Ditch Rider (10 page)

“Did you and your mother talk?”

“I guess.” Cheyanne shrugged and threw up her hands. “She didn't yell at me, anyway.”

It was a step in the right direction. Cheyanne put her hands in her lap palms-up, enabling me to see what I'd been looking for. Slender scars floated on her wrist like silvery fish. The scars were almost buried in the creases where her hand met her wrist—one reason I hadn't noticed them earlier. “The Deputy District Attorney told me you tried to commit suicide three years ago.” I said.

She nodded and hid her hands under the table.

“
Why?”

“I was mad.”

“At what?”

“My mother and Leo.”

“You're not thinking about doing it again, are you?”

“No. It was dumb. I was just a kid then.”

“I went to the place where you were assaulted,” I told her. “The police had cleaned it up and taken away the bloody grass. The only blood they found was your type, and they didn't find a weapon. Saia suggested you might have injured yourself.”

Cheyanne brought her hands up and touched the bandage on her forehead. “You think I'd cut my own face? No way!”

“You weren't feeling guilty about Juan, were you?”

“No. I mean, yes. I feel guilty all the time, but I wouldn't cut my own face because of it. What is it going to take to make that guy believe me?”

“I think you've succeeded. Ron Cade came up with an alibi. The DNA came back on the bullet, and it is the one that killed Juan Padilla. The clerk at Diamond Shamrock saw you run by there around midnight on the night Juan was killed. You will be arraigned before Juvenile Court Judge John Joseph tomorrow. He will decide whether or not to accept your plea.”

“What do I wear?” She was dressed in her baggy blue D Home shirt and pants.

“What you're wearing now.”

“Will I get two years?”

“That won't be decided at the arraignment. All you do now is answer the charges. Either the judge believes you or he doesn't. If he does believe you, you'll be sentenced later. How well you behave while you're in here is important. If you're a model detainee, Saia has agreed not to ask for consecutive sentences.” Two years was long enough for people to get out of town, get killed or forget. In two years Cheyanne would be only fifteen years old. Young enough to start a new life. Young enough to get into a lot more trouble. Far too young to have a murder hanging around her neck.

“I'll be good,” she promised.

“The judge will be impressed if you show remorse in the courtroom.”

“No problem. Every time I think about Juan it makes me want to cry.” Her hands were in her lap again and she squeezed them tight.

“It would help if you showed the judge some respect. When you speak to him, call him Your Honor.”

“Okay.”

“
You can still recant if you want to,” I said. “It's not too late.” But we seemed to be on an express train headed for one destination.

“What does recant mean?”

“Change your story.”

She shook her head and her hair fell across her face. “I don't want to change my story.”

“You shouldn't keep all your feelings to yourself, Cheyanne.”

“I won't.”

“Everybody needs someone to talk to.”

“I know.”

“What was it that got you out of the trailer? You had to know it was a dangerous move.”

“That was it.”

“What?”

She flipped her hair back and looked me in the eye. “I needed to talk to somebody,” she said.

******

When I left the D Home I waited for the light at Griegos to change and for the northbound traffic to clear before I pulled into the turn lane, the island in the middle of Second Street with curved arrows pointing east toward the D Home and west toward the river. The traffic lights had the effect of gates in a waterway controlling the rate of flow. There were two lanes heading north and two south, both full of potential weapons and victims. From my island in the middle of the street I glanced at the Sandias while waiting for the southbound traffic to clear. The last vehicle before my opening was a pickup truck with two girls inside whose teased hairdos filled the cab. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and prepared to turn. The truck was no surprise to me; I'd known it was coming. But my reaction startled the women. Thinking I was going to cut in front of them, they began screaming and swearing, two big-haired women on a bad hair day. Road rage in Albucrazy can get you killed in a minute. I know better than to respond, but my middle finger was itchy and before I could stop myself I'd flipped them the bird.

