Beyond This Point Are Monsters (9 page)

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.

“Did you recognize any of them?” Ford asked.

After a moment's hesitation Lum Wing shook his head.

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“They talked too fast. Also I didn't listen.”

“Do you understand Spanish, Mr. Wing?”

“Four, five words.”

“I gather that you didn't overhear any of those four or five words spoken o
n that occasion?”

“I'm an old man. I mind my own business. I don't listen, I don't hear, I don't get in trouble.”

“There was a great deal of trouble that night, Mr. Wing. You must have heard some of it whether you listened or not. You appear to have normal hearing for a man your age.”

“I fix it so it's not so normal.” He showed the court how he made earplugs out of little pieces of paper. “Beside the plugs, there was the wine. It made me sleepy. Also I was tired. I work hard, up before five every morning, doing this, doing that.”

“All right, Mr. Wing, I believe you . . . You've been employed at the Osborne ranch quite a few times, haven't you?”

“Six, seven.”

“Did Robert Osborne speak Spanish?”

“Not to me.” Lum Wing stared blandly up at the ceil­ing.

“Well, did you ever hear him speak to the men in Span­ish?”

“Maybe two, three times.”

“And maybe oftener? A lot oftener?”

“Maybe.”

“It would, in fact, have been quite possible for you to recognize Mr. Osborne's voice even if he was talking in a foreign language?”

“I wouldn't like to say that. I don't want to make trou­ble.”

“The trouble is made, Mr. Wing.”

“It could be worse.”

“Not for Robert Osborne.”

“There were others,” the old man said, blinking. “Other people. Mr. Osborne wasn't talking to himself. Why would he talk to himself in Spanish?”

“Then you did recognize Mr. Osborne's voice that night?”

“Maybe. I'm not swearing to it.”

“Mr. Wing, we have reason to believe that a fight which ended in a murder took place in the same room in which you claim to have been sleeping. Do you realize that?”

“I didn't commit a murder, I didn't commit a fight. I was sleeping innocent as a baby with my earplugs in until Mr. Estivar woke me up by shaking my arm and shining a flashlight in my face. I said what happened? And he said what happened, Mr. Osborne is missing and there's blood all over the floor and the cops are on their way.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Wing?”

“Put on my pants.”

“You got dressed.”

“Same thing.”

“I take it that your earplugs had been removed by this time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you could hear perfectly well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you hear, Mr. Wing?”

“Nothing. I thought funny thing how quiet, where is everybody, and I look out my window. I see lights on all over the ranch, the main house, Estivar's place, the garage where they keep the heavy machinery, the bunkhouse, even in some of the tamarisk trees around the reservoir. I think again what's the matter, all those lights and no noise. Then I see the big truck is gone, the one the men came in, and the bunkhouse is empty.”

“What time was that, Mr. Wing?”

“I don't know.”

“You mentioned previously that you had a pocket watch.”

“I never thought to look at it. I was scared, I wanted to get out of that place.”

“And did you?”

“I opened my door—there are two doors to the build­ing, the front one the men use and the back one that's mine. I stepped outside. Estivar's oldest son, Cruz, was standing between me and the bunkhouse with a rifle over his shoulder.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“He spoke to me. He told me to go back inside and stay there, because the police were on their way and when they asked me if I touched anything I better be able to say no. So I sat on the edge of my cot, then in five, ten minutes the police arrived.”

There was a sudden audible stirring throughout the courtroom, as if the arrival of the police marked the end of a period of tension and gave people freedom to move. They coughed, changed position, whispered to their neighbors, sighed, stretched, yawned.

Ford waited for the sounds to subside. Without actually turning to face the audience he could see that the place where Agnes Osborne had sat during the morning was still empty. His uneasiness over her absence was tinged with guilt. He had probably talked to her too harshly. Women like Mrs. Osborne, who were blunt themselves and seemed to invite bluntness from others, were often the least able to tolerate it.

Ford said, “What happened after the police arrived, Mr. Wing?”

“Plenty, plenty of noise, cars moving around, doors banging, people talking and shouting. Pretty soon one of the deputies came to me and started asking questions like what you asked, did I see anything, did I hear anything. But mostly he wanted to know about my knives.”

“Knives, Mr. Wing?”

“I carry my own knives to cook with—cleaver, chop­pers, parers, slicers, carver. I keep them clean and sharp, locked up in a case and the key in my money belt. I opened the case and showed him they were all there, nothing stolen.”

“Did you ever hear of a butterfly knife?”

Lum Wing's impassive face looked as surprised as pos­sible. “A knife to cut
butterflies?
”

“No. It's one that resembles a butterfly when the blade is open.”

“I leave such silly things to the Mexicans. Around here they all carry knives, the fancier the better, like jewelry.”

“When the deputy questioned you that night, you were not able to give him any more information than you have given the court this afternoon?”

“No, no more.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wing. You may return to your seat . . . Will Jaime Estivar come to the stand, please?”

As they met in the aisle the old man and the young one exchanged glances of puzzlement and resignation: it was a middle-aged world, which Lum Wing had passed and Jaime hadn't yet reached and neither of them cared about or understood.

