Hailey's War by Jodi Compton Page A

of that?”
    â€œI’m not sure.”
    â€œYou said it twice. It seemed to be very important to you.”
    I shook my head again, and the doctor got up from his stool. “Try to rest.”
    â€œWait,” I said. “You already know something about Nidia, don’t you? Is she dead? You can tell me. I’m strong, I won’t go into shock.”
    He said, “You were traveling alone, Miss Cain.”
    The rest of it I learned from an officer of the state judicial police. His name was Juarez. He was taller and thinner than the doctor, though with that same mustache. He took down some basic introductory details first, my full name, where I lived.
    Juarez went on to tell me that I was found just outside the tunnel, alone on the edge of the road, bleeding profusely, without ID, money, or a car. The farmworkers who found me had believed that I was in a bizarre hit-and-run in which I had been walking on a remote highway. No one had realized I’d been shot until I was examined at the hospital.
    â€œI wasn’t traveling alone,” I told him. “I was traveling with a girl, Nidia Hernandez. Even if she wasn’t at the scene, her things were in the car.”
    He said, “There was no car. No luggage, and no girl. Just you.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me your story from the beginning.”
    I did, leaving out only the fact that the friend who had gotten me involved in Nidia’s situation was a semi-notorious girl gangster in L.A. Serena became, loosely, “a friend of Nidia’s.” The rest was the unvarnished truth, from Oakland to the border to the tunnel.
    â€œThey were white,” I said, “and armed. These guys were pros. I don’t know why they wanted Nidia, but they did.”
    When I was done, Juarez didn’t ask the questions I would have expected. He didn’t ask for details about the ambush, or for a more thorough description of Nidia, which would have helped the police find her. Instead, he asked about my life in America: in particular, what I did for work.
    â€œA bike messenger,” he said, “that’s a young person’s job, I understand. Not very lucrative, no?”
    â€œI don’t need much money.”
    â€œReally,” he said. “I’ve heard that life in America is quite expensive, particularly California. People have high standards for what their lifestyle should be. Everyone reaching for the golden apple.”
    I had a sinking feeling about what was motivating this line of questioning. I said, “Can I ask why you’re so interested in my lifestyle and income?”
    He looked thoughtfully at nothing in particular. Then he turned his attention back to me.
    â€œMiss Cain,” he said, “let me be blunt. When an American meets with violence in Mexico, far from tourist areas, and without frantic American family members demanding information—”
    â€œI’m not a drug mule,” I said.
    He looked out the window, hesitated, and began to speak more slowly and deliberately. “In my experience,” he said, “when women become involved in the drug trade, it is rarely because of their own vice. Usually they become involved at the insistence of corrupt men who hold too much influence in their lives and do not have their best interests at heart. The law is commonly gentle with such women.”
    â€œThat’s nice to know, but I’m not in the drug trade,” I said.
    I’d wanted to say it since he was about five words in, but it had been obvious that nothing was going to proceed until he’d finished his little speech inviting me to fall into the sympathetic arms of the Mexican law.
    I said, “You’re skeptical about my story, okay, I can understand that. But Nidia is out there somewhere and needs help. I don’t want your suspicions about me to keep people from looking for her.”
    â€œTo be