Illegal

by Francisco X. Stork

  “The man who owned this phone would want to have all his documents with him,” I said.

  Aniela went into her backpack and dug out a pair of latex gloves like the kind that doctors use. “I don’t usually carry these in my backpack,” she explained. “I had a feeling we might need them.”

  I knew she was trying to make a joke, but I was too scared to laugh or even smile.

  Aniela opened the metallic bag and carefully pulled out the cell phone with her thumb and middle finger. She looked at the phone’s front and back and then she set it down gently on the wooden table. Next, she stood and walked over to a desk in the living room. It was a small maple desk filled with newspapers and magazines and envelopes. It looked very similar to Gustaf’s desk back in Texas. Aniela opened the top drawer and came back holding a paper clip in her gloved hand. She sat down, bent the paper clip, and stuck it into the top edge of Hinojosa’s phone. A moment later a tiny tray popped out and a big smile covered Aniela’s face.

  “What is it?” I asked, worried.

  “The phone has a regular SIM card and a super-duper SD memory card. The SD card has 256 GBs of memory. That’s huge. That kind of memory capacity doesn’t come with the phone. The owner must have put it in there for extra filing. So it is very possible that it could have the kind of information you need.”

  “How do we access it?”

  “We need to take this card and put it in another phone.”

  “Do you have a phone?”

  “Yes. But the card will only fit certain phones. Not mine.” Aniela clicked on her laptop. After a few moments, she said, “I think I know where I can get a phone that will take this kind of memory card. Can you get me an envelope from Grandpa’s desk?”

  I found an empty envelope and handed it to Aniela. She dropped the card in the envelope. “Hold on to this.”

  “Can we get a phone that we can use? I have some money. We can buy one.”

  “This cell phone is an older model. I mean, this is like version seven or eight, and they are now on version ten. It would be hard to find the right model. Fortunately, my mother has an older cell phone that should work.”

  “Where is she? Can we go see her?”

  “She’s on her way home from St. Louis. She’ll be home tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I know how urgent this is for you. But look, even if we find the kind of information that is useful, it’s not as if the police will be able to rush off and grab the criminals. You need to work with Grandpa and his friends at the Chicago Police Department to come up with a plan. Something that will stick in court. The information in the card will only be the beginning of the investigation. The information will allow the police to get warrants to open the phone, that’s what Grandpa said. And what if there is nothing in the memory card that is useful? Then we need to try to get the phone open. Now that I’ve seen the phone, I will be doing specific research as to how best to do that.”

  “Can you do it? I mean, if the memory card is no good?”

  “It won’t be easy. Let’s hope the owner used the fingerprint scanner. A fingerprint is the easiest way to open a phone and people who are always on the phone prefer it.”

  “I have a feeling that the guy who owned this relied on his cell phone for many things. He must have kept things in there that are very important or revealing. That’s the only explanation I have for why someone wants the phone so badly. But …”

  “But what?”

  “We need to be prepared in case the memory card does not give us what we need.”

  “You’re not going to find e-mails or texts in the SD card. Those are stored in the phone itself or in the cloud. But you might find pictures and documents.”

  “But if there’s nothing there, we need to be ready to open the phone.”

  Aniela reached into her gym bag and took out one of her school notebooks and a pen. I watched her write. She was making a list. She lifted her face and narrowed her eyes with concentration after each item. When she finished, she looked at me. “According to the research I did last night, this is what we will need in case we have to open the phone.” She moved her chair closer to me and showed me the list.

  Find suitable print

  Develop print (get bichromatic fingerprint powder, superglue)

  Lift print (fingerprint tape)

  Enhance and develop print (transparent film, digital microscope, laser printer at school)

  Create mold (gelatin liquid, sheet of free molding plastic) or use print (cellophane-like material?) on human finger (?)

  “It will be tricky,” Aniela said when I finished reading. “First, we have to hope that the phone was not turned off when it was taken. If it was off, we may get a prompt for a password before we can use the fingerprint scanner. Then we’ll need to charge it. I can get a charger for this phone. But we need to assume that the people who want the phone will have a way of tracking it once it is turned on. We’ll need to find a place that doesn’t transmit a signal. Once we are there, we will need to find a thumbprint belonging to the owner. If we find a print, we need to lift it carefully. We only get one shot. Once you lift it, the print is gone.”

  “You’ve really thought about this.” I felt guilty for thinking she would not be able to help me.

  “Some of it comes from having a grandfather who was a cop. But I also stayed up most of the night looking into this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, no. I didn’t mind. Once I get intrigued by some problem, it is hard for me to let go. I’m very stubborn that way. Another trait I inherited from Stanislaw. I found an article by a Japanese professor which was very helpful. He called it the ‘gummy finger’ technique. The best part is that the equipment that he used, like the camera and printer, are things we have at school. Some of the other things, Grandpa can get from his policeman friends.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “For doing the research and … thinking about this.”

  Aniela placed the phone in the bag and closed it. She pushed her chair back so she could look at me next to her. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Who do you think is after this phone?”

