Beyond This Point Are Monsters

Chapter Eight

Court reconvened ten minutes late because Judge Gallagher was caught in a traffic jam on the way back from his club. Even with this extra time allowance Agnes Osborne, scheduled to be the first witness of the afternoon, was still absent at one forty-five. A conference was held at the bench and it was decided not to delay the proceeding further by waiting for Mrs. Osborne but to call the next witness.

“Dulzura Gonzales.”

Dulzura heard her name but she didn’t respond until Jaime jabbed her in the side with his elbow. “Hey, that’s you.”

“I know it’s me.”

“Well, hurry up.”

Already breathless from fear Dulzura had trouble getting to her feet and out into the aisle; and once she was in motion she walked too rapidly, so that her giant dress swirled around her like a tent fighting a storm.

“Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give in the matter now pending before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

She swore. Her hand left moist prints on the wooden railing around the witness box.

“State your full name, please,” Ford said.

“Dulzura Ynez Maria Amata Gonzales.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Miss.” Her nervous giggle swept through the room, raising little gusts of laughter and a flurry of doubt.

“Where do you live, Miss Gonzales?”

“The same place as the others — you know, the Osborne ranch.”

“What do you do there?”

“Well, lots of things.”

“I meant, what are you paid to do, Miss Gonzales?”

“Cook and laundry, mostly. A little cleaning now and then.”

“How long have you worked for the Osbornes?”

“Seven years.”

“Who hired you?”

“Mrs. Osborne, Senior. There wasn’t anybody but her around. Mr. Osborne was dead and the boy away at school. My first cousin, Estivar, gave me a nice recommend on a piece of paper.”

“Miss Gonzales, I want you to try and recall the evening of October the thirteenth last year.”

“I don’t have to try. I recall it already.”

“There were special circumstances that fixed the day in your memory?”

“Yes, sir. It was my birthday. Usually I get time off to celebrate, maybe go into Boca with a couple of the boys after work. But that day I couldn’t, it was Friday the thirteenth. I’m not allowed to leave the house on Friday the thirteenth.”

“Not allowed?”

“A quiromántico told me never to because of strange lines in my hands. So I just stayed home like it was no special day and cooked dinner and served it.”

“At what time?”

“About seven-thirty, later than usual on account of Mr. Osborne had been to the city.”

“Did you see Mr. Osborne after dinner?”

“Yes, sir. He came out to the kitchen while I was cleaning up. He said he forgot to buy my birthday present, like Mrs. Osborne asked him to, and would I accept money, and I said I sure would.”

“Was Mr. Osborne wearing his spectacles when he came out to the kitchen?”

“No, sir. But he could see okay, so I guess he was wearing those little pieces of glass over his eyeballs.”

“Contact lenses.”

“Yes.”

“What did he give you for your birthday, Miss Gonzales?”

“A twenty-dollar bill.”

“Did he take the bill from his wallet in your presence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice anything of interest about the wallet?”

“It was full of money. I never saw Mr. Osborne’s wallet before and I was surprised and kind of worried too. The boys don’t get much pay.”

“Boys?”

“The workers that come and go.”

“The migrants?”

“Yes. It would of been a real temptation to them if they found out how much money Mr. Osborne was carrying.”

“Thank you, Miss Gonzales. You may—”

“I’m not saying any of them did it, killed him for the money. I’m just saying that a lot of money is a big temptation to a poor man.”

“We understand that, Miss Gonzales. Thank you... Will Mr. Lum Wing take the stand, please?”

Lum Wing, encouraged by his sunny hour in the park, gave his name in a high clear voice with a trace of southern accent.

“Where do you live, Mr. Wing?”

“Sometimes here, sometimes there. Where the work is.”

“You have a permanent address, don’t you?”

“When there’s nothing better to do I stay at my daughter’s house in Boca de Rio. She’s got six kids, I share a room with two of my grandsons. I keep away from there as much as possible.”

“What is your profession, Mr. Wing?”

“I used to be cook with a circus. What my daughter tells the neighbors, I retired. What happened, the circus went bust.”

“You come out of retirement and take a job now and then?”

“Yes, sir, to get out of the house.”

“Your work has brought you to the Osborne ranch at various times?”

“Yes.”

“You’re working there now, in fact?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were there a year ago, on October thirteen?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you stay when you’re working at the ranch?”

Lum Wing described his living arrangements in the curtained-off corner of the former barn that served as a mess hall. In the late afternoon of October 13 he had cooked supper as usual. After the men departed for their payday fling in Boca de Rio he’d drawn his curtain, set up a chess game and opened a bottle of wine. The wine made him sleepy, so he lay down on his cot. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he remembered was the sound of voices speaking loud and fast in Spanish on the other side of the curtain. On occasion other basic needs besides eating were satisfied at the mess-hall tables and Lum Wing made it a habit to ignore what went on. Moving quietly in the darkness he checked his case of knives, his pocket watch and chess set, the rest of the bottle of wine, and finally the money belt he wore even when sleeping. Finding everything intact he returned to his cot. The voices continued.

