A Risky yet Worthwhile Endeavor

By Jaime Perez

After seeing a mug shot on the local evening news of a familiar looking man who had just escaped from a nearby prison, part-time freelance journalist Alfredo Alvarez believes he has the chance to write his most important article yet. Alfredos instincts tell him that the man on the run was wrongfully convicted, but he realizes he will have to go to great lengths to uncover the real story.

Assuming the escapee has fled across the Texas-Mexico border, Alfredo accepts the fact that an ill-advised visit across the bridge may be his best chance to get the information he needs to help him construct his journalistic masterpiece and, more importantly, to possibly prove a shamed mans innocence. What he finds out on his perilous visit south of the border is much more than he expected, and he soon learns that discovering ones past can often help shape ones future and that sometimes taking a chance is the right thing to do.

In this novel, a journalist pursues the story of an escaped fugitive he
believes was wrongfully convicted and is surprised by his unlikely findings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524643140

Jaime Perez

Jaime Perez is the author of The Vacant Space and the award-winning book Through You. He graduated from the University of Texas–Pan American with a bachelor’s degree in English and from the University of North Texas–Denton with a master’s degree in library sciences. When he is not feeding his passion to write, he is busy serving students as a public school librarian in South Texas, where he currently resides.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"Y ou can’t be serious! This is worse than garbage. To call this garbage would be an insult to garbage! I’ve read better from my four-year old son. Give me something I can work with, NOW!"

These were the hollered, unrestrained words that clearly permeated through the partially-cracked and lightly-tinted glass door of The Valley Reporter just seconds before I strolled in the refreshingly air conditioned office of our local newspaper. Complete silence proceeded the slamming of a door as I wisely slowed my pace down to halftime. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve walked through this door because I’ve been doing it at least once every other week for as long as I can remember, but it’s safe to say that more times than not, I have witnessed an episode or two of slamming doors and abrasive scoldings, sometimes more than two. Even with having witnessed such frequent outbursts, I never really got accustomed to them to the point that I could consider them unbothersome.

Barco is in one of his moods again. I would tread cautiously if I were you, warned Eddie of his perfectionist boss.

I glanced around towards each paper-cluttered desk. There were eight rows of rectangular desks, four rows on one side of the office and another four rows on the opposite side. In the center was a dividing walkway that led to the boss’ office. It was as if Moses the prophet had entered the building and performed his signature move. I saw no eyes or no faces, just the hairy tops of heads, each employee bowing down like scolded, unloved dogs at an overcrowded kennel for the unwanted, each employee with the exception of Eddie.

Eddie somehow always managed to muster a genuine smile on his pimply, often irritated face whenever I ran into him. It is not a creepy, clown-like smirk that could leave a foul taste in one’s mouth, but a pleasant, homely type of smile that gave one the impression that Eddie had yet to ever experience any kind of pain or hardship that could cause him to change his countenance.

The sudden, startling ring of a phone call from one of the rear desks slowly pulsed some life back into the temporarily flat-lined office, jolting everyone back into work mode. The unmistakable resonance of normalcy would resume once again, as it always did.

Eddie was one of 12 or so in-house writers for The Valley Reporter whose job it was to come up with articles of fresh, authentic news at a moment’s notice; otherwise, Barco would stomp out of his cage and let everyone within hearing distance of his bawling know that he was less than elated. Unlike Eddie and the other lesser-known minions who occupied the other desks, I was a freelance writer who came in and out as I pleased, which was not as often as one would think because I only wrote and contributed to The Valley Reporter when I wasn’t being a substitute teacher at the same school district that I attended as a child. As a freelance writer, Barco’s frequent rants were usually not directed at me, partially because his expectations of me were not as demanding and partially because I was not in his presence for a minimum of 50 hours a week like the in-housers. In his defense, the man was always under a lot of pressure with unrealistic deadlines, so in my opinion his tirades, albeit often excessive, were not entirely unwarranted. My unleashed existence didn’t fare too well with the others. For this reason, I didn’t really have much of a relationship with the other in-housers; they were acquaintances at best. Eddie was usually the only one who wouldn’t glance at me in a condescending, ridiculing manner whenever I showed myself within the confines of the ark, as Eddie likes to call the office.

