by Jenni Rivera
After that fight, security was tripled. The families had to be escorted in separately. We didn’t ride in the elevators or enter and exit the courthouse together any longer.
The trial finally concluded in May of 2007. Trino’s attorney, Richard Poland, stood in front of the jury and told them that I had influenced Rosie and Chiquis to make up such lies because it would boost my career. He said that back in 1997, when we first filed a complaint against Trino, I was just starting out in the music business, and he suggested that I hoped to jump-start my career with a criminal case against my ex-husband. “Jenni Rivera was selling cassettes on Atlantic Avenue when this whole thing started,” he said. “Now she is a successful recording artist.” I wanted to bash his head against the fucking wall. But I sat there, trying to remain calm and reminding myself that he had to make this shit up since he had nothing else to go on. “What can be worse than being a child molester?” he asked the jury. “Maybe being accused as a child molester.”
The district attorney representing my family drew his closing arguments from the facts instead of making shit up out of thin air: “This is such a textbook example of what a sexual-molestation case is all about. He took advantage of the repeated access he had to Rosie and Chiquis because he was a family member, and he preyed on their sexual inexperience and embarrassment. They were ‘easy targets,’ and because they were so young and so threatened, it took years for them to summon the courage to speak out. Trinidad Marín is a predator,” the district attorney assured the jurors, “and highly deserving of the highest stigma of sexual molestation.”
After the jurors left to begin deliberation, a heated verbal fight broke out between my family and Trino’s. With so many security guards and cops around it never came to blows. But if it had, I can assure you there would have been bloodshed and broken bones that day.
May 9, 2007. We sat in court awaiting the decision. My family was nervous. What would we do if the motherfucker got off? I knew God would not let it happen. He couldn’t possibly let this monster walk free.
The foreman stepped to the microphone. We held each other’s hands as one by one we heard the counts read off.
“On the count of continual sexual abuse of a child, we find the defendant . . . guilty.”
His family began to cry. My family took a deep breath, waiting to hear more.
“On the count of lewd acts with a child under fourteen, we find the defendant . . . guilty.”
More tears. More deep breaths.
“On the count of aggravated assault on a child under fourteen, we find the defendant . . . guilty.”
We held each other’s hands and sat in stunned silence as the foreman continued. The jury found Trino guilty of eight of the nine counts against him.
We watched the officers handcuff him. We watched as his family cried. My heart broke for them. It was not their fault. They were his victims as well.
My family sat there breathing huge, heavy sighs of relief and waiting for what would come next. The judge said, “We are going to escort the Riveras out first.” We all walked out silently, still in shock. We walked to the elevator and nobody was speaking. The elevator doors closed. We all looked at each other. It was the only moment in the history of the Rivera family that nobody could speak. For nine years we had dreamed of that day. For nine years we had been chasing Trino down. Nine years and justice finally prevailed. There was nothing to say. Then Rosie started to scream. I joined her. Soon we were all screaming and crying. The sounds of relief and disbelief echoed off the elevator walls. Then the doors opened and we had to face the cameras outside. They snapped a photo of Rosie and me, and when it was published, it brought tears to my eyes. She looked so happy and free for the first time in a long while.
We had to wait six weeks for the sentencing hearing. During that time we didn’t talk about the case or Trino. We were nervous because it was all in the hands of the judge and jury, but we decided to trust in God and His divine judgment.
On June 20 we went back to the court for Trino’s sentencing. Both Rosie and Chiquis were given the opportunity to speak to Trino. Rosie spoke first. She did not directly address Trino because she was afraid she would break down. She spoke to the entire courtroom: “I lost my innocence when I was eight years old. From that moment forward I lost my trust in men, in myself, and in the world. I cannot say what a proper sentence would be in this case. I don’t know what a person’s childhood is worth.” She continued, “I could no longer look my niece in the eyes because of the horrible guilt I felt. If I had spoke out about the abuse when it happened, this may never have happened to Chiquis.”
“This is not your fault,” the judge told her. “This is his crime, not yours. You are not responsible for anything that happened.”
Rosie nodded. “Thank you,” she told the judge before sitting back down.
