Date: Wed, 1 Sep 2004 21:30:37 -0700 (PDT)
From: Corrinne S <quasito_cat@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Graschels of Guenther Street - Chapter 16

Pertinent information is posted at the beginning of
this series.  Comments welcome to
quasito_cat@hotmail.com or quasito_cat@yahoo.com

The Graschels of Guenther Street

M.C. Gordon

Chapter Sixteen

     In the ICU unit of University Hospital a
three-month old boy barely clung to life.  That he
lived at all was due to the fact that a twelve-year
old boy who walked dogs for his neighbors to help put
food on the table had heard a fight in one of the
apartments, over the growls of schnauzers and
terriers, and had rushed home to tell his mother.
Maria Renteria immediately called the police
department but it was hours before they responded.
And when they did, the mother was dead and the baby
only alive because the mother's boyfriend was so drunk
that he didn't realize the stove was an old gas range
that needed a pilot light to be lit and the gas
actually turned on.

     Rodrigo Renteria was an inquisitive and
intelligent boy, small for his age.  He knew a few
things in his young life.  He wanted to take his
mother and siblings out of the barrio that was their
home.  He had seen his father killed during a drive-by
shooting and hated the gangs that drove the life of
his neighborhood on San Antonio's deep west side.  He
was tired of the sound of gunfire in the middle of the
night and his sisters climbing into bed with him out
of fear.  With his father dead he was the man of the
family.  His mother never told him that, but the deep
conviction of his Hispanic heritage drove him to
accept a responsibility he never should have taken on
at his tender years.

     He loved animals, dogs in particular, and worked
hard in school in hopes that he might get a
scholarship to college because he wanted to be a
veterinarian.  He had even picked out the corner on
Menchaca Street where he wanted his clinic.  He hung
out, when he wasn't in school or shooting hoops or
doing his job, with Enrique Valdez, the elderly
veterinarian who spayed and neutered the local cats
and dogs for a pittance.  Enrique was his idol and he
had taken more than one dying animal to the man for
euthanasia when the animal was beyond help.  It was
due to Enrique's encouragement that Rodrigo had gone
to his neighbors and asked if he could walk their
dogs, for many of them lived in public housing and
weren't supposed to have pets.  Most of them couldn't
afford the inoculations that would keep their pets
alive and Enrique always did what he could, and the
ones who could afford to pay always gave a little
extra to the old man.

     Rodrigo was walking four dogs when he thought he
heard the sounds of a fight in one of the Alazan
Apache Courts apartments, across the street from his
own home.  He quickly brought the dogs to heel and
ordered them to silence.  He knew the people who lived
in the apartment and was very worried because Rogelio,
the man, was a gang member.  He was covered with gang
tats and wore a ragged red bandana on his head and ran
with a rough crowd who did drugs and hung out drinking
beer, throwing empty beer bottles in the street. When
Rodrigo heard the screams he thought about seeing what
was going on, but he knew he couldn't stop anything
Rogelio was doing and might put his own life in
danger.

     Maria, Rodrigo's mother, barely managed to keep
the family alive working at one of the motels as a
domestic.  She wasn't particularly fond of her job
because her employer treated all of the domestic staff
badly and only paid in cash.  It made it hard for
Maria because she needed Food Stamps to put food on
her table and had to explain over and over again that
she'd be fired if she asked her boss to fill out a
form to verify her earnings.  It was one of the
obstacles she faced for being in the country
illegally.

     When Rodrigo came running through the door
telling her that she needed to call the police because
something was wrong across the street, Maria
hesitated.  She might be found out and maybe deported,
facing the choice of taking her children with her to
the poverty of Mexico or leaving them with friends who
would care for them since they had been born American
citizens.  The look on her oldest child's face, and
the desperate plea in his voice, left her with no
option.  She rushed across the hall to Mrs. Perez
apartment and begged to be allowed to use the
telephone.  Unfamiliar with any telephone numbers at
all, and not conveying her son's urgency to Mrs.
Perez, she dialed the main telephone number for the
city police department from the directory, where she
was put on hold for several minutes.  When she finally
spoke to an actual person, the woman didn't speak
Spanish and sounded rude.  On hold again, it was
several minutes more before a young man spoke to her
in Spanish and she was able to explain that there was
a domestic fight across the street.  She spoke
rapidly, her dialect that of Oaxaca and difficult to
understand by any of San Antonio's Spanish speaking
residents.  She later felt herself to blame for what
happened.

 . . .

