“Hi, Mama Yolanda.” He entered the dingy kitchen, his T-shirt stained with dirt, and leaned down to kiss her cheek as she sat at the wooden table. The smell of grass and sweat hung from him, mixing with the scent of mole chicken simmering on the stove.
“Mijo.” She raised twisted fingers to pat his shoulder, forcing a smile. He looked at her and saw the wetness in her eyes. She knew because he drew back just a little, his own eyes darkening. Yolanda pressed her fingers into his skin, nodding that she was fine. She could feel his guilt, and she loved him too much to add to it.He was already weighted enough from the death of his mother and his responsibilities as man of the house. Life had aged Rogelio beyond his twenty years.
Yolanda’s tired gaze took in the face she knew so well—the narrow cheeks and deep-set eyes, the perfect white teeth against skin turned dark from the sun. A black smudge ran along his jaw, and she wiped it automatically, feeling the smoothness of his skin. “You’ve been working very hard.” She spoke to him in Spanish—the only language she knew well. She hadn’t needed English in the thirty-seven years she’d worked in the fields. If only she knew it now.
“Same as always,” he said with a shrug, squeezing her hand lightly before pulling away.He turned toward the stove and opened the skillet lid, sniffing. “Smells good.”
“For you, mijo.Your favorite.” She placed both hands on the table and pushed herself out of her seat. “I must check the rice.”
As she reached the stove, the baby cried again.
She stopped, eyes closing, her hand hanging above the pan.
“What’s the matter?”
Her head filled with so many scenes that she couldn’t speak. What was the matter, he’d asked. Praise Dios, much in her life was good. She thanked God for bringing her and her husband out of Mexico to California years ago and for providing food for her baby, the only one she was to have. She thanked God that her beloved Jorge had died in his sleep last year before the pain from cancer became too great.
But dear Jesus, her Rosa.How much pain could an old woman’s heart take? Her beautiful daughter, only thirty-nine, dead last year, just ten months after Jorge’s death. Then Yolanda had lost her great-grandchild. Why such punishment for her years of faith?
“Grandmother?”
Yolanda’s eyes opened. “It’s nothing, just a pain in my back.” She lifted the lid on the rice. It was done. Turning off the burner, she shuffled back to the table and dropped into her chair. The newspaper she’d bought at the store lay folded at the far edge of the table, the picture of Señorn Welk hidden from view. A sigh puffed from Yolanda’s lips as she reached for it, her ample stomach pressing against the table’s worn wood.
She did not need to see Rogelio to feel his tensing. She could read her grandson so well, ever since he was a little niño bouncing on her knees. She pulled the paper toward her, unfolded it, and held it up, pointing to the man’s picture. It had been taken when he was still Mr. Big Man of the Valley.He was pointing out across a wide lettuce field on his ranch, deep creases around his eyes and along each side of his mouth.His square jaw was firmly set, his thinning hair sticking up in an apparent breeze. He had the look of a man in charge. Well, he wasn’t in charge anymore.
Rogelio’s deep brown eyes moved from the picture to her face. Then his gaze fell to the scarred linoleum floor, his eyebrows pulling together.
“Mijo,” Yolanda said gently, “please. Read it for me.”
Rogelio studied her face, his lips pressing at the corners, a sign she had upset him.
She held out the paper and he took it, rounding his shoulders in reluctance. He was still such a child, her Rogelio. How to explain to him the feeling God had placed inside her to pray for this trial? Every day she prayed—for what, she did not know. For justice? Ay, surely God could do that without her. And what did it matter to her anyway? Still, Yolanda was drawn to the trial.
Rogelio took a deep breath. “It says, ‘Jury Selection for Salad King Today.’”
Yolanda fixed her eyes on his face, sucking her gold front tooth.
“‘Redwood City,’” he translated into Spanish. “‘Darren Welk’s trial for second-degree murder begins today with jury selection, which sources close to the case say could take one to two days. The trial itself is expected to take up to two weeks. The panel of those summoned is comprised of 150 people.
“‘Neither Deputy District Attorney Stan Breckshire nor Defense Attorney Terrance Clyde would comment on the trial, citing the gag order issued by Judge Carol Chanson.