  “Yoya, the girl who was going to help me with the phone before she got arrested, called him Big Shot. Someone with a lot of power and big status who found a way to use his position to benefit from the trafficking of young women. He is also someone with dozens of connections everywhere and with the influence to have people … do what he asks.” I thought of Abe Gropper, of my father, of the tall blond man in the gray Mercedes—all of these people directly or indirectly helping Big Shot.

  I saw a pink blotch appear on Aniela’s neck and then on her cheeks. “We need to get this pig,” she said, fixing her eyes on me. She waited a moment and then added, “And if I wanted to talk like Grandpa, I would have used a different word.”

  “Pig works,” I said. “Let’s get the pig.”

  I didn’t tell her about Betsy and Bertha, Gustaf’s two pigs, whom I liked.

  I offered Aniela a fist and she bumped it. We blushed simultaneously.

  “Okay,” Aniela said, standing. “Keep the cell phone with you. I’m going to make a note for Grandpa to get me a few things from his police buddies.” Aniela opened another drawer and took out an envelope and a tiny pencil. When she finished writing, she looked up and told me, “When Grandpa comes home, tell him he needs to get these.”

  “He’s there now. With the Chicago Police. He went to talk to his old partner—to work out a plan for what to do when we get the information from the phone and to find the owner of a license plate.”

  Aniela was out of the kitchen before I could finish speaking. She dug her own cell phone out of her gym bag and tapped it. She shook her head a few times when no one answered. I heard her speak into her phone, a disapproving frown on her face. “Stanislaw, this is your granddaughter. I need you to go to the crime lab and get me fingerprint powder, cyanocylate or superglue, and some fingerpr
int tape. We need this right away so don’t dilly-dally with your buddies.” She put her phone back in the bag and said to me, “There really is nothing we can do right now. When my mom comes home, we’ll come over and try out the memory card on her phone. If we strike out, I’ll do more research tonight so we will be ready to open the phone. We can do that tomorrow.” She picked up her gym bag and slung it onto her shoulder. “I have to get to soccer practice. You’ll be here?”

  “Yes. But …”

  “I know how you feel. Honest. But there’s nothing we can do right now.” Aniela stood with her hand on the doorknob, considering. Then she waved nervously at me and stepped out.

  I watched the door close and felt the silence of the house envelop me. After a few moments I went to the kitchen and picked up the bag with Hinojosa’s cell phone and the envelope with the SD card. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard the front door open. Aniela was standing there brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead.

  “I was just thinking … why don’t you come with me to soccer practice. You’ll like Mr. Gómez, our coach. He’s also my AP physics teacher. It will be good for him to meet you since we’re going to need him to let us use the equipment in the physics lab if we need to open the phone.”

  “I think I better stay here.”

  “You can give us some pointers on how to play real fútbol, the way it’s supposed to be played. Mr. Gómez played soccer at Georgia State but, I mean, how much do they know about fútbol in Georgia?”

  I took a few steps down. “Thanks, but …”

  “You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just sit on the bleachers and watch. It’ll be entertaining … you won’t believe what we’re doing to that poor ball.”

  “I don’t know. I … I’m not here … legally. If I get caught …”

  “Oh, please! Half of Chicago is illegal in one way or another.”

  She grinned.

  I looked down at my pants, one leg longer than the other, the smelly hiking boots. I’d tried Stanislaw’s sneakers, but they were too big.

  “You fit right in, trust me.” Aniela tried but could not contain laughter. “Come on. Getting your mind off things for a while is always helpful.”

  I nodded. She was right. My brain was more like a “no-brainer” and I was going to need to be thinking straight if I was going to help Sara. I walked up the stairs and hid the bag with the cell phone and the envelope with the card under the box spring of my bed.

  When I came down, Aniela was by the flagpole, waiting for me.

  I sat on the last row of the aluminum bleachers, watching the girls’ varsity soccer team go through their afternoon practice. I thought about how rich this school seemed compared to my Colegio México. The field with soft grass where the girls were practicing was surrounded by a red, bouncy track. In the distance I could see a baseball field and beyond that a labyrinth of brick buildings. I shielded my eyes from the afternoon sun and concentrated on the players. After warming up and a series of drills, the coach divided the team into two groups for a scrimmage. It took me all of one minute to see that Aniela was the best player. The coach was right in making her the last line of defense. There were other players with better dribbling and passing technique but none as fearless as Aniela. She was smaller than most of her teammates and yet players seemed to bounce off her as if they had suddenly encountered a concrete wall. Even then, I saw she was holding herself back out of consideration for her teammates. In a real game, she would be as tough as any player on my team back home.

  Back home. If I were forced to stay in the United States for the rest of my life, would there come a time when I would stop saying “back home”? Would I eventually stop thinking of Colegio México as my school or of the Pumas as my team?

