by Sarah Lovett
Ed said, "The guy looks familiar."
Matt was studying the photograph intently. He lowered his head until he was only a few inches from the images. Finally, he grunted and said, "He should. He's in the newspapers every day."
Both Sylvia and Ed stared at Matt. She spoke first. "You know who he is?"
"Yeah." Matt's voice was harsh. "So do you. That's Cash Wheeler."
"The Cash Wheeler who's gonna be executed?" Ed nodded in dawning recognition; he'd answered his own question.
Sylvia plucked the photograph from Matt's fingers. She swallowed, and her throat ached. "Can I take my truck, or do I need to beg a ride into town?"
"Slow down."
"I'm going with Serena."
"I don't think they're finished with your truck. They'll need to dust for prints."
"Fine. I'll beg a ride."
"Sylvia, that photograph is evidence—you can't take it. Dammit!"
TEARS STREAKED SERENA'S dirty face where she sat in the backseat of the police car. When she saw Sylvia at the door, she gave a small cry of excitement and relief.
The policewoman next to her tried her best to comfort Serena, but the child would have none of it. She struggled to escape the car and reach Sylvia. Finally, the officer gave in and let Sylvia slide into the backseat. After a few minutes, Serena quieted. Then she looked at the photograph.
Almost instantly, the word escaped her lips. It was ever so soft, almost inaudible, but Sylvia heard it, and so did the others. Serena said, "Dada."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CASH WHEELER WAS cuffed and shackled—he'd been giving prison staff a hard time. The restraints intensified his gaunt appearance—a vivid reminder that he was on day five of a hunger strike. He stared at Matt England through narrowed eyes and shook his head. "I don't know any Mexicans."
"I heard you grew up in El Paso. Few years back, Juárez and El Paso were one town."
"I lived in the American part."
"Your wife was of Mexican descent." Matt leaned back in the hard plastic chair. He was puzzled by Wheeler's almost perfunctory resistance. The slight wedge of compassion he'd previously felt for the inmate was in danger of collapsing. He reminded himself that a guy on death row would be short on trust—and social graces.
"Never had a wife," Wheeler said.
"Your girlfriend, then."
"What girlfriend?"
The one they say you murdered, asshole. "Elena Cruz."
Wheeler put on the act, searching his memory for some clue to the lady's identity. The interview was off to a great start.
Wheeler had been waiting for Matt in a private visiting room in North Facility's administration building. The visiting rooms were all identical—plain, hard floor, beige walls, a grilled security window set in the steel door, one table, two chairs.
Matt found the room grim. Cash Wheeler probably found it agreeable; he had consented to this meeting on the condition that he be allowed to leave Housing Unit 3-B. Although the administration building and the housing unit were separated by only a yard and a sally port, the short walk meant fresh air and sunshine for the death row inmate.
Matt gazed directly at Wheeler's pasty face; to a man who had spent years locked in a north-facing cell, sunshine was more valuable than any type of contraband. He was reminded of Wheeler's cryptic comment from their previous meeting.
"Are you like your friend Bowan?" Matt asked quietly. "Are you tired of waiting for rain and sunshine?"
To Matt's surprise, Cash Wheeler's whole demeanor softened. "The state is calling the shots for me." The inmate paused to light a cigarette, then quoted softly, " 'He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good. . .' "
Matt kept his attention on Wheeler, but he was thinking about his earlier discussion with Rosie Sanchez, who had arranged this early-morning interview.
"Who's Wheeler close to?" he had asked.
"His sister. His lawyer. He used to talk to Bowan."
"Staff? Any of the C.O.'s? Anyone from the libraries? Medical?"
"A nurse practitioner got involved in his sister's protest; she quit her job. Most of the time, Wheeler finds very little social interaction—he's on twenty-three-hour lockdown. He's always welcomed visits from the chaplain and various missionary types."
"He's a born-again?"
"He's lonely and scared . . . a dying man—unless the court rules favorably on the final appeal."
"It must piss the hell out of Wheeler's sister—all that money, all those connections haven't saved her brother from a goddamn thing."
Cash Wheeler's ankle chains clanked against the legs of his chair. The sound refocused Matt's thoughts, bringing him back to the present.
