Authors: A. J. Carton
Poncho replied with a short, explosive laugh. It sounded like the report of a shotgun. “Steve had to attend his wife’s birthday party?” he repeated. He might as well have said,
what a wus
.
Then Poncho cupped his hands, palms up, and made a come hither motion with his fingers. “C’mon, lady. What did you say your name was?”
“Emma,” she replied. “I work with Steve.”
“Look, Emma. I got customers. See?” he looked down the bar in each direction. “I asked you what you want.”
“Well,” Emma stammered. “I want….” She swallowed and thought for a few seconds. “I don’t want to have any trouble with Diaz. Steve said you’d keep an eye out for me while I interview him about the murder.”
Poncho burst out laughing. This time it sounded like the roar of a Harley Davidson.
“Keep an eye out for you? For what? Because of Diaz? Like what’s he gonna do? Knife you? Here at my bar?” He laughed again. “Diaz is afraid of his own shadow. He was sure as heck afraid of his cousin, Santiago Gomez, if that’s what you want to know. I’ll keep an eye on him for you. He’s sittin’ right over there.”
Poncho motioned with his thumb to a table by a stone fireplace at the far end of the room. The young man seated there was so short his feet barely touched the ground. He was long faced and skinny. Emma guessed his whole body weighed about as much as her right thigh.
“Ohhhhh. Scary,
Senora
!” Poncho pretended to shiver. “But don’t worry. Poncho will protect you!”
Seconds later, Emma had seated herself across the table from Jose Diaz. He was drinking a beer. When the waiter glanced at her she ordered a Corona.
“Hi, Mr. Diaz,” she began. “I hope Steve told you that he couldn’t meet with you tonight. I work with him. I’m here instead.” She decided to skip any mention of the birthday party.
The young man nodded. “Jose,” he answered. “Call me Jose. Steve said you have some questions. About my cousin’s murder. You know,” he eyed her nervously, “the police have already questioned me. I told them everything I know. The old man…” he hesitated.
“Curt Randall?” Emma replied.
“Yeah, Randall,” Jose nodded. “He’s the one who did it. Randall didn’t like Santiago. I didn’t like Santiago either. No one did. But I didn’t kill him. Randall did.”
Emma’s heart sank. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“Because my cousin called me, that’s why,” Jose replied. “He called me when I was eating dinner with my family. He said he was on his way to Randall’s house to tell him something. He didn’t tell me what, but he said Randall wouldn’t like it. Wouldn’t like what he had to say. But that maybe now the old man would ‘respect’ him. That was the word he used. ‘Respect.’”
“He didn’t tell you what it was about?” Emma said.
“No,” Jose replied. “But he sounded worried. And I thought that was strange. Because Santiago, he was tough. He never sounded worried. He said something about him being in some kind of danger. That after he talked to Randall, he would come to my house and explain.”
Emma nodded. “But he never came.”
“Yeah,” Jose replied. “I waited up for a while. Finally I went to bed. I figured he changed his mind.” He shook his head. “To tell you the truth Ms…” he paused.
“Corsi,” Emma supplied.
“Ms. Corsi. I told the police this. I was relieved he never came. Santiago was always trouble. Even when we were kids. I didn’t want to get mixed up with him anymore. Then, in the morning, there he was. Dead.”
“So you have no idea what he went to talk to Randall about?” Emma tried again.
Jose shook his head. “How should I know? I never heard from him after that call. But you see, don’t you? Whatever it was, Randall didn’t like it. So it must have been about that lawsuit. The one Santiago wanted me to join. He was threatening Randall and Randall killed him.”
Emma’s heart sank. It seemed like a noose was closing around old Curt Randall’s neck. She perfunctorily ran through all Steve’s questions.
Where was Jose the night of the murder?
Jose’s wife would testify he was home all night with her.
What had he and Santiago argued about?
Gomez threatened him for not joining the lawsuit.
“Why didn’t you want to join?” Emma asked.