I still remember our first conversation, the very first day I proudly strolled in with my pre-edited first piece of freelance gold firmly clasped in my semi-sweaty hands.

Are you looking for someone? he asked without ungluing his eyes off of his computer monitor so as to not lose his place within his Word document.

Actually, yes. I am looking for Mr. Barco. Do you know where I can find him?

Do you have an appointment? Again, he continued on without any eye contact, giving his computer monitor the vast majority of his attention.

Do I need an appointment? I asked with a slight, inadvertent tone that I could understand being construed as sarcasm.

Now with his sincere attention, he looked directly into my eyes for several uncomfortable seconds without blinking and eventually responded. He is in his office, but I would wait a while before attempting to confront him. Let him cool down for a few minutes. He is a little heated right now and isn’t exactly pleased with his animals right now.

I attentively vacillated in all directions to make sure I was at the right place and not at some zoo.

Animals? I wasn’t appreciating his cryptic humor.

It’s our own little joke here at the office. Do you speak Spanish? Eddie, now facing me, asked. I had no idea where this awkward conversation was headed, but I was willing to kill some time with him while I gave Mr. Barco ample time to cool down at Eddie’s request.

Yes, I do. It’s my second language.

Do you happen to know Mr. Barco’s first name? He struggled to ask with a straight face as I nodded in negation.

He added, His first name is Noah. Get it?

It took me a few silent seconds, but then it hit me like a wet slap in the face. I had to make a valiant effort not to laugh, but my smile was joined by Eddie’s signature smile that he has, since then, never failed to greet me with upon seeing me.

Barco means ‘boat’ in Spanish. An ark is a type of boat. Noah is Barco’s first name. We consider this office Noah’s ark; therefore, we are all his animals. You have to admit that is pretty clever. Eddie added with an obvious look of pride that almost begged for applause. You don’t need to be a worldly-renowned theologian to solve that one. Remember, Barco is not aware of this, and we’d like to keep it that way, Mr… Eddie paused with his hand extended.

Alfredo Alvarez. You can call me Freddy.

I’m Eddie Barnes. It’s a pleasure to meet you. His cold hand met mine. And as if you couldn’t tell, I’m the only white guy who works here, but I do speak Spanish. So don’t try to think that you can direct any Spanish insults my way without my knowing what you are saying. I’ve been working here long enough to know when I am being belittled.

Being able to translate the Spanish word for ‘boat’ to English does not make you bi-lingual, Eddie, a raspy, male voice from the parallel row behind Eddie’s desk stated.

Screw you, Pete, and mind your own business! Eddie countered, even though it appeared that Eddie was actually acquiescing to Pete’s valid point.

The three of us chuckled quietly so as to not alarm Mr. Barco. This was probably the one and only time I ever saw a smile on Pete’s face. He always seemed to be so serious and unamused. I imagined that Pete was probably that obsequious kid in elementary school who was called upon by his teacher to take names and monitor the class while the teacher stepped out for a few minutes to make copies of the day’s lesson in the teacher’s lounge, or whatever else it is that teachers feel is substantial enough reason to leave an entire class of undisciplined, pre-teen mini-thugs alone without adult supervision. Every classroom has at least one of these snitches. I guess it’s not fair to judge Pete on the little that I know of him, but apparently Eddie felt a little bit like I did towards Pete.

In case you are wondering which animal Pete is, he is the jack ass! Eddie clarified while receiving Pete’s fully extended middle finger in response. I think it’s safe to go in now. Eddie pointed to the far end of the office in the direction of a room with a closed door and a sign that read, "If you don’t have a story, you aren’t looking hard enough." I cautiously made my way to Mr. Barco’s office.

I wouldn’t consider Eddie to be a friend, per se, but compared to the other animals who share his daily commitments and occupy the ark, it would be safe to say that he is slightly more than just an acquaintance. I am certain that he would say the same of me.