The inmate inhaled deeply on the cigarette that dangled from his lips. He exhaled smoke and words, asking, "You got a family—any kids?" The raw pain in his voice echoed off hard surfaces.
"No." Matt regretted the word as soon as it flew out of his mouth. He knew he should tell some part of the truth—even make up a sympathetic lie—to reinforce rapport and keep Wheeler talking. But a barrier had slammed down inside him, shutting off memories of his dead wife and son, guarding thoughts of Sylvia.
Matt could feel the inmate watching him closely; Wheeler had sensed the sudden emotional shift. To cover the moment, Matt said, "Tell me about Paco."
"The Mexican?" Wheeler's voice had a new and understandably hostile edge. "He's dead." After a beat of silence, Wheeler shrugged. "I got a gut feeling about . . . what's his name?" Smoke from his cigarette wafted into his nose and eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. He smiled, apparently enjoying the slow rhythm of half answers and nonanswers.
He said, "I know some guys named Paco."
Matt told himself he was in no hurry. At the same time, his sudden and unsettling reaction to Cash Wheeler had disturbed his sense of himself; he preferred to believe he was the master of his emotions.
"Yeah . . . I know a guy, Paco Montoya . . . but he's locked up." The inmate turned to stare down the correctional officer whose face filled the observation window.
Matt said, "This man probably died on Wednesday night. He was driving a car with El Paso plates."
"Yeah?"
"You ever heard of a business called Hat-Trick?"
"They make sombreros?"
The session went on for another fifteen minutes. At times the only sound in the room was the growl of Wheeler's empty stomach. As Matt asked questions, Wheeler smoked three more cigarettes. Matt's head began to ache from secondhand smoke and tension; he wasn't getting information he could use. Still, he took his time, inching toward a goal. There was this moment that happened in some investigations, the moment when you were holding pieces of separate puzzles in your hands and, suddenly, you knew all the pieces fit in the same puzzle—and together those pieces made a brand-new picture.
He seemed half asleep when he pulled a C.P.S. interoffice photograph from his pocket. Lazily, he set the photo on the table.
Wheeler exhaled smoke and glanced down. From the look on his face all he saw was a girl. No apparent curiosity, no particular puzzlement about why this photograph of a child would be brought to his attention. Well—there—Matt thought maybe Wheeler's mouth had tightened around the cigarette.
Finally, the inmate said, "That's not Paco, is it?"
"No, that's not Paco."
"But she was traveling with your guy?" He smiled. "I saw the news. About that kid who crashed her car into a train . . ."
"Do you know her?"
"Maybe." He shifted position, working around shackles. "Maybe not."
"Too bad."
"Should I?"
Matt didn't answer as he started for the door. He got so close he could hear the C.O.'s footsteps in the hallway. But then he turned, a finger raised to his temple—as if he'd forgotten one last unimportant detail—and he walked back to the table. He set down a second photograph—this one taken from the child's purse the night before: Cash Wheeler and Elena Cruz.
Cash Wheel
er was good, but this time Matt knew he'd seen the slight, involuntary stiffening of muscle, the vein in the jaw. And then the blood drained from the inmate's already pale face.
The investigator asked, "Can you think of any reason why a little girl would have a ten-year-old photograph of you and Elena Cruz?"
ROSIE SANCHEZ SHOOK her head. "She's not his kid."
"We don't know that." Sylvia frowned.
"It's all too weird, is how I know. Anyway, she's Hispanic."
"She could be half Anglo."
"It's possible." Rosie Sanchez tapped the metal desktop with scarlet fingernails and returned her attention to the phone in her hand. She asked, "Have Criminal Agent England give me a call when he's through with Wheeler."
Sylvia Strange was seated across the desk from the penitentiary investigator; she watched as Rosie nodded for her benefit and mouthed, "He's still with Cash."
Behind the investigator, grilled windows offered a grimy view of a guard tower. Voices drifted up from outside. The air was tinged with the faint, familiar aroma of wastewater from the prison's treatment plant. From here, the world seemed terminally gray. But Sylvia knew for a fact that the sky was a brilliant blue.
