Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (4 page)

Due to the fractious nature of the parties involved in the case, police have kept a lid on both the investigation and information regarding which Travis County facility Martinez is being housed at. The defendant is being kept in solitary confinement for his own protection, and extra security measures have been in effect at the downtown Travis County courthouse throughout the duration of the trial. The Statesman will continue to follow the story as it develops and bring you the latest information on the reading of a verdict. Simply follow the story online at…

My heart beats double time as I read, imagining Juan being in that kind of danger. I try to imagine what it would be like to fear for your physical safety every moment of every day. Wonder what it would be like if the person who just walked into the room was trying to kill you. What if you had to watch every face for signs that he was the one who was going to end your life? What kind of person would you become when you lived like that every day? Would you ever feel normal again? Can you ever see the world the same way after that?

I close the computer and stare out the window over the desk. The trees outside are swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze, and the sky is full of big, puffy, white clouds. I look down at my hands, surprised to see them shaking. I swallow, my throat so dry it’s painful. It occurs to me that I might be in mild shock. I know Juan was in a gang. I know he was in prison. But it crystalizes for me that it was all theoretical until this moment. Now that I’ve seen him, talked to him, read some of the details of what happened to him, it’s real. Too real. So real that I’m not sure what my stunned soul should do with it all.

Mentally and emotionally exhausted, I move over to the bed and lie down, curling in a ball and hugging my pillow like a lover. For a long time, I stay that way—motionless, feeling nothing. Then, finally, when I think maybe sleep will simply take over, the tears start. They aren’t hard tears. They don’t submerge me, but rather envelope, welling up from someplace deep inside and sliding out to coat everything until I feel saturated—inside and out. It’s a painful, quiet sensation. Not a sharp pain, but a crushing pain, the kind of weight that attaches and then travels with you, day after day, year after year. Juan’s life isn’t the sort of thing you ugly-cry about. It’s too dark and too serious for that. It isn’t a soap opera or an in-your-face reality TV show. Juan’s life is a tragedy, pure and simple.

The drops of salt water roll slowly down my cheeks as my heart presses against my rib cage so hard that it aches. When I close my eyes, I see the boy I knew as a child. I remember his mother and the way he used to hug her when she’d come to pick him up after a playdate with David. “
Te he echado de menos
,” he would tell her—
I missed you
.

I think about the man I saw at the halfway house, his hard eyes when he first looked at me and then the way the brittle layer cracked open when he laughed, his full lips turning up and revealing the perfect, white teeth that are so familiar to me. I try to reconcile those memories with the story of his trial, his imprisonment, and most of all, his crime. Could that sweet, loving boy I watched grow into a talented young man possibly have shot and killed a child? Would he have hidden behind the sturdy metal of a one-ton machine and gunned down an unprotected innocent?

And can I really yearn to be around a person like that? I fear the answer to that last question—it’s ‘yes.’ He is all I’ve been able to think about since I saw him. Like there’s some sort of magnet that pulls me back to memories of him, questions about him, feelings for him, over and over. My stomach churns at the idea that I could possibly be attracted to someone who would murder, someone who could kill without remorse. Can I be that woman? One of the women I’ve studied and taught and fought for? A woman who has so little faith in herself and her values that she would give them up at the drop of a hat for a beautiful man who paid her attention?

The answer has to be ‘no.’

I make it ‘no.’

I reassure myself—I’m not weak; I never have been. I’ve never relied on a man for my self-esteem. I’ve had my share of boyfriends, but I’ve never needed approval from any of them. I’ve lived my life the way I wanted, believed the things I wanted, been who I wanted. I respect myself, my opinions, the Beth who lives deep inside and makes decisions about people and events I encounter.

I simply don’t believe that Juan is the man the newspapers talked about. The boy I know is still inside somewhere. He may have strayed, but I know deep in the very fibers of my being—he isn’t lost. A man who would gun down a child is lost, and Juan isn't. He might be buried beneath the years of suffering and deprivation, but he isn’t lost.

As the sky outside darkens and eventually turns to night, I make a decision. I’m going to find Juan—the real Juan. I’m going to bring him back from the dark, deep place of pain and punishment he’s been living in since that fateful day when he was seventeen.
I
know who he is. I’m going to remind
him
who he is, and then I’m going to make sure the world knows him too.

I’
VE
got an appointment with the vocational counselor they’ve set up for me. He’s supposed to help me decide what kinds of jobs I should apply for after my cuff gets removed. I don’t know why the hell I need to see a vocational counselor for that. It’s no mystery after all. I’m a convicted, violent felon with a history of gang involvement that goes back to before my eighteenth birthday. I don’t have a real high school diploma and no job experience beyond the lawn mowing and soccer coaching I did in high school. About the only job someone like me gets is a dishwasher or a parking lot attendant. And if you're on the run from the RH, it had better be a job off the books and out of sight as well.

The guy meets me in the former garage of the halfway house that’s been remodeled into an office. He’s about thirty-five and Latino. I’m sure they set me up with him intentionally. The penal system is always very conscious of my ethnicity.

“How you doing, man?” he asks as he puts his hand out when I enter the room.

I shake his hand and give him a chin tip but don’t answer verbally.

