“Thanks, little lady,” he said, still playfully dishing it out. “But really, are you going to be able to get something to eat for lunch today?”
No way could she spend any more time with this man. Now flustered and beyond hope of stopping her head from spinning dizzily, Maria thought quickly and with a transparent ruse suggested that she had to go to the library to put a couple hours of research in before attending class at 1:50 p.m.—as though she could concentrate on her studies for the rest of the day.
Martorano said he understood. As they parted, he reached out his right hand, and Maria took it most gratefully and squeezed it with her left. They each gently released their grip on the other and hastened from the room to make the most of the remainder of the day.
***
Martorano easily located the Figueroa residence on the appointed Sunday afternoon. As he stepped from his pickup, he was met by a friendly watch dog that licked his hand approvingly. A good sign, he thought. Making his way toward the front porch, he saw the door swing open; Maria stepped into the sunshine—although she was already radiant before coming outside to greet him.
“We’re so happy you could make it for dinner today,” she sang in her lyric voice that danced from note to note.
“Believe me, I’ve been saving my appetite. And I can detect the aroma of some mighty fine cooking out here in the yard, it seems to me.”
“I hope you like the food. Mama’s been busy cooking since you said you could make it for dinner!”
Once inside, Maria introduced her guest to Teresa and Francisco Figueroa, Maria’s parents, and all three of her sisters who would be joining them for dinner. The sitting room was immaculate and comfortable. All the chairs and the sofa were occupied save one throne-like upholstered chair that was reserved for the guest of honor. He felt conspicuous as he was ushered to it but went along good naturedly and with due humility as the ceremony required. Maria’s parents were effusive in their speech, every bit in Spanish, and Martorano understood enough to get their point: heartfelt gratitude for the friendship and support he had extended to their daughter at her time of dire need. Prouder parents could not have been found on the planet.
Martorano, in his halting Spanish, struggled to confirm his high praise for Maria, beginning with his first contact with her at Finni’s Restaurant in Visalia. He, like her parents, was totally impressed with her accomplishments to date, her commitment to pursuing lofty educational goals, and her steadfast willingness to make a major contribution to society regardless of her specific role professionally.
His gaze moved about the room, encountering religious pictures and icons on the walls and atop the ten-year-old television set placed at the center point of the room. He was suddenly aware of the incredibly delicious aroma that permeated the place, and his mouth fully moistened in anticipation of the meal that was cooking in the kitchen. Before dinner was finished, Martorano would be treated to albondigas (meatball) soup, coctele con camerones (a shrimp cocktail served in a muy picante—very spicy—sauce with bits of avocado, onions and celery), chile verde (a green chile dish made with pork and a wonderful chile sauce that was very spicy), and, of course, carne asada (a tender cooked beef with red sauce), and a delicious dessert the hostess called flan.
Martorano became so engrossed in his enjoyment of the dinner and conversation that he lost all measure of the passage of time. As the room darkened with the approach of nighttime, he finally realized he needed to think about paying his respects to Maria’s family and then making his way home. Not that there was anything happening there, since all the members of his large family lived in other places. But Mr. Figueroa had other plans for the evening.
He invited Martorano to retake his place in the chair of honor then offered him a choice of a Modelo Negro (beer from Mexico), a shot of tequila, a Cuban cigar, or all of the above. Martorano hesitated and started to decline the offer in its entirety. On an impulse, he accepted the offer of a shot of tequila, and Mr. Figueroa left the room to fill his order. When he returned with a shot glass half full of tequila he handed it to Martorano, and he reached into a shirt pocket to offer a cigar to his guest. Martorano declined the cigar, afraid he would only be compromising the air quality inside the house. Still, he insisted that Figueroa enjoy one himself, and his host gratefully complied.
The two men settled into casual yet comfortable conversation about farming and politics. Martorano was surprised at Figueroa’s essential understanding of collective bargaining issues and the efforts of Cesar Chavez to improve the lot of agricultural workers, most if not all of whom were campesinos from south of the border. Martorano explained the concern of growers that increased labor costs would likely price the produce of the Valley out of reach of consumers. Agriculture was, after all, “king of California” and the mainstay of the state economy, in spite of the great number of residents who did not know where the great San Joaquin Valley was located in their state.
Politically and economically, Figueroa was bound closely to growers because he made his living finding laborers to work in their fields. Figueroa was a labor contractor who supplied the campesinos who worked in the fields owned and controlled by the growers. Thus his loyalties and emotions were in constant conflict if not turmoil. His affinity lay with the laboring class that carried his own roots, yet his income was dependent upon pleasing the employer class.
Figueroa was deferential and avoided any subjects that might annoy or set off his guest, yet he pressed his point that the lot of field workers had to be improved in order to bring their living conditions to a respectable level. They were forced to become nomadic in their lifestyles since they generally followed the maturation cycle of crops as they ripened and became ready for harvest. This journey carried them northward into Oregon, Washington, and Idaho to harvest before the growing season ended. Ironically, many laborers and their families traveled full circle and returned to Tulare County in time for the navel orange harvest, which started in December.