Rosie's fingernails tapped out a complex flamenco rhythm. "That's right . . . have him use my office extension." She shifted in her chair, still speaking into the phone. "Bueno, Sally. Bye." She hung up the phone and raised both hands, palms exposed. The gesture was naturally dramatic.
Sylvia was halfway out of the chair when Rosie barked out a command: "Sit down, jita. You can't go barging over there, interrupting an investigation. What do you think this is, the movies?"
Sylvia dropped back into her seat, protesting. "I need answers to questions, and Matt's not going to get them."
"Neither are you. Not today." Rosie raised a placating hand. "At least not from Cash Wheeler." Her eyes narrowed. "What makes you think you'd do better than Matt?"
"I can tell Wheeler about Serena. I can make her real for him."
"You can't just waltz over to Max and play knock-knock on Wheeler's cell door." She settled back in her seat, clearly signaling a change of subject. "How is Serena?"
"Obviously, she's upset." Sylvia ran her hand through her unruly hair as if to calm herself. "But C.P.S. agreed to admit her into Mesa Verde Hospital. When I stopped by an hour ago, she was just waking up. I made sure she had her breakfast, and I sat with her for a while."
"Do they have good security at that hospital?"
"She's in a locked ward. The cops have been alerted to patrol the area regularly." Sylvia was quiet for a moment. When she voiced the next question, her delivery was slow. "Do you think Cash Wheeler murdered Elena Cruz?"
"I don't have my crystal ball with me today."
"Rosie, speak to me. Do you think he's a murderer?"
"Tal vez. Maybe." If Rosie was startled by the ferocity in her friend's face, she only shrugged. "A Hobbs jury heard the evidence and convicted."
"You know what sentiments are like in that part of the state. Steal a loaf of bread, you get ten to fifteen."
Rosie shrugged. "I also know that most of us are capable of terrible acts of violence at some point during our lifetime."
"What if he's innocent?"
"Then his execution will be a horrible sin." Rosie sighed. "I'm sure the governor would commute Wheeler's sentence to life in prison if the political climate were different—if people weren't so fed up with violence—"
"If . . ." Sylvia's voice faded and she shuddered.
Rosie set the palms of her hands firmly on the desktop. "One of my C.O.'s told me a story. He said he overheard Cash Wheeler bragging about being a stone-cold killer. He said Wheeler went into graphic detail." Rosie saw the look on Sylvia's face, and she shook her head. "Don't act so surprised, jita. Ninety-nine percent of these guys are guilty."
Sylvia didn't respond for several seconds. Then she spoke slowly. "You and I both know there are reasons these guys boast about violent crimes—sometimes they do it to act tough, to try and protect themselves from harassment."
"I think you don't want the child to be related to a killer."
To Rosie's surprise, her friend stood and pivoted abruptly toward the office door.
Sylvia blurted out, "I'm going to drive over to North Facility to see if I can find Matt." As she opened the door, she heard Rosie's sigh of surrender.
"Wait up. At least let me walk you out."
SYLVIA FOLLOWED THE penitentiary investigator down the dank prison hallway, stepping past a metal grill as it slid slowly home. It clanged shut behind her, locked—the mirror action of her trip inside just thirty minutes earlier. Welcome to the penitentiary—an archaic facility destined for the wrecking ball by federal decree. She tried to forget this was her first trip to Main in several months, just managing to quell an internal whisper of claustrophobia.
Rosie Sanchez didn't slow her stride as they passed a series of administrative offices in the north wing of the old facility. Sunday visitors—two priests and two plainly dressed men—were huddled in conversation outside the doorway of the deputy warden's office. An inmate porter pushed a dust mop over the worn tile floor. His route went wide around the clergymen, then wider still around the women, but he gave Sylvia a small wave.
She recognized him and said, "Hey, Spider, how's it going?"
A minute later, when Rosie and Sylvia reached the stairwell that eventually gave access to Main's front entrance, a whale of a man stepped out to block their path. Both women came to a standstill.
Rosie was the first to respond. "Sylvia, do you remember Jim Teague, Cash Wheeler's attorney?"
