by Todd Borg
“Don’t be naive. Maybe the odd worker would know some English. But Paco would basically be trapped in a world he doesn’t know, where he can’t communicate. It would be worse than prison.”
“If I called the sheriff,” I said, “or the local social service agency, or the local legislator – people who are knowledgeable about local, illegal immigrants – wouldn’t they agree with you? Wouldn’t they hesitate to do anything that might jerk Paco out of his hometown?”
Pam Sagan scoffed, shaking her head.
“All those elected or appointed officials will only speak on record, and they would tell you lies aimed at creating a sense that they are directed by compassion. The truth is that the U.S. routinely deports children to countries the children have never known, countries whose language is as foreign to the kids as Swahili probably is to you. And this country is deporting more people every year.”
“What about the amnesty programs that we hear about? The so-called Dream Act? Surely, there must be a program that Paco could fit into. Something that would give him legal residency if not citizenship.”
Sagan looked at me hard again. At that moment, I represented the enemy, those people who justify ripping apart kids’ lives because there is a legal line drawn in the sand.
“As I said, Paco has been in trouble. Regardless of the platitudes you hear about the system having built-in safeguards designed to create a fair system for kids like him, those of us who work in the Central Valley can tell you otherwise. And kids who have been in trouble the way Paco has are likely to be deported if they get picked up by Immigration Enforcement Agents. Because these kids have no family and no advocates with any power, once they are sent to Mexico, no one ever hears about them again. They are the silent victims. The government doesn’t tell their stories.”
“How many people know about this, that Paco is not actually in the files of the state agencies?”
“Well, several of us at this school, of course. The women who’ve taken care of him over the years. Several other people in the community. The local dentist and doctor. No doubt the parents of his friends, some of whom themselves are illegal aliens. And you should know that Paco isn’t the only kid in this situation. We have several in our school. I know other Central Valley educators who say that their schools have many undocumented kids.”
“Can you tell me about Paco’s history?” I said.
“We don’t actually know it in detail. From what I’ve heard, his mother brought him over the border when he was a baby. She came with him alone, and she told people that her boyfriend, Paco’s father, would be joining them soon. But the father never showed up. She worked in the vineyards picking grapes, carrying the baby in one of those back packs. But she died from some kind of infection.
“So the neighbor lady, who loved both Paco and Paco’s mother, took in the baby and raised him. She knew of course that Paco was not legal, so she kept quiet about it. Unfortunately, that woman eventually started to suffer from Alzheimer’s and had to go into a home. Fortunately, some other neighbor women who had a round-robin childcare for their kids put Paco into their rotation. He spent several years living at four different homes, switching among them as the schedules of the various families permitted.
“Eventually, the daycare circle dissolved, but one of those families took him in. They had a tumultuous home life, but at least Paco had a roof over his head. That family kept him until he began to get in trouble and became more withdrawn.
“This was around the time that Cassie got to know Paco. So she took him in shortly after he turned eight. She’s had him for a year and about eight months. No one knows what motivated Cassie to step forward just as others were tiring of the boy. Some might say that she saw that she could combine doing the right thing by the boy with acquiring a source of cheap labor.
“Either way, Cassie was the best thing that ever happened to Paco. Warm and fuzzy, no. Playful and fun, no. Quirky in her opinions and even a little strange, yes. But steady as a supertanker in rough seas. She gave Paco the one thing he’d never had, a calm life that he could count on.
“Unfortunately, Paco hasn’t been easy for her. Warm and fuzzy he’s not, either. Inside, I think he’s a good kid. But you’ve got to have a lot of faith to believe in him. He’s as stubborn and resistant to the world as a granite boulder. You want to teach that kid something, good luck. Unless he sees it as something he needs, he simply won’t pay attention. And, as you know, raising a child is very expensive. Cassie’s work ethic has made it so she can provide for herself even though she came from a disadvantaged background herself. But it was a real sacrifice to take on the expenses of a child. She’s a bit of a hero around here for not only taking Paco in, but doing it in violation of laws that show little favor for a child without citizenship in the very country where he grew up. And she has had to withstand some scorn, too.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Even this community has some people who are hard-liners who say that Paco is a Mexican and that he should be deported.”
“What about your school? How does that work without Paco having official records?”
“We just took him in the way the neighbor women did. He began to attend classes when he was six. We created some paperwork where it made sense, and kept him off the books where that seemed appropriate. Our guiding principle was to do whatever would give him some continuity. He had no memories of ever having a parent, nor had he ever experienced stability. So we wanted to keep him in our school and in our community. Until Cassie took him in, this little school and this town, poor and fragmented as it is, was the only community he’s ever known. As with everyone else who has taken care of him, we wanted to avoid having some person with authority come in and uproot his life and put him in an institutional setting.”
“An orphanage.”
“Yes. In another community. Or another country. With another school. Where he would know no one.”
Pam Sagan studied me, wondering, I thought, whether she could see any resolve in my face. Wondering if my resolve was in Paco’s favor or disfavor.