  I wondered how the Pumas were doing. This was the year when we were going to do what no other team in Chihuahua had ever done: win two consecutive state championships. Right now, the team would be practicing in the dusty field in back of Colegio México. Paco would be drawing plays on the ground with a stick, thinking of ways to circumvent Brother Patricio’s instructions to play a disciplined, boring, defensive game. Had I ever been happier than when stripping a ball from a player’s feet? The tackle in Chihuahua that led to the winning goal and the state championship was like that. The player went tumbling to the ground, but the referee did not blow his whistle even though the stadium was in an uproar. That was a good ref, a smart ref.

  Perla Rubi was at that game watching in the stands with the five hundred or so students and family members who had made the four-hour trip from Juárez to Chihuahua on rented school buses. I could feel how proud of me she was all the way down on the field. And then after the game, there she was, standing by the sideline, beaming, waiting for me to push my way through the crowd of congratulating people.

  I shook my head to try to stop the flow of memories. I didn’t want to think about Perla Rubi. Sara’s life was on the line and here I was fantasizing. It was watching Aniela that stirred memories of Perla Rubi. But why? They were so different. “Why don’t you find a nice girl who likes you the way you are. Perla Rubi is a fantasy,” Paco would say to me. “A figment of your wishes. She’s not real.”

  Aniela was real. So was Chicago. So was my father paying me to go back home. The detention facility where Sara was a prisoner was real. And the United States that Sara thought had the best system of justice in the world—was that a fantasy or was that real?

  I was so lost in my thoughts that I did not see Coach Gómez on the sideline motioning me to come down. I snapped into the present only after I heard him blow the whistle hanging from his neck. Reluctantly, I made my way down the bleachers.

  “Gerardo Gómez,” the coach said, shaking my hand. He was a short man with skin as brown as mine. He was in his forties but in good shape. A weight lifter, judging by the size of his biceps. “Aniela tells me you play.”

  The scrimmage had stopped, and players were lining up to shoot penalty kicks.

  “A little.”

  “What part of México are you from?”

  “Ciudad Juárez.” I was beginning to regret my decision to come watch Aniela. I could see the players looking in my direction, whispering, giggling.

  “You here for long?”

  How long was I staying in the United States? Until they catch me? Until Big Shot is in jail? I had a job to complete in this country and how long I stayed no longer mattered.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Coach Gómez nodded as if he understood the reason for my discomfort. “Were you on a team in Júarez?”

  “The one at my high school.”

  “Well”—Coach Gómez turned toward the players—“what do you think?”

  I caught Aniela’s eyes in the distance. She shrugged as if to apologize for the interrogation I was undergoing. I hesitated, then said, “The ball spends too much time in the air and not enough on the ground.”

  “Exactly!” Coach Gómez said, excited. “I can’t get them to pass to each other. Maybe one pass or two and then they kick it into nowhere and hope it lands close to someone wearing their uniform.”

  A few of the players were now standing by the sideline, practicing corner kicks. Coach Gómez walked toward them. “You have to elevate the ball, Tracy. Hit under. Under.”

  We watched the ball roll on the ground toward the goal. Coach Gómez shook his head. “That’s one of the most sorry-looking corner kicks I think I’ve ever seen.”

  Tracy covered her mouth and laughed.

  “Do me a favor. Will you show them how to elevate a ball? Why don’t you kick a corner for them? One that actually gets off the ground for a change.”

  “No, I haven’t played in a while.”

  “Come on! That’s not something you forget.”

  “No. I can’t.” I searched for the field’s exit, but Coach Gómez blew his whistle, shouted.

  “Listen up, everybody! Emiliano here plays fútbol in Mexico. He’s going to kick a corner for you. Ball,
please! I want you to see at least one good corner kick in your lifetime.”

  One of the players rolled a ball to Coach Gómez and he picked it up and handed it to me. “Don’t let us down.” Coach Gómez winked.

  Now every member of the team watched and waited. I found Aniela sitting with the rest of the players in front of the goal. She had one of those expressions a person makes when they break a fancy dish in a stranger’s house. I’m so sorry! I could almost hear her say.

  I felt red. I had never realized before that red could actually be felt. In my cheeks, my neck, the top of my head. I stared at Coach Gómez, wondering for a moment whether the man was evil or just stupid. That seemed to be the question with regard to many of the people I had met in the United States, including my own father. With respect to the grinning Coach Gómez, it was impossible to conclude one way or another. He was probably a little of both.

  So, a corner kick, how hard was that? The sooner I kicked the damn ball, the sooner I could go back home where Stanislaw’s rough edges would be a welcome relief. I walked to the spot on the field marked for corner kicks. The players waited. I couldn’t decipher the expression on their faces. Were they like those people who go to car races hoping for a crash? My eyes and Aniela’s met briefly, and I was filled with something that was strange because it was so solid and strong, something I had not felt since I left Gustaf’s ranch.

  When I got to the corner of the field, I kneeled down to untie the laces on my right hiking boot. I heard oohs and aahs from the players, but I ignored them. I took both boots off so that my feet would be balanced. Then I took my socks off as well. One of them had a hole and my toe stuck out, but I didn’t care. I placed the ball on the corner and looked up to see Aniela’s smile. I was her friend, she seemed to be saying to me and to everyone else. She had brought me here to this field on this day.