a puddle of blood under his head. No, this wasn’t an injury he had inflicted on himself. Someone had taken a knife and jabbed it hard and deep across his throat.
Bright and early Monday morning Emilie handed Hayden a Post-it note. “Here’s your facility, madam. There are only three taking juveniles right now. He was at the one in Texas, as you thought.” As Hayden reached for the slip of paper, Emilie pulled it back. “I don’t know what you’re into, Hayden, but be careful. This is big.”
“Big enough for you to chase?”
Emilie shrugged, but still held the slip. “I don’t know, but you need to watch what you say. I’d treat this as top secret.”
“All right.” It wasn’t like she wanted to alert the government before she was ready. “Find anything else?”
“Nope. It’s frankly amazing I discovered this. It’s like they wiped his file. I found someone who remembered his file or I wouldn’t have learned this much. What did the kid do?”
Hayden ignored Emilie’s question, studying the name and address on the little square of paper. “Thanks, Em. This should get me started.”
When Hayden reached her office on King Street, she settled at the desk and fired up her computer. Maricel’s e-mail with Miguel’s photo was at the top of her inbox, and she quickly closed it. She didn’t need the photo to remember every detail of his violent death. This young man needed justice—and the best vehicle was a lawsuit that held the government and whoever killed him accountable. She stuck the Post-it with the detention center info to the side of the screen and waited for her browser to load.
Emilie’s warning had not deterred her. On the contrary, it made her more determined to learn what had happened. Not just who had committed the horrific crime, but who had an interest in covering it up.
Were they tied to one of the many government agencies with tentacles in immigration?
She needed the date Miguel died and cause of death. Without those all she had to prove his death was a photo.
Without proof of murder, it would just be a sad event.
With murder, she might have an argument that would stand in court.
FEBRUARY
The road stretched on forever, a ribbon of six-lane vastness. The sheer number of vehicles, trucks zipping past, motorcycles zinging in and out, cars trailing along, could overwhelm him if he let it.
In a country this vast, disappearing was the easy part. Giving el jefe no excuse to chase him was harder. Simply throwing away the cell phone and cutting up the credit cards wouldn’t suffice.
He glanced at the two cell phones resting on the rental car’s seat. One tied him to el jefe, the other did not.
He kept the car right at the speed limit. No matter how fast he drove, he could not outrun his guilt. His hands had taken a life. How could he ever make this right?
Each evening a text arrived. Rafael kept the phone off until the moment he turned it on to read the message. Then he powered it off again, retaining a cloak of invisibility.
The boss was intense. Determined. Lethal.
To stay alive, he must show he could do everything demanded in a way that bought him more hours.
Rafael had not had long, but he’d searched every crevice. The cell-like room had been empty of all but the beds and one backpack.
Could the boss be mistaken?
Had he killed Miguel, who was like his brother, for no purpose?
Rafael shook his head. Miguel should have been honest. Told what he knew.
No, Rafael should demand the same honesty of himself. He had felt trapped, but he had known exactly what he was doing. Remorse would be his companion, and he was determined never again to place himself in a position where death or life were the only choices.
His breathing accelerated as a state patrol pickup came into his rearview mirror. He eased his foot from the gas, keeping an eye on the speedometer.
A yawn stretched his face, followed quickly by another. He needed a break, some sleep.
An exit appeared in front of him. A McDonald’s, a gas station, a small motel. A Dumpster he cou
ld park behind. Perfect for hiding . . . for now.
CHAPTER 8
MONDAY, APRIL 3
As she fought a yawn, Hayden decided it was time for some caffeinated power. It didn’t take long to walk to Starbucks and then return with her venti flat white to her closet-sized office. Her desk and credenza filled two-thirds of the space, with one chair for a client in front of her desk. The desk didn’t match the credenza, and the room was small and dingy, but it was hers. She’d covered the walls with Impressionist-inspired prints. The bright colors reflected the light and gave the area a wisp of personality.
She sank onto her desk chair, took a sip of her coffee, and considered her next steps on the Rodriguez case. She took another sip of coffee and jotted some notes on her to-do list.
Finish motion to change venue
Compile discovery requests
The motion had to be filed before the government gave its answer or motion to dismiss before the court. If she waited too long the odds of a successful move shrank. The parties were required by Rule 26 to hold a meeting to organize discovery, and before that meeting, discovery was very limited. Her orders were clear: get discovery moving so she could report something.
Litigation was a delicate balance between learning all the information you could as quickly as possible and teasing it out while keeping the opponent off balance as long as possible. The federal government was such a bureaucracy it could take months to get anything moving.
Hayden pulled up a copy of Trial Rule 26, hoping there was a loophole to waiting for the planning meeting. She didn’t have time for the parties to develop an elaborate calendar for requests and information to be exchanged. Time mattered because precious information could be lost. Memories would be muddied. Children could be shipped across the border, and witness impressions lost.
She flipped forward, scanning the rules of civil procedure, slowing when she reached Rule 41. She read it again, then flipped to check the exceptions, none of which applied. A rush of excitement filled her as she read the rule a third time. Because the government hadn’t filed an answer, she could file a notice of dismissal, which essentially dismissed the case with the opportunity to refile. Then she could do the pre-case depositions and file in the Court of Federal Claims. This . . . this might work. It would buy her the time she needed to get information that wouldn’t be available later when memories shortened or documents were shredded, while also moving the case to a court that wouldn’t require a jury fighting prejudice.
