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like they think we cut it so we could charge ’em for a
new one.”
Jimmy snorted. “That’s when we tell them they need
to go find theirselves a new mechanic.”
I glanced at all the cars lined up around the yard and
said, “Looks like you’ve got more work than you can
handle anyhow.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m just glad I listened
to you and bought them two acres next door and let you
do all that paperwork about the zoning. We’re gonna
break ground next month, finally build that fancy new
garage James here’s been planning and we probably
couldn’t do it if we were starting fresh today. Not with
all the big money houses going in on this road.”
I had handled some of their legal matters before I
ran for judge. Seven years ago, Jimmy hadn’t seen the
need to have his property legally zoned for business.
He’d run a messy, sprawling garage out there in what
used to be the middle of nowhere for twenty-five years
and he’d expected to run it for twenty-five more. It was
the typical rural land owner’s mind-set: “It’s my land
and I can do what I want with it.” But when the plan-
ning commission started getting serious about zoning,
I had encouraged Jimmy to get a proper business per-
mit so that he could expand if he wanted to without the
limitations often imposed on businesses that have been
grandfathered in. I’m not saying the planning commis-
sion takes race into consideration, but a lot of black-
owned shops like this one have either been denied the
right to expand or have been zoned out of existence in
the last three or four years.
“We’ll put a berm in front, plant it with trees and
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evergreen bushes so you can’t see in from the road,”
said James. “There’s a Mexican across the branch with a
nursery that does landscaping. Diaz. We’re gonna trade
work. Make it look pretty. Enough folks know we’re
here that we don’t need to put up but just a little teeny
sign.”
“Now don’t y’all get so upscale you can’t take care of
my car,” I said as Dwight turned into their drive.
Jimmy laughed. “Girl, anytime you need a new fender,
I’ll fix you up. ’Course, now that you went and married
Dwight, I reckon you don’t drive too fast no more.”
“You think?” said Dwight who’d rolled down his win-
dow in time to hear Jimmy’s last remark. “I’m gonna
have to write her up myself to slow her down.”
James opened the passenger door for me and as I
stepped up to get in, his comment about the nursery
finally registered. “Diaz,” I said. “Miguel Diaz?”
“Mike Diaz, yes,” James said. “You know him?”
“We’ve met. I just didn’t realize his nursery was
nearby.”
“Just across the branch. They’ve made ’em a right
nice place over there.”
Jimmy promised that my car would be ready by mid-
afternoon and as we headed for Dobbs, I said, “Mike
Diaz, Dwight.”
“Who’s he?”
“Mayleen Richards’s new boyfriend, according to
Faye Myers.”
“Yeah? How do you know him?”
“He came to court last week to speak for that guy
that took a tractor and plowed up a stretch of yards,
remember? Back in January?”
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Dwight shook his head. With all the violent crimes he
had to deal with, he misses a lot of the lesser ones that
make it to my courtroom.
“I thought I told you about him. Palmez or Palmirez
or something like that. One of my freaky Friday cases.”
“You told me about the guy who tried to steal one of
the old lampposts off the town commons and how Dr.
Allred ticketed a man who parked at a handicap spot
without a tag and then let a three-legged dog run free.
I don’t remember a tractor.”
I briefly recapped. “Diaz took him on at the nursery
after he got fired from wherever he stole the tractor and
he promised to see that the damages were repaired. I
forget if I gave the guy a fine or a suspended sentence.
I’d have to look it up. Anyhow, when Faye was telling
me about Mayleen’s new boyfriend, she said I’d met
him and that this Mike Diaz was the one.”
“Diaz,” Dwight said reflectively. “Why’s that name
seem familiar?”
“Faye said Mayleen met him when she was working a
case back in January.”
“That’s right. I remember seeing his name on one of
the reports she filed. He had some sort of connection
to J.D. Rouse’s wife.” Rouse was a rounder whose free-
wheeling arrogance had gotten him shot. “So Richards
is hooked up with him?”
“According to Faye she is. Remember?” I said smugly.
“I told you she was looking different.”
“Is this where I have to listen to you brag about femi-
nine intuition?” he groaned.
I laughed.
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MARGARET MARON
“So what does your day look like?” he asked. “You
gonna be able to cut out before five?”
“Unless something unexpected comes up, this could
be a light day. Four of the cases I was supposed to hear
today settled yesterday afternoon and I have good vibes
about another one, so I may be ready to roll by four.