I realized it was almost noon, and I didn’t want to impose on Barco’s half-hour lunch, which dually served him as a moment to replenish his body with nutrients and as a therapeutic moment of undisturbed calmness to keep him from losing his overworked mind. Nobody dared to even think of knocking on Barco’s door between 12:00 and 12:30; it was an unwritten rule that even I as a freelance writer knew and strictly followed. During this self-preserving moment of bliss, his door was locked, his phone was turned off, and his potpourri of classical music was cranked up so voluminously that it emanated throughout the entire office like the captivating scent of fresh bread at a corner bakery. Whenever the music eventually stopped, everyone knew it was once again safe to knock on the door, if they dared. Until my dying day, I will think of Barco every time I hear classical music, much to my dismay.

As I proceeded to knock, I wisely balked and quickly glanced at my wristwatch to make sure the clock on the office wall was accurate. One of the journalists behind me must have noticed what I did because I faintly heard a semi-restrained cracking of laughter. Some of these animals were jokers, and I wouldn’t put it past them to alter the clock hands as some childish prank to get an unsuspecting dupe in trouble. Most of the time the employees at The Valley Reporter would keep busy or at least appear to be productive, but that doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t try to pass the time with a few laughs at the expense of someone else. Upon the entering the ark, you had to practically approach your visit like Indiana Jones trying to find meticulously placed booby traps before falling victim to one. My watch and the clock matched to the exact minute; it was safe to knock.

Come in, Barco answered with a half-shouted delivery. His deep voice never sounded genuinely inviting, even when he was literally inviting you in.

Barco was a man of above average height with a full head of dark brown hair. In this part of the country, south Texas, the average height for an adult male was somewhere between 5’5 and 5’11, give or take a few inches, so I would size him up at about 6’1". He had broad and stout shoulders, the kind of prominent shoulders that he would probably struggle to fit comfortably within the narrow seat of a commercial airplane. His constant 5 o’clock shadow suited him well, and somehow the shadow never seemed to get darker with time. He was recently divorced, and given his good looks and strong personality, he would likely marry again one day.

Are you busy, Mr. Barco? I always felt stupid asking him the obvious, but I often caught myself when it was already too late to retract.

Of course not, Alfredo. I am just sitting on my hairy ass waiting for you to visit me so that I can finally relish the pinnacle of my otherwise bland day. Barco was often sarcastic, but with me, his sarcasm was a little playful and less harsh than it was his in-house writers. It didn’t come off as being incendiary or humiliating; I like to think that he liked me more than the other creatures.

I’ve got a story that I think you might like. I placed the stapled sheets on his desk next to a red folder that was always next to his computer mouse and always overstuffed with reports and articles, usually consisting of time-sensitive content. Never place anything on top of the red folder; this was something that I learned the first day I met Barco.

That’s what I like about you, Alfredo, was Barco’s dry and vague response as he tapped away on his high-end keyboard at a frantic yet rhythmic pace, much like the composers he fancied. Although curtness was very much an attribute of Barco’s character, I could never get used to it and often demanded some sort of clarity.

What exactly is it that you like about me? Because I felt like I was walking into an insult, I was reluctant to ask but felt compelled to anyway.

You always ‘think’ I might like something. Of course, you are likely to be mistaken, but at least you are thinking. That’s more than I can say for the rest of these clueless clowns taking up space in my building.

It was just as I had suspected; I shouldn’t have asked. I walked hopelessly right into that one. I just cracked a half smile and let him continue when he felt it necessary. After about a minute of granted silence, he finished the e-mail he was constructing, sent if off and continued our conversation.

I’m getting ready to eat in a few minutes, and I probably won’t get a chance to thoroughly read your piece until tomorrow… he gazed at the red folder and sighed deeply, …or even the day after that.

That’s no problem, Mr. Barco. Then I will let you be. I will drop by some time next week, if that’s all right with you. I waited for some gesture of assent before turning for the closed door behind me.

That’s fine and dandy with me. If you can conjure up a juicy and much-desired piece regarding the mayor’s alleged sex scandal, it would be greatly appreciated. Local drama is always good for us and is usually a tasty treat for our readers. He licked his lips, widened his eyes and rubbed his two hands together as if about to embark on an ambrosial microwave feast.

Then you’ll be pleased with my piece, Mr. Barco. I reached for the doorknob and looked back to see Barco inserting my work inside the red folder and on top of all the other stories with a more-than-satisfied grin.

