Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [109]
The prisoner, who up to now had required a translator, suddenly burst into perfect English. “No, señora,” he begged. “Please. You don’t understand. If they think I have told you anything, they will kill me.”
Joanna shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “That’s your problem and God’s, Mr. Doe, not mine.”
“But what if I do tell you what you want to know?” he asked. “Then will you let me stay?”
“I can’t say because it’s not up to me,” Joanna replied. “I suggest you call your lawyer and talk to him. Have him see what kind of deal he can negotiate. Your attorney may be able to help you. I can’t.”
Turning her back on the prisoner, Joanna walked as far as the door and knocked on it to summon the guard. “We’re leaving now,” she announced as the guard unlocked and opened the door. “If the prisoner wishes to speak to his attorney, let him use the phone.”
“Wait,” the prisoner called after her. “Señora, wait, please. My name is Ramón—Ramón Alvarez Sandoval. I will tell you whatever it is you want to know, but you must understand that the men I work for are evil. If they find out what I have done, they will kill me, and my family, too.”
Joanna stared hard at the prisoner. She wanted to spit in his face and grind it into the ground. Here was a man whose wanton disregard for others had left a total of seven people dead. And yet he was, as she had told Jaime Carbajal earlier, very small potatoes. Drivers were entirely expendable—to both sides. What she really wanted was a list of the names of the people running the syndicate—the ones giving the orders and collecting their blood money while giving not the slightest consideration to the lives that might be lost in the process.
“You’re right,” Ramón added softly a moment later. “I do believe in God, and you do, too.”
Slowly Joanna moved away from the door and returned to the table. Not taking her eyes off Ramón, she sat down across from him. “I am only a sheriff,” she said quietly. “I’m not with INS or the FBI. I’m not a prosecutor. I can’t make plea bargains, and I can promise nothing, but if you help us put the animals you work for out of business—if you will tell us what you know and agree to testify if they can be brought to trial—I will do what I can to help you. Do you understand?”
Ramón nodded. “Yes,” he said.
Joanna looked at Frank Montoya. “Talk to the prosecutor’s office,” she said. “Check with Arlee Jones and see who all needs to be here to witness Mr. Sandoval’s statement—in addition to Mr. Sandoval himself and his attorney, that is. Then set it up for tomorrow if at all possible.”
“But, Sheriff Brady,” Frank began. “There are all kinds of jurisdictional complications here.”
“You’re good at sorting out complications, Chief Deputy Montoya. You always have been. Does this meet with your approval, Mr. Sandoval?”
“Yes,” Ramón said softly.
“Then you’d better talk with your attorney and clear it with him. If he advises you not to go through with this, or if you change your mind, you’re to notify Mr. Montoya here at once. Do you understand?”
“You have given me your word, and I have given mine,” Ramón Sandoval said. “I will not change my mind.”
As Joanna left the jail to walk back to her office, she was not surprised to notice that the sky had darkened overhead. A stiff, cooling breeze took the edge off the July heat and kicked up puffs of dust devils that danced and jigged across the parking lot. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. Joanna couldn’t tell if the sudden lift in her spirits came from the possibility of breaking up a major illegal-alien-smuggling syndicate or from the desert dweller’s hard-wired joy at the prospect of coming rain.
Fifteen minutes later Joanna was back at her desk when Ernie Carpenter once again appeared in her doorway. “How the hell did you pull that one off?” he demanded morosely. “Here we busted our butts to get all those USDA interviews, and you never even bothered to mention them.”
“Didn’t have to,” Joanna said. “All I had to do was let