A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  “John Archer doesn’t look well,” Vega said to Vanderlinden.

  “Nobody looks well at something like this.” Vanderlinden turned his gaze to Carp, conferring now with the priest, his cheeks pliant with concern, his brow flexed in Old Testament wrath. “Except maybe Mike Carp.”

  The crowd was still pouring into the plaza. The politicians and clergy were figuring out the speaking lineup. Vega saw a teenage girl pushing her way toward the tent. Vega might not have noticed her except for her bright purple hair, the color of irises. It was shaved into a buzz cut on one side and worn in a high flip on the other. She looked like the girl Jay had told him about: Zoe Beck.

  Despite the look-at-me hair, the girl gave off an aura of being used to people not looking at her at all. Her doughy body had a natural question-mark curve to it. Beneath her dark, shapeless trench coat, she wore tan khakis and a red collared shirt. Vega got the sense this wasn’t a sartorial preference. He saw the same outfit on all the employees at one of the cut-rate department stores north of town.

  She slipped past Carp and his entourage and walked over to the Archers seated beneath the canopy. She bent down and said something into Robin Archer’s ear. Vega expected Catherine’s mother to do one of her stiff embraces and pressed-lip smiles. But Vega saw something else cross Robin Archer’s features. Something more genuine, but also more curious. Embarrassment. Robin Archer’s faced flushed. Her big white teeth clenched as if to withstand a blow. She waved her hands in front of her as if she were shooing away a homeless person. Archer’s son put a hand on the girl’s shoulder—not meanly or forcefully. More like the way you might convince an old pal that they’d had too much to drink. He leaned over and said something into her ear. Then the girl with the purple hair pulled her trench coat tighter around her middle and shrank back into the crowd.

  “What do you suppose that was all about?” Vega asked Vanderlinden.

  “Beats me. Maybe the girl asked to say a few words and the mother refused. She doesn’t look like anyone the Archers would associate with.”

  The priest finished his blessing. Then the high-school tennis coach talked about Catherine’s spirit and determination. The news cameras, set back from the crowd, got their quick video clips. A bagpiper played “Amazing Grace.” Everyone stood quietly, some with tears in their eyes.

  Their stillness made it easier for Vega to spot the commotion going on just beyond the plaza, by one of the willow trees near the creek. Three big men. One small one. The big men looked white and probably in their teens or early twenties. The small man looked Hispanic and older—maybe in his thirties. His face could have come straight from a Mayan rendering. Those smooth, high cheekbones. Those Asian-looking eyes. He might have been quite striking if not for a general shabbiness. He wore a frayed hunting cap. His black-and-red plaid jacket and baggy jeans looked rumpled and lived in. He seemed angry about something. He waved his hands and gestured to the three white youths. One of them pushed him. He pushed back. Fists flew. Even in the glow of little more than candles and streetlight, Vega caught the hard, fast jabs that could break jaws and fracture ribs.

  Vega searched the crowd for a uniformed officer. He saw one he recognized and gestured to the four men by the willow tree. The officer and his partner hustled over as the bagpiper finished his song. Carp stepped up to the microphone to speak. Vega wasn’t listening. He had his eyes on the two cops and the four men. The cops had pulled the white youths off the Hispanic man. But as soon as they did, the man ran into the crowd. Vega could see him clearly now. His left eye was beginning to swell shut. His left cheek was swollen and bruised. He was running toward the lectern. Straight for Mike Carp. Vega threw himself in front of the man and blocked his path.

  “Slow down,” Vega said to the man. “What’s going on? Qué pasa?” He said it in both English and Spanish, hoping to get as much traction out of the question as possible. The three men who’d beaten him were still on his tail, pushing through the crowd toward him.

  Mike Carp stopped speaking and frowned down at the man. “You are interrupting a solemn occasion.” He fixed his eyes on Vega. “Get this troublemaker out of here. He has no business being here.”

  Vega grabbed the man by the collar of his red-and-black plaid jacket. Vega could smell alcohol on his breath. “Take it elsewhere,” he said to him in Spanish.

