The Mamacita Murders Read online

  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

  1. SCRATCHING THE SURFACE

  2. ANONYMOUS ANGEL

  3. MY WAY

  4. POINT OF NO RETURN

  5. EMERGENCY SEARCH

  6. MEN IN UNIFORM

  7. THE MAMACITA CLUB

  8. ANGEL’S DEN

  9. POINTS OF COMPARISON

  10. ORDER OF THE COURT

  11. IN HIS HANDS

  12. THE EXAM

  13. THE CRIME LAB

  14. TO SUMMON OR NOT TO SUMMON

  15. THE PROPERTY ROOM

  16. RUSH REQUEST

  17. WHAT DO YOU KNOW

  18. THE STAFFING

  19. EVERYONE WANTS SOMETHING

  20. LA CIUDAD AMURALLADA

  21. INTERNATIONAL SIGNS

  22. THE MORTUARY

  23. HONEYMOON PHASE

  24. THE LETTER

  25. FORGIVENESS DOOR

  26. MAMACITA MASON JAR

  27. UNRAVELED

  28. SURE SIGNS

  29. TRUSTING GUT

  30. BRIDGE TO CLOSURE

  31. LEGAL MYTHS

  32. UNIVERSAL MAGIC

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1

  SCRATCHING THE SURFACE

  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?”

  “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.