Jose shrugged as though the answer was obvious. “Because I finally had a good job, decent wages and housing for my family,” he explained. “Why mess that up? I work hard. Finally I have a job where I can support my wife and children. Joining the class action would just get me fired.” Jose shook his head. “Look, old man Randall hates us Mexicans. Always has. I see the hatred in his eyes every time he looks at me. But he needs us. And he treats the Sonoma employees fairly because the winery folks up here won’t have it any other way. Unlike the workers down south at Randall Enterprises,” he added, “who kill themselves for less than a living wage.”
“But Randall couldn’t fire you for joining a lawsuit,” Emma explained. “Not legally.”
Jose just laughed. “People like Randall can do whatever they want.”
“What was Santiago threatening you with, Jose?” Emma asked. She’d saved the big question for last.
“What do you mean?” Jose lowered his voice.
“He was threatening you with something,” Emma answered. “Something he thought would somehow make you agree to join the suit.”
Jose took a deep breath and looked away. “I smuggled my wife’s cousins and a few friends over the border. A year ago. Santiago threatened to rat on me if I didn’t cooperate.”
Suddenly anger flashed in the young man’s eyes. “I’m here. I work hard. My kids are here. They go to school. They will grow up in the U.S. and become American citizens. Santiago was trying to destroy that – so he could be a hero.” He pounded the table, then glanced quickly at Emma as though surprised by his own act. “I wouldn’t join. I told him that. He got mad and we argued. Randall heard the shouting and sent someone to break up the fight.”
“Did you do anything to him?” Emma asked. “Did you hit him?”
Jose dropped his eyes and seemed to blush. “I kicked him,” he said. “Where it hurt. What else could I do? Santiago was way bigger than me. He always was.”
Emma was done with Steve’s questions. But there was still one thing she didn’t understand.
“Jose,” she said, “you’ve told me you didn’t kill your cousin. And that your wife will swear you were home the night he died. But why do you think Curt Randall killed him? A lot of other people did not like your cousin. I’ve even heard rumors that Santiago was involved with another man’s wife…”
Jose nodded. “Down south. It’s true. I heard Armando Carillo threaten to kill him. One night in a bar. For fooling around with his wife.”
He thought for a moment.
“There’s something else,” he added. “I told the police, but I don’t think it’s connected to Santiago’s murder. The night my cousin and I had the fight he told me his old friend Louis Cardenas had dropped out of the lawsuit. Louis was making trouble. Telling people the lawsuit was no good. That Santiago was only out for himself. Santiago was mad. Said he’d like to make Louis squirm.”
“Where can I find Cardenas?” Emma asked.
“In Coachella. He works for Randall Enterprises.” Jose shrugged. “Look,
senora
. Like I said. All I know is what my cousin told me. Santiago said he was on his way to see Curt Randall on the night he died. If that was where he was going, then Curt Randall killed him.”
“All that may be true,” Emma nodded. “But you and I both know that Curt Randall is sick. So sick he can barely lift himself out of a chair. How can you be so sure he’s the killer?”
Diaz laughed. “Sure, Randall is old and sick. But less than a month ago I seen him throw a rock at one of my kids. Just for chasin’ a baseball inside the old man’s yard. Are you tryin’ to tell me that, if my cousin got him mad, old Randall couldn’t run him through with a knife?”
Emma shuddered.
A few minutes later she was back in her car. The first thing she did was call Steve.
“Hi. It’s me,” Emma replied to Steve’s greeting when he answered his cell. “I mean, it’s Emma,” she corrected herself. “Emma Corsi.”
“I know. I know,” Steve sounded annoyed.
“Sorry to bother you during the bir…”
“No problem,” Steve cut in. “So. What happened? Make it fast. They’re lighting the candles….”
Emma took a few seconds to organize her thoughts.
“Diaz says his wife will support his alibi that he was home the night Gomez died. He also said Randall threw a rock at his son a few weeks ago.”
“Threw a rock? What’s your point?” Steve asked.
“The kid was chasing a ball into Randall’s yard,” Emma explained. “Diaz said Randall had plenty of strength to chase the kid away. He also says Gomez called him the night he died. He was on his way to Randall’s. To ‘tell him something he didn’t want to hear.’ Gomez said he’d meet Diaz later that night to explain. Gomez never showed up. Diaz found Gomez’s body on the footpath to Randall’s house early the next day.”
