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Chapter 20

Twenty

"Arrested?! How?"

Barb could feel Titus's ire radiating through the telephone line. She twisted the phone cord, contemplating ways to diffuse the situation. She was angry, too, but she spoke calmly and clearly. "Silas let him go, so he came here to get his belongings to move in with you. I helped him pack and was walking him out the door when Junior showed up and took him away."

"For what? Getting fired?"

"No." She hesitated. "There was a gas-powered leaf blower and hedge-trimmers in the bed of Pedro's truck."

Titus scoffed. "Junior planted that shit. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know, T. Pedro's not a thief."

"They're trying to scare him."

"Well, they're doing a pretty good job. When he got here he was upset enough, worried he'll be deported. He said something about Silas doing the same to others. He was in tears, trembling when Junior put the cuffs on him." She regretted the words before she even finished saying them, but she knew she shouldn't downplay the situation. Titus was silent. "Please be careful, T," she added. "They're playing you as much as they are him. They want you to do something foolish."

"I'd like to break both their necks—Silas-Shitbag-Compton and that brown-nosing half-wit, Junior Sikes."

Barb let him vent, hoping he would simmer down.

"It's like we never graduated," he grumbled further. "Silas is still taking advantage of the meek and Junior is just falling in line behind him, both using fear to manipulate people."

"Sounds like politics as much as it does high school."

"It's the same. It's fucking life. People suck. And you wonder why I don't leave the house."

"Not all people, T. You gotta remember that."

"I want to squash 'em."

"Well, you can't. You can't help him if you're in jail, too."

He paused for a long time. Barb was preparing to speak further when he said, "No. You're right."

"What's the plan, then?"

"I need to get off here and get Tuttle on the phone. He should be in his office by now."

"Good thinking. Use a lawyer to put a scare in them."

"Yeah, something like that."

"OK. I'll hang up. But, T, if there's anything else I can do—I mean anything —please let me know. I'd lasso the moon for you if I could."

"How about marrying a Mexican man to keep in the States?" His words were fast, the message jarring Barb. Clearly, Titus had been contemplating ways of keeping Pedro here more than she knew. "Relax," he chuckled. "I don't think it'll come to that. But the thought has crossed my mind."

"I would," Barb answered. "You caught me by surprise, but I would. You're my brother, T, and it's not like I'm going to be marrying a man anytime soon."

"I would marry him if I could."

"Really? You know that already?"

"Yeah. I do."

Barb heard the love in his voice.

"Then go get him out of jail."

Tuttle picked up the phone on the third ring. "Tuttle Broxton, Attorney at Law."

"That's weird. Do you always answer that way?"

"It's Rosemary's day off. What am I supposed to say—Hello, it's me. Need a lawyer? I'm running a business, for God's sake."

"It's Titus."

"I know. Is this about Kinko's? I finished going over the papers last night. Everything seems in order. You and Alden are going to make a pretty penny on that deal."

"That's not why I'm calling, Tuttle."

"Well, if it's about the papers your father had me draw up regarding the house, I got those, too."

"No," Titus said. "I got something else. It's more of an emergency."

"Well, I'm not busy. I'm old and, apparently, no longer the hotshot attorney in Spoon, what with Ross Pirkle and Associates opening that fancy-schmancy office over in Morehead. Have you heard those commercials? Ambulance chasers, that's what they are. Not me. No way."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm happy to help a Shepherd any day, Titus, you know that. If it weren't for your Grandpa Trent, I wouldn't even be a lawyer. He rescued my daddy's farm from the IRS back in '55. Helped us refinance, consolidate debt, and expand my daddy's dairy business, giving him enough money to put me and Bess through school. Yes, sir. If it weren't for Trent Shepherd, I'd probably be a janitor or something worse... maybe a used car salesman. Speaking of used cars, did you?—"

" Tuttle ," Titus blurted. "Sorry to interrupt, but it's an emergency. Remember?"

"Oh. Yes, son. I'm sorry. I tend to be long-winded sometimes. At least that's what Rosemary says. What's going on?"

"Well," Titus began, then stopped. He took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. "If you're representing us, I can't have you going in blind. I need to come clean about some stuff you don't know."

"Has this got anything to do with that Mexican gardener I hear you've been shacking up with?"

When Titus and Tuttle arrived at the Sheriff's office, Misty Norris, receptionist and dispatch, was manning the desk and switchboard. Tuttle stood a good foot and a half shorter than Titus. He was sporting a crisp and professional, if somewhat dated, suit.

"Good morning, Misty. We're here to see Junior."

"He's busy," Misty said, glancing at them over her glasses and popping her chewing gum. "He told me that unless it's an emergency, he's booked all day."

Titus stepped forward to speak, and Tuttle raised an arm to stay him.

"Booked?" Tuttle said. "Since when do deputies require appointments? I need you to tell Junior that if he knows what's good for him, he'll talk to us before this thing gets way too big for him to handle."

Junior hollered from the back. "It's OK, Misty. Let 'em come back."

Misty popped her chewing gum again. She gestured toward the voice without speaking.

Titus and Tuttle walked down the hall, passing long bulletin boards of Wanted and Missing Persons fliers, to an open office door. There they found Junior. He was seated, leaning back in a chair with his feet up on the desk, paging through a Hustler magazine.

"Yeah. You look real busy," Titus said.

"This here is important stuff, Titus." Junior unfolded a centerfold and held it up for them to see. On the glossy paper was a sultry woman, completely nude, with her legs spread wide. Using both hands, her fingers were spreading herself even wider. "But you wouldn't know about that kind of stuff, would you? You're too busy packing fudge."

