“We don’t know that’s what triggered it, sir.”
“No, we don’t. I never mentioned them. If he was listening, all he heard was my call to Sutherland, to tell him I was inbound.”
Arleen Aragon appeared with two generously heaped plates billowing steam and fragrance.
“That’s some breakfast burrito,” Bob said, and leaned back while Arleen coasted the platter in for a landing.
“That’s our dinner burrito,” Arleen corrected. “The sheriff doesn’t do those dinky little things on the breakfast menu.” The second plate landed in front of me with a heavy thud. “It’s hot, so be careful.”
“Brain food,” I said. “Maybe something will occur to me.”
“When he sobers up, Sosimo might have some answers,” Torrez said.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Chapter Nine
District Attorney Daniel M. Schroeder looked like a lawyer—perfectly fitted and pressed dark suit, spit-polished black wing tips, gold wire-rimmed glasses, a bulging, old-fashioned top-opening leather briefcase, and a gold Cross pen that flicked indecipherable notes on a fresh yellow legal pad.
He was sitting by himself in the Public Safety Building’s conference room when I returned. With him looking so damned formal, I was glad I’d taken a few minutes to go home, shower, shave, and spruce up. Not that Dan would have cared how I looked. Over the course of twenty years, I’d come to the conclusion that District Attorney Schroeder was an interesting fellow, one of those rare folks who didn’t immediately transfer what he thought about the world to other people as a requirement for what they should think.
Still, I had to admit to a certain small uneasiness. No matter how the story was told, no matter how the excuses fell, it was my fault that Matthew Baca was dead. The kid had been in my custody. With that in mind, I had a personal interest in what conclusions the district attorney reached.
Schroeder looked up from his pad when I entered the room, and his round face cracked in a neutral smile. “Morning,” he said as he pushed the chair back and stood up. Not “good morning,” or “rotten morning,” or “how are you.” Just the single word into which I was free to read whatever I liked. We shook hands, and his grip was neutral, too—not forced hearty, not perfunctory or limp.
“Do you want the undersheriff here for this?” I asked.
“Ah,” he said, and looked down at the legal pad. “Not right away. Let’s just you and I talk for a bit.” I started to pull out a chair, but he was already gathering up his things. “Let’s use your office,” he said. “We might have fewer interruptions there.”
Interruptions weren’t the issue, but I appreciated the gesture and didn’t object. If I had to be grilled, it was more comfortable to be well done on home turf. I appreciated an unspoken second gesture, too. Donald Jaramillo, the assistant district attorney who generally worked Posadas County, was not present. I didn’t care for the little weasel, and Schroeder knew it.
As I closed my office door behind us, I said, “Go ahead and use the desk.”
“This is fine,” he said, and settled in one of the two leather-padded captain’s chairs.
“Coffee or something?”
“No thanks. I’m fine.” He waited until I’d finally settled in behind my desk. With his elbows on the arms of the chair, he held his pen in front of his face, one end in each hand, and slowly spun it as if he were searching for imperfections in the gold finish. After a minute, his gaze switched to me.
“I understand that you witnessed some or all of the undersheriff’s initial pursuit of Matthew Baca?”
“Yes. I was parked up on the mountain, just this side of Regal Pass. A little after eleven o’clock. I could see the lights of the Broken Spur Saloon from where I was parked.”
“And you saw the Baca vehicle arrive at the saloon, and then leave shortly thereafter?”
“I didn’t see it arrive. Or at least I didn’t notice it arrive. That might be more accurate.”
“How long had you been parked when you saw the vehicle leave? When you saw it drive out of the saloon’s parking lot?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.”
“Do you think that Baca had been at the saloon all that time?”
“I doubt it. The bartender at the saloon said the kid was just in and out. Tried to buy beer, was refused, and left.”
“So you just missed his arrival, then. Somehow.”
“Somehow.”
“Undersheriff Torrez said that he was parked at the old windmill about a quarter mile down the road. To the east. Is that your understanding?”
“Yes. I saw his vehicle when he pulled out on the highway with his emergency lights on. I don’t know how long he’d been parked there.”
“So he wasn’t just driving down the highway.”
“No.”
“Does he do that often? Park and watch?”
“Sure. We all do.” I almost added, “As you well know.”
“When the undersheriff began his pursuit of the Baca vehicle, what did you do?”
“I radioed Bob to ask if he wanted me to head the kid off at the pass.”
Schroeder grinned at that. “And did you?”
“No. The undersheriff had dropped back then, and said that there was no point in continuing pursuit. He said that he knew where the kid lived. There was no point in pushing the chase and risking an accident.”
“We’ve been there before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we have.”
Schroeder nodded and clicked his pen. “And he turned off his red lights?
“Yes, he did.”
“Would the kids have seen the lights go out, or was Bob too far behind them?”
“I have no idea. They were intoxicated, excited, scared—all those things. And there are lots of trees, curves, the whole bit. My guess would be that they still thought they were being pursued. Otherwise, I don’t know why they would have turned off the highway onto the dirt lane.”
“Your lights weren’t on?”
