Dead Wrong

Chapter 10

Joanna could have left Tucson for Bisbee immediately after issuing the APB, but she didn’t. The people in the LUV may have been Mexican nationals, but they were familiar enough with Tucson to have brought Jeannine to the only working trauma unit in the city. It was possible that they knew their way around Tucson because they lived and / or worked there. Joanna wanted to wait around to see if the APB would bear fruit.

What she really craved for lunch was a hot dog from one of the vendors parked along the side of the road, but those didn’t come equipped with readily available rest rooms, and at that point in her pregnancy, rest rooms were a moment-by-moment necessity. She stopped instead at Las Cazuelitas, a Mexican food joint on South Sixth near the freeway. It was one of the mysteries of the universe that even a hint of creme brulee could give her indigestion while she could down tacos and refritos with complete impunity.

Frank called while she was stowing away the last of her lunch.

“We’re getting ready to haul Jeannine’s truck back to the Justice Center,” he said. “It’ll be easier for Dave and Casey to work on it if it’s inside the garage instead of sitting out in the open.”

“Any word on the APB?” Joanna asked.

“Not so far.”

“What’s everyone doing?”

“Until we can get some kind of break on Jeannine’s case, there’s not much more for the detectives to do here. The Double Cs and Debbie are on their way to Sierra Vista. Debbie’s going to be checking on primer paint purchases, and Ernie and Jaime are going to try to check out that Markham woman. We figured we should keep working on that while we can. You do know that Ernie will be out tomorrow-for his procedure?”

“I thought that was scheduled for Friday,” Joanna said.

“There was some kind of change in plans, and they moved it up. I think Ernie is anxious to get it over with,” Frank continued. “But we’ve got two major cases hanging fire. Having him out right now is going to put us in a hell of a bind.”

“We’ll get through it,” Joanna assured him. “We always do.”

She had paid for her food and was making one last trip to the rest room when her phone rang again. “A patrol officer from Tucson PD just spotted that LUV,” Frank reported. “It’s parked near a construction project on the far north side of town, on the northeast corner of the intersection at Campbell and Sunrise. Tucson Dispatch wants to know what you want them to do about it.”

“Have them keep the vehicle under observation until I get there,” Joanna said. “If the guy leaves, have them follow but don’t stop. I already told you that the driver is a potential witness-a person of interest rather than a suspect.”

“I’ll remind them,” Frank said.

“And since we’re dealing with people whose ability to speak English is limited, how soon can you meet me there?” Joanna asked. “I’m going to need backup as well as a translator.”

“Fortunately I was just getting ready to head back to Bisbee from Texas Canyon,” Frank said. “I’ll be there ASAP.”

After being patched through to Tucson PD, Joanna stayed in touch via radio while she drove from one end of Tucson to the other. Not wanting to attract any kind of notice, she traveled without benefit of lights or siren. When she arrived at Sunrise and Campbell, she found a Tucson PD patrol car waiting for her in a restaurant parking lot on the northwest corner of the intersection. Across the street, parked in among a dozen or so equally dilapidated vehicles, was the battered LUV she had seen in the UMC security video.

As she pulled in next to the patrol car, a uniformed officer stepped out of the waiting vehicle and hurried toward her. “I just got another call,” he said. “Do you need me to stay here or…?”

“No,” Joanna said, “it’s fine. One of my officers is on his way and will be here soon. You go ahead.”

The officer left, and Joanna settled in to wait. Across the street a crew of about a dozen men were at work constructing a concrete block wall. It was hard physical labor, and they worked at a steady but unhurried pace. Two men were using wheelbarrows to drag stacks of block from a nearby flatbed trailer over to where other workers were laying the blocks. Another two maintained a steady supply of cement from a mixer. One of the men manhandling a wheelbarrow looked a lot like the guy who had scrambled out of the camper shell in Alberto Amado’s digitally enhanced security video. Joanna recognized one of the guys at the cement mixer as the passenger from the front of the pickup. The driver, however, wasn’t visible.

At the stroke of three, all work stopped. As block layers began gathering and cleaning tools and equipment and putting them away, Joanna reached for her phone. “Where are you, Frank?” she asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “It looks like they’re closing up shop.”

“I just turned off 1-10 onto Kino,” he said. “It’ll take me another fifteen minutes to reach your location.”

“Hurry,” she urged. “Otherwise they’ll all be gone by the time you get here.”

“I understood from Dispatch that someone from Tucson PD was there with you.”

“He was here, but he had to leave,” Joanna said. “He had another call.”

