The Mamacita Murders (5 page)

“He’s a pimp. He could afford to leave the country. And DNA will take weeks to get done. We can’t wait for that,” says Dylan.

“Let’s just see what he has to say, then we can hook him up. What if he’s a witness? Why would he be coming to speak with us?”

“Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous.”

“Call me ridiculous. I call it proving a case beyond a reasonable doubt. You can hook him up. I’m not filing it based on what we have now. And if you hook him up and he gets released because we haven’t filed charges, you can definitely guarantee he’ll run. Let me do all the talking when we see him. I know how to deal with him. I’ve spoken to him before on Javier’s case.”

Being minutes away from interviewing a possible attempted homicide suspect is as adrenaline-laced as riding a roller coaster or drag racing. You never know what story he’ll give or whether he’s dumb enough to even talk. It’s never a good idea for a criminal defendant to give a statement to police, much less testify.

Clown has prior violent felony convictions for carjacking and burglary, which subject him to double digits of punishment just like Javier, if he commits any felony in the future. He’s served a total of six years in state prison and has miscellaneous drug, child endangerment, and hit and run misdemeanor offenses.

“Pull over right here. I don’t want him seeing us just yet,” I say.

Clown is pacing back and forth in the lobby of my office. Dylan turns the ignition of his truck off.

“On the count of three, let’s get out and start walking towards the front door,” I say. “One. Two. Three.”

I jump out of Dylan’s truck, glancing at my hair in the reflection of the tinted passenger window. I run my fingers through my hair from my forehead back. I catch Dylan watching me primp myself. Women magazines firmly believe that when a man watches a woman primp, it causes him to be sexually aroused. Dylan and I walk towards the front double glass doors of my office.

Before I could even see it coming, Clown rushes at us. He slaps his palms against the exit bar of the door, pushes it open, and runs full speed down the stairs and across the street. I lose sight of him as he’s running past the Men’s Old Town Jail. Chuck, the Officer of the Day, runs out of the office, then stops dead in his tracks.

“Don’t bother. I’m not filing even if you detain him,” I say.

“He’s a fugitive and dispatch just said he has a warrant for his arrest. He didn’t show up to court in the past,” yells Chuck.

“What? Did you know that, Dylan?” I ask.

“You want me to go after him?” Chuck asks.

I think for a second. If we arrest him now, it will force everyone to wrap this case up and make a filing decision within forty-eight hours. I’m supposed to be on a plane in two weeks to start my international vacation, which I’ve been saving for the past three years. I’ve scouted out the best and cheapest motels. How can I miss three days on the beach, two nights at a quaint bed and breakfast I booked, and the wine region?

Chuck snaps me out of my travel dream. “We’re gonna lose him. We need to start now if we’re going to do this. And I need Dylan to back me up,” says Chuck.

“His fleeing at least gives me more to work with. Go ahead and hook him up,” I say, reluctantly.

Dylan and Chuck take off running.

4

POINT OF NO RETURN

Thirty minutes after the chase, I sit in the office of Karen Alvarez, the head of the Investigator’s Bureau. Dylan and Chuck sit at opposite ends of the rectangular table I’m at. Karen’s office on the thirteenth floor is spacious and lined from ceiling to floor with windows. Karen and my supervisor Joanna Medina sit closest to me in the middle. Special Assistant Prosecutor Stevie Sapp sits directly across from me. We sit in silence, waiting for Mike Tanner, my boss’s boss. I haven’t spoken to Tanner aside from meetings like this since he prosecuted my stepfather in my mom’s murder trial. A freight train makes its way down the train tracks parallel to the freeway. I start counting the train cars hoping it will calm my nervousness. It was something my mom and I used to do when I was young.

Stevie Sapp interrupts my counting.

“How’s your girls’ club coming along, Gaby?” she asks.

I give Stevie a big fake smile.

“Thank you for asking. The Mamacita Club has been wonderful. I’ve bonded with some of the toughest girls. A lot of them come from the mobile home parks we’re hosting in. I hope to continue doing it and growing the club. I’ve been recruiting all kinds of women to mentor; in fact, many are from your unit,” I say, hoping to upset her.

When I started The Mamacita Club, Stevie Sapp was anything but supportive. She didn’t like the idea that a high ranking prosecutor would want to drive around in an RV helping the community instead of earning a trial stat she could add to her monthly report.

“How’s the mobile home holding up?” asks Stevie.

I look at her, disgusted.

“It’s a
motor
home, not a mobile home,” I say.

“Is there a difference?” says Stevie rudely.

“Yeah. A big one. A mobile home stays in one spot. Most of them aren’t drivable unless you hook them up to a truck. Mine’s a Vintage Airstream, custom-made classic. I can drive it to different RV parks,” I say.

“And you
live
in that thing?” says Stevie.

“Just occasionally. It’s really not that bad. I grew up in a trailer park,” I say.

“I guess you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl,” says Stevie.

I give her another big fake smile. “That’s right. You should try camping in one. You’d probably like it,” I say.

“No, thank you,” says Stevie dismissively.

I roll my eyes at Dylan.

“We’ve received several complaints about that thing being parked in the trailer park. People are concerned your group is a law enforcement club. And that their park might be targeted by gangs, etcetera, if they are associating with
you
,” says Stevie, emphasizing the word “you” like she’s the real one targeting me.

“That makes absolutely no sense. There’s no evidence of that even being remotely true,” I snap back.

“Well, this case we’re about to discuss involves one of the girls from your club. Doesn’t it?”

“No. I wanted her to join, but the office said it was a conflict. I have to wait until her case is over. Plus, her mom never gave her permission,” I say disappointedly.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Ed Vanderbilt is already in talks with the trailer park about the liability of you being there. It may be too much of a problem to have your club meetings on their premises,” Stevie says.

