“I work hard, yes,” he says. “Too hard. But still, I have big problems.”
We have tiny plates on our laps filled with little sandwiches, which we are eating, me faster than anyone.
“Eat,” says Charlotte. “Both of you. This isn’t easy. You’ll need to stay strong.”
Juan Manuel leans forward.
“Here,” he says. “Try these.” He places two lovely finger sandwiches on my plate. “I made them.”
I pick up a sandwich and take a bite. It’s an exquisite taste, fluffy cream cheese and smoked salmon, with a burst of dill and lemon zest at the end. I’ve never tasted a sandwich more delicious in my life, so much so that it’s nearly impossible to follow Gran’s chewing imperative. It’s gone before I know it.
“Delightful,” I say. “Thank you.”
We are all silent for a moment, but if others feel uncomfortable I’m not aware. For a brief moment, despite the circumstances, I find myself feeling something I haven’t felt in so long, not since before Gran died. I feel…companionship. I feel…not entirely alone. Then I remember what brought everyone here in the first place, and the anxiety begins to churn again. I put my plate aside.
Charlotte does the same. She picks up the pad and pen by her chair. “Well, we’re all here for the same reason, so we better get started. Juan Manuel, I believe my father filled you in about Molly’s predicament? And I believe you yourself are in a very challenging situation.”
Juan Manuel shifts in his chair. “Yes,” he says. “I am.” His big brown eyes look into mine. “Molly,” he says, “I never wanted to see you involved in this, but when they brought you in, I didn’t know what to do. I hope you believe me.”
I swallow and consider his words. It takes me a moment to spot the difference—between a bold-faced lie and the truth. But then it sharpens and I can see it clearly in his face. What he’s saying is the truth. “Thank you, Juan Manuel. I believe you.”
“Tell her what you told me in the kitchen,” Mr. Preston suggests.
“You know how every night I stayed in a different room at the hotel? How you gave me a different keycard each night?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Mr. Rodney, he wasn’t telling you the whole story. It’s true, I don’t have an apartment anymore. And no work permit now either. When I did, everything was great. I sent money back home. It was needed, because after my dad died, there wasn’t enough. My family was so proud of me—‘You’re a good son,’ my mother said. ‘You work hard for us.’ I was so happy. I was doing things the right way.”
Juan Manuel pauses, swallows, then continues to speak. “But then, when I needed my work permit extended, Mr. Rodney said, ‘No problem.’ He introduced me to his lawyer friend. And that lawyer friend took a lot of my money, but in the end, no permit. I complained to Rodney and he said, ‘My lawyer guy can fix anything. You’ll have a new permit in a few days.’ He told me he’d make sure Mr. Snow didn’t find out. But then he said, ‘You have to help me, too, you know. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.’ I didn’t want to scratch his back. I wanted to go back home, to find another way. But I couldn’t go back home. I had no savings left.”
Juan Manuel goes silent.
“What exactly did Rodney make you do?” Charlotte asks.
“At night, after my shift in the kitchen, I’d sneak into whatever hotel room with the keycard Molly gave me. Molly, she’d leave my bag there for me, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “I did. Every night.”
“That bag, it was never mine. It was Mr. Rodney’s. His drugs were inside. Cocaine. And some other things too. He used to bring more drugs later in the night when no one else was around. And then he’d leave. All night, he made me work—sometimes alone, sometimes with Mr. Rodney’s men—and we’d prepare the cocaine for sale. I didn’t know nothing about these things before, I swear. But I learned. I had to learn. Fast.”
“When you say he made you, what do you mean exactly?” Charlotte asks.
Juan Manuel wrings his hands as he speaks. “I told Mr. Rodney, ‘I won’t do this. I can’t. I’d rather be deported than do this. This is wrong.’ But things got worse when I said that. He said he’d kill me. I said, ‘I don’t care. Kill me. This is no life.’？” Juan Manuel pauses, looks down at his lap, then continues. “But in the end, Mr. Rodney found a way to make me do his bad business.”