“What about the jealous husband?” Steve asked.
“Armando Carillo,” Emma replied. “He threatened to kill Gomez for fooling around with his wife.”
“Where?” Steve added.
“’Coachella. Not here.”
“And the blackmail?”
“Diaz admits it,” Emma replied. “Last year he smuggled some relatives over the border. Gomez threatened to blow the whistle if Diaz didn’t cooperate. It’s a motive, all right. But somehow, I just don’t think Diaz is our killer.”
“Why do you believe him?” Steve asked.
Emma thought for a minute. “Because he’s half my size and acts like he’s afraid of his own shadow.”
Then Emma remembered the flash of anger in Diaz’s eyes when he talked about his cousin.
“But what do I know?” she added. “He was capable of anything if he thought his family could be deported.”
“I gotta run,” Steve said. “We can discuss this more in the car when I pick you up. Seven sharp.”
“Steve, wait.” In the background, Emma heard people singing
Happy Birthday
. “I have to be home Friday no later than…”
But it was too late. Steve had already hung up.
Emma was not an early riser. Waking at 7:00 a.m. was hard. Being ready to go anywhere at 7:00 a.m. was close to impossible. She packed herself one change of clothes - black jeans and a short sleeved flowered print blouse. Coachella would be hot. Then she went to bed. As she fell asleep, she assured herself that come what may, she and Steve would drive home Friday night. In plenty of time for her to organize her dinner for Jack.
The next morning, true to his word, Steve’s Subaru rolled into Emma’s driveway at exactly 7:00 a.m. To her dismay, he was stuffing the last bite of a sausage, egg and cheese McMuffin into his mouth as she pulled open the door to his car. A red cardboard container of hash browns lay uneaten in his lap, and a large McCafe coffee sat in the beverage container by the steering wheel.
Darn!
He’s already eaten,
she thought to herself. She’d had no time to make coffee.
Steve must have noted the desperate look in her eyes. “Sorry, have you not had coffee?” he added, placing a protective hand on his.
Emma shook her head. There was no way she was driving more than half way to Mexico without some caffeine.
“I’ll need some,” she stated.
Steve frowned. “There’s another Mickey D right off the highway past Petaluma. I’ll pull into the drive thru.”
Emma shook her head again. “I don’t do Mickey D.” She mentally added
and neither should you. Why didn’t do-gooder lefties get the food thing?
Steve rolled his eyes in an optical version of
this is going to be a really long day.
Then he leaned back in his seat and said, “OK. What
do
you do, Emma?”
“Plaza Bakery,” she said.
Steve looked at his watch. “Jees! The line there will be out the door. We don’t have time….” He glanced at her face and stepped on the gas.
The line at the Plaza Bakery
was
out the door. Twenty minutes later, Emma emerged with a large latte and a still warm sour cherry
gallette
.
Steve glanced at her and winced as she took a bite that deposited a snowstorm of pastry flakes on the passenger seat of his car. “Those are loaded with cholesterol,” he remarked, “in case you didn’t know.”
“At least it’s
local
cholesterol,” she replied.
They drove eating and drinking in silence for another twenty minutes. Till they hit the Santa Rosa rush hour traffic and abruptly slowed to a halt.
“Darn,” Emma mumbled noting that a large squirt of foam had sloshed out of her coffee cup down the front of her shirt. As she searched for a Kleenex in her purse, another dollop splashed onto the beige fabric seat of Steve’s car. “Sorry,” she said.
Steve cringed. By then, he had finished his hash browns and emptied his large McCafe.
“How was the birthday party?” Emma added, hoping to distract him from the mess she’d made with her coffee.
Steve replied with an abrupt shake of his head. Like a pitcher rejecting a catcher’s hand signal.
“Tell me more about your conversation with Diaz.” Steve clearly didn’t want to talk about the party. “The way I see it, you got three important things. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“First,” Steve began, “Diaz had a motive to kill Gomez because Gomez was threatening to blackmail him if he didn’t join the class action. But Diaz has an alibi for the night Gomez died. And your instincts tell you he isn’t the murderer. I think it’s because you believe he’s…” Steve winced, “too small.”