******

On my way home from work that night I passed the trailer. Sonia's car was gone, but Leo's truck was parked out front. Danny was riding his bike in loops around the yard. Leo came out the door cradling a soccer ball in his right arm. He waved his free hand when he saw me. I stopped the car and rolled down the window.

“What's happening with Cheyanne?” he asked.

“She's going to be arraigned tomorrow.”

“
I want to be there.”

“Okay.”

“Will she stay in the D Home after the arraignment?”

“Probably. If the judge grants bail I suspect it will be high.”

He looked around the bare yard. “Not much collateral here.”

“True,” I said.

Leo tightened his grip on the ball. “Did Cheyanne tell you if anybody's been hassling her? She won't tell her mother anything.”

“She says no.”

“If you hear she's having any trouble with gang members in there, you let me know.”

“All right. You were here the night she was assaulted?”

“Right.”

“What was it that got her out of the house? Do you know?”

“It wasn't the phone. Sonia had it disconnected. The TV was on. I didn't hear anybody outside.”

“You guys didn't fight, did you?”

“No.”

Danny had circled closer, zeroing in on us. He parked next to Leo and put his kickstand down.

“There's a game on,” Leo said. “We gotta go.” He handed the ball over to Danny.

“Talk to you later,” I replied.

When I got to my driveway I stopped to pick up the mail, looked back down the road and saw Leo following Danny toward the rec field next to the Sacred Heart Church where the soccer games were played. Danny rode his bike with the soccer ball in one hand and the handlebars in the other, but it was awkward. The bike weaved back and forth across the road. Danny stopped and waited for his father to catch up. When Leo did, Danny tossed him the ball. Leo bounced it up in the air with his shoulder and caught it in his arms on the way back down.

12

W
HEN A THIRTEEN
-
YEAR
-
OLD GIRL
is indicted for homicide in Albuquerque, it's a major news event, and the press showed up in full force at the arraignment. The reporters waiting outside Juvenile Court wanted to get a statement from me, but I had nothing to say. Inside the courtroom the cameras were set up and the Four O's were waiting, wearing black t's with smile now, cry later masks on the front and Old English letters on the back that read Juan Padilla, RIP.

An invisible line divided the courtroom down the middle. Juan's mourners crowded into one side of it and Cheyanne's supporters took the other. There were only four people on Cheyanne's side: Sonia, Leo, Danny and Patricia. It was more than a lot of juvenile offenders had. Sonia wore a short black skirt and a black western shirt with turquoise trim and silver tips on the collar. Her hands tugged nervously at the skirt. Leo wore his repairman's shirt, as if he intended to go back to the job the minute this was over. His left side was turned away from the Four O's, shielding Danny, who stood to his right. Danny was jittery as a cricket and Leo put his hand on his shoulder to settle him down. He had the slicked-back hair of a junior gang member, but his mother hadn't let him dress the part. He wore straight-legged jeans and a plain t-shirt. Patricia had on a green dress and a lot of makeup. Her curls tumbled down her back. Today she was fourteen going on twenty-one. She was the only one in the courtroom who dared to stare across the aisle.

The other side of the room was dominated by gangsters. They wore full pants and had their hair clipped close to their heads, trying their best to scare us more than we scared them. The Four O's didn't have to look tough to convince me. These boys could well have been to more funerals than they had birthday parties, which would give them an older person's perspective that death is the place where you go to reconnect with friends and family who have already passed on. The gang members were a dark cloud on Juan's side of the courtroom. In front of them sat the women: a mother, aunts, sisters, a grandmother. All the grown men in this family appeared to be absent or dead. An old woman looked up from the soggy handkerchief she clutched and her eyes met mine. She had the long, furrowed face of a hound. Her white hair was slipping out of its bun. Her legs were thick as tree trunks. Her mournful brown eyes said Juan had been more than a gang member—he'd been a hope for the future. There was no accusation or threat in her look—only loss—so I couldn't justify myself by getting angry or defensive.

