“You stay there, sister-in-law!” Vicente shouted from the edge. “Mateo was an idiot for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and you’re just as stupid!”
Elena loaded the shotgun, aimed at the illuminated wellhead, and pulled the trigger. The 12-gauge shot echoed in the barrel like a deafening thunderclap. The pellets shattered the stone bank, sending splinters flying that made one of the men cry out in pain. Panic gripped the attackers. Not knowing how many weapons were below or if Elena was alone, the thugs ran toward the trucks. Vicente swore before speeding off, leaving a cloud of dust and the ranch ablaze in his wake.
When silence returned, broken only by the dying flames of the house, Elena climbed out of the pit covered in soot, coughing, but clutching the metal package to her chest. She spent the night awake, hidden among the canyon rocks, illuminated by the desert moon. Her hands still trembling, she opened the box.
Inside there was no money. There was one ledger, fifteen land deeds, and one letter written in her husband’s cramped handwriting. Elena turned on a small flashlight and began to read. What she discovered took her breath away, turning her fear into an icy, absolute rage.
The notebook was a detailed record of Don Arturo Garza’s crimes.
For 12 years, the local strongman had stolen property from farmers and widows, forging signatures with the help of corrupt notaries to build his agave empire. But that wasn’t the worst of it. In the final pages, Mateo had documented how the federal government had allocated millions of dollars for the construction of a dam and irrigation systems, money that Garza had diverted to shell accounts.
And then, the final blow. There was a bank receipt signed by Vicente, Mateo’s brother. Vicente had received 500,000 pesos from the local strongman’s accounts exactly two days before Mateo’s truck brakes failed. His own brother had betrayed him. His own flesh and blood had him murdered to keep a portion of the money and ensure no one would talk.
Mateo’s letter was brief: “Elena, my love. I discovered that the water in the entire valley isn’t dry; it’s been deliberately blocked by Garza. Beneath our 12 hectares lies the entrance to the region’s largest aquifer. Vicente betrayed me. Mourn my death, but don’t give up. Look for lawyer Diego in the capital; he’s the only one not on the mayor’s payroll. Make them pay.”
The next morning, Elena walked 20 kilometers through the desert, avoiding the main roads where Commander Rojas’s police were patrolling, searching for her.
She arrived at a neighboring town dehydrated and with dirty clothes, but with a clearer mind than ever. Doña Carmelita, an elderly woman who had been a friend of her mother, hid her in the back of a flatbed truck that was transporting lemons to the state capital.
It was five days of bureaucratic hell. In the big city, Elena found Diego, a 26-year-old lawyer, idealistic and hungry for justice. When Diego saw the documents, he paled. “This isn’t a local case, Elena,” he told her, adjusting his glasses. “This is federal fraud, embezzlement of national funds, and organized murder. If we present this to the Attorney General’s Office, Garza’s jurisdiction and his bribed police will be useless.”
They prepared the case in secret. Elena didn’t sleep. She went over every date, every amount stolen, every hectare seized, using the same mental discipline she used to teach mathematics to her students.
