by Mark Gimenez
"I don't know. A settlement would help Julio and his family and keep ICE out of our town. But if Slade hurts someone else, that'd be on my watch."
Homicidal rage.
"It'd be a damn shame to see those Mexicans deported."
"What about Hector?"
"He's legal. We got his green card, then his citizenship."
"How?"
"If a Mexican's got a half-million bucks to invest in a business, government puts him on the fast track."
"Hector had a half-million dollars?"
"Nope. But I did. From selling the goats. So I loaned him some and folks from his hometown put together the rest. Hector sends half his share of the profits down to Matamoros."
"A Mexican with money can buy his way in, but a Mexican who just wants to work has to sneak in. You'd think politicians could see how stupid that is."
J.B. snorted. "That'll be the day."
TWENTY-TWO
Felix Delgado was seventy-five years old, he was an American citizen born of Mexican immigrants, he had served sixteen terms in Congress from his San Antonio district, and he had one year to live.
"Brain tumor," he said.
Delgado had been waiting for Beck at the courthouse that Tuesday morning. He had driven up from San Antonio.
"It is a beautiful drive. I used to drive very fast. Now I drive very slow."
"The tumor?"
"The time. When you do not know the date of your death, you race ahead. When death may be around the next curve, you do not hurry."
Beck started to express his sympathy, but Delgado waved him off.
"Do not feel sorry for me. I have lived a long life."
"Felix, you understand that if this is not resolved soon, they will call in an ICE raid. I don't think they're bluffing."
Delgado sighed. "The D.A. threatens to deport Julio's parents, so I threaten protests on Main Street, so Stutz threatens an ICE raid—it is like the Cold War, escalating threats until we arrive at nu-cu … nu-clu … nuclear war." He shook his head. "Every time I hear George W. say 'nu-cu-lar bomb' on TV, it is three weeks before I can again say the word correctly."
"That bomb is ticking, Felix. And the barrio will be ground zero."
"When a man like McQuade has the money to wield the Federal government like a club, it is not a fair fight."
"He'll win that fight. And Julio and his parents will lose."
"Yes, he will and they will."
"Do you want me to approve the settlement and dismiss the charges against Slade? Is that the justice you want for Julio?"
Delgado exhaled. "What kind of name is that anyway, Slade?"
"It's a football name."
"Ah. Football. Is he good?"
"Very."
"So he will go to college for free?"
"Yes, he will."
"But Julio must pay. Seems odd, does it not? Julio wants to build rockets at NASA, but he must pay tuition. Slade wants to play football, so he need not pay."
"Julio's a smart kid. Can't he get a minority scholarship?"
"He says he does not want to be in the debt of Anglos."
"So he won't take a free education? That's false pride."
"No, it is not. I know. I went to the Congress ready to fight for my people, but I compromised my principles to curry favor and power. I incurred political debts and became an indentured servant. I enjoyed the power, and I did not want to lose it. So I could not say what I truly believed. I could not do the right thing. As you are now trying to do."
"I just can't figure out what that is."
"When I left the Congress, I freed myself of those debts. I again sought justice for all Latinos in Texas. I fought against this immigration hysteria that is sweeping the country, I fought against racial profiling, I fought against the border fence. I failed. So I have lowered my sights. Now I seek justice one Latino at a time."
"And what is justice for Julio Espinoza?"
"I am, as they say on television, conflicted."
"But I'm the judge, Felix. I've got to decide this conflict."
"Julio wants the settlement."
"That's civil, Felix. This is criminal. If I let Slade walk, he's not being punished or prevented from hurting someone else. That's not justice."
"Is it justice that Latinos must live in the barrio? That they must work in the turkey plant for the Mexican wage? Have you been to the barrio? Have you seen where Julio's family lives?"
"No."
"Then go to Julio's home and sit on his couch as I have and tell him his family must live in the barrio always. Tell him his parents must always work in the turkey plant. Tell him he cannot go to college. Tell him he will not work at NASA. Tell him he will work at the turkey plant all his life. Tell him that is his justice." Delgado sighed. "He said to me, 'Señor Delgado, I want to be the visible Julio.' "
"Visible? What does that mean?"
