The Mamacita Murders (11 page)
After Judge Hoffman tells the jurors what happened to Laura, a couple of them begin to cry and reach for tissue boxes sitting on the railing of the jury box. Watching people from the community sit through these cases has taught me that we all have sympathy for everyone involved in the case, especially the victims.
Three of the four men on the jury begin staring intently at Javier Sanchez. Javier looks straight forward towards Judge Hoffman’s bench as the stares burn a hole through the right side of Javier’s head. Even if we had Laura’s prior testimony, I’m not sure that twelve people would have agreed to convict Javier. These cases are difficult. Slim evidence is all I get in most of these sexual abuse cases.
Even though the law says one witness’s testimony is enough to convict, the jurors always want more, even the conservative ones who make up most of Tuckford County’s jury pool. At a minimum, they want a prosecutor who believes the defendant did what he’s accused of; and without Laura, I can’t say whether I’d vote guilty.
“Ladies and gentleman, you are excused from jury service. We will see some of you I’m sure next year. Thank you for your service,” says Judge Hoffman before the jurors start filing past us to leave. I wait for the last one to leave and watch the door close behind her.
“Dylan, are we one hundred percent sure Clown’s the only one involved in this?”
“Yes. We’re not looking at anyone else. Why do you ask?”
“I could’ve sworn the car last night had the same rattling noise the motel housekeeper described,” I say.
“You said the car was black. Clown’s car is Burgundy. Who else are we going to look at anyway? And that print could easily belong to Laura or the technician that collected it,” Dylan says.
“I just don’t want to make a mistake.”
“You’re crazy,” he says. “Look, I know you like to be really thorough, but there’s no doubt in my mind. I know the drive-by shooting may have startled you, too. But we haven’t determined if one thing has to do with the other. We have the right person. So don’t get any ideas. This is an open and shut case. I haven’t seen many stronger cases in my career. We don’t even have any other leads. He’s our guy. The Leafwood Police Department feels the same way.”
“Dylan, I think there’s more to this,” I say.
“Gaby, I don’t want to hear what your angels are telling you. I’m done with this case. I have several reports to finish and you’re going on vacation. We are not reopening this. Clown is our suspect and I’m expecting us to staff this case by Monday morning with your office. I want this case filed before you leave on your trip.”
Judge Hoffman returns to the bench, interrupting our conversation.
“Come to order. Court is again in session,” says the courtroom deputy.
“As for you, Mr. Sanchez, you are discharged from this case. But as you heard, it doesn’t look like you’ll be going far. They are going to file the same case on you again, which they can do. There’s nothing preventing them from filing it twice. Mr. Sanchez, you have received a huge break in this case. The prosecution did not have sufficient evidence to proceed with their case in chief, so I was forced to dismiss it. Now, don’t mess up while you’re in custody or when you get out,” says Judge Hoffman.
“Your Honor…,” Javier says with a smirk.
“I don’t want you to say anything. I just want you to be careful. You have a lengthy criminal history and you won’t see another break like this. I can guarantee that. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” says Javier as Judge Hoffman gets up to leave the bench.
I turn to Dylan. “Let’s get to the hospital.”
Dylan’s county truck bounces into the parking lot of the Tuckford Memorial Hospital, the ghetto part of a town called Mason Valley. Mason Valley houses a lot of the low income families that relocated from bigger cities over a decade ago to take advantage of the low housing market. Since then, many of these families have lost their homes to foreclosure during the recession.
Dylan and I walk from his truck into the hospital.
“We’re looking for patient Laura Paula,” I say.
The twenty-something-year-old Latina hospital lobby receptionist bats her eyelashes and brown eyes at Dylan, then twirls her long brown curly hair. After searching her outdated boxy computer, she looks up at Dylan. “You look like a celebrity, kind of like Matthew McConaughey. She’s in room 511. Take the elevator up to the fifth floor, and to the ICU.”
It’s still weird to hear women flirt with Dylan, but I’ve learned to just appreciate it. I was doing the same thing two years ago. I still remember the first homicide call-out I went on with Dylan. Every young prosecutor’s goal is to be assigned to the homicide pager and report to crime scenes when a dead body is found and help out in the investigation. Dylan Mack was the lead investigator, my Law & Order backstage pass to run with the best of the best, the Special Homicide Team. This team handles all gang and sexual assault related homicides in Tuckford County.
There’s nothing sexier than a man who takes control of his surroundings. That was the first thing that attracted me to Dylan. When he greeted me at the crime scene and walked me into a room full of testosterone-driven police officers to brief me about what happened, my knees were practically buckling at the attention he was able to command. The entire room full of men in uniform wanted nothing more than to become what Dylan was — a Special Homicide Investigator.
I never thought I’d be drawn to a man in uniform. But his confidence got me hooked. His crazy stamina in his king size bed helped, too. My girlfriends forced me to recount stories of our sleepless nights early in our relationship.
As I wait for the elevator with Dylan, I want to tell him I wish room 511 was our motel room number, like back in the day when we would meet up at any cheesy Motel 6 we could find to have a quickie during lunch. But I stop myself. Those days are long gone. This field trip is related to my profession as an assistant prosecutor, not my obsession with Dylan Mack. We make our way into the elevator.
Hospitals are my least favorite place to be. The hustle and bustle of staff in lab coats wheeling tables in and out of our elevator on the way up to Laura’s room makes it seem like everyone’s working on the assembly line to death.
“I bet this is the last place you thought you’d be visiting one of your girls,” says Dylan.
“It really is.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m okay, I just really don’t like hospitals. Just last week I was sitting in one for my first mammogram thinking how much I hate them. Everything turned out fine, but it just reminds me how quickly life can turn upside down.”
