SIXTY-ONE

The welcome sign on the outskirts of town informed travelers that the burg of Rutledge had 17,068 souls and that "healthy soil makes for healthy people." The sign didn't say if the undocumented migrants were as healthy as the 17,068 regular folks.

The town's streets were wide, the sidewalks in good repair. Several businesses flew American flags. On the main drag, prosaically named "Artichoke Avenue," there was a barbershop with a rotating red-and-white pole and, next door, Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe. Two towheaded boys tore along the street on bicycles, fishing poles lodged on their shoulders. To Payne, it all seemed like a backlot designed by Walt Disney and painted by Norman Rockwell.

The town square had a leafy park with towering white oaks and a bandstand fit for John Philip Sousa. There was a vintage merry-go-round with hand-carved horses, and organ music.

Payne hated merry-go-rounds. As a toddler, he once fell off his rocking horse. After that, all merry-go-round horses looked like monsters with giant teeth. The final scene of Strangers on a Train didn't help that phobia one bit.

"They named the town after this dude?" Tino asked.

"After one of his ancestors, but he's poured lots of money into the place."

They drove past the Rutledge Free Library, the Rutledge Town Swimming Pool, and the Rutledge Senior Citizens Center, all with signs in both English and Spanish.

"How much money this guy got?" Tino asked.

"You know who Carlos Slim is?"

" Claro. Richest man south of the border."

"Rutledge is to the San Joaquin Valley what Slim is to Mexico."

Tino whistled.

The businesses downtown were mostly wood-framed buildings with awnings shading the sidewalk and front doors propped open. There was one movie theater, the Rialto, with one screen. If you wanted to catch a film in this town, you'd better like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

One structure stood out. A two-story redbrick building on Peach Street with barred windows and a camera mounted above a heavy metal door. A brass plate read:

Rutledge Ranch and Farms, Inc.

Corporate Headquarters

Jimmy parked the Mustang, reached in his pocket, and gave Tino a twenty-dollar bill. "Go get a hot fudge sundae and wait for me here."

"C'mon, Himmy. We go in together with the baseball bat. It's the valiente way."

"Just do what I say, okay?"

Tino pouted but headed toward Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe. Payne approached the front door and stood there a moment, gathering his thoughts. He planned a straightforward approach. No trial lawyer tricks. No reason not to tell the truth. And no baseball bats. A boy and his mother got separated. We think she's here. Please help us get them together. Who could object to that?

On the sidewalk, a newspaper rack held both the Rutledge Gazette and La Opinion. The Gazette headline fretted over the ongoing drought. Plastered on the Spanish paper's front page was a satellite photo of a hurricane moving toward the Yucatan.

There was a keypad at the front door and a button for visitors to announce themselves. Payne pushed, said his name, and a buzzer welcomed him inside.

"May I help you?" The woman at the reception desk smiled at Payne in a businesslike way. She was in her twenties and wearing a short-sleeve cotton dress splashed with big sunflowers.

"I hope so, ma'am. I surely do." Putting a bit of country into his voice. Not intentionally. It just seemed to come out in this farming town. He told Ms. Sunflowers that he was trying to locate a Rutledge employee whose son was looking for her.

"Could I see some identification?" she asked, pleasantly.

He handed over his driver's license, and she made a notation on a clean white pad.

"Been a while since I was carded," he said. "My first six-pack at Trader Joe's, as I recall."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Payne. But we've had numerous threats against Mr. Rutledge. He's quite outspoken, as you probably know."

"I like what he says. He's a good man." Slathering butter on the toast.

"One moment, please." She picked up her phone, pushed a button, and said, "Louise. I wonder if you could help me up front."

Payne hoped that wasn't code for "Send out the Doberman pinschers."

In a moment, a woman came through an interior door, marched up to Payne, and introduced herself as Louise Antrim. Mrs. Louise Antrim, in case Payne had any salacious thoughts. About fifty, trim, in a beige business suit, gray-streaked hair bunned on top of her head. A pair of eyeglasses dangled from her neck on a beaded chain. Her eyes were alert and frosty blue.

Payne repeated his request. Missing mother. Son desperate to find her. He filled in the name, "Marisol Perez."

Mrs. Antrim gave him a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Payne, but it would be an invasion of privacy for the company to either confirm or deny that Ms. Perez is an employee here."

"But I'm trying to put a family back together."

"Do you have a signed statement from Ms. Perez authorizing our releasing the information?"

"If I had a statement, Ms. Perez wouldn't be missing."

"But if she's missing, how could she be working here?"

"I'll be happy to ask her when you take me to her."

"Do you have any documentation, Mr. Payne? Her Social Security number. A green card."

"Don't think so."

"An H-2 visa. Is she a guest worker?"

"She's undocumented."

"Well then, of course she couldn't be working here."

"Are you shitting-? I'm sorry. Are you kidding me? Your boss practically boasts about hiring undocumented migrants."

"Mr. Rutledge has strong feelings about reforming our immigration laws. But I assure you, as the head of Human Resources, we employ only documented workers."

Sounding like a tape recording.

"Mrs. Antrim, I'm just asking for a little compassion."

"Mr. Payne, as a lawyer, surely you know that we cannot-"

"I didn't say I was a lawyer."

"Didn't you?" Her cheeks colored just a bit, like the blush on a ripe peach. "Well, you seem so lawyerlike."

"Funny. Judges never think so."