     Clyde Morgan, the detective who was sent to the
crime scene, stumbled out of the apartment complex and
deposited his supper behind the bushes against the
building.  He'd seen a lot of things in his years with
the SAPD, but the sight of an infant in the oven had
been more than his hardened heart could stand.

     The living room of the small apartment was
covered with spattered blood and the young mother,
Margarita Zuniga, lay on the living room floor with
multiple stab wounds and her throat cut.  Her death
had been horrible, but the image of her child in the
oven sent Clyde over the edge, even for a veteran
officer.  He'd left his partner, Mike Turner, to call
for an ambulance for the baby, who was still alive by
the grace of God, and the coroner for Margarita.  When
he regained control of himself, Clyde called his
captain and made a preliminary verbal report.

     Captain Munoz called the Chief of Police who in
turn, called Protective Services because it was the
way things were done `by the book'.  The Chief told
his wife, Rachel, before they went to bed because he
just didn't feel right about the situation.  Rachel
woke him at 2:30 AM and told him she thought he should
call Judge What'shername because too many children had
died recently in the `protective custody' of
Protective Services.

 . . .

     The telephone rang harshly in the middle of the
night and Bill Solari answered it before the noise
could wake his wife.  He recognized the voice of the
Chief of the San Antonio Police Department instantly.

     "She's asleep, Don," he told his old high school
buddy.

     "I'm sorry, Bill," Don Schultz replied, "but this
is important.  I've seen a lot of child abuse in my
years but this one goes over the edge.  I know how
Angie feels about Protective Services so I thought I'd
better get her involved before the formal report goes
to those old hedgehogs."

     Bill Solari reluctantly woke his wife and handed
her the telephone.

     "Hello?" she said.  "Yeah, I'm awake, sort of."
She glanced at her alarm clock and said, "Its three
o'clock in the morning, Don, this had better be
important."  She held the telephone in her right hand
and ran her left hand through her long black hair,
pushing it back from her face.

     "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, and was instantly
awake at the news she heard.  "Where, when?  What's
his condition?"  A thousand legal thoughts ran through
her mind.  First and foremost was what action should
be taken and where was the best home to place the
child just brought to her attention.

     Bill Solari had met Angelina DeFres when they
were both working on their law degrees at St. Mary's
University in San Antonio and had fallen in love with
her after their first five minutes together.  She was
beautiful, intelligent, witty, and deeply committed to
the concept of how law should work.  They married
during their final year.  San Antonio was Bill's home
and Angelina agreed that they should open a small firm
together in the picturesque but semi-poor town.  They
started out as legal aid attorneys and Angelina's
dedication quickly won her public support.  Bill was
content to be in her shadow, for he recognized that
her beliefs were stronger than his, her dedication
deeper, her compassion beyond anything he would
realize.  He loved his wife with all his heart and was
her campaign manager when she decided to throw her hat
in the ring during an election as Judge.  He still
worked for legal aid, and Angelina always recused
herself from any child custody or abuse case that was
brought before her in which her husband was one of the
attorneys.

     "What is it?" Bill asked, concern for his wife
etched across his face.

     "Someone tried to bake a baby," she replied
before she burst into tears.

 . . .

     "It's for you," Betty Milhauser mumbled,
half-asleep, as she handed the telephone to Herbert.
Betty had long wanted to get an answering machine but
her husband insisted that every call was important and
he was now deeply involved in pro bono cases involving
child abuse, sanctioned by the senior partners of his
law firm as long as he continued to produce hourly
billing in International trade agreements and tax
evasion schemes.  He was just about as sick of this
kind of law as he could tolerate and was seriously
considering opening his own law firm in the tranquil
town he'd moved to, or asking Manuel Fuentes if he
could join the firm of Fuentes & Robertson as a junior
partner.  He could survive the cut in his earnings and
liked Manuel Fuentes whose legal ethics couldn't be
corrupted, a rare thing which Herbert admired.

     "Milhauer!" he barked into the phone.  "Oh,
sorry, Judge Solari.  I was asleep."  He brushed the
cobwebs from his mind and asked, "What can I do for
you?"

    He was instantly on his feet and getting dressed,
even as Angelina described the situation to him.  In
all his years as an officer of the court he'd never
heard of anything so totally inhumane and barbaric.

    "I'll call Manuel right away," he said.

 . . .

     Manuel Fuentes answered the nagging ring of his
cell phone as he paced up and down the hall of St.
Luke's Hospital.  Consuela was having a difficult
pregnancy and she'd started to bleed in the middle of
the night.  His first reaction had been panic and he'd
called Deet to meet him at the hospital and take the
Fuentes brood to the house on Guenther Street.

