The Benefit of the Doubt
by J. B. Hogan
part 1 of 2
“Listen, sir,” Detective Sergeant Jesus “Chuy” Guajardo told his superior officer, Lieutenant Vicente Carranza, “you’ve got to let me talk to Emiliano before we bring him down. He’s been on the force too long to deserve less than a chance to explain himself.”
“And,” the lieutenant added, “he’s been your friend for even longer than that.”
“Our friendship has nothing to do with the case,” Chuy countered.
“Come on,” Carranza disagreed, “anybody else you would’ve brought down long ago.”
Chuy shook his head, formulated a response, but the lieutenant pushed on. “We brought you into IA, Guajardo,” he said, “because of your unquestioned reputation. You may be the cleanest cop the department has ever had.”
Chuy lowered his head.
“But,” the lieutenant added, “your friendship with this proven dirty cop is clouding your judgment, and it’s making you and us look bad. There can be no hint, not a whisper, of favoritism or anything else negative regarding Internal Affairs. You know that.”
“Yes, sir,” Chuy said, “but this is different.”
“How?”
“Just let me talk to him. Emiliano will listen to me.”
“We know you go back to academy days together,” Lieutenant Carranza said, “but your friend has been throwing his weight around with the locals, running thugs in the neighborhoods. He may have been a great cop once, but now he’s got to go down.”
“If I can just see him, talk to him, lieutenant,” Chuy repeated himself.
“You have one chance,” Carranza said brusquely, turning his back on Chuy. “We shipped him down to El Centro on a temporary assignment. Go see him. Convince him to come in on his own. And don’t let him take you with him if he won’t. You’re walking on thin ice as it is.”
“Yes, sir,” Chuy. “I’ll drive down today.”
“Get to it, then,” Carranza said, ending the conversation with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Go.”
* * *
The heat increased exponentially as Chuy drove down out of the mountains into the western edges of the Imperial Valley. He turned on the air conditioning but found himself sweating anyway. He was not looking forward to confronting his long-time friend Emiliano Zaragoza. They had been through a lot together. Gangs, drug busts, murders.
They had weathered many a storm, fought side by side to uphold the law. But slowly Emiliano had changed, began to disappear for long stretches of time during their assigned shifts, was rumored to be associating with “connected” dealers, shakers, and other unsavory characters. Chuy had warned his partner but to no avail. Now Emiliano had been exiled to El Centro and he, Chuy, had to convince his friend to give himself up voluntarily or be arrested. It was as clear cut as that.
Wiping beads of perspiration off his forehead, Chuy noticed that the outside heat was overpowering the air conditioning inside the car. It got hotter and hotter and he sweated more and more. The sun beating down caused the highway before him to waver and wobble, so much so that it looked as if water were floating above and over the road.
Blinking in the bright light, Chuy drove on, watching the watery apparition on the road dance and bob ahead, always fading as the car neared it, always reappearing further up ahead. Chuy shook his head as if to knock cobwebs out of his mind and tried not to focus on the unfolding mirage ahead.
As he neared the community of Plaster City, an unexpected collection of industrial buildings in the middle of nowhere north of the highway, Chuy began to feel something more than the heat, something odd. The heat waves on the road ahead began to dance vertically now, like a wet curtain swaying back and forth, up and down, mesmerizing, tantalizing, strange.
Unlike the earlier mirages, this wavering curtain seemed to be coming towards him rather than receding as his vehicle sped towards it. It was getting closer and closer. Chuy eased up on the gas but there was no way to stop in time. Instinctively ducking his head, Chuy drove right through the curtain.
“Dios mío!” he cried out. “My God!”
* * *
Heat waves shimmered ahead, floating and dancing like a phantom stream hovering over the trail, tiny sparkles of light glistening from crushed rock in the roadbed. For several moments, Chuy struggled to find his bearings, to clear his mind.
