THIRTY
Angela sat in her truck, gripping the steering wheel as if she were trying to strangle it, panting, her heart pounding as she stared down at nothing. She knew better than to go to the authorities. She knew better. She should have expected it. When she heard that the charges had been dropped and the men released she should have known that the fix was already in and there was nothing she could do about it.
The system always blamed the victim.
She remembered something her grandfather told her that day on the way home after he had come to her school. Principal Ericsson had been about to expel her for fighting back against those bigger girls who had attacked her. She wasn’t expelled, but only because Principal Ericsson was more afraid of her grandfather than of any criticism for not expelling her.
In the car on the way home, her grandfather had told her that every form of authority, from the school system to the justice system, was far more concerned about protecting itself than the innocent. He said that was why he was proud of her for standing up for herself. He said that was the only true way to insure justice.
He had been right. The prosecutor’s office didn’t care about justice. Like all forms of authority, from the smallest to the largest, they only cared about protecting themselves and their political agenda. It was always dangerous to go against what had already been decided by the authorities. People like Angela were a petty annoyance, a minor obstacle to their ends. If need be, the system would crush them if they got in the way.
Angela, though, cared about justice. It was all she really cared about. Vengeance was the only thing that made her feel alive. It was the only thing worth living for.
In a way, Angela was glad the self-centered prick had let the four men go.
It meant that Angela could hunt them.
Although the men had been let go because they were undocumented Mexican immigrants, Angela didn’t really believe that the four men were Mexican. She didn’t think Mexicans talked the way these men talked, or thought the way these men thought. She didn’t think Mexicans thought of America as the Great Satan.
She knew who did.
She could see it in their eyes that they genuinely despised America. They radiated a visceral hatred.
They were going to kill her, so they had nothing to hide.
She also didn’t think the things she saw in that room were parts for irrigation systems. Irrigation systems didn’t use cell phones, or piles of machined, geometric-shaped parts, or wires that came in by courier.
The four men weren’t who they pretended to be. They were up to something.
She briefly considered calling the authorities—the FBI or Homeland Security—and reporting what she’d seen. But with John Babington’s accusations still burning hot in her mind, and seeing how laws created by lawyers protected criminals, not victims, she dismissed the thought.
Everyone would accuse her of being a racist who hated the men because they were Mexican. If she reported them, the most likely outcome would be that she would be the one who got in trouble. They would check with Babington about the men, he would brush off the accusations, and then he would likely charge her with carrying a concealed weapon. More frightening, he would come up with a large quantity of drugs and charge her with dealing. It was easy for a man like that to put someone like Angela in jail where she would be silenced and forgotten.
She repeated her rule to herself. No good could ever come of talking to the authorities or trusting in them—whoever those authorities might be.
Angela picked up her phone and called Barry. He answered on the second ring. “Barry, it’s Angela. Would it be all right if I didn’t come in tonight?”
“What’s up?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something. I can hear it in your voice. What’s wrong?”
Angela cleared her throat. “I just found out that the charges against the four men who attacked me have been dropped.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense. How in the world could that happen? Who dropped the charges?”
“The assistant district attorney. John Babington.”
Barry huffed the name. “Figures. Do you know that when Babington was running for office he came by the bar and asked for a campaign contribution?”
“No, you never told me.”
“Well, he did. He said that it would be nice if I could help with a contribution to his campaign—you know, to continue his strong record on law and order. He said that it would be a good idea to help get him elected because if he lost, before the new man was sworn into office there are always a lot of pending charges against bars that came across the desk of the assistant district attorney and he might finally have to pursue them all as a last duty to the people of the state.
“I told him that I didn’t know anything about election campaigns and I asked what the suggested amount of a contribution would be. Do you know what that asshole said?”
“No, what did he say?”
“He said that the suggested contribution was fifteen hundred dollars. Fifteen hundred dollars!”
“So you made a ‘contribution’ to his campaign.”
“Damn right I did. I know a shakedown when I hear one. Sometimes, even when you know it’s not fair, you gotta do what’s right for you. Know what I mean?”
Angela’s grip on the steering wheel had her knuckles white.
“Yeah, I sure do.”
He paused a moment. “I’m sorry, Angela, talking about my petty shakedown. That’s nothing like what the fucking asshole did to you. Listen, it’s not that busy. Take the night off. In fact, take the rest of the week off. This must be rattling you. Hell, it has me fuming and it didn’t even happen to me.”
“Thanks for understanding, Barry. I’ll call you in a few days and see what the schedule looks like.”
When she hung up, she called the missed number that had called half a dozen times.
“Hello, this is Betty with Hospice Services,” a woman on the other end of the line said.
“Hi, Betty. This is Angela Constantine.”
“Angela! I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. Something happened.”
“What could have happened that you wouldn’t—?”
“I was attacked by four men. They raped me, beat me, and left me for dead. I’ve been in the hospital, recovering.”
Her heated tone turned to apologetic shock. “Oh my God! I had no idea! Are you all right? I’m so sorry that I’ve been calling you so often—”
“Don’t worry about it. Listen, Betty, the reason I’m calling is I need to know something from my mother.”
There was a momentary pause. “Well, it’s getting difficult, you know? She’s in and out. She doesn’t seem to be able to process talking on the phone anymore.”
“That’s fine—I don’t expect her to be able to talk on the phone. I just need you to ask her something for me. It’s important. I need the last name of a guy who used to come around our house. His first name was Nate. I need to know his last name. It was foreign sounding and I can’t remember it. Ma should remember him—she always said he was cute and she wanted to pinch his ass. He came around our house for a while until he went to prison for manslaughter.”
“Nate. Went to prison for manslaughter. That’s terrible. Okay, hold on and I’ll ask.”
She was gone for quite a while. At last she returned to the phone.
“It was difficult. She has a hard time, you know?”
“I know.”
“But she remembered him. His name is Nate Drenovic.”
Angela snapped her fingers. “That’s it. That’s the guy. Thank you, Betty. I’m sorry but I have to go for now.”
“Half the time, with the medication, I don’t know what she means, but she does ask for you. Just now she asked something kind of strange.”
“What did she ask?”
“She asked me just now if it was the girl in the moon. It was kind of strange. Eerie. You know?”
Angela didn’t know what to say.
“When will you be able to come see her?”
“Soon,” Angela said. “I have to take care of some things first….”
“I understand. You take care of yourself, dear, and get better. Do you hear me? Get better.”
“I will. Thank you, Betty.”