Strawman's Hammock (6 page)

A polite chuckle from the gathered lawmen. Cricket smiled.

“But I think it was in matters of theology that I really felt out of depth. I mean, you've got more churches down here. You've got Church of God, Church of Christ, Assembly of God, Assembly of Jesus, Assembly of Registered Holy Rollers. You got Mount Zion, Mount Ephesus, Mount Bethany—and I swear there ain't a mountain for a thousand miles.

“And every mainstream church is ‘First.' You ever notice that? First Baptist, First Methodist, First Presbyterian … damnation, are there any Second Churches down here? Or Thirds?”

Another chuckle. More spontaneous.

Hell's bells,
Barrett thought.
Cricket's the man should run for sheriff.

“One other thing,” Agent Bonet continued brightly, “before we get to our business. Y'all may be able to help me on this one—I still don't know if I've got it straight. Maybe you can tell me: What's the difference between Northern Baptists and Southern Baptists? Any ideas?”

No one was biting, of course. But you could see the lawmen wondering what this Crazy Canuck was going to come up with.

“'Cause the way I understand it—” Cricket smiled. “—the Northern Baptists say there ain't no hell. But the Southern Baptists say, ‘The hell they ain't!'”

With that last icebreaker the lawmen began to relax. And suddenly the affable Cricket Bonet became all business.

“Gentlemen. Got a couple of problems we need your help with this morning.”

A Powerpoint display replaced the chalkboards and felt-tip pens that used to be de rigeur for such gatherings. Cricket's laptop fed the monitor that glowed now in a suddenly darkened room. A few sheriffs pulled out ballpoints and spiral pads. Not Lou Sessions.

“First item will not require much more on your part than a call to Tallahassee. You may know that we have a division now devoted full-time to computer fraud, hacking, and so on. Well, the Internet is now being used to distribute child pornography in quantities the state deems epidemic. Children are being recruited; in some cases their pictures are taken without permission and scanned in to match up with salacious material. If you see a site yourself or hear of one through a civilian, just call the computer crimes center at 850-410-7000. We've got some folks there can trace the cookies to their source.

“That's all we need from you on our first problem. Second will require more work. The Immigrant and Natural folks have been receiving reports of civil rights violations among a population relatively new to northwestern Florida. I'm sure you've noticed that your white kids and black kids don't crop the tobacco or haul the watermelons the way they used to.”

Everyone knew that young people could no longer be persuaded or threatened to do the menial labor that children, even in the recent past, were expected to complete as a matter of course. Most of the gathered lawmen
had
labored in the grow-crops common in the region. Tobacco was the big one in the past, the big money maker. A common lament among contemporary farmers was the flight of kids from those dwindling fields. But Barrett had harvested the sandy lugs of tobacco, he had puked his guts after a day in the sun and heat and nicotine. And the day he got an education he never went back. No one with a choice in the matter worked twelve or fourteen or sixteen hours in misery for the five or six or seven dollars a day that were at one time the region's piecemeal wage.

“So what we have now,” Cricket went on, “is what we've had in California and Texas for a long time: a population of Spanish-speaking itinerants. Migrant workers who speak little or no English and are willing to work for piece wages.

“Now, the way the law reads, you can't enforce a minimum wage for piecework. If a man freely contracts to crop a row of tobacco for a dollar, that's legal. If he agrees to take off a stick of tobacco for two cents a stick, that's legal.

“Same thing with straw. You may not know it, gentlemen, but the ordinary pine needles that fall freely from pine trees all over your counties is now the fastest-growing agricultural product in this district. Plain old pine straw. Straw on the ground. A farmer gets maybe seventy or eighty dollars an acre, sometimes more, for every hundred acres of pines that are raked. That's money free and clear without lifting a hand. The man who buys that straw and bales it then sells it—for road construction, to the state, and especially to nurseries. You can take a twenty-pound bale of straw that costs less than a dollar to buy, bale, and transport, and sell it for two, two and a half dollars.