On either side of him rode heavily-armed men wearing large Mexican sombreros. They were on horseback. How odd, Chuy thought, only to realize that he, too, was astride a powerful horse thundering down the trail.
“Ay,” he cried out, “¿Qué es esto? What is this?”
Yet he rode easily, comfortably, in the small vaquero’s saddle tied firmly to the back of the snorting, puffing horse. Ahead, he saw a small, white-washed, stucco house — more of a hut — some fifty meters off to the right of the trail.
“Aquí, jefe,” a rider beside Chuy called out.
¿Jefe? Boss of what? Chuy wondered to himself.
Slowing the pace of their horses, he and the other riders — he could see there were four others with him — left the trail. Headed towards the little house.
“This is it, jefe,” said the rider beside Chuy, as if “it” had some clear meaning that only Chuy was not aware of.
“It?” Chuy asked. “‘It’ what?”
“This is the place of the traitor to Emiliano,” the other man explained, with a raised eye for Chuy. “You are having second thoughts?”
“Uh...” Chuy began. “Emiliano sent us to do this?”
“Sí,” the other rider said. “He told me: Luis, take Jesus and some men and eliminate the traitor González. He is an agent of Carranza. The worst kind of man. A dog. Have Jesus do the job.”
“Me?” Chuy asked. “Why me?”
“You are the newest,” Luis explained. “It is a test. You must prove your loyalty to Emiliano by killing the traitor. You are up to it, no?”
“Kill him?”
“¿Cómo no? Of course.”
“I don’t know this man I must kill.”
“He is a traitor to Emiliano, that is all you need to know.”
“I...” Chuy began.
Luis raised that doubting eyebrow again. “It is the only way to show that you yourself are not an agent of Carranza. That you are not here to assassinate Emiliano yourself.”
“Why would I do that?” Chuy said.
“It is your choice,” Luis shrugged. “You kill the traitor González and win the Gran Emiliano’s trust or we shoot you.”
Chuy looked around at the other riders. They all looked the same, from their big sun-blocking sombreros to their tightly-pointed cowboy boots. They wore loose peasant shirts, tight pants with stripes down the sides and to a man were armed to the teeth. They all seemed to have the same sardonic smile for Chuy that the one called Luis now also displayed.
Chuy fully understood the mission now. Kill or be killed. Inside he felt a powerful rage for Emiliano but instinctively knew to keep it to himself. Now was not the time to reveal himself. Now it was necessary to stay calm and force his anger deep down inside.
“Where is the traitor González?” he heard himself say. There was an audible releasing of breath by the mounted men beside him.
“Paco, Roberto,” Luis called over to two of the men, “get the cabrón out of his rat hole.
“Sí, Luis,” Paco and Roberto answered like the good soldiers they were.
They dismounted quickly and, with pistols drawn, carefully entered the little house. Those remaining outside heard scuffling, shouting, but no weapons were fired. Moments later a man was suddenly shoved through the doorway and out into the bright light.
Behind him came Paco with his pistol at the man’s back. Roberto followed, pushing a pretty young woman forward. The woman spat on the ground when she saw Luis and Chuy.
“Very stylish,” Luis laughed.
“Go to the devil,” the woman snarled. “Pig.”
Roberto grabbed the woman by the hair, causing her to cry out.
“Let the woman be,” Chuy ordered.
“Bien,” Roberto said, releasing the woman’s hair. “Okay.”
The woman pulled away from Roberto but still scowled fiercely at Chuy and Luis.
“Fire,” Luis smiled, “lots of fire.” Then nodding to Roberto: “Get her out of here. But do not harm her.”
“Sí,” Roberto said, pulling the struggling woman out of harm’s way.
“You, González,” Luis said, when it was just the men. “Your time has come.”
“To hell with you,” González answered.
“We’ll see you there,” Luis replied casually.
He looked over at Chuy. Chuy pulled his pistol out of its holster.
“Cobardes,” González spit, “cowards.”
