Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (8 page)

At the end of the third day, Alberto came looking for him.

“You’re in the system, amigo.”

Alberto handed him a white sheet of paper. The name from Luis’s fake ID was on it, as well as some cursory information about the property on which he was employed. The state seal was in the upper right.

“You use this to start the process,” Alberto explained. “If you’re missing any forms, they’ve got them at the library and the post office.”

“Thank you,” Luis said. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re going to need one more signature.”

“From who?”

“Maria Higuera. This was her brother’s place. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow, but go easy on her though. She buried him yesterday. Legally speaking, she’s your employer now.”

Luis looked at the sheet and froze. It was so unexpected, but there it was. He hurried back to his pack, digging into the lining, where he’d tucked the piece of paper Pastor Whillans had found in Odilia’s room.

Besides the color, the two forms were a match. There were spaces for their alien registration and foreign passport numbers, employer verification information, and a space where the documents had been independently signed by someone at the county level. It seemed to indicate that Odilia had worked there. It also suggested that Santiago really did keep things on the up and up.

Maybe.

His mind raced. Could he ask Alberto about her?

His thoughts were interrupted by a conversation down the row.

“You hear what they said about Santiago?” someone said. “They think he was alive when they took him across the border, then they killed him down there.”

Luis looked down to where the people were speaking. It was three of the old-timers, guys whose hands looked like they’d picked hundreds of thousands of berries and whose skin had spent countless hours baking under the sun.

“Why do that?” another asked. “He could’ve yelled out at the border. I think they probably did him right here, rolled him up, and drove him down inside a tank or something.”

“Nah,” said the third, who had a raspberry birthmark across the right side of his face. “I saw him take off.”

More were listening now.

“The lights were still on in his house, so I thought he was going right back in. He didn’t take his truck. I thought maybe he was going over to one of the other fields. But he went straight west.”

“What’s that way?” Luis asked before he could catch himself.

All eyes turned in his direction.

“There are no farms over there,” raspberry birthmark said. “No roads, no stores, no nothing else, either. You’ve got the mountains, and then you’ve got the ocean on the other side of that. I think he was going somewhere. But somebody found him.”

“Was he the only one who left?”

As soon as the question left his mouth, Luis knew he’d gone too far. The men eyed him with suspicion. The question hung in the air unanswered. Luis thought they were about to turn the interrogation on him when the first of the speakers shrugged.

“Just him. Why? Not enough for you?”

Luis didn’t reply. He rolled onto his blanket and found sleep.

XI

A well-manicured nail slid a single sheet of paper across the polished wood conference room table, stopping it in front of Glenn Marshak.

“We hope this package tells you how important the Marshak family is to Crown Foods,” the owner of the nail, Crown VP Connie Brickell, said, her voice warm and winning. “This has been a very fruitful partnership and we hope it continues. In the years since our last contract, we’ve expanded into Canada and the UK following our CostMart acquisition, and opened our first three stores in Australia. We also broke ground on our first space in Asia, a hundred-seventy-thousand-square-foot retail mart in the HarbourFront precinct of Singapore. As we thrive, you thrive.”

Glenn eyed her nail polish. It was a pale pink that he knew must be available from Crown retail marts. That was her thing. The suit and blouse were likely just as affordable, from some off-the-rack line by an up-and-coming designer in the Crown universe. Her shoes—patent leather, pointed-toe midheeled pumps—looked expensive, but he’d be surprised if she paid more than thirty dollars for them. Did her brand loyalty extend to her shampoo or perfume, in the event a vendor had a particularly sharp nose?

Glenn had a sharp nose, but rather than lavender or eucalyptus, he smelled bullshit. He’d gotten a preview of the deal now in front of him from a well-placed friend the night before. He glanced over it once to confirm it was the same, then slid it over to his nephew, Jason, on his right.

“Something wrong?” Connie asked.

“Oh, I was just waiting to see if you were joking.”

It was no small feat to suck the air out of a conference room.

“I don’t understand,” Connie said.

“You say this is a deal you’d offer a partner,” Glenn began. “But if we were to accept the terms of this agreement, it would be akin to slitting our own throat.”

Connie shot a look down the table to the other Crown executives. Glenn didn’t wait before continuing.

“What you’ve presented in the short form is a series of milestones by which we’re meant to increase our profit share over the next several years,” Glenn explained, before pointing to a thicker contract to her right. “What’s buried in the long form is a caveat that allows you to opt out, citing fluctuations in consumer demand.”

“That’s in all our contracts. It protects us in case—”

Glenn slammed his hand down on the table. Connie recoiled in surprise.

