The Mamacita Murders Read online

  My mom promised me one for my birthday, but then she died before it came around. So I never got one. When my grandmother offered to buy me one later, I told her that I wanted to wait and buy one if I ever had a daughter. I didn’t want Nana buying me what I wanted my mom to. These days, I wonder if I’ll ever have that chance.

  “We probably shouldn’t be touching anything,” says Dylan.

  I stay silent as the room becomes blurry from the tears in my eyes.

  “I know this is hard and you really liked Laura. You were trying to get her to join your club. I remember when we came here and she invited you in here, while I was talking to Bess. I still remember the beige suit you had on. There was something about you that was glowing that day,” says Dylan.

  “It’s funny you say that. I was thinking the same thing coming over here. I never could have predicted anything like this would have happened to her,” I say.

  “What’s with the jewelry box? You want one?”

  “The timing’s never been right,” I say before picking up my vibrating cell phone.

  “Hi, Gaby. It’s Maribel from the front desk. I have Detective Shawn Ford on the other line. Is it okay if I transfer him to you? He says it’s urgent.”

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  After a couple loud clicks, I hear static.

  “This is Gaby Ruiz,” I say.

  “Hi, Ms. Ruiz, this is Detective Shawn Ford. We have Rodrigo Garcia in custody at the Leafwood Police Department. Get on over here. We’re getting ready to interview him.”

  6

  MEN IN UNIFORM

  Detective Shawn Ford, the lead detective handling Laura’s case for the Leafwood Police Department, meets Dylan and I at the back door of the police station.

  “I have Rodrigo here, ready to interview. He was located twenty minutes ago two blocks from Motel Leafwood,” says Ford.

  Often, suspects will return back to the crime scene to watch their mess unfold or to try and get information about the investigation so they know how much of a viable suspect they are to police.

  “The Lincolns are not the sharpest tools in the shed,” Ford says. “I wanted to let you know that it’s a bit questionable how he was pulled over and stopped by our patrol deputy.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Officer Cruz radioed that the suspect had a chain hanging from his rearview mirror. That was the reason he gave dispatch for pulling him over, but there was no chain. Cruz is familiar with him and his Lincoln Continental from the neighborhood,” says Ford.

  “He has that warrant out for his arrest. Why do we care about the reason for the stop? Cruz could have pulled him over just because he has that warrant,” I say.

  “I know, but Cruz didn’t know about the warrant when he pulled him over. Cruz hadn’t run the plates through dispatch. The all-points bulletin hadn’t been broadcasted yet. Cruz just knew we were looking for him to talk to. He’s young, eager, and just put the cart before the horse, that’s all,” Ford says.

  “Is Cruz’s reason for stopping him recorded on the dispatch radio traffic?” I ask.

  “Yes, and it appears in the dispatch log as well. There was a woman in the car with him too. He took her at knifepoint, but she’s okay,” Ford replies.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “It wasn’t Bess was it?” I ask, seeing my entire career flash before me.

  “How’d you know?” asks Ford.

  I change the subject.

  “Do you know if we get a confession from him right now, his attorney would have a good shot at getting it thrown out? Why are we even bothering to question him?” I ask.

  “I know,” Ford says. “That’s why I’m telling you this.”

  “Look, it’s gonna be Cruz’s word against a convicted felon’s. Who do you think a judge will believe?” asks Dylan.

  “What if they ask where this supposed chain is that he had hanging from his rearview mirror and Cruz can’t produce it because it doesn’t exist? Or what if Bess says something. She’d be the most believable in this whole thing. Anyway, now that you gave me this information, I’m obligated to tell the defense about Cruz’s mistake.”

  As a prosecutor, I am bound by an ethical duty to tell the defense anything that may exculpate or set his client free. It’s my duty to inform the defendant of any evidence that might point to his innocence or help his case. This responsibility is non-negotiable in my eyes. And violating this requirement can cost me my Bar card, something that is not worth putting the most heinous defendant away for.

  I’ll use my other weapons — my magic, my Latin spice, my assets, my sweet talk, my attitude, and sometimes my mean girl tactics to make sure justice is done. But I won’t rob a defendant of his right to know everything that might help his case. That would jeopardize my powers.

  “I know Cruz screwed up, but we can’t undo the past,” Ford says. “I already advised his Sergeant and he’s going to speak with him later today. He’ll probably invoke his Miranda rights and not speak with us, anyway. He’s been around the block before. He’s a Lincoln gang member, he has a serious criminal history, and is looking at a case being filed in the next forty-eight hours.

  “I’ve already spoken to Bess, so I know the history between Laura and him But let’s hear what he has to say, then we’ll go from there,” Ford says, waving his key card in front of a black square on the side of the wall and opening the door for us.

  The booking area of the police department where young, fit police officers, handsome and fresh in well-ironed beige uniform shirts with army green pants, greet us with big smiles. I forget about Cruz until I see him in the booking area. He’s not as clean-cut as the other officers and his wrinkled shirt looks like he grabbed it from the dryer this morning, but it’s hard to pick on him. He just detained our attempted homicide suspect, which may have saved me my job and my office some embarrassment.