“‘The case was moved to San Mateo County after a Salinas judge declared a change of venue due to the large amount of publicity it has generated in Monterey County. Darren Welk allegedly …’” Rogelio lowered the paper. “You know the rest.”
Yolanda nodded.
The baby cried. An ache welled in Yolanda’s chest and instant tears pricked her eyes.
“Grandmother.” Rogelio eased into a chair and leaned forward, his fingers intertwined between his legs.He swallowed and Yolanda could see the tightness in his throat. “You need something new to do.Why don’t you learn English? I’ll teach you. Or I’ll find a class for you and drive you. Or how about visiting Mexico; wouldn’t you like that? I could get another job, earn the money to send you. You could see your brothers and sisters, all the family you haven’t seen in years … ”
Dear Jesus, thought Yolanda, how heavy was his guilt. She did not mean to be such a burden.
“Corazon.” She smiled sadly. “I am an old woman. I do not care to learn new things; I only do what I know. I love to cook for you and keep this house. I love to see you become more and more of a man every day.And God takes care of me.You do not need to worry about your grandmother.”
He twisted his mouth, his gaze dropping. Finally he nodded.
“Mi madre,” Yolanda said, pushing lightness into her tone,“look at those hands of yours. Did you leave any soil in the gardens you worked in today? Go clean up, Rogelio, so I can feed you without holding my nose.”
Rogelio smiled, obviously relieved to fall into their usual teasing. He pushed back his chair and rose, shaking his head. “Porque Dios medio una aguelita mandona?” Why did God give me such a bossy grandmother?
He left the room, his footsteps sounding in the narrow hallway toward the house’s one bathroom. In the sudden stillness of the kitchen,Yolanda pushed herself to her feet and turned purposefully to the stove. Soon it would be time to eat. Supper at their little table was Yolanda’s favorite time of the day. She turned down the burner beneath the chicken, then busied herself setting the table, humming a Spanish tune under her breath so she would not hear the baby cry.
AFTER SUPPER ROGELIO STOOD in the street, waxing the hood of his old Chevy with hard strokes, his grandmother’s mole chicken still warm in his belly. The next-door neighbor’s children laughed and hooted in their front yard, a scruffy brown dog barking at their heels. Bits and pieces of conversation and music filtered from the various rundown houses lining their narrow street on the east side of Salinas.
“Hi, Rogelio!” the little girl next door called. Rogelio raised his left hand in greeting while his right hand kept buffing, his lips slipping in and out of the expected smile.
His grandmother’s mournful face filled his head, and he buffed harder. How was he ever going to convince her that he’d done the right thing?
Maybe when he convinced himself.
The thought ragged at him and he made a face.He had done the right thing. How could they have afforded to raise a baby? Rogelio had quit high school to work full-time when his mother’s heart condition forced her to bed.Now, one and a half years later, his meager earnings barely covered the bills for him and his grandmother.
Rogelio gathered the rag and stuck it in the tin for more wax, then resumed rubbing, his face a mask of concentration. Sweat trickled down his neck, and he swiped it away with the back of his free hand. The baby would be seven months old now. To Rogelio, seven months was plenty of time for his gr
andmother to adjust. But she hadn’t. Every day she mourned. Sure, she tried to hide it, but Rogelio knew his grandmother as well as he knew every inch of this car he’d worked so hard to buy. In the past half year it seemed she had resigned herself to mere existence. She visited with neighbors less. She sighed more, looked out the window more. She’d been like this after his mother’s death, even worse. But hope of the baby had brought new life to her lined, worn face. Until he’d trashed that hope.
Rogelio squatted down, spreading wax along the side of his car. For the millionth time he wondered why he’d done it, then wondered what choice he’d had. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money, almost four months’ take-home pay. Most of that money was still sitting in the bank. He felt good knowing it was there. It would pay for medicine if his grandmother took sick, would help pay bills.