“The margin of profit is high because the cost of labor is low. Very low. Now—it's legal to
freely
contract for piecework. If a Mexican worker agrees to load a bale for a quarter or fifty cents, that's his business. But we're hearing that the owners of these companies are getting kickbacks from Mexican foremen who gyp their workers in return for payoffs and rigged contracts.”

Lou Sessions cleared his throat. “Let 'em quit. Let 'em work for somebody else.”

“Well, that's one problem, Sheriff,” Cricket replied patiently. “There isn't anyone else to work for. You either work for the jefes approved by the local businessmen, or you don't work at all. That's the first problem.

“Second problem—it's against the law. You can't blackmail workers or extort them in this or any other state. What complicates enforcement, of course, and this is where the INS needs our help, is that most of these workers are undocumented. They're coming across the river in Texas in droves, shoved into trucks and brought here more or less as a captive labor pool. Many, maybe most of the people you see working in those rows and rows of pine trees from Cross City to damn near Georgia are here illegally.”

“What choice do the strawmen have?” another sheriff spoke up. “Hell, they cain't get the kids to do the work. They can't get a black man to bale their straw. Not for any wage. Seems to me the Mexicans are saving our bacon.”

“They are,” Cricket agreed. “And in return for that they deserve the simple protection afforded every worker under the law. Even undocumented workers, gentlemen, are protected by the law.”

“So what do you need, Agent Bonet?” Buddy Wilson spoke up. “What can we do?”

“First of all, talk to your local businessmen. Just explain to them that rigged or extorted contracts have become a concern for law enforcement. Give them a chance to straighten things out on their own.”

“And if they don't?” Lou grumbled. “Am I s'posed to be some kind of labor negotiator?”

“No, sir,” Cricket replied firmly. “You are to enforce the law. Best thing, if you find evidence or accusations of threats against workers, would be to contact the state's attorney here in Live Oak. But you're not going to hear anything, I can tell you right now, unless you take time to get to know the migrants under your jurisdiction. Get a handle on where they make their camps. Most importantly, get their confidence so that
they
can come to
you
to report the kinds of infractions we're talking about. If you need help in this regard, or if you are unclear what the law requires, please do not hesitate to call me. I'll assist you any way I can.”

“What about the illegals? Say we find 'em, we identify 'em. What do you expect us to do about that?”

“The INS right now simply would like to know how big the problem is. We have heard, for instance, that there are whole families of workers virtually imprisoned in deer camps out toward the coast, most of 'em on private land. Maybe even on the paper mill's acreage, who knows? But we need to know the conditions in those camps. We need to get a rough idea of the numbers of families out there and find out whether they are camped voluntarily or under duress.

“I want to make clear that the state's objective is not to find a way to kick a whole bunch of workers out of your counties, gentlemen. Our objective is simply to uphold the laws protecting these migrants and their families and, to the extent possible, make sure that they are not being extorted or blackmailed into accepting slave wages for their labor. That's the deal. That's what we're about. Any questions?”

A few questions followed concerning procedure and jurisdiction. The sheriffs, ever wary of their turf, did not want their borders opened to INS agents or the FDLE. Cricket explained patiently that he had been sent to the region precisely to give the lawmen first crack at the problem.

“Nobody wants to come in here and do your job,” Cricket reassured the elected lawmen. But then he added, “However, this is a job that needs to get done.”

The meeting broke up without pyrotechnics. Barrett extended his hand to meet Captain Altmiller's.

“Bear. How you like it down here?”

“Closer to home, Captain.”

“A politician's reply,” Altmiller retorted.

The hell? Did the Old Man suspect?

Cricket Bonet barged over to end that speculation.

“Hullo, partner!”

“Cricket. Good job. You see him up there, Captain? Another month he'll have 'em eating out of his hand.”

Cricket beamed. “And they don't, they can kiss my—”

“No,” Altmiller warned. “Not here.”

“Let me take us someplace else, then,” Barrett offered. “They got a cheap steak at the Dixie Grill. You can fill me in on wha's happenin' in the big city.”