  The man tried to shove Vega away, but Vega held tight and ushered him toward the two uniformed police officers. They could take it from here. The man pointed to the three youths less than ten feet away. One wore a Rangers jersey. Another had a Yankees cap on backward. The third had the beginnings of a double chin beneath the dark brown stubble on his face.

  “They kick the candles. By the tree. They break everything.” He huffed the words out in heavily accented English. It was clear he wanted everyone in the crowd to know what the three young white men had done.

  “Rapists and murderers can burn in hell!” shouted the double-chinned one. “Take your candles back to Mexico. We don’t want you dirtbags here.”

  Vega faced the three young men. Now it was his turn to be angry. “This man put down religious candles. And you knocked them over and broke them? Dudes, that’s like busting up a church.”

  “Benitez was scum,” Rangers jersey shot back. “He doesn’t deserve to be mourned.”

  “He was innocent!” the man in the plaid jacket shouted. “The police shot an innocent man!”

  Two different sets of cops pushed through the crowd. One set grabbed Vega’s guy and dragged him away. When they had him over by a police cruiser, they cuffed him and shoved him inside. The original two cops caught up with the three white youths. Vega noticed that they only got a verbal warning to leave.

  Everyone was so focused on the fight that it took a moment for the scrape of metal folding chairs by the lectern to catch people’s attention. Someone had collapsed on the ground. Carp and his entourage pulled chairs aside. Police officers hustled forward, clearing bystanders out of the way. A sergeant got on his radio. The priest tapped the microphone.

  “Is there a doctor in the house?”

  A tight circle of grim-faced men in wool coats crowded around the victim. Vega saw Todd and Robin Archer kneeling on the ground. Carp, Prescott, and Vanderlinden towered over them. The priest edged himself next to the mother and son and bent down. By simple process of elimination, Vega knew.

  The victim was John Archer.

  Chapter 23

  It was all over the Lake Holly Moms Facebook page the next morning. A drunken illegal had interrupted Catherine’s vigil. John Archer had had a heart attack—maybe as a result—and was rushed to the Lake Holly Hospital. He died at three a.m.

  The news devastated Adele. She grieved for the Archer family. She grieved for Todd, whom she felt she’d come to know and like after his visit yesterday. But that’s not what made her throw an extra blanket around her shoulders, even though the heat was turned up and the radiators were hissing. It was the comments from community members that followed the Facebook post:

  These people are ruining our town . . .

  John Archer would be alive right now if that illegal hadn’t killed Catherine . . .

  I’m sick of how nobody does anything about them. Why can’t they all be deported???

  They want to come to America? Let them do it the way my great grandparents did!

  These people weren’t Internet trolls. They were her neighbors, the mothers of her daughter’s friends, people she saw at PTA events and firehouse fund-raisers. They went to religious services in town and helped out at community events. Some had even supported La Casa before this.

  But no more. Catherine’s murder seemed to open an artery of hate in the town and nobody could staunch the bleeding.

  Adele put in a call to Todd Archer to offer her condolences. His cell phone didn’t pick up. His mailbox was full. She sent him a text and promised to sit down and write him an actual card later. While she fixed Sophia’s breakfast, she called Greco. He cursed whe
n he heard her voice on the line.

  “I’ve got enough problems right now. Go bother Vega.”

  Hearing his name brought a thud to her heart. Vega hadn’t emailed or texted her since their fight yesterday. He was probably waiting for her to make the first move. Like always. But this time wasn’t “like always.”

  “I saw the news about John Archer on the Lake Holly Moms Facebook page,” Adele said as she buttered Sophia a slice of toast and cut up some banana. “I saw, too, that people are saying a drunken and undocumented Hispanic caused the fracas that precipitated his heart attack. Is that true?”

  “More or less.”

  “Which part is the ‘more’ and which is the ‘less,’ Detective?”

  “There was a fistfight over some knocked-over candles. So we let the guy cool his heels for the night at our five-star bed-and-breakfast.” Greco could never tell a story without a little editorial embellishment. “He’s going before the town judge this morning, right before Benitez’s brother’s bail hearing.”