     His best friend, the man he trusted more than any
other person in the entire world, had agreed without
question and his mind was a little more at peace
knowing that his children were being taken care of.
He had known since they were kids in school that
Dieter was gay.  It made little difference to Manuel
because, straight or gay, Dieter was his best friend.


     "I can't," he told Herbert when he answered the
phone.  "Not now.  Call my law partner, Phil.  He can
handle anything you need.  I can't ^Å oh, no.  I don't
believe this.  Well, if it's what Judge Solari wants
then call Deet.  But you'd better prepare him for what
to expect because I know his temper and he's not going
to be happy when you tell him what's happened."

     "But do you think he's ready to take on this kind
of responsibility?" Herbert asked.

     "I think Deet's only beginning to realize just
how much he can or wants to do.  Besides, he's got
Deidre to help."

     One of Consuela's doctors was coming toward him
so Manuel said, "I have to go.  Call Deet; call Phil.
Tell them what Judge Solari wants.  I don't think
you'll have any problems."

 . . .

     Deet had finally gotten all of the Fuentes
children to sleep, tried to ease their worry about
their mother, settled back with a cold Corona and a
dog-eared copy of Mary Renault's `The Persian Boy',
when he fell asleep.

     Sometime past midnight, according to the
grandfather clock in the foyer, his cell phone rang.
Deet pushed at Miracle in his sleep, barely aware
enough to wish that the orphaned kitten was in bed
with Katia instead of himself.  But cats are cats and
think of themselves as being sacred.  And the nagging
ring of his cell aggravated him even more as he called
down curses on all gods within hearing range.

     Remembering that Consuela was in the hospital he
didn't answer the phone with his usual epithets for
irritating telemarketers.  "Hello," he managed to
mumble.

     He was instantly alert when he heard Herbert
Milhauser ask if he was awake enough to answer one
very serious question.  Could he, would he, consider
taking temporary custody of a three-month old baby boy
who was the victim of an attempted murder and whose
mother had been murdered.

     "What!" Deet exclaimed perhaps a little too
loudly, temporarily forgetting that five children were
asleep in his house while their mother was in the
hospital.  He crossed the room and closed his door.

     "When did all this happen?" he asked a little
more quietly.

     "Some time this afternoon," Herbert replied.  "I
don't have all the details yet, but Judge Solari wants
to give you immediate, temporary custody of the little
boy.  He's under observation at University Hospital
until tomorrow.  Make that later today.  Deet,"
Herbert said, "the baby had natural gas poisoning.
Somebody put him in a gas oven."

     Deet agreed to meet Herbert in Judge Solari's
courtroom at nine and wondered how he would begin to
ask Deidre if she thought she could help him with yet
another child.  Granted, Manuel's kids were with them
on a temporary basis, but those five plus his two, and
now an infant?

     He was sitting in the dark when he heard a soft
knock on his door and Katia pushed the door open,
poking her head inside the door.

     "Daddy?" she asked, "I heard you yelling.  Did
something bad happen to Tia Consuela?"

     "No, Baby," Deet said and motioned for her to
join him on the edge of his bed.  "That was your
lawyer on the phone.  He needed to talk a little
`business' talk with me."

     "Is something bad happening?" she asked.

   "Nothing you should worry about," he answered.  "A
baby boy might have been hurt and Judge Solari might
want that baby to live here for a little while.  Is
that ok with you?"  He worried about his adopted
daughter because she had given birth to a baby that
hadn't lived and had transferred her mothering
instincts to the kitten.

     "Did they catch the bad men who hurt the baby?"
Katia asked.

     "I don't know, Sugar," Deet answered.

     Katia was quiet for a moment, her young brow
furrowed with the depth of her thoughts.  "If the
judge sends the baby here," she said, her voice soft
and serious, "I can help Deidre take care of it.  And
Eric can teach Benji not to steal the baby slippers.
And I could give him his bottle and rock him to
sleep."

     Deet saw the tears forming in her eyes and took
the child in his arms.  "Like maybe he was your baby?"
he finally asked.

     Katia broke down in tears, her body heaving in
uncontrollable pain.  For the first time since her own
child had died, she unleashed all the pent up sorrow
and heartache she had kept bottled up inside.  She
cried for her own dead child, the suffering she and
Eric had gone through, the thought that Consuela might
never come home, the tiny infant she had never heard
of until this moment, and all the other innocent
children in the world.  Her healing, so long delayed,
finally began.