The Perk (41 page)

Now, once the line started, she could not leave
her place to eat or to go to the bathroom. She could not allow the turkeys to
go past with the shit still in their bowels. She drank no water before her
shift so she would not have to pee during her twelve hours on the line. She
did not like to squat at her place on the line and pee into the pile of turkey
shit on the concrete floor, even though all of the workers on the day shift line
were also Mexican women and they also squatted to pee.

But she would not make it until end of shift.

She did not want to
pee in her clothes because she would then be cold
and
wet. So she
quickly yanked her pants and underwear down below her bottom, grabbed hold of
the rail, and squatted. She peed into turkey shit, being careful not to pee
into her rubber boots. When she finished, she stood and pulled her underwear
and pants back up and glanced around. She had peed on the floor many times,
but still she was embarrassed by such a public act; but none of the other
workers had even noticed. Their eyes had never left the turkeys.

Today, they were processing free-range turkeys.

She had missed five
turkeys while she peed. Perhaps quality control would push the shit out of
those birds; perhaps not. They came down the line so fast; she had less than
three seconds to push the shit from each bird because the next bird was already
upon her. Working the line was all about the speed:
¡Más rápido! ¡Más rápido!
¡Más rápido!
And injuries. Many workers suffered the injuries. But no
one ever complained or missed a day of work; to complain or miss work was to
get fired.

Maria did not like pushing shit out of turkeys, but
it was much better than working on the kill line or the evisceration line, standing
in turkey blood or guts all day, or cutting the heads and paws off the
turkeys. There were many injuries on those lines, and Maria often threw up.
She only threw up sometimes pushing the shit out, usually when she was pregnant.

She wanted to have another baby.

Rafael said they now could. Tonight would also
be his last shift at the plant. He was right now in the changing room putting
on his white suit and rubber boots and gloves; he worked on the night cleanup
shift. For the next twelve hours he would scrub and clean and wash down the
line. She would kiss Rafael on her way out. But when he returned home
tomorrow morning, they would be free of the turkey line. They would be free of
the barrio. They would be free-range Mexicans, Rafael had said.

The day-shift line
started at exactly 3:00
A.M.
each day and did not stop until the clock on the wall again
showed 3:00. It
had never stopped before end of shift in her nineteen years. But now,
suddenly, the turkeys stopped. They swayed gently there for a moment, hanging
by their necks on the line, then fell still. The entire plant had fallen
still. The workers stood frozen in place, as if life had stopped.

The line had stopped.

Maria looked at the clock: 2:56.

Seven blocks north of the turkey plant, Beck checked his
watch: 2:57. Chicago was in the same time zone as Texas. He picked up the
phone and dialed. When the receptionist at his old law firm answered, he asked
for Ruth Moore and was put on hold.

Heidi Geisel had not been murdered by a local
from Fredericksburg, an illegal from Mexico, or a college boy from Austin. She had been murdered by a movie star from Hollywood. A movie star who had given her
a lethal dose of cocaine and then had sex with her, a man who was more than
three years older than Heidi. Which made him guilty of murder and statutory
rape. A murder conviction was unlikely, but his DNA made a statutory rape conviction
a certainty. A movie star was going to prison—if Beck found him in the next
fifty-nine days, obtained a DNA sample, had it tested and matched to the DNA from Heidi's body, and got the grand jury to indict him.

He needed DNA samples from five of the biggest
movie stars in Hollywood. But how does one go about getting a movie star's DNA? Do you walk up to him at the Academy Awards with a DNA Saliva Collection Kit and ask him to
open wide, stick a swab inside his mouth and obtain a sample of his saliva, and
then place the swab in an evidence bag and say, "Thank you"?

Do you push the buzzer on the intercom outside
the entrance gates to his Hollywood mansion and request a urine sample?

Do you call his Hollywood agent and ask for a
publicity photo and a vial of blood?

Beck didn't think so.

And issuing a subpoena for a DNA sample was out of the question. First, Beck was a judge, not a cop; he wasn't supposed to be
investigating the murder of his buddy's daughter. So while he would officially
have jurisdiction over the case once a suspect was indicted, he was not
officially on the case.

