Page 549 of Devil’s Disciples

Watson opened the door, made eye contact with Reno and then looked at me. He straightened his posture. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said. “My father came up missing two weeks ago. A friend of a friend of a friend was here on a misdemeanor charge, and said he saw my father in the jail. I’d like to know what charges you have against him.”

“His name?”

“Oscar Arturo Valdez Rosarita.”

Watson approached the desk. “My apologies,” he said. “Give me a moment.” He looked at the sergeant. “Oscar Arturo Valdez Rosarita. Look up the name and see what he’s in here for.”

“Illegal entry,” the desk sergeant said.

Watson looked at me. “He’s being held for deportation to Mexico.”

I cocked my hip and tossed my braid over my shoulder. “Mexico!? Mexico? Why would you deport him to Mexico? He’s a US citizen.”

“He doesn’t have any paperwork, and he’s refused to speak to anyone since his arrest,” Watson said.

“So, you arrested him based on the color of his skin?”

“No, he was detained based on his—”

“Because he’s Hispanic?” I asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Did he commit a crime?”

“I’m not certain.”

I spun to face the desk sergeant. “Is he charged with a crime?”

He looked at the monitor. “No, ma’am.”

I looked at Watson. “Have you ever heard of the ACLU?”

“Yes, ma’am, I have.”

“Have you ever had them crawl up your ass with a microscope?”

“I haven’t yet, no.”

I looked him up and down. “Would you like for me to make that call?”

“I would rather you didn’t—”

“Did you give my father the opportunity to call his family?”

“I believe he was given—”

“You believe?” I interrupted. “Or you’re sure? You’re hoping, aren’t you? You’re hoping he was given that opportunity. Because if he wasn’t, that’d be two strikes against you. Have you heard of CNN? The San Diego Tribune? Do you know Peyton Price? The award-winning reporter?”

Watson swallowed heavily, looked at Reno, and then at me. “I’m aware of her existence, yes.”

“She’s a close personal friend of mine,” I declared. “I’ll have her write an article of this travesty of justice so fast that it’ll make your head spin. You do realize my father has rights? As a US citizen? That going to the store while being brown isn’t a crime?”

“Do you have any proof of citizenship?” Watson asked.

I opened my purse. I pulled out a social security card and a birth certificate. “I think you’ll find these in order.”