We cleared the border with ease. Then she pushed the old car up to 85, as fast as it would go. It made a suspicious clanking sound at that speed. The Yuma desert was sweltering and barren. Who was the Cuban? How did he know Cathy Vega, and what had they quarreled about? Could it be Armando Diaz, the photographer? We sped through El Centro, past the vast orange and citrus groves, the farm labor camps. We made a quick pit stop in Brawley for gas. Past the sunken Salton Sea with the Chocolate Mountains to the east. I studied the map I found in the glove compartment, checking our route and worrying that the car was going to blow up. It was a good thing, I thought, that I didn’t have any court appearances that morning after all. I could feel I was getting close to Cathy Vega’s murderer. It was Tony Guerrero I was sure. I just needed some way to prove it. The Cuban, who was he? Another lover of Cathy’s? Was he jealous of the red-haired man? I wondered.

“Don’t ever pull a scene like that or talk to me like that again.” Lupe said, cutting into my thoughts and speaking for the first time since we left Mexicali.

“Like what?” My hair was blowing around my face. I held it back with one hand so I could see her more clearly.

“Jealous.”

“Jealous!” I laughed. I let go of my hair, and it whipped wildly in the hot breeze. “You’re loca.”

“Yes, you are. It just pisses you off that I’m as smart as you and I ain’t never been to school. That’s why you’re always trying to boss me around. That’s why you’re so fucking uptight. I was just clowning around with your precious fucking pearls that your mommy gave you. Admit it, you’re jealous.”

“I don’t boss you around,” I sputtered in objection.

She glanced over at me without smiling. “You don’t treat me like I’m equal.”

“I do!”

“Then let me in on what you’re thinking.”

Was she right? Was I better than she was because she’d been on the streets? Or because I was white? All the marches, all the protests, the petitions I had signed—did I think I was better than she was?

Her slender brown arms stiffened slightly against the steering wheel as I hesitated. “Well, are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”

“I was thinking about what the boy at the motel said about the Cuban, Lupe. I met a Cuban recently. He has the photo studio right next door to Rudy Sancerre’s. He goes to demonstrations and takes pictures of the people from Casa Guatemala.”

The car shimmied across the broken white line, but she pulled it firmly back. “You think this Cuban knew Cathy?” asked Lupe.