Trouble was, the money also made him feel terrible. Rogelio tried to stuff the truth down deep inside him, but it kept pushing its way up like the weeds he cut in people’s lawns. He’d nearly killed his grandmother with disappointment. In the back of Rogelio’s mind screamed the knowledge that somehow they would have gotten by. Somehow he’d have found a way to pay for the baby too, even if it meant getting a second job. But a baby had seemed so much to handle, and the money had looked so good.And he’d had little time to make the decision. At least that’s what Kristin claimed.Now he wondered if that was really the case. She’d been so anxious, a strange light gleaming in her eyes, as if she had far more at stake than he.
Rogelio’s hand banged against his car bumper, and he dropped the rag onto the dirty street. He snatched it up, muttering under his breath, and shook it fiercely. Then examined it, picking off tiny bits of debris.He flicked them off, his muscles tense, then resumed waxing harder than ever. Only his grip on the bumper kept him on balance.
He’d rarely seen Kristin in the last six months. Thoughts of her made his heart want to crack in two.Couldn’t figure out whether he loved her as always or hated her for convincing him to go for the money.He’d driven past her house a thousand times, his foot wavering between gas pedal and brake. Gas pedal always won. He didn’t know what to say to her, and somehow the thought of facing her made him ashamed. As if she didn’t have as much or more to be ashamed of.
No, she had less.Her mom hadn’t wanted a thing to do with the baby. His grandmother had.
For the next ten minutes Rogelio rubbed and rubbed, until his arm was sore and his face felt flushed. He watched the wax smear, then buff out, wishing he could do the same with all his problems. Wipe at ’em and watch ’em disappear. Moving on his haunches along the side of the beige Chevy, he told himself his grandmother would get over it. She’d forget the baby and so would he.Maybe in another seven months, maybe in a year,maybe,maybe,maybe—
Rogelio flung the rag to the ground. He sat down hard on the street, elbows hitting his bent knees, fists at his temples. Laughter drifted from the house two doors down, and the sound dragged anger up his throat. Life was going on around him, people laughing, people moving on.And he was stuck. He might as well admit it. Stuck watching his grandmother mourn because of what he’d done. Stuck trying to deny the regret that ate at his insides like bugs on a leaf. For seven long months he’d been stuck.
Suddenly he’d had enough. He could not keep living like this. He’d survived the death of his mother, hadn’t he? Found a way to take care of his grandmother. Then, couldn’t he take care of this too? Yes, he told himself, he could.He would. He’d make his grandmother happy once again and rid himself of the terrible weight he carried around inside. That was a promise, and Rogelio Sanchez did not go back on his word.
Somehow, some way, he was going to get that baby back.
FOUR
Kerra hugged the edge of the sofa, feet tucked beneath her. From an armchair,Chelsea watched her gingerly lift a mug of steaming tea and blow on it. The girl looked worn, fragile, despite her smooth tan skin and shining blond hair. Kerra had not taken well to news of the trial.Who could blame her? Regret weighted Chelsea’s shoulders like a damp wool blanket.Why hadn’t she managed to get off that jury?
“So.”Kerra set her mug down on a cut-glass coaster.“You haven’t told me how the boys are.Must be a lot quieter without them.”
Chelsea found a smile. “I’ll say. I’m used to constant ruckus. This is quite different for me.”
“Where’s the church camp?”
“Down in the Santa Cruz mountains. They should have a great time. And they won’t be back for another two and a half weeks.” Chelsea eyed her niece ruefully.“Which is why I thought it would be such a perfect time for you to visit.”
Kerra drew circles on the sofa arm with a finger. “It’s okay, Aunt Chelsea. Really.We’ll think of something.”Her eyes roved the floor. “Maybe … maybe I’ll go with you.”
“Go with me?” Chelsea raised her eyebrows.“That’s the last thing I would have thought of.”
Kerra shrugged. “Well, I’ll sleep on it. I don’t know what else—”
The phone rang.
“Oh.” Chelsea’s back tensed as she glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven. “That’s probably Paul.” She pushed out of her armchair, mentally preparing herself for the conversation, and forced her legs toward the kitchen.
