Searching for Pilar, page 10
After graduating from Rice University, John attended the University of Texas Law School, finishing number one in his class. He then joined Hayden & Williams, the oldest and one of the most prestigious law firms in Texas, to begin his career as a corporate transaction lawyer.
From the beginning, John was considered a rising star at the firm, putting in countless billable hours. He acquired a mentor who saw that he was on all the right firm committees and belonged to the right clubs. He soon married Sara Beth Collins, the prettiest young woman working in the firm’s attorney recruiting office. Sara Beth’s family had “oil money” and lived in River Oaks. Three hundred people attended their wedding at St. John’s Episcopal Church and the reception at the River Oaks Country Club. As soon as Sara Beth became pregnant, she retired to stay at home with their twins, Ashley and Andrew. They lived in a new house on Chevy Chase Drive, a wedding gift from Sara Beth’s parents. She was an officer in the Junior League, president of the Kappa Alpha Theta Alumni Association, and a charming hostess for clients and friends. Victor proudly told anyone who would listen that his son was living the American Dream.
John’s younger sister, Mary, took a different direction with her life. She majored in sociology and English at Rice University, finishing with honors in less than four years. Over her father’s objections, Mary spent one year with Teach for America in one of Houston’s most challenging ghetto schools before earning her law degree with honors from Yale University. To the surprise of everyone, she turned down job offers from all the big Houston law firms and went to work with Harris County Legal Aid in 2009. She focused on helping foster children, homeless youth, and battered women.
John and his sister were close, often meeting for dinner at his home or at Mary’s more modest one, a renovated hundred-year-old bungalow in the Woodland Heights neighborhood, close to downtown. Unlike back when her parents had opened their produce stand, the Heights was now a trendy transition area, full of young professionals.
John reread the strange email. He had never heard of San José, Mexico. The sender’s name was Diego Gonzales. That meant nothing to him either. He hit DELETE and the message was gone.
• • •
John forgot about the odd message until he opened his computer two weeks later to find a new one:
I MUST LOCATE VICTOR CHAVEZ, WHO LEFT SAN JOSÉ, MEXICO, FOR THE UNITED STATES IN 1966. IT IS IMPORTANT THAT I CONTACT HIM OR HIS FAMILY. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT DIEGO GONZALES AT 832-666-2010 OR BY RETURN EMAIL AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE. PLEASE PARDON THE INTRUSION.
“How weird,” John said out loud.
“What’s weird?” Elena, his secretary, asked. She was bringing him his morning coffee.
“I keep getting these emails from some guy named Diego Gonzales asking me if I am related to a Victor Chavez. I don’t know if this is a scam or what,” John told her, accepting his cup.
“Did you say Diego Gonzales?” Elena asked. “The Diego Gonzales? Let me see.” She peered over his shoulder.
“I guess I’m out of the loop, Elena. Who in the hell is Diego Gonzales?”
Elena, who was young and single, rolled her eyes at her boss.
“He is a new player on the Storm soccer team. He was a rock star in Mexico, and the Storm signed him. He’s tall, dark, hot, and single! Why is he emailing you? I’ve never heard you mention an interest in soccer.”
“I don’t know beans about soccer. But somebody went to the trouble of looking up my father’s name. So, whatever this is, it’s specifically targeted at me. I deleted the first message. Maybe I should do that again.”
“Then again,” Elena mused, “it could be from the real Diego Gonzales. He did just arrive here a few weeks ago. Is San José, Mexico, where your father came from?”
“I’m not sure. My father’s name was Victor Chavez, and he probably came from Mexico about that time, but I have no idea from where. He would never talk about the old country—he insisted we were citizens of the United States and should be thankful for it.”
“Well, I think you should at least show Diego Gonzales the courtesy of a reply. If it is really him, you should invite him here. After all, he is new to town and probably lonely,” Elena said with a grin. “I would be happy to call him and make the arrangements. Wow!”
John’s phone rang just then, and he didn’t think about the email again until that night. He and Sara Beth had put the children to bed. His wife poured Rombauer Chardonnay into two of her Waterford white wine glasses, and they sat on the sun porch, as was their habit at the end of the day.
Sara Beth was telling him about the schedule for an upcoming charity gala she was chairing at River Oaks Country Club later in the spring. Half listening, John remembered the emails from Diego.
“Honey, the strangest thing happened. I received a couple of emails from a guy who Elena says is the new star of the Storm, asking if I am related to Victor Chavez.”
“Your dad?”
“I don’t know. I guess it could be. I can’t decide whether to answer the guy or not.”
“Well, if you know he’s a reputable person, why not?” Sara Beth said. “Besides, if he’s a big celebrity, maybe we can get him to do something for one of our charities.”
“I guess I could meet him at the office for ten minutes and see what he wants. Elena is begging me to invite him in because he’s ‘hot.’”
“Maybe I should come too.” Sara Beth smiled.
“What is it about you women and athletes?” John asked, smiling and ruffling her hair.
“Do you think you should invite Mary, since it concerns your family?”
“I’ll give her a call and see if she’s interested.”