You going to leave on time?”
“I sure hope so. Robert had some seed potatoes left
over. It’s getting a little late to plant them but—”
“Potatoes? And cabbages yesterday? I thought you
were just going to tend a few tomato plants.”
“Yeah, but I forgot how little kids love to scratch
around and find potatoes.”
I patted his arm. “Big kids, too, right?”
He gave a sheepish nod.
Faye Myers was coming on duty when we entered the
basement lobby, so I said I’d catch up with him later
and stopped to chat. There had been a bad wreck last
night, she told me. Two highschool girls killed outright
and another in serious condition at Dobbs Memorial
Hospital. Alcohol and no seatbelts were thought to be
factors.
They were from the eastern part of the county and
unknown to me, but I could still imagine the grief their
families were feeling today. That sort of news always
gives me a catch in my throat until I hear the names and
can breathe again, knowing it’s not any of my nieces or
nephews. Thank God, it’ll be another eight years be-
fore we have to worry about Cal behind the wheel of a
car. Dwight’s already told me that Cal’s first car’s going
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to be a big heavy clunker, an old Grand Marquis or a
Crown Victoria. He keeps saying that he wants a lot
of steel between his son and another car until he’s had
four or fiv
e years of experience. “No way am I handing
a sixteen-year-old the keys to a candy-red sports car,”
he says.
We’ll see. I remember the T-Bird I’d wheedled out of
Mother and Daddy. The exhilaration of empowerment.
Free to hang with my friends, to cruise the streets of
Cotton Grove on the weekends, or sneak off to the lake
with Portland. I guess my brothers had given them so
much grief when they first got wheels that they didn’t
realize girls would take just as many chances. As long as
we met their curfews, we were considered responsible
drivers.
Faye leaned closer and I was suddenly awash with a
feeling of déjà vu as she lowered her voice and said,
“I might not ought to be telling this, but Flip said he
almost got high himself from the smell of beer in that
car when he pulled them out. He says all three could’ve
blown a ten or twelve.”
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C H A P T E R
29
With ideas of false economy, some farmers employ only about
one-half the hired help that is necessary to perform the work
in the proper time and manner and by working this force to
the utmost, early and late, they endeavor to accomplish all
the work for the season at a much less expense than would
ordinarily be involved in accomplishing it.
—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
Dwight Bryant
Wednesday Morning, March 8
% Wearing one of his trademark bow ties—today’s
had little American flags on a blue background—
and a starched blue shirt, Pete Taylor appeared in
Dwight’s doorway promptly at nine and held it open
for his client and a younger woman. “Major Bryant?
Detective Richards? This is Mrs. Harris and her daugh-
ter, Mrs. Hochmann.”
Dwight and Mayleen Richards immediately stood to
welcome them.
Mrs. Harris was what kind-hearted people tactfully
call a “right good-sized woman.” She was easily five-
ten, solidly built, with a broad and weathered face and a
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handshake as strong as most men’s. She wore a maroon
tailored suit that looked expensive but did little to flat-
ter or hide the extra pounds on her frame. Her wavy
hair was cut short and was jet black, except where the
roots were showing a lot of salt and not much pepper.
Her large hazel eyes were her best feature.
Shrewd eyes, too, thought Dwight as he watched her
glance around his office, taking in his awards and com-
mendations, appraising his deputy. Eyes that didn’t miss
a trick.
Her daughter appeared to be in her late twenties. She
was equally tall and big-boned, but so thin as to almost
appear gaunt. Unlike her mother, her eyes were an in-
determinate color, set deep in their sockets, and her
cheekbones stood out in relief. Her dark hair was pulled
straight back from her face in a single braid that fell half-
way down her back. No jewelry except for a loose gold
band on her left hand. Her black pantsuit looked like
something that had been bought at a thrift store. Not
exactly the picture of a New York heiress now worth at
least three million, he thought. More like a nun who
had taken a vow of poverty. He remembered what Mrs.
Samuelson had said about her concern for the less
fortunate since her husband’s death.
“Thank you for coming,” Dwight said after they were
all seated and had declined coffee or tea. He offered
condolences to both women and set a mini-recorder on
the desk.
“This is strictly informal,” he told them, “and any
time you want me to turn it off, just ask.”
“Now,” said Mrs. Harris.
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MARGARET MARON
The daughter started to say something, then shrugged
and leaned back in her chair.
