from Disappeared
On the morning of November 14, the day she was kidnapped, Linda Fuentes opened the door to my house and walked into the kitchen, where my family was having breakfast. As usual, I wasn't ready. Linda and I had an ongoing argument: She said I was always late, and I said she got to my house early to bask in the adoration of my younger brother, Emiliano. But we had been best friends for fourteen years, so we could forgive each other anything, I heard her laughing and chatting with my mother and emiliano until I was ready to go.
Our routine had been the same every morning for the past two years. We walked the six blocks from my house to Boulevard Pablo II, where we caught a bus that would take us to the Cathedral. From there I would catch another bus to the offices of this newspaper, and Linda walked three bloicks to her job at a shoe store on Francisco Villa Avenue. Linda had dropped out of school and taken the job at the shoe store when her father was paralyzed in a construction accident. Her salary, along with a small income that her mother made from sewing, supported her parents and two younger sisters.
Linda always waited with me until my bus arrived. We stayed together as much as possible, partly because most abductions of women in Juarez occur downtown, and partly as protection against the comments of men driving or walking by. Every time a man said something offensive, Linda and I would whisper "puchi" to each other and laugh. I found an empty bus seat that morning - a small miracle - and when I looked out the window, I saw Linda jump and down in excitement over my good luck. As the bus pulled away, she stuck her tongue out at me.
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That was the last time I saw my best friend.
I worked all day at the newspaper. At seven p.m. I got a phone call from Linda's mother. I knew as soon as I heard Mrs. Fuente's shaky voice that something terrible had happened. Linda got off work at four, and she had never been home later than six. If you are a daughter or a sister or a wife in Juarez, the one thing you always do if you are going to be late is call. And if your friend is one hour late and she hasn't called home, your heart begins to break.
Mrs. Fuentes was hoping against hope that Linda and I had decided to go to the movies after I finished work. She knew we would never do that without calling our families first, but when you are worried, you grasp at straws. Mrs. Fuentes had already called the shoe store where Linda worked, and the owner told her that Linda left a few minutes after four that afternoon. She walked towards the bus station with plenty of time to catch the 4:30 bus that would get her home by six at the latest. Linda usually left with another employee from the store, but that day, she traveled those three blocks alone.
What do you do? Where do you go when your best friend has disappeared, and you know deep inside that the worst has happened? You pray for a miracle, but you act like a detective...