Mesa, Texas

By David Quanstrom

When the son of a prominent Texas rancher is found murdered in an apparent carjacking, the border country is set on edge. The Texas Rangers are left with scant clues and it appears the crime will remain unsolved. Even with a ten thousand dollar reward, no one has come forward. A year later, it seems the crime will be forgotten. Dan Taylor, a friend of the teenager’s family has not forgotten. In a chance meeting, he is questioned by a Ranger who thinks Taylor knows more than he is willing to reveal. In Mesa, family loyalties are strong, even for those members that are outside the law. When the Ranger starts closing in he finds there is more to the murder than a robbery. Family ties to smuggling and two hundred years of history are keys to solving the crime. And Dan Taylor will be confronted by his past and will have to accept a truth he has always suspected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781483438610

Book preview

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CHAPTER 1

Highway 755 glistened like a wet snake, the night fog smothering the warm asphalt in a veil of mist. The Mustang seemed to inhale the road and blow it out the back. With his new driver’s license in his pocket, the driver put his foot down and let it go. The fastback jumped quickly to ninety, then evened out. It handled like a dream, and as the driver slowed the screaming car down to seventy, he leaned back in the plush leather seat. School would start soon and this would be his last year. With graduation less than a year away, the car had been a gift from his family. After high school he could work; there were plenty of construction jobs in the Valley. From the Rio Grande Valley to San Antonio, investors were swarming to buy into the Texas oil business and real estate. Cash was flooding north across the border as wealthy Mexican businessmen sought a safe haven for their money, the unstable situation in Mexico a constant worry.

With a job and money he could ask Alma to marry him. She’s ready. Her oldest sister married at eighteen and is happy. He’d ask her at Christmas; by then he would have enough money. His uncle owned a car dealership in Mesa and if he was really desperate, he could get a job there, no sweat. He would get by with a job and what he could make on the side. He could always make a run for his friend for some quick cash. Life would be good. A beautiful wife, new town and a job with money to spend.

He also wanted to travel. So far, he had never been far from the Valley. When he was younger he had accompanied his father on a business trip to Denver. He liked the mountains and the cool air with trees that reached for the sky. The rivers ran clear and fast, unlike the sluggish Rio Grande that was brown and silty. No one dared to eat any fish from there. He was tired of the heat, the same faces. His family kept him on a tight leash. Although he enjoyed the best of Texas and Mexico, he wanted more. He wanted to be his own man.

Before he left, he had stopped by to see his friend. He knew he was a smuggler, sometimes illegals from Mexico, and sometimes other things. Tonight his friend had asked him to drop off a large cardboard box in Hebbronville. When the teenager asked what was in it, he was told something that you didn’t want to get caught with. When the kid balked, his amigo told him it was no big deal, since he drove between Rio Grande City and Freer all the time. The Border Patrol were used to seeing him. They wouldn’t even search the car, knowing who he was. His friend pushed four one hundred-dollar bills in his hand and showed him the new Beretta .380. The kid hoisted the auto, the weight of the thirteen cartridges in the stacked magazine giving it a solid feel. When his friend said he would throw it in, the teen readily accepted.

After loading up the heavy box, the coyote slipped him a piece of paper with the address and who to ask for. Pushing the pistol low in his waistband the teenager got in the car and cranked it up, pulling out behind a produce truck headed north on 755.

It had been dry, but two days ago it had rained hard, the sides of the road still holding water. A cool front had blown in, setting the feral hogs to moving. Three big pigs crossed the road in front of the speeding Mustang, shuffled to the middle of the road, then froze. The driver was fast enough to whip the wheel, skidding to the right as he braked. He missed the closest one by six inches and slid by the biggest so close he heard it brush by. He felt the heavy cardboard box slam against the side of the trunk. When the car straightened out he was in the wrong lane and praying. Slowing down he drifted back into the northbound lane and let his nerves settle. Leaning back in the seat, he turned on the stereo and continued north.

