he said in Spanish. “Back to Mexico.”
Joanna walked over to the table, stopping only when her face was no more than a foot away from the prisoner’s. “Do you know another of your passengers has died?” Joanna asked as her emerald eyes, blazing with fury, bored into his. “The mother of the little boy you murdered,” she continued. “Now she is dead as well.”
“Not murder,” the man objected, again with Frank translating. ‘An accident. It was only an accident.”
“The deaths occurred in the course of your committing a crime,” Joanna returned.
“Smuggling illegal aliens into this country is a crime-a felony. I’m sure your attorney explained to you
288
that when death occurs in the course of committing a felony, that results in an automatic charge of murder.”
“No,” the man said. “It was not my fault. The car was old-“
“Do you believe in heaven and hell?” Joanna asked, interrupting Frank’s translation.
Frank paused before passing along her question, as though he couldn’t quite believe that was what she meant for him to say.
“Go on,” Joanna urged impatiently. ‘Ask him.”
With a reluctant shake of his head, Frank did as he’d been told. Once he heard the question, the prisoner shot Joanna a quizzical look and then shrugged his shoulders dismissively as though the question didn’t merit an answer.
“You’re here as John Doe,” Joanna continued. “You may think that because we don’t know your real name, you can’t be charged with a crime. And the truth of the matter is, because of jurisdictional considerations, we may not be able to hold you here much longer. Federal law may take precedence and you may very well end up being deported.”
The prisoner smiled knowingly and began to nod as Frank neared the end of that translation.
That was how the system usually worked. It was what the driver had expected to happen.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Joanna said. “The one about heaven and hell. Do you believe or not, yes or no?”
“No,” he said.
“But that’s a lie, isn’t it?” Joanna said, pulling a slip of paper out of her pocket.
“I stopped by the property room,” she said. “This is an inventory of your personal possessions, the ones that were taken away from you when you were booked into my jail. The second item here is listed as a crucifix. People who don’t believe in God or in heaven or hell don’t usually wear crucifixes.”
289
The prisoner stared at the silently whirring pins in the tape recorder and said nothing.
“So even though I don’t know your real name, God does,” Joanna continued. “You can call what happened an accident if you want, but God knows better. He knows that the blood of all those people-including the blood of that little boy, Eduardo, and his mother, Maria Elena-is on your head and your hands.”
Joanna paused after that and waited for a response that didn’t materialize. “It may be true that you don’t believe in God or in heaven or hell, but you might want to reconsider,” she added several long moments later. “Because when you are deported, I’m going to let it be known among some of our friends in the federales that the reason we let you go is that you told us everything we needed to know about the people behind this coyote syndicate. We’ll say you told us who they are and that we’re just waiting for one of them to cross the border so we can arrest them and put them on trial.”
The prisoner shifted in his seat. For the first time in several minutes, his eyes met Joanna’s. “No,” he objected. “You must not do this. It is a lie. I’ve said nothing to you about them. Nothing.”
“We know that, you know that, and even God knows that,” Joanna agreed with a slight smile. “Unfortunately, the people you work for will not know that. Call Border Patrol,”
Joanna added briskly to Frank. “Tell them to come get Mr. Doe and take him back to Mexico. It’s too much trouble to keep him in my jail any longer.”
The prisoner, who up to now had required a translator, suddenly burst into perfect English. “No, senora,” he begged. “Please. You don’t understand. If they think I have told you anything, they will kill me.”
Joanna shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “That’s your problem and God’s, Mr. Doe, not mine.”
290
“But what if I do tell you what you want to know?” he asked. “Then will you let me stay?”
“I can’t say because it’s not up to me,” Joanna replied. “I suggest you call your lawyer and talk to him. Have him see what kind of deal he can negotiate. Your attorney may be able to help you. I can’t.”
Turning her back on the prisoner, Joanna walked as far as the door and knocked on it to summon the guard. “We’re leaving now,” she announced as the guard unlocked and opened the door. “If the prisoner wishes to speak to his attorney, let him use the phone.”
“Wait,” the prisoner called after her. “Senora, wait, please. My name is Ramon-Ramon Alvarez Sandoval. I will tell you whatever it is you want to know, but you must understand that the men I work for are evil. If they find out what I have done, they will kill me, and my family, too.”
Joanna stared hard at the prisoner. She wanted to spit in his face and grind it into the ground. Here was a man whose wanton disregard for others had left a total of seven people dead. And yet he was, as she had told Jaime Carbajal earlier, very small potatoes. Drivers were entirely expendable-to both sides. What she really wanted was a list of the names of the people running the syndicate-the ones giving the orders and collecting their blood money while giving not the slightest consideration to the lives that might be lost in the process.