Their children had to change schools two or three times during the year, and that circumstance slowed their educational progress. He added that, in this respect, he felt particularly lucky, because he had been able to start his own business that allowed his family to remain in one place and make a living without having to follow the crops. Figueroa managed to stay busy and made a decent living by contracting with growers to supply the needed agricultural workers in the area. This was possible in the San Joaquin Valley because of the variety of crops grown and the extended length of the harvest season that started in January and finished nearly a year later.
Figueroa, not being well acquainted with Martorano, tempered his candid comments about the politics of the labor movement, not certain of his guest’s reactions. Some growers were so incensed over the perceived temerity of the laborers for even contemplating the notion of forming a political force to fight for their rights that there was no room for discussion with them, much less any real hope for their acceptance of the program. At this moment, Figueroa was not well enough acquainted with Martorano to know if he was a man of good reputation.
Martorano easily conceded the value of the service provided by campesinos but inquired of Figueroa what he thought of the future of the Filipinos in the Valley, who had also worked in the fields and now seemed to have been completely displaced. Figueroa responded somewhat pensively, after thinking for a moment, that he was not certain what fate awaited them. He candidly stated that the leaders of the United Farm Workers Organizing Committee did not seem to have a plan for them, at least one they were discussing openly, since they focused heavily if not exclusively on Hispanics. He recognized that the leadership of this labor movement tended to define the term campesinos narrowly to exclude almost everyone but persons with Mexican national origins.
Figueroa good-naturedly changed the subject and asked politely about Martorano’s family history, checking first that he didn’t mind the question and the likely invasion of privacy. No problem. Martorano explained that he w
as third-generation Italian in America. His family had been in farming for as long as he could remember and had come from a small town a couple hundred miles south of Rome. A grandfather and a great uncle had grown tired of the squabbling and tricky politics in Italy. After hearing from friends and relatives the many stories about the future of America, they decided to emigrate and came to the United States in the late 1800s. Martorano was certainly grateful they had made the decision. He modestly stated his case: lots of hard work and plenty of good luck made for a good life, although no man should expect success in everything he undertakes. His voice trailed off as other memories flooded his mind spontaneously at that moment, and his attention drifted away in distraction.
Figueroa sensed the angst in the last comment and left it alone. He volunteered that his family made a similar decision and emigrated to California from Oaxaca in the middle 1920s. They had made progress quickly, and he was grateful for the opportunities he had. Then his attention focused on Maria, and his demeanor shifted to proud beaming father. She was the light of his life. He was so proud of her accomplishments. She was the first in his entire family to finish high school. Now, she was attending Fresno State College and continuing to do very well there.
When she had come home a month ago and told him about Mr. Martorano and his many kindnesses … Figueroa was unable to control his tears. He knew he had to say “thank you” and have her benefactor to his home for dinner so he could express his gratitude. Figueroa literally swabbed away a gush of water from his eyes. He was overcome and slowly settled deeply into his chair for renewal of his energy, staring blankly at his feet for several moments.
Deeply touched by this expression of gratitude and a father’s love for his daughter, Martorano uttered something to the effect that “we immigrants have to stick together and help each other whenever we can.” It was obvious both men shared paternal filiations toward Maria, one by nature and the other by fate.
Maria and her mother entered the room after cleaning up the kitchen. Martorano repeated his words of high praise for the wonderful meal and the hospitality. He noticed the time on his wristwatch and was shocked to realize how late the hour had drawn. Sincere remarks were exchanged about the pleasure of the evening, and he withdrew from the modest but earthy and loving feeling of the Figueroa home.
Maria escorted him to his truck in the driveway. After the experience inside, he was quiet, if not reserved, even a little pensive. He reached out his hand and took Maria’s in his.
“You probably won’t believe this, but I have a family, too. Good size. But something has happened to our family. I don’t have the kind of real emotional support and love I find inside your parents’ home.” On impulse, he put his other arm around Maria’s shoulders and embraced her lovingly. She responded with her own firm and lasting hug and the two stood for what seemed minutes—speechless though no longer pensive. Martorano became aware of another body and soul aching to make meaningful contact on this sometimes seemingly barren and hostile planet.
The two separated without further words but exchanged a kiss that neither would ever forget for the rest of their lives. Maria watched in silence as Martorano started the engine and maneuvered his truck onto the roadway. They waved deliberately, each anticipating the moments of reflection that surely waited. Her gaze fixed on the path of the receding headlights as they dimmed then disappeared into the silent farming country.
4
Tule Fog
February 1984
For anyone personally and painfully aware of the weather condition known as tule fog, no further discussion is needed. For the others who have no experience with the natural phenomenon, descriptions are inadequate. Yet it bears re-stating: if you find yourself driving in it, tule fog is terrifying. It is capable of moving at great speed, though normally it is dense and motionless, reducing visibility to near zero. In the great Central Valley of California, vehicular traffic during the months of November through March can suddenly become treacherous. Even commercial aircraft are frequently diverted from the area for days at a time when the fog sets in for extended periods.