“No. My engine wasn’t even running.”
“That must have been a hell of a surprise, when they turned into that side road. Did they have a scanner in the car, do you know?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“So they couldn’t have known that you were there.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would a sober driver have had enough time to stop before hitting your vehicle if he had pulled off the highway in the same fashion?”
“No, not at that speed. We’re only talking a few yards from the highway shoulder to where I was parked.”
“And when the vehicle came to a stop after plowing into yours, Matthew Baca immediately got out of the car?”
I nodded. “Yes. Driver’s side.”
“He didn’t talk to the others?”
“Not that I saw or heard. He got out and stumbled around toward the back of his car. About by the left rear wheel. I got out at the same time and told him to stop, or turn around, or some such. I don’t remember exactly what. He looked like he might cooperate. It appeared that when he saw the lights of the undersheriff’s vehicle as it pulled off the highway into the lane, he bolted.”
“Torrez’s red lights were on at that time? He had turned them back on?”
“Yes.”
“And the kid just ran off into the boonies.”
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t chase him?”
“Nope. Bob followed him for a ways, but didn’t find him.”
Schroeder shook his head in wonder, still gazing at me. “And it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you’d bother organizing a search party for, either.”
“Hardly. The kid’s over eighteen. If he wants to camp out, that’s his choice. It wasn’t a felony that was involved, after all.”
Schroeder smiled briefly. “No, certainly not. So he ran from you, maybe hid somewhere until you guys left, and then made his way home.”
“That would be m
y guess. When I met two or three hours later with his father and then went into their house in Regal, the kid was there, conked out on the living-room sofa.”
“Where did you see the father? That’s Sosimo, right? The undersheriff’s uncle?”
I nodded. “He was walking down one of the dirt lanes in Regal, headed home. He was intoxicated. That would have been about two AM”
“He was intoxicated to the point he didn’t recognize you?”
“No, he knew who I was. Once he got a good look. I told him we wanted to talk with Matthew.”
“Did he invite you to his house?”
“No. I offered him a ride home, and he accepted. I asked him if I could check to see if Matthew was there. He agreed.”
“Matthew wasn’t awake when you entered the house?”
“No. He was sleeping on the couch in the living room. I put handcuffs on him, and that’s when he woke up.”
“He didn’t struggle?”
“No. He was pissed, though, and looked like he might resist if the opportunity presented itself. I made some comment about Bob carrying him out to the car if he didn’t cooperate.”
Schroeder smiled. “And the threat worked.”
“Yes. We got to the car and he called me every name in the book when he found out that Bob wasn’t there. Other than that, he behaved himself for a few miles, then started working on the back window with his feet.”
“You told him to stop?”
“Yes. And he did, for a while. I called dispatch and told them I was headed in. We were about ten miles from Posadas at the time.” I stopped and frowned, remembering. “I also told Sutherland to let Torrez know that I had the kid in custody.”
“And Matthew would have heard you say that.”
“Sure. And almost immediately after that, he let fly at the window again. It broke and it looked like the kid was going to get his legs out the window, so I pulled over and stopped the car. Another vehicle had come up behind me, and it turned out to be a Border Patrol unit. They saw the kid’s feet out the window and stopped as well.”
“Red lights on?”
“Theirs were. Mine weren’t. I pulled into a little two-track. My unit was perpendicular to the highway.”
“So Matthew Baca might have thought that the undersheriff had joined you.”
“That’s possible, I suppose. In the glare of headlights, he couldn’t have seen the markings on the unit.”
“Did the Border Patrol agents identify themselves?”
“Yes. Casually. We talked, and Scott Gutierrez introduced me to a new officer. Taylor Bergmann. We talked for a few minutes. The kid would have heard the whole thing.”
“The topic of conversation was the chase earlier, and then your subsequent apprehension of Baca?”
“Yes.”
“And during that whole time, Bob Torrez never arrived at the scene?”
“No. He’d been off duty for a couple of hours. As far as I know, he was at home.”
Schroeder frowned and regarded the notes on his pad. “Who made the decision to transfer the kid to the Border Patrol unit?”
“As I recall, Agent Gutierrez offered. He said that they were headed to Posadas anyway. I accepted, since it made sense not to have the kid lying in a pile of broken glass for another ten miles.”
“Do you recall what the officers said to Baca at the time of the transfer? How was that done?”
“Gutierrez had mentioned that a couple of ankle ties would help. And then he said something about how their vehicle was brand-new and if the kid scratched it, they’d take him out into a field somewhere.”
Schroeder winced. “They were kidding, of course.”
“Of course. It’s the kind of thing you say in jest, to make a point.”
“What was the kid’s reaction?”
“Nothing. He never said a word. He didn’t move.”
“When you actually started the transfer, were all three of you—Gutierrez, Bergmann, and yourself—in the immediate vicinity of your vehicle?”
I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes, trying to remember. “I was the closest, right at the left rear fender, by the back door. I think that Gutierrez was walking back toward his vehicle to make sure…I don’t know. To make sure that the seat was clear, I suppose. And I remember him fishing in his back pocket for a couple of nylon ties. I don’t recall exactly where Bergmann was, but he was behind me, somewhere. Within a step or two, I suppose.”
