He knew it from Senate hearings, from nationally broadcast interviews, from charity galas he had paid handsomely to attend and be photographed at. The entire country knew that voice.
It belonged to Esteban Quiroga, one of the most influential men in Mexico, an open presidential contender, born—though few remembered it—just three blocks from Laurel Street.
And there was something Máximo could not have known: years earlier, Esteban Quiroga had wept openly at Rebeca Franco’s funeral, because she had fed him when he was a scholarship student who barely had bus fare.
José spoke with steady calm.
“More or less as expected. Would you mind speaking with Mr. Del Valle?”
A brief pause.
—Put him on.
José set the phone on the table.
His arm did not shake.
His face did not change.
Not when they mocked him. Not now.
Máximo picked up the phone.
For nearly four minutes, no one else spoke.
For illustration purposes only
The two young men stared at the glass walls as though searching for an exit. The woman in pearls lowered her eyes to her hands. Máximo listened, nodded, swallowed. At one point he covered his mouth with his free hand—the involuntary gesture of someone confronted with a truth for which no defense has been rehearsed.
When he finally placed the phone back on the table, his expression had changed.
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