Shoot / Don't Shoot

With a glower, the guard folded his newspaper and tossed it into a cabinet under the counter. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say,” she said, “because you didn’t ask. But it’s Brady. Joanna Brady. Sheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County.”

The word sheriff did seem to carry a certain amount of weight, even with a surly, antagonistic guard. “And who is it you want to see?” he asked grudgingly.

“Antonio Jorge Grijalva,” she answered. “He’s charged with murdering his wife.”

“Even if you get in, the guy won’t see you,” the guard said. “Not without his attorney present.

“I believe he will,” Joanna answered. “All you have to do is tell him his mother sent me.”

Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, the guard reached for the phone and dialed a number. Less than ten minutes later, with the help of the jail’s night watch commander, Joanna was seated in a small prisoner interview room. Peering through the scratched Plexiglas barrier, she watched as Jorge Grijalva, dressed in orange inmate rails and soft slippers, was led into the adjoining room.

Joanna had studied all the articles in Juanita’s envelope. She knew that Serena had been twenty-four when she died and that her husband was almost twenty years older. At first glimpse, the man in the next room seemed far older than forty-three. His face was careworn. He was small, bowlegged, and slightly stooped, with the spareness that comes from years of hard labor and too much drinking. Dark, questioning eyes sought Joanna’s as he edged way into the plastic chair.

Who are you?” he demanded, picking up the phone on his side of the barrier. “What do you want?”

Joanna didn’t hear the questions. He had asked them before she had a chance to pick up the re­ceiver on her phone, but she knew what he wanted to know.

“I’m Joanna Brady,” she answered. “I’m the new sheriff down in Cochise County.”

“What’s this about my mother? Is something wrong with her?”

“No. Your mother’s fine.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“She wanted me to talk to you.”

Jorge leaned back in his chair. For a moment no thought he might simply hang up and ask to be returned to his cell. “Why?” he said finally.

“Your mother says you didn’t do it,” Joanna answered. “She says you’re innocent, but that you’re going to plead guilty anyway. Is that true?”

Jorge Grijalva’s face contorted into a scowl. “Go away,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to you. My mother’s a foolish old woman. She doesn’t know anything.”

“She knows about losing her grandchildren,” Joanna answered quietly. “If you go to prison for killing Serena, the Duffys will never let your mother see Ceci and Pablo again.”

In the garish fluorescent light, even through the scarred and yellowed Plexiglas window, Joanna could see the knuckles of his olive-skinned fingers turn stark white. For a long time, Jorge stared the table, gripping the phone and saying nothing. Then, after a time, he raised his gaze until his troubled eyes were staring directly into Joanna’s.