“I’m Navarro,” he sits and motions for me to do the same. We’re separated by a small, round conference table, all sorts of papers stacked in the center of it.

“Juan,” I answer as I slouch in my seat.

“They told you we’re here to talk about what kinds of jobs you can look for once the cuff comes off?”

“Yeah, man.”

He picks up a piece of paper and a pen. “Let’s start by finding out what kind of work experience you’ve got. Tell me the last two or three jobs you had before you went in.”

“Let’s see.” I rub my chin like I’m really considering the whole thing.

What a crock of shit.

“I was a
regional administrator
for the RH. That involved
managing
six employees…you know, the teenagers we sent out to make the deals? And see, I kept track of who was going to which high school to push poison on the kids. Then, if they didn’t sell their quota, I’d impose corporate incentive plans—things like threatening their mothers and sisters. If someone’s employee evaluation wasn’t satisfactory, the company was pretty clear about the consequences, and it usually started with damage to your family and ended with damage to your body.”

I pause to see what the guy’s reaction will be. I figure, if I’m lucky, he’ll be pissed enough to bounce me on out of here and I’ll get to go work on the plants some more.

He raises an eyebrow then leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Nice try,” he chuckles. “Really. You know where your mistake was though?”

I glare at him.

“The fact that you even know what an incentive plan or an employee evaluation is. Don’t waste your time and mine, Juan. I’ve seen your records—all of them. Elementary school, middle school, high school, the court records, your first arrest at eighteen, all the way up through your incarceration and on to what you ate for dinner last night. I already know you’re smart, and I know you’re not a typical gangbanger. Why don’t you cut the crap and let’s figure out a way to get you back in the world with a chance at a normal life.”

I shake my head for a moment until I meet his eyes. “
Odalay, vato
. Do a lot of homeboys fall for that? ‘Cause you’re right—I’m smart. Smart enough to know that there ain’t no
normal
life waiting for me out there. I’m a felon. I was convicted in the murder of
child
, man. A tiny little girl whose worst offense in this life was playing with her dolls in the wrong front yard at the wrong damn time. No one, and I mean no one, is going to give
me
a normal life.”

He meets my gaze with a firm, unyielding expression, his jaw set and his lips tight. He slides the pen and paper toward me. “Write down the last two jobs you had before you went in.”

I roll my eyes and pick up the pen. I look down at the sheet where there are four spaces for each job—title, employer, length of employment, and list of duties. I sit up straight, and write carefully.

1. Lawn boy. The neighbors. Sixth grade through eleventh grade. I mowed grass with a machine that I pushed.

2. Soccer Coach. Floresville Youth Soccer League. Summer after eleventh grade. I coached soccer to little kids. Like the one I went to prison for helping kill.

I smirk and slide the sheet back over to him. Navarro doesn’t bat an eye as he reads what I’ve written. He pushes the paper to the side and takes the next one off the top of the pile, sending it toward me just like he did the first.

“I know you got a GED while you were in. Write down any other courses you took. Even stuff you studied on your own. Could be online gambling, how to seduce a woman in thirty days, whatever. You never know when something you’re interested in could be a marketable skill.”

I sigh. The guy just isn’t going to give up. All I want to do is get my dishwashing job and a studio apartment then rinse and repeat in a different town every few months until the RH forgets about my ass and my parole is served. If I can stay alive and under everyone’s radar long enough, there’s a chance I could live in peace. Maybe even visit my mother someday. But fuck it. I don’t have anything the hell else to do, so I fill out his useless damn form.

1. Coursework completed – Web design I and II. AutoCAD Gaming design I and II. App development I. Translation specialist certification (Spanish). Psychology 101, 201, and 301. Landscape design I and II. Botany 101, 201, and 320. Drawing 101 and 102. Painting I, II, and III. Precalculus. Trigonometry. Biology II.

2. Other experience and studies – Plants. I read a lot about plants.

I push the paper back at him. He studies it, his lips pressing together tighter and tighter as he goes along. Finally, he looks up at me, eyes blazing.

“You’re really trying to screw yourself over, aren’t you?”

“Whatever, man,” I mutter, watching him cautiously.

He sits back. “You serious? You’re halfway to a college degree and you’re not going to cooperate with vocational placement? You’ve got a fucking translation certificate? You know how hard it is to get one of those? People go to college for years and can’t pass that exam.”

I shrug. “I grew up speaking Spanish. It’s not rocket science.”

“You grew up speaking kitchen Spanish,
1
vato
. It’s not the same thing. Plenty of native speakers don’t pass the test the first time.”

I shrug again.

“So, you like plants? I see the landscape design, the botany, all that.”

“Yeah, they’re okay,” I mumble, not wanting to let on about my secret fascination.

“You ever thought about a job in a nursery? Working with plants? You’d be outdoors, wouldn’t have to deal with customers too much—I mean, no offense homez, but you don’t seem like much of a people person.” He smirks, and I can’t help but crack a small smile.

“I don’t know, maybe. Or maybe I just wanna wash dishes at a restaurant somewhere. Isn’t that what guys like me do? Spend eight hours a day up to our elbows in dirty dishes in the far back of the kitchen where we can’t see no one and they can’t see us? Then we stand around out in the back alley and smoke some cigs during our breaks.”