The Mamacita Murders (2 page)
“I can but I need Javier to agree. This can get really ugly for me.”
“How is this your fault?”
“Are you kidding me? It makes me look bad that Laura’s not here. I run The Mamacita Club for at-risk girls that I had to convince my office to support. I should at least be able to get her to show up to court.”
I look back at the civil attorneys, who are both on their cell phones. At least they don’t have to deal with stuff like this.
“Let’s get back in there,” I say, turning to walk towards the door.
As I reach for the door handle, I stop and turn back to Dylan.
“By the way, you look nice today. I like your suit,” I say flirtingly, then open the door to walk out.
Tuckford County was rated a top place for having the rudest people in the country. But I haven’t found this to be true, except when it comes to defendants. I stand on one of the steps leading up to the jury box where the defendant, Javier Sanchez, sits feet away from me. The clanking sounds from his foot and wrist chains fill the courtroom. The voices on the deputy’s walkie-talkie and the clerk’s whispers add to the noise. Dylan keeps a close watch on me from the counsel table.
“Hi, Mr. Sanchez. How are you this morning?” I ask.
Javier stares at me and sits in silence. He is facing one felony count for having nonforceable sex with his stepdaughter Laura a little over a year ago. He’s also facing at least twenty years in prison because of his prior criminal history. Javier hasn’t given me any clue either way if he did what he’s accused of. Some defendants admit to having sex with the victim but say it was consensual. It helps explain away any semen, DNA, or physical injuries that might show up. But Javier invoked his Miranda rights asking for an attorney from the moment police arrested him. He never gave a statement. By the time Laura reported the sexual abuse, any injuries or DNA was gone.
As a prosecutor, I’ve always been as mindful of my role to protect defendants, especially ones like Javier. He went pro per right before trial. I try not to beat up too much on defendants who decide to represent themselves. I don’t want the case reversed on appeal. But I always wonder if the judge and jury take them seriously. They can come across as crazy and too emotionally involved, like a wife who represents herself in her own divorce.
“Mr. Sanchez, you don’t need to speak with me, but you chose to represent yourself, so it’s helpful to everyone if we communicate. Laura won’t be here this morning. I’m going to ask the judge to postpone the case so we can make sure she gets here. Do you have a problem with that?” I ask.
“Yeah, I have a problem. I want my speedy trial. You can’t delay it. You have no case if she ain’t here,” Javier says defiantly.
“Mr. Sanchez, if you don’t agree to postpone the trial, I’m going to ask the judge to,” I say. “It’s as simple as that. You can agree with me or you can object. But I’m only asking for some time so we can find Laura and bring her to court. Don’t you want to ask her some questions?”
“I ain’t postponing this,” Javier says.
“Do you even care what happened to her?” I ask.
“What happened?”
“She went AWOL last night. She’s probably afraid of testifying or something. You don’t have anything to do with her not showing up, do you?” I ask suspiciously.
“What do you mean? I’m locked up in county. What would I have to do with it?” Javier asks.
“You’re lucky to be in custody right now,” I say. “You should think twice about pushing this trial forward. Even if you were released, you’re already labeled as a sex offender. Worse, you had sex with Clown’s girlfriend. The Lincoln gang is going to be after you the moment you hit the streets. You’ve already been beaten up once in jail over this case.
“If someone confronts you on the street and you try to defend yourself, the police might arrest you. Where are you gonna go if this case is over? You can’t go back to Leafwood. Lincoln is waiting to get at you, Javier. I know what’s going on in the streets. You don’t. You’ve been locked up for a year,” I say.
Javier looks straight ahead. He’s looking at my legs, which aside from my nude nylons, are bare.
“Why don’t you think about this, Javier,” I say.
“Let’s see what the judge says,” he replies.
I take a deep breath and look around the courtroom. The deputy and clerk are talking to each other. Dylan is looking down at his cell phone.