"It means that here he is not recognizable as a human being because his skin is brown. It is as if the Anglos cannot see him. He says if he does not soon leave this town, he will explode."
Beck nodded. "I felt the same way when I was his age, but for a different reason."
"And did you leave?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Football scholarship to Notre Dame."
"Ah, yes, the Fighting Irish. Good Catholics. And you were good?"
"Not a very good Catholic, but a good player."
"But you returned to your hometown?"
Beck nodded. "Three months ago."
"And what brought you back?"
"My wife died."
"No."
"Yes."
"How old?"
"Thirty-seven."
Delgado shook his head. "Life is not fair. You are a young man, too young to be without a wife. I have told my wife, 'When I am gone, find another husband. Life is too short to live alone.' "
"You wouldn't feel betrayed?"
Delgado laughed. "I will feel nothing. I will be deceased. She will be alive. Life is for the living, Beck. I love her, so I want only for her to be happy. We are not meant to be alone."
"Felix, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Ask."
"How much of McQuade's money will go into your pocket?"
"Nada."
"You're not being paid?"
"What does money mean to a dying man? I have money, Beck. It is time I do not have. If I take my final breath knowing that I have helped to get Julio into college and his family out of the barrio, I will die a happy man. I will not have failed them."
"But what if Slade hurts someone else? That would be on my tab."
"What if ICE raids the turkey plant and the barrio? That will also be on your tab."
Being the judge in a small rural Texas county was supposed to be an easy job. It wasn't. Beck was sitting in a lawn chair on the balcony outside the second-floor courtroom. His feet were propped up on the low railing. His thoughts were of Julio Espinoza and Heidi Geisel: Could he give them justice?
He had spent the day seeking justice for Julio. He now turned to Heidi's case. He was sure Kim Krause had lied to him, but Claude Krause had sworn that she had been home that night. So she hadn't been with Heidi. She hadn't lied about that, but she might have lied about knowing where Heidi had gone that night and whom she was with.
Heidi's case file was in his lap. He flipped to Aubrey's statement. Aubrey said he had watched football all day New Year's Eve. Heidi had left with Kim during halftime of the Cotton Bowl, about noon. She was wearing a shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Randi Geisel confirmed the time Heidi had left home and her clothes. She said she had not grown worried when Heidi had not returned home by ten when she had gone to bed. She assumed Heidi was staying over with Kim, as she often did.
That seemed odd to Beck. When he had worked late in the city, if he hadn't called Annie by eight she'd call him, even though he worked late every night. He had been a forty-year-old lawyer, but she had still checked on him. Sh
e had still worried about him. Heidi had been a sixteen-year-old teenager—wouldn't her mother have checked on her? Wouldn't her mother have worried about her?
He needed to talk to Randi.
He went downstairs to Mavis' office. She was gone, but he found an Austin phone book. He checked the white pages for "Geisel, Randi." There was no listing. He went into his chambers and turned to his computer. He logged on to the Travis County appraisal district website, which had tax records for every parcel of real property located in Travis County. Austin was the county seat.
He clicked on "owner search" and typed in "Geisel, Randi." No properties came up in her name. He thought for moment then tried "Barnes, Randi." One property came up: a single-family residence located on Lakeshore Drive in Austin with an appraised value of $3.25 million. He wrote down the street address. Was this the same Randi Barnes?
"She's a bitch."
Beck had heard the gunshot and run outside. From his rocking chair on the back porch, J.B. had spotted the coyote stalking Frank the goat in the last light of day. He had loaded his rifle and put a bullet in the coyote from fifty yards. J.B. now kicked the dead coyote over.
"Yep, she's a bitch all right."
In hunting parlance, a young coyote is a whelp, a male is a dog, and a female is a bitch. This one was a female.