He had driven this same road with his father many times to the ranch. His father was a successful rancher and vaquero. He knew horses and cattle. Often they would go together and ride around the property. His father preferred to cover the ranch by horseback instead of his battered four-wheel drive Chevy pickup.

You can see so much more from a horse, his father would say. Trucks scare away the animals and the deer. A horse, they don’t pay much attention to, unless it’s running.

His father taught him how to track and spot game, telling by the tracks which animals had made them and where they might be hiding. The teenager knew the excited jabber of blue quail when they’d had enough of running and were about to flush. His father liked to hunt, but when they jumped the birds, he noticed his dad held off shooting until he had shot first. In the winter they planted oats and the deer would swarm the lush fields. The heavy racked bucks would come in after the does and they had taken several nice ones.

Ten miles south of La Gloria a chill shot through the teenager when he passed a State Trooper headed south. The black and white cruiser braked for a second, then kept going. The Mustang was pushing eighty but the highway patrolman seemed to have let it slide. It could be a trick. They often drove past and when they got behind a hill or a curve they whipped it around. You never knew. After ten minutes with nothing in the rearview mirror the driver started to relax. He turned up the stereo and adjusted the seat to give him more legroom. He thought about Alma and how she felt against him in bed.

At La Gloria, he turned north on 1017 toward Hebbronville, setting the cruise control at sixty. He was in the curve before the old Borregos checkpoint when he saw headlights on the left side of the road. Braking smoothly, he shifted into fourth and let the engine slow him down. The headlights weren’t coming his way so he figured it was somebody parked on the side of the road trying to catch a signal on their cell phone from the hilltop where the abandoned checkpoint was situated. There was a transmission tower close by and the reception was good.

When he got within two hundred yards, the parked vehicle turned on a red spotlight pointed directly at his car. He saw that it was a truck and the spotlight was one like the game warden used. He thought to himself that they were looking for road hunters and would check to see if he had a rifle. The trooper he’d passed would have radioed the location of the Mustang as it headed north. Any long delays would have made the wardens suspicious. They would see he didn’t have a rifle and likely wave him through.

When the curve straightened out he saw a tall figure exiting the truck wearing a cowboy hat that looked state issue. The man was wearing a gun belt, right hand settled on the butt of a pistol. In his left hand he gripped a big black flashlight. He walked to center of the highway keeping his gun side away from the slowing vehicle. As the Mustang slowed to a stop, someone in the truck directed the glaring red beam directly at his face. The teen held his left hand up over his eyes, the stark light blinding him.

The tall man leaned over as the driver scrolled down the window and turned down the stereo.

Hello… out late tonight? asked the uniformed man, leaning over and flashing the light around the inside the Mustang.

The driver noticed that the man wore a tan shirt with epaulets and a plain brown leather gun belt. There was no basket weave pattern or fancy tooling on the belt as was the custom of most rural Texas lawmen. The belt held no clip pouches either to hold extra magazines. His right hand gripped the butt of what looked like a 45 automatic. Where his badge should have been were two large pinholes, the khaki shirt wrinkled between the perforations.

The teenager heard the door of the truck click open and a heavyset man walked slowly over to the idling Ford. When he got close, the man sliced through the beam of the spotlight and the driver could see he was wearing a blue work shirt and had a shiny automatic shoved into the front of his jeans.

Step out of the car, ordered the one with the tan shirt.

The other man made his way to the back of the car. He pointed to the rear of the car and commanded, Open the trunk first.

The teenager hesitated. Why?

Just open it, growled the tall man as he reached for the door handle.

The other man tapped impatiently on the trunk lid. The driver hit the electric door locks and put the Mustang in gear. He thought about the Beretta but knew he could outrun them. The tall man lurched through the window and tried to grab the keys, but instead pushed the shifter back into neutral. The driver stomped the accelerator and dumped the clutch, and the engine redlined. Motor screaming, the driver tried to push the stick into first gear, but the rpm’s were too high and the gears wouldn’t mesh. Terrified, the teenager grabbed the butt of his pistol but it hung on his belt buckle. The khaki figure cleared leather and fired, the engine of the Mustang slowing to an idle…

CHAPTER 2

My love will never find me

My footprints are lost in this trail of dust

My tears are all I have to quench my thirst…

These were the words of the poem Dan Taylor felt while dancing with the wife of his best friend. Margaret had been kind enough to dance with Taylor after he showed up at her daughter’s quinceanera without a date. After all these years, Margaret remained a beautiful woman. She had married Taylor’s best friend, Luis Gonzales. Taylor thought Luis was lucky to have her.

