LA MESA PRISON
MONDAY, 6:15 A.M.
THE GUARD IN THE visitors’ parking lot carried a pistol and charged Grace and Faroe ten dollars because they arrived in a Mercedes. The guard at the visitors’ gate carried a pump shotgun and charged them another twenty dollars because they were gringos.
The courier waiting for them inside the gate was unarmed and he refused a tip altogether.
“Por El Senor,” he said.
For the grace of God.
The courier was wearing an Oakland Raiders cap and a Metallica T-shirt, and had the shy dignity of an altar boy.
He ushered them down a long, narrow alley lined with doors made from steel bars. From inside, hidden by the shadows, prisoners stared at them with glittering eyes. Several of them made smooching and sucking noises when they saw Grace.
She ignored them.
“Muy peligroso,” the courier warned them.
Very dangerous.
“Only if you let them out,” Faroe said.
An inmate hissed at him.
The air smelled of raw sewage.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Faroe said in a low voice to Grace.
“So I can savor the taste? This makes Terminal Island and Lompoc look like day spas.”
“You asked for it.”
She walked around a cloudy puddle that had gathered on the ground near what must have been a cracked septic line. “It’s a learning experience.”
“Only the first time. Whatever happens, eyes front and just keep walking like you’ve seen it all a dozen times before and weren’t impressed.”
“Like you?”
“Just like me.”
The courier led them out of the alley and into the main prison yard. It was as big as a large city block. Even this early in the morning, the space was crowded. Groups of men leaned against walls or gathered near the ratty palm trees, smoking and talking and waiting for something to happen. Anything.
The concrete walls around the courtyard were three stories high. Guards with shotguns and assault rifles prowled the catwalks wearing tan uniforms, sunglasses, and baseball caps.
There weren’t any guards in the main yard. The inmates were on their own.
A group of children were choosing sides for a schoolyard game, but there was no school inside La Mesa Prison. The tallest of the children proudly held a soccer ball. It was so scuffed and worn that its leather covering was the same color as the soil of the courtyard.
One of the kids spotted the outsiders and whistled an alarm. The entire group broke and ran toward the gringos, shouldering and elbowing to get close. They shouted in Spanish and thrust out their hands, palms up, demanding or pleading for money.
Grace hesitated.
“No,” Faroe said, taking her arm. “Nothing.”
“But-”
“Remember,” he cut in. “You’ve seen it all.”
“They’re children,” she said in a low voice, keeping her eyes front. “Why are they in prison?”
“They were born here.”
The courier looked over his shoulder at them.
“Hurry up,” Faroe said.
They walked quickly toward a small building huddled on one side of the main yard. The makeshift church was built of unpainted concrete blocks. A rusty cross made out of rebar was wired to the wooden front door.
When they reached the little church, Faroe loosened his grip on Grace’s arm and spoke in a voice only she could hear. “Remember, amada, you’re inside the prison but outside the pale. Tijuana is San Diego’s Indian country. La Mesa is Tijuana’s Indian country.”
“Odd place for a church.”
“Wait until you see the mother superior.”
The courier knocked softly on the wooden door, pushed it open, and gestured for them to enter. Inside, rows of battered wooden benches faced an altar dominated by a dark-skinned plaster Christ with indio features, a massive crown of thorns, and a blood-drenched torso. To one side a serene, unusually beautiful Virgin Mary smiled her blessing down from a niche in the concrete-block wall. The niche was crowded with burning candles. The air was thick with their sooty smoke.
A white-haired woman in an ankle-length straight skirt and a blue zippered sweatshirt knelt at the altar rail. After a few moments, she rose and turned toward Grace and Faroe. Tall, very well built beneath the modest clothes, the woman was striking. She had the high cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes of a cover model. Those eyes were blue, very dark against the frame of white hair that once had been blond.
Grace glanced once more at the shrine. The other woman clearly had been the inspiration for the painting of the Virgin.
“Good morning, may God bless you,” the woman said in clear, unaccented California English. She came down the aisle between the benches, moving gracefully toward her visitors. “I’m Sister Maude.”