The three agents were almost out the door when a rasping challenge came from behind.

“Agent Raines.”

Barrett stopped and turned to face Sheriff Lou Sessions.

The sheriff's pitted face was mobile.

“I hear you're gettin' tired of Live Oak, Barrett. Lookin' for a change of scenery.”

“Funny.” Bear offered a smile. “I was just telling my boss I like it right where I am.”

“Way I hear it, you have aspirations for
my
job,” Lou grated.

“Pardon me,” Altmiller interrupted and extended his hand. “Henry Altmiller. Don't believe we've met, Sheriff.”

“Never had the need.” Lou shook the offered hand peremptorily.

“Well, you'll be reassured on our first meeting to hear that Agent Raines went to quite a bit of trouble to be assigned to the third district. From all reports he has no intention of leaving.”

“That a fact.”

“If I am incorrect, I'm sure Agent Raines will tell me. Barrett?”

Well, Bear thought. This was a hell of fix. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don't. Barrett almost took the politician's way out. Almost.

“What the sheriff probably heard, Captain, is that I was approached by some folks to run for sheriff in his county. That's next July, I believe, just to qualify. We're barely into November. As of now, I haven't even decided whether to follow up on the conversation.”

“Well. There you are.” Altmiller smiled congenially. “Seems fairly straightforward to me, Sheriff.”

“We'll see.” When Lou straightened, his shoulders pulled in oddly, like a marionette's. “And by the way, Barrett…”

One last, parting shot from the county lawman.

“I'm gonna find Rolly Slade's goddamn dog.”

The sheriff stalked the five yards to his cruiser and left gravel spinning as he gunned the Crown Victoria out onto a blacktop city street.

Altmiller remained silent. So did Cricket. Barrett felt a tide of blood rising beneath his face.

Cricket spoke up to break the silence. “I can understand a man constipating over an election. But a goddamn
dog
?”

*   *   *

The dog was hungry. It had been three days without food. The water bucket was always filled; the rottweiler stood in a pool of its own piss. But a thick chain restrained him from the only source of food inside these corrugated walls. The food was strapped to the pine studs that were the shack's interior skeleton.

When the sun heated the tin that pressed against the woman's flanks she would arch away, the muscles in her belly contracting with the screams, curses, or imprecations that the dog, of course, could not understand and no one else would hear.

It was dim inside the shack, even in bright sunlight. Slits of light on beams moted with dust traveled across the interior, like cruel hour hands marking the terrified moments from morning to pitch-black dark. How many nights had it been? How many days? Hung on a wall with the dog howling at her, foam covering the pink of his gums, running over his bared fangs. Lunging at her from a fragile tether of chain. And then the man would come.

“(Mary, Mother of God.)” The prayers came erratically in a vulgar Spanish. “(Protect me, Mother. In my hour of need. Forgive my sins!)”

She was young, only nineteen, a firmly bosomed girl from Brownsville, a migrant girl from South Texas. If she had only stayed in the field.

But it had been so hard! The heat! The labor! Who could blame her for trying something else?

Her prayer disintegrated into a gargled scream. She had to hang for a minute, just a minute, even though the joints of her shoulders were near to dislocation. The straps that tied her wrists to the shack's vertical studs would not keep a determined hostage forever, so there were cuffs, metal bracelets anchored to the pine posts. Her feet were cuffed, too, in the posture of Jesus. Christ on a cross. Her own crucifix remained, a cheap thing drenched with sweat between her taut breasts. Her clothes were taken but the cross remained.

He had her pulled off the floor. She could feel herself suffocate. But by stretching her legs to the dirt-packed floor she could put some weight on her feet and feel air expand her chest. She would stay in that posture until the heated tin that pressed against her back and flank could no longer be borne. The dog howled and she screamed in reply.

Footsteps silenced the dog first. Then the girl. She heard the fumbled key. The padlock. The door. Sunlight barged in to the shack's interior. The dog threw himself at the intruder.