“Just follow them, then,” Frank advised. “Let me know where they end up, and I’ll go there.”

Unwilling to risk losing track of the pickup in afternoon traffic, Joanna was already putting her Crown Victoria in gear. It seemed unlikely that Ephrain Trujillo commuted more than a hundred miles one way from his home in Douglas to a job in Tucson. That meant he was probably staying somewhere in the Tucson area. Joanna didn’t want to delay speaking to him until the following day, when he might not reappear at the job site.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” Joanna said into the phone. “Get here as soon as you can.”

“Wait a minute, Joanna,” Frank said. “For God’s sake. Are you even wearing a vest?”

“What do you think?” she returned, and then she hung up.

The truth was, she wasn’t wearing a vest-hadn’t worn one in weeks because the one she owned no longer fastened around her bulging belly. But these were the guys who had saved Jean-nine’s life, right? Surely they wouldn’t hurt her.

A middle-aged Hispanic man was approaching the pickup with his car key extended when Joanna pulled in behind the LUV, effectively blocking its exit.

“Mr. Trujillo,” she called. “Could I speak to you for a minute?”

He turned to look at her. Two younger men, presumably his passengers, had been walking in the direction of the LUV as well. They stopped and melted back into the construction site. Joanna made no effort to stop them. The driver was the one she wanted. His face, hair, and worn work clothes were all covered with a thin layer of grimy gray dust that made him resemble a ghost. The man’s hardened gaze left Joanna wishing that she weren’t alone.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Hearing his heavily accented but perfect English, Joanna was relieved. While waiting in the car she had struggled to imagine how, without Frank Montoya there to translate, she’d be able to communicate with this man.

“The woman you took to the hospital this morning works for me,” Joanna said hurriedly. “I wanted to say thank you.”

The man’s expression softened slightly. “She is still alive then?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And she will live?”

“The doctors don’t know, but she wouldn’t have even a chance at living if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I’m glad,” he said, inserting his key in the lock. “I’ll be going then.”

“No,” Joanna objected. “Please. We need to find the people who did this. Did you and your friends see what happened?”

Ephrain Trujillo looked at her and didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes. He didn’t trust her, and Joanna understood why. There was a gulf of antipathy between Joanna Brady with her uniform and badge and this hardworking laborer and his most likely illegal friends. For immigrants without green cards, Joanna represented the enemy. People like her were the ones who stood in the way of UDAs coming to the United States, doing work American citizens had no desire to do, earning a living wage, and supporting their families back home in Mexico or Nicaragua or El Salvador. But in order to learn the truth about what had happened to Jeannine Phillips, Joanna had to find a way to bridge that gap.

“I don’t work for the Border Patrol or INS,” Joanna explained. “It makes no difference to me whether or not you and your friends have green cards. I simply need to know what you saw and where it happened.”

“Are you placing me under arrest?”

“No,” Joanna returned. “You’re not under arrest and you won’t be. Neither will your friends, but I do need your help. Please, Mr. Trujillo. Jeannine’s arms and legs are broken. Her face has been smashed. She will most likely lose the sight in one eye. The doctors removed one kidney and her spleen. The people who did this must be caught. You helped her once by saving her life. Please help her again.”

Ephrain sighed. “What do you wish to know?”

“Where did you find her?” Joanna asked. “How did you find her?”

Shaking his head, Ephrain walked to a stack of unused blocks and sat down on it. Joanna followed, taking out a notebook as she went. When she reached the stack of bricks, he took off his bandanna and used it to whack some of the dust off the bricks beside him, cleaning a place for her to sit.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded and went on. “My wife’s nephew and two of his friends came across the border near Naco the night before last and made it to our home in Douglas. My wife was worried about them being there. She called and asked me to go down and get them. Her nephew had a job that was promised to him on a farm up near San Simon, and I thought that, with this big job to do here in Tucson, my boss would maybe hire his friends. So I went down to Douglas after work yesterday afternoon to pick them up.”

“You’re saying there were three of them, not just two?”

“That’s right. It was already late when we left Douglas, and the trip here took a long time. We had to come up the back way, through McNeal, because there’s a big Border Patrol checkpoint between Douglas and Elfrida. The place where my nephew was going is a long way north of San Simon on a dirt road. As we were driving there, I came around a curve and saw a truck parked along the road. I saw the light rack on top and was sure it was Border Patrol and that we would be stopped. But then, when we got closer, I saw all the little dog doors on the side. So I knew it wasn’t Border Patrol after all.”

“The truck was just parked along the road? Where?”