Maricella was radiant in her long white princess dress, dark hair pulled back by matching ribbons, the curls flowing down her back. Her date was a handsome young man from her high school. His rented tuxedo did not quite fit him, and like most young men his age, he was uncomfortable in the spotlight. It did not matter. It was Maricella’s night to shine.

At the end of the song, Taylor walked with Margaret back to the table where the family was seated. Taylor had been invited to sit at the family’s table, a great honor. He watched while Margaret rearranged the ribbons in Mari’s hair. Luis Gonzales was moving up in the world, not only to afford this party, but the guests in attendance were many of the Mesa bigwigs. Taylor saw the brother of the mayor, and two attorneys whose ads graced the back of the Mesa phonebook. The mariachi band was good, and everyone was having a good time enjoying the food and music.

Luis was talking to guests when Taylor walked up behind him. As Luis turned around, Taylor put his hand on his back and led him aside. Sliding an envelope into his hand, Taylor smiled when Luis saw the five one hundred-dollar bills in the crease of the card.

I don’t need this, Luis said, handing back the envelope.

"It’s not for you…it’s for Maricella."

You can’t afford this. I know what they pay teachers.

Motioning for Luis to keep it, Dan Taylor put both his arms around Luis and gave his friend a firm abrazo. Jokingly, Taylor added,

I can afford it. All I have is my cat to support.

You’re a good man, Danny-boy, the car dealer exclaimed, slipping the envelope inside his coat.

Luis still had his hand inside his coat when Taylor noticed the big man coming toward them. He was three inches shorter but fifty pounds heavier than Taylor. His suit coat was stretched tight over a white shirt with no tie, and the man sported a couple of menacing gold rings on his right hand. As he closed the distance, he was glaring at Luis, who had leaned over the table and was picking up his glass of wine. The bruiser was muttering to a skinny associate keeping pace with him, who looked like he was trying to talk his husky friend out of something.

As Luis turned around, the largest of the pair took a swing at Luis’ face. The slugger missed his mark, but his thick gold watchband cut Luis’ chin. The attack had come fast, but Luis had been quick enough to fend off the blow with his left hand, which now gripped the broken stem of his wineglass. The shattered glass skimmed the big man’s hand, and as he drew back for another shot, Taylor stepped in and caught his arm. The spilled wine made the terrazzo tile slick and the man skidded and went down, the back of his head crashing into the seat of a metal folding chair on the way down. He was out cold, flat on his back, white shirt stained with blood and good Chilean Merlot.

Two Mesa police officers, hired to monitor the affair, rushed over with nightsticks in hand. They had not seen the big man throw the punch, but they saw Taylor lunge and the man go down. They grabbed Taylor, one officer shaking open a pair of handcuffs. Margaret held a napkin to her husband’s chin, Luis still gripping the stem of the broken wineglass.

With a crowd gathering, the attacker came around and was helped to his feet by his slender friend. The officers stood between Taylor and the slugger who was still a little woozy. The policemen started walking Taylor and the wine soaked attacker to the door. The guests were talking excitedly and gathering around Luis. Luis stopped the officers.

Wait, Luis said, handing Margaret his wineglass and taking the napkin from his chin. I think there has been a misunderstanding.

The big man was silent, stunned from the fall, all anger gone from his eyes.

Luis stepped up to the officers and pointed at Taylor.

All Danny did was try to stop him from hitting me. The other guy slipped.

The policemen halted and turned around. One asked, That is assault …do you want to press charges, Mr. Gonzales?

