With Romero’s agreement, we went around to the back. As it was Sunday, the neighbors were home. One freckled face, red haired man about in his thirties came over.
“What do you want?” the neighbor asked.
Romero flashed his badge. The neighbor backed up. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly, and shuffled back to his house.
We found a loose board in the back window where his sliding glass door used to be. Romero moved aside the shattered glass, and we stepped inside.
The once immaculate house was turned upside down. All the furniture had been turned over, and ransacked.
When Romero didn’t get up and call the police, something inside me made me think I could trust him. I figured someone had been here looking for the disc, so this disc was important enough for them to break in. Somebody was aware of its existence and it was probably someone who was on that disc.
“Here,” I said, pushing a copy of Okamoto’s disc. “They were probably looking for this.”
“What is this?” Romero looked puzzled.
I gave him a copy of the disc.
“I don’t know who I can trust. This CD has incriminating information that could put my life in danger worse than what I’ve gone through looking into Trayvon’s death. This tape belonged to Okamoto. You have to be careful who you give it to. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
29
That Monday Romero called me from work. “Guess what, Mami?”
I smiled inwardly, liking how he called me, “Mamacita.” Or “Mami” since we’d made love in Palm Springs. I guess we were somewhat of a couple now.
“Yes, what, babe?”
“We have a suspect in custody for Trayvon’s death.”
“What?” I almost dropped my phone; I was so excited. “When? Good. Who is it?”
“It’s an Enrique Sanchez. He’s an undocumented immigrant from Guatemala.”
“Does any one put him on the scene of the crime?”
“Yes. We’ve got several eyewitnesses.
“Well, I guess I can go on home.”
“No, please stay a little longer. I’ll be home by noon. I’m taking off. We should celebrate.”
I sucked my teeth in reply. “No, things are cool now. I just thought someone was after me for asking questions about Trayvon and that they might follow me home and hurt Shirley, Chill, and the girls.
“Besides, I need to get home. Chica’s wedding is coming up next week and I’ve got to get my bridesmaid dress.”
“Did you turn in the disc?”
“I’ll tell you when I get home.”
I wanted to ask Romero if he’d heard anything about two unknown police officers being the shooters in the Okamoto case, and if these persons were still at large, but something made me hold back. I didn’t know if this was related to what was on the CD. I decided I would follow up on that investigation when I made it back home.
I called Chica, and this time she answered her phone. “Chica, good news. They have a suspect in custody for Trayvon’s murder.”
Although she listened to me, Chica did not seem as happy as I’d hoped she would be. She sounded rather flat. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but then, who was I to say how a mother would feel about someone who had murdered her child. The suspect’s arrest would not bring Trayvon back to life.
After I hung up, I heard Romero’s house phone ring and I almost jumped out my skin. I hadn’t heard this phone ring during the entire week I stayed with him, but something compelled me to answer it.
A male voice asked, “So she’s clean, man?”
I grunted an assent.
“Well, we’ll keep a tail on her a while longer for her own safety.”
Mouth wide open, I hung up. What the F—? Who was following me? Who was Romero? Did I really know this man? Who was he with? Was he a FED? A DEA officer? Internal Affairs? An undercover detective?
I thought about all the questions Romero had asked me when my guard was down. What a fool I’d been! I could kick my own ass. As I packed, I became so furious, I threw my clothes into my bag, without folding anything. I wanted to go crazy and tear up his place, but I didn’t so I sat down and wrote him a brief note.
Romero,
I appreciate this week we spent together, but you didn’t have to pretend you were in love.
Thanks for perpetrating yourself to be someone that you’re not. I really thought I could trust you, but I see I can’t. Drop my number out your cell phone. Don’t ever call me again.–Z
As soon as I returned home, I got caught up in the whirlwind of Chica’s wedding preparation, which was a week away, so that helped me forget the little farce I’d just gone through. I admitted it to myself. I’d been played. At least with Flag, I always knew he was a fool, and a straight-up dog, so I didn’t worry about any of his indiscretions. But Romero? I couldn’t believe he turned out to be like all the rest of them and this really hurt. He had betrayed my trust, and that was worse to me.
At the same time, I still was worried and had to keep looking over my shoulder. I was glad they had someone in custody for Trayvon, but the two shooters for Okamoto and myself were still at large. What was I going to do if they came after me? I continued to wear a disguise when I went out, and I tried to stay close to the house until the dinner party and the wedding.
Meantime, I ignored the twenty text messages and phone messages from Romero.
Finally, when I answered one of Romero’s phone calls, we had a heated argument.
“Z, we need to talk.”
“For what?”
“I need to explain why I had to do what I had to do.”
“So you got the CD out of me, but that wasn’t enough—huh?”
“I didn’t ask you for the CD. I didn’t know it existed, and I sure didn’t know you had it.”
“No, you didn’t, but you played my with emotions. Or was it you had to see if I was the precinct slut?”
“You know I respect you as a woman.”
“Well, besides my husband and one other, I haven’t slept around the station. You are so machismo. You want the Virgin Mary. But I feel more used by you than I did by those teenage boys who mugged me when you met me. At least, they knew they were criminals. And even Flag—the whore that he is—never pretended to be nothing more than he was.”