“A couple of miles north of San Simon.”

“Did you see anyone in it or around it?”

“The engine was running-most likely because it was so cold-and someone was inside,” Ephrain acknowledged.

“What time was that?” Joanna asked.

“One o’clock or so. Maybe later.”

“And then?”

“We drove on up the road and dropped my nephew off. Then we turned around and came back. It’s a long way and the road is very rough, so it took an hour or so. But when we got close enough to see where the truck had been parked, there were lights there-lots of them.”

“What kind of lights?”

“Car lights. Headlights. I wanted to know what was going on, but I didn’t want them to see us. I shut off my headlights and drove for a while by moonlight. Then, when I was afraid they might hear the engine, I got out of the truck and walked closer.”

“By yourself, or did the others walk with you?”

“I have my green card,” Ephrain answered. “The others don’t. I told them to wait in the truck. I walked close enough until I could hear her. She was screaming, begging for them to stop. They were laughing and shouting. ”Kick her again,“ one of them said. ”Kick her again.“ And they did,” he added. “Once you have heard that sound-the sound of someone being kicked in the belly or the ribs-or once you’ve felt it, you don’t forget.”

He paused and wiped his face with the soiled bandanna. When he took the cloth away, some telltale dampness lingered on his cheek. Joanna couldn’t help but wonder where it was that Ephrain Trujillo had come to know so much about how it felt and sounded for one human being to kick another.

“And then what happened?” Joanna asked.

“They were too busy having a good time to notice me.”

“How many were there?”

“I don’t know. Half a dozen, maybe.”

“Men?” Joanna asked. “And could you see them?”

“Not very well. They were behind their cars.”

“Behind them?”

“They were all in a circle. The cars, four of them at least, had their lights on and were shining on the circle. That way they could all see what was going on. Animals!” Ephrain spat disgustedly into the dust beside him. “They wanted light so they could see what they were doing to her.”

Had she been able to, Joanna might have spat, too, but her mouth was too dry. “What happened then?” she asked.

Ephrain shrugged. “I made them stop,” he said.

“You did?” Joanna asked. “By yourself? I thought you said your friends stayed in your truck. But still, even with three of you, you were still outnumbered.”

“I made them stop,” Ephrain repeated, emphasizing the first word so there could be no mistake about it. “By myself,” he added. He turned and looked at her. “The world is a dangerous place,” he said softly. “If you are raised in a certain way or in a certain place, you have to learn to take care of yourself. If you don’t, you die.”

“How did you stop them?” Joanna asked.

Ephrain shrugged. “The coyotes and the drug smugglers- they are always on the roads, always looking for trouble or making trouble. They beat people up and steal their cars. And there are lots of people in this country who can’t call someone like you to come help them.”

Finally Joanna caught the gist of what he was saying. “You have a gun?” she said.

When he looked at her again, he nodded. “In my truck,” he said at last. “I keep it under the seat. For protection.”

So this man-this hardworking man who had saved Jeannine Phillips’s life-was also driving around southern Arizona with a loaded weapon concealed under the seat of his pickup truck. Ephrain Trujillo was right, the world truly was a dangerous place.

“What happened then?” she asked.

“I went back to my truck, got the gun, and came back. I didn’t try to shoot them. I shot over their heads, but they took off like a bunch of scared rabbits. One of them tripped over a rock. He fell down. He must have twisted his ankle because he couldn’t get up right away. He was calling for his friends to come help him; to wait for him. But they didn’t. They took off and left him there alone. When he did get up, he hobbled over to the truck-the woman’s truck. He got in that and drove off. They all drove off and left her there to die.”

“But you didn’t,” Joanna said.

“No,” Ephrain agreed. “I did not. At first I thought she was dead. But when I realized she wasn’t, I ran back to my truck. My nephew and his friends had all been riding in the camper. We had blankets there because it was cold, but that way it looked like I was driving alone. We wrapped her in the blankets and came here to Tucson, to the hospital.”

Frank arrived just then. Jamming on his brakes, he brought his Crown Victoria to a stop next to Joanna’s and leaped out of the driver’s seat. As Frank ran toward them, Ephrain rose to his feet as if to defend himself. Joanna leveled a warning look in Frank’s direction, then she reached out and took Ephrain by the hand.

“This is my chief deputy, Mr. Trujillo,” she said. “His name is Frank Montoya. Frank, this is Mr. Ephrain Trujillo. He and his friends are the ones who saved Jeannine’s life last night. He’s just been telling me all about it.”

