Ground Truth (12 page)

She nodded and they climbed back into the car.

The church, with narrow rectangular windows and an arched bell tower, was an attempt to imitate a Spanish adobe mission. The thick stucco that covered the two-story building had a fresh coat of white paint. The fenced-in courtyard was immaculate. It made a statement. Even if the church couldn’t reverse poverty, it wouldn’t yield to it.

A man with bony, hooked shoulders and a fringe of hair around his bald pate like a Franciscan friar stood in the courtyard listening to an animated conversation among several women.

“
Padre
Alarcone,” Ana-Maria called. The priest turned away from the group. “This is
Señor
Strider.
Americano,”
she said and stepped back, not-so-subtly distancing herself.

“Good evening, Father. I asked
Señorita
Archuletta to introduce us because I understand the water in Anapra isn’t safe to drink.”

The priest nodded. “When the children are sick, they can’t study. They don’t grow strong and tall like you.” He looked down at his clasped hands.

Jack’s irrepressible fix-it gene triggered itself. “I’ll come back with a water purifier later this evening. When people bring their water here and run it through the purifier it will be clean.”

“My poor church could never afford such a thing. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s a gift. And it costs almost nothing to operate, just a little electricity. It’s so simple it won’t break down. We’ll set it up right here in this courtyard.”

The priest glanced at Ana-Maria and took a deep breath. “Maybe outside the post office would be better.”

“But you’re open much longer hours than the post office.”

Padre
Alarcone spoke rapidly with Ana-Maria. Then with a slight bow to Jack he said, “You are right. It is our responsibility. When you return, you will have help to set up your machine.” He walked into the church.

As Jack drove, Ana-Maria talked but he heard nothing. He wanted to strike at those who had created Anapra, whose greed kept it as it was. He’d taught that helping people in need gave meaning to the practice of law. That was one reason why his father’s debauchery had hit him so hard. Until now, he’d been angry with Arthur Palmer and Montana on principle. Coming face-to-face with people who were their victims made it personal.

“What are you thinking?” Ana-Maria asked quietly.

“About what I just saw.”

“This afternoon I learned that you are a good man, and I would like to help you. But some people at the plant are too dangerous so—” She put her hand on his arm. “—I’m afraid to tell you anything. And I think you should be afraid too.”

Chapter 22

July 2

7:30 p.m.

“TWELVE HUNDRED dollars for this water purifier? That’s steep,” Jack said.

The clerk behind the counter at El Paso Plumbing Supplies looked bored. “Supply and demand. Price goes up as long as water quality goes down.” He clearly didn’t give a damn what Jack thought.

What the clerk didn’t know was that Jack would have paid more, if necessary. Providing potable water in Anapra was worthwhile, but it was also his best shot at changing Ana-Maria’s mind. The clock was ticking. The moment Montana got back in town she’d clam up for good.

When he crossed back into Mexico and held up his passport, the man waved him through with no interest in the equipment lashed into the wide-open trunk. He found his way back to Santa Lucia Church. Two men ambled up and spoke in rapid Spanish, realized he couldn’t keep up, and pantomimed that they’d been instructed to help. After examining the purifier, they seemed confident they knew enough to hook it up so water would flow into it from the church’s large water tank.

A crowd formed outside the courtyard fence, talking and pointing, obviously puzzled about what the tall
gringo
was up to. He wished
Padre
Alarcone had stayed around to explain that what he was doing would make their lives better.

When the system was ready, he opened the inflow valve and ran contaminated water from the church tank through the purifier. After a couple of minutes, he got an empty Fanta can from his car and filled it from the outflow faucet at the end of the unit. With a bit of theatrics, he lifted it to the crowd, as if in a toast, then gulped every drop. He waited for a reaction from the crowd—alarm, excitement, something. There was nothing. Of course there wouldn’t be. They drank water out of this church water tank all the time. To them, what he’d done was nothing unusual, just crazy for a
gringo
who didn’t have to drink it.

He was about to leave when a teenage boy walked up to the rear of the bystanders. He and an old woman whispered back and forth, and then the boy moved gently through the crowd.

“Pardon me,
señor.
I am Rafael. Everyone wonders what you’re doing. If you tell me, I’ll tell them.”

“If you drink the water in that tank, you’ll get sick.”

“Yes.” His shrug said it all. Life in Anapra.

“With this unit, it’s safe to drink,” he told Rafael. “People can bring water from their own
pietas,
and this machine will purify that too.”

Rafael frowned. “But
señor,
how much will it cost?”

“Nothing. It runs on about as much electricity as a light bulb. You pay nothing.”

Rafael spoke to the crowd, ending with,
“Nada, nada.”
This time there was excitement, especially among the women.

Then an old man at the rear called out something in a raspy voice. He was too far away for Jack to hear, but his words were repeated through the crowd. People began to murmur and drift away, the two workmen among them.

He was left alone with Rafael. “What’s going on? What did that old man say?”

“He scared them.”

July 3

8:30 a.m.

