“That’s what she was playing, over and over, ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’ It seems funny now, her using a hymn. But it wasn’t funny then. That fight was the same as all the others, long and mean and deadly, the kind nobody can win, so everybody loses, especially the innocent. I wanted to get Robbie out of that room and away from that house until things quieted down. I went inside and started pounding on the living-room door as hard as I could. A minute or so later the piano stopped and Mrs. Osborne opened the door. ‘Oh, Estivar,’ she said, ‘we were just having a little concert.’ I asked her if Robbie could come over and help my son, Cruz, with his homework. She said, ‘Certainly. I don’t think Robbie cares much for music anyway . . .’ Sometimes when I wake up in the night I swear I can hear the sound of that piano, though it isn’t even there any more, I helped the movers take it out of the house myself.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“No one else will, and it’s time you knew.”
“I didn’t want to know.”
“You wanted to know more than I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Osborne, especially today. But who can be sure? I may not get another chance to talk to you like this.”
“You sound as if something is going to happen.”
“Something always does.”
“The ranch will remain the same,” she said. “And you’ll continue on as foreman. I don’t plan on changing anything.”
“Life is something that happens to you while you’re making other plans. I read that somewhere, and it’s like the piano music, it keeps running through my mind. Robbie’s life was planned—high school, college, a profession. Then his father fell off a tractor and things changed before they had a chance to begin.”
A silence fell between them, emphasized by the noise all around: the roar of freeway traffic and planes landing and taking off from Lindbergh Field and from the Naval Air Station across the bay. At the top of a palm tree nearby a mockingbird had begun to sing. It was October, the wrong time to be singing, but the bird sang anyway, with loud delight, and Estivar’s face softened at the sound.
“Sinsonte,” he said. “Listen.”
“A mockingbird?”
“Yes.”
“Why is he singing now?”
“He wants to—that’s reason enough for a bird.”
“Maybe he thinks it’s spring.”
“Maybe.”
“Lucky bird.”
A carillon began chiming the first quarter of an hour. Estivar rose quickly. “It’s time I went and picked up my family.”
“You didn’t eat your sandwich.”
“I’ll have a chance in the car.”
She rose too. Her eyes felt hot and dry and tired, as though they’d seen too much too quickly and needed a rest in some quiet sunless place.
“I’m sorry I had to tell you things you didn’t want to know,” he said.
“You were right, of course. I need all the information I can get in order to make sensible plans.”
“Yes, Mrs. Osborne.” Life, Mrs. Osborne, is what happens to you while you are making sensible plans.
She began walking slowly back to the courthouse as if by delaying her return she could delay the proceeding and the verdict. There was no doubt in her mind what the verdict would be. Robert, who had died a dozen times to the strains of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “March of the Toreadors,” would die this time to the tuneless hum of strangers and the occasional beat of a gavel.
CHAPTER EIGHT
court reconvened ten minutes late because Judge Gallagher was caught in a traffic jam on the way back from his club. Even with this extra time allowance Agnes Osborne, scheduled to be the first witness of the afternoon, was still absent at one forty-five. A conference was held at the bench and it was decided not to delay the proceeding further by waiting for Mrs. Osborne but to call the next witness.
“Dulzura Gonzales.”
Dulzura heard her name but she didn’t respond until Jaime jabbed her in the side with his elbow. “Hey, that’s you.”
“I know it’s me.”
“Well, hurry up.”
Already breathless from fear Dulzura had trouble getting to her feet and out into the aisle; and once she was in motion she walked too rapidly, so that her giant dress swirled around her like a tent fighting a storm.
“Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give in the matter now pending before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
She swore. Her hand left moist prints on the wooden railing around the witness box.
“State your full name, please,” Ford said.
“Dulzura Ynez Maria Amata Gonzales.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Miss.” Her nervous giggle swept through the room, raising little gusts of laughter and a flurry of doubt.
“Where do you live, Miss Gonzales?”
“The same place as the others—you know, the Osborne ranch.”
“What do you do there?”
“Well, lots of things.”
“I meant, what are you paid to do, Miss Gonzales?”
“Cook and laundry, mostly. A little cleaning now and then.”
“How long have you worked for the Osbornes?”
“Seven years.”
“Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Osborne, Senior. There wasn’t anybody but her around. Mr. Osborne was dead and the boy away at school. My first cousin, Estivar, gave me a nice recommend on a piece of paper.”
“Miss Gonzales, I want you to try and recall the evening of October the thirteenth last year.”
“I don’t have to try. I recall it already.”
“There were special circumstances that fixed the day in your memory?”
“Yes, sir. It was my birthday. Usually I get time off to celebrate, maybe go into Boca with a couple of the boys after work. But that day I couldn’t, it was Friday the thirteenth. I’m not allowed to leave the house on Friday the thirteenth.”