  “Hi, Detective Ford. We have the suspect here waiting. He’s been searched and patted down; he’s all ready to go,” says Officer Cruz.

  “Great, thank you, go ahead and put him in the interview room. I’m going to take Investigator Mack and Ms. Ruiz to the monitoring room. See that the recorder is up and running,” says Ford.

  “Done. We already set it up for you. Just hit play on the black box and you’re good to go. Anything else you need, let me know. There’s coffee and water in the Detective Bureau. Help yourself,” says Cruz.

  It hurts the case and justice all around when evidence gets thrown out because a police officer doesn’t play by the rules. I have no problem letting a police officer get yelled at in open court by a judge because they did a bad search or traffic stop. I’ll even yell at them myself. It teaches them a serious lesson, to not abuse their power, or in Cruz’s case, to just be patient.

  For whatever reason, I take the opportunity to keep my mouth shut and, instead, just smile at Cruz as I pass him. I learned from Dylan that emasculating a police officer, especially in front of their superiors, is never a good idea.

  Walking through the Leafwood Police Department following Dylan and Detective Ford reminds me how hard these guys work. They are tapping away on their computers, cranking out police reports, writing search warrants, and running criminal rap sheets. They sit in crammed cubicles in their bulletproof vests, with photos of their wives and kids thumb-tacked up on the walls lining their cubicles. It’s easy to forget how hardworking and simpleminded men like these are.

  They risk their lives every day. It’s easy to take that for granted and just remember any unlawful search they’ve done because sometimes it seems that’s all the media portrays. But this job has showed me another side — the reality.

  This agency is a demonstration of the best and ripest apples. They put their lives on the line for ours. In some respects they are like military men. No one wants to do their job, but we’re the first to criticize them when they make a wrong move, whether it’s arresting an innocent person or killing an innocent civilian during war. Sure, there are bad apple
s in every line of work including police work, but they are the exception, not the rule.

  Passing the smell of fresh brewed coffee in the Detective Bureau tempts me. Three weeks ago I gave up caffeine after my friend Riley, The Mamacita Club holistic doctor, said it adds stress to my body and can prevent me from having kids. That was all I needed to hear to get on the no-caffeine wagon. At thirty-one years old, I might be still learning about love, but I’m hoping someday I’ll meet the right person to use my magical powers to summon a second marriage and two-point-five kids. Plus, my same aged girlfriends have been having a hard time getting pregnant. I’ve started to question how much all the birth control pills taken over the years have to do with this.

  “Is there any decaf around here?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding me? These men drink coffee for the caffeine,” says Dylan.

  “I figured,” I reply.

  “Did I hear someone asking for decaf?” a voice says. Out from behind a cubicle wall, Officer Miguel Perez comes out.

  “Perez!” I yell.

  Dylan does a double-take, watching every move of Perez as we hug each other. Perez was the first officer I ever examined on the witness stand. It was during my first preliminary hearing of a domestic violence case. Thank goodness he had his belt recorder on and tape-recorded his conversation with the victim because she later went sideways, recanting everything she told Perez. At one point, her lies got so bad that I had to have the judge order her to answer the questions truthfully. I was only twenty-six years old, didn’t really know what I was doing, but Perez led me through the whole thing. I always thought he was extra nice to me because he had a crush on me.

  After I divorced, Perez tried to pursue me, but I wasn’t interested. One night when Dylan and I were dating, Perez and I were discussing an upcoming case late at night after he ended his shift. Dylan confronted me about why Perez and I were on the phone so late. I told Dylan he was accusing the wrong person of cheating, especially after what I had been through with Neil.

  “I actually do have decaf, and I will brew you a pot right now. You don’t drink caffeine?” Perez asks.

  “Nope, not as of three weeks ago,” I say.

  Dylan stares at both of us as if he’s trying to look for any remnants of chemistry. It’s nice to see him still care enough to be jealous, because I haven’t stopped thinking about Dylan every night since we broke up.

  “You gonna be in the monitoring room? I’ll bring it to you there.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s good to see you, girl, don’t be a stranger.”

  “Thanks, Perez! I miss you.”

  The small ten-by-ten foot room with a television monitor broadcasts live feed from a nearby interview room where Clown is sitting. The coziness of the room gives me a chance to sit close to Dylan. We sit in silence for a few minutes together watching Clown. There are no cameras visible to him in his room. With television these days, you’d think that all suspects knew they were being video-recorded. But it always amazes me how some suspects will pick their noses when the interrogator steps out of the room, get on their knees and pray, secretly try to erase data from their cell phone, or just put their heads down and cry. Some creep up close to the walls examining them for cameras. There are really some dumb criminals out there. Let’s see what this one does or if he’s savvy enough to know he’s being videotaped.

  I watch the television and begin watching the interrogation. Voices come through the sound system of our room.

  “Sir, how old are you?” asks Ford.

  “Twenty-six,” says Clown.

