At this, the defense attorney noticed her client’s pose. She slapped his hands down and whispered in his ear.

  Too late, judging by the expression on his fellow jurors’ faces. They’d seen the body language of an angry man, poised to strangle his victim.

  Just like Peter’s, he realized with horror. Damn it! His hands plummeted to his sides. Luckily, the other jurors seemed focused on Vasquez and Aguilar rather than him—except for Alex and Christine. She winked at him and regarded him with a conspirator’s eyes. Her facial expression conveyed a “Can you believe this?” excitement.

  Alex, though, studied him, one eyebrow arched high. He glimpsed down at Peter’s now-unclenched hands and cocked his head. Peter averted his eyes. He had to be more careful.

  Several seconds passed. Baldwin seemed content to let Aguilar’s comment and Vasquez’s reaction register on the minds of the jurors. Finally, Baldwin cleared his throat and stepped toward the witness. “Miss Aguilar, did Mr. Vasquez do anything unusual in the next two weeks leading up to the murder?”

  Like, follow you when you went out to dinner?

  “Yes.” Aguilar’s shoulders quaked. “All of a sudden, he was everywhere—no longer just coming to chat with me at work. After that day, it was Raul here, there, everywhere.”

  “He followed you?”

  “Yes. He would suddenly appear in the market where I shopped, outside the salon where I got my hair done, in the Starbucks I go to in the mornings. Everywhere.”

  “Did he, to your knowledge, see you and Alvin Dark together outside of Florentino’s?”

  Aguilar glowered at Vasquez, then turned her gaze to the jury box. Peter stiffened. Her eyes drilled into him. “About a week after he made the threat to kill Alvin, he followed me to a restaurant where I met Alvin for lunch. I was surprised—usually Raul works both day and night shift on Wednesdays.”

  “What did he do?”

  The cavernous pools of her dark eyes bored into Peter, as if to lay him open and expose his horrible memories. He sat transfixed, unable to move. “He waited for us outside,” she said. “I saw him as we left. Alvin was driving his Camaro, and Raul followed us in his car.”

  Finally she turned back to Baldwin and broke the spell. Peter sat back in his chair and took his first breath in eons. Sweat leaked from every pore.

  “Are you sure he identified Mr. Dark as the person you were with?” Baldwin asked.

  “Yes.” She set her lips in a firm line. “That night, at work, he said, ‘What are you doing with this gringo?’ He said ‘gringo’ like a swear word. He told me he loved me and that we were right for each other—right in front of Alvin. He told Alvin to stay away from me, or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  Vasquez sat rock-still, hands folded in front of him. Aguilar’s gaze locked on Peter again.

  “He was very angry. He shouted, ‘Stay away from her, gringo, or I will follow you to a dark alley and kill you.”

  Chapter 25

  “I will follow you ... and kill you.”

  Martina Aguilar’s words echoed in the silent courtroom. Peter shrank in his chair and wished she’d look at someone else—another juror, the defendant, anyone. But no—she picked him. Always him.

  The stagnant, humid air became too thick to breathe. His shirt clung to his back and pinched his armpits. He closed his eyes, no longer able to sustain her glare, and massaged his temples. Surely they could all see the guilt on his face. Any moment now they would stop the trial, take him away, and his life would be over—ruined. The people he loved—Mom, Jimmy, Libby, Frankie—would disown him. He’d bring them nothing but shame.

  He shuddered at the horrible prospect of prison, the loss of his home and community, and the shame. The shame, the guilt—he was already doomed to carry that on his conscience for the rest of his life.

  Trembling, he opened his eyes. Nobody was looking at him after all. Everyone focused on the pretty Ms. Aguilar on the witness stand. He needed to do that, too.

  “Mr. Dark was accused of drinking on the job.” Baldwin stepped closer to the witness and spoke in a softer tone of voice, more conversational. “Had you ever witnessed this behavior on his part before?”

  “No, sir, I had not.”

  “Was Mr. Dark acting differently? Strange in any way?” Tap, tap, tap on the legal pad.

  “Alvin was not drinking.” Martina’s face reddened and her body snapped to rigid attention. “Alvin should not have been fired. It was Raul’s fault. His—and mine.”