Luis dabbed at his chin. Only a small drop of blood dotted the napkin. He looked at the two men for a few seconds and then said calmly, No. Luis glanced at the husky man. It was nothing … just a misunderstanding.

"But he attacked you, right?" asked the officer with two stripes on his sleeve.

Luis stood silent, staring at the man who had tried to take his head off. As the skinny man whispered something to his stunned friend, blood dripped steadily to the floor from the slashed hand. Taylor, still held by the officer, watched the blood spattering the floor.

No harm done Luis said quietly. He pointed to the spreading pool of crimson on the polished floor, But you might want to do something for his hand.

You okay, Danny?

Taylor nodded as the officer released his grip. Taylor sidestepped the policemen and walked up to the big man. He was still shaken up, but the slugger knew what was going down. Luis did not want to ruin his daughter’s party. He didn’t want anyone going to jail. Taylor got out his wallet and pulled out his last two twenties. He stuffed the money into the man’s breast pocket.

That should cover the clothes.

His companion nodded and walked the shaken man to the door. Luis stepped over to the cop with the stripes.

No problems… Luis whispered, slipping him two of the hundreds from Taylor’s envelope. The brace of lawmen escorted the men out the exit. Patting Taylor on the back, Luis said jokingly, That came in handy.

Turning to the crowd Luis spread his arms wide and shouted, This is a party, isn’t it?

The blaring trumpets of the mariachis soon had the festivities back in full swing.

CHAPTER 3

The fight had been in June and now it was the Wednesday before the Christmas break. A complaint had been filed with the Mesa Police charging Taylor with assault. The meeting with his Principal, Mr. Woodson, had been short. Taylor had been instructed to be at the office of the Assistant Superintendent at nine a. m. Thursday for a hearing. Woodson seemed concerned and told him he should come with representation. When Taylor asked who would cover his classes, Woodson told him he would take care of it.

Taylor liked this guy. A Minnesota farm boy, he’d played football in high school and had squeaked a scholarship. With a year to go until college graduation, he got blind-sided and went down hard, his starboard knee a mess. Laid up, the college jerked his ticket and he had to hustle. Working two jobs, his last year spread to two. But he graduated and headed for greener pastures. Five years of slugging it out in the classroom and a Master’s Degree had gotten him here. He was demanding, but fair. Saying he would talk to the teacher after the meeting, they shook hands and the Principal went back to the paperwork that rimmed his desk.

Taylor couldn’t think of any attorney that he could call on such short notice. Taking a chance, he called the lawyer who had handled his mother’s estate, Jim Sands. Surprised he had agreed to meet him, Taylor asked what he would charge.

You know, three hundred dollars an hour. But it shouldn’t take that long. I’m interested in seeing what this is about. Buy me breakfast and we’ll talk.

The teacher barely remembered driving home. He kept rolling it around in his head. It just didn’t feel right. Why wait six months? A rustle of uneasiness spread through him as he drove through the hissing slush.

A cold front had come through, dousing the area with an inch of freezing rain. It had melted, but the weatherman warned that it would ice over by morning. Gravel crunched under his tires when he pulled his weathered pickup under the awning next to the trailer. The cat was already at the window, pawing at the blinds. He hoped he had left the door open to the bathroom and the litter box. When he pushed open the front door the cat jumped up on the table and gave a welcoming, Meowrr. He patted her and the feline immediately pushed her head under his hand, begging for more attention. The bathroom door was open.

Hey Kitty…what have you been doing all day, sleeping? You’ve been loafing and I’ve been working. It’s warm in here, let’s open a window.

The rush of air was cool and bracing. The clunk of the window opening caused the birds on the feeder to flush, sending birdseed cascading onto the back porch. The cat liked to watch the birds. She would sit on the back of the big couch and stare intently as they traded back and forth from the feeder. Mostly doves, but the cardinals came, too. Although the cat showed great interest in their activities, she demonstrated little inclination to chase them. When she went out she usually just sniffed around and chased bugs. Birds took too much energy.