“And then?”
“And then the kid swung his legs out of the car. I reached for him, at least I think that I did. He dove forward and slammed into me.”
“Did he knock you down?”
“No. In fact, I’d describe it as him bouncing off of me. He stumbled backward, losing his balance.”
“His hands were still cuffed behind him?”
“Yes.”
“And so basically he was stumbling backward, toward the highway, in the process of falling.”
“Yes. With his hands cuffed, he had no way to catch himself.”
Schroeder fell silent, the clasp of the ballpoint pen pressed into his right cheek. “According to the skid marks, the driver didn’t apply his brakes until after the impact.”
I nodded but said nothing.
“And the skid marks show that he wasn’t in the westbound lane. The Border Patrol unit’s emergency lights were fully visible. Did the truck driver say why he didn’t pull over to give you folks some room?”
“No. I assume he was tired and just not paying attention.”
“There wasn’t any oncoming traffic?”
“No.”
“If his truck had been fully in the opposite lane, would it have been possible for him to avoid hitting Baca?”
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
Schroeder’s eyes narrowed a little. “Give it your best guess, Bill.”
“The lane is, what, about twelve feet wide or so? Matthew was in the process of falling backward from a point off the shoulder of the road. A collision wouldn’t have been likely, unless the kid continued to scramble out across the pavement after falling.”
“So the truck could have missed him?”
“The driver would certainly have had more opportunity to try,” I said. “Who knows what would have happened.”
Schroeder pursed his lips and frowned. “Are you planning to charge the driver of the delivery truck?”
“No.”
“Why not? The Border Patrol’s unit was parked at the side of the road, with its emergency lights operational. The trucker should have been able to see figures moving around. A prudent operator, with no oncoming traffic in sight, no double yellows, would have naturally moved into the opposite lane.”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe,” I said. “But my car was parked on a dirt road that headed off the right-of-way. My car was perpendicular to the highway with its back bumper toward the pavement. It would have partially blocked me from the trucker’s view, and certainly the driver wouldn’t have seen Matthew until he fell backward, right in front of the truck.”
“Which wouldn’t have happened had he pulled into the opposite lane,” Schroeder added.
“I suppose not.”
“And since your unit was parked perpendicular to the highway, it wouldn’t appear to matter which back door of your car you chose to use. There was no ‘off-road’ side, in this case.”
I held up both hands by way of answer. We could play the “what if” game all day, and it wouldn’t change things.
Schroeder took a deep breath. “We may file against…what’s his name?” He lifted up one of the pad’s pages. “Mr. Haynes. It’s pretty clear to me that he acted in a less than prudent manner, even though he was given ample opportunity to do otherwise.”
“If you’re asking my opinion, I’d prefer that you let it go,” I said.
“The skid marks show that when he finally did slam on his brakes, his right side tires were less than three feet from the white line on the right side
of the road. That means that his outboard tires hadn’t even kissed the center line. He never pulled over.”
“I know that. But we see that all the time. Some folks tend to let their cars drift toward what they’re looking at. Anybody who walks along the side of the highway will tell you the same thing. Half the time, oncoming traffic drifts toward the pedestrians as the driver looks their way.”
Schroeder’s gaze drifted up from the legal pad and he regarded me with interest for several seconds. “You think this is your fault, don’t you.”
“It is my fault, Counselor.” I shrugged. “I should have had my hand on Baca long before he exited the vehicle, before he started to stand up. I should have been fully blocking the exit route from the vehicle. I wasn’t.”
Schroeder’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Monday morning quarterbacking is easy, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
Schroeder appeared to be doodling concentric circles on his legal pad. “What did the other two kids have to say for themselves?”
“The deputies are talking to them this morning. Toby Gordan has a mouthful of stitches, so we might not get much out of him for a little while.”
“What’s your theory?”
“About?”
“Why the kids spooked,” Schroeder said. “And why every chance he got, the Baca kid tried to take off.”
“For one thing, we’re pretty sure that he had a fake driver’s license. Tommy Portillo—the owner of the convenience store on Grande—saw it, and sold him some beer earlier in the evening. Later on, when he wanted to buy some more at the Broken Spur, Baca was about to pull it out to show the bartender. But Victor Sanchez kicked Matt out of the bar before the deal went through. The gal who was bartending never saw the license.”
“Why would Sanchez kick him out, no questions asked, unless he knew him, and knew how old he really was?” Schroeder said. “He probably borrowed someone else’s license and pasted his own picture over the top of the other. Kids try that all the time, and sometimes it works if the clerk really doesn’t give a shit.”
“Portillo says it was a real license.”
“He has every reason to want to be convinced of that,” the district attorney said. “He knows that if the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board comes down on his head, it’s going to cost him a bundle in fines and lost business. He’s not going to admit to making a mistake. But this is all penny-ante stuff, Sheriff. I’d like to know…”
Bag Limit Page 7
