Tim Green: Above The Law

Just before five, a battered white pickup pulled over in a dusty cloud and two Mexicans wearing cowboy hats drove him to the motel. He cleaned up, then went out for some cold beer. The back window of his room looked out over the scrub brush and some power lines to the west. With his feet up on the open windowsill, he sipped at a couple of forty-ounce King Cobras while the sun bled itself to death in a bed of purple clouds.

After a time he heard ringing in his ears and a pleasant light-headedness settled in. He felt good about how far he'd come and where the immediate future would take him. He felt a little too good actually, but he could sober up a bit with a meal at the Applebee's he'd seen one exit up on Route 45. The food supplies stacked up on the dresser would go to waste, but he hadn't expected to get as close as he had to the house on the very first day. Part of his success with the Kings came because he knew an opportunity when he saw one and he never hesitated to grab it. He'd grab this one.

He packed up the few things he had and pulled on a gray hooded sweatshirt over his T-shirt and jeans. He lay the MAC-10 next to the canvas duffel bag on the bed and banged into the bathroom door on his way to take a leak.

In the mirror he caught sight of himself, the sparkle in his dark eyes, the jaunty smile full of yellow teeth beneath a pencil-thin mustache. He gave himself a wink and bent over to wash his hands when someone began hammering on the front door. He marched across the room and grabbed the door handle.

"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.

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.