• • •
Diego appeared at the reception desk exactly on time. Elena could see that he was slim but muscular and handsome, just as she had expected. What surprised her was his serious air. He was not at all the flamboyant jock type she had expected. Instead he stood straight and tall a few feet away from the reception desk, where the pretty young receptionist kept trying to catch his eye. He had a black leather portfolio tucked under his arm.
Elena introduced herself as John Chavez’s assistant, and Diego politely introduced himself with a warm smile. She escorted Diego upstairs to a small conference room, where John and Mary sat on the window side of a long mahogany table. Behind them, the Houston skyline stretched across the window. Two paintings of the West Texas landscape hung on opposite walls. John studied Diego with curiosity. He certainly had the build and height of a professional athlete, but his demeanor struck him as intense, although restrained. He was well mannered, thanking Elena before she left. He wore pressed Polo slacks and a navy blue sport coat over a white cotton shirt that was open at the neck. His shoes were Italian leather loafers. His only jewelry was an Omega watch. Diego nodded deferentially at John and Mary.
“Mr. Gonzales, welcome. I am John Chavez, and this is my sister, Mary. Won’t you have a seat? Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you, señor. I will not take up too much of your time. I am not certain you are the people I have been looking for.”
Diego noted that John had a slight build. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and a three-piece suit, and he sat very straight. He looked serious and older than his thirty-two years. Mary looked more relaxed and friendly, the pink in her cheeks set off by her tailored pale-pink silk blouse and pearls. Both of them had dark brown eyes and black hair. Mary’s shiny, thick hair hung straight to her shoulders and was parted on the side. She was well groomed, with trimmed fingernails that were painted light pink. He thought she was very pretty.
“I was surprised when I received your emails, Señor Gonzales. Our father’s name was Victor Chavez. He passed away two years ago. We know he came from Mexico, but he never told us anything about his family or history. Why are you looking for Victor Chavez?”
“Please, señor, call me Diego. I am sorry my English is not very good. I have been studying hard for the past year when I have time, but I am still a student.”
“Your English is very good,” Mary assured him. She thought he was a strikingly handsome man.
“To answer your question, the Victor Chavez for whom I am looking was the brother of Julio and Miguel Chavez, all of whom lived in my hometown of San José. Miguel was the youngest son. His oldest son, Alejandro, married my sister, Pilar.”
Diego reached in his leather portfolio. He took out a small, faded snapshot. “This is a picture of Julio, Miguel, and Victor Chavez, taken the day of the Confirmation of Victor and the little girl in the picture in 1964. Victor is on the right, next to the girl.”
John took the photo, and he and Mary studied it.
“You know, John. He looks a lot like you as a boy,” Mary said. “He has the same cowlick and facial structure. Who is the pretty little girl, Diego?”
“Her name was Isabel Lourdes Torres Gomez,” Diego said. “She’s dead, sadly. She died only two years after this photo was taken.”
“How? That’s so young,” Mary asked.
“It’s a tragic story. Julio, the oldest brother, was dying of lung cancer in late 2009. He knew that I was searching for information about Victor’s whereabouts. He summoned me and told me he could not go to God without confessing what he had done.”
Diego cleared his throat before he went on. “Julio said he and Victor grew up next door to Isabel. Both brothers loved her. One night, when Julio was fourteen and Victor was twelve, Julio found Isabel and Victor in the courtyard of their home, kissing. He was jealous and lost his temper. He beat Victor until his brother was bruised and bleeding. Isabel watched, horrified. The next day, Julio was sorry and looked for Victor to apologize. But he couldn’t find him. Victor and Isabel had run away.
“Two days later, a search party found Victor—dirty, crying, and crouched over the dead body of Isabel. They had tried to swim across a swollen river that was higher than usual, and she had drowned.”
Mary let out a deep breath and looked at John. “That could explain why Dad was sometimes moody and never wanted to talk about Mexico,” Mary said.
“Isabel’s parents and the townspeople blamed Victor for Isabel’s death. As soon as he was able, Victor packed a few belongings and left San José without telling anyone goodbye or contacting them again. That was in 1966. Julio told me this story on his deathbed in 2009. He confessed to being a coward in not telling anyone what caused Victor and Isabel to run away.”
“How tragic for everyone!” Mary exclaimed. She was an instinctively empathetic person.
Looking directly at John, Diego said, “You are probably wondering why this stranger has been searching for Victor Chavez? I am here to ask your help.”
“Help with what?” John asked.
“I am a foreigner in this country and do not know its ways—its legal system and its customs. I searched for your father hoping he would help me to find a girl I let down—my sister, Pilar. If your father is the Victor Chavez I seek, Pilar is the wife of your first cousin and my best friend as a boy, Alejandro Chavez.”
Diego had finished talking, and John and Mary sat quietly, trying to take in and process this surprising new information about a possible family they hadn’t known even existed before today.
John thought that Diego appeared to be a sincere, honest man. In his practice, he had seen all types of men and learned to be a pretty good judge of character. Yet John’s immediate reaction was not positive. He had a full load of work at the firm and responsibilities at home. Is this something with which I want to get involved? I’m not even sure our dad is the same Victor Chavez.