  “The bail hearing’s today? I thought it was tomorrow.” Adele wanted to be there. She was hoping to talk to his public defender and see if there was any way he could get Wil released on his own recognizance.

  “It’s been moved up. To ten-thirty,” said Greco. “Our bed-and-breakfast guest—Teódulo Gomez—is going first.”

  “You said ‘knocked-over candles.’ ” The image was beginning to coalesce in Adele’s brain. “You don’t mean just candles, do you? You mean religious candles.”

  “Okay, religious.” Greco blew a long breath of air, like he already knew where this was headed.

  “And by fistfight—are we talking one-on-one?”

  “There were three other gentlemen.”

  “And these gentlemen—were they also arrested and charged?”

  “No.”

  “Let me guess,” said Adele. “They’re white. They’re local. And they’re connected.”

  “Adele—”

  “And you wonder why the Lake Holly Latino community is upset about Benitez. This is why I have to be in that courtroom this morning.”

  “C’mon, Adele, you’re not head of La Casa any longer. Just let it go. Gomez will get a fine, at most, and it will be over. You don’t have to come.”

  “See, when you say ‘don’t,’ that kind of makes me want to do it.”

  “No wonder you and Vega were going at it yesterday,” said Greco. “I don’t know how you two manage to stay together.”

  Adele looked at her cell on the counter next to her. Still, no call or text from Vega. She was wondering the same thing herself.

  * * *

  Adele got Sophia on the school bus, then picked up Max Zimmerman’s newspaper near the curb. She walked it to his front door and waited while he answered the bell. She had a moment to spy the area on his side of the fence that separated his lawn from the Morrisons on the other side. There was a new steaming pile of dog manure resting on the gritty remnants of snow. She couldn’t believe how that family took advantage of an old man.

  Zimmerman opened the front door and smiled when he saw Adele standing there.

  “The news in the world is so good this morning, you have to hand deliver it to me?”

  She laughed. “I was putting Sophia on the bus. I thought I’d walk it over.” Adele gestured to the dog manure by the fence. “Would you like me to talk to the Morrisons about this for you?”

  Zimmerman shook his head. “Why create problems? The world has enough already.”

  “But it’s not fair,” said Adele. “You need to stand up for yourself. If you won’t, I will.”

  “I’m sure you would,” said Zimmerman. “And well too. But let me pick my own battles. Every fight isn’t worth the cost.”

  “If you change your mind, you’ll let me know?”

  “I can stand up for myself, Adele. Not fighting isn’t the same as not being able to.”

  Adele sent out a few more résumés to legal firms. Then she drove down to the Lake Holly police station, an eighty-year-old brick building that was forever being updated in piecemeal increments. The courtroom was up a flight of worn granite stairs from the station house. It was an unassuming space—more like an elementary-school stage. There was a judge’s bench, two tables, a few spectator seats, and a bunch of flags.

  Adele took a seat in one of the folding chairs in back. She was the only spectator and a well-known face in Lake Holly. She did not go unnoticed. Judge Keppel looked up from his notes.

  “Ms. Figueroa—what brings you here?”

  “I have an interest in both your cases this morning, Your Honor.”

  “A legal interest?”

  “Mr. Gomez has no attorney, but I would be happy to help translate for him if it pleases Your Honor. As for Mr. Martinez, I’m just a concerned community member.”

  “You are doing this as . . . a representative of La Casa?”

  “No. I resigned from La Casa earlier this week.”

  “I see,” said Keppel. He shot a quizzical look at the town prosecutor, McMillan, a white man who wore three-piece suits and too much aftershave.

  An officer brought Teódulo Gomez up from his holding cell. He looked like he’d just gone through an MS-13 gang initiation. His left eye was swollen shut. His left cheek sported a large bruise. Adele was betting the other “gentlemen” didn’t look half as bad.

  The officer put a firm grip on Gomez’s shoulder and shuffled him before the judge.