  The rumbling in the gallery outlasted two impatient gavel raps by Judge Green. Aguilar and Vasquez stared at each other, his gaze touched with a look of betrayal, hers with sadness.

  “Please elaborate, Miss Aguilar,” Baldwin said, louder now.

  “That drink was not Alvin’s,” she said. “Raul asked me to get him a drink. He was upset at me. I thought a drink might help calm him down. So I asked Alvin for a rum and coke—my favorite drink, so he wouldn’t suspect it was Raul’s. I meant to bring it to him, but then some customers entered and I needed to seat them. Raul never picked up that drink and never intended to. Instead he ratted on Alvin to Mr. Brown.” A sneer creased her delicate face.

  “He simply left the drink on the bar for you to take at your leisure?”

  “No. Alvin kept it behind the bar, where he prepares his drinks. Only customer drinks are left on the bar.”

  “Were you present when Mr. Brown confronted Alvin about the drink?”

  “Yes,” she said, red-faced. “Philip grabbed the drink and tasted it. He said, ‘Whose rum and Coke is this?’ Alvin said it was his—to protect me. Philip fired him on the spot.”

  Baldwin angled his body toward the jury. “You didn’t speak up? Straighten them out?”

  “I should have,” she said in a low voice. “But I panicked. Also I thought Raul would deny it. Then Mr. Brown might think it was my drink and fire me. I don’t know. I was confused.”

  Peter let out a quiet hiss. Confused, hell. It wasn’t confusion, it was fear and selfishness. She stood by while her lover took the heat—heat that, in the end, got him killed.

  “Did you speak with Raul about what happened?” Baldwin faced the jury more than the witness.

  “Yes. Alvin left right away, and I confronted Raul.” She glared at Vasquez. “He said I must have misunderstood him—he didn’t want any rum. But he grinned like a dog eating garbage. So proud of himself.”

  “Did this change your relationship with Mr. Vasquez?”

  “Yes. I was very angry with him. I told Raul I would have nothing more to do with him if he was going to betray good people like this.”

  Peter’s huff caught Baldwin’s attention. He didn’t care. Aguilar betrayed Alvin, too. Just like Marcia—well, almost. Close enough.

  “How did Mr. Vasquez respond?” No pen tapping.

  “He became very agitated and said he could not live without me in his life. He said he loved me and that I should be with him instead of men of Alvin’s type. He said I should not date a gringo, and that he and I were the same people—Mexican—so we belonged together.”

  “And your response?” Baldwin turned almost completely away from her.

  Aguilar raised her voice. “I told him, we are not the same people if his way was to hurt and deceive my friends. That I would stay with Alvin—not him.”

  Just like Marcia: a woman wanted by two men, who led one on until push came to shove—and then chose the other man. The interloper.

  “How did Mr. Vasquez respond?”

  Aguilar hesitated. “He ranted and raved, saying I was being foolish, and I should choose him instead. That Alvin was using me and would never love me like he would. He said he’d never accept it—he would do whatever it takes to win me back.”

  Vasquez slumped in his chair. Tears flowed down his face. Peter’s jaw dropped. On trial for a murder he did not commit, Vasquez’s main concern was how this woman hurt him. Crazy.

  “Did you have further contact with Mr. Vasquez between that night and the night of the murder?” Baldwin turned only his head toward her.

  “Very little,” she said. “He called me and left long, rambling messages, saying he was sorry, and he wanted a second chance. He said I should rethink this, and that we would have a wonderful future together.”

  “How would you describe the tone of these messages?”

  “Very emotional. Remorseful, and angry at times. Really... desperate.”

  Baldwin stepped to his desk and checked his notes. Peter’s shoulders tightened. His body ached from being held rigid throughout much of Aguilar’s testimony. He took slow breaths, but they only made him shiver with anticipation.

  “On the night of the murder, when did you first see Alvin Dark?” Baldwin asked.

  “Almost as soon as he entered,” Aguilar said. “He came to see me first, before Mr. Brown. At this point, we had nothing to hide.”

  “Did Raul Vasquez see you together?”

  “Yes. I told Alvin he should just get his paycheck and go, and that Raul was going to be angry if he saw him. Sure enough, he was.”

