by A. J. Carton
Steve approached the dilapidated wooden building and peeked in a broken window. All he reported was what he called a barracks, row after row of mattresses covering the floor.
Behind the building, however, Emma found a series of low metal sheds. There, a man stood with his back to them, relieving himself noisily against the tin siding of one of the buildings.
Steve called to him. “Do you know Louis Cardenas?”
The man finished what he was doing, zipped up his pants and turned around.
He was of average height and stocky. A short stubbly beard covered half of his tanned brown face, and a blue bandana covered most of his curly black hair. His dark eyes, however, were remarkable for their thick, black lashes – so dark it almost looked to Emma like he was wearing mascara.
To her surprise, Emma thought she recognized the man, though at first she didn’t know why. Then she remembered. He looked like the man she’d seen talking to Cheng Bo in the side yard of the Buchanon’s home the day of her lunch with HoCo.
Maybe it’s just the bandana, she thought, trying to wipe the surprised look off her face. But it wasn’t the bandana that she recognized. It was the eyes.
“Who wants to know?” the man asked, ignoring Emma and staring sharply at Steve. The quick, involuntary fluttering of his well-delineated eyelids quickly signaled to Emma that the man was ill at ease.
“My name’s Steve Zimmer,” Steve answered. “I spoke with you a few weeks ago. About the class action. You’d decided to withdraw and…”
“Gomez is dead,” the man replied flatly. “That’s the end of it, isn’t it? The police have the murderer. Curt Randall. What do you want with me?”
“I just want to ask a few questions,” Steve replied. “You knew Gomez…”
“Look man,” Cardenas cut in, “the police already questioned me. The night Gomez died, I was over there,” he pointed to the fields behind the sheds. “I was picking onions, filling my quotas. I have the tarjeta to prove it. The police were satisfied. What else do you need to know?”
By now, Emma could feel herself drenched in sweat. The sun was so hot, she feared she might faint. She looked at Steve.
“Could we go inside somewhere? Out of the sun?” she asked
Again, her simple question provoked nothing but harsh laughter. “You wanna go inside, Senora?” the Mexican replied. “Sure, lady, let’s go inside. Here,” he approached one of the sheds. “Mi casa es su casa,” he muttered opening the door and steering her across the threshold.
Inside, the metal structure had heated up like an oven. Way hotter than it was outside. Light filtered in from one dirty window, hazily illuminating a mattress on the floor, a table and a broken wooden chair. There was only one room. No kitchen. No bath. This man lives in a tool shed, Emma thought to herself.
Before she fully comprehended what she’d seen, Steve dragged her out by the arm and directed her towards the car.
Then he motioned to Cardenas with a jerk of his head. “I’ve seen the tarjeta,” he said. “I don’t think you murdered Santiago Gomez. But if Curt Randall didn’t murder Gomez, I need to find out who did. Before I file a lawsuit. Maybe you can help me. Is there somewhere I can buy you a cold beer?”
At the mention of the cold beer, Cardenas’ reluctance thawed a little. He thought about the offer for a few seconds, blinked a few times, then walked with Emma and Steve towards their car.
Once they were inside, Steve turned the air conditioning on full blast.
Steve glanced at his watch. “Given the time, why don’t we grab some dinner too. Where should we go?”
Cardenas directed Steve back onto the highway headed east. Before long, they turned down a two-lane road, and stopped in front of a cantina that served Mexican food. No one had spoken during the course of the short ride.
Inside the restaurant, Cardenas nodded to a few of the patrons who eyed Emma and Steve with suspicion. No one, Emma noted, smiled.
Cardenas sat down at a table and immediately ordered a Dos Equis and a plate of enchiladas. Steve and Emma followed suit. It wasn’t until the beer arrived that Steve addressed his dinner guest. His first question was not about Gomez’s murder, but it was exactly what Emma had on her mind.
“Listen, Louis,” Steve began. “Before we talk about Gomez, you gotta explain something to me. Why’d you drop out of the suit?” He shook his head in genuine confusion.