“Did you recognize any of them?” Ford asked.

After a moment’s hesitation Lum Wing shook his head.

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“They talked too fast. Also I didn’t listen.”

“Do you understand Spanish, Mr. Wing?”

“Four, five words.”

“I gather that you didn’t overhear any of those four or five words spoken on that occasion?”

“I’m an old man. I mind my own business. I don’t listen, I don’t hear, I don’t get in trouble.”

“There was a great deal of trouble that night, Mr. Wing. You must have heard some of it whether you listened or not. You appear to have normal hearing for a man your age.”

“I fix it so it’s not so normal.” He showed the court how he made earplugs out of little pieces of paper. “Beside the plugs, there was the wine. It made me sleepy. Also I was tired. I work hard, up before five every morning, doing this, doing that.”

“All right, Mr. Wing, I believe you... You’ve been employed at the Osborne ranch quite a few times, haven’t you?”

“Six, seven.”

“Did Robert Osborne speak Spanish?”

“Not to me.” Lum Wing stared blandly up at the ceiling.

“Well, did you ever hear him speak to the men in Spanish?”

“Maybe two, three times.”

“And maybe oftener? A lot oftener?”

“Maybe.”

“It would, in fact, have been quite possible for you to recognize Mr. Osborne’s voice even if he was talking in a foreign language?”

“I wouldn’t like to say that. I don’t want to make trouble.”

“The trouble is made, Mr. Wing.”

“It could be worse.”

“Not for Robert Osborne.”

“There were others,” the old man said, blinking. “Other people. Mr. Osborne wasn’t talking to himself. Why would he talk to himself in Spanish?”

“Then you did recognize Mr. Osborne’s voice that night?”

“Maybe. I’m not swearing to it.”

“Mr. Wing, we have reason to believe that a fight which ended in a murder took place in the same room in which you claim to have been sleeping. Do you realize that?”

“I didn’t commit a murder, I didn’t commit a fight. I was sleeping innocent as a baby with my earplugs in until Mr. Estivar woke me up by shaking my arm and shining a flashlight in my face. I said what happened? And he said what happened, Mr. Osborne is missing and there’s blood all over the floor and the cops are on their way.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Wing?”

“Put on my pants.”

“You got dressed.”

“Same thing.”

“I take it that your earplugs had been removed by this time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you could hear perfectly well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you hear, Mr. Wing?”

“Nothing. I thought funny thing how quiet, where is everybody, and I look out my window. I see lights on all over the ranch, the main house, Estivar’s place, the garage where they keep the heavy machinery, the bunkhouse, even in some of the tamarisk trees around the reservoir. I think again what’s the matter, all those lights and no noise. Then I see the big truck is gone, the one the men came in, and the bunkhouse is empty.”

“What time was that, Mr. Wing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mentioned previously that you had a pocket watch.”

“I never thought to look at it. I was scared, I wanted to get out of that place.”

“And did you?”

“I opened my door — there are two doors to the building, the front one the men use and the back one that’s mine. I stepped outside. Estivar’s oldest son, Cruz, was standing between me and the bunkhouse with a rifle over his shoulder.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“He spoke to me. He told me to go back inside and stay there, because the police were on their way and when they asked me if I touched anything I better be able to say no. So I sat on the edge of my cot, then in five, ten minutes the police arrived.”

There was a sudden audible stirring throughout the courtroom, as if the arrival of the police marked the end of a period of tension and gave people freedom to move. They coughed, changed position, whispered to their neighbors, sighed, stretched, yawned.

Ford waited for the sounds to subside. Without actually turning to face the audience he could see that the place where Agnes Osborne had sat during the morning was still empty. His uneasiness over her absence was tinged with guilt. He had probably talked to her too harshly. Women like Mrs. Osborne, who were blunt themselves and seemed to invite bluntness from others, were often the least able to tolerate it.

Ford said, “What happened after the police arrived, Mr. Wing?”

“Plenty, plenty of noise, cars moving around, doors banging, people talking and shouting. Pretty soon one of the deputies came to me and started asking questions like what you asked, did I see anything, did I hear anything. But mostly he wanted to know about my knives.”

“Knives, Mr. Wing?”

“I carry my own knives to cook with — cleaver, choppers, parers, slicers, carver. I keep them clean and sharp, locked up in a case and the key in my money belt. I opened the case and showed him they were all there, nothing stolen.”

“Did you ever hear of a butterfly knife?”

Lum Wing’s impassive face looked as surprised as possible. “A knife to cut butterflies?”

“No. It’s one that resembles a butterfly when the blade is open.”

“I leave such silly things to the Mexicans. Around here they all carry knives, the fancier the better, like jewelry.”

“When the deputy questioned you that night, you were not able to give him any more information than you have given the court this afternoon?”

“No, no more.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wing. You may return to your seat... Will Jaime Estivar come to the stand, please?”

As they met in the aisle the old man and the young one exchanged glances of puzzlement and resignation: it was a middle-aged world, which Lum Wing had passed and Jaime hadn’t yet reached and neither of them cared about or understood.