“Z, there are a lot of things I’m not at liberty to share with you right now. Please trust me.”
“Yeah, I trusted you before and I got screwed. Thanks but no thanks! Don’t call me anymore.”
30
On the evening of the bridal dinner party at Charley Brown’s Restaurant on the water in Marina Del Rey, I noticed Chica seemed antsy. She kept smoothing down her well-fitted champagne colored dress, twisting her hands all evening, and giving vague answers. Her eyes looked clear and her pupils were not dilated so I assumed she was sober.
Come to think of it, Chica had even seemed “spacey” that way a week earlier at her bridal shower, although she received quite a few gifts. I got a little worried, but I pushed those fears aside. “Please don’t let her be using,” I prayed.
I was also fighting my disappointment about the scrap I had with Romero. I really had wanted him to escort me to the wedding. Now, I was sitting alone, wishing I had a date. Haviland had Trevor, another white boy, by her side and Chica now had Riley.
When I stepped out in the foyer, Riley came up on me. He had a concerned look screwed on his clean-cut face. “Z, can I ask you a question?”
“What is it, Riley?” I asked, holding my back stiff, since I was not comfortable around him yet.
Apparently, Riley was comfortable with me, though. He went right to the point. “Do you think Chica is back on the drugs?”
“No.”
He scratched his bare chin. He really looked disturbed and uncertain.
“She seems clean when I’m around her,” I added.
“Her tests are always clean, as far as I know.”
“Well, then what is it that makes
you think she’s back on that stuff?”
“She’s been sneaking out at night and coming in around two or three in the morning. She’s always sweaty, like she’s been running. Once I even found blood on her jacket.”
“What did she say it came from?”
“She says she cut her hand.”
“Did she have a cut on it?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Don’t worry,” I assure Riley. “She’s all right. She really loves you.”
But I began to question everyone I knew. Who was Romero? Did I ever really know him? What made me sleep with him? Did I really feel something for him?
And Haviland, who was acting so Hollywood tonight, she made me sick. Who was she—like really? Tonight I watched her personality go through so many changes, I swore she was like a chameleon. When she was with Chica’s Latina friends, she could speak Spanish like them, but when my black friends showed up, she was down with them. When Riley’s relatives, who were white, showed up, she was totally Caucasian.
Not to mention, I thought it was mighty funny how Haviland lived in a gated community, and someone managed to do a home invasion robbery while they were at home. It sounded like her insurance paid her a grip for that, too.
That night, Chica spent the night at Shirley’s and slept in my apartment.
“Yeah, we don’t want to see each other before the wedding,” Chica said. “It’s bad luck.”
Chica’s voice didn’t even sound right to me. She sounded like a singer who was off-key. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. My gut was roiling and turning, and for once, I listened to it.
We went to bed around ten. Since there was no alcohol at the dinner, we were totally sober. I felt good being sober. I wanted to get up bright and early. I listened as Chica made a big show of yawning, and stretching. “Ooo, I’m zonked,” she said.
Although I had on pajamas, I kept a tee shirt and pants under them. I pretended I was knocked out as soon as I lay down. I even snored a little to pull off my ruse.
About twelve o’clock, just when I really was about to doze off, I heard Chica roll off and tiptoe out of her pallet I’d made for her on my living room floor. She had on all black and you really couldn’t tell if she was a male or female. She pulled a black cap over her head.
I grabbed my Glock, put it in my waist band, then waited until I heard Chica’s car pull off. I climbed in my car and followed her at a safe distance. I was surprised to see her driving east. I had no idea where she was headed. She took the streets, going out King Boulevard over to Alameda then south to Third Street. She made a right and headed for East Los Angeles. The farther east we traveled, a heavy fog started rolling in. I had a hard time keeping up with her, but I kept my eye on her blurry-looking tail lights.
As I followed her, I wondered if I ever knew anyone—really? Who was Shirley? Even my foster mother wasn’t who I thought she was. I mean, I never would have thought she would take care of Chill, as bad as their relationship seemed. Or even my birth mother, Venita. I never really knew her. All these years I thought she killed Strange so she wouldn’t have to be bothered with us. To finally face the truth that it was my brother who did the shooting. I guess he saved both my mother and me. Well, I still hadn’t wrapped my brain around that one yet.
Take Haviland. I was still trying to figure out how masked robbers entered a gated community in Hollywood Hills and robbed my friend. Something was just not right here. It was just not sitting right with my spirit. There was just a psychological dissonance in this for me. I didn’t believe it. Like Chill used to say, “Trust your guts.” Well, my guts told me there was some shit in the game going on with Haviland and her boyfriend Trevor. If Haviland’s place got broken in, then I’ve got beachfront property. I had a hunch that there was more to that story, too.
Then Romero, who I thought loved me. How he used me—that when I thought I was under protective custody, he was actually investigating me. But why did he cross the line and sleep with me then?