  “Where are you originally from?” Ford asks.

  “I grew up here in Leafwood,” Clown replies.

  “When did you join Lincoln?”

  “When I was fifteen years old. I got in because of my older brother Sniper,” says Clown.

  There’s several ways to get into a gang. You can be jumped in, which means the gang beats you, literally. Your job is to fight back. You can be crimed in, where you need to commit a robbery, burglary, or assault. Girls can be sexed in, where they have sex with multiple gang members. Or, like Clown, you can be grandfathered in. A family member sponsors you and you’re walked into the gang. It’s like getting a full ride scholarship without doing a darn thing.

  “How do you know Laura Paula?” asks Ford.

  “She’s a hood rat. Everyone knows her,” says Clown.

  “This guy totally did this to Laura,” says Dylan in our monitoring room.

  “You think we have the right person?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Look at how hardcore he is. He won’t even admit to dating Laura. He’s calling her a hood rat. If he didn’t have anything to hide, he wouldn’t be so concerned about admitting he dates her. He’d be concerned about her and want to help,” says Dylan.

  “Even though he’s a gangster?” I ask.

  “Yeah. He should at least be asking what this is about,” says Dylan.

  We focus back on the television monitor showing the interview room.

  “Clown, do you know why you’re here?” Ford asks.

  “Did they Mirandize this guy?” I ask Dylan.

  “I can’t remember. Did they do it at the beginning?” asks Dylan.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  Every suspect who is under arrest, in the custody of police and being interrogated about a crime must be read their Miranda rights. If the police don’t Mirandize the suspect and get him to waive his rights, the confession can be kept out of court. Clown is certainly being held in police custody, in a police station, and is about to be asked questions about his girlfriend’s attempted murder.

  I stand up, walk out of the room, and head to the interrogation room. I open up the door and motion for Ford to walk outside the room.

  Ford closes the door to the interview room and stands close to me near the officer cubicles in the general area of the police station.

  “I know you’re about to read him his rights at any point. I’m just concerned about you softening him up before reading him his Miranda rights, especially because of the questionable stop. I know he’ll be more likely to spill his guts without the warning but I personally don’t like it done this way,” I say.

  “I was about to read him his rights. Is this what you came to interrupt me for?” asks Ford.

  “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget. Case law looks unfavorably on not advising him of his rights sooner than later. So I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page,” I say.

  “I don’t need you watching over my shoulder. I know how to do my job,” says Ford, walking back into the interrogation room.

  Experienced homicide detectives like Ford know how to tread close to the line and get the confession they want without violating rights. But I worry in this type of case. With Cruz’s questionable stop, a judge will not want to see Ford softening Clown up before reading his rights to him. It just looks bad.

  I walk back to rejoin Dylan in the monitoring room. “I think he may have actually forgotten to Mirandize him. That’s the only reason I went in there,” I say.

  “You don’t have to explain to me,” says Dylan.

  We focus back on the monitor.

  “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you, you have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?” asks Ford.

  “I would like to speak to an attorney and see what they have to say,” says Clown.

  “Do you understand these rights?” Ford, ignoring his response, asks again.

  “Yes,” says Clown.

  “Having these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to us?” asks Ford.

  “Well, like I said, Laura is just some hood rat. I don’t know how she wound up at that motel,” says Clown.

  I bury my head in my hands.

  “This man just invoked his Miranda rights and is asking for an attorney. He should stop questioni
ng him. I hate when they do this,” I say to Dylan. We focus back on the monitor.

  “Sir, are you telling me that you knew Laura was found in a motel?” says Ford to Clown.

  “The police told me that,” says Clown.

  “No, they didn’t. I know for a fact that the police did not give you that information. How did you know that?” says Ford.

  “I want an attorney,” says Clown.

  “Is there any reason your name appeared on the check-in log for the motel room Laura was found in?” Ford asks.

  “No, sir, I have no idea how that happened,” says Clown.

  “Sir, what is the truth about your relationship with Laura?” Ford asks.

  “Like I said, she’s a hood rat, puta sucia (dirty whore). We call her Bang Bang, because that’s all she does and everyone knows it,” says Clown.

  “I know she gets around. And you seem upset about that. How is your relationship with her? Do you get along with her?” Ford asks.

  “I don’t know her like that,” Clown replies.

  “Then why was she taking naked pictures of herself and sending them to you? I know you met her on GangScene,” Ford says.

  “Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I need to talk to my lawyer,” says Clown.

  “Laura was found almost dead. She is in the hospital right now and just had brain surgery. We are trying to find out who did this to Laura and we need your cooperation. You were seen renting the room she was found in and I need you to answer questions because your story is not making sense. Did things just get out of hand with her? Did the sex go a little too far with you guys?” Ford asks.

  “Sir, I don’t know,” says Clown. Burying his face into his hands resting his elbows on his knees, Clown stays in that position for at least five minutes of silence.

  I look at Dylan. “I don’t know why suspects start out by lying. What does he think, we’re not going to check the motel roster?” I say to Dylan.