Beyond This Point Are Monsters by Margaret Millar Page A

shouldn’t try to hurry it because there was lots of time. But there wasn’t.”
    Estivar stopped to wipe the beads of sweat off his fore­head. A hush had fallen over the courtroom, as if each person in it were straining to hear the sound of time run­ning out, the slow drag of the minutes, the quick tick of years. Ford said, “On the morning of October thirteen,1967, did you see Robert Osborne?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhat were the circumstances?”
    â€œVery early, while it was still dark, I heard him whis­tling for his dog, Maxie. About half an hour later my wife and I were eating our breakfast when Mr. Osborne came to the back door and asked me to step outside. He sounded upset and mad, so I got out there fast as I could. The dog was lying on the ground with froth all around its mouth and its eyes kind of dazed-looking, like it might have been hit on the head or something.”
    â€œYou stated that Mr. Osborne was ‘upset and mad.’”
    â€œYes, sir. He said, ‘Some filthy so-and-so around here poisoned my dog.’ Only he didn’t say ‘so-and-so,’ he used a very insulting term meaning the lowest kind of Mexican. For myself, I don’t care about names. But my family heard it, my wife and my younger children who were still at the breakfast table. I ordered Mr. Osborne to go away and to stay away until he had his temper under control.”
    â€œDid he do so?”
    â€œYes, sir. He picked the dog up in his arms and left.”
    â€œDid you see Mr. Osborne again later?”
    Estivar rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “No.”
    â€œWill you please speak louder?”
    â€œThat was the last time I saw him, heading for the ranch house with the dog in his arms. The last words we spoke to each other were in anger. It weighs heavy on me, that goodbye.”
    â€œI’m sure it does. Still, it was not your fault.”
    â€œSome of it was. I knew how much the little dog meant to him. It had been a present years ago from someone who—from a friend.”
    Ford began pacing up and down in front of the empty jury box, partly from habit, partly from impatience. “Now, Mr. Estivar, it is not my intention during this hearing to explore the complicated subject of migrant labor in Cali­fornia agriculture. We must, however, establish certain facts which affect the case, bearing in mind that you, as foreman, are caught in the middle of the problem. On the one hand you represent the growers whose business it is to market the crops for a profit. On the other hand you are aware that the present system—or lack of system—encour­ages the breaking of laws on the part of Mexican nationals, and the exploitation of these nationals on the part of the growers. Is that a fair statement of your situation, Mr. Esti­var?”
    â€œFair enough, I guess.”
    â€œAll right, we’ll proceed. In the late summer and early fall of 1967, who was employed at the Osborne ranch be­sides yourself?”
    â€œIn August my three oldest sons were there, Cruz, Rufo and Felipe. My cousin, Dulzura Gonzales, acted as the Osbornes’ housekeeper, and my youngest boy, Jaime, worked several hours a day. We employed half a dozen border-crossers, Mexican citizens with permits that allowed them to cross the border every day and work on ranches within commuting distance. We also had a part-time mechanic who came out from Boca de Rio to service the machinery.”
    â€œThat was in August, you said.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWere you using any migrant labor at the time?”
    â€œNo. We couldn’t get any. The grape strike was going on up in Delano and Mexican nationals were being used as strikebreakers. A lot of them were lured away from this area by the promise of higher wages in the vineyards up north; the rest were taken by the larger growers. The Os­borne ranch is a comparatively small family