“In your experience, if Paco remains under the radar, what is the chance that he will be caught, anyway?”
Sagan nodded. “There is absolutely a chance that he will be caught. If he is ticketed for any infraction or breaks any law, especially when he gets older, like driving without a license, that will set the gears of the deportation machine turning. And even if he isn’t caught, as an illegal, he can’t get a social security number, he can’t get most jobs, he can’t easily go to college, he can never borrow money or make use of the banking system. That means that he can’t have a normal life.”
“Wouldn’t that be worse? Wouldn’t he be given more latitude if he voluntarily comes forward as an underage illegal immigrant, brought here as an infant by his now-deceased mother?”
“Perhaps. But I think most of his teachers and other community members who know him would say, let’s postpone that reckoning until he is older. When he’s sixteen or seventeen, he might be able to cope with such an adverse situation. But at ten? It might destroy him.”
She took a breath, then continued.
“I’m not an expert, but my experience suggests that finding some flexibility – or latitude, as you call it – in the agencies that deal with illegal immigration, is a very hit-or-miss prospect. Some people, in some situations, may exercise some discretion in his favor. But unfortunately, the government has rules, and bureaucrats have to go by them when they decide on which side of the line you fall. It’s a brutal business, but the people making the choice don’t have the opportunity to put a human face on that choice. Either you’re in, or you’re out, and once that decision is made, there is little you can do to change the outcome.”
I said, “Paco told me that he has no siblings and no relatives that he knows of. Is that what you understand?”
Sagan made a little nod that seemed sad and resigned.
“He also told me that he’s struggling
in school,” I said. “He said he’s been held back for being dumb.”
Pam Sagan frowned. “Well, he’s certainly not dumb. He mostly has trouble reading. He’s dyslexic. We would like to get him specialized help, but this school district has no money.” She gestured at the building. “You can see by our facility that we have to make do with very little. Anyway, Paco will learn eventually. Holding him back actually gives him some advantages. He will have more confidence in future classes. One good thing is that he made new friends after he was held back.”
I nodded. “You said that Cassie doesn’t have many friends. But can you give me the names of anybody who might know her best?”
“Well, if Cassie has friends, they don’t intersect with my circle. From the few times we’ve talked, I’d say that her entire life is about trying to raise Paco right and about earning a living as a farmer. I can testify that the first is the hardest job on the planet. And, as far as I can tell, farming is the second hardest job.”
“Is Cassie close to Paco? I ask because he doesn’t seem especially distressed by what happened. Don’t get me wrong. It has been upsetting for him. I found him up in the night, crying. I know he’s very held in, naturally reticent. But even so, I would think that he’d show more distress.”
It took Sagan a moment to answer. “The thing is, Cassie never really took on the role of a mother. She was always more of a provider. Reliable but somewhat removed. She never had kids of her own. I think she felt that she wasn’t mother material. But she’s fair and she’s dedicated to her role as provider. When it comes to making sure that Paco has decent clothes and decent meals, she’s the equal of any mother out there. I also think that Paco has been bounced around by life so much that he’s not going to get invested in anything. Not his foster mom, not school, not any single interest. Paco is a survivor, not an engager. Also, Paco has only been with Cassie for two summer growing seasons and the intervening winter.”
“Have you ever known of anyone who threatened Cassie or Paco? Has she had animosities with any people in the community?”
Sagan shook her head vigorously. Her hair stayed perfect, not a loose strand. “None that I know of. Cassie is not antagonistic in any way. She’s not someone who has issues with other people. She’s just focused on her work and trying to provide stability for Paco. As for Paco... Well, I guess I’ve already explained what I can about him.”
The woman saw some speck on her desk and carefully wiped it off the edge of her desk into her other hand, then transferred it to the wastebasket.
She continued, “It sounds like you think that there might be something that one could learn about Cassie that would explain where she is or what happened to her.”
“Sometimes the victim of violence is chosen by random,” I said. “But usually the perpetrator knows the victim. And from what Paco told me about them driving up very early in the morning yesterday, it sounds like Cassie was meeting someone. The more I can learn about her, the more likely I am to find out something about the person or persons who assaulted her.”
Sagan nodded, frowning, thoughtful. “If I think of anything or hear anything, I’ll call you.”
I stood, pulled out my card and handed it to her. She put it in the top drawer of her desk, then gave me one of hers.
“If Cassie remains missing,” I said, “what is your thought on where Paco could live? You already said that the families of his friends don’t have room. But he still needs a place to stay.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry to say that I can’t think of anything. He’s coming to that age where people are no longer eager to take a child in just because he needs a home. And I... Well, there’s no way I could take him in. Same for our teachers. Only Judy has the space and could have taken him in, but she’s just been diagnosed with breast cancer, so that’s out. Let’s hope for a miracle. Maybe there has been some terrible confusion. Maybe Cassie is okay and turns up soon.”
I nodded.
“I suppose Paco won’t be back at school until you get things sorted out,” she said.