Mary, on the other hand, was excited to learn that she might have a whole new family in Mexico. “Of course we will help you,” Mary said after a few minutes. “Tell us what you know. You said someone took her; was she kidnapped or did she run away?”
“I believe she was kidnapped,” Diego said. “It was my fault. I was selfish and left her in a vulnerable situation. In October of 2007, I drove her to Mexico City for a job interview. But instead of staying with her, I went to watch a professional soccer team practice. The interview was a trap, and she disappeared. I swore I would find her and bring her home, no matter how long it took.”
“What did you do?” Mary asked.
“I was playing fútbol with a minor league club in León. The only way I could think of to get to Mexico City to be able to continue searching for her was to become a player with a professional club in the capital. San José is at least two hours away. It was too far to go back and forth, play fútbol, and help my papa in his store. I had always loved soccer more than anything and was good at it. I worked very hard until I was signed to be a striker for a Mexico City club.”
“How long did that take?” Mary asked.
“Two seasons,” Diego answered. “Then, during the two years I played with the Mexico City club, in between practice and matches, I searched. One night, I met an old man who told me he had seen girls taken from an office building in the neighborhood where Pilar disappeared. Gang members locked them in the back of a van and drove away. I believe the Sangre Negra cartel smuggled her across the border, probably to Texas. So I needed to get to the United States. When our club won the CONCAF championship last year, US teams, including Houston, sent me offers.”
“Why did you focus on Houston?” Mary asked.
“Julio told me a mutual friend from San José visited Houston on business about fifteen years ago. He saw Victor’s name on grocery stores. Curious, he went to see if it was the boy with whom he’d grown up. It was, although Victor was not interested in discussing old times. It also just so happens Houston is the center of sex trafficking in the United States, so if Pilar was taken anywhere on this side of the Rio Grande, she probably has at least been through Houston.”
“What? Surely not,” John protested. “I’ve never seen any sex trafficking in Houston. We have a big Hispanic population, and I’m sure some of them are not legal, but they are good people. They work hard and are very family and church oriented. Of course, the newscasters talk about gang violence, but the gangs stay in their own neighborhoods and just kill each other.”
“God, John, you live in such an inner-loop bubble,” Mary murmured.
“I do not want to argue, señor,” Diego said, “but in addition to the many good people from my country who live here, there are some bad people from Mexico and Central America. Gangs smuggle drugs and guns across the border, and the cartels have learned they can make a lot of money smuggling and selling girls. Houston has a reputation as a place where men can find any type of woman or child for sex. Some are willing prostitutes but many are victims, slaves. They are forced to sell their bodies, and the pimps keep the money. If they try to escape, they are beaten or killed or their families are murdered.”
“Do you think that is what happened to your sister?” John asked, looking less comfortable.
“I am prepared to learn the worst. Nevertheless, if she is alive, I am determined to find and rescue Pilar from whatever situation she is in.”
“I am a lawyer and a social worker, Diego,” Mary said. “I work with a lot of young people who run away from home. They often become victims of pimps, international and American. I am sorry to learn a girl we are related to could be in the situation you describe.”
“We don’t know that we are related,” John said.
“If the man Diego is searching for is our father,” Mary responded, “then Pilar is our first cousin by marriage. Frankly, John, I am delighted to learn that we might have family.”
“I would be grateful for any help you could give me,” Diego said. “I don’t know where to begin looking in this big city.”
“Do you know anything that can get us started?” Mary asked.
“The old man said that Eduardo is the name of the pimp who put the girls into the van in Mexico City. He was a well-known pimp in the neighborhood. After the old man told me his story, I returned to the area from time to time. One night, I saw what I think was the same van and another abduction. I followed the van in my car to a heavily guarded house in the countryside. I didn’t dare get any closer.
“A couple of weeks later, I went back to the house, and it looked deserted. I went in to look around and found a clue stuck in a wall between two stones in an out building, which seemed to have been used to hold and torture captives. This is the barrette Pilar had in her hair the day she disappeared.” Diego pulled a tarnished silver barrette out of a pocket in his binder.
“How many years would that have been after she disappeared?” John asked, looking skeptical.
“Almost three years, señor. But when we were children, Pilar; our brother, Carlos; our friend Alejandro; and I would play a game where one person hides and the others search for them. The person hiding would place clues in between stones or under rocks so that the teammate who was searching for the person hiding could find them before the other team found them. Pilar is very intelligent. She pushed the barrette into the wall so that it was not likely to be seen except by someone who was looking for such a clue.”
“Did you find anything else?” Mary asked.
“No. Just then the local police pulled into the courtyard where I’d parked my car. They pointed their guns at me and told me to get out right away. They threatened to throw me in jail if I came back. I told them I was looking for my sister. One of them sneered, ‘She’s probably in Texas by now—or dead. Either way, you better forget about this place if you don’t want to end up the same way.’”
“I would have been terrified!” Mary said.
“I was. And I realized there was nothing more I could do there in Mexico. I had to get to Texas. I thought if I could find your father, he might help me,” Diego said.
I wonder if he would have helped? John thought. He certainly didn’t want anything to do with Mexico for as long as I knew him. Would he have softened if called upon to help another young girl?