Up before dawn the next day, Taylor showered and got out his best wool pants and a starched shirt. He grabbed a pair of shoes that still held the vestige of a shine. Lacing on a tie, he watched the cat leisurely work her claws into the blanket on the bed. Usually she bounded up and wanted out, seeming to enjoy the dawn as much as Taylor. But with the temperature hovering in the twenties, she was content to stay inside. Grabbing his jacket, Taylor went outside and started up his truck and let it warm up.

By morning the traffic was stacked up on the Loop, little snitches of ice glazing the bridges. They had been working on the expressway for months but hadn’t gotten around to painting the stripes for the new lanes. Negotiating a particularly bad stretch, a distracted citizen in a minivan following the old oil stained lanes almost ran into the side of Taylor’s truck. The inattentive driver had a cell phone in his hand and nearly hit another car as he swerved. If Taylor had been any closer, he would have wrecked.

They had agreed to meet at the coffee shop on the Loop. The teacher spotted the new Lincoln at the coffee shop and pulled in next to it. Little icicles hung off the crinkled metal roof of the restaurant. Two sparrows sat snuggled together under the eaves trying to stave off the freezing weather. When Taylor breathed, it formed a cloud like smoke. Jim Sands was seated at a booth near a window. He waved Taylor over.

The attorney was just getting started on his breakfast as Taylor slid into the booth, the cold vinyl stiff and noisy. Taylor leaned over and shook his hand.

Good morning, Dan. They say it got down to 20 degrees last night. Cold for Mesa. You okay?

Yeah…I’m all right, Taylor yawned. I didn’t get much sleep. I still can’t figure this out.

The attorney dove back into his breakfast, Taylor watching the traffic through the frosted window. Car exhaust hung in the ragged air as the cars snaked along. Trying to lighten the mood, Sands broke the silence.

I ordered bacon and eggs and some pancakes. Cholesterol bomb. I’m not worried. Only the good die young.

Jokingly the attorney added, I guess that means I’m going to live forever.

The waitress came over and set down a steaming cup of coffee in front of the teacher. She was young and pretty, her hair shiny brown and thick. The buttons on her blouse tugged enticingly when she leaned over to give Taylor a menu.

Good morning…what can I get for you? she purred.

Eyes the color of an azure sky held him for a few seconds before he could look down at the menu.

Just toast and coffee this morning, please. Pausing he added, And a glass of milk.

The waitress smiled and then took the menu. Folding it, she said,

Be right up.

The attorney started flipping through the newspaper. He was reading an article about the city council. They were in the process of tearing up the expressway and the cold weather had brought things to a standstill. The freeway looked like it had been bombed and the citizens were pissed. The ice storm two days ago had turned the Loop into a parking lot; something like three hundred crashes occurring in one day. He looked across at the teacher and remarked,

Looks like more bad weather is headed this way. Unusual for south Texas. Is the coffee any good?

It’s all right, Taylor mumbled, stirring in a sugar.

Jim Sands gave him a studied stare. Taylor knew his face betrayed his apprehension. The attorney nonchalantly folded the newspaper and looked at Taylor.

"Let’s see what they have. Is there anything in your past that could come back and haunt you? Anything … I should know about?

Taylor thought for a second. "No, not really…. nothing I can think of. It is all in the past.

Sands flashed his eyes low and asked, That pot charge … what was it…a joint?

Less.

That’s all tidied up, right?

Taylor took a sip of his coffee then set it down.

All taken care of as far as I know. The District has all the dismissal paperwork.

That had been twenty years ago. Taylor had gotten caught with a half a joint at a party. He was seventeen. The cops were by the bookers. It was a bust. Standard deal; fine and probation. When he finished probation it was dismissed. Taylor hadn’t thought much about it until he applied for his teacher certification and got turned down. Calling Austin, they said their records showed a conviction and they wouldn’t issue it. Seven long trips to Austin and fifteen hundred dollars in legal wrangling had gotten it cleared up.