I’m expecting to read freelance gold, Alfredo.

I hope you like 24 karat, sir, I said confidently before the door shut behind me.

Is he in an approachable mood? Maria, the only female creature in the ark, asked as I made my way out. Maria was secretly referred to by the other animals as the flamingo. I would assume this is because flamingos are generally pink or maybe even because Maria has a conspicuously long neck.

He’s in a much more approachable mood than when I got here. That I can assure you.

On my way out, I picked up a copy of the previous day’s newspaper that was lying nicely folded in half atop the only unoccupied desk towards the back of the ark. There were always a few extra editions randomly scattered, and because I liked to keep up with fascinating world around me and see what other fellow journalists are writing about, I usually helped myself to one.

Even as a freelance journalist, one never knows what he will find within the revealing sections of any given day’s newspaper. It’s kind of like opening a box of Cracker Jack; sometimes the surprise inside is memorable, and sometimes it’s relatively bland. After arriving home, I spread open the powdery pages while sipping on some refreshing, over-sweetened iced tea when I slightly choked on my drink from an unexpected entry in the obituaries. Today’s edition turned out to be very memorable, unfortunately, in a somber way.

CHAPTER 2

F rom infancy up until I was 18 years old, I was one of 50 children who were the unfortunate, reluctant residents of the Eternal Hope Orphanage. The two-story, secular orphanage was an old, 25-bedroom mansion that was owned by some multi-millionaire but selflessly donated to the state of Texas after he had passed away. The mansion was undoubtedly old, but it was by no means run down or decrepit. This place could have easily withstood a category-5 hurricane, as it had already proved when it stood up to Hurricane Beulah in 1967 and Hurricane Allen in 1980. The wealthy man supposedly never married, and because he was the last one of his family alive, he generously bequeathed the sizable property to the state and requested in his will that it be used specifically as a children’s orphanage, or as I was forced to call it, home. There was an eerie, old painting of the bald, old man that hung on the wallpapered wall that directly faced the main entrance at the front of the mansion. As a somewhat pusillanimous child, this unnecessary painting always creeped the hell out of me, and because of this, I usually turned away whenever I had to pass near it. It hung there for the entire 18 years that I was assigned to live there. To this day almost two decades later, I can still vividly picture that dusty painting in all its ghastly glory, every brush stroke, every shade and every color.

The orphanage was run by only a handful of state-paid employees, but they received a lot of additional assistance from volunteers who helped maintain strict order in a quasi-military-like fashion. We children used to jokingly claim that the adults were only there to try to keep us from a state of martial law. The orphanage was not equipped with an educational staff or with any facilities to dually serve as an institution for learning, so our schooling was done with the area’s public school system.

That was primarily how my parentless childhood was shaped. Most of us had lost our parents to an untimely death, but some of us were abandoned by our biological parents for a myriad of colorful reasons. Some of us were given up for adoption and placed at Eternal Hope due to the mother being a victim of rape but were never actually adopted. Some of us had parents who decided they were too young to care for a child or were not financial stable to raise a child, and others just blatantly didn’t care enough to want us.

During the school year, all fifty of us would be transported to our corresponding school in the morning and picked up in the afternoon by a red bus that was owned by the orphanage. For the most part, school buses have hardly changed in shape or style over the years, but there have been some subtle changes in design that give them a more modernized look; this is especially noticeable when you see an older bus directly next to a newer one. At the time, the local school district was undergoing a stage where they were going to purchase new school buses, and every old bus would eventually be phased out. Buses were publicly auctioned off to anyone absent-minded enough to deem one reliable enough for transportation and oblivious enough to the imminent disconcertion of being seen in one of these rusty and squeaky jalopies. All the older buses were eventually auctioned off, all but one. The school district was unfortunately kind enough to donate one of these outdated objects of shame to our orphanage. After a low-grade paint job by one of the orphanage’s volunteers, we had our own customized bus. I say the paint job was low-grade because it was cheap, cheaper than an outdated package of partially opened ramen noodles. In my opinion, vehicles shouldn’t be painted with one coat of Krylon, semi-gloss spray paint and considered legal enough to be driven on public streets, or any street for that matter. In all honestly, I would have rather walked the entire two miles to school in the unbearable Texas humidity, but we weren’t given an option in the matter. At first, this was a little embarrassing because most the normal students who came from real homes with real families would gawk at us like we were outcasts or circus freaks with the Barnum and Bailey Circus. Eventually, we became numb to the unnerving attention and were able to go about our day with little or no confrontation.