“Right. I have to assume that as a witness to Cassie’s assault, he is in danger. Until I am certain the danger is gone, he will have to stay in some kind of protective custody. After that, it seems clear that the best thing for him would be to come back to this community. His community.” I stood and turned to leave.
“Owen,” she said as I was walking out of her door.
I turned back to her.
She gave me an imploring look. “This protective custody you mention. I don’t pretend to know you, but you seem like a decent man,” she said. “That boy could really use a male role model. Maybe he could live with you for the time being.”
THIRTEEN
Pam Sagan’s last comment made my breath short as I walked back into the school lobby. Between Pam Sagan and Street, I felt like they were ganging up on me even though I knew they were just trying to think of what was best for Paco.
My breath got shorter when I saw that Paco was gone.
I pushed out through the doors, half running, but calmed when I saw Paco at the Jeep. Spot had his head out the rear window, panting in the sun that was struggling through the fall clouds. Paco was reaching up, carefully petting the side of Spot’s neck. His hand looked tiny against Spot’s neck and head.
Paco saw me coming, opened the passenger door, and climbed up into the Jeep.
I got in, started the engine, and looked at Paco. He must have known that the principal and I were talking about him, but he said nothing, asked no questions.
“Let’s go to your house and get that note that Cassie wrote me,” I said. “Where do I drive?”
“Go left,” he said.
I pulled out of the school lot and turned left.
Paco directed me through three more turns, and then we headed out into the countryside on a narrow, paved road. We drove two miles, turned again, drove two more miles.
“It’s that drive,” he said, pointing at a craftsman-style bungalow set back from the road and surrounded by an old cedar fence. The house was brown shingle with white window trim and white columns marking the edges of a wrap-around porch. It looked like it had been built at the turn of the 20th Century. The white paint was peeling off the columns in long strips. The front door was scratched as if from a dog that wanted in. One of the windows had a diagonal crack running through it.
Out front was a realtor’s For Sale sign.
I pulled onto a circular drive of crushed white rock. Scraggly, brown weeds poked up through the rock. From up in the air, it would look a little like someone had sprinkled oregano onto a powdered-sugar doughnut. At the center of the doughnut drive grew a fan palm.
Off to the side was a rectangular parking area on which sat a Chevy pickup and a Corvette, both in much better condition than the house.
“Nice spread you got,” I said.
“This is the landlord’s house. We live in the house out back,” Paco said. He pointed to a dirt drive that went through the fence, down the outside edge of the property.
“What’s the landlord’s name?”
“Kevin.”
“Kevin what?” I said.
“Kevin Garnett.”
“Like the NBA player?”
“Yeah,” Paco said. “That’s how I remember his name.”
“But your landlord isn’t that Kevin Garnett.”
“No. He’s white. And a lot shorter.”
“How long has the landlord had the house for sale?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Awhile.”
I drove down the dirt drive and followed it 75 yards back. The dirt road was compacted smooth, but it went up and down in broad dips and crests. The Jeep bounced hard.
We came to a small house that made the landlord’s house look like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest.
The wood siding was weathered into deep cracks. The roof leaned and had multiple missing shingles. Two of the three front steps up to the front porch were missing.
Behind the house was a large greenhouse made of wood frame and covered with plastic sheeting. It was probably 50 feet wide and stretched 100 feet long. Behind it was a larger field with planting rows shaped into the dirt by farm equipment. Whatever had grown in those beds over the summer had been trimmed away, no doubt to be replaced with new growth come spring.
“This is our house. The note is inside.”
I parked. Paco jumped out, ran up to the porch, and jumped over the missing steps.
I let Spot out to run around, which he did with enthusiasm, nose to the ground, tail held high, the smells of a farm unusual and exciting.
Paco reached for the doorknob, jiggled it, then turned around and came toward me.
“The door’s locked.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“It’s never locked,” he said.
“But when Cassie left with you in the middle of the night yesterday, didn’t she lock it?”
Paco shook his head.
“Did you watch her shut the door and leave without locking it? Or are you just remembering times when she didn’t lock it?”
“I didn’t watch her, but she never locks it. The landlord uses one of the rooms to store stuff. He doesn’t want the house locked.”
We heard a noise and turned to see the pickup coming down the dirt drive. It was coming fast, its wheels bouncing on the uneven surface. Despite the recent rain, the sun had shined enough that a dust plume rose behind it like a giant bushy tail.
The pickup made a fast stop, wheels skidding a bit. A man jumped out wearing a hothead attitude front and center. It went with his silver-dollar belt buckle and silver-tipped cowboy boots.
“Private property,” he said to me, his breath heavy with alcohol. I remembered that Paco had said that the landlord hit people when he’d been drinking. “You’re trespassing,” the man said.
The man wore jeans and a dirty T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his biceps. His hair was greased back and to the side in an elaborate curl like a ’50s caricature.
Everything about the man telegraphed an effort to look younger than his late-40s age.