Cheyanne didn't look at the Padillas or the Four O's or her own family either when she entered. She wore her blue D Home uniform with the numbers on the back. Her arms still showed the marks of the
assault.
Her movements were sluggish. She wore no makeup and she'd wiped off the last of the blue nail polish. Her hair had been brushed until the curls had fallen out. She'd peeled off her bandages and her stitches were visible, giving her the sewn-together look of a rag doll. I wasn't sure looking like a waif would convince anyone she was guilty of murder, but I could have been underestimating the weariness and experience of Juvenile Court Judge John Joseph, who was known for his unpredictability. The way he reacted could depend on whether his breakfast had agreed with him or whether he'd experienced road rage on his way to work. Cheyanne didn't cry as she stood before him, but she did have the slouch of a victim deep in depression and the clenched hands of a wrongdoer full of remorse.

When she appeared, the gangbangers looked away in unison, like a bunch of raw recruits under the command of a drill sergeant. But I couldn't tell who was giving the orders; no one stood out as bigger or meaner or older. One guy wore a black baseball cap turned backward and a jacket with white stitching across the front. Maybe it was him. He was better-looking than the other gangbangers, with small features, pale and striking eyes. Sometimes good looks are authority enough, but I didn't know if that would cut it among these tough guys.

The eyes that had avoided Cheyanne glared at me as I approached the bench to face Judge Joseph, but that's my job, to absorb the anger and the heat. Saia stood beside me, and if he was feeling any heat he didn't let it show. His hair was slick and smooth. His clothes were deeply rumpled.

Judge Joseph glared at my client over the top of his dime-store reading glasses, and his fine white hair shimmied with static. He'd been on the bench for years and had seen a whole lot of kids in trouble. He'd seen girls who'd killed and girls who'd been assaulted. He'd seen pretty girls, ugly girls, innocent girls, guilty girls, but it was unlikely he'd seen many girls who lived in harmony with their parents and he'd undoubtedly seen some whose parents hadn't even shown up. The judge read off the charges against my client and asked her if I had explained the charges and the consequences.

Cheyanne nodded.

“Don't nod, young lady,” he barked. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Cheyanne mumbled.

“What?” The judge cupped his hand to his ear.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You are charged with a capital offense. Do you understand what that means?”

“It means I killed somebody.” Cheyanne paused as if trying to remember something. Maybe it was my admonition to show remorse. “I'm very sorry for my actions, Your Honor,” she continued.

“Why is that?” queried the judge.

“I shot Juan Padilla and caused his family pain and suffering.”

“What were the circumstances of the shooting?”

“
I … I was holding the gun in my hand. The gun went off.”

“Did you act alone?”

“Yes.”

“Was it your intent to shoot Juan Padilla?” He stared down at her from the height of the bench, making my client appear very small, very young and very scared.

She shook her head. “No. It was an accident, Your Honor.”

“Where did you get the weapon?”

“I found it.”

The judge took his eyes off Cheyanne for a moment and appraised me. “Are you satisfied with your legal representation, young lady?” he asked her.

“Yes,” my client answered.

“And with your guilty plea?”

She'd had the option of taking an Alford Plea, which doesn't admit guilt, only that the prosecutor can prove guilt, but that hadn't been my client's wish. My client had wanted to stand up before the judge and the Padillas and plead guilty. The time had come to do so.

“Yes, Your Honor,” she whispered.

The judge stared at her for a long time. He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them he said, “I am taking your plea under advisement and will schedule a hearing when I have made my decision.”

“When will that be, Your Honor?” asked Cheyanne.

“When I have given the matter due consideration,” he snapped. Considering the age of the defendant, Judge Joseph would be expected to take a long, hard look at this case, which would include reports from a psychiatrist and a probation officer. But his sour expression indicated he'd made up his mind.

He set bail at an amount Sonia Moran couldn't possibly meet and remanded Cheyanne to the D Home until the plea hearing. Maybe he thought the D Home would be the best place for her. Maybe he thought she would be a menace out on the street. He pounded his gavel and dismissed us.