“That’s okay. We’ll just drive the Airstream to another trailer park.”

“You might want to hold your horses and check with Ed before you set up camp anywhere else.”

Mike Tanner walks in, interrupting my frustration and concern about Stevie’s comments. He wastes no time before laying in on us.

“What the hell is going on, Karen?” Tanner asks. “There was a homicide suspect in the lobby of our office thirty minutes ago. He had a warrant for his arrest. Why the hell would he not be detained? Explain that to me, because the prosecutor and the press are going to want an explanation for this.”

I look at Chuck before I look down and stare at the maroon swirl pattern of the table.

“We were told to hold off and not make an arrest. The only information we had was to keep an eye on him. And we were told there was no probable cause. Chuck was the one who discovered this man had a warrant,” says Karen.

“I’m going to ask you again. Tell me why, after Chuck realized there was a warrant in the system, you did not hook him up right there?” asks Tanner.

I can feel Chuck looking at me as I’m staring down at the table. I can’t stand confrontation. There is silence in the room.

“It’s my understanding that Chuck was told not to make an arrest,” says Karen.

“I hope that was the prosecutor who made that decision. And I’m not talking about an assistant prosecutor, I’m talking about the appointed prosecutor. If that suspect hurts anyone, goes out and continues his killing spree, or turns up missing, do you know who’s going to have to answer questions about this decision?” asks Tanner dramatically.

“Sir, we still know nothing about this case,” Karen says. “The only information we had was that this was a possible homicide suspect, his physical description, and that there was not enough PC to arrest him. He had walked into the office asking to speak with Ms. Ruiz and we were to keep an eye on him. We were never informed about any warrant. Chuck found the old warrant when he ran this fellow through the criminal database. We would have only been making an arrest on an old warrant issued when he failed to appear on a drug case. You know we would have booked him across the street and the jail would have released him. There’s no room for him over there.”

“I was under the impression he had a warrant for a murder. Was I misinformed?” asks Tanner.

I stay quiet. And I try to tune out the screaming. Everything will eventually stop. At least that’s the way I survived my stepfather’s alcoholic rages late at night when I was young. I would listen to him scream at my mom in the next room. I would stay quiet, paralyzed under my covers, squeezing Zip my stuffed monkey and crying until things calmed down.

“Yes, you were misinformed. And Chuck was misinformed,” Karen replies. “I don’t think Ms. Ruiz or Investigator Mack knew that he had an outstanding warrant. Chuck was specifically instructed not to arrest him.”

“It sounds like this was a colossal crater of misinformation,” says Tanner.

I stay silent.

“Investigator Mack, it is my understanding you are assigned to this homicide case and were assisting Ms. Ruiz in her trial. Is that correct?” Tanner asks.

“It is, sir,” says Dylan.

“Is it fair to say you never informed her of any warrants this suspect had?” asks Tanner.

“That’s correct. I wasn’t aware of any warrants,” Dylan replies.

“Did you check a database or run his criminal history?” Tanner asks. “I’m sure the warrant would have been in the database.”

“Sir, the Leafwood Police Department is the investigating agency on this case. It is an attempted homicide, not a homicide, so SHT hasn’t officially taken it over. The Leafwood Police Department never mentioned the warrant,” says Dylan.

Dylan should know better than to try to blame another agency. Mike Tanner is a skilled prosecutor. Tanner knows the pass-the-buck blame game and Dylan just got caught doing it.

“You certainly know what a criminal database system is and what a dispatcher does, don’t you?” asks Tanner condescendingly.

“I do,” says Dylan.

“It would be within the color of your authority to use those things to check for warrants, wouldn’t it?” Tanner asks rhetorically.

Dylan stays quiet.

“Never mind, don’t answer that,” says Tanner laughing.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it was walking into this room. Investigator Mack, I’m going to ask you to step out of the room for just a moment. I need to speak to Ms. Ruiz briefly,” Tanner says.

Dylan grabs his portfolio and gives me a nervous smile before walking out and closing the door behind him.

Mike Tanner is an overall distinguished looking man in his late fifties. He has a full set of brown hair that looks fluffed and hair-sprayed neatly. He has on gold rings, a gold watch, and gold cufflinks. His starched white shirt sits flat inside his tan and dark brown suit. Sitting ten feet away from him after he sent Dylan out, I’m able to study his appearance for the first time. It cries out top prosecutor of the county. It’s no wonder he was able to convict my stepfather based on his appearance alone.

I know my mom’s case struck a chord with him. Twelve years later, he helped to get me hired behind the scenes. At least that’s what the rumors were. I haven’t spoken with him aside from staffings or mandatory meetings like this one.

This reminds me of when he examined me during my stepfather’s trial. At thirteen years old and crying on the witness stand, Tanner asked the judge to order me to answer questions about hearing my mom scream for me to call police the day she died. Tanner and I haven’t spoken since. It was mainly because of that picture he showed me of my mom when I was testifying.

A couple years after the trial, he visited me. He tried to apologize to me and explain that he needed the jury to feel my pain. My stepfather was a sympathetic defendant and Tanner was worried the jurors wouldn’t convict him.

What was most insulting about his visit was that he left some brochures on the Alateen program for me. He told my grandma it had to do with a group that helps family members of alcoholics. Nana told him she didn’t believe in that type of stuff.

From time to time I wonder if the past twenty years would have been different for me had I started going to Alateen. I never forgave Tanner for showing me that picture.

“Ms. Ruiz, I know you and I have not spoken in a very long time. Almost twenty years, I think. Any of the people in this room will tell you that I have nothing but respect for you, your trial work, and your contribution to this office. However, I am less than thrilled with your involvement in the fiasco that just happened,” says Tanner.