Teague was a hard man to forget. The Texan weighed in at more than three hundred pounds, he was six-feet-five, and his taste in clothes ran to fringed and beaded leather jackets and hand-tooled Stallion boots. Sylvia's eyes were still traveling upward from Teague's ample belly to his face when she heard his Irish-tenor voice sharpened by ire.
"A little bird told me a state police officer is questioning my client," the attorney said.
Sylvia watched Rosie weigh her dislike of pushy lawyers against their very real ability to bankrupt the Department of Corrections with lawsuits filed on behalf of criminal-procedure abuses.
"Cash agreed to meet with a criminal agent," Rosie said. "But I believe that meeting is finished."
"If not, I'm about to interrupt it." The lawyer glanced at his watch and then refocused on Sylvia. "You made the Albuquerque Journal, Dr. Strange." He lifted one eyebrow and cocked his head; he was huge, but his movements were contained, almost dainty.
Sylvia faced Teague and set her hands on her hips. "I read the same article. It didn't mention me by name."
"No." He gave a brusque shrug. "Your identity cost me one thirty-second phone call. It was more difficult to obtain valid information about the child. And about a certain photograph."
Sylvia studied the death-row lawyer's naturally impassive features and his improbably green eyes tucked between layers of flesh. She could easily believe he had a source who had revealed her name and her involvement with the child—but only a handful of people knew about the child's tenuous connection to Cash Wheeler. So where the hell had he gotten that part of the story? Who told him about the photograph of Cash and Elena? Did he have a source at state police? At the A.G.'s office? Information about the photograph had been kept from the press—
Teague chuckled, wagging his head as if he could read her mind—and he probably could. He said, "And now I've got confirmation from you, Ms. Strange. What an expressive face you have!"
"So I've been told." She grimaced.
Sylvia had seen Teague at work in the courtroom, and she knew he was good. He was also stringently anti-death penalty. His actions supported his beliefs—he was "death qualified," an expert at the appeals process. His services did not come cheap. Local and national press had made no secret of the fact that Cash Wheeler's sister had spent a small fortune on her brother's case—most of it for legal fees.
At this moment, beneath the smooth veneer, Jim Teague looked as if he'd blown a fuse.
She smiled sweetly. Since the lawyer had dealt the first hand, she decided to play a quick round of poker. "The A.G.'s keeping you well informed, counselor."
"It's my job to be informed. My client is a dead man, barring a governor's pardon or an appellate miracle."
"This is a miracle." With effort, Sylvia kept her expression flat. "These new events change things—"
"Are you practicing law these days, Doctor?" Jim Teague snorted, and a look of sharp impatience flashed in his eyes. "This situation has not produced new and material evidence—not in any way, shape, or form."
Anger tightened Sylvia's throat. "We're not talking about abstract material evidence—" It was stupid to play poker with a lawyer.
"No, you're talking about a child who is probably in this country illegally, and who is most likely a Mexican national." He raised a palm to ward off Sylvia's protest. "I've already spoken to federal investigators. An old photograph of a man who vaguely resembles Cash Wheeler doesn't prove a relationship. Frankly, I tend toward another theory. This is some cruel scam to take advantage of a condemned man and his family."
"I can't believe you'll ignore this child." She stared at the lawyer, baffled and curious. "I know you won't. That would be absurd."
Teague shook his head; there was an air of weariness about him. He said, "If you think you know more after one day's involvement in this case than I do after four years, then by all means, tell me my job." He shifted his briefcase from left hand to right—the leather case looked tiny in contrast to his massive body. "Cash was convicted of Elena Cruz's murder and the murder of a motel clerk, period. Evidence of the child's death was not admitted at the trial because there was no corpus delecti."
"But Serena's appearance raises new questions—it might even provide new answers." Sylvia respected Jim Teague, and she wanted him as an ally. Her voice softened when she said, "The child's in a private hospital without parents or family. And there is evidence that connects her to Wheeler. I'm only thinking about her best interests."
"And I'm only thinking about the best interests of my client. It's my job to remain impartial in a potentially charged situation." Teague held up a finger and shook his head. Suddenly, he looked almost human.