Paul had never traveled overseas on business before, and he and Chelsea did not relish being apart for so long. If Kerra hadn’t been scheduled to visit, Chelsea would have jumped at the chance to go. In hindsight, leaving the country certainly would have kept her from jury duty. Their family did not need any more publicity; last year’s events had inundated them with it. Paul loved Chelsea fiercely, but he wasn’t a Christian and didn’t understand the spiritual gift of visions that God had chosen to give her.
Chelsea took a deep breath and picked up the cordless phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, babe.” Paul’s weary voice sounded so close, it was hard to believe he was thousands of miles away.
“Hi.Was your flight okay?” Chelsea walked into the library and shut the door.
“Everything was fine.Now I’m ready for bed, but the day’s beginning here. I’ll try to sleep for a few hours.”
“Good.” Chelsea perched on the edge of a leather chair, vainly searching for something more to say.
“You there?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Did Kerra arrive? How does she look?”
“Pretty worn.”Again she flailed for words.
“What’s the matter?”Paul asked.“You don’t sound very talkative.”
Chelsea’s eyes closed. This was not going to be easy. “I have something to tell you.”Her fingers tightened on the phone.“They put me on the jury.”
The silence was deafening. Chelsea pictured her handsome blond husband sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, a sick expression on his face.
“They what!Why didn’t you get off?”His tone mixed accusation and fear.
Steeling herself, Chelsea told him. Including the worst part— that it was the murder case they’d heard about on the news.
“I can’t believe this,” he breathed.“Why didn’t you do what I told you?”
“Paul, I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could! All you had to do was tell them about the Trent Park case.”
“Believe me, I told them everything.” Chelsea’s tone held an edge. “For an hour I told them. It didn’t do any good.”
Paul puffed out air. “Then you should have found another reason. All you needed to do was say you couldn’t be impartial.”
Frustration rose within Chelsea. “Why would I say that? It’s not true.”
“Doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not; the point was to get yourself excused.”
“What do you want me to do, Paul, lie?” Her voice was rising. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Of course not, Chelsea. But how can you possibly be a normal person on a jury after last year?”
The words pierced. Paul was right—her being on this jury made no sens
e. Surely God had a reason for it, but that’s the last thing Paul would want to hear. “I don’t know.” Tears bit Chelsea’s eyes. “I even asked them to send me home. And still … ”
Silence.
“Oh, Chelsea, I’m sorry,” Paul said finally, his voice flat, tired. “I’m just scared, that’s all. I don’t want you to go through anything as awful as you did last year.And now I’m not even there to keep an eye on you.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
Paul sighed.“Look, I need to go.Do one thing for us, okay? Keep a low profile. No crazy God stuff. Just do your duty like everyone else. I’ll check in with you tomorrow night. And remember how much I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
At the sound of the dial tone, Chelsea dropped her head into her hands and prayed. God, why have you placed me on this jury?
Suddenly something clunked into place inside her, like machinery locking into gear. She knew the sensation well—the sign of an oncoming vision of particular evil.Most of the time Chelsea felt no physical symptoms when a vision came. But once in a while, as with the Trent Park case last year …
Chelsea pressed her head back against the chair and stared straight ahead, muscles tensing. A piece of knowledge, implacable, unquestionable, shot through her mind: this vision had to do with the trial.
No, she screamed silently,don’t tell me anything, God! Idon’t want to know; I can’t know!
The edges of her sight began to blur like water at the stir of a finger. On the right, the curtained window shimmered; on the left, the bookcase. The wavering expanded, moved into the center, shimmering over the edge of the bookcase, a painting on the wall, until everything disappeared.
Darkness.
Silence.
Then sound filtered into the darkness and the shimmering retreated.Undulating back,wider, a new picture filling the center of her sight. A man seated in a leather chair, staring into the distance, cigarette smoke drifting from his nostrils. His hair was shiny black, like a crow’s wings, his eyes dark, narrowed. He brought a cigarette to his hard mouth, a raised scar jagging between his thumb and index finger. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke. Chelsea could almost feel it burning her own lungs. One thick eyebrow raised slightly and satisfaction flicked across his face. Chelsea’s stomach knotted. His thought was hurtful, evil. Dread coursed through her veins.
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