“Javier,” I say, bending bend my torso down towards my knee, which is elevated on the stair leading up to where he’s sitting.
Javier’s eyes make their way down to my chest as I rest my elbow on my thigh.
I soften my voice.
“I would really appreciate if you agreed to a brief continuance,” I say in a sweet and slow cadence.
After giving Javier a smile like I mean it, I walk back to the counsel table.
Some criminals can be swayed with tough girl tactics. But more hardened ones like Javier are harder to get to. He’s distrusting of law enforcement, he’s been through the criminal system, and he knows how the streets work. But he’s a man and he has blood pumping through his veins. I’d be naive to think he’s not influenced by perky breasts or toned legs from time to time.
I sit down next to Dylan at the counsel table, then move my chair to face the jury box. I slowly cross my legs, and look up towards Javier.
“Fine. We can postpone it. But only til tomorrow,” says Javier.
“Madam Clerk, we’re ready to speak with Judge Hoffman,” I say.
Watching Judge Hoffman climb his way up to the bench gives me a moment to compose myself. I’m always nervous he’s going to trip on his way up because he wears a permanent eye patch over his left eye. Rumor is that he used his Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu to fight off five men who tried to rob him. One of the fighters used a shuriken to stab him in the eye and slash his throat. That’s why he always wears a red checkered bandana around his neck above his black robe. He was attacked on his first date with his now wife. Three months later, he proposed to her. I too would marry a man thirty years older than me if he could protect me like a young stallion. That’s sexy.
“Remain seated, come to order, court is now in session,” the deputy says.
The courtroom clerk and reporter stare at me, wondering what’s about to happen. Other than several low level assistant prosecutors, the audience section where the victim’s family normally sits is empty. On Javier’s side, his court-appointed investigator sits.
Just as I’m about to turn back towards the judge, Angela walks in. Angela is my good friend and Angel Therapy Practitioner who works at The Mamacita Club. Like the other club directors, when she’s counseling women, Angela dresses up in different outfits. Her Angel Gabriel alter ego helps her bond with the women in the club the most.
“Good morning, Ms. Ruiz, Mr. Sanchez, Investigator Mack. It is 9:15 a.m. and the jury has been waiting now for fifteen minutes. Are we ready to begin?” says Judge Hoffman.
“Good morning, Your Honor. No. The People are not ready to proceed. Laura was told to be here this morning at 8:30 and she hasn’t shown up. Her mother informed me that she ran away last night. Since Laura’s testimony is the bulk of the People’s case, I’m inviting the court to delay the trial just until tomorrow. I’d like to make efforts to bring her to court. I’ve discussed it with the defendant and he is agreeable to this,” I say calmly.
The tough part about being a prosecutor is keeping my composure, thinking on my feet, and figuring out the best way to advocate. One thing about judges like Judge Hoffman is that they are quick to make hasty rulings. They don’t want jurors waiting around and they want cases moved out of the system, not delayed. The judges have to answer to the PJ, the presiding judge, who makes the administrative and calendar decisions for the bench. The PJ expects the cases to move and courtrooms to stay buzzing with trials, hearings, and motions. “Inviting” Judge Hoffman to delay the trial is code word for listen up and please do what I’m asking you to do.
“You’re asking me to keep my jury waiting for a day while you look for a witness who probably doesn’t want to be found? Do you even know where to start? She’s a runaway and troubled girl. That much is obvious from your trial brief. I’ll bet this isn’t the fist time she’s gone AWOL. I need some assurance you have a good likelihood of finding her. If I postpone this, I’d expect a manhunt. And in this economic time, I wouldn’t expect the Old Town Police Department to have the resources for something like that. Isn’t that correct, Investigator Mack?” says Judge Hoffman.
Dylan laughs.
“Your Honor, may I approach sidebar?” I ask.
“Yes,” Judge Hoffman replies.
