Troubled Waters by Carolyn Wheat Page B

days.
    Not easy, when your eyes were level with the single cyclops eye of a blue-barreled gun.
    â€œI’m going to give you the identification this man gives me.” Her voice shook slightly, as did her hand when she passed the documents from Miguel to Koeppler. Once again, they were phony birth certificates from Texas, a driver’s license with Miguel’s picture superimposed upon that of Eduardo Peña, a genuine Mexican-American migrant. A letter from the van Wormer farm certifying them as employed for the sugar beet season.
    Koeppler took the documents and tossed them into the dirt. “These are crap, lady. We both know that. Now get out of the car—slowly—and tell Pancho there to do the same.”
    This time the indignation wasn’t rehearsed. “His name isn’t Pancho,” she replied, her voice steady now. “And none of us is armed, so you don’t have to be so—”
    â€œâ€”the fuck do I know you’re not armed? Just get the hell out of the van. Now.” The softer Koeppler’s voice got, the more dangerous he seemed. Jan opened the van door and was relieved to see Miguel doing the same. No heroics, she prayed. Please, no heroics, no arrogance, no challenge to Koeppler’s authority. Just be cool. Snow-cool, coke-cool.
    Pilar whimpered as she hauled herself out of the back of the van. She’d been sitting on a jumpseat next to where the wheelchair locked in place. She pulled Manuelito close and looked at Koeppler with terror-filled eyes. In her world, la policía shot first, asked questions later. “No my baby,” she pleaded. “Don’ shoot mi niño.” In some corner of her mind, Jan wondered how much of Pilar’s incoherent pleading was real and how much role-playing. They’d worked long and hard to turn this well-to-do San Salvador couple into passable migrant workers; Pilar at least was believable.
    For a moment Koeppler looked almost ashamed, almost human. Manuelito at three was a beautiful kid, all huge black eyes and infectious grin. Understanding nothing but his mother’s fear, he looked up at the cop with a face full of incipient tears. He clung to Pilar’s shapeless dress, carefully chosen to add to her migrant farmwoman appearance, like any kid gone suddenly shy in the presence of a stranger.
    It was time for the third—or were they up to the fourth?—line of defense. Miguel, true to his instructions, let himself be searched. Let Walt Koeppler put his free hand into the pockets of the baggy shorts, gun held at stomach-level. Let La Migra find the Mexican identification papers that would at least guarantee deportation to a country that wasn’t El Salvador, a country that wouldn’t torture the little family.
    Once back on Mexican soil, they could try again, perhaps going through Arizona instead of Texas. There were churches down there ready to help.
    It all depended on how much Walt Koeppler knew. He’d known they’d be on this road, driving a vehicle other than the church van. How much else did he know—and how had he learned it? Jan studied the immigration officer’s deceptively bland face, searching for a clue that wasn’t there.
    â€œThis is more like it,” he said. “At least these papers show a little finesse. A little style. I like that. Of course,” he added, giving Miguel a shove with the gun, “they’re just as phony as that batch.” He waved the gun at the papers he’d thrown in the dirt. “Where are you really from?” he asked Miguel, his tone conversational. “El Salvador? Guatemala?”
    Jan sighed softly, exchanging a glance with Ron, who sat rigid in his strapped-in chair. Walt Koeppler knew a lot more than he had three days earlier. Then he had been content to accept the Texas forgeries; now he questioned even the Mexican papers. Then he had let her and Dana go; now it was clear arrests were in the picture.