No words came this time. Juan simply sobbed quietly, nodding his head. Isabel held her son in her arms, rocking him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The deputy sat across the table from Juan. His tone softened.
“What do you remember, Juan? Tell me from the beginning.”
The young teen wiped his tears with his pudgy hands and sniffed, looking to his mom before he started. Isabel nodded, encouraging him to speak. “I was always picked on at school for being fat,” the boy stammered, embarrassed. “One day this group of older boys defended me. I was being shoved around, and they got between me and these bullies and beat them up. Then they told me I would never have to put up with that stuff anymore because they were going to be my new friends.
“We had a secret clubhouse, and it was a little scary but mostly really cool. They usually just sat around talking about other clubs who were our enemies, planning how they were going to knock them out. They asked me and the other younger kids if we wanted to make some money helping them sell tobacco. They said it was legal, and we could make twenty or thirty bucks a night. I knew my mom could really use the money.” Juan glanced sheepishly at his mother, who wiped away a stray tear that ran down her face. “So I said sure, as long as it wasn’t wrong and I wouldn’t get in trouble.
“Tonight, we were just hanging out on the basketball court. Our leader told us young kids that in order to stay in the club, we had to do a special induction thing and smoke some of the tobacco we were selling. That way we would know what we were selling and could talk to our customers about how good it was. I didn’t want to, but they said they would kick me out if I didn’t.” Juan hung his head, ashamed. “I just didn’t want to go back to being bullied anymore.
“I remember smoking that nasty stuff and feeling a little sick. And the next thing I know, I feel a shove and see this black kid’s face in front of mine, and then it changed into a black rat’s face with big sharp teeth, and it was going to bite me … and all the kids were screaming, ‘kill him, kill him, kill him!’ And then I blanked out I guess.” Juan started sobbing again. “I never meant to hurt anybody, mister. You’ve gotta believe me!”
“I do believe you, Juan,” the deputy replied gently. “And thank you, Mrs. Ramirez, for your help in this matter. I will let everyone know how you both helped us. But Juan, we’re going to need as many names of the gang members as you know.” The deputy produced a notepad and pen and pushed it across to Juan.
Isabel nodded, encouraging her son to comply.
Juan was then booked and sent to spend the rest of the night in the police station’s holding cell to await his arraignment as an adult the next morning in Clark County District Court on first degree murder charges; under Nevada law, anyone charged with murder, regardless of age, was tried as an adult.
The gospel singer’s voice rang out, resonating on the heat wave that sweltered around the funeral crowd gathered at the burial site: “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see…”
Nicky Brown’s mother Claudette shook with sobs in her modest black dress bought on sale at the local Walmart. Her oldest son, Jimmy, barely eighteen years old, held one arm around his mother’s frail shoulders and another around his sister Renee.
The local Baptist minister read from the Bible and said a few words of comfort to the grieving family, friends, and fellow parishioners, who numbered nearly two hundred strong. Claudette came from a religious family of ten and was active in her church, and everyone had turned out to support her and her family.
No one saw Isabel Ramirez walk slowly up to the awning where the Brown family sat. Everyone was focused on listening to the singer belt out the hymn’s final words.
When the music ended, the lone Hispanic woman in the largely African American crowd knelt down beside Claudette’s chair, placed a hand in her gloved one, looked up into her eyes, and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
Jimmy, who was seated next to his mother, was the first to react to Isabel Ramirez’s intrusion. “Wait a minute, how dare you show up here?” Jimmy stood and towered over the woman. Her son had viciously killed Jimmy’s brother in cold blood. He felt no compassion for her apology.
But Claudette grabbed her son’s forearm, squeezing it hard, stopping him with a silent stare as only a mother can do.
Claudette then turned to face Isabel who remained kneeling, hand in gloved hand, head bent in humble, contrite sorrow, and lifted the face of the woman whose son had murdered her own to gaze into her eyes. And without a word, the two single mothers who had both lost so much embraced.
The only sound was a mockingbird singing through the thick summer air.
While the killing didn’t make the news, Nicky Brown’s funeral did. Someone had captured the emotional moment in which the two moms embraced, and it went viral.
Rory and his team had been there at the funeral, had seen the video, and had brainstormed that night until they came up with a way to use the case to help their cause.
They planned to start a task force named VAYA con Dios (VAYA standing for Vegas Allied Youth Association). The mission of the adults involved would be to speak out against drugs and gang violence and to work toward providing a club organization alternative for their kids.
According to the plan, the kids could take turns meeting in each other’s homes, in church halls and basements, or even outside in parks and fields. They would keep their meetings non-denominational but would open and close with a prayer then break into smaller groups according to their various interests. There was already talk among the kids about forming a punk rock band, an arts and crafts club, a literary arts magazine, an auto mechanics shop, and starting a variety of support groups and twelve-step recovery meetings like Narcotics Anonymous or Alcoholics Anonymous for those with addictions.
This would give the kids something to do, people to hang out with, a place to go, and someplace to belong besides the violent street gangs.
Rory and Carlos agreed to head up the new task force to fight drug abuse and gang warfare among youths, and they asked both Isabel Ramirez and Claudette Brown to speak out like Theresa Brindle had done against prostitution and sex trafficking.