Steve stopped speaking and glanced sideways at Emma. They had emerged from the Santa Rosa rush hour slowdown and entered the Petaluma bottleneck.
Emma nodded. “Go on.”
“Second,” Steve continued, “a man named Armando Carillo also had a motive to kill Gomez who’d fooled around with his wife. In fact, Carillo threatened to kill Gomez. But he lives near Coachella and nothing places him at the scene of the crime. BTW, I arranged a meeting with him this afternoon. As far as Carillo goes, we have motive but, so far, no opportunity or means.”
Steve glanced at Emma who nodded again.
“Third,” Steve concluded, “Diaz will testify that Randall hates Mexicans. That less than a month ago, he had enough strength to throw a rock at Diaz’s son to get him out of his yard. That the night Gomez died, he told Diaz he was on his way to Randall’s house to tell Randall something he didn’t want to hear. Gomez intended to meet Diaz later that night. But Gomez never showed up at Diaz’s home. The next morning, Diaz found Gomez’s body near Randall’s house.”
Steve glanced at Emma again. “Was there anything else?”
Emma thought for a minute. Then she pulled out of her purse some notes she’d made.
“Did I mention that Diaz said his cousin sounded worried when he talked to him on the phone?” she asked. “That Gomez said something about being in danger?”
Steve shook his head.
Emma consulted her notes again. “Oh, one more thing. There was someone named Louis. Did I mention him?”
Steve shook his head again.
Emma squinted at a name she’d written on her notepad. “Diaz said that a man named Louis Cardenas had dropped out of the lawsuit. He was making trouble. Telling everyone that Gomez was just out for himself. That the lawsuit wouldn’t do the workers any good. Gomez was mad about it.”
This time Steve nodded. “I’ve already talked to Cardenas. He withdrew from the suit a few weeks ago. Gomez was upset.”
“But it’s not a motive for Cardenas to kill Gomez,” Emma replied. “More the other way around.”
“Besides,” Steve added, “Cardenas lives near Coachella. Same as Carillo. Even if he had a motive, nothing places him at the scene of the crime.”
By then, the Subaru had crossed the Richmond Bridge and was traveling, at what Emma considered a reckless speed, east on 580 towards Livermore. They were cruising against the traffic now headed for the long, hot, flat stretch of Highway 5 that would take them south towards Los Angeles.
“So, where does that leave us Steve?” she asked. “Who are the suspects? What’s the plan?”
Steve paused. “You know where I stand. Everything you’ve said points to Curt Randall. He hates Mexicans and he particularly hated Gomez for bringing the lawsuit. That gives him a motive. The night he died, Gomez was on his way to Randall’s house to tell him something Randall didn’t want to hear. That provides Randall with opportunity. And Gomez was killed with Randall’s knife that was later found hidden in Randall’s garage. That gives Randall the means. Motive, opportunity, means. I’d say the conclusion is inescapable that Randall is the murderer.”
Emma was hard put to deny the logic of Steve’s argument. Everything pointed to Randall. But she wasn’t about to give up on her son-in-law’s client yet.
“OK,” she nodded. “I agree. Curt Randall had motive, opportunity and means. But just for the sake of argument, since we have an eight hour drive and nothing else to do, let’s run through the alternatives.”
Steve glanced sideways at her and finally smiled. Emma realized it was the first time she’d seen Steve smile in weeks.
“You got me,” he laughed. “I’m trapped. I got nowhere to go.”
Emma leaned over and pulled a pen out of her purse. “First, let’s make a list of all the possible suspects,” she said.
Steve began. “Curt Randall. Motive, opportunity, means.”
“Jose Diaz,” Emma answered. “Motive. He was being blackmailed by the victim. Opportunity. Gomez arranged to see him the night of the murder. Means. Diaz worked at the ranch and could easily have stolen the weapon to frame Randall.”
“But you said you didn’t think Diaz killed him,” Steve shot back.
