Day of the Dead

When she finished, she went back to her place against the wall, as far from the toilet as possible. She lay on the concrete floor on her side, head resting on her arm, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t sleep – that was impossible. But she dozed, on and off. The murmurs of the woman on the bench, the laughs and cursing of the men in the cell across the way, all combined into a dream-narrative soundtrack that could not be precisely translated to waking life.

By midmorning even that poor half sleep was out of the question. The temperature in the cell rose steadily, the stink from the vomit and the toilet given fresh potency by the heat.

They took the other woman out of the cell around lunch, whatever time that was. Lunch was beans and tortillas and a Coke.

‘When can I use the telephone?’ Michelle asked. ‘Teléfono. I want to talk to the American consulate.’

‘Ahora no. Espérate.’

‘I have been in this cell for an entire day—’

She stopped herself.

Don’t scream. Don’t yell. Don’t cry.

She took a few deep breaths, like she’d do in yoga class. ‘When do I get to make a phone call?’

‘Sorry, señora. Soon.’

A few more hours went by. They brought a couple of women into the cell, a beach vendor who’d gotten busted for selling trinkets without a license and a college student from Canada.

‘Oh, my God,’ the college student kept saying. ‘Oh, my God. It was just a fender bender. I mean, that was all it was. And they put me in jail?’

Obviously yes, Michelle thought, but she didn’t say that, just shook her head and made sympathetic noises. ‘Things are a little different here.’

‘Oh, my God, I can’t believe this.’ The student started sobbing. ‘What … what happens next?’

A very good question as well.

Around sunset a guard called Michelle’s name.

Finally, she thought, following him down the corridor. And then, Great. It had to be nearly 8:00 P.M. Would anyone even be at the consulate? What was she supposed to do, leave a voicemail?

The guard led her out of the cells, past the iron bars that separated them from the administration area, to the small green-and-beige lobby that was the gateway to the outside world.

Gary sat on a wooden bench against the wall, texting on his BlackBerry. Seeing her, he rose.

‘Michelle, hey.’ He crossed the room and rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘How’re you doing?’

She flinched. She didn’t know Gary, but she didn’t think she wanted his hands on her. ‘I’m okay. Why—’

‘First things first. Let’s get you out of here.’

He cupped her elbow, fingers pressing against the back of her arm, guiding her toward the door.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll explain in the car.’ He grinned at her. ‘First things first.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘The consulate called me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Michelle repeated. ‘I didn’t call them.’

They rode in Gary’s car, a black Land Cruiser with tinted windows, looping around the airport on the highway, heading north. Leather seats. Gary seemed to do pretty well with his consulting, whatever it was.

‘Mexican authorities are supposed to contact the consulate when they take an American citizen into custody,’ Gary explained. ‘That doesn’t happen a lot of places, but Puerto Vallarta’s better than most.’

‘And the consulate called you?’

‘I help them out now and again. I’ve got some experience with Mexican law.’

‘I see.’

She must have sounded skeptical. Hell, she was skeptical.

‘Well, their staffing’s not what it should be,’ Gary said. ‘Not always enough to help out Americans in trouble. And when they mentioned your name, of course I wanted to do what I could.’

The sign on the two-lane highway said they were heading toward Tepic, wherever that was. The surrounding landscape was flat, green splotched with brown, broken up by the occasional gas station, cinder-block building and cluster of scrubby palms. There was a lot of traffic, and the Land Cruiser’s air-conditioning could not entirely filter out the raw diesel fumes from the buses in front of them.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Thought you might want to shower and change your clothes.’ He tilted his head over his shoulder. ‘Your stuff’s in the trunk.’

They drove awhile in silence, the air conditioner drying the sweat on her skin to salt. Dirt from the jail powdered her arms and legs. Probably the rest of her as well.

‘What’s my situation?’ she finally asked. ‘Am I out on bail or … or what?’

‘Looks like they won’t be filing charges. At least not yet.’

‘What does that mean, “not yet”? Do I need to get a lawyer?’

‘Well, you got me,’ he said, turning to smile at her. ‘And right now that’s enough to keep you out of jail.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He turned back to watch the road, left hand on the wheel, right arm resting on the center console, hand drifting close to her thigh. ‘You know, in Mexico you’re guilty till proven innocent. If they’d charged you, the bail would’ve been pretty substantial. Or maybe they wouldn’t have granted bail at all. Depends on the charges and the judge. Then the trial … well, it can take a while for the trial to even begin. A year’s not unusual. You know the percentage of folks in Mexican prisons who haven’t been convicted of anything? Then the sentences …’ His plump lips parted slightly as his smile broadened. ‘Not a nice situation, especially not for a woman like you.’

‘As opposed to a woman like someone else?’ The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Gary chuckled. ‘You’re a cool customer, Michelle. I sussed that out about you right away.’

They turned off the main highway and took a sudden turn to the left, toward the coast. Now they traveled on a two-lane road landscaped with evenly spaced palm trees. Michelle glimpsed tennis courts, swimming pools, brightly painted townhouses shaped like honeycombs.

‘Here’s what I don’t understand: What was someone like you doing with cocaine? I’d of thought you’d know better.’