“So what’s this,” Harlan says, “about you and Juanito paying Mexican police for details about the dead girl?”
Juanito is the newspaper’s fixer, who chaperones us through the streets of Reynosa. And the dead girl? She’s the one in the blue quinceañera dress, found noosed and dangling from the hurricane fence on the far side of the international bridge.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Harlan says, like he’s in charge of me.
The central air blows a steady drift of recycled breath and asbestos, and it’s not enough to keep the South Texas heat out of the newsroom and off my neck. I pull the collar from my skin. The rule is that you’re not supposed to pay for information, though it escapes me why a free fact is better than one you might buy. Anyway, Harlan doesn’t have it right. We never paid for any information.
The truth of it is—well, who fucking cares.
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