The Baker's Daughter

Chapter Thirty-nine

EL PASO BORDER PATROL STATION

8935 MONTANA AVENUE

EL PASO, TEXAS

MARCH 5, 2008

Riki arrived early to the station with baggy eyes from sleepless nights. Dreams. The kind that left him anxious and uncomfortable despite the soft nightfall and fleecy sheets. The apartment didn’t feel like home. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d dreamed. As soon as he awoke, the visions vanished into the stucco walls.

His mother used to tell him that dreams were the spirit world’s communication with the living. He’d believed that as a child until one day he dreamed that his mother died in a plane crash. He decided there could only be three rationales: (1) the spirit world was full of liars, (2) it was nonexistent, or (3) dreams were complete fabrications of the subconscious. The last was most practical considering his mother had never been on a plane. She died a decade later of TB, followed by his father. Upon their deaths, he wished he still believed. He would’ve liked to see them again, if only in his dreams.

Even more, he wished Reba were there now. He wasn’t the sort to lie to himself. He missed her. Her sleeping body and tangle of hair had once been a comfort, and for as long as he’d slept next to her, his nights had been deep and dreamless. He’d tried to imagine her next to him and perhaps conjure serenity, but the bedside was empty and bitterly cold.

Riki had purposely not returned most of Reba’s calls and e-mails. He’d hoped that the weeks after Jane’s wedding were a new beginning, but it was abundantly clear that Reba didn’t see her future with him. He wouldn’t force her—shouldn’t have to. But his mind and his heart were at odds. Work gave him something to do, but even that had become an alienating duty.

At 5:00 a.m., he got up, ate a bowl of Corn Pops, showered, shaved, and headed to the station.

Bert was already at his desk with a large cup of coffee.

“You got the report?” Bert asked.

Riki dropped down in his chair, his bones too heavy and energy too little.

“Report?” He clicked on his computer and had to look away from the flashing start-up icon. His eyes burned.

“Yeah.” Bert slurped his cup. “I got the call at eleven last night. Didn’t you?”

Riki’s cell phone was off. He’d been charging the battery overnight and had forgotten to turn it back on when he woke.

“Nope. Phone was charging.”

Bert reached over to the fax on the stand. “Seriously, man, you’ve got to keep the phone and radios on 24/7. Technically, they’re government property. I understand you have to charge but …” He huffed and tossed a handful of faxed pages onto Riki’s desk.

“What is it?” Riki rubbed his eyes.

“Juárez kid got shot,” said Bert.

On the top page was a news report.

“El Paso Times wanted a quote for the morning paper,” explained Bert. “Damned reporters. They smell blood in the water—I guess it’d be blood in the Rio, right?” He yawned and scratched his neck. “I told them ‘no comment’ until we get more info from the Chihuahua side. They’re latching on to something about the kid and his family being deported by our station back in November. Sure as shit they’re going to spin it like we’re as guilty as the guy who pulled the trigger.” He took a container of antacid tablets from his desk drawer and tapped out two. “Damned liberal media. Don’t they know what the word ‘illegal’ means? It’s simple English. They got no respect for the people trying to protect them.” He popped the chalky disks.

Riki picked up the newspaper copy:

EL PASO, Texas—Residents on both sides mourn the loss of innocence today. A 9-year-old boy was caught in the crossfire between Customs and Border Patrol agents and a group of Mexican nationals crossing illegally into the United States, administrators stated.

Monday evening at 7 p.m. near the Paso del Norte Bridge, CBP agents on bikes were assaulted by rock-throwing members of a group attempting to enter the U.S. through a gap in the border fence, said Special Operation Supervisor Adrian Rodriguez.

“They threw rocks at United States agents,” said Rodriguez. “We train our men to respond in self-defense.”

A CBP agent fired his gun several times. While the bullets missed their intended victims and halted the group of Mexican nationals, a stray bullet made its way across the divide, killing 9-year-old Victor Garcia who stood watching the scene on the Mexican side of the bridge’s embankment.

“We use gunfire as a scare tactic,” explained Special Agent Marsha Jenkins, spokeswoman for the FBI in El Paso. “This is a most unfortunate accident.”

The Border Patrol did not identify the agent who fired. He has been placed on paid leave, Rodriguez said.

The Mexican Secretary of State today condemned the death. Mexican officials said they want the U.S. to conduct a full investigation into the events that prompted the shooting.

The use of firearms in response to a rock attack is a “disproportionate use of force,” stated Mexican officials.

Deported in November 2007, Garcia’s mother, Carmen, a resident of the Barreales District, was unreachable for comment. His father, Felipe, is currently incarcerated at Juárez County jail on drug-related charges.

The Customs and Border Protection Agency reported 398 border deaths for 2007. Garcia’s marks another distressing count in this year’s fatality sum as the border wars continue.

Riki ran his finger over the facts: Carmen and Victor Garcia; Barreales District. His heart quickened. He got on the computer, flipped through the deportation files to November, and there they were. Carmen, Victor, and Olivia Garcia deported November 12, 2007. His head reeled. He felt sick and tried to stand to get to the restroom. His knees gave way.

“You okay, Rik?” asked Bert.

He shook his head. If only he’d done things differently, he thought. If only. Unlike the raid, there was no one to blame. No offense or defense. No right or wrong, good or bad. The facts stared back at him in black and white: Victor was dead, and he had been the one to put the boy in harm’s way. Unthinkable; unbelievable; it couldn’t be true. He dropped his face into his hands. It wasn’t his fault, but somehow, it was.