“All it takes is one or two voices to make a difference,” Rory had told the two moms during their first meeting at the Condo a few days following the funeral service.
“But the kids won’t listen to moms,” Claudette Brown argued.
Isabel agreed. “They only listen to each other, and unfortunately, the bad voices are the loudest and most often heard.”
“Which is why we’ve also recruited some kids.” Carlos walked over to the door of the conference room and opened it.
Jimmy and Renee Brown stood there, holding hands with Juan’s four siblings; they entered the room, grinning at their moms, who looked at them in astonishment. The kids took their moms’ hands and led them out of the conference room and out the front door of the Condo.
“We’ve got a surprise for you,” Rory told Claudette and Isabel.
Jimmy opened the door to an amazing sight. Claudette’s and Isabel’s mouths hung open, their eyes filling with tears as they stood before a never-ending field of kids and young adults of all ages, standing in the night holding candles, forming a sea of light across the front lawn and out into the street.
“Oh, my Lord.” Claudette clutched her heart and turned to Isabel, who was equally moved, and the two hugged, weeping tears of joy.
Juan and Nicky’s siblings had seen their moms forgive and unite, despite their pain and suffering. Jimmy Brown, being the oldest of the six, had extended the invitation to his sister and the Ramirez children to work together to do something to stop more kids from undergoing Nicky and Juan’s fates.
They spread the word among their friends on social media and in their schools, and pretty soon a dozen kids banded together and then fifty, and then more.
Some of the kids had asked their church leaders to join t
hem that evening in what came together as a candlelight prayer vigil for Nicky Brown and Juan Ramirez. A local Muslim imam, a Catholic priest, a Jewish rabbi and several Protestant ministers led the group in prayers interspersed with singing from a number of talented youth in the crowd.
When everyone was invited to clasp hands, Rory felt a surge of emotions: sympathy for the people of this god-forsaken city, respect for the young people gathered there that night, and profound sadness that he had grown so distant from his own children. Following the service, as he reluctantly let go of Susan’s hand, he also felt love and desire swell within him for the policewoman by his side.
The morning following the candlelight vigil, Rory got a call from an anonymous informant.
“Juan Ramirez didn’t kill Nicky Brown.” The man spoke English with a slight Middle Eastern accent. Rory immediately motioned to John Dade sitting across from him to start a trace on the call.
“And who is this?” Rory asked.
“That’s not important. Juan Ramirez didn’t kill Nicky Brown. But I know who did.”
Rory whipped out a notepad. The anonymous source stated the name of the murderer was Ali Jabar. “I know for a fact that Ali dealt the fatal blow to Nicky’s head and then placed the bloody weapon in Juan’s hands because the boy was in a drug-induced stupor.” Rory quickly recalled that during Juan’s interrogation, he had written Ali’s name as a member of the underground Mafia. Juan didn’t know last names, but there was only one Ali.
“How do you know this, and can you give me more information about the suspect?” Rory saw John and Carlos in his peripheral vision working to trace the call on a nearby monitor, and did his best to keep the caller on the phone as long as possible.
“Ali is fourteen, half black, half Muslim, and he’s working with the ISM. That’s all of the information I can give you.”
“Do you know anything more … the names of any ISM leaders he’s working with?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Justice.” The call ended, just as the location of the caller was about to come up on the screen.
“Agh, we were so close!” John pounded his fist on the desk and removed his headphones.
Carlos instructed the FBI’s top technical agent, who had been monitoring and mapping the call on a large computer screen, to get as much data as possible from the recorded call.
Rory held his head in his hands, his thoughts spinning. This guy called me, and he knew my name. Why me?
But there wasn’t time to think.
Within forty-eight hours, a full-blown police investigation was underway, and Ali Jabar was arrested along with three other boys suspected of aiding and abetting in the killing. The four youths were brought into the Las Vegas Police Department for questioning.
Ali Jabar and two others didn’t say a word as they were interrogated, either out of loyalty to or fear of their Islamic terrorist leaders, or maybe both.
But one of the four youths, an eleven-year-old black boy who was a newer member of the gang and wasn’t a Muslim nor tied to the ISM, broke down in tears and gave them several names of adults he had heard mentioned during gang meetings, as well as the location of the place where they went to get their drugs to sell.
Armed with new information, the Operation No Dice team planned another sting operation, this time to hit the Mafia where it really hurt—to take down their drug manufacturing facility—and to try once again to find the kingpins behind the entire operation.
They discovered the plant had been right under their noses all along; it was a few blocks down Schuster Street in another old, abandoned warehouse.
With the help of SWAT teams, they raided the warehouse and found nearly one hundred kilos of cocaine, several bags of heroin, and seven hundred kilos of manufactured Green Tobacco, along with cutting tools, drug paraphernalia, and several tons of various raw products that went into making bath salts, incense, and other drug-infused products that had been shipped from Mexico.
The US Drug Enforcement Administration estimated the confiscated drugs had a net value of approximately five hundred million dollars, money that would have eventually gone toward Islamic State terrorism.