“I could always change my mind,” Emma shrugged. “Now add Armando Carillo to the list. He had a motive. He hated Gomez for schtupping his wife.”
“Schtupping?” Steve raised his eyebrows.
“Not a legal term, but it’s descriptive. As for opportunity,” she continued, “nothing places him at the scene of the crime; but nothing places him anywhere else.”
“We’ll interview him tomorrow and get his story,” Steve replied.
“What about Cardenas?” Emma added. “Motive…” she hesitated. “Gomez threatened him for backing out of the suit. Maybe they argued and Cardenas killed him.”
Steve shook his head. “No opportunity. Nothing places Cardenas at the scene of the crime. And what about the knife? Where did Cardenas get Randall’s knife?”
“Maybe we just don’t know that yet,” was all Emma could reply. “Now add Silas Bugbee to our list,” she continued. “He hates Randall for selling the Burbank plums to the Chinese. What if he thought Gomez’s suit was the reason Curt needed to sell?”
“You mean the Silas Bugbee who works in the permits department?” Steve scoffed. “The guy who looks like he stepped off the set of
Walden Pond
?
Who cries when you ask for a request form? No.”
“He has a motive,” Emma replied. “So he stays on my list. Finally, there’s Rob Peters.”
“Who?” Steve asked.
“Rob Peters. Curt Randall’s only heir,” Emma explained, careful not to disclose what Piers had told her about Randall’s plan to change his will.
“If Peters suspected that all his inheritance might disappear paying off a judgment in the Gomez lawsuit, then Peters had a strong motive to murder Gomez. Particularly before that class action got filed. Peters lives in town so he had the opportunity. And he probably had access to his uncle’s knife which gives him the means to commit the murder.”
“Check it out,” Steve replied.
“I intend to,” Emma answered. “So, now that we have our list of suspects, what’s our plan?”
The plan, Steve explained, was that he and Emma would meet with Armando Carillo later that evening after they checked into their Coachella motel. The next morning, Friday, Emma would meet with Gomez’s widow while Steve met with the numbers man to figure out what the family could claim in the wrongful death action. Emma offered to follow up with Louis Cardenas. The man who’d dropped out of the lawsuit.
Steve had started to explain that he’d also set up a late afternoon visit with Gomez’s brother and his family, when Emma interrupted him.
“Steve,” she said, “I tried to tell you last night. I
have
to go back to Blissburg tomorrow.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s impossible. If we leave after dinner, we’ll be driving all night.
“Then we’ll drive all night,” Emma replied. “You don’t understand. I have to get back. I…” she stammered. “I promised someone. It’s important. Really important.”
“Can’t be done,” Steve scoffed. “What’s so important that we can’t leave Saturday?”
That’s when Emma explained. Or tried to. When she finished, Steve wasn’t convinced.
“Look, Emma,” he began, “it’s obvious this boyfriend of yours is very important to you. And yeah, I know he saved your life. But I got my marriage on the line. I got a wife at home who’s madder than a hornet that I’m missing her nephew’s graduation from nursery school tomorrow in order to help some poor farm worker’s family. My whole marriage is going down the tubes over this case – and I’m supposed to worry about your boyfriend missing his $5000 home cooked meal? Sorry. I just can’t get that excited about it. But if it means that much – and obviously it does – I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We’ll leave at 5:00 am and I’ll have you home by – what? 1:00 on Saturday? OK?”
But Emma knew that was not OK. She shook her head.
“We’ll find an airport,” she replied. “I’ll fly home tomorrow night. Out of Palm Springs.”
As she spoke, her fingers tapped on her cell phone. The last flight out of Palm Springs for San Francisco on Friday left at 7:00 p.m. It cost $400, but she’d be home by 11:00.
“You’ll drop me at the airport? Right?” she asked.
She must have sounded desperate. Steve immediately agreed.
A few minutes later, he pulled into a hot dusty rest stop where he took a couple of Safeway turkey sandwiches and two bags of chips out of a cooler along with a soda and a bottle of water. They sat at a concrete table under the broiling sun and ate while Emma reserved the flight on her phone. A few minutes later, they were hurtling down Highway 5 again.