  Peter uncrumpled his notepad. Of course Vasquez was mad. He saw his woman with another man. That can infuriate a man—make him angry enough to kill. To beat a man bloody, letting the rage pour through his swinging arms, rage relieved only by inflicting great pain on another. Rage that, perhaps, Raul Vasquez shared.

  His victim’s face had registered shock when Peter swung the tire iron at him. Peter had assumed that the attack itself had surprised the man, but perhaps he’d been surprised only by the unknown identity of his attacker. A stranger, rather than his known enemy, Raul.

  “Did you hear any of the argument in the parking lot between Mr. Dark and Mr. Vasquez?” Baldwin remained by his desk.

  “A little. Raul told Alvin to stay away from me or he’d track him down and kill him. Alvin told Raul he was crazy, and to ask me who I want to be with. To stay away from both of us. Things like that.”

  “Did you see Alvin Dark or Raul Vasquez leave the parking lot?”

  “No,” Martina said. “I was inside by then.”

  “When Raul didn’t come back to work that night, weren’t you worried?” Baldwin bounced one end of a pen off his palm.

  “I didn’t notice it at first,” she said. “But Alvin called me while he was driving. He said he was going to go up to his cabin on Mt. Hood for a few days, to get away. I told him I’d join him, but he said no, he needed some alone time. Then, he said he was being followed.”

  Peter froze. His chest was ready to explode.

  Alvin knew he was being followed.

  Chapter 26

  The courtroom faded from Peter’s consciousness. All sights, all smells, all sounds left him—everything except the sight of Martina Aguilar’s bright red lips, straight white teeth, and thin, quick tongue.

  The D.A. asked a question, but he couldn’t make out the words. He made up his own: Could Alvin Dark see Peter following him?

  Martina’s lips moved in slow motion. He did not hear her words so much as channel them: “Yes, he did.” Oh, Christ. He tugged at his shirt collar. The air grew thicker, stuffier. Aguilar’s voice echoed again in his head: “He said he saw Raul’s truck, and recognized him.”

  For some reason, Brenda Connelly stood up. Baldwin stood too, and said something about a “present sense impression.” The judge nodded and pointed at the clerk. They were talking about him. They were on to him.

  He slid lower into his seat. Maybe they wouldn’t see him.

  More vague noises emerged from the direction of the prosecutor. Gibberish.

  “He specifically mentioned seeing Raul’s silver Mazda, weaving in and out of traffic, catching up to him,” Aguilar said.

  Raul’s Mazda? Not a silver Ford Ranger? The two trucks were similar, almost twins. He took silent, shallow breaths. He hoped the other jurors didn’t notice his mouth hanging agape.

  Connelly stood again. Her mouth moved but no words reached Peter’s ears. Baldwin aped her movements a moment later. Peter’s ears remained numb to Connelly’s voice, to Baldwin’s counter-arguments and Judge Green’s resolution of the dispute between the sparring lawyers. Instead he saw the red Camaro, using increasingly aggressive evasive tactics, and his own discreet attempts to follow. He searched his mental picture for Raul’s silver Mazda, but found nothing. Perhaps they’d lost him early, or Raul lost heart mid-chase. Or maybe Raul panicked when Peter’s Ranger entered the mix.

  Martina Aguilar spoke again. “He very clearly described the truck. Silver, with a dark stripe, a late 90’s model with a slight dent in the hood. Raul had caused that dent himself—he had a habit of jumping up to sit on his hood, and he landed too hard one day.”

  Baldwin mumbled another question.

  “He followed pretty closely, but he was having difficulty.” Aguilar’s voice echoed in his head, low and rumbling like a man’s. “Alvin was trying to be unpredictable and hard to follow, hide in front of other vehicles, that sort of thing. But it’s hard to hide a red Camaro.”

  Peter gulped. Alvin Dark probably tried screening his car from Raul behind Peter’s truck. Little did he know who posed the true threat.

  Vague, irritating noises escaped Baldwin’s lips and rebounded off Peter’s ears. Aguilar’s lips moved again. The room shrank.

  “At one point, he thought he lost him.” Aguilar’s voice seemed higher, less distorted. “When he turned onto Old Fairview Road, he said he saw Raul’s car go by in the rearview mirror. But up the road a ways, he saw headlights, and he said, ‘Raul’s picked up my tail again.’”