Chuy aimed his pistol at the condemned man. González looked him straight in the eye. Chuy saw the recognition there, remembered that they had met in Mexico City, knew the man knew who he was.
“You,” González said.
“Tierra y libertad,” Chuy yelled out, “Land and Freedom.”
“Tierra y libertad,” the other men loudly echoed the cry of the Zapatista movement.
“I know...” González began.
Chuy shot him three times, rapid fire. The man’s final words died on his lips.
On the short ride back to the Gran Emiliano’s hacienda, Chuy fretted about the close call with González. He knew the man had recognized him, was getting ready to identify him as a traitor to Emiliano. Sweat soaked his clothes as they rode and it was not all from the heat of the day.
In González, he had killed one from his own side — just to prove to Luis and the others that he, Chuy, could be trusted around Emiliano and was not an infiltrator, not a snitch, not a traitorous spy. But he was those things, and he sweated more, and hated. Hated Emiliano, hated the circumstances that forced him to choose between the way of his superiors, the rule of supposed law, and that of a man he had grown to respect and admire.
Still, it was his job and he had taken it on willingly. He also knew this job could be his last, ever. He might not survive doing what he had to do. It had to be done fast and with finality. He steeled himself for the challenge.
“Oídme,” Luis cried out as the group rumbled into Emiliano’s hacienda grounds. They rode straight up to the main house with its fancy balcony where the Gran Jefe awaited them. “It is done,” Luis called up, waving his pistol around. A couple of the vaqueros shot rounds into the air.
Good, Chuy thought, make it loud. The sound will protect me.
Emiliano, smiling, took the stairs down into the center grounds to greet his victorious soldiers who dismounted, all save Chuy, to receive the thanks of their boss.
“Bueno, vaqueros,” Emiliano said, patting his men on the shoulders, “well done, well done.” He looked up quizzically at Chuy, who remained astride his horse. “And did our new man pass his test?”
“Sí, jefe,” Luis nodded, “he shot the traitor dead.”
“That’s what it was to you, nothing but a test?” Chuy said, anger rising to match his hatred. “I killed to show you I would?”
“¿Cómo no?” Emiliano replied. “How else am I to know? You could be sent from Carranza. It happens.”
“You are so important that innocent men must die to prove another’s loyalty?” Chuy countered, moving a hand slowly towards his pistol.
“What is this?” Emiliano said, cocking his head to one side.
Chuy knew it was time. It was now or never. He had shown too much of his hand. He had fooled Emiliano up to now but the cloud of friendship and loyalty he had built over the past months was rapidly falling from the Gran Jefe’s eyes. Emiliano began to reach for his own weapon. Chuy got to his first.
“Die, cabrón,” he yelled wildly, firing three fast rounds directly into Emiliano’s chest at short range. “Death to you and death to Tierra y Libertad.”
Emiliano’s men rushed to their jefe’s side and in that instant of concern for their fallen leader, Chuy spurred his horse, rode hard towards the gates of the hacienda and the freedom of the countryside. He heard yelling behind him, he heard pistols fired, he heard the air whistle with the sound of metal rounds seeking his body. He rode on hard, fast, faster — on into the blazing land.
The hot sun bore down on man and rider as they charged across the earth, seeking escape. Chuy drove the animal hard, pushed it to its limits. He could hear the men behind them now on horseback, pursuing, gaining. Dirt kicked around him from their shots. They were getting closer by the minute.
Ahead, Chuy saw a heavy, wavering heat mirage dancing, rising from the burning soil. He rode his horse hard for that wave, headed him straight for it. Behind, he heard the cries of Emiliano’s vaqueros, heard them curse his name, heard the staccato report of their pistols. Galloping through the curtain of heat, Chuy and horse bolted over a small sandhill down onto a flat plain, away from their pursuers, away from the treachery and death of the Gran Emiliano.
* * *
Copyright © 2011 by J. B. Hogan