A smile comes to my face as I think of Riley from The Mamacita Club, who got dressed up in the Madonna Evita costume to get me psyched up for my mammogram recently. I love when Riley dresses as Madonna, who played Evita in a musical, to teach women about cancer, disease, and death. The wife of an Argentine president, Eva Peron, who became known as Evita, was a woman who died of cancer at thirty-three and had a huge heart to help women and those in need. What Evita accomplished by the time of her death amazes me. I tend to become obsessed with legends who died around my age. Angela, my angel reader, tells me it’s normal. She says it will be really bad when I approach the age my mom died.
“Mammogram at, what are you, twenty-five years old?” says Dylan.
“Twenty-five? I wish. I’ll be thirty-two this month.”
“I would’ve never guessed you were in your thirties, but that’s still young for a mammogram, isn’t it? Are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah, they just wanted to make sure everything was fine.”
The hardest part about going to hospitals is thinking that a time will come when we are all on our deathbeds in a miserable place where medicine can do nothing to save us. For some reason I’ve always been afraid of illness, disease, and sickness, especially when it’s in the final stages of death. It’s worse than looking at autopsy or crime scene photos. I’ve seen so many naked bodies with bullet holes or stab wounds. Their pale skin, dark lips, and eyes staring blankly at me all remind me of that photo of my mom. The moment someone still has blood running through their veins and has an ounce of life in them, it’s hard for me to tolerate. I just want to save them.
As I’m contemplating getting out of the elevator at the next stop and leaving the hospital, I remember my promise to Laura. I told her I wouldn’t leave her alone. The elevator door opens to the fifth floor and Dylan and I get out.
I take two steps into the room with Dylan close behind me and see Laura lying in a hospital bed. Her once long hair that I was stroking yesterday at the motel is now shaved. She has a big horseshoe stitching on the side of her head from the brain surgery she just had. The white crust on the sides of her mouth and a pale grey ash tone to her once tan and elastic skin makes me nauseous.
Two weeks ago, her big brown eyes and eyelashes were batting and rolling as she joked outside the Airstream with Christina.
Now, Laura lies motionless in a hospital bed with metal rails at her sides and tubes coming out of her nose and mouth. IVs run through her veins. Plastic tape covers her hands and rubber tubing feeds oxygen and pain medicine from a machine beeping every second. Large red numbers flash on a monitor, which is pulsating near a long plastic sack filled with fluids.
Laura’s mother, Bess, is sitting by her side, holding her hand.
“Mrs. Sanchez, I’m so sorry,” I say, regretting I haven’t said this sooner.
“I was hoping to never have to see you after the trial. But now
this.
And the shooting! What are you trying to do to these girls?” Bess Sanchez says in a thick Spanish accent, glaring at Dylan and me with a look of disdain.
Her tight bun with her severe side sweeping hair-sprayed bangs pulled behind her ear reminds me of one of my Ballet Folklorico dance teachers I had growing up who died a while back. Instructor Maria Flores had fierce Spanish eyes and would open her lacy black fan with one swift click into the air. She’d whip that thing towards me when I messed up my dance routines. It got so bad, my mom had to move me into another dance troupe.
“Look at my mija Laura, my sweet baby. How could you let him do this to her? And then he comes to my house and gets me? You people don’t know what you’re doing,” says Bess angrily.
“Mrs. Sanchez, we will do our very best to get justice for Laura,” I say. “The Leafwood Police Department is handling the case. The Special Homicide Team is helping, and Investigator Mack and I are working very hard on it. I’m the homicide on-call prosecutor, so I will be handling the case for now. I want to speak with the doctors about Laura’s injuries. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why is the Homicide Team involved? Laura is not dead,” says Bess.
“I know, I said the same thing. But this is a serious case and Laura was almost killed. When we’re not sure if a victim is going to survive, the Special Homicide Team gets involved to make sure the evidence is collected properly and the interviews are conducted the right way. Just in case this becomes a homicide, we want the investigation done properly. Plus, I’m familiar with Laura and Clown,” I say.
Dylan’s cell phone starts ringing and he leaves the room to answer it. Bess turns towards Laura and strokes the top of her head as though she still had a head of hair she was brushing from front to back. Glancing at the monitors, feeding tubes, and number displaying on the beeping equipment, Bess stands up, turns on the light for assistance, and sits back down on a metal chair close to Laura.
“It was too much for her. The trial was too much for her. She was acting strange that night. I know she didn’t want to return to court to testify. I should not have checked her phone. I should have let her be. She was under so much pressure. But she wasn’t listening to me. I wanted her to listen to me but she was on that phone. I knew she was texting with Clown and then I saw it on her phone. She knows in my house that is not allowed,” says Bess.
“You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “You had rules in your house and she knew that she couldn’t be in contact with Clown if she was living with you. He’s nothing but trouble. He’s nine years older than her and in a gang. I’ve told her to stay away from him, too.”
I look back at Laura, who seems completely unaware that we’re sitting by her side. Her eyes are swollen and her breathing is labored.
“What’s going on with Javier’s case?” Bess asks.
“The case was just dismissed, but I plan on refiling it assuming Laura will come out of her coma. I came to see how she’s doing,” I say.
“You told me you would make her better. She just seemed to get worse, especially with this trial. She would lock herself in her room, ditch school, and not come home at night,” Bess says.
“This is why I wanted her to join the club,” I say.
“It had to be the trial,” Bess says, changing the subject.
“This situation is hard enough already and we don’t need to point fingers,” I say.
This is so typical for a mother of a victim to take out their anger and guilt on me as a prosecutor. I’ve sat through mothers yelling at me for no good reason and have learned to accept it as part of the job and part of the grieving process. Plus, having somebody’s mother yelling at me is better than not having one at all.