The two men stood there for an electric moment, regarding each other warily, then Frank held out his hand. “Gracias, Senor Trujillo,” he said. “We can’t thank you enough.” It was enough to break the tension, but instead of resuming his seat, Ephrain started back toward his truck.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I should be going now.”

“Please, Mr. Trujillo,” Joanna said. “There’s one more thing. We need you to show us where all this happened.”

“It’s on Doubtful Canyon Road,” he said. “North of San Simon. I’m sure you’ll be able to find it.”

“But we’ll be able to find it much faster if you show us where it is,” she said. “And the sooner we process the crime scene the better. Other vehicles may drive through the area and disturb tracks. Evidence can blow away in the wind…”

When it had been just the two of them-Ephrain and Joanna-the man had seemed at ease. Now that Frank had been added to the mix, however, Ephrain was outnumbered. Joanna didn’t want to lose him.

“You lead the way in your vehicle,” she said. “Frank and I can follow in ours.”

“So I am not under arrest? I can take my truck?”

“You are not under arrest,” Joanna confirmed. “And yes, you can take your vehicle. My detectives will need to interview you, but once they’ve done that-”

“But I already told you what I saw and what I did.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “But I’m the sheriff, not a detective. They’re the ones who take the official statements. I’ll have them meet us in San Simon and do it there. That way you won’t have to miss any work.”

“But if there are detectives…” he objected. “What if they…”

“The detectives work for me,” Joanna declared. “And they do what I say. You will not be placed under arrest by them or by me. Once you show us where all this happened and give my investigators an official statement, you will be free to go.”

“What about my two friends?” he asked. “They rode here with me. They have no way to get back to where they are staying.”

“They were there with you?” Joanna asked. “They were the ones who helped you bring Jeannine to the hospital?”

Ephrain nodded.

“It would be helpful to have them go along as well,” Joanna said. “They may have noticed something you didn’t. And, if you’re hungry, we can stop off in Benson and have some food along the way.”

“But you will not turn them over to INS?”

“No, Mr. Trujillo,” she said. “I promise.”

It took a few minutes for Ephrain to find his lurking compatriots. Shortly after that, an odd-looking caravan headed south on Campbell through afternoon-rush-hour traffic, headed for the freeway. The faded red Chevy LUV led the way, followed by the two Crown Victorias. Joanna took the opportunity to grab for her radio. Her lead dispatcher, Larry Kendrick, took the call.

“Time to roust out the troops,” she said. “Dave Hollicker, and the homicide guys, Jaime Carbajal, and Debbie Howell,” she said. “And if you happen to have an extra deputy hanging loose in the northeast sector, you might send him along as well. We’ll meet everyone at the near end of Doubtful Canyon Road in San Simon. Since we don’t know exactly where we’re going, we’ll lead them from there.”

By the time they reached the little Mexican food dive in Benson, Joanna’s flattened bladder was in a world of hurt. She went inside and used the facilities. When she returned from the rest room, Frank was busy ordering food for Ephrain and the others.

“I’m going outside to call Butch,” she told Frank when he finished with the waitress. “I need to let him know that most likely I’ll be late for dinner.”

Frank nodded absently and Joanna hurried outside. But not to telephone-at least, not right away. The first thing she did was open the Crown Victoria’s trunk and take out her Kevlar vest. She finally had to lie down flat on the passenger side of the front seat before she could fasten the damned thing, and once it was on, she could barely breathe. But Ephrain Trujillo’s casual admission that he routinely carried a gun-a telling reminder that lots of people, good and bad people-carried guns, had gotten Joanna’s undivided attention. In opting not to wear the bulky vest-in choosing temporary comfort over safety-she had put both herself and her baby at risk.

What’s the matter with you? she lectured herself. I thought you were all about leading by example.

Feeling like a little kid stuffed into last year’s snowsuit, she managed to stand up. Only then did she call Butch.

“When are you going to have this baby?” he asked.

“I hope it’ll be any day now. Why?”

“Because my parents are driving me crazy,” he said. “Mom saw you on the Noon News. She wanted to know why a sheriff’s office would be in charge of the dogcatchers.”

“So you know about Jeannine Phillips then?” Joanna asked.

“I do,” he said. “Heard about it from Jim Bob. We were supposed to go there for dinner tonight, but he and Eva Lou have spent the whole day filling in at the pound, so he called a little while ago to beg off. We’re going out for pizza instead, much to Jenny’s delight. What about you?”

“We’ve located someone who witnessed part of the attack on Jeannine,” Joanna said. “We’re on our way to the crime scene right now. I don’t know when I’ll be home. Probably not in time for dinner.”