Louis remained silent, so Steve continued. “You’re entitled to a better life. A life with dignity. By law, you’re entitled to shade, running water, a toilet. That’s all we are asking for in the lawsuit. Do you understand?”
Louis had taken a long slow drink of the beer. Emma watched him put the bottle down and focus his eyes on the table. Like he might fall off a cliff if he looked away.
“I need my job,” he finally answered.
“You can keep your job,” Steve replied. “Randall can’t fire you for asking for things you’re entitled to.”
“Randall?” Cardenas laughed, still staring at the table. “What does he know? The contractors handle everything now. They find the laborers. Handle the payroll. Nothing’s gonna change because of a lawsuit. From what I hear, they go on forever. Even if you win you lose. So,” he added, “you take the best deal you can get.”
“Who told you that?” Emma asked. “About the lawsuits?”
Cardenas clammed up. He wouldn’t say.
Their food had arrived. Emma watched the Mexican wolf it down like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“Do you have family here, Louis?” Emma asked. “Did your family persuade you to drop out of the suit?”
“No. No family here.” Carillo shook his head. “I send my mother money in Mexico.”
“I can get you more money,” Steve replied.
The man continued to eat.
That’s when Emma remembered Cheng Bo.
“But you do come north, don’t you, Louis?” To Sonoma?” she asked. “On family business?”
The man glanced up quickly. “No,” he said. His black eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What makes you ask?”
Emma shrugged. “Something Senora Carillo said. I must have misunderstood. I thought she said you went north a few days after Gomez died.”
Steve looked at her questioningly. “I don’t remember that,” he said.
“See,” Emma smiled. “I was mistaken. You never work in Sonoma, right? You only work here.”
Cardenas eyed her for a few seconds. Then he repeated her words, “I never work in Sonoma. I only work here.”
But Emma was sure she had seen him. Tearing down signs in the Plaza. Talking to Cheng Bo.
Cardenas grudgingly verified Armando Carillo’s alibi on the night Gomez died. Much as he disliked Gomez, he disliked Armando Carillo more. He called him a brute. A traitor who now worked for the growers. Who’d betrayed his people, misstating their hours, cheating them out of their pay. Turning a blind eye to illegal working conditions.
“As for my cousin, Helena,” he added. “Sure she fools around. Who wouldn’t with that dog of a husband. She should have left him years ago. But all she cares about is money.”
It was dark and the temperature had plummeted by the time they left the restaurant. Emma shivered in her light cotton shirt. They dropped Cardenas back at the end of the dirt road, turned their car around and made their way to the Motel 6.
“So where does that leave you with your list of suspects?” Steve asked when he and Emma were alone in the car.
“Carillo and Cardenas both have alibis,” Emma admitted. “Unless they’re lying to cover for each other.”
“What was all that about Cardenas coming north to visit family? Did I miss something?” Steve asked.
Emma shook her head.
“Cardenas is lying. I saw Cardenas talking to Cheng Bo a few days after the murder,” she explained. “He may not have killed Santiago Gomez, but I’ll bet the farm he has something to hide.”
“Don’t we all,” Steve answered.
> That night, lying in bed, Emma watched the truck lights turn into the parking lot in front of her room. Suddenly illuminating it, and just as suddenly going dark.
What did Steve mean that everyone has something to hide? she asked herself. I don’t. I don’t have anything to hide.
Then, for the first time all day, she thought of Dan Worthington. The affair she’d hidden for years. And suddenly she understood what Steve meant.
Chapter 16: Friday Morning – Hard Times in Puebloduro
The next morning Emma’s cell phone woke her up at 8:00 a.m. It was Jack. Reluctantly, she took the call.
“Don’t worry,” she replied to his question regarding her whereabouts. “I’m on an early flight home from Palm Springs.” Then, hoping to justify her absence, she added, “By the way, we’re finding out all kinds of interesting things down here. And boy, were you right. Conditions in Coachella are…”
She stopped speaking, unable to find the right words to describe what she’d seen. “Third world” wasn’t PC. Nor was it particularly accurate.
