The Mamacita Murders
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.
The Mamacita Murders
Copyright © 2012 by Debra Mares
All rights reserved.
A JUSTICIA HOUSE BOOK
303 Broadway, Suite 104-103
Laguna Beach, California 92651
ISBN: 978-0-9850893-4-4
Smashwords Edition: September 2012
Kindle Edition: September 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9850893-1-3
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9850893-1-3
Book cover design by Perlman Creative Group
for
all victims
those who have survived
those who have passed
&
their loved ones
If anything good can come out of The Mamacita Murders, perhaps they will show someone how our criminal justice system works when an individual commits what the law calls murder; but my greatest hope is they serve those who search for closure.
— DEBRA MARES, AUTHOR
THE MAMACITA MURDERS
The single, most effective way to reduce the crime rate and build public confidence in the criminal justice system is to serve your community. Outside the courtroom, I serve as a pin-up girl at The Mamacita Club. My younger clients request me as Katy Perry and my older ones as a mob wife; but my Latin clients prefer me as Jennifer Lopez.
— Gabriela Ruiz, Assistant Prosecutor
Tuckford County
CONTENTS
14. TO SUMMON OR NOT TO SUMMON
The rush of cool air entering the courthouse resets my makeup after a short walk from my office in Old Town Tuckford. Wheeling my briefcase down this grand hall feels like I’m walking through the Vatican. This courthouse would make any beach city housewife sitting sixty miles away rethink calling Tuckford County the armpit of this state. The high ceilings create spectacular, long-lasting echoes of my red stilettos. Some say we all look the same, but my curves and dance moves may remind some jurors of Carmen Miranda, while others of Jennifer Lopez.
I pass all my jurors and smile calmly at each one, pretending to have everything under control. My given name might be Gabriela Ruiz, most call me Gaby, but today my nickname is Grace Under Pressure. Don’t flinch. Walk steady. Breathe deep.
As I enter the double doors of Department Thirteen, the defendant, courtroom clerk, and deputy sheriff are all on time. But still, there’s no sign of Laura.
Laura promised me to be here this morning at 8:30. I read the courtroom clock. 8:55 a.m. With my ten unanswered calls to her in the last half hour, I’ve transitioned from the assistant prosecutor in her case to her official stalker. I wheel my briefcase up to the counsel table, sit down, and lean my head back into the chair.
The witness stand surrounded in dark oak is empty. Yesterday, I told the jury that seventeen-year-old Laura would be here this morning to testify. She’s supposed to tell the jury that her stepfather Javier sexually abused her. My eyes scale up the rich brown walls of the courtroom. The hand-carved block letters painted in gold at the top of the wall distract me from the knot twisting in my stomach. It reads, “He has a right to criticize who has a heart to help — President Abraham Lincoln.” I don’t feel so bad saying Laura is probably wrapping her legs around some gang-banger while snoozing her alarm clock instead of being here.
I met Laura when was I was assigned to this case a year ago. She was sexually abused by Javier, her mom’s twenty-seven-year-old husband, more than just the one time I charged him with. It left her family divided with Bess, Laura’s mom, taking Javier’s side. Seeing glimpses of myself in Laura, including her pin-up girl style, gave me a huge heart to help, but plenty of confidence to criticize her. Laura is smart and pretty, but looks for love in all the wrong places; something easy to do in the gang-infested RV park she lives in. Or just something easy to do if you’re a divorced professional female like me. But I have hope I’ll find the right kind of love this year. I’m not so sure about Laura, though.
Since I met Laura last year, I had been pushing Bess to sign her up for The Mamacita Club, which I run out of my Vintage Airstream motorhome. I noticed her and her mom’s relationship became strained after an anonymous caller reported the abuse. Laura blamed Bess for her stepfather abusing her. Bess blamed Laura’s provocative ways. I couldn’t entirely disagree with Bess after reviewing Laura’s sexting history with her twenty-six-year-old pimp, Clown. She met him on GangScene, an Internet chat room for gang members.
Along with a text message saying, “Bang this,” Laura sent him a self-portrait sitting up straight on her bed, with her legs crossed. She had white socks pulled up to her knees with black heels on. Her hair was up in a vintage-looking bun and she was wearing one of Bess’s red lace teddies exposing her breasts.
I told Bess in Spanish “I’ll work a miracle,” using my Latina background to build a rapport. I promised to work on Laura’s self-esteem, figuring it was worth summoning my magical powers at some point to help her. After all, not all of this was her fault. But Bess wasn’t interested in my help.
First, she told me she couldn’t find a ride for Laura to get to the club. So a couple months ago, Angela, Riley, Kiki, and I, a.k.a. The Mamacita Club Directors, drove the Airstream to Leafwood RV Park, the same trailer park Laura lives in. We started hosting meetings there, but that didn’t work, either. Bess told me these types of clubs went against her culture’s grain. Plus, my office thought it would be a conflict of interest for Laura to join since she was a victim in an active case.
The courtroom door flings open and Investigator Dylan Mack walks in. I tell him to follow me outside.
The attorney room outside Department Thirteen gives Dylan and me the privacy we need. I stand up straightening my backbone just enough to perk out my breasts, hoping to compete with any twenty-something-year-old Dylan had in his bed last night.
“What’s going on?” asks Dylan curiously.
“Laura’s mom called me this morning saying Laura went AWOL last night and she hasn’t seen her since. Laura told her she’s not coming back to testify. I saw her last night and she promised me she’d be here by 8:30. We met at the Airstream. She seemed a little nervous about testifying, but that was it,” I say.
Dylan has always reminded me of Matthew McConaughey, mixed with the style and class of John F. Kennedy, Jr. I don’t know if you call it a Bostonian or San Franciscan look. Whatever it is, it’s yummy and way too refined for the country bumpkins in the backwoods of Tuckford County.
“Shit, Gabriela. Why didn’t you call me?”
“For what? Laura said she’d be here. I had no idea she told Bess she wasn’t going to testify until this morning. What would’ve you done last night?”
“I would’ve at least made sure she showed up this morning.”
“I told her I wasn’t going to mess with her business as long as she came to court. It was an understanding we had,” I say.
“Understanding for what?” Dylan asks. “Obviously, she didn’t care about that understanding because now we don’t have her. We can read her statement to the jury that’s in the police report, right?” Dylan asks.
“No, we can’t use her statement. That’s all hearsay.”
“What about her interview? We have that videotaped.”
“We can’t play that either. We need her on the stand or this case is done.”
“Where do you think she went?”
“I don’t know but she got into a fight over Bess seeing a couple of text messages to Clown. She just took off and never went back home.”
“Was that before or after you saw her at the Airstream?”
“I don’t know. I saw her around eight.”
“Dammit, I told her to stay away from him.”
The door to the side room opens and two men walk in continuing a conversation about some million dollar settlement. They might have expensive suits on, but I’ll take my job over their boring civil cases any day. Dylan lowers his voice.
“What’s going to happen with the trial? Can you use your powers to work some magic?” Dylan asks hopefully.
“No way. Laura needs to show up and help herself. I’m not getting her out of this one.”
“Can you ask the judge to postpone it?”
