The picture is a spontaneous playground shot, and must have been taken some time ago, because Ovando appears in it without a mustache. He has two kids, the youngest one having the slanted eyes and flat face of a mongoloid, and an okay-looking blonde wife. Ovando is hugging the retarded kid close, beaming, apparently as proud of him as he is of his normal kid, a handsome lad not quite in his teens. Ovando is staring up at me, hard, his trembling hands folded over the keyboard, face pale and damp, eyes teary. “That’s my family,” he says, his voice cracking. “I stole the money for little José there”—gesturing at the mongoloid—“to provide for his special needs. Do you understand that?” This makes me feel lower than rat shit in a sewer drain. All I can say is, “Everything’s going to be fine, Errol.” This has no effect on him. “José can’t make it without me,” he croaks. “None of them can. I’m their sole provider.” Jesus. “Soon as Carmelita confirms everything,”