Radiation fog, including tule fog, is caused when cooling of the earth’s surface reduces the air temperature to its dew point or below. Formed at night or in the early morning hours, it can linger in place seemingly indefinitely. Fog particles are moist and highly absorbent, taking on pollutants from many sources in the area, including the cars and trucks on highways such as I-5 and State Route 99 that run parallel on the west and east sides of the entire length of the Valley. Vehicles contribute megatons of exhaust, dairies add ammonia wastes, and incineration exhaust comes from a number of sources including residential fireplaces. In spite of this challenge, it is no small wonder that the great San Joaquin Valley continues as the richest and most productive agricultural area on the planet.
Seasoned law enforcement and medical emergency personnel rue the times when called to assist those trapped in the chaos and tragedy of multiple-vehicle pileups. At times, so many vehicles are involved that deciding where one accident stops and another starts is mere guess work. Under extreme conditions, dozens if not hundreds of vehicles may become involved in multiple collisions over many miles, frequently on both sides of the highway.
Veterans tell of their gratefulness at surviving such horrible accidents and recount episodes of bravery of participants at accident scenes, including firemen, law enforcement, and citizens (especially medical personnel). Tragedy and desperation come in abundance. Following countless minutes of sounds of squealing tires and screaming metal twisting and crushing upon impact after impact, an eerie silence may befall the invisible scene until the ethereal fugue is repeated again as more vehicles impact the rear end of the mass of disabled and burning vehicles. During these quiet moments, while the survivors ponder their safety and decide whether to run to safety, witnesses have recounted hearing an almost dirge-like groaning that they attribute to the effect of twisted metal carcasses attempting to reclaim their original shapes. Sometimes an awkwardly balanced big-rig simply keels over after failing to survive the moments of breathlessly teetering while seeking some sweet point of equilibrium.
Longtime residents of the great Valley know all too well not to bargain unnecessarily for trouble and avoid driving in the dense tule fog at all costs. Most feel confident in their own skills on those rare occasions when they are forced to make such trips, but who can guarantee that some jockey out there won’t try to cut a few minutes off his trip and wind up ruining it for everyone. Ironically, the causes of some of the worst wrecks are persons who are not even aware of their involvement, typically making unsafe turning movements that cause vehicles following them to take evasive action. When the inevitable crash follows, these drivers simply keep going, totally unaware of the misery they’ve caused, seeming to never wonder why suddenly there have been no other cars following them for miles, blissfully unaware they are alone on the highway.
Martorano knew by instinct that today was shaping up to become a dangerous time for driving. For several days, fog had been forming near sunset and not lifting again until midmorning the following day, only to repeat the pattern again and again. It was Valentine’s Day, and he was leading another seminar beginning in the late afternoon at Fresno State College. This day reserved for lovers would be wasted on him yet another time. He considered postponing class, but decided not to do so because he would likely still see several students in spite of his efforts to cancel.
On this day, he drove from his home near Tipton to campus in the early afternoon when weather conditions were most favorable. Not surprisingly, by keeping his speed in check he managed to stay out of the way of the speedsters who surely possessed much better eyesight than his. His class was to start at 4:30 p.m., which allowed students time to complete chores on their farms before attending. His students had requested the later meeting time to optimize their use of daylight. Class would finish at 7:30 p.m., but he would keep an eye on weather conditions and release the students
earlier if necessary.
Once on campus, he stopped for a soft drink at the cafeteria. While paying the cashier, he heard his name called out from behind him. Turning, he saw Maria, recognizing her remarkable voice in the same instant. It had been a while since his visit to her home for Sunday dinner, and he had wondered frequently about her in the meantime. They exchanged warm ingratiating smiles. They found themselves in a warm embrace and then awkwardly stepped apart.
“What brings you to the cafeteria today?” Martorano interjected casually and winked as though he already knew the answer.
“Well, I have a deadline for a history paper, and I need to spend some quality time in the library. In fact, I’ve been there all day. But what’s your excuse; are you teaching a class tonight?”
“Yes, I am, as it turns out. The same seminar that you visited earlier. We’re reaching the midpoint of the course. I came up Highway 99 as usual. There was fairly dense fog in places, but everyone seemed to adjust to the reduced speed required by the conditions. The highway patrol was busy, but it was reassuring at the same time. How was your drive up here today?”
Ever the paternal guardian, Martorano gazed at Maria quizzically and continued with his questions: “And what about your commute home this evening? The fog is really thick, and the sun won’t set for another hour. Do you have relatives in Fresno where you could spend the night?”
“No, no relatives in the area. Anyway, I still have more research to do in the library before I’m finished here.”
“Tell you what. Meet me back here at 7:30 after my class, and we’ll talk again. Maybe we could caravan down highway 99 and get you back home in one piece. It’s worth discussing, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I can’t expect you to keep rescuing me like I was some dainty little thing that’s unable to take care of herself!” And she flashed a half-indignant glare his way.
(2012) The Court's Expert Page 6
