"The fuck, homes?" he said, yanking it open.
A tall serious cop with a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a gold star that read chief, and a six-shooter on his hip let a hardened fist fall to his side. The cop's cold blue eyes scoured Teuch, then swept past him, casing the hotel room. Purple twilight glowed behind him and the evening air buzzed with crickets.
Teuch grinned at the police chief. He didn't mind dealing with cops and their laughable set of rules.
"Hey, Officer," he said, laying the accent on thick, saying off-fee-sour.
"Mind if I come in?" the police chief asked in a manner as polite as his tan uniform shirt with its sharp creases and its dark brown tie.
"Oh, sorry, homes," Teuch said, holding the edge of the door and knowing that a cop denied entry couldn't use anything he found inside to put you in jail, whether it was a MAC- 10, a bag of reefer, or someone's severed head, "but I'm going out for dinner so if you want to talk to me, you gotta talk outside. Let me get my keys and I'll be out."
Teuch started to close the door. He had turned for his things when the police chief kicked it open and marched into the room.
Teuch stumbled and spun and said, "You can't do that shit, man. I know my rights."
The police chief's eyes skipped to the bed, where the machine gun lay, then right back to Teuch. The tall cop drew his revolver like a silver-screen gunslinger, drawing back the hammer with his opposite hand and a click that cut through the musty air of the thirty-dollar room.
Teuch raised his hands and felt his bowels loosening. "I didn't do nothing."
"What's that for?" the police chief asked, wagging his head toward the MAC-10. "I heard you got kicked off the work crew out to the senator's place."
"Fuck the senator," Teuch said, angry at the jelly in his gut and confident in his freedom of speech.
The pistol's muzzle flashed, the explosion deafening Teuch instantly and the shot knocking him off his feet. He came down on his rump with a jolt. His head banged back into the leg of the desk. He groped at his chest, feeling no pain, but aware that his hand came up soaked in blood before everything went black.
CHAPTER 10
THE FEMALE SERGEANT ON DUTY AT THE JAIL KEPT ON WRITING. She said visiting hours, even for attorneys, didn't begin until after lunch, but she looked up when Casey said her name.
"Not The Casey Jordan Story Casey Jordan, are you?"
Casey's cheeks burned. She averted her eyes and nodded.
"Oh my God," the sergeant said. "My mother and I taped that show. We watched it three times. You look so much younger than I thought you would."
The sergeant stood up and extended her beefy hand. "I am so honored."
"Thank you," Casey said, taking her hand and eyeing the name tag on her uniform, "Belinda. Do you think you could help me see Isodora a little early? I've got a million things I'm trying to get done."
The sergeant's face bloomed with a knowing smile. "I can still see Susan Lucci's face when she says, 'A woman like me can't rest when another woman is in need.' And here you are. I can't even believe it."
She picked up the phone and barked a couple of orders, regained her smile, and escorted Casey down a long hallway to a small interview room.
"Would you mind signing this?" the sergeant asked. "I swear, I never ask for autographs, but, well, my mother won't even believe me."
Casey felt her entire face go up in flames. "Sure."
The sergeant had a pad of paper and she held it out to Casey with a pen, her round cheeks red and nearly glistening. Casey asked the mother's name and signed the paper with best wishes before handing it back.
"Oh, this is perfect," the sergeant said. "Thank you so much."
"My pleasure," Casey said.
"You must get this all the time."
"Not really, but it's my pleasure."
"Well, I've got to get back to the desk," the sergeant said, stealing an appreciative glance at the autograph, "but she'll be right in."
Casey sat down and pinched the bridge of her nose. After only a couple of minutes the door opened.
The guard who escorted the bedraggled Isodora into the interview room shot Casey a dirty look from under a cap of short dark hair. The dough of her pasty white face bore permanent lines of displeasure. She pointed Isodora toward the metal chair with her scarred baton.
"Sit down," she said, and Isodora did.
Casey held the guard's gaze until the big woman stroked her shadow of a mustache, grunted, and told them they had ten minutes and that was it.
"We're not supposed to be pulling them out of meals," the guard said, continuing to glare at Casey.
"You were so kind to do it, though," Casey said.
The guard slammed the door on her way out.
Casey breathed in. The small square room smelled like a dirty mop tinged with the sour scent of vomit. Above them, the fluorescent tube flickered like a coming storm. Casey turned her attention to Isodora, her bony frame swallowed up by the orange prison jumpsuit. Behind the disheveled curtain of long dark hair hid the petite and pretty tearstained face of a woman who looked too young and too meek to be sitting in a jail.
"It's all right," Casey said, reaching across the battered table for Isodora's hand.
Isodora flinched.
"Maria sent me," Casey said. "I'm Casey Jordan."
Her red-rimmed eyes darted up through the tangle of hair and her hand relaxed under Casey's touch.
"I'm going to try to get your baby for you," Casey said with a squeeze. "Did anyone talk to you about Hutto?"
Hutto, the detention facility the Department of Homeland Security used for undocumented alien families, was a former prison run by a private company. The old fortress had generated some negative publicity, but it was still the best option for undocumented aliens with children because it allowed them to spend much of their days together.
"What's her name?" Casey said. "Your little girl?"
Isodora sucked in her lower lip and nodded tightly. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "Paquita," she said in a whisper, her entire frame trembling.
"That's a pretty name," Casey said. "Let's work on this. Now you have to tell me everything, Isodora. I'm your lawyer, and that means no matter what you did, I'm going to help you.
"Did you ever have a granny? An abuelita? That's what I'm like. Anything you did is okay with me, but I need to know. Now, did you do something wrong?"
Isodora's face crumpled and a sob escaped her.
"I did nothing," she said, gasping out the words between great gulps of air. "They took Paquita. Elijandro is dead. I don't care where I go. Just make them give her back to me, Miss Casey. Please."
Casey swallowed and squeezed her hand again.
"You're sure there's nothing?" she asked softly. "Drugs? Bad people your husband was with? Because I can't figure out why this is happening."
"They said I'm illegal," Isodora said, still sobbing. "Undocumented."
"Okay," Casey said gently, "but there's something more. Maybe it's a mistake. It's a big government."
Gently, Casey presented a slew of possibilities-drugs, weapons, smuggling people, and bad politics-but at every suggestion Isodora swore both she and her husband had done nothing wrong. Several times she excitedly broke into Spanish and Casey had to ask her to say it again.
Finally Casey asked, "What about the senator's wife, Isodora?"
Even through the curtain of hair, Casey could see the young woman's face redden.
She shook her head and said, "No, no. He did nothing with her. He was a good husband. A good man."
"But he went with her sometimes?" Casey asked. "At night? Your sister told me."
"She had a problem and Ellie, he was such a good man. She needed him to speak Spanish. What was he to say? She was the wife. We had our own house."