CHAPTER NINE

“
for the record
,” Ford said, “would you state your name, please?”

“My church name or my school name?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes, sir. I was christened with five names, but at school I just use Jaime Estivar because otherwise I'd take up too much room on report cards and attendance sheets, things like that.” He had sworn to tell the truth, but the very first thing he uttered was a lie. What's more, it tripped off his tongue without a moment's hesitation. The boys he ad­mired at school were called Chris, Pete, Tim, or sometimes Smith, McGregor, Foster, Jones; he couldn't afford to have them find out he was really Jaime Ricardo Salvador Luis Hermano Estivar.

“Your school name will be sufficient,” Ford said.

“Jaime Estivar.”

“How old are you, Jaime?”

“Fourteen.”

“And you live with your family at the Osborne ranch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell us about your family, Jaime.”

“Well, uh, I don't know what's to tell.” He glanced down at his parents and Dulzura and Lum Wing, seeking inspiration. He found none. “I mean, they're just a family, no big deal or anything.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Yes, sir. Three of each.”

“Are they living at home?”

“Only me and my two younger sisters, they're twins. My oldest brother, Cruz, is with the army in Korea. Rufo is married and lives in Salinas. Felipe's got a good job in an aircraft plant in Seattle. He sent me ten dollars for Christmas and fifteen for my birthday.”

“When your brothers were at home, they all had chores to do around the ranch, did they?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about you?”

“I help after school and on weekends.”

“Do you get paid?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How?”

“My pop just hands me the money and says go buy yourself a Cadillac.”

“What I meant was, do you get paid by the hour or by the job?”

“The job usually. Also for the last three years I've been in business for myself part of the time. Pumpkins.”

“You're pretty young to be in business for yourself.”

“Well, I don't make much money,” Jaime said ear­nestly.

Ford smiled. “How do you go about getting in the pumpkin business, Jaime?”

“I just took over from Felipe, the way he did from Rufo and Rufo from Cruz. It all started with old Mr. Osborne lending Cruz a field for a crop that would bring him money to put away for his education. Cruz and Rufo grew a lot of different things. It was Felipe who thought of pumpkins. They grow fast and don't take much work and you harvest them all at once at the beginning of October.”

“And is this what you did at the beginning of October 1967?”

“Yes, sir.”

“After the pumpkins were picked and sold, you plowed the vines under?”

“I did when my dad said I'd better get to it or else.”

“What date was that?”

“Saturday morning, November four, three weeks after Mr. Osborne disappeared. The vines were drying up by that time and a lot of them were broken and, you know, tram­pled down by people looking for clues and stuff like that.”

“Did anyone find any ‘clues and stuff like that'?”

“I don't think so, not in the pumpkin field.”

“Did you?”

“I found the knife,” Jaime said. “The butterfly knife.”

“Where was it in the field?”

“The southwest corner.”

“The corner nearest the road leading out of the ranch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it buried in the ground?”

“No, sir. It looked like maybe somebody flung it out of a car window to get rid of it and it sort of stuck in the ground underneath one of the vines.”

“I'm going to show you a knife and ask you if it is the one you found.” Ford held up the knife, now labeled with an identification tag. “Is this it, Jaime?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Here, take it in your hands and examine it.”

“I don't want—well, okay.”

“Is it the knife you found?”

“I think so. Except it looks cleaner now.”

“Some of the bloodstains were scraped off for analysis in the police lab. Allowing for that difference, would you say this is the knife you picked up in the pumpkin field?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it open with the blade operable the way it is now?”

“Yes, sir, open.”

“Had you ever seen a knife like it before that time?”

“A couple of the boys at school carry butterfly knives.”

“For show? For fun?”

“No, sir, for real.”

The knife was offered in evidence, numbered, then replaced on the court clerk's table. Two of the high school students in the audience stood up to get a better view of the knife but the bailiff promptly ordered them to sit down.

“Now, Jaime,” Ford said, “I want you to go over to the map on the board, and using one of the colored marking pencils, indicate the location of the pumpkin field.”

“How?”

“Draw a rectangle and print the words pumpkin field beside it.”

Jaime did as he was told. His hand shook and the boundaries of the pumpkin field were uneven, as though old Mr. Osborne had laid them out himself on one of his drunk days and no one had bothered to straighten them. The area where the knife was found, Jaime indicated by a circle with the letter K inside it. Then he returned to the witness box and Ford went on with the questioning.

“Jaime, I understand the pumpkin business occupied your time only for a couple of months out of the year.”

“Yes, sir. Late summer and early fall.”

“The rest of the year you were engaged in other pro­jects around the ranch, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did these other jobs bring you in contact with the various crews of migrant laborers?”

“Not much. I did my work mostly after school and on weekends and holidays. Also my dad gave me orders to stay away from the mess hall and the bunkhouse.”

“So you didn't become acquainted with any of the men personally?”

“No, sir. At least not very often.”

“Referring now to the crew which was employed on the ranch during the first half of October 1967, I'll ask you if any of the men were known to you by name.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you recall anything in particular about the crew?”