“Unhealthy,” she finally finished her sentence. “No one should live the way these poor people do. Not even a dog,” she added thinking of the overheated metal shed Louis Cardenas used as a home.
In answer to Jack’s next question, however, Emma said only, “No. I have no idea who murdered Gomez. Everyone has an alibi.”
Jack mumbled something about safe travels. They said goodbye and hung up.
Five minutes later, Steve called.
“I’m in the breakfast room,” he announced. “They’ve got donuts, pastries and coffee. I suggest you join me – I don’t think the Plaza Bakery has a branch in Coachella yet.”
“Ha, ha,” was all Emma could muster for his early morning sarcasm. “I’ll be right down. By the way, I should also check out before we leave.”
“Yeah,” Steve replied. “I keep forgetting. I’m driving all the way home alone. We’ll leave your bags in the trunk so we can drive directly to the airport when we’re done.”
A few minutes later, overnight bag in hand, Emma had checked out of her room and found her way to the motel’s bleak little breakfast room. The cubicle was furnished with square metal tables and folding chairs. Notwithstanding the depressing décor, the dining room was surprisingly full – truckers in T-shirts, salesmen in suits – all of them greeting the two bright eyed wait staff like old friends.
Which, apparently, they were, Emma observed.
“See ya Tuesday, Sal,” a portly man in his fifties called to one of the waitresses as he ambled out the door carrying a large sample case.
“As long as you’re buying,” Sal replied, waving a plump, jewelry-laden hand.
Soon after, a tall man wearing cowboy boots, a white T-shirt and a black denim vest entered the breakfast room and gave the second waitress a bear hug.
“Long time no see, Dottie.”
“Visiting my daughter in El Paso,” she replied. “Good to be home. How are those grandkids?”
It’s a friendly place, Emma noted filling her cardboard cup full of coffee and joining the pastry line. A transient subculture of familiar faces. A caravansary along a latter day Silk Road. With Chevys and Mack trucks instead of camels. Donuts and coffee instead of dates and tea.
That thought somehow eased Emma’s guilt when she grabbed a huge glazed donut off the tray, eagerly anticipating the explosion of sugar in her mouth.
Steve was already well into his second chocolate donut and third cup of coffee. “Eat up,” was all he said looking at his watch as she sat down. “You’re dropping me in Coachella where I’m meeting the numbers guy at 9:00. Gomez’s widow lives just a few miles out of town. It’s a place called Puebloduro. I’ve plugged the address into my GPS so it’ll be easy to find.”
“Can’t you drop me first?” Emma replied, rattled by the offer of the GPS. “I’m not comfortable driving around here alone.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mother.”
Emma took the comparison as unflattering.
“OK. I’ll drop you there,” he relented, rising from his chair coffee cup in hand. “But you may have to kill some time if you get finished with Mrs. Gomez before I’m finished with the numbers guy. He’s doing me a favor. I’m taking all the time I need. I’m warning you. There won’t be much to do in Puebloduro while you wait for me to pick you up.”
“I’ll kill the time,” Emma replied, translating the name in her head. The word duro meant “hard” in Italian. And pueblo meant “town” in Spanish. It wasn’t promising.
“You remember the assignment? All the questions to ask?” Steve asked.
Emma nodded. “Yes.”
It took only a few minutes to drive from the motel to Puebloduro. At a glance, Emma noted, the place lived up to its name – a dirt road off the highway leading to a dilapidated trailer park. Along the way, Emma noticed a steady stream of women carrying large plastic bottles. Gaggles of children played happily enough on bare, treeless, unpaved streets. It looked like a scene from a refugee camp in a war zone.
“What’s with the plastic bottles?” Emma asked as Steve pulled to a stop in front of the small, broken down trailer where Santiago Gomez’s widow lived.
