Send Down the Rain(69)

Allie came to see me every day. I spent most of my time trying to console her. Manuel, Javier, Peter, and Victor came to see me. They sat across from me. Quiet. Not knowing what to say. I asked how the carnival was going, and they nodded. I asked how their families were settling into life in the States, and they nodded. I asked how the process to citizenship was progressing, and they held up their driver’s licenses. They told me that Dummy #3, the man with the cut Achilles tendon, had been deported. “Sent home.”

The governor went on the air and declared how all people, regardless of nationality, deserved the same civil treatment. That Florida was not the Wild West and that we were and are a nation of laws. That people did not need to feel afraid to live in our great state. He also did not want my case to get lost in the bowels of judicial wrangling. He let Judge Werther know he wanted justice served. And he let the people of the state of Florida know that he was monitoring the situation and would use the powers of his office to make sure we stayed on track. The people deserved a swift, public, and just outcome.

With a week to go, my brother came to see me. During the trial he’d kept his distance. His presence in the courtroom could have been misinterpreted and used by the other side. I knew that.

He sat down. Jeans and flip-flops. “How you doing?”

I tapped my heart with my pencil. “I miss Rosco.”

He nodded.

I asked, “You got any feel for what the judge might do?”

He shook his head. “He’s been on the bench a long time. Doesn’t owe anybody any favors. Not real swayed by politicians. He’s known for maximum sentences, and he hands them down with liberality.”

“Great.”

Bobby’s lip trembled when he asked, “Can I do anything for you?”

“Take care of my family.”

“Name it.”

“Remove any red tape. Get them through the process. Give them a life here. I’ve got money. Whatever you need.”

“And Allie?”

I paused. “Be a friend. She’s gonna need one. I’m giving her all I’ve got so she won’t need to work, but she’ll want to. To give her hands something to do. She’ll go crazy otherwise.”

He stood to leave. Despite orders from the warden not to make physical contact with me in any way, he hugged me. Through tears he said, “Joseph, I’m sorry.”

I handed him a card. A simple picture. A window, covered in bars. “Me too.”





41

The courtroom was packed. Standing room only. Judge Werther allowed my attorney to begin calling character witnesses. And so he did. Throughout the morning, he called Manuel, Javier, Peter, and Victor. Their presence seemed to make a positive impression on the judge, but he was tough to read. Then he called Catalina. With the judge’s permission, she called Gabby and Diego and let them describe their relationship with me. His demeanor changed slightly when they spoke. He thanked them for their courage and he asked Gabby if her neck had healed. She showed him her throat. Standing before the bench, she said, “But this isn’t what hurts.”

The judge responded, “What does?”

“I miss Rosco.”

Judge Werther nodded. “You mean your dog?”

“He slept with me. When that man put that knife to my throat, Rosco jumped on him.”

The judge looked at me, then back at Gabby. “How was it that Rosco slept with you?”

Gabby pointed at me. “Uncle Joe told him to.”

I’d never heard her call me that. I liked it.

The judge looked at me. “I thought Rosco kept you from having flashback dreams.”

“He did.”

“And yet you made him sleep with her.”

I shrugged. “I knew he’d protect her.”

The judge spoke almost to himself. “Which he did.”

He motioned for Catalina and Gabby to step down. To my surprise, my attorney next called the waitress from the diner, to whom I’d given the truck. She wore a dress. Carried her son in her arms. She told what I’d done, and the judge thanked her for traveling to testify. Next to take the stand were Becca and Tim.

After lunch my attorney called Allie, and she gave her account of me. Of us. She took her time and told the story. The judge must have been a great poker player. He was stoic and had the expression of a piece of granite.

Lastly my attorney called my brother. Bobby had asked to be a character witness. The cameras in the courtroom clicked off a thousand pictures as he made his way to the stand. He was dressed in jeans, running shoes, sleeves rolled up. He swore on the Bible and stated that the words he was about to speak would be the truth.





42

Bobby chewed on his lip and chose his words carefully. His posture wasn’t political. The senator wasn’t on the stand. My brother was. “Your Honor, there’s a piece of this story that no one—including my brother—is telling you.” He looked at me.

The judge responded, “Enlighten us, please, Senator Brooks.”

Whatever story Bobby had come to tell, he’d come to peace with it. He adjusted in his seat, crossed his legs, and folded his hands. And while his eyes were focused on me, he was staring forty-five years into the past.

“In September of 1972, my number was called.” He reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a yellowed and wrinkled document. “My draft notice.”