“Stop treating us like we’re children,” Glenn snapped. “Maybe at one time you meant it in good faith, but on ten different occasions in the past five years you’ve used that stipulation to bleed your ‘partners’ dry. Crown claims a drop-off in sales and invokes the clause, forcing the vendor to make all of the cuts on their end.”

Glenn paused, making sure he had the room’s attention.

“The following year, another visit from Crown, hat in hand. No talk of expanding into Canada or emporiums in Singapore. Only talk of how bad the competition’s gotten and the fragility of the economy. This time the cuts you ask for are a lot deeper. The kind of belt-tightening that means layoffs. If a vendor balks, the unstated threat is that Crown can always go with the competition. They’d be willing to take the deal in return for shelf space in the eight thousand Crown retail outlets worldwide.”

A gray-haired man, Crown CFO Andrew Roenningke, sat at the end of the table eyeing Glenn coolly. His suit suggested he didn’t feel beholden to dress in only what Crown had on its hangers.

“Glenn, if this is your way of saying that the business between our companies is at an end, I’d appreciate you coming out and saying it. This grandstanding is poor form.”

“Go fuck yourself, Andrew,” Glenn shot back. “I’m trying to explain to you what being a partner’s really about. If you look at my market share and how much of your profits come from my fields, I think you’ll realize we’re right at the tipping point of being too big to manipulate. Heck, maybe that’s what this contract’s about.”

Andrew scowled. Glenn reached into his briefcase and slid a single sheet of paper of his own down to him.

“What’s this?” Andrew asked.

“A list of exactly one hundred of your vendors who use Marshak crops in their product. Whether it’s strawberry flavoring for gummy bears, cane for their wicker chairs, or honey for their organic sweeteners, they rely on us. I’m sure you recognize some of the bigger names.”

Glenn had their attention.

“Imagine the reason I’m being such a dick about your offer is because, say, Target has offered us something better. And by imagine, I mean conjure the image of me on the phone with their CEO, Tom Schaffer, one hour ago, explaining that I had the power to not only go exclusive with them but to take one hundred popular brands with me. What do you think he said?”

Andrew gaped at Glenn.

“You’re bluffing,” the CFO decided. “This is bullshit. Theatrical bullshit, but bullshit all the same.”

Glenn rose and indicated for Jason to follow him out the door. The Crown execs watched them go in mild horror as the impact of Glenn’s threat dawned on them.

When the two Marshaks were safely in the elevator on the way down to the building’s valet station, Jason glanced at his uncle.

“One phone call and they’ll be onto you,” he said.

“Oh, he knew I was full of it right then,” Glenn replied with a shrug. “What I want him to wonder is whether I’ve gone crazy.”

Jason shot him a look suggesting he was now wondering the same thing. Glenn scoffed.

“The one thing you can rely on with Andrew is the fact that he does nothing without fretting over what his father would do in the same situation,” Glenn explained.

“But his dad’s out of the company.”

“Hah!” Glenn spat. “He won’t really be out till he’s dead. And for Andrew, Daddy’s gaze is like a phantom limb. It’s always there. That’s especially true when he’s sitting opposite someone his father told him to watch out for.”

“What do you think they’ll do?” Jason asked.

“At the end of the day, the most important thing for Andrew is to keep the status quo. If he loses us, his board will talk, even if he’s right to let me go. It makes him look bad. I’d be willing to bet we’ll get an offer that’s three times the money, minus the offending clause, by the end of next week.”

“And we reject that one, too?”

The elevator doors opened to the parking garage. Glenn snorted.

“Hell no. We sign that on the spot to let them know we beat them.”

Jason laughed out loud. It was the kind of story he would recount as quintessential Glenn Marshak for months to come. Glenn smiled, having made his point.

“Where are you off to now?” Jason asked as Glenn’s driver brought around his town car.

“Home. Elizabeth’s coming by to go over last-minute party plans. You’ll be there, right?”

“Of course.”

Glenn nodded and was about to climb into the town car’s open back door when he stopped.

“One more thing. Will you look in on your dad? He had a burr up his ass about something earlier this week, and we’re going to need his vote on the Crown Foods thing. If he’s unhappy, you know he’ll drag his feet and make us look bad.”

“Will do, Glenn,” Jason said.

“Thanks. We’re at the one-yard line here. I know I’ve said it before, but this is the big one, the contract that’ll keep the company going for the next twenty years. Let’s just get it in the end zone and spike the ball.”

Jason nodded. “I know how much this contract means,” he parroted.

Glenn clapped him on the shoulder. It was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but he used too much force, tipping it into condescension. He checked Jason’s face for a sign that he’d detected this but saw none.

“Okay then,” Glenn said, climbing into the car. “See you at the party.”

“Jesus Christ, they’re
children
.”