"Big one, too," J.B. said. "Maybe fifty pounds."
The coyote looked like a big dog with a bushy tail. Her coat was thick and gray, with red around her ears and a pale underbelly. Coyotes weren't big like wolves, but they were strong for their size and vicious carnivores.
"You seeing them up here?"
"River peters out downstream 'cause of the drought, so they're coming upstream, looking for water. This one had a drink in the river, smelled Frank, figured she'd do for dinner. There'd be hell to pay if this coyote had killed Frank. Maybe I should've let the little gal keep Frank in her room."
"Meggie had Frank in her room?"
"Yep. Said she kept her goldfish in her room."
"What'd you tell her?"
"I told her goldfish don't crap on the carpet." J.B. smiled. "I told her Frank preferred to live outside. Wasn't right to pen her up. She's a free-range goat. She was damn near a dead goat."
J.B. scanned the land a moment, then he said, "Keep an eye out, Beck, with the kids."
TWENTY-THREE
STATE CHAMPIONSHIP IN JUDGE'S HANDS
Judge Hardin to Decide Fate of Slade and Season
The next day, the local paper carried a front-page story about Slade McQuade. Details of his "alleged" assault on Julio Espinoza and Nikki Ernst's conflicting testimony were included, but there was no mention of steroids.
"Funny how a small town works, isn't it?"
Beck looked up from the newspaper to the D.A. standing in the doorway.
"Are you going to investigate steroid use by Slade?" Beck said.
The D.A. shook his head. "Nope."
"He's using, some of the other players are probably using, and you're not going to do anything?"
"Nope. I'm not going there, Judge, and you can't make me. If no charges are filed, you've got no jurisdiction."
"Nikki testified under oath that she injected steroids into Slade. You should take it to the grand jury."
"You want me to have the grand jury investigate high school football players using steroids?"
"Yes."
"Judge, those boys' fathers are the grand jury."
The D.A. walked over to the window and gazed out. "Let it go, Judge. Approve the settlement, dismiss the case, and get on with your Heidi Geisel wild-goose chase. This one's over."
"Not until I dismiss the case, it isn't. And I haven't talked to Julio or his parents yet."
"I just talked to Delgado. They're on board." He now turned to Beck. "Look, Judge, I grew up here and I don't want to see this place destroyed. Quentin, he's here to rape and pillage. Once he sells out the homes around his golf course, he'll pull up stakes and move on to his next big deal. And Bruno, he's an old man mad at the world because the world's changing. But he's like that guy over in Waco—he'll set fire to his own home just to prove a point. He'll do it. He'll call ICE."
"And what if Slade hurts someone else?"
Homicidal rage. Beck could not shake the thought.
"He'll stay out of trouble for two months. He'll win state and go to Austin. He'll be out of our lives then."
"He committed a crime. And I'm the judge. I'm supposed to see that justice is done."
"Yeah, well, you can tell the Mexicans all about justice when they're boarding those ICE buses for the border." He shook his head. "Look, Judge, in case you don't know it, the shit has hit the fan!" The D.A. pointed at the newspaper. "Everyone's talking about that story—even in the barrio. The police chief called me first thing this morning. Said his cops drove through the barrio and the Mexicans threw rocks at their cruisers. That's never happened here. Said he's getting ready for a goddamn riot on Main Street—right in the middle of holiday shopping and hunting season. Mix the Mexicans with a bunch of drunk deer hunters named Bubba and we got blood on Main Street. Is that what you want, Judge? 'Cause that's what you're gonna get!"
Beck stood.
"I want to see Slade."
Slade McQuade arrived at noon with his father and his lawyer. He was wearing black athletic shorts and a black Under Armour shirt that was so tight against his muscular upper body it looked like black skin. But he was not the cocky stud football player Beck had met that day at practice. He was subdued and repentant.
"Judge Hardin," Bruno Stutz said, "this conversation is off the record. Nothing Slade says may be used against him, agreed?"
Beck nodded and they sat down.