"I guess I just assumed you were representing the Perez boy."

"No, you didn't. You knew I was coming."

At Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe, Tino bought five cups of icy drinks. Coffee, tea, root beer. With the cups balanced in a cardboard tray, he hurried back and circled the Rutledge building, looking for a way to get inside.

We're a team, Himmy. You said so yourself.

Tino found nothing but barred windows and locked doors. Behind the building, a tiled patio. Round tables with umbrellas, workers in casual clothes. Smoking, talking, drinking coffee.

He walked purposely toward the rear door, holding the tray in both hands.

The delivery boy.

He used a few words of Spanglish to ask if anyone would get the door for him. Americanos always wanted to show they were smart enough to understand anything a stupid Mexican might say.

A young woman, whose face glowed pink in the baking heat, took a drag on her cigarette, squashed it under her open-toed sandal, and gave Tino a big, friendly smile. She punched a code in a keypad and opened the door.

"Gracias, senorita," Tino said, with as much humility as he could muster. He stepped into an air-conditioned corridor and began exploring.


"I don't know what you mean." Mrs. Antrim shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "How would I know you were coming, Mr. Payne?"

"Because that little bastard in the black Escalade called you. Enrique Zaga."

"I'll thank you to watch your tongue. We don't tolerate profanity here."

"What do you tolerate? Kidnapping?"

"Please lower your voice, Mr. Payne."

"And where's Zaga? I want to talk to him."

"Our director of security has nothing to do with this."

"He's a human trafficker! He stashes Mexicans down in Hellhole Canyon. Unless you're grinding them into dog food, you're hiring them. You know it. I know it. I'll bet half the Legislature knows it."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

Payne watched the receptionist hit another button on her desk phone.

Tino moved briskly down the corridor as if he knew where he was going. Carrying the tray of drinks, he passed several offices with open doors. Men in short-sleeve shirts and women in summer outfits worked at computers. Some doors had little placards. Accounting. Marketing. Purchasing. Transportation. Legal.

Legal, Tino thought. What he needed was an office named "Illegal."

A man with a ponytail and a blond soul patch came around a corner. Tino smiled at him.

Polite delivery boy.

The man seemed as wide as he was tall. Thick neck, thighs bulging through gray pants, a blue sport jacket that bunched tight at his shoulders. He had his eyes on the icy drinks. "Hey, chico. Those for Harry and the girls?"

" Si. Harry and the girls."

"Second floor. Room 207."

Tino headed toward a stairwell, the man watching him go.

On the second floor, Tino continued snooping. More doors, more offices. Shipping. Security. Human Resources.

He checked out Human Resources. No one there. Two desks and several file cabinets running the length of the room. He ducked inside and placed the drinks on one of the desks. The file cabinets were labeled with what seemed to be the names of different companies. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Kings County Excavation. Rutledge Tool Company.

How much does this guy own?

Way more, Tino quickly found out.

Rutledge Trucking. Valley Paving. Rutledge Realty.

Tino opened one of the file drawers. Hundreds of folders. Thousands in total. He could spend a week in here.

He picked several folders at random from a folder labeled: San Joaquin Irrigation. Each employee seemed to have a file with name, photo, salary, and comments by supervisors.

More companies. Weedpatch Pest Control. Rutledge Aviation. Hot Springs Gentleman's Club.

Gentleman's Club? Doesn't sound like farming or ranching.

Tino was about to open the Gentleman's Club drawer when he sensed movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Soul Patch, his legs spread, his shoulders filling the doorway. "Ain't no Harry working here, chico, " the man said.

"If you don't give me access to Marisol Perez," Payne said, "I can get a court order."

Mrs. Antrim let the corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile. "The courthouse is three blocks from here. I believe Judge Rutledge is in most afternoons."

" Judge Rutledge?"

"Simeon's cousin."

"You folks dish out home cooking like two-dollar hash browns."

The interior door opened. A burly man hustled into the reception area without appearing to hurry. An African-American with a shaved head and a thick neck, he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. The uniform of a classy security guard. In his thirties, Shaved Head had the look of an ex-linebacker who stayed in shape.

"There a problem here, Mrs. Antrim?" Shaved Head said.

"Not if this gentleman leaves the premises." Gentleman with a tone you might use to describe a pus-filled wound.

The interior door opened again, and a ponytailed, soul-patched man dressed identically to Shaved Head tromped out, carrying Tino under one arm. The boy kicking and wriggling.

Shit! How'd he get in here?

"Asswipe! Cocksucker! Dipshit!" Tino practicing English words Jimmy had taught him.

"Put him down," Payne said.

"You don't give the orders here, lawyer," Soul Patch said.

Everybody seemed to know he was a lawyer, Payne thought. Maybe he should open an office in town.

"I'll kill you!" Tino cried out, trying to pry the man's fingers from his waist.

"Let him go, Clyde," Shaved Head ordered.

Soul Patch dropped Tino to the floor.

"Pendejo!" Tino had returned to his native tongue.

Shaved Head looked at Payne with an air of placid indifference. "We can do it pretty or we can do it ugly."

"We're leaving," Payne said. "But I gotta ask you two something."

They waited, staring Payne down.

"Is it true that steroids shrink your testicles?"

Soul Patch and Shaved Head were remarkably gentle. They swept Payne up by the arms, carried him through the doorway, and deposited him on the sidewalk without mussing his shirt. He admired their proficiency.

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