The waitress brought the toast, and then set about checking the other tables. Taylor poured a little milk in his coffee and slowly mixed it in. He spread some jam on the toasted bread and took a bite. The toast tasted good, Taylor wishing he had ordered some pancakes. The lawyer ate hungrily, scanning the newspaper. The teacher sat in silence and watched the traffic inch by. Dan Taylor knew this man was doing him a big favor. He figured he would spare him discussion about what might come.

The cars on the Loop hardly made any sound at all. It was like a slow motion ballet. The glazed blacktop made turns dicey. Traffic lights were ignored. If you were moving, you didn’t stop. A new champagne colored Cadillac with a mink coated senior citizen at the helm, made a quick left, trying to beat the traffic. Doing an easy forty, she cut it hard, gassing it to make the light. When her rear end hit the ice she swung around heavy and lost it. The last Taylor saw of her, she was going backwards between a telephone pole and a concrete bus bench. The lawyer glanced up as the sedan sailed by.

Wow… unbelievable… Sands remarked, balancing a forkful of pancake over his plate.

Taylor watched the gathering crowd. Cafe patrons started getting up and filtering over to the scene. The Cadillac driver had been lucky. The luxury car had slipped between the pole and the bench and was now settled in mud up to the chassis. Not a scratch on the car, but she was shaken up. In five minutes EMS was there putting on a neck brace. The first steel blue cruiser pulled warily in front of the restaurant, parking just to the left of the Lincoln. Taylor sighed and looked at his watch.

Well, there goes the neighborhood. About ready?

The lawyer took a swipe at his chin with the napkin and with a concerned look and said,

"Oh shit…let’s go… I don’t want to get blocked in."

The policeman was outside the patrol car firming up against the cold. He looked like he was having a bad morning. Pointing out the coffee shop window at the parked police car, the lawyer remarked,

I hear they are going to put advertising on those. I’m thinking about it. What better place to have an ad?

Taylor waved at the waitress and she strolled over.

Anything else? her eyes a dreamy blue.

She placed the check on the table and waited for Taylor to get out his wallet. Taylor noticed the neat handwriting as he slid a twenty across the check.

Will this cover everything?

Her eyes settled on him.

Yeah.

Taylor dropped a five as a tip and walked behind the hurrying counselor. The waitress walked slowly behind them, checking on customers. As Taylor zipped up his jacket he caught her glance. She took a breath, sizing him up. Smiling she said,

Be careful.

The wind sliced through them when they opened the doors and walked to the parking lot, flashing red lights bouncing off chrome in the morning light. As they rounded the corner, the lady in the Cadillac was getting loaded into an ambulance in a blur of fur. The lawyer opened the door and threw in his briefcase. Glancing at the EMS crew loading up the woman he remarked,

Nice coat… I hope she’s okay.

CHAPTER 4

The Central Office building looked more ominous than usual, the white limestone facade making it seem more like a fort than sanctuary. The teacher had only been here a few times, the usual interview and paperwork, then an in-service or two. There were a few people in the lobby shaking off the cold, exchanging holiday amenities. The elevator groaned to a halt, the big silver doors opening stiffly. They got on and Taylor pushed number five. Taylor felt weak. The coffee had made his throat dry. In the minute of claustrophobia it took to get to the fifth floor, he thought about what might be waiting for him. The doors opened and the attorney gave a confident nod and led the way. When they got to the big room, Sands pulled him aside.

Dan … let’s hear what they have to say. Let me do the talking. We will want to see any paperwork. They have a protocol to follow.

All right Taylor agreed, his eyes fixed on the doors of the room.

The hallway was beginning to fill up. He recognized the Assistant Superintendent. He was tall and fat and had slicked back hair. His cheeks puffed red above his starched white collar. He had on a black coat and tie. Not a good color. In fact, most everyone was wearing black except Taylor. Black didn’t suit him. Grey was his favorite. A few Central Office regulars had broken out their best wool sweaters. When he noticed the teacher, the Assistant Superintendent came over and asked,

Are you Daniel Taylor?

The heavyset man gave the attorney a quick glance. Taylor nodded and replied,

Yes, sir. This is my attorney, Mr. Sands.

