“You sound as if something is going to happen.”
“Something always does.”
“The ranch will remain the same,” she said. “And you’ll continue on as foreman. I don’t plan on changing anything.”
“Life is something that happens to you while you’re making other plans. I read that somewhere, and it’s like the piano music, it keeps running through my mind. Robbie’s life was planned — high school, college, a profession. Then his father fell off a tractor and things changed before they had a chance to begin.”
A silence fell between them, emphasized by the noise all around: the roar of freeway traffic and planes landing and taking off from Lindbergh Field and from the Naval Air Station across the bay. At the top of a palm tree nearby a mockingbird had begun to sing. It was October, the wrong time to be singing, but the bird sang anyway, with loud delight, and Estivar’s face softened at the sound.
“Sinsonte,” he said. “Listen.”
“A mockingbird?”
“Yes.”
“Why is he singing now?”
“He wants to — that’s reason enough for a bird.”
“Maybe he thinks it’s spring.”
“Maybe.”
“Lucky bird.”
A carillon began chiming the first quarter of an hour. Estivar rose quickly. “It’s time I went and picked up my family.”
“You didn’t eat your sandwich.”
“I’ll have a chance in the car.”
She rose too. Her eyes felt hot and dry and tired, as though they’d seen too much too quickly and needed a rest in some quiet sunless place.
“I’m sorry I had to tell you things you didn’t want to know,” he said.
“You were right, of course. I need all the information I can get in order to make sensible plans.”
“Yes, Mrs. Osborne.” Life, Mrs. Osborne, is what happens to you while you are making sensible plans.
She began walking slowly back to the courthouse as if by delaying her return she could delay the proceeding and the verdict. There was no doubt in her mind what the verdict would be. Robert, who had died a dozen times to the strains of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and “March of the Toreadors,” would die this time to the tuneless hum of strangers and the occasional beat of a gavel.
Chapter Eight
Court reconvened ten minutes late because Judge Gallagher was caught in a traffic jam on the way back from his club. Even with this extra time allowance Agnes Osborne, scheduled to be the first witness of the afternoon, was still absent at one forty-five. A conference was held at the bench and it was decided not to delay the proceeding further by waiting for Mrs. Osborne but to call the next witness.
“Dulzura Gonzales.”
Dulzura heard her name but she didn’t respond until Jaime jabbed her in the side with his elbow. “Hey, that’s you.”
“I know it’s me.”
“Well, hurry up.”
Already breathless from fear Dulzura had trouble getting to her feet and out into the aisle; and once she was in motion she walked too rapidly, so that her giant dress swirled around her like a tent fighting a storm.
“Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give in the matter now pending before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
She swore. Her hand left moist prints on the wooden railing around the witness box.
“State your full name, please,” Ford said.
“Dulzura Ynez Maria Amata Gonzales.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Miss.” Her nervous giggle swept through the room, raising little gusts of laughter and a flurry of doubt.
“Where do you live, Miss Gonzales?”
“The same place as the others — you know, the Osborne ranch.”
“What do you do there?”
“Well, lots of things.”
“I meant, what are you paid to do, Miss Gonzales?”
“Cook and laundry, mostly. A little cleaning now and then.”
“How long have you worked for the Osbornes?”
“Seven years.”
“Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Osborne, Senior. There wasn’t anybody but her around. Mr. Osborne was dead and the boy away at school. My first cousin, Estivar, gave me a nice recommend on a piece of paper.”
“Miss Gonzales, I want you to try and recall the evening of October the thirteenth last year.”
“I don’t have to try. I recall it already.”
“There were special circumstances that fixed the day in your memory?”
“Yes, sir. It was my birthday. Usually I get time off to celebrate, maybe go into Boca with a couple of the boys after work. But that day I couldn’t, it was Friday the thirteenth. I’m not allowed to leave the house on Friday the thirteenth.”
“Not allowed?”
“A quiromántico told me never to because of strange lines in my hands. So I just stayed home like it was no special day and cooked dinner and served it.”
“At what time?”
“About seven-thirty, later than usual on account of Mr. Osborne had been to the city.”
“Did you see Mr. Osborne after dinner?”
“Yes, sir. He came out to the kitchen while I was cleaning up. He said he forgot to buy my birthday present, like Mrs. Osborne asked him to, and would I accept money, and I said I sure would.”
“Was Mr. Osborne wearing his spectacles when he came out to the kitchen?”
“No, sir. But he could see okay, so I guess he was wearing those little pieces of glass over his eyeballs.”
“Contact lenses.”
“Yes.”
“What did he give you for your birthday, Miss Gonzales?”
“A twenty-dollar bill.”
“Did he take the bill from his wallet in your presence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you notice anything of interest about the wallet?”
“It was full of money. I never saw Mr. Osborne’s wallet before and I was surprised and kind of worried too. The boys don’t get much pay.”
“Boys?”
“The workers that come and go.”
“The migrants?”
“Yes. It would of been a real temptation to them if they found out how much money Mr. Osborne was carrying.”
“Thank you, Miss Gonzales. You may—”
“I’m not saying any of them did it, killed him for the money. I’m just saying that a lot of money is a big temptation to a poor man.”
“We understand that, Miss Gonzales. Thank you... Will Mr. Lum Wing take the stand, please?”
Lum Wing, encouraged by his sunny hour in the park, gave his name in a high clear voice with a trace of southern accent.
“Where do you live, Mr. Wing?”
“Sometimes here, sometimes there. Where the work is.”
“You have a permanent address, don’t you?”
“When there’s nothing better to do I stay at my daughter’s house in Boca de Rio. She’s got six kids, I share a room with two of my grandsons. I keep away from there as much as possible.”
“What is your profession, Mr. Wing?”
“I used to be cook with a circus. What my daughter tells the neighbors, I retired. What happened, the circus went bust.”
“You come out of retirement and take a job now and then?”
“Yes, sir, to get out of the house.”
“Your work has brought you to the Osborne ranch at various times?”
“Yes.”
“You’re working there now, in fact?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were there a year ago, on October thirteen?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you stay when you’re working at the ranch?”
Lum Wing described his living arrangements in the curtained-off corner of the former barn that served as a mess hall. In the late afternoon of October 13 he had cooked supper as usual. After the men departed for their payday fling in Boca de Rio he’d drawn his curtain, set up a chess game and opened a bottle of wine. The wine made him sleepy, so he lay down on his cot. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he remembered was the sound of voices speaking loud and fast in Spanish on the other side of the curtain. On occasion other basic needs besides eating were satisfied at the mess-hall tables and Lum Wing made it a habit to ignore what went on. Moving quietly in the darkness he checked his case of knives, his pocket watch and chess set, the rest of the bottle of wine, and finally the money belt he wore even when sleeping. Finding everything intact he returned to his cot. The voices continued.