“Right,” he said. “You’re probably hiding out in your office and only pretending to be on your way to a crime scene. I know the real story. You don’t want to have anything to do with my parents. The truth is, neither do I.”

“You’ll just have to buck up,” Joanna said. “They won’t be here forever.”

“Oh, yeah?” Butch returned. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not stuck here at the house with them. I may call Dr. Lee and ask what it would take to convince him to induce labor.”

“From the way I’m feeling right now,” Joanna said, “that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

When she went back into the restaurant, the two younger men were greedily and silently mowing their way through individual platters of tacos. No doubt they were hungry after a hard day of physical labor, but they ate as though their hunger went deeper than that-as though it had been a long time since they’d been able to eat their fill.

Frank Montoya and Ephrain Trujillo had been speaking in Spanish. When Joanna finally managed to maneuver her bulky self onto a chair at the table, the two men politely switched to English. “Mr. Trujillo tells me that he came here from Nicaragua twenty years ago,” Frank said. “He was granted political asylum.”

Nicaragua. A country, yes, but also a word from the history books. Joanna recalled what had happened earlier, how just talking about the sound of someone being kicked had been enough to cause Ephrain’s tears to flow. No wonder he carried a gun. And knew how to use it. And what about the two young men with him? Where did they come from? What had they seen? Whatever their origins, they trusted Ephrain enough to come here with him, to sit quietly in this restaurant with two police officers and to believe that, whatever was coming, Ephrain Trujillo would see them safely through it.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Why?”

“You look… I don’t know… sort of uncomfortable. I was afraid…”

I am uncomfortable, she wanted to say. I’m wearing this godawful vest and. I can hardly breathe. “I’m fine,” she said.

“Would you like something to eat?” Frank asked.

I couldn’t squeeze in a bite without popping the Velcro, she thought. What she said was “No, thanks. I just had lunch.”

Forty-five minutes later, they pulled into San Simon, where two more sheriff’s department vehicles joined the caravan for the drive out to Doubtful Canyon Road. Half a mile beyond the locked and gated turnoff to Roostercomb Ranch, Ephrain Trujillo stopped the LUV just short of a low rise. He and his friends as well as Joanna’s team of investigators exited their various vehicles and hiked up the hill behind Ephrain. Once at the top, Ephrain stood in the middle of the dirt roadway and pointed to a small, rock-strewn clearing off to one side.

“There,” he said, pointing. “That’s where it happened.”

While Dave Hollicker and Casey Ledford began their painstaking examination of the crime scene, Jaime Carbajal and Debbie Howell began interviewing Ephrain Trujillo and his two so far nameless passengers. Debbie’s Spanish wasn’t fluent enough to do the questioning, so Jaime took the lead. With no definite jobs to do, Joanna and Frank stood off to one side while she briefed him on everything Ephrain had told her. They were standing there speculating about what Jeannine had been watching through her night-vision goggles when they heard a vehicle churning up the hill behind them.

They barely had time to scramble out of the way before an old open-air jeep, spewing smoke and raising a cloud of dust, charged over the top of the rise.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the driver demanded as he stood on the brakes and brought the speeding vehicle to a skidding stop a few feet shy of where Joanna and Frank had been standing.

Joanna recognized Clarence O’Dwyer at once from the jagged scar that ran down one side of his face, a remnant of a barroom brawl in which younger brother Billy had attacked his older sibling with the business end of a broken Budweiser bottle. Both brothers had been hauled into the county jail. The sutures to stitch Clarence’s face back together-all fifteen of them-had been done at sheriff’s department expense. She also noted the wooden butt of a rifle sticking out of a scabbard next to the man’s knee.

I wonder if this vest would stop a 30-06 slug at close range? she thought as she stepped forward to answer his question.

“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Dwyer,” she said. “We’re here investigating the attempted homicide of one of my officers around midnight last night. She was here investigating a complaint about a possible dogfighting ring. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Screw you!” Clarence said.

Somebody already did that, she felt like saying, but this was no time for tasteless jokes. “Do you know anything about it?” Joanna persisted.

“I don’t know nothin‘,” Clarence growled. “Now get off my land!”

“We’re well outside the fence line, which means we’re all in the public right-of-way,” she said. “It also means that we won’t be leaving until we’re good and ready or until we’re done, whichever comes first.”

In reply, Clarence flashed her a one-finger salute. Then he ground his gearshift into reverse and tore off back down the hill.

“Same to you, buddy,” Joanna whispered under her breath. “Have a nice day.”