  Not noticing it was a Ford Ranger rather than a similar Mazda pickup.

  “We had to hang up then,” Aguilar said in response to whatever Baldwin asked her. “The signal was breaking up and Alvin wanted to have both hands on the wheel so he could get away from Raul.”

  From me, Peter corrected her. Not him. Me.

  “What?” Sheila elbowed him. “What do you mean by that?”

  Oops. He must have said that out loud. “Nothing, nothing,” he whispered back. As he spoke, Martina Aguilar’s body reappeared behind her red lipstick, and his view expanded to include the courtroom, the judge, the prosecutor, and his fellow jurors.

  His breathing steadied but remained labored. His parched mouth ached for water and his temples dripped with sweat. His fellow jurors seemed closer than before.

  Vasquez came back into focus. He spoke into his attorney’s ear, his hands circling in the air. Peter knew what he was saying: He missed the turn. He didn’t follow him up there.

  He relaxed his rigid back and pried his fingers off his knees. Poor Raul. He’d followed Alvin Dark just long enough to get spotted and give Peter cover. Vasquez, in effect, framed himself for this murder—a murder he intended to commit, but failed to execute. A murder Peter didn’t intend to commit, but did, on the wrong, doomed man.

  “Did you hear from Alvin again?” Baldwin asked Aguilar a few moments later. His clear, baritone voice sounded normal again.

  “No.” Aguilar shook her head.

  “At that time, it had been over twelve hours since you’d heard from Alvin Dark. Were you concerned?”

  “Not yet. As I mentioned, he said he was going out of town, and needed alone time. Also, he liked to sleep in.”

  Peter wiped his sweaty forehead. Nobody paid him any attention, thank God—if they did, they’d find guilt written all over his face. Unlike his older brother, who could smooth-talk the devil into buying central heat, Peter had no poker face. In sixth grade, he denied writing “Susie sucks the big one” on the bathroom wall. For scribbling the insult, he received one detention. For lying he got three—and a beating from his father. Ever since, he’d always preferred to take his chances with candor, or silence.

  Under these circumstances, silence seemed the wiser course.

  Baldwin probed Aguilar further about the events of the days following the murder. After several minutes, he gave his notes a final scan and said, “No more questions of this witness, your honor.” An audible sigh of relief sounded from both the witness and the jury box.

  Judge Green ordered a recess, and the jury hurried out. “That coffee’s running right through me,” Larry said, but he insisted that Dolores precede him into the restroom. “She’s diabetic,” he reminded them. The other jurors squirmed a little, waiting.

  Peter approached the bailiff. “Mr. Williams, is it okay if I catch a little air?”

  “Sure,” Williams said. “But don’t be late getting back. Murder trials wait for no man.”

  He rushed out the door and broke into a slow jog down the courthouse hallway. He glanced at the elevator and smothered a gag. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly twisting an ankle at one point as his momentum built to an incautious, breakneck speed.

  By the time he reached the exit, he was breathing hard, and with every breath he expelled air heavier than he inhaled. Only when he made it outside did the feeling of suffocation subside. He bent over to catch his breath and ignored the chattering urbanites passing by on their way to meetings, coffee shops and downtown boutiques.

  Gray clouds filled the sky, threatening rain. Food wrappers, leaves, and torn newspapers swirled in the insistent chill wind. Nevertheless, sweat poured out of his overheated body. He gulped the fresh, cool air into his lungs, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and unfastened the next button on his thin cotton shirt. He shivered—whether from the cold or at the prospect of going back inside, he didn’t know.

  He leaned against the gray stone wall of the courthouse and inhaled the familiar scent of second-hand smoke. Very familiar. Kools—Marcia’s brand. That reminded him—he hadn’t called her about Mom’s most recent stroke. As if she’d care.

  Another whiff of smoke drifted past. He traced the smoke to an older gentleman, also wearing a “JUROR” tag on his belt, on break from a different case. Further up the street, however...

  Like an apparition, Marcia walked towards him from the direction of the parking garage.

  With a man. The man he’d thought he’d killed.

  Peter collapsed against the courthouse wall. His stomach turned into a ball of thorny vines, old and dried and brittle, hurting in all directions. He felt cornered, like a hunted animal.

 

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