“Just the old truck they came in. It was painted dark red. I noticed that specially because it was the same color red as the pickup Felipe used to teach me to drive. It's not there any more, so I guess Mr. Osborne sold it on account of its gears being stripped too often.” He added, half in contempt, half in envy, “The kids in driver education at school learn in cars with automatic shifts.”

“I have no more questions, Jaime. Thank you.”

Jaime went back to his place very quickly, as though he were afraid the lawyer might change his mind. But Ford's attention was already directed elsewhere, to the empty seat beside Devon.

“My witness is still missing,” he told Judge Gallagher. “Robert Osborne's mother.”

“Where is she?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, find out.”

“I'll try. I need a short recess.”

“Ten minutes?”

“Half an hour would be better.”

“Mr. Ford, somewhere in the county of San Diego right now, at least one irate taxpayer is figuring out exactly how much a minute this case is costing him. Do you realize that?”

“I do now, your Honor.”

“Court is recessed for a period of ten minutes.”

As the room began to empty, Ford walked over to where Devon was sitting. He would have liked to sit down beside her. His legs were tired and the lower part of his body felt as if the vertebrae had softened and the connect­ing discs had been unfastened. “Where is Mrs. Osborne?”

“She went home to rest during the noon hour but she intended to be back by one-thirty.”

“I told her I was going to put her on the stand right after the lunch break. Perhaps it slipped her mind.”

“I hardly think so. Mrs. Osborne is very meticulous about such things, and very punctual.”

“Then perhaps one of us had better find out why she's suddenly not meticulous and punctual any more.”

“Mrs. Osborne hates to be checked up on. It makes her feel old.”

“It's time she got used to it,” Ford said briskly. “There are pay phones at the end of the corridor.”

“She might take it better if you called her.”

“That's unlikely. I'm the big bad man who asks her embarrassing questions, you're her loving daughter-in-law.”

“Am I?”

“Until the conclusion of this proceeding you are.”

Of the half-dozen pay phones at the end of the corridor five were being used. The booths looked like upended coffins whose occupants weren't actually dead but had been put into a state of suspended animation to await a better world. The sixth booth had its door open, inviting Devon to step inside and wait too. She closed the glass door behind her, and as she'd done fifty or a hundred times in the past year, started to dial the number of Agnes Os­borne's house. But her hand seemed to freeze on the dial. She couldn't remember more than the first two digits and had to look up the number in the directory as she would any stranger's.
“You're her loving daughter-in-law . . . Until the conclusion of this proceeding you are.”

The ringing of the phone was loud and sharp. She held the receiver away from her ear, so that the sound seemed a little more remote, more impersonal. Six rings, eight, ten. Agnes Osborne's house was small and she could get to the phone from any room in it, or from the patio or back yard, in less than ten rings, less than five if she hurried. And during the past year, when any call might be about Robert, she always hurried.

The booth was hot and smelled of stale tobacco and food and people. Devon opened the door a few inches, and with the little gust of new air came the sound of people talking in the alcove adjoining the row of phone booths. One of the voices was a man's, hoarse and low-pitched:

“I swear to you I didn't know a thing about it until a few minutes ago.”

“Liar. You knew it all the time and wouldn't tell me. So did they. The whole bunch of you are liars.”

“Listen, Carla, I'm warning you, for your own good stay away from the ranch.”

“I'm not scared of the Estivars. Or the Osbornes either. My brothers see to it nobody pushes me around.”

“This isn't kid stuff any more. Stay out of it.”

“Look who's giving orders again like he's wearing his old cop suit and tin badge.”

“Trouble, you've been nothing but trouble to me ever since I laid eyes on you.”

“You laid more than eyes on me,
chicano.
”

Devon waited for another half minute, six rings, but there was no answer from Mrs. Osborne's house and no more talk from the alcove. She opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

The girl had gone. Valenzuela stood alone at the barred window of the alcove, his eyes somber and red-rimmed. When he saw Devon his mouth moved slightly as though it were shaping words he wasn't ready to speak. When he did speak, it was in a voice quite unlike the one he'd used on Carla, soft and sad, with no hint of authority in it.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Osborne.”

“What about?”

“Everything, how it's all turned out.”

“Thank you.”

“I wanted you to know I hoped things would be differ­ent, and the case would be solved by now. That first night when I was called out to the ranch to look for Mr. Osborne, I was sure he'd show up. Every step I took, every door I opened, every corner I went around, I expected to find him—maybe beat up a little or sick or even up to some mischief. I'm sorry things turned out this way.”

“It's not your fault, Mr. Valenzuela. I'm sure you did the best you could.” She wasn't sure, she'd never be sure, but it was too late now to say anything else.

“I could maybe have done better if they'd given me more money. Not more salary. Bribe money.”

“
Bribe
money?”

“Don't be shocked, Mrs. Osborne. In a poor country everything's for sale, including the truth. I believe some­one saw that old red truck at the border or on the road going south to Ensenada or east to Tecate; someone no­ticed the men in it, maybe recognized a couple of them; someone may have watched them bury the body in the desert or dump it into the sea.”