White Tombs by Christopher Valen Page B

didn’t want her to know yet that she was a suspect in Rafael Mendoza’s death and possibly in Julio Pérez’s death as well. Once she was Mirandized and placed under arrest, she could get a lawyer who could derail the whole investigation.
    He took out his notebook and a pen. Rather than interrogating her, Santana preferred a low-key interview so he could watch how she reacted to the questions he had mentally prepared. This would give him a chance to find out more about her background and to build rapport. He would have to rely on his intuitive skills and the training he’d had in college.
    While majoring in criminology with a minor in criminal psychology, he had studied the Facial Action Coding System or FACS, based on the work of Paul Ekman and Wallace Friesen. Through years of research, the two psychologists had created a taxonomy of about three thousand facial expressions. Santana had been trained to look for discrepancies between what someone said and what was signaled through facial expressions. It wasn’t a perfect science, but it gave Santana an edge.
    “How long have you been in the states, Miss Torres?”
    “For ten years.”
    “Are your parents still living in California?”
    He could tell by the way the corner of her lips drew down that they were not living in California or anywhere else.
    Finally she said, “Like many of the braceros , they died of cancer.”
    “ Lo siento ,” Santana said.
    “You know Spanish, Detective, but you are not Mexican.”
    “Colombian.”
    A smile flickered across her face. “Do Colombians know anything about what happened to the braceros working in the fields?”
    “I know a little something about Cesar Chávez.”
    “Then you know how he organized the workers before he died. But the pesticides are still being used in California. Toxins like meta-sodium and chlorpyrifos. Workers are still not being told that a field is restricted. Employers do not provide translators when there is a complaint. When the government comes to investigate illnesses, the employer is there during the interview. The workers won’t speak up in front of them because they are afraid.”
    She was remembering it all now, and the tone of her voice grew angrier.
    “It is illegal not to give farm workers, even undocumented ones, breaks, toilets or drinking water. It is illegal to pay them for less than four hours of work per day and not to pay overtime. It is illegal to charge them for rides or tools. But these abuses happen all the time. If the workers complain, they are fired. They have no legal recourse. Even if they did, the companies could hire very expensive attorneys to shield them from litigation.”
    Santana recalled the AFL-CIO farm worker’s flag he had seen in Córdova’s house. “So you have sympathy for the illegals.”
    “Who keeps the service economy of this country running? You think the whites want to mop floors, clean toilets and flip burgers? Illegals are doing the jobs no one else wants. Businesses hire them cheap because they are afraid to join unions. Once in a while ICE closes some small business for hiring illegals. That way they can claim they are doing something. But everyone knows what’s going on. The schools, the businesses. So, yes, I have sympathy for illegals. Don’t you?”
    “There are legal means of entering the country.”
    She grimaced. “If you were desperate, and there was nothing for you in your own country, then you might think differently.”
    “I might.”
    She nodded as if to say, “I told you so.”
    “What about you, Miss Torres? Are you illegal?”
    She remained silent for a time before responding. “Once,” she said. “But now I have my papers and my citizenship.”
    “You ever help get any illegals into the country?”
    “No. I only want illegals to be treated fairly when they are here.” Her tone was calmer now, but he could hear the frustration in her voice. “Many of the young people I see in my office have tried working, but they