Second, there was the Fourth Amendment to the
U.S. Constitution: "No Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause …" And there was no probable cause for a search warrant to obtain a DNA sample from any of those movie stars. The mere fact that Heidi and those five stars had all
been in Austin on the night Heidi had died did not add up to anything
resembling probable cause. He had no evidence placing Heidi in the company of
any of those stars, other than Kim's statement that Heidi had sat down at Teddy
Bodeman's table in a Sixth Street bar.

And third, even if a Texas judge issued a
subpoena, a California judge would have to enforce it; and no California judge
would enforce it against a movie star with high-powered California lawyers who
put that judge in office and could take him out.

Beck could not go through the normal legal
channels.

He needed DNA samples from five stars: Teddy
Bodeman, Joe Raines, Eddie Steele, Zeke Adams, and Chase Connelly. Heidi had had
intercourse with one of them that night, he was sure of it. One of their DNA matched the DNA found inside Heidi. He had researched them on the Internet. They all ranged
in age from twenty-nine through thirty-eight. They all had been big stars five
years ago. They all were married and had suffered rumors of drug use. They
all had been in Austin that night. They all had DNA.

One was shooting a film in Chicago.

Unlike polygamists in Utah, lawyers in the U.S. may legally have two wives: the one at home and the one at the office; the latter is
called a secretary. Most lawyers only have sex with the one at home. Ruth
Moore had been Beck's wife at work. She had taken care of every aspect of his
professional life. She had typed documents, filed pleadings, arranged
conferences (office and phone), scheduled lunches, meetings, and travel, ran
errands, and shopped for presents for his children and his other wife at home.
For seventeen years, any activity that wasn't worth $800 an hour had been
delegated to Ruth Moore. She answered.

"Beck, my God! How are you?"

"We're doing better. How are you,
Ruth?"

"I'm fine. How are the children?"

"Luke's still pretty quiet and Meggie …"

"The doll?"

"Yeah."

"Are you practicing?"

"No. I'm judging."

"You're a judge?"

"It was that or work at the Wal-Mart."

"Close call. Must be pretty boring, a
small-town judge."

"Not as boring as you might think. Which
is why I'm calling you. I need your help."

"Sure, Beck, anything."

"It's a long story, but bottom line I'm
trying to get someone's DNA sample."

"Someone here at the firm?"

"No. Zeke Adams."

"
Zeke Adams?
Are you serious? Why?"

"I am serious, and Ruth, you don't want to
know why."

"You want me to get his DNA?"

"He's filming a movie in Chicago."

"In downtown. All the girls go over at
lunch and watch."

"Are you going today?"

"Yes."

"Can you get close to him?"

"They put up barricades, but he comes over
and signs autographs and takes pictures. He's real nice."

"Good. Take a plastic bag and tongs—you
still got a pair in your desk?"

"Of course."

"Okay, take them and watch Zeke. Look for
anything that might have his DNA on it."

"Like what?"

"Chewing gum, hair, cigarette butt, saliva,
blood …"

"Blood?"

"Well, don't cut him. Just watch him
closely. If he spits out gum, use the tongs, pick it up, put it in the bag,
and overnight the bag to me at the Gillespie County Courthouse in Fredericksburg, Texas. Can you do that?"

"I can do that. When will you tell me what
this is about?"

"One day, Ruth. And thanks."

"Beck … take care of yourself."

Beck hung up, then dialed again. One movie star
down, four to go. They all lived in L.A. And Beck knew a guy in L.A., a private investigator he had used in a corporate espionage case. The guy had gone
dumpster diving to get the evidence Beck needed to win the case. He answered
on the first ring.

"Wes, Beck Hardin."

"Beck, how long's it been?"

Wes was yelling. No doubt he was driving the L.A. freeways in his Mustang convertible.

"Five, six years!"

Now Beck was yelling.

"You don't gotta yell!"

"Sorry. Wes, I need your services."

"You got 'em, buddy. What do you
need?"

"DNA."

"My specialty. From who?"

