Then, a year later, it was Diego who had introduced her to Nick. Not that she’d been looking to meet anyone; she had recently graduated law school and had just been recruited full-time to Juntos. When Diego had badgered her into coming to a family barbecue at the Long Beach Air and Marine Station, she’d done so reluctantly and had gone determined to make sure the irony of her presence was lost on no one. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding, I’m here to support Diego. I’d rather die than date a border agent,” she’d said to Finn when Diego introduced them. Finn had simply smiled his dimpled smile and asked if she was hungry. Then he’d gone off to fetch her a plate of barbecued beef and pinto beans. Mona ended up dating him anyway. And then it was Diego who died.
Three years had passed since Diego had been killed in the line of duty, but the grief still sometimes flooded through her in waves so powerful, they left her out of breath. She waited for the feeling to subside. Outside, the city’s lights twinkled like stars on the surface of the sea. Her pulse settled. She swiveled back around to her desk, switched on the desk lamp, and got back to work.
The hours passed. She reviewed the relevant laws and made notes of those that might be helpful. She reviewed summaries of pertinent cases. When she caught herself rereading the same line three times without registering it, she looked out the window again. The moon was high. The clock on her computer told her it was two in the morning. Enough. She grabbed her handbag, switched off the lights, and took the elevator down to the underground parking garage.
Mona walked past a gleaming, pearl-white Porsche Macan. It belonged to the guy who ran a tech start-up on the top floor. Mona felt a twinge of envy. The guy looked like he was twenty-five, tops. She’d once sat at her desk and calculated that if, instead of going into the not-for-profit sector, she’d joined one of the big firms that had tried to recruit her out of law school, just the late-night billable hours she clocked as a matter of course would’ve paid off a Porsche outright. Instead, she made monthly payments on the Toyota. She was thirty-two.
She pressed the Unlock button on the fob. The RAV honked like a startled goose and switched on its headlights, illuminating the concrete wall of the parking bay. At least her car was a better color than the Macan, she thought. The RAV4 was a tawny red that the dealer had told her was called, tautologically, hot lava, whereas the Porsche was a cold, almost blue shade of white. It occurred to Mona that it was the kind of color a sociopath might choose, and in her tired and cranky state of mind, the thought was pleasing to her. She found the tech entrepreneur objectionable. She’d shared the elevator with him a couple of times, a tall, scruffy boy who wore cargo shorts to work, for heaven’s sake. In the elevator, he’d carefully avoided making eye contact, as if meeting her gaze would cause him to explode like a volcano.
Mona sighed, got into her RAV, and turned the key. The car started right up, reliable as ever. Well, Finn had told her that it was a mechanically sound automobile, and Mona had pretended that it was his advice, and not the color, that made her decide to buy it.
THREE
WHILE Mona was working late, Finn was at a bar. Six days had passed since the rescue operation, and he was concerned that the close call with the freighter had rattled everyone’s confidence. He was conscious that he had pushed the envelope out there. So he had organized for his crew to get together outside of work. He wanted to give everyone a chance to decompress. Plus, he had a problem he had to deal with.
They met at Catalina’s, a sports bar behind the Long Beach Convention and Entertainment Center. Finn, who no longer drank, but who’d started following the Rams since they’d returned to LA, appreciated the signed jerseys and photos of Rams legends past and present: Vince Ferregamo, Jack Youngblood, Isaac Bruce, Deacon Jones. The number 80 Isaac Bruce jersey in particular brought up strong feelings in Finn. He sat at a long wooden table beneath it. On the wall opposite was a bank of flat-screen TVs. Chinchilla sat to his right, Gomez and Figueroa opposite him. He turned to Chinchilla.
“You tell Ella about the panga?”
Ella was Chinchilla’s wife.
Chinchilla gave a shrug. “I painted a general picture. I didn’t get specific.”
“Which bits in particular did you leave out?”
“Details like the space between us and the freighter.”
Across the table, Gomez gave a mock look of astonishment. “There was space between us?”
“Enough to slide a sheet of paper through,” said Chinchilla.
She gave a nervous laugh, and Finn noticed a vein pop in her neck. She patted his arm.
“Don’t worry, Finn. You made the right call.”
Gomez agreed. “It was on us to do everything we could to save them,” he said.
Finn appreciated them saying that. The decision he’d made that night had saved twenty-two lives, but could easily have gone the other way. There’d been so little in it. One thing he was certain of, defeat can always be snatched from the jaws of victory.
In 1994, the year Finn had started fourth grade, his mother had started dating a new guy. The guy had shown up one day with a Rams jersey for Finn, one with Isaac Bruce’s number on it, and Finn had quickly adopted the team as his own. He’d sat on the carpet in front of the TV, wearing the jersey and mimicking his mom’s boyfriend’s shouts of joy and frustration, an unfamiliar feeling of belonging rushing through him. Then the Rams had quit LA and moved to St. Louis, and not long after that, the boyfriend had left, too, to eventually become just another of the many men his mom had dated, men who had appeared, then disappeared from Finn’s life. He had never worn the number 80 jersey again.
Finn glanced at Figueroa. He looked uncomfortable. They’d only sat down a couple of minutes ago, but his beer was already empty. Finn wondered whether he should say anything about the seasickness, how it happened to everyone, but thought against it. There was something about Figueroa that displeased him. An arrogance, a sense of entitlement, a blowhard attitude. Then he told himself Figueroa was still young, and the young often seemed that way to their elders. Finn wasn’t so old he’d forgotten what it was like to be young. Plus, Finn wasn’t immune to seasickness. He knew how debilitating it could be.
“You like the Rams, Figueroa?” he said.
The young man nodded. “Yeah.”
Finn smiled. They talked football for a while. Gomez went to get another round; Chinchilla went to lend a hand. When they were gone, Finn asked, “Where were you before you joined Air and Marine, Figueroa?”
“I was at San Ysidro for a year, working the booths.”
Finn nodded. “It’s a rite of passage.” Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Listen, about what happened on the water. I’m not going to report you for insubordination. But I want you off my boat.”
The young man looked into his empty glass. Finn couldn’t tell whether he was relieved or angry.
“You want my advice, you should consider whether Air and Marine is the right fit for you,” said Finn. “There are plenty of land-based jobs at the CBP.”
Now Figueroa looked up at Finn, his eyes filled with hate.
“I don’t want your advice,” he spat.
Just then, Gomez and Chinchilla returned, each carrying two drinks. Finn thanked Gomez for the lemonade. Gomez was in a chatty mood.