“The water here’s contaminated,” Steve shrugged. “There’ve been some stories about it in the news. People have to get their drinking water from a tank. That’s what the plastic bottles are for.”
“Doesn’t the city do something about it?” Emma replied.
“City?” Steve laughed. “What city? This is a DUC.”
“A what?”
“An Disadvantaged Unincorporated Community.”
Emma’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “We allow that? In California?”
“Apparently in California we do,” Steve nodded. “And you, lady, are lookin’ at one.” He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. “I gotta go.”
But as Emma opened the car door, he tapped her shoulder. “You know what to say? Right?”
Emma nodded. They’d discussed it the day before. “I’m looking for three things. First, information about anyone Yolanda Gomez thinks might have wanted to kill her husband. Second, information about why Gomez went north to the ranch the week he died. Third, what Yolanda thinks her husband planned to tell Curt Randall on the night he died.”
Steve agreed. “Then find out anything you can about the family, the kids, their circumstances, their needs.” He motioned for her to get out of the car. “I’ll call your cell when I’m done with the numbers guy. By the way,” he added as she slammed the door, “thanks, Emma. Thanks for doing this.” Before Emma could reply, Steve had driven away.
Yolanda Gomez’s trailer looked more like a transport vehicle than a home. More like a trailer you’d haul animals in, or furniture or packed goods. There were no front stairs. Just a front door flush to the ground.
Two young children playing in the street eyed Emma suspiciously as she knocked. Then a woman with a careworn face and a toddler hanging on her long denim skirt opened the door. She had lots of black hair that she’d caught up in a bun. She looked to be about thirty and might have been beautiful had she not looked so sad.
“Yolanda?” Emma asked.
The woman nodded.
“Emma Corsi. I work with Steve Zimmer. He couldn’t come today – he’s meeting with a man who is helping to find out what you may be entitled to on account of your husband’s death,” Emma stopped, then added “Though, of course, no amount of money can…”
The woman bit her lip and nodded again. “Come in,” she said.
Emma entered and looked around.
There wasn’t much to see. The trailer Emma entered appeared to have two rooms. The one in which she stood was a combined living room and kitchen with a refrigerator and hot plate. She guessed that a closed door led to a bedroom and, hopefully, a bathroom as well.
Once inside, Yolanda Gomez placed her forefinger to her lips. Then in a soft voice she said, “We must talk quietl
y. My brother, Antonio, he is asleep in the next room. He works at night, picking vegetables.”
“I understand,” Emma said. Then she felt foolish. What could she understand? Nothing she saw made sense. But she added, suddenly curious. “How many people live here – in the trailer.”
Yolanda thought for a moment. “Including the baby?” she asked, sitting down and scooping the little girl into her lap.
Emma nodded again.
“Six,” Yolanda answered. “Me, my brother and my mother – and the three little ones. But that’s since…” Her voice trailed off.
“Six?” Emma repeated, throwing her hands up involuntarily in disbelief.
“Santiago and my brother both worked at night,” Yolanda Gomez explained. “They sleep during the day. My mother and I use the bed while they are in the field. The little ones,” she smiled. “They can fall asleep anywhere. During the day they are in school. Today, the bus broke down. So I tell them to play outside. So as not to wake my brother.”
“I see,” Emma replied.
“Can I offer you something? Coffee?”
Emma shook her head. What she really wanted was water. But according to Steve, that was scarce. She was about to jump into her questions, when Yolanda interrupted her.
“Mrs. Corsi, right?”
“Emma,” Emma corrected her.
“Emma,” the young woman repeated. “First of all, I want you to know how much me and my family appreciate all that Steve has tried to do for us. This is a terrible thing that has happened. We need all the help we can get.”
Emma nodded.
“But I will be honest,” the woman continued. “As you may know, my husband left what was a good job in Sonoma to come and work here. So he could be a part of the, what do you say? Lawsuit? At first, he convinced me it was a good idea. Curt Randall, he is not a nice man. I thought Santiago was doing the right thing. Moving here. Making the old man pay for getting rich off our backs.”