Throughout my twelve years as a student with the McClelland Independent School District, it was quite uncommon to find myself amongst different classmates whenever advancing to the next grade level. Most of the classmates I had one year would be in the same class as me the following year, and so on. With the exception of new students who came from other school districts to enroll at our school, the class rosters were identical year after year. I remember taking some kind of standard aptitude test in the counselor’s office before 1st grade that supposedly determined how smart or how dumb we were. I remember them using the euphemistic phrase, gauging our abilities. This system of assigning students to classes was rather convenient for all of us from Eternal Hope because we didn’t have to explain to all our classmates the reason for arriving to school in a red bus every year. Everybody already knew from the previous years, and if we ever received new registrants, they often found out from the other classmates instead of having to ask us; that was fine by me.

Without fail, I was able to remember each and every classmate I had from 1st through 12th grade, both first and last name. Of course, it did help significantly that roughly 95 percent of my classmates were repetitions from the previous years, but I have always been pretty decent remembering names and corresponding faces. This was especially apparent when it came to naming the U.S. Presidents in U.S. History class with Mr. Hendricks, or matching the names with the faces of famous classical composers in music class with Mr. Cantú. It just came naturally to me, like whistling is to a bird. This is why I was a little rattled when I skimmed through the day’s Obituary Section of The Valley Reporter and recognized what I thought was a very familiar face that I hadn’t seen since graduating from grade school. The black and white photo of the deceased was of a woman named Sonya Trevino from my hometown of McClelland who had died of heart failure at the age of 64, but that name failed to resonate of familiarity. At first, I felt this had to be a careless error of the newspaper’s part, but upon reading the brief obituary article, I came to realize that the woman in the photo was the mother of a former classmate of mine named Iris Norteño. The newspaper had apparently used an older photograph of the woman in her younger years, which staggeringly resembled her younger daughter, my childhood friend. At the time, my common sense was in absentia because I failed to infer that a classmate of mine could not be 64 years old. I took a deep sigh of relief upon realizing that my classmate was not yet departed but then felt slightly crude for being relieved that it was Iris’ mother who died. As tasteless as it sounds, the sense of relief did not wane.

Sonya’s photograph was exactly the way I remembered her daughter, Iris. They both had dark brown hair, fair complexion, and a timid, innocent smile that somehow managed to make them even prettier than they already were naturally. She rarely spoke to anybody, unless you consider her smiling to be a form of non-verbal communication. The one time she did have a conversation with me was during a fire drill we had in eighth grade. She was uncommonly chattery that day through the entire duration of the drill, which lasted about 20 minutes or so. I remember Iris divulging that her mother and her had different last names because her mother had never married her father. In addition, for some reason that I will never know, she confided enough in me to share that her father had died before her birth, so she never had the chance to see or meet her father. The recollection of this revealing conversation momentarily brought me back to simpler times of innocence and blissful ignorance; a telling conversation like this I could not forget, even if I tried.

According to the obituary article, the visitation was in two days and the burial was the following day. The loss of a family member, I would have to safely assume, is one of the worst types of losses one could ever be subjected to, so painful and definite, yet often so difficult to accept and beyond words. I don’t feel one has to have lost a family member to be able to sense the grief and hurt that accompanies such misfortune. Even someone like me who has no known immediate family can attest to this.

As a sign of respect, I make it a point to attend the visitation ceremonies of my friends’ or even acquaintances’ loved ones. It’s in these times when we most need others in our lives to help cope with the loss and to help calm the burdensome qualms of emptiness. Growing up as an orphan, I always felt more like a patient than someone’s actual friend, son or brother. I had staff members and/or volunteers who helped raise me, feed me and show me right from wrong. That was their job, and that is exactly