And here Chica was supposed to be getting married the next day, and she was out here acting like she was back on drugs. Acting just like a crack head, sneaking out in the middle of the night. I hoped she was not hooking too, because I knew that she’d done it in the past when she was strung out on that crack. I’d run her Department of Justice record and accosting and soliciting was at the top of the list of her repeat offenses.
I mulled over so many facts that I didn’t realize we had been driving almost a half an hour. I continued to trail Chica. She didn’t seem to be worried that anyone was on her tail because she never made any quick turns. We crossed the bridge at the foot of downtown and we were now getting near the lip of East Los Angeles. I saw a group of three young men walking on the street.
Chica’s rental car, which she said she only rented to come down from the valley to the dinner party, and to spend the night before the wedding, slowed down. I heard her call out to these three young Latino men. What were they doing on the deserted street I wondered
From my car, I couldn’t tell their ages, but they looked to be in their early twenties. I couldn’t tell if they looked like gang members because so many young men wear the baggy clothes and big jackets. I heard one call back to her in a congenial voice in Spanish, as if they were offering her directions.
The next thing I knew, when the young men approached her car, Chica stepped out, face to face with them, and started to open fire. This was no drive-by. This was a straight-out ambush. From where I was sitting in my car, all I saw was gunfire and the young men hollering and dropping. Apparently, they were unarmed because there was no return gunfire.
I couldn’t believe what I just witnessed.
With that, Chica climbed back in her car and pulled off in what seemed like the slowest, leisurely fashion for someone who just committed a crime. She did not drive fast or too slow. Dumbfounded, I sat for a moment and wondered if I should call the police and get help for the young men, or if I should make sure Chica went home, or if I should do a citizen’s arrest.
My right hand was shaking so badly, I almost couldn’t dial the cell phone when I decided to call 911 and put in an anonymous tip so someone could come help the young men. I didn’t wait around though. Some invisible hand forced me to follow Chica. I sped up to catch up with her. She was driving back west towards Shirley’s—I hoped.
My mind was whirling like a dervish. What was I going to do? How could I turn in Chica? My sister? My friend? So she was a vigilante now? Was she taking the law into her own hands? Obviously, she was.
After about a half hour, I caught up with her car and I blew my horn. She turned her head and looked over at me, as if she’d never seen me before. I beckoned at her to pull over to the curb. When she recognized me, she finally pulled over to a nearby curb.
I sprinted to her car door and flung it open. I called out Chica’s name. She turned as slowly as a wound up clock, then stared at me as if she were looking right through me. As if I weren’t even there. A chill charged through me, she looked so strange. Her eyes were glazed over like she was in a trance. She stood there, not flinching a muscle, a zombie.
“Chica? Chica? What have you done?” My voice choked up. “They have a suspect in custody. Why are you doing this? Is this the first time you’ve done this?”
In a dramatic voice, Chica quoted Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth,
Come to my woman’s breasts,
And take my milk for gall . . .
She beat her chest with both fists. “That’s right. I did like a man would do. I’m willing to murder—for my son.”
For a moment, she fell silent. When she spoke again, she said very simply, “You were taking too long. It’s done now. No more killing. I’m a victim no more.”
31
We both drove in our separate cars back to Shirley’s garage. We got in around three in the morning. I tossed and turned the rest of the night, while Chica snored her ass off like she hadn’t done shit.
>
Before the wedding, I listened to the radio for any news. There was a report, and it sounded like all three young men lived, but were in serious condition. The media was calling this a hate crime. They thought it was gang-related. The young men were not affiliated with any gangs. No one ever mentioned that the shooter was a woman. It was a good thing Chica had a rental car, I thought. And hopefully, when the young men came to, they couldn’t identify Chica. Then I caught myself, because I was trying to help her get away with her crime.
Inside, I resented Chica for involving me in this. When you loved someone, their transgressions became your transgressions. Their secrets, your secrets. Their lies, your lies. I’d already decided to carry Venita’s and Mayhem’s lies to the grave.
The next morning, I kept looking in Chica’s face as I helped her dress. I fixed her hair, then helped her adjust her veil.
“Chica, is there anything you want to talk to me about?”
Chica looked at me with this vague smile. “No.”
I didn’t know what to think. Had Chica lost her freakin’ mind? Had I ever really known Chica? Should I report her ass? I didn’t know what to do.
The wedding took place at St. Mark’s Cathedral, a large Catholic Church on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica since Riley was Catholic. During the candlelight service, I gazed at Chica’s face. Instead of looking like a cold-blooded killer, she was looking luminous. A glow shone on her face, as if a gauze of peace had settled over her with these random acts of violence. As if she’d somehow evened out the scores of the universe.
The priest’s voice droned on, “Love is long suffering . . .”
My mind half listened. I was torn as to what to do. If I did contact the law, what would I say. How could I snitch on my sister?
“Love is kind . . .”
As the singer got up and sang “Ave Maria” I made up my mind. I’d grown up where you were taught the worse thing in the world was to be a snitch. Even my mother took the rap for her child. I decided I was no snitch, either. Besides, this girl was like a sister to me. I guess I’d just have to live with Chica’s secret, too.
L.A. Blues Page 19