“As you wish,” Dwight said. He switched it off and
pulled out a legal pad instead. After noting the day’s
date, he addressed the younger woman.
“I don’t want to upset you, Mrs. Hochmann, but do
you know what was done to your father?”
“That he was dismembered and his parts dumped
from one end of Ward Dairy Road to the other?” Her
eyes filled, but her voice was steady. “Yes. Mr. Taylor
says that everything’s been found now?”
“All except one arm, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve been in touch with the medical examiner’s of-
fice,” said Pete Taylor. “They’ll release his body for
burial this afternoon.”
“But they won’t tell us when he died,” Mrs. Harris
said. Frustration smoldered in her tone. “All they’ll say
is sometime between the afternoon of Sunday the nine-
teenth and Wednesday the twenty-second. That’s not
good enough, Major Bryant.”
“What Mrs. Harris means,” Pete Taylor interposed,
“is that we don’t know whether or not he died before
their divorce was final.”
“I know,” Dwight said. “And I’m sorry you’ve been
left hanging, ma’am. Despite all those forensic programs
on television, unless we can find a witness or the killer
confesses, there’s no way to say with pinpoint accuracy
when it happened. I understand you were out on the
farm that Monday morning? The twentieth?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him that day?”
“No.”
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“When did you last see or speak to him?”
“I have no idea. If we needed to communicate, it was
either through our attorneys or by email. I don’t think
we spoke directly to each other in almost a year.”
“Yet you went out to the farm where he was stay-
ing?”
“Until everything is divided, that farm is as much
mine as his and it’s my right to see that our workers are
properly housed and treated.”
“Does that mean Mr. Harris mistreated them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you?”
She glared at him and clamped her lips tight.
“Who hated him enough to kill him like that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Any mistreatment of the workers?”
“Not that I heard anything about and I believe I
would have. The crew chief, Juan Santos, knows their
rights. Besides, we only keep a skeleton crew during the
winter and they’re free to hire out as day laborers when
things are slow.”
“I understand that Harris Farms was cited for an
OSHA violation six years ago?”
Her hazel eyes narrowed.
“I believe you were fined a couple of thousand dol-
lars?”
She gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Who was responsible for the violation? You or Mr.
Harris?”
There was no answer and she met his steady gaze
without blinking.
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MARGARET MARON
Pete Taylor stirred un
easily, but it was the daughter
who caved.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mother! Tell him.” She turned
to Dwight. “I loved my dad, Major Bryant, even though
I hated the way he ran the farms. But OSHA and EPA
and yes, law people like you not only let him get away
with it, it’s as if you almost encouraged him to break
the laws.”
“Susan!” her mother said sharply.
“No, Mother. I’m through biting my tongue. From
now on I’m going to speak the truth. You think I don’t
know the real cost of growing a bushel of tomatoes?
That I don’t know how Harris Farms shows such a good
profit year after year?”
“Harris Farms sent you to school, miss! Gave you an
education that lets you look down on your own par-
ents.”
“Not you, Mother.” She touched her mother’s hand.
“Never you. I know you did your best.”
She turned back to Dwight. “Growers like my dad
cut against the market every way they can. They ignore
the warning labels on chemicals, they ignore phony
social security numbers, they turn a blind eye to how
labor contractors take advantage of their people, and
they don’t give a damn about a migrant’s living con-
ditions or whether or not the children are in school.
My mother does. When Harris Farms finally got cited,
Mother got involved. She checks the paperwork and
makes sure everyone’s documented, she doesn’t let lit-
tle kids work in the fields, and she made Dad get rid
of those squalid trailers he had down there in the back
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fields of the Buckley place. No decent plumbing and no
place to wash off the pesticides. My mother—”
“Your mother’s a bleeding-heart saint,” Mrs. Harris
said sarcastically.
“Well, you are, compared to Dad.”
“Only because it’s cheaper in the long run to do the
right thing,” her mother said gruffly. “It’s all dollars
and cents. I don’t want us shut down or slapped with a
big fine.”
“Slapped is the right word,” Susan Hochmann told
Dwight. “There aren’t enough inspectors to check out
all the camps and farms and follow a case through the
courts, so a slap on the wrist was all they got. A puny
two-thousand-dollar fine. Nothing to really hurt.”
“You don’t know that’s where it would stop next
time,” said Mrs. Harris, “and I don’t want to find out. I
don’t want to wake up and see Harris Farms all over the
newspapers and television like Ag-Mart. I don’t want
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