  “Mr. Gomez, do you understand the charges against you?”

  “I . . . ,” Gomez mumbled. He probably spoke a little English, but not enough to call upon in such a stressful situation. Adele got to her feet.

  “Your Honor—may I help translate for Mr. Gomez?”

  “Come forward, Ms. Figueroa. Be my guest. Please explain to Mr. Gomez that he is being charged with assault in the fourth degree, public intoxication, and disturbing the peace. I would like to hear what he has to say about the charges before I pass sentence.”

  Adele put the judge’s statements and questions to Gomez in Spanish, then translated his answers back to the judge.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Gomez says he came to pay his respects to Catherine Archer, like everyone else. But he also put a candle down for Rolando Benitez under a willow tree near town hall, where several other candles were gathered in his memory. When Mr. Gomez put his candle down, three white men demanded he take the whole shrine away. He refused, so the men kicked over the candles and smashed the votive holders. When Mr. Gomez tried to stop them, they beat him up. Mr. Gomez’s injuries are consistent with his story.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Figueroa,” said the judge. “And may I remind you that you are not functioning as Mr. Gomez’s attorney here. Only as his translator.”

  “I am functioning as a witness for the Hispanic people of this community, Your Honor—most of whom are devout Catholics or Evangelical Protestants. For them, all life is sacred. They would pray for the soul of Catherine, of course. But they would also pray for the soul of Benitez. What those men who kicked over the candles did was a desecration of faith. Were they charged?”

  “We’re not here to discuss any other case today, Ms. Figueroa. Only Mr. Gomez’s actions.”

  “Which were taken to protect his faith. And for this, he was beaten and thrown in jail while those other men—local white men—went free.”

  Keppel opened his mouth to argue, then shut it and banged his gavel. “Defendant is fined one hundred dollars, payable to the town.”

  Adele translated the judge’s words to Gomez.

  “But I don’t have a hundred dollars,” said Gomez. “I told the truth last night, señora. I was with Darwin—Rolando—Friday night. We were drinking together in the woods. There was no girl.”

  “Did you tell the Lake Holly Police this?”

  “I didn’t know they were looking for him until after he was killed. Then I was afraid.”

  Keppel banged his gavel. “Ms. Figueroa—this isn’t the place fo
r a personal conversation.”

  “I’m sorry, Judge. But the defendant is telling me he has information—information that could exonerate Mr. Benitez in the murder of Catherine Archer. Which, in turn, could impact the proceedings against his brother, who is due in this court.”

  Keppel motioned to the officer who’d brought Gomez in. “Take Mr. Gomez downstairs. Get one of the detectives to take his statement. Then hand him the paperwork for his fine.”

  Adele translated the judge’s words. Gomez looked frightened. “Don’t worry,” Adele told him. “Nothing bad will happen to you. You get any problems, you tell them Adele Figueroa is upstairs and to fetch me. I’ll come down and help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A word of advice?” said Keppel as Gomez was about to be led out of the courtroom. He fixed Adele in his gaze. “Tell Mr. Gomez that while I appreciate and endorse his right to mourn anyone he wishes and worship any way he wishes, in the interests of the current sensitivities in this community, I would suggest that Latinos limit such celebrations to their houses of worship. The public nature of these shrines . . . I’m sure you understand, Ms. Figueroa.”

  “In other words, Your Honor, when people are upset, the Constitution of this country goes out the window—in particular, our rights under the First Amendment.”

  “Ms. Figueroa, I’m not the Supreme Court, okay? We’re talking practicalities here. Mr. Gomez and all the Latinos in this community are free to worship any way they choose. I’m just offering up some commonsense advice. If they start taking the First Amendment literally, we’re going to have someone in this town who decides to take the Second Amendment even more literally. I don’t want a bloodbath. And neither do you.”

  Chapter 24

  The call woke Vega at seven a.m. He fished his cell off the bedroom floor, where it had fallen in the night. He answered, hoping it was Adele.

  It was Doug Prescott, mouth breathing into the receiver.