shootings and gang wars over drug turf were commonplace in Glory’s world, but she didn’t dare mention it. As for the police mistaking a lost motorist for a drive-by shooter, that was unlikely. It was obvious that Consuelo thought her son was the center of the universe. It would do no good to point out that an innocent boy wouldn’t be likely to sport gang paraphernalia and tattoos. It was fairly obvious that Consuelo didn’t have a clue as to her son’s true nature.
“He’s very good-looking,” Glory said, feigning innocence.
“Yes,” Consuelo said, smiling absently. “Just like his father.”
Glory had lost track of the good-looking muscular boys who’d passed through her office on their way to prison. The whole culture of low-income teens seemed to glorify doing time, as if it were a status symbol for young men. She recalled a social crusader who went into the poor sections of town trying to convince gang members to give up their lives of crime and become useful members of society. In other words, give up the thousands of dollars they made running drugs or manufacturing them to work behind a counter in a fast-food store for minimum wage.
Someone who had never seen the agonizing poverty that produced criminals had no idea how difficult it was to break out of the mold. She’d lost track of the number of poor mothers with absent husbands trying to raise multiple children alone on a minimum wage salary, often with health problems as well. The older children had to help take care of the younger ones. Frustrated by their home lives, when they lacked attention there, they found it in a gang. There were so many gangs. Many were international. Each had its own colors, tattoos, hand signals and methods of wearing clothing to express their particular affiliations publicly. Most police departments had at least one officer whose specialty was the gang culture. Glory knew the basics, because she’d had to prosecute gang members for drug peddling, homicides, burglaries and other felonies. She never stopped feeling rage at the conditions that produced the crime.
She glanced at Consuelo. “Is Marco your only child?” she asked suddenly.
Consuelo hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before she turned. “Yes,” she replied. She noted Glory’s curiosity. “I had health problems,” she added quickly.
Glory smiled convincingly. “He’s a very nice young man,” she replied. “He doesn’t seem the least bit spoiled by being an only child.”
Consuelo relaxed and returned the smile. “No. He certainly wasn’t spoiled.” She went back to her canning.
Glory filed the conversation away. She didn’t know of one single family among the immigrants who had less than three children. Many deplored contraception. Perhaps it was true that Consuelo had health problems. But it was curious that she had only one child, and that she seemed so intelligent when she was working at a job that didn’t require much education.
That went double for Rodrigo, the educated bit. Glory couldn’t figure him out. He seemed the least likely person to be working as a manual laborer. It disturbed her that he’d given jobs to men like Castillo and Marco. Neither of the young men looked like farm hands. They were too savvy.
What if, she asked herself, Rodrigo was himself on the wrong side of the law? The question shocked her. He seemed so honest. But, she recalled, she’d prosecuted at least two people whose integrity was attested to by a veritable parade of character witnesses. But the criminals were only adept at putting on an act. A very convincing act, at that. Very often, people could be the exact opposites of their assumed roles.
Rodrigo might even be an illegal himself. Glory’s stepbrother, Jason Pendleton, was sympathetic to all sorts of people. He might have felt sorry for Rodrigo and given him the job out of sympathy.
What if Rodrigo was illegal, and mixed up in drug trafficking? She felt sick inside. What would she do? Her duty would be to turn him in and make sure he was prosecuted. She, of all people, knew the anguish drug dealers could cause parents. She knew the source of the drug money as well—upstanding, greedy businessmen who wanted to make a fortune fast, without putting too much effort into it. They didn’t see the families whose lives were torn apart by the effects of crystal meth or cocaine or methodone. They didn’t have to bury promising children, or watch their loved ones suffer through rehabilitation. They didn’t have to visit those children in prison. The money men didn’t care about all that. They just cared about their profit.
Could Rodrigo be one of those businessmen? Could he be a drug dealer, using the farm as a cover?
Her heart sank. Surely not. He was kind. He was intelligent and caring. He couldn’t be mixed up in that terrible business. But what, her conscience asked, if he was? If she knew, if she had proof, could she live with herself if she didn’t turn him in? Could she do that?
“My, what a long face!” Consuelo chided.
Glory caught herself and laughed self-consciously. “Is that how I look? Sorry. I was thinking about all that fruit waiting for us in the warehouse.”
Consuelo rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it the truth!”
They returned to casual conversation, and Glory put away her suspicions.
THAT EVENING, SHE SAT in the porch swing listening to the musical sound of crickets nearby. It was a sultry night, but not too hot. She closed her eyes and smelled jasmine on the night air. It had been a while since she’d been in a porch swing. She tried not to remember sitting beside her father on long summer nights and asking him about days past, when he was a little boy going to local rodeos. He knew all the famous bull riders and bronc riders, and often had invited them to the house for coffee and cake. Her mother hadn’t liked that. She considered such people beneath her station in life and deliberately absented herself when they came to the house. She felt her father’s sadness even now, years later…
The screen door opened and Rodrigo came outside. He paused to light a thin cigar before he turned toward Glory.
“The mosquitoes will eat you alive,” he cautioned.
She’d already killed two of the pesky things. “If they’re willing to sacrifice their lives to suck my blood, let them.”
He chuckled. He walked toward her and paused at the porch rail, looking out over the flat landscape in the distance. “It’s been a long time since I had time to worry about mosquitoes,” he mused. “Do you mind?” he indicated the empty place beside her.
She shook her head and he sat down, jostling the swing for a few seconds before he kicked it back into a smooth rhythm.
“Have you always worked on the land?” she asked him conversationally.
“In a sense,” he replied. He blew out a puff of smoke. “My father had a ranch, when I was a boy. I grew up with cowboys.”
She smiled. “So did I. My father took me to the rodeos and introduced me to the stars.” She grimaced. “My mother hated such people. She gave my father a bad time when he invited them to come and have coffee. But he did all the cooking, so she couldn’t complain that he was making work for her.”
He glanced at her. “What did your mother do?”
“Nothing,” she said coldly. “She wanted to be a rich man’s wife. She thought my father was going to stay in rodeo and bring home all that nice prize money, but he hurt his back and quit. She was furious when he bought a little farm with his savings.”
She didn’t mention that