Her handshake was firm and her smile gracious. She dismissed the courier and invited them into her quarters at the rear of the chapel. A propane gas ring burned beneath a teakettle. She poured hot water into three chipped, cracked mugs and added powdered coffee. She put the mugs out on a table, gestured to the mismatched chairs, and sat down facing her guests.
“Dimas Quintana warned me you don’t have much time,” Sister Maude said. “How can I help you? You may speak freely here. This is a house of God.”
Faroe looked around with the eyes of a man who didn’t trust much on earth and less in heaven.
“Excuse my bluntness,” he said, “but we’ve had mixed results with some of God’s representatives here on earth.”
Sister Maude studied the two of them over the rim of her cup. “The church is a human institution, as well as a holy one. There are errors. There are sins. There are realities that require even the most devout of Christians to conceal their full intentions from the worldly forces that work to see God and his believers fail.”
For several moments, Faroe studied Sister Maude, who was studying him in return.
“We have to trust somebody,” Grace said.
Sister Maude’s smile made her look a decade younger. “God’s message is that, precisely. What is your problem, senora?”
“My son is being held prisoner.”
“Here?” Sister Maude asked, surprised.
“No. Close to Ensenada, at All Saints School.”
“Hector Rivas Osuna is holding him,” Faroe said, watching the nun closely.
At the mention of Hector, Sister Maude’s serenity vanished. “Him,” she said, the word a curse on her tongue. “I often wonder why God has not seen fit to include Hector Rivas in our La Mesa congregation. He has many enemies here. I doubt he would last one night. Then I would gladly wash his body as I have so many others.” She sighed. “And I will say my rosary a hundred times for that uncharitable thought.”
“I know a priest who treats Hector Rivas with great respect,” Faroe said. “This priest has even agreed to act as Lane Franklin’s jailer. Father Rafael Magon.”
The nun turned her head as though to spit on the floor. Then she shook her head. “God’s will be done. Father Rafael Magon ministers to monsters. As long as traffickers give suitable amounts to the church, he permits traffickers to mount shrines to the saint of traficantes, Jesus Malverde, and Santa Muerte, the demon saint.”
“Magon isn’t the first,” Faroe said.
“No. God’s ways are beyond my understanding.” Sister Maude bowed her head briefly. “Some of the men and women who come to this chapel are as much pagan as they are Christian, so I must make allowances for their uneducated beliefs. But Father Magon is beyond belief. He ministers to those who murdered a great man of God-Cardinal Ocampo.”
Grace frowned. “I’ve heard that name.”
“He was the cardinal of the borderlands, all of them, from sea to sea,” Sister Maude said. “He was assassinated in the Guadalajara airport in ’93.”
“Why?” Grace asked, shocked and not hiding it.
“Cardinal Ocampo had begun denouncing traficantes, particularly ROG. Hector Rivas arranged his murder.”
“I remember the…incident,” Grace said carefully.
“It was investigated thoroughly,” Faroe said. “Both the government in Mexico City and the church in Rome cleared ROG of any wrongdoing. In fact, the federal police determined that the cardinal’s death was accidental, a case of mistaken identity.”
The nun’s hands trembled with anger that was human, if not charitable. “A cardinal in a limousine mistaken for a rival trafficker? They open the door and pump fourteen bullets into the cardinal’s red robes by mistake? That is murder.” She straightened and looked Faroe in the eye. “But sometimes the church must bend to government pressure. Hector Rivas goes free and even takes communion.” She crossed herself quickly.
Faroe knew enough history to be certain that the church didn’t bend easily.
Or for long.
Sister Maude took Grace’s hands in her own. “If Hector Rivas has your son, I will pray for you. Beyond that, I can’t help.”
“You can introduce us to Ascencio Beltran,” Faroe said.
“Are you sure?” Sister Maude asked, shaking her head. “If Hector Rivas is the devil, Ascencio Beltran is his chief rival in hell.”
Faroe smiled. “May the enemy of my enemy lead a long and fruitful life.”