AS SOON AS HE rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, Santa Lucia Church was on his mind. He was eager to get back to Anapra and see the water purifier in operation. He’d seen poverty in Rio and Johannesburg and many other places, but this time he could make a difference. Why stop with one unit? He’d buy more.

The drive to Anapra was much quicker this time because he accepted bone-jarring jolts from the potholes without slowing down. Haze over the sprawling slum was worse, and there was an acrid smell that hadn’t been there the day before. A couple of blocks from the church, the scorched rubber smell was potent. He’d stay just long enough to talk with
Padre
Alarcone and make sure the decontamination unit was operating perfectly. Then he’d follow the directions Ana-Maria had given him to her house.

He turned left onto the side street to Santa Lucia, expecting to see people lined up with buckets of water to be purified. When he pulled up near the church, he couldn’t make sense of what he saw.

The church looked like the mortar-blasted rubble in photos of Baghdad. The face of the house of God had been ripped off. Its insides lay exposed. The planks of the altar smoldered.

He walked slowly through the somber crowd, picking his way among shattered debris, speechless at the gut-wrenching sight.

The big church water tank lay on its side, mangled, its precious contents a muddy blotch on the gravelly dirt. No fire could have done so much damage. There must have been an explosion that disintegrated the water purifier and set fire to everything around it.

A man wearing a black and red jacket, face distorted by anger, pointed at Jack and screamed, “Son of a bitch.” Everyone turned to look at him. Some shouted and shook their fists at Jack. An old woman picked up a rock and threw it. Jack twisted away and it missed.

“Señor,
you must get out.” Rafael appeared at his side, guided him quickly past the edge of the crowd and hurried him to the gold Town Car.

“What happened?” he asked Rafael through the window as he started the engine.

“Big bomb in the middle of the night. All of Anapra was afraid.”

“Why are they mad at me?”

“The four families make money selling water. Your machine made them mad. Now we have no church.”

A rock smashed the passenger-side window. A bigger one slammed into the trunk so hard it shook the car. A teenager wrenched the passenger’s door open and lunged for the keys in the ignition. Jack shifted into drive and hit the gas, throwing the boy to the ground. He hunched over the wheel and didn’t look back. His heart was pounding.

Damn!
It had all gone wrong. No water. No church. He could have been killed. He was shaken by the sudden twist. Then he thought about Ana-Maria. She’d be in no mood to sympathize, let alone help him. In fact, she’d be mad as hell.

Chapter 23

July 3

9:30 a.m.

ANA-MARIA JERKED the door open so quickly she must have been watching for him out the window. Her tears and red-rimmed eyes made it obvious she’d heard what happened at Santa Lucia.

She didn’t invite Jack inside, just gestured for him to follow her. Behind the house they sat a couple of feet apart in blue plastic lawn chairs.

“I feel awful about the church,” he said.

“You want me to tell you it’s all right? It’s
not
all right.”

“I thought I was—”

“You thought, you thought,” she interrupted angrily. “Maybe you know your courtroom. You know nothing about the street.” She wiped her eyes. “But I haven’t been crying about the church.”

“Then what?”

“It’s my friend, Juanita. She was supposed to be here at eight for coffee. She didn’t come. She would never do that without calling. So I called her over and over on the phone her boss makes her carry everywhere. No answer.”

“Maybe she’s sick.”

“No, something bad happened. I feel it.” She covered her face with her hands and wept.

“Let’s go to her house.” He stood.

Ana-Maria looked up at him, eyes brimming. “You would do that? After the mean things I said?”

“Come on, let’s find out.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand, then ran to the Town Car. Ruts and potholes punished the car as he drove as fast as he could. Maybe because she’d lost her usual bravado, Ana-Maria seemed smaller as she sat next to him.

She pointed. “That’s her place.”

Juanita’s house was made of four-by-eight sheets of much-used plywood forming a 12 by 16 foot box. A battered 55-gallon drum stood near one corner. The windows, each barred with a heavy grate, were covered by striped yellow drapes. The only paint was on the front wall, a garish greenish-yellow, a bold attempt at cheerfulness. The small private space in front had been raked smooth. Juanita had done her best to make it a home. A dry wind swirled dust devils around them as they walked toward the front door.

“Oh, God, there’s no padlock,” Ana-Maria said.

“So?”

“She never leaves her house without locking the door behind her. We all do that.”

“Maybe she’s inside.”

“If she is, the door will be locked from inside.”

He motioned for her to step to one side. He looked at the door handle and swiped a sweaty palm against his pants leg. If the door wasn’t locked, there could be a body inside—and maybe a killer. He tried to look casual, but the violence he’d already experienced in Juarez made his heart pick up speed. He grabbed the handle, and it turned freely. Instead of opening the door, he banged on it. No response. He pushed the door open and stepped back.

Ana-Maria called out, “Juanita, are you there?” No answer.

He had to go in, no question about that
. He took two deep breaths and braced himself for whatever might be waiting and entered the one-room space. A small dining table lay on its side. Shards of dishes and glasses that must have been on the table littered the floor. A flimsy wardrobe rack had come apart, dumping cheap, frilly dresses in front of it.