Six men of Middle Eastern descent, suspected of being members of the ISM, were arrested. A few were considered leaders in the terrorist organization, but the reported Master was still at large.
It was Susan McAfree’s idea to have the emptied warehouse deeded over to VAYA con Dios for use as a new clubhouse for the already rapidly growing kids’ organization.
The hot new boy band, Break Out, was scheduled to perform that weekend, and after another OND brainstorming session, Susan called the band’s promotional company and asked if the boys could make the concert a fundraiser for the new VAYA clubhouse, to which they eagerly agreed.
Susan received complimentary tickets and asked Rory if he would like to go with her.
“Seriously, a boy band?” Rory teased.
“Okay, I’ll ask someone else,” Susan retorted.
“All right, I’ll go,” Rory said, rolling his eyes, secretly thinking I would go with her if it was Sesame Street Live.
Rory actually enjoyed the concert, although he didn’t like the music. Just seeing Susan dance, sing, and smile made it all worthwhile.
They sat in the third row in the VIP section of the Planet Hollywood resort casino where the concert was held. A few rows had been reserved for all of the police units that had helped in the drug bust together with all of the VAYA volunteers and kids.
At one point during a brief intermission between acts, Claudette Brown and her son Jimmy took the stage to address the crowd, urging kids to stay free from drugs and out of the gangs that sold them. When Isabel Ramirez and her oldest daughter Samantha took the stage with them, and they all held up their clasped hands in a sign of unity, the crowd erupted in deafening cheers.
After the concert, Susan told Rory she had to stop by the Condo to pick up some mail she had left in her desk.
It was dark outside of the warehouse building, the lone streetlight apparently busted by a rock some kid had thrown.
Susan fumbled through her purse for her key-pass card. “It was a lovely night,” she said, still searching, and then she finally found the card. When she looked up, her brown eyes locked with Rory’s. Unable to control his emotions, Rory put his hand at the nape of her curly red hair, drew her face to his, and kissed her with tenderness and then abandon as she returned his passion.
A passing car made them aware of their surroundings again, and they pulled apart, laughing nervously.
When they entered the building, Rory followed Susan to her desk and stood waiting in front of it, idly fingering some neatly arranged pencils in a pencil holder, his mind racing, his ears still ringing from the music, adrenaline coursing through his veins from kissing Susan.
He realized with mixed feelings of fear and excitement that he was quite possibly falling in love with this spunky redheaded cop.
But I can’t get involved, he reasoned. I won’t let myself, not permanently, anyway. She’s my co-worker, and I’m just not the relationship type of guy anymore.
Susan was hunched over her file drawer, head bent. Finding the folder that contained her bills, she lifted her head, and Rory watched her face freeze and her eyes open wide.
He couldn’t see the figure on one of the surveillance camera screens behind him.
Usually the screen simply showed the empty street and sidewalk outside the front entrance. Susan pointed to it, her eyes fixated, and Rory turned around to see a shadowy figure standing just outside the warehouse front door.
Susan hurried over to the computer controls and zoomed the camera lens closer. The screen showed a dark-skinned man dressed in black pants and a black windbreaker with a hood pulled over his head, shielding half his face. His hands were thrust in his pockets, and he was pacing back and forth. He seemed agitated.
Then they heard the front door buzzer ring, the sound so startling and shrill that it made them jump.
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nbsp; CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Quick, grab your gun and let’s see what he wants.” Susan clutched her gun from its holster and led the way to the front door.
“Are you crazy?” Rory hissed, frozen with fear. “What if there are more of them out there?”
“I think we’d have seen them on the other cameras. Besides, he doesn’t look armed. Let’s call for backup and let him in.” Susan picked up her cell phone and called Rodney Steele, informing him of the situation.
She hung up and turned to Rory, who still stood paralyzed, although now with his gun in his hand. He had slowly drawn it out of its holster while Susan was talking, her back turned to him. It felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and Rory fought to keep the hand that held it from shaking uncontrollably. C’mon man, get a grip, you’re trained for this, he scolded himself internally, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to slow his wildly beating heart.
“The chief said to be very careful; he’ll be here in fifteen minutes with Mark Glover, and he’ll radio a patrol car to circle the area. He doesn’t want too much attention drawn to the Condo, but he does want us to be safe.”
“That’s a comfort,” Rory said sarcastically.
They heard the doorbell loudly ring again.
Susan frowned. “Okay, I can go let him in myself if you’d like.”
That did it. Rory felt her words sting, and yet they empowered and emboldened him to act.
“I’m right behind ya.” Rory held his gun pointed forward at arm’s length, all cop-like, and followed a step behind her. He saw Susan’s mouth turn up in a slight smile. Rory wondered if it was a look of amusement at his expense or pride that he was doing his job correctly. She nodded, so he hoped it was the latter.
Taking advantage of the element of surprise, Susan flung the front door open and pointed her gun straight at the man’s chest, only a few inches away.
Rory fell right in line and pointed his gun at the man’s head. Oh my God, I am holding a gun to someone’s head, his mind screamed.
The man’s dark brown eyes grew wide with surprise and terror. He threw his arms up in a gesture of surrender. Rory didn’t know who was more afraid.
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