"Judge," Slade said, "I apologized to Julio. I'm not like that."
"Except when you inject steroids?"
Stutz said, "I advise my client not to answer that question."
"We're off the record, Bruno."
"You're still asking him to confess to a crime."
"I want to know about steroids on the team."
"Well, he might be willing to discuss that … hypothetically."
"Hypothetically?"
"Yes. For the purposes of this discussion, we shall assume that steroids have or are being used …"
"I know what hypothetically means, Bruno." Beck turned to Slade. "So, when you inject steroids do you often experience 'roid rage?"
Slade glanced at Stutz, then said, "Hypothetically, if I did use steroids, I would hypothetically experience 'roid rage. But if I did, and if that caused me to hurt someone, I would adjust the dosage, hypothetically speaking, of course."
Beck, Quentin McQuade, and Bruno Stutz were now staring at Slade.
"Very good, Slade," Stutz said. "You managed to use 'hypothetically' three times in two sentences."
Slade seemed pleased with himself. "Thanks."
"Are other players using steroids?" Beck said.
"Hypothetically, yes."
"And what are they using?"
"Hypothetically, Deca-D … Deca-Durabolin, Boli … Primobolan, Norbolethone, Winstrol, Dianabol, HgH."
"You sound like a pharmacist. What's HgH?"
Slade seemed amused now. "Where have you been the last twenty years, Judge?"
"In a law firm."
"Human growth hormone. Makes muscles tighter. Tighter muscles are faster muscles. The pros use it 'cause it's harder to detect. Hypothetically."
"Slade—steroids, human growth hormone—it's illegal."
"It's required. Judge, the NFL's minimum size for a quarterback today is six-three, two-twenty. I was one-ninety, now I'm two-thirty-five. Being a pro quarterback is my dream, and the stuff will help get me there. Just like it's helping lots of other players. I've met guys on college teams all over the country, and they all say the same thing—they get to school and first thing the coaches tell them is, 'You gotta bulk up.' They don't say 'You gotta go on steroids,' but everyone knows what 'bulking up' means. And how
you do it. Why do you think they redshirt most freshmen? So they can adjust to college life, make good grades, meet new friends? They need that year to bulk up."
"And where do you get it from?"
"Gyms in Austin."
"Give me names."
Slade shrugged. "Look in the yellow pages, that's what I did."
"No. Names of the people selling the stuff."
He had amused Slade again. "Judge, you don't get names."
"So you just go to any gym in Austin and buy steroids?"
"The hard-core bodybuilding places. We'd inject the stuff right in the locker room."
"It's that easy?"
"No, it hurts. I can't do that to myself, so I got the other guys to stick me, and then Nikki—"
"No. I mean buying it."
"Oh. Yeah, it's that easy. Heck, Judge, it's harder to get cold medicine these days. Dopers used it to make meth."
"You're doping."
"Steroids aren't dope, not like cocaine or heroin. I would never put that stuff in my body. I eat a low-fat, complex-carb, high-protein diet. Four percent body fat."
"You eat right, but you use steroids." Beck shook his head. "Slade, it's cheating."
"It's competing. Judge, the game's changed. Bigger, stronger, faster. By any means necessary. That's the deal."
Beck sighed. He knew in his heart that the boy was right.
"Slade, you're endangering your long-term health for short-term success."
"Judge, I saw a deal on TV about supermodels. They smoke five packs of cigarettes a day to stay skinny. Why isn't that illegal? Cigarettes kill people. Steroids just make you bigger. But tobacco companies got lobbyists."
Quentin McQuade smiled. "That's my boy."
"Slade, steroids are dangerous."
"Not if they're used properly."
"But you have 'roid rages."
"Only at the peak of the pyramid. It levels out real fast."
"You could go bald."
"Why do you think so many athletes shave their heads?"
"Steroids can make you sterile."
"I don't want kids."
"You can become impotent, steroid dependent, your body won't produce its own testosterone."
He nodded. "That's why I take Clomid after every cycle."