Though the comment came from Michael’s wife, Helen, as she scanned the party guests, Michael had been thinking it himself. He understood the ones she was referring to were all college graduates at the very least midway through law school, but none looked older than sixteen or seventeen.

“Children being offered five-figure signing bonuses to agree to six-figure starting salaries,” Michael replied as he watched another pair of the young law school students giggle their way to the bar.

Though it was a midday retirement party for a judge he barely knew, word had gotten round that it might be embarrassingly underattended, so Michael had made the effort. Swedburg, Grega & Chernov appeared to have sent over two dozen of their prospective summer associates to liven things up as well. The students were in town at the invitation of the firm to consider coming back in a month to work as summer associates.

Work,
Michael scoffed.

He remembered his own associateship as a three-month party on the firm’s dime meant to convince them to sign with the firm upon graduation. Of course, as soon as the courtship ended and they returned as first-year associates, their lives were shit. Hundred-hour workweeks in document warehouses, endless abuse at the hands of the second- and third-years, and all without the slightest chance of advancement.

Michael considered saying something to a couple of them but then chuckled. It wasn’t like he would’ve listened at their age. Better to sip his drink.

He glanced to his wife as she waved to an acquaintance across the room, her bright, easy smile framed by a gorgeous mane of blond hair. It was a shade found only on Southern California girls who grew up outdoors without a care in the world. He’d been like these kids, tempted by riches due to his lower-middle-class upbringing, but something told him even then it was a dead end. His real ambition was politics, but that required money. Enter Helen. Helen came from a filthy amount of money. Their five-bedroom Bel-Air home had been bought not on Michael’s salary as a Los Angeles deputy district attorney, but by Helen’s father. The expectation was that it would be filled with children and used for parties meant to elevate Michael’s political standing. Three kids and an endless parade of political fund-raisers and charity dinners later, Michael felt they’d held up their end of the bargain.

“Michael Story!”

Judson Nichols, one of the retiring judge’s oldest friends, appeared at Michael’s side.

“How are you, Judson?” Michael said, shaking his hand.

“Good, good,” he replied, planting a kiss on Helen’s cheek. “It’s a sad day for those of us who’ll miss seeing Ron around the courthouse, but a great one for the people of California, who’ll now have a powerful ally in the halls of Congress.”

Ah, so he’s off to be a lobbyist,
Michael thought. He’d idly wondered where the well-connected but not incredibly bright judge would end up.

“Really? I always figured he’d end up in DC, but at the Supreme Court,” Michael lied.

Judson twisted his mouth up at the compliment. Michael hoped his flattery wasn’t over the top.

“What I really came over to talk about is your future, Michael,” he said, before turning to Helen. “Mind if I pull him away for a brief bit of shoptalk?”

Helen smiled with rehearsed geniality.

“I’ll leave you boys to it and say hi to Ron’s wife.”

Helen floated away as Judson and Michael watched. The old political hack shook his head.

“You don’t deserve her, you know. A woman like that,” Judson spat.

Michael was caught off guard. It didn’t sound like a joke.

“I think you’re out of line there, Judson,” Michael said, hoping to keep it light in case he’d misread the man’s tone.

“The Whittaker woman,” Judson fumed.

Michael froze.
How the
fuck
does he know about that?

“Was it worth it? Almost throwing away your career? And for what?
Pussy?
”

Michael’s mind raced. If Judson knew, that meant others knew. Powerful others. He had to keep a lid on this but didn’t know how. That Judson wasn’t keeping his voice down didn’t help things, either.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael replied lamely.

“Save it,” Judson scoffed. “I’m not the interested party.”

Michael’s blood ran cold. He looked around the room, wondering who else could see right through him.

“Who is the interested party?” Michael managed.

“One that wants to be sure this investigation of yours is over,” Judson explained, calmer now. “From what I can tell, it is, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it.”

Judson’s hand shot forward, grabbing Michael by the wrist and stabbing a finger between the tendon and bone, until it pressed directly on the nerve. Michael would’ve laughed at such a crass attempt at intimidation if it didn’t hurt so much. Part of that lifetime of self-restraint seemed to have provided Judson with an iron grip well into his sixties.

“This is twofold, Michael,” Judson hissed, albeit with the slightest hint of frivolity. “You walk away, and your indiscretion remains buried. You
stay
away, and when the day comes that appointed offices are no longer good enough and you seek the mandate of the people, they’ll make sure it happens.”

Michael thought about Luis and his promise to resurrect the case. As his wrist throbbed, he realized he couldn’t lose. Kill the investigation and earn a political war chest. Nail it and get carried to higher office by the press. If he could just play both sides long enough . . .