Sometimes, it seems that when a judge first puts on a black robe, it comes with an attitude, similar to a new car coming with a warranty. It usually wears off after a few years, but there’s an occasional one that comes with the extended warranty. Judge Samuel Hoffman is somewhere in the middle. He makes rulings based on law and experience. The thing I like most about Judge Hoffman is that he cares about the integrity of his judicial appointment.
At sidebar, I stand eight inches away from full body contact with Judge Hoffman. A real sidebar allows unobstructed contact with a judge, without the big desk between the attorneys like you see on television. I explain to him in a very calm tone that it really is in the best interest of justice to grant a brief continuance. I also remind him politely that I tried to get Laura housed at juvenile hall during the trial because I was afraid she’d run away, but she couldn’t be held because she promised everyone she’d show up. I reminded him that we all agreed she appeared cooperative. After giving Judge Hoffman a smile that says “pretty please,” I walk back to the counsel table.
“Very well, Ms. Ruiz. Under the circumstances and because you are only asking for a short continuance, I’ll grant your request. But I’ll expect an extensive update about Laura’s whereabouts. And I’ll want to hear about efforts you personally have made to secure her testimony. I’ll have my clerk inform the jury we won’t be in session today. Everyone is ordered back tomorrow at ten o’clock a.m.”
No longer than fifteen minutes after Javier was looking down my blouse in court, Dylan looks around my office. He picks up and studies a photo of the group of girls in The Mamacita Club sitting framed on my credenza. My office is one of the nicest ones in my building. It’s big, tucked away, has a separate sitting area and floor-to-ceiling windows. I have a view of the Old Town Castle where many famous people have stayed. During the Christmas holidays, the Castle turns into the North Pole decorated with lights and life-size dolls. Horse-drawn carriages whisk visitors around the Castle to experience the festive display.
Last year, I requested to move into this office. It had been used by the “Producer,” a sophisticated defendant in one of our fraud cases. He stole a building access card one of our prosecutors left behind in court. And he began using the office to host weekend auditions for aspiring actresses in his pilot show called “Crime, Justice and Panties.” After that, no one wanted this office. But I didn’t shy away from it.
After I moved in, coworkers joked with me asking if I found any underwear in my desk drawers. Whatever circumstances got me into this office, it earns me instant esteem. Law enforcement officers and professionals who visit me to discuss cases are always impressed.
“So what did you do to get Javier to go along with you?” says Dylan.
“Invited him back to the Airstream,” I reply.
Dylan and I start laughing.
“Seriously,” says Dylan.
“I just sprinkled a little of my Latin spice on him,” I reply.
“I figured. If I remember correctly, you tend to do that very well,” says Dylan playfully.
“Let’s talk about Laura,” I say, changing the subject. “I want her cell phone pinged so we can trail her. We need to get her to court.”
“There’s no way that’s gonna happen.”
“Why?”
“Because, this isn’t the type of case we can do that on.”
“I have a witness who took off last night refusing to come back to testify. She was ordered back for this morning. What do you mean this isn’t the type of case?” I ask.
“Even if we do track her down, we can’t even arrest her. You didn’t issue a warrant for her,” Dylan says.
“I couldn’t. She’s a juvenile. Her mom’s the one who’s supposed to make sure she shows up to court. And Bess doesn’t even know where she is. The last thing I’m going to do is hold her responsible.”
“If Laura just wants to take off and act like an adult, we should treat her like one. If she were eighteen, we could’ve issued a warrant.”
“She’s still a victim. Seventeen or eighteen, I can’t say I would’ve issued a warrant. So she can be picked up and arrested and spend the night in juvenile hall? That’s victimizing her even more,” I say.
“You tried to keep her in juvenile hall before,” Dylan says.
“That was just a tactic. I knew they’d never hold her and I needed to save my reputation in case she didn’t show. I reminded Judge Hoffman at sidebar about that this morning.”
“I’m not asking for the search warrant. There’s no way my Sergeant will authorize that.”