“Look at this place,” Ana-Maria gasped from behind him.

“This wasn’t robbery. Her little TV is still here, and there’s a purse on the counter. The door wasn’t forced, meaning Juanita opened it.”
Maybe someone she knew and was afraid to turn away, but he wasn’t going to say that to Ana-Maria.

Ana-Maria wandered around the room straightening things, and muttering, “The bastards!” over and over. She gathered clothes from the floor and laid them on the bed. When she picked up a long red dress, she called to him. “Look.”

Lying on the floor was a pocket-sized tool that looked like a heavy-duty wire cutter, totally out of character with Juanita’s feminine room.

“That might be evidence. Don’t touch it.” He used a fork through its grip to pick it up for a closer look. It was heavy enough to turn a fist into a blackjack. “Do you recognize this?”

“They use these in the plant to cut wire straps off incoming waste, like bundles of oily rags. But this one’s different.” She pointed to leather strips woven in a design around the grip. “The ones the plant gives the men are plain because they steal them. This might belong to a supervisor.”

Jack wiped his face. It was already sweltering in the little room. “Where would this be used in the plant?”

“Mostly in Shipping & Receiving, where Juanita works.”

“So it could be hers?”

“Of course not. She works in an office for the Plant Manager, Antonio Guzman.” She brushed flies away.

“Guzman,” he exclaimed. “I ran into him when I first got to the plant.” He remembered how the man radiated violence.

“He’s vicious. If workers under him don’t do what he says, he drags them behind the building and beats them up. Juanita tried to transfer out of his office, but he stopped it and punched her in the neck so hard she passed out.”

“Jesus! Did Montana know?”

“He knows everything Guzman does. He makes fun of Guzman, calls him ‘The Ape,’ but they go drinking together at night. She’s always been afraid of Guzman, then something happened that made it much worse.” She squinted, remembering. “A few months ago,
Señor
Montana put Guzman in charge of plant security. After that, Guzman treated everyone like they were trying to steal from him personally. He made Juanita keep track of tools, supplies, everything. One day she started thinking that maybe yard workers were stealing company gas and diesel fuel. She recorded how much fuel was pumped each day and how much each truck paid for. The totals matched until a while ago when her records showed that they were pumping more than showed up as going into clients’ trucks. She was excited and told me she might get a raise. But when she told Guzman what she had discovered, he screamed at her, ‘Say one word about that and I’ll kill you!’ He took her records away and has been nasty to her ever since.”

Jack frowned, puzzled.
That was weird. Guzman should have praised her initiative. Instead he’d threatened her. That had to mean she’d stumbled onto something Guzman wanted hidden. Could he be running a rip-off involving fuel that Montana didn’t know about? He’d pegged Montana as the enemy, but maybe Guzman should be at the center of the target.

“But she told you what happened.”

“Not for a few days. By then she’d decided she had to tell
Señor
Montana to protect herself.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.
Señor
Montana gave her 100 pesos and ordered her to forget it. Now she’s gone. Other women have disappeared from the plant—all young, helpless like baby rabbits—but this is different. Juanita knew something Guzman didn’t want her to know.”

“Is Juanita’s office the one where the sign says Plant Manager?”

“It’s just inside that door. You go through her office to get to Guzman’s.”

So when he’d walked into Shipping & Receiving during the tour a couple of nights ago, Guzman had been yelling at Juanita before he turned on the two intruders. And both Guzman and Montana had been upset that Manuel had taken him into Shipping & Receiving. Why?

Whatever was in there, the den of The Ape was absolutely the last place he wanted to go. At the same time, if he could find Juanita, Ana-Maria was much more likely to help him. But even if he was crazy enough to try, how could he get in?

“What time does Guzman leave his office?”

“Before six, always in a hurry to get to the bars.”

“Do you have keys to Shipping & Receiving and his office?”

“No, but Juanita does. She has to get into the office while Guzman is still sleeping off his hangovers.” She walked to the counter, opened the purse, and extracted a ring with four keys. “These must be the ones.”

He reached out his hand. She drew back.

“You can’t go there. The night guards would kill you.”

“Believe me, breaking and entering is way out of my usual line of work. But I’ve been learning a lot of new things lately. I’ll be careful.”

“Why do you want to do this? Is it to find Juanita?”

It would be easy to say yes, but he wouldn’t lie to her. He felt certain Juanita wouldn’t be at the office, and finding clues there to where she might be was a long shot.

“Maybe I can find something that will help.” He reached out and took the keys from her.

“Please. Don’t do this.” She was so upset she was shaking.

He guided her outside into the burning sunlight, but she turned and went back in. She came out with a padlock, put it through the hasp, and snapped it closed. Trembling, she made the sign of the cross.

Was she protecting Juanita’s belongings, or was she subconsciously admitting that Juanita wasn’t coming back?

He said nothing else about needing information from her. Nor did he say anything about the blood he’d noticed on the nose of the wire cutters that now lay on the floorboard by his foot.