Titus casually raised his hand, extending his index finger, and pushed the bottom of Junior's shoe with it. Junior lost balance, toppling over backward, magazine flying out of his hand as he flailed to the floor.

"Goddammit!"

"Where's your daddy?" Tuttle asked.

Junior scrambled to his feet. "Over in Morehead on business. What's it to you?"

"First," Tuttle began, "Titus, would you please shut that door? This town has ears, you know."

Titus did as instructed. Junior grew pale, betraying both his youth and his macho-cop fa?ade. "What's going on here?"

"I'll tell you what's going on," Tuttle said. "We know you planted those tools in Pedro Torres's truck."

"That's not true. Damn queer Mexican stole 'em."

Titus made for Junior, but Tuttle stepped in between them. "Titus, let me do my job."

"Yeah, Titus, let the old man protect your pansy ass."

"Are you suicidal? You need to be quiet," Tuttle said, pointing at Junior. "You and me both know that Titus Shepherd could rip off your head and go bowling with it. I can only keep him at bay from your asinine taunts for so long."

"Then let him go. I'll throw his ass in jail, too. Assaulting a police officer."

"You're not putting anyone in jail. And you're going to release Pedro Torres. Right now."

"The hell I am."

"It is in your better interest."

"And why is that?"

"Because we have a witness, Junior. A witness that saw you put that leaf-blower in Pedro's truck at eight thirty-five this morning."

Junior went to speak, then paused. Nothing revealed his guilt more than this hesitation.

"No, you don't. Who?"

"We are not at liberty to disclose that information before court. That is– if you want this to go to court . But I don't think you do, do you? Be a shame, losing this cushy job your dad got you all because Silas Compton was looking for a favor."

"You can't prove a fucking thing," Junior said. "I'm the law."

Tuttle glanced at Titus, who was turning beet-red, like Yosemite Sam in the cartoons, fists clenched. He looked back at Junior and said, "Listen to me, you foul-mouthed little pissant. If you agree to release Pedro right now, when we open that door, everything that just transpired never happened. It'll be just a fading memory between the three of us."

Again, Junior looked conflicted. The cogs were turning behind his weaselly eyes, the opportunity for evasion prevalent. "What about Silas?" he asked. "He was going to INS. He was gonna have that guy deported."

"He can't do that and he knows it," Tuttle says. "That's why he's setting Pedro up by having you say he stole the power tools. Anything over five hundred dollars is considered a felony and would compromise his bid for citizenship. Silas knows this. You're the one who'll be in trouble when we disprove it. He's using you, Junior."

"What else is new?" Titus scoffed. "You've been kissing Silas Compton's ass since high school. If I didn't know better, I'd think maybe there's something more than just friendship going on between you two."

"Now, you?—"

"Now, nothing," said Tuttle. "Titus, stop stirring the pot. Junior, you need to release that young man now. Do the right thing, son."

"Can I at least put an ankle monitor on him? Then I can tell Silas?—"

Titus had had enough. He stepped around Tuttle, grabbed Junior by the shirt, and lifted him to his toes. "You go near him with anything of the sort and I'll roll up that Hustler magazine and pack your fudge."

"OK, OK," Junior said, yielding. He opened the desk drawer and removed a key ring. "Let's go get him out."

Tuttle smiled. "That's a very informed decision you've made, Junior. I'm proud of you."

They saw Pedro in the holding cell before he realized they were there. He was huddled in a corner, head down. Titus glared at Junior, who fumbled with the keys and quickly opened the cell door. Pedro glanced up at the sound. His face was red, cheeks wet, hair disheveled. He looked like he'd been there a week instead of a little over an hour.

"T?" he whimpered.

"Yeah, babe. It's me."

Pedro stood, lunging for Titus. The sobs followed, deep and mournful, as he collapsed into Titus's arms.

"There, there. It's alright," Titus said, squeezing him firmly. "Big T's here. You're safe now. I promise."

"He wants to send me back… after all I've done for him. Two and a half years and he wants to send me back. He did the same to Carlos. I'm sure of it now."

"That's not gonna happen, young man." Tuttle said. He extended a hand and Pedro took it in his own, reflexively. "I'm your lawyer now. I've spoken with an immigration attorney in Atlanta. She's instructed me on how to proceed. She also has some friends who have taken a keen interest in the so-called operations of Compton's Greenscapes. I took it upon myself to leave out the part about your being detained by an imbecile." Tuttle shot sharp eyes at Junior, who suddenly found the adjacent wall fascinating. "Thought maybe we could manage that part on our own."

"You're safe," Titus whispered. "You're with me now. I won't let anyone come near you."

"What will I do? I don't have a job. I have to work, T, and no one will hire me now. Silas knows everyone. He'll see to it."

"Look into my eyes. Do you think I'd ever let someone take you from me? It's not gonna happen. You just let me and Tuttle worry about it. We're going home now. I'm gonna get you behind the gate and I'm not letting anyone in, you hear me?"

Pedro nodded.

Titus held him as he ushered him out of the cell. When they passed Junior, Titus scowled at him. "There's a special place in hell for people like you and Silas. Bullying and scaring people for what? Their size? Their skin color? Who they love? Fuck you, Junior."

Junior's head dropped.

Titus and Pedro continued down the hall, but Tuttle remained.

"You did the right thing just now, son, whether or not you know it. I suspect you do. And I hope you learned something. You're young. You've still got time to become a decent human being."

"Yes, sir," he said, nodding. "Um, you're not gonna tell my daddy, are you?"

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