"Eddie Steele, Joe Raines, Teddy Bodeman,
and Chase Connelly."

"I hear you right? You want me to get DNA from four of the biggest stars in Hollywood?"

"And I need it yesterday. When you get a
sample—and I know you will—put it in a plastic bag and overnight it to
me."

Beck gave Wes the courthouse address.

"Texas? The hell you doing in Texas?"

"It's a long story."

"Same rules apply?"

The rules: Wes wouldn't ask Beck why he wanted
their DNA, and Beck wouldn't ask Wes how he got their DNA.

"Yeah."

Wes yelled, "I'll get it!"

And Wes would.

Julio Espinoza looked at the time: 3:29.

He sat invisible in the back corner of the classroom
with the other Latinos while the old German teacher taught the Anglo students
sitting up front. The only time she came to the back and talked to Julio was
right before the state achievement tests. "We need you, Julio!" she
would say. Yes, they needed his perfect score to bring up the Latinos' average
and to make the Anglos look good with the state: "See, we are teaching
our Mexicans!" Two million dollars in the bank did not alter the fact
that to the Anglos, he was still just a Mexican.

The bell rang. Everyone rushed to the door as
if the fire alarm had gone off. Julio was the last student to exit the room.

"Hi, Julio."

He turned and stared into the blue eyes of Nikki
Ernst. He said hi as well as he could through his wired jaws. Nikki appeared
very beautiful in her cheerleader outfit; there was a football game that night.
Julio breathed her in and felt faint.

"When will you get the wires off?"

Julio held up one finger.

"One week? That's great! Just in time for
homecoming."

Not that Julio was going to homecoming. Not
that any of the Latinos were going to homecoming. Nikki stepped closer; Julio
stepped back until he was pressed against the metal lockers that lined the
hall. She touched his arm; he felt his body come alive.

"Julio, I never said how sorry I am for
saying what I did about you that day in court. But I really am. Sorry. Slade's
dad and that mean old Stutz, they scared me, said it was up to me to save Slade's
football career and our football season. But I still shouldn't have done it.
Can you ever forgive me?"

Julio nodded.

"Julio, have you asked anyone to the homecoming
dance?"

Julio shook his head.

"Well, no one's asked me."

Julio said, "Ade!"

"
Ade?
Oh, you mean Slade?"

Julio nodded.

"I'm not going with him to the dance or
anywhere else. We broke up. So, Julio, you want to take me to the homecoming
dance?"

Julio's heart
fluttered. But his mind worked. He pulled out his notepad and wrote:
What
about your friends?
Nikki was reading as he wrote.

"Well, if they don't accept you, they're
not my friends, are they? You know what, Julio, I'm ready to get out of this
town."

Julio wrote again:
What
about your parents?
Nikki again read as he wrote.

"Yeah, my parents will go apeshit. But I'm
eighteen years old and I'm an adult, just like Judge Hardin said. I'm making
my own decisions now. So they'll just have to get over it. I like you and I
want to go to homecoming with you."

Julio was suddenly struck with fear. Nikki saw
it in his face. She said, "Now don't be afraid. You don't have to come
to my house. I'll pick you up, okay?"

But Julio's fear at that precise moment was not of
Nikki's German parents. His fear was more immediate. His fear was of Slade McQuade's
massive body coming down the hall at a quick pace and directly toward Julio
Espinoza. He pointed. Nikki spun around just as Slade arrived almost at a
run. She stuck her hand out like the crossing guard to the cars outside the
school. Her hand hit Slade stomach high.

"Stop, Slade! You leave Julio alone! I
mean it!"

Slade ignored her. "Julio, I heard my dad
and Stutz talking last night. They're gonna raid the turkey plant today. And
the barrio. That ICE."

Julio scratched on
his notepad:
When?
He showed the pad to Slade.

"They said at shift change."

Julio sucked in air too quickly, and he began
choking and then coughing. It became worse, more violent coughing. He
couldn't breathe. He tried desperately to open his mouth for air, but he could
not. His body was making a high-pitched wheezing noise as he fought to
breathe.