“Not allowed?”
“A quiromántico told me never to because of strange lines in my hands. So I just stayed home like it was no special day and cooked dinner and served it.”
“At what time?”
“About seven-thirty, later than usual on account of Mr. Osborne had been to the city.”
“Did you see Mr. Osborne after dinner?”
“Yes, sir. He came out to the kitchen while I was cleaning up. He said he forgot to buy my birthday present, like Mrs. Osborne asked him to, and would I accept money, and I said I sure would.”
“Was Mr. Osborne wearing his spectacles when he came out to the kitchen?”
“No, sir. But he could see okay, so I guess he was wearing those little pieces of glass over his eyeballs.”
“Contact lenses.”
“Yes.”
“What did he give you for your birthday, Miss Gonzales?”
“A twenty-dollar bill.”
“Did he take the bill from his wallet in your presence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you notice anything of interest about the wallet?”
“It was full of money. I never saw Mr. Osborne’s wallet before and I was surprised and kind of worried too. The boys don’t get much pay.”
“Boys?”
“The workers that come and go.”
“The migrants?”
“Yes. It would of been a real temptation to them if they found out how much money Mr. Osborne was carrying.”
“Thank you, Miss Gonzales. You may—”
“I’m not saying any of them did it, killed him for the money. I’m just saying that a lot of money is a big temptation to a poor man.”
“
We understand that, Miss Gonzales. Thank you . . . Will Mr. Lum Wing take the stand, please?”
Lum Wing, encouraged by his sunny hour in the park, gave his name in a high clear voice with a trace of southern accent.
“Where do you live, Mr. Wing?”
“Sometimes here, sometimes there. Where the work is.”
“You have a permanent address, don’t you?”
“When there’s nothing better to do I stay at my daughter’s house in Boca de Rio. She’s got six kids, I share a room with two of my grandsons. I keep away from there as much as possible.”
“What is your profession, Mr. Wing?”
“I used to be cook with a circus. What my daughter tells the neighbors, I retired. What happened, the circus went bust.”
“You come out of retirement and take a job now and then?”
“Yes, sir, to get out of the house.”
“Your work has brought you to the Osborne ranch at various times?”
“Yes.”
“You’re working there now, in fact?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were there a year ago, on October thirteen?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you stay when you’re working at the ranch?”
Lum Wing described his living arrangements in the curtained-off corner of the former barn that served as a mess hall. In the late afternoon of October 13 he had cooked supper as usual. After the men departed for their payday fling in Boca de Rio he’d drawn his curtain, set up a chess game and opened a bottle of wine. The wine made him sleepy, so he lay down on his cot. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he remembered was the sound of voices speaking loud and fast in Spanish on the other side of the curtain. On occasion other basic needs besides eating were satisfied at the mess-hall tables and Lum Wing made it a habit to ignore what went on. Moving quietly in the darkness he checked his case of knives, his pocket watch and chess set, the rest of the bottle of wine, and finally the money belt he wore even when sleeping. Finding everything intact he returned to his cot. The voices continued.
“Did you recognize any of them?” Ford asked.
After a moment’s hesitation Lum Wing shook his head.
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“They talked too fast. Also I didn’t listen.”
“Do you understand Spanish, Mr. Wing?”
“Four, five words.”
“I gather that you didn’t overhear any of those four or five words spoken on that occasion?”
“I’m an old man. I mind my own business. I don’t listen, I don’t hear, I don’t get in trouble.”
“There was a great deal of trouble that night, Mr. Wing. You must have heard some of it whether you listened or not. You appear to have normal hearing for a man your age.”
“I fix it so it’s not so normal.” He showed the court how he made earplugs out of little pieces of paper. “Beside the plugs, there was the wine. It made me sleepy. Also I was tired. I work hard, up before five every morning, doing this, doing that.”
“All right, Mr. Wing, I believe you . . . You’ve been employed at the Osborne ranch quite a few times, haven’t you?”
“Six, seven.”
“Did Robert Osborne speak Spanish?”
“Not to me.” Lum Wing stared blandly up at the ceiling.
“Well, did you ever hear him speak to the men in Spanish?”
“Maybe two, three times.”
“And maybe oftener? A lot oftener?”
“Maybe.”
“It would, in fact, have been quite possible for you to recognize Mr. Osborne’s voice even if he was talking in a foreign language?”
“I wouldn’t like to say that. I don’t want to make trouble.”
“The trouble is made, Mr. Wing.”
“It could be worse.”
“Not for Robert Osborne.”
“There were others,” the old man said, blinking. “Other people. Mr. Osborne wasn’t talking to himself. Why would he talk to himself in Spanish?”
