Accustomed to Cochise County’s almost nonexistent traffic, Joanna was appalled by what awaited her once she turned onto what was euphemistically referred to as the Black Canyon Freeway. Even that late in the evening, both north and southbound traffic was amazingly heavy. And once she crossed under Camelback, southbound traffic stopped altogether. From there on, cars moved at a snail’s pace due to what the radio traffic reports said was a rollover semi, injury accident at the junction I-10 and I-17. That wreck, along with related fender-benders, had created massive tie-ups all around the I-17 corridor, the exact area Joanna had to traverse in order to reach downtown.
Continuing to try to decode the traffic reports, Joanna was frustrated by the way the information was delivered. The various freeways were all referred to by name rather than number, and most of them seemed to be named after mountains—Superstition, Red Mountain, Squaw Peak. If an out-of-town driver didn’t know which mountains were which and where they were located, the traffic ports could just as well have been issued in code.
Most of Joanna’s experience with Phoenix came from an earlier, less complicated, non-freeway era. At Indian School she left the freeway, resorting to surface streets for the remainder of the trip. She navigated the straightforward east-west/north-south grids with little difficulty once she had escaped the freeway-related gridlock.
She reached the jail late enough that there was plenty of on-street parking. After locking her Colt 2000 in the glove compartment, she stepped out of the Blazer and looked up at the lit facade of an imposing building.
Had Joanna not been a police officer, she might have liked it better. The Maricopa County Jail had received numerous architectural accolades, but for cops the complex’s beauty was only skin deep. The portico and mezzanine above the lighted entrance were eminently attractive from an aesthetic point view. Unfortunately, they were also popular with a number of enterprising inmates, several of whom had used those selfsame architectural details as a launching pad for well-planned escapes. Using rock climbing equipment that had been smuggled into the jail, they had rappelled down the side of the building to freedom.
Joanna stood on the street, eyeing the building critically and knowing that her own jail shared some of the same escape-prone defects. Old-fashioned jails—the kind with bars on the windows—may not have been all that aesthetically pleasing, but at least they did the job.
Shaking her head, she walked into the building. Immediately upon entering, she was stopped by a uniformed guard seated behind a chest-high counter. “What can I do for you?” he asked, shoving his reading glasses up on top of his head and lowering his newspaper.
“I’m here to see a prisoner,” Joanna said.
The guard shook his head, pulled the glasses back down on his nose, raised the paper, and resumed reading. “Too late,” he said without looking at her. “No more visitors tonight. Come back tomorrow.”
Joanna removed both her I.D. and badge from her purse. She laid them on the counter and waited for the guard to examine them. He didn’t bother.
He spoke from behind the paper without even looking at them. “Like I said. It’s too late to see anybody tonight.”
“What about the jail commander?” Joanna said quietly. “You do have one of those, don’t you?
The guard lowered the paper and glanced furtively down at the counter. When his eyes focused on the badge lying in front of him, he frowned. “The commander went home already.”
“Then I’ll speak to whoever’s in charge.”
When he spoke again, the guard sounded exasperated. “Lady, I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but—”
“The matter,” Joanna interrupted, keeping voice firm but even, “is that I want to see a prisoner, and I want to see him tonight.”
With a glower, the guard folded his newspaper and tossed it into a cabinet under the counter. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say,” she said, “because you didn’t ask. But it’s Brady. Joanna Brady. Sheriff Joanna Brady from Cochise County.”
The word sheriff did seem to carry a certain amount of weight, even with a surly, antagonistic guard. “And who is it you want to see?” he asked grudgingly.
“Antonio Jorge Grijalva,” she answered. “He’s charged with murdering his wife.”
“Even if you get in, the guy won’t see you,” the guard said. “Not without his attorney present.
“I believe he will,” Joanna answered. “All you have to do is tell him his mother sent me.”
Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, the guard reached for the phone and dialed a number. Less than ten minutes later, with the help of the jail’s night watch commander, Joanna was seated in a small prisoner interview room. Peering through the scratched Plexiglas barrier, she watched as Jorge Grijalva, dressed in orange inmate rails and soft slippers, was led into the adjoining room.
Joanna had studied all the articles in Juanita’s envelope. She knew that Serena had been twenty-four when she died and that her husband was almost twenty years older. At first glimpse, the man in the next room seemed far older than forty-three. His face was careworn. He was small, bowlegged, and slightly stooped, with the spareness that comes from years of hard labor and too much drinking. Dark, questioning eyes sought Joanna’s as he edged way into the plastic chair.
Who are you?” he demanded, picking up the phone on his side of the barrier. “What do you want?”
Joanna didn’t hear the questions. He had asked them before she had a chance to pick up the receiver on her phone, but she knew what he wanted to know.
“I’m Joanna Brady,” she answered. “I’m the new sheriff down in Cochise County.”
“What’s this about my mother? Is something wrong with her?”
“No. Your mother’s fine.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“She wanted me to talk to you.”
Jorge leaned back in his chair. For a moment no thought he might simply hang up and ask to be returned to his cell. “Why?” he said finally.
“Your mother says you didn’t do it,” Joanna answered. “She says you’re innocent, but that you’re going to plead guilty anyway. Is that true?”
Jorge Grijalva’s face contorted into a scowl. “Go away,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to you. My mother’s a foolish old woman. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She knows about losing her grandchildren,” Joanna answered quietly. “If you go to prison for killing Serena, the Duffys will never let your mother see Ceci and Pablo again.”
In the garish fluorescent light, even through the scarred and yellowed Plexiglas window, Joanna could see the knuckles of his olive-skinned fingers turn stark white. For a long time, Jorge stared the table, gripping the phone and saying nothing. Then, after a time, he raised his gaze until his troubled eyes were staring directly into Joanna’s.
“My wife was a whore,” he said simply. “She sold herself for money and for other things as well. When I found out about it, I was afraid the same thing would happen to Ceci, to my daughter. I was afraid she’d turn Ceci into a whore, too. So I got drunk once and beat Serena up. The cops put me in jail.” He paused for a moment and studied Joanna before adding, “It only happened once.’
“And when was that?”
“Last year in Bisbee. Before she and the kids moved to Phoenix. Before she filed for a divorce.”
“What about now? What about this time?”
“I wanted the kids to come to Douglas for Thanksgiving. My mother hasn’t seen them since last spring. She misses them.”