Her Father's Honor

Chapter 1: 

The Favor My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. It’s six, and the ring means it’s Luis. He’s the only one who calls this early. His voice in the predawn is always to deliver bad news. 

“It’s barely six, Luis,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear.

“You awake?” he asks.

“I’m always awake early. I’m heading out to work out on my way to the office.” My voice is rough, but he’s heard worse from me after a trial. There’s a long pause. I listen to him breathe slowly, which means he’s trying to get the words right.

“What happened?” I ask, trying to picture who’s been hurt.

“It’s about Papá,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You need to hear this from me.”

I rub the ridge between my eyebrows. Luis always delivers bad news in early-morning calls, as if daylight will soften the impact.

“He’s going to be indicted. The feds are going after him for jury tampering and conspiracy. An Assistant U.S. Attorney he knows called him in this morning and said they have phone records, some texts. Supposedly, he did something illegal during the Vasquez trial last year. The Valley is already talking about it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“He won’t talk about it,” Luis says.

I sit down hard on the kitchen chair. The cold wood presses into my thighs. My coffee mug, still warm in my hand, hits the counter with a quiet thud. Federal prosecutors don’t bluff, and they rarely lose. Charges mean they’re confident they can convict him and send him to prison. My hands are shaking at the thought of what this could do to my father, to everything he’s built.

In my forty-plus years, the only time my father, Roberto Sanchez, ever asked for my help was when I was ten. We were driving home after hours of grueling golf practice when we found a stray dog hit by a car. He told me to find a stick, and we dug a shallow grave just off Highway 281 near Pharr. He told me to say a prayer, and I did. We buried the dog and drove off. Now he’s the one who needs forgiveness, but not the kind a prayer can cover.

Now he needs a different kind of help, and he won’t admit it to me or ask for it. He’d sooner ask Luis or Robert, but they aren’t lawyers, and that’s the kind of help he needs now. It’s not because I wouldn’t be the best person to defend him. It’s because he has too much pride to ask his only daughter, and maybe because of the secrets he would prefer I never know.

I can picture him at his desk, calm as he edits a draft brief with his red pen. I’ve watched him win juries with a look and a line. He never needed tricks. The glass edge of my phone bites into my palm as the shock sets in.

“Jury tampering and conspiracy,” I repeat, the words tasting foreign.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says. “The U.S. Attorney’s Office is preparing to announce the indictment in McAllen. The news media from San Antonio and Austin are already here.”

“Who’s representing him?”

“I don’t know. He was so upset that we didn’t get that far.”

Going all the way back to when I was a little girl, I’ve seen my father face a judge with unshakeable calm, make juries lean forward in their seats, eager to hear the next line. I can imagine what he sounds like now, his voice stripped of all that confidence.

“Is Mamá—?”

“She’s with him,” he says.

“I’ll fly down today,” I say. “Pick me up in McAllen.”