That seemed to make the Assistant Superintendent nervous. He sized up the attorney and extending his hand, commented

There was no need to bring an attorney, Mr. Taylor.

The administrator had not offered Taylor a handshake. The big man was staring directly at him, trying to make the teacher feel uneasy. He had met people like him before. He probably learned the staring thing at some leadership conference. He thought it would make Taylor nervous and feel intimidated. The teacher returned the stare, noticing the man’s bulbous cheeks.

Sands broke the stalemate.

I thought it would be better if Mr. Taylor had someone with him who might be able to answer any legal questions.

The Assistant Superintendent looked at Sands then again at the teacher. Taylor watched the others filter in, making their way to the long table at the front of the room. A folding table had been set up with a single stark chair facing the Board members. Taylor felt like the target of a firing squad. When everyone was seated, the Assistant Superintendent waved over a custodian who was busy shutting the doors. Pointing a stubby finger to a corner of the room where the chairs were stacked, he gruffly ordered,

"Bring another chair for Mr. Taylor’s…. lawyer." It was like he spit out the last word.

Taylor looked down the row of District personnel arrayed before him. Seven people, and none were smiling. No one spoke. He saw his Principal, Mr. Woodson. His old Principal from the first school he had started at was there with two other people he did not recognize. The only one who looked at him was the Principal from his old school. A bitter micro-manager, she had come up through the ranks, her strong suit was that she had been around forever and knew everyone and possessed the right credentials. She had stocked her faculty with handwringers who were her minions. She had eyes and ears everywhere and the tenacity of a pit bull. She and Taylor had crossed swords a half-dozen times over mostly minor issues. She had a long memory and most teachers at the school had feared her. Hers was a tight clique, and if you were not in it, you suffered. This morning she had on what one teacher jokingly called her ‘power suit’; black blazer outfit with a white blouse trimmed with a flaming red scarf. Her hair was the color of gun steel; blood red lipstick and costume jewelry completed the gaudy ensemble.

By the time Taylor got seated, the big man had the gavel hefted and was ready to convene the hearing. He whispered something to Taylor’s former Principal, she staring at Taylor the whole time. She was not as good at staring as the chubby one and turned her gaze to smile at one of the other administrators. Planting the gavel down hard, the Assistant Superintendent began.

This meeting will now come to order. We have received information that an employee of the District, Daniel Taylor, was involved in an atercation that occurred in Mesa last June. The complaint was that Mr. Taylor assaulted a man causing injury. I have a notarized copy of the complaint right here.

He shoved the paper out onto the table. Retrieving the document, Sands looked it over and walked back and stood by the teacher. The look on Jim Sands face didn’t make Taylor feel any less uncomfortable. After he was finished, Sands took a deep breath and walked up in front of the convening administrator. The Assistant Superintendent continued.

The Board recommends suspension with pay until this matter can be resolved.

Sands scanned the assembled honchos. In a serious tone he addressed the gathered administrators.

Is this complaint the only evidence you have that my client was involved in this altercation? Sands asked, holding up the one page document. This is just a copy of a police report. It does not say anything about Mr. Taylor being arrested or charged with anything.

The fleshy administrator blurted out, No, but this is an official complaint. Mr. Taylor is an employee of the District and is well aware of our zero tolerance policy on violence. Assault with bodily injury is a serious offense … a felony. The police are investigating the incident.

May I have a minute to talk to my client? Sands asked, not really being polite.

The big man waved a clubby hand and the attorney went and stood by the teacher. He leaned over and asked quietly, Dan, is this complaint true? Was he hurt?

Taylor felt like he had been slugged in the guts. The fight had been six months ago. He wondered how the District had found out about the complaint before him. Looking up at the attorney, Taylor said quietly, He cut his hand when he took a swing at Luis.

The attorney patted the teacher on the shoulder and continued reading the police report. That is what Taylor liked about this guy. He was tough, and had argued a lot of big cases in Mesa. The attorney did not mind a fair fight, but Taylor knew Sands thought this deal was chicken shit.

The attorney scanned the faces of the Board. The puffy one was getting restless.