Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Beck Hardin returns to his Texas hometown - and his estranged father - after the death of his wife leaves him with two children to raise. The town is still reeling from the murder of sixteen-year-old Heidi, whose father - Beck's old college friend - asks Beck to help him find Heidi's killer before the statute of limitations runs out. Meanwhile, Beck is pushed into becoming town Judge, and he makes some powerful enemies amongst the rich white landowners when he refuses to condone their treatment of the Mexican workers of the town. As events escalate, the landowners carefully plot their revenge...
town." "Raid made the TV—San Antonio news. Felix Delgado was interviewed. He was pretty upset. Said it was a tragic miscarriage of justice." There was that word again. "Grady's a good man," J.B. said. "You're a good man, too, Beck. I'm proud you're my son. I wish I could take the credit, but you raised yourself." Beck looked at his father looking at him. "You get more credit than you know, J.B." Beck saw his father's eyes well up. J.B. looked down and said softly, "That means a lot, Beck."
felt back then. "Scream, son. Get it out." But Luke refused, so they sat again. Beck said, "I'd sit right here for hours … trying to figure things out. To understand why life isn't fair. But I know now there's no figuring it out. All you can hope is that your mother's life had meaning to your life, otherwise her life was wasted. I look at you and Meggie, and I see her. Up here, I feel my mother's spirit. She lives on in me. Luke, your mother's spirit lives on in you. You just have to let
out in the Marktplatz or Mexicans marching down Main Street. They want nice news. They want white people to come here and be happy and shop. People in Dallas and Houston, they got homeless people and blacks and Mexicans up in arms about something all the time. They don't come here for that. They come here to live life the way it used to be—at least for a weekend." "The perfect all-American, all-white, crime-free town." "With a German festival." He chuckled. "Remember when the Mexicans marched
is." J.B. snorted. "That'll be the day." TWENTY-TWO Felix Delgado was seventy-five years old, he was an American citizen born of Mexican immigrants, he had served sixteen terms in Congress from his San Antonio district, and he had one year to live. "Brain tumor," he said. Delgado had been waiting for Beck at the courthouse that Tuesday morning. He had driven up from San Antonio. "It is a beautiful drive. I used to drive very fast. Now I drive very slow." "The tumor?" "The time. When you
here, so there are workers for the plant. Old cars were parked in the yards or jacked up on cement blocks. Chickens and goats were in pens like backyard pets; a Hereford bull grazed in one yard. Junk was piled everywhere. Neat rows of tall green cornstalks grew in one vacant lot, agave plants in another. Julio wrote: Pedro makes homemade tequila, from the agave. Appliances sat on porches, and furniture—couches, recliners, rocking chairs—sat in small yards, arranged as if they were in a family