“Then you did recognize Mr. Osborne’s voice that night?”
“Maybe. I’m not swearing to it.”
“Mr. Wing, we have reason to believe that a fight which ended in a murder took place in the same room in which you claim to have been sleeping. Do you realize that?”
“I didn’t commit a murder, I didn’t commit a fight. I was sleeping innocent as a baby with my earplugs in until Mr. Estivar woke me up by shaking my arm and shining a flashlight in my face. I said what happened? And he said what happened, Mr. Osborne is missing and there’s blood all over the floor and the cops are on their way.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Wing?”
“Put on my pants.”
“You got dressed.”
“Same thing.”
“I take it that your earplugs had been removed by this time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you could hear perfectly well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you hear, Mr. Wing?”
“Nothing. I thought funny thing how quiet, where is everybody, and I look out my window. I see lights on all over the ranch, the main house, Estivar’s place, the garage where they keep the heavy machinery, the bunkhouse, even in some of the tamarisk trees around the reservoir. I think again what’s the matter, all those lights and no noise. Then I see the big truck is gone, the one the men came in, and the bunkhouse is empty.”
“What time was that, Mr. Wing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mentioned previously that you had a pocket watch.”
“I never thought to look at it. I was scared, I wanted to get out of that place.”
“And did you?”
“I opened my door—there are two doors to the building, the front one the men use and the back one that’s mine. I stepped outside. Estivar’s oldest son, Cruz, was standing between me and the bunkhouse with a rifle over his shoulder.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“He spoke to me. He told me to go back inside and stay there, because the police were on their way and when they asked me if I touched anything I better be able to say no. So I sat on the edge of my cot, then in five, ten minutes the police arrived.”
There was a sudden audible stirring throughout the courtroom, as if the arrival of the police marked the end of a period of tension and gave people freedom to move. They coughed, changed position, whispered to their neighbors, sighed, stretched, yawned.
Ford waited for the sounds to subside. Without actually turning to face the audience he could see that the place where Agnes Osborne had sat during the morning was still empty. His uneasiness over her absence was tinged with guilt. He had probably talked to her too harshly. Women like Mrs. Osborne, who were blunt themselves and seemed to invite bluntness from others, were often the least able to tolerate it.
Ford said, “What happened after the police arrived, Mr. Wing?”
“Plenty, plenty of noise, cars moving around, doors banging, people talking and shouting. Pretty soon one of the deputies came to me and started asking questions like what you asked, did I see anything, did I hear anything. But mostly he wanted to know about my knives.”
“Knives, Mr. Wing?”
“I carry my own knives to cook with—cleaver, choppers, parers, slicers, carver. I keep them clean and sharp, locked up in a case and the key in my money belt. I opened the case and showed him they were all there, nothing stolen.”
“Did you ever hear of a butterfly knife?”
Lum Wing’s impassive face looked as surprised as possible. “A knife to cut butterflies?”
“No. It’s one that resembles a butterfly when the blade is open.”
“When the deputy questioned you that night, you were not able to give him any more information than you have given the court this afternoon?”
“No, no more.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wing. You may return to your seat . . . Will Jaime Estivar come to the stand, please?”
As they met in the aisle the old man and the young one exchanged glances of puzzlement and resignation: it was a middle-aged world, which Lum Wing had passed and Jaime hadn’t yet reached and neither of them cared about or understood.
CHAPTER NINE
“for the record,” Ford said, “would you state your name, please?”
“My church name or my school name?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, sir. I was christened with five names, but at school I just use Jaime Estivar because otherwise I’d take up too much room on report cards and attendance sheets, things like that.” He had sworn to tell the truth, but the very first thing he uttered was a lie. What’s more, it tripped off his tongue without a moment’s hesitation. The boys he admired at school were called Chris, Pete, Tim, or sometimes Smith, McGregor, Foster, Jones; he couldn’t afford to have them find out he was really Jaime Ricardo Salvador Luis Hermano Estivar.
“Your school name will be sufficient,” Ford said.
“Jaime Estivar.”
“How old are you, Jaime?”
“Fourteen.”
“And you live with your family at the Osborne ranch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell us about your family, Jaime.”
“Well, uh, I don’t know what’s to tell.” He glanced down at his parents and Dulzura and Lum Wing, seeking inspiration. He found none. “I mean, they’re just a family, no big deal or anything.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, sir. Three of each.”
“Are they living at home?”
“Only me and my two younger sisters, they’re twins. My oldest brother, Cruz, is with the army in Korea. Rufo is married and lives in Salinas. Felipe’s got a good job in an aircraft plant in Seattle. He sent me ten dollars for Christmas and fifteen for my birthday.”
Beyond This Point Are Monsters Page 8
