Lunchtime and I’m parked on a runty hill in this forgotten industrial park, staring across a vista of lifeless smokestacks and rusting chemical barrels and crumbling concrete loading docks. A paper bag of steamy corn tortillas is warming my lap, the kind of meal that will last all day — and needs to, for poor Mexicans. Sunlight is filtering through the truck’s dusty windshield in tiny sparkling reflections. I’ve got the radio on. Some local Tijuana station, playing one narcocorrido after another, until they blur into an endless folksong remix about cocaine and broken hearts and tragic bullet-riddled death.

I don’t bother checking the caller ID when my cellphone rings. The habit seems antiquated, so last year. My TAship and annoying students vanished with the calendar flip, and ditto for Phoebe and my colleagues back at UCLA. Now there’s only one number that calls — and it belongs to this cellphone’s twin.

“Heya,” I say warmly, expecting an update from Nooshin. By yesterday she’d finished digitizing our half of the Korea Textile maquiladora archive. She just loaded up the sheet-feed tray and let the scanner do its thing. Worked like advertised. Amazing.

But the craggy voice leaking into my head isn’t Nooshin. Not even close. “Hello, Mr. Roberts.”

“Hello, Professor.” I clear my throat, deepening my tone. “I have an update on the digitization for — ”

But Professor Emeritus Hercules Gutierrez is all business today. A different kind of business than the archive or screwing over Frankie. “We’re joined on this call by Jean Schneckt, who is general counsel for the dean’s office. Ms. Schneckt, are you there?”

The lawyer sounds like she’s made out of saccharine and caffeine. “It’s good to speak with you, Nick! Professor Gutierrez has told me so much about you. Sounds like you’re doing super work down there. Really advancing the field.”

“Uh, right…” Whatever the hell this is about, I’m not in the mood. “Professor, why are we on a conference call with a lawyer? This isn’t about something I said on TV at the Border Symposium, is it?”

His laugh is like boulders jarring loose — a sudden rumble, and just-as-sudden silence. “We’re calling because of UCLA’s concerns about the safety of students, staff, and employees in northern Mexico. As your dissertation advisor and manager, I have a responsibility to discuss your personal security situation with you and make sure you understand the risks. Jean?”

“Nick, as you may be aware, there have been a rash of kidnappings and even killings of Americans in northern Mexico. The U.S. Department of State recently issued a — ”

“Hang on a sec.” I hold the phone away from my ear for a while. “Did you guys hear that?”

“Hear what?” asks Hercules.

“I didn’t hear anything either,” chimes in the lawyer.

“Exactly. No bullets whizzing around, no explosions, no nothing. So consider me warned, alright?”

I can hear an irritated sigh. “Just cut to the chase, Jean.”

“Nick, I’m going to email you two documents in pdf format — you can get email down there, can’t you?”

“Yeah. There’s internet access in Mexico. Broadband, even. This isn’t Papua New Guinea, for chrissake.”

A growly sigh blots out the static. “Jean, I can give you Nick’s email address if you need it.”

“Thanks, Professor. I already have it on file. So Nick, I’m going to email you two documents. The first document is an acknowledgment that UCLA has discussed the security situation with you, and you understand the risks you’re taking in northern Mexico at this time. Please print it off, sign it, make a copy for your files, and — ”

“Are you guys afraid something will happen to me in Mexico and then I’ll sue the university?”

“Exactly,” confirms Hercules in a pleased way. I’m connecting the manipulative dots, just like him. “Did you know that Stanford is being sued by the family of an undergrad who was abducted and raped in Nuevo Laredo? It was her choice to be in Mexico, but she still sued Stanford for not warning her of the safety risks. A settlement will cost Stanford millions. That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

“I already signed an independent contractor agreement with more boilerplate than a mortgage! Doesn’t that have enough disclaimer language to protect UCLA?”

“California labor law gives you a lot of outs,” interrupts Jean. “Independent contractors sue all the time in this state. Especially when the University of California is involved.”

Hercules wades in, trying to sound soothing. “The document we’re asking you to sign is just a paper trail, that’s all. Proof that we’ve had this discussion.”

“What about the other document?” I snap, not feeling very soothed. “Is that a CYA thing too?”

“The other document is for your research assistant. She’s also an independent contractor hired to preserve the archive. Like you, she needs to sign and return a copy to UCLA,” the lawyer explains. “My understanding is that she’s an American citizen at your same address?”

Skin is tightening across my shoulder blades. This topic is Russian roulette. Say the wrong thing and Hercules — and UCLA’s legal counsel — will realize Nooshin is my live-in girlfriend, and then I’ll be the one who needs the lawyer.

I measure out my words carefully. “Yeah, she’s at this address. She lives in the spare bedroom. She’s my roommate.”

Wherever Jean is, she’s shaking her head in saccharine-and-caffeine disapproval. “We’re concerned about that, Nick. At best, there’s an appearance of impropriety. At worst, well…” She shuffles papers loudly. “The UCLA Academic Code of Conduct explicitly prohibits romantic or sexual relationships with anyone — and I quote — for whom a university member has, or should reasonably expect to have in the future, academic responsibility (instructional, evaluative, or supervisory). That includes your research assistant.”

It feels like all the air is being sucked out of the truck’s cab. Hercules. Goddamn Hercules. He’s inoculating himself from any risk that I’m involved with Nooshin. Putting me on the spot with UCLA’s legal counsel? Pure motherfucking genius. Either I tell the truth, or lie, or something in between — all on the record. No matter what happens, the old reptile is golden.

Not knowing what to say, I say nothing at all. The pause drags on, filled only by the hiss of cellphone connections and the lamenting accordions of the next narcocorrido. I open the window and dusty coolness spills in.

“Nick?” asks Hercules, dropping the formalities. About damn time, considering that I screwed over Frankie for him last week. “I need you to do the right thing down there. Can I count on your cooperation?” That craggy voice makes it impossible to tell if Hercules is ordering me to kick Nooshin out, or just suggesting it. I wish I was sprawled across the leather couch in his expansive office, studying the visage that launched a thousand Brown Panther protests back in the Sixties. Then I’d know.

And that’s how the conference call ends, with a too-cheerful goodbye from Jean the lawyer and Hercules’ order/suggestion hanging over my head like a guillotine. I toss my cellphone aside in frustrated disgust and reach into the paper bag for the rest of my lunch — and grab a handful of cold tortillas. The only thing worse than warm tortillas are cold tortillas. On the radio Los Tigres del Norte are crooning about stealing across the border to the promised land of America and never coming back, and at this moment all I want to do is grab Nooshin and pack up our shit and take their advice.