When Chiquis spoke, she looked right at her father. “We didn’t have to be here,” she told him. “If you would have just said you were sorry, we wouldn’t have needed a court case. I just wanted you to tell everyone that I’m not a liar.” Trino refused to look at her. Chiquis continued anyway, “I want you to know that I love you. And all this time I wanted you to tell me that you loved me too.” I thought he was going to look at her then. I thought he would at least have a shred of humanity in his heart to acknowledge his daughter’s bravery and love. Instead he turned his head from her and rolled his motherfucking eyes. I almost lost my shit. But I held myself back. I knew I had to let the law deliver his punishment.
Michael also spoke. He was only five when Trino became a fugitive from the law. Now nearly ten years later, he finally had the chance to speak to his father. “My real reason for standing here is to say goodbye,” he told Trino. “I never got to say that before. And that is all.”
Trino was given a minimum of thirty-one years to life without the possibility of parole. He was led out of the courthouse in handcuffs as his family sobbed tears of grief, while my family shed tears of justice and relief. I always say that Trino’s conviction on May 9 was my Mother’s Day gift and his sentencing on June 20 was my Father’s Day gift.
A few weeks after Trino was incarcerated, my brother Juan was contacted by some people underground. They offered to have Trino taken out in prison. It would cost $15,000. All I had to do was say the word and he would be taken care of. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have that on my conscience. And I couldn’t do that to my kids either. I was holding out hope that my three oldest children would one day have a relationship with their father. I assured them all that whenever they wanted to see their father, I would drive them there. Trino said that he wanted to see Jacqie and Michael, but he refused to see Chiquis. He was still calling her a liar.
Once a piece of shit, always a piece of shit.
We decided that we couldn’t let him continue to hurt Chiquis. So until he agrees to see all of them, he will see none of them.
18
* * *
I Will Bring You Home
When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again
I will find you, darling, and I will bring you home.
—from “By Your Side”
Throughout the trial with Trino, I was quietly dealing with a situation that I have not ever spoken about publicly. As it was unfolding, I didn’t confide in my family or friends. Only later did I tell my loved ones about the intense roller coaster I was riding with Fernando as I was trying to navigate my career, my family, and the pain of the trial.
Fernando and I had about a thousand bullshit breakups. We couldn’t live with each other yet couldn’t live without each other either. But in one big breakup in the summer of 2006, we stopped talking for almost six months. I couldn’t deal with the constant fights and instability anymore. In addition to the awful situation with Trino, I was still going through a trial with Juan to settle our divorce, not to mention working nonstop and raising five kids as a single mother. I loved Fernando passionately, but I could only take so much. I
would cry in bed at night thinking that I had lost the only true love I had ever known. I never cried for Trino or Juan that way. I had never had that feeling in the pit of my stomach and the ache in my heart with them or anyone else. Fernando and I didn’t speak for six months, but during the trial I was so overwhelmed. I needed my best friend and soul mate to lean on. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I called him.
We got back together once again, but soon I realized he was no longer the man I had known before. He started acting crazy. He accused me of sleeping around. Then he would tell me that my brothers and I were trying to kill him. Something had happened to him during the six months in which I hadn’t seen him. I thought he had schizophrenia or some kind of chemical imbalance. People around me said he was behaving as though he was on meth. I started to research his symptoms and realized that they were right. The paranoia, the rapid weight loss, the mood swings, the hyperactivity. I confronted him about it, and instead of denying it, he admitted everything. But he also told me he was going to stop and that he could do it on his own. I knew better.
I called his mother and told her what was going on. It was not an easy phone call to make. We had grown close and I cared for her so much. I didn’t want to worry her, but I didn’t want to hide the truth from her. She obviously knew something was wrong with her son, but she had no clue what meth was. I revealed everything I knew about the drug and the effects of it.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“We have to get him to a rehab. It’s the only way to help him get right.”
I kept trying to talk to him about different centers, but he didn’t want to hear it. He insisted he would get better on his own. He would disappear for a week or two and then come back. He’d say he was clean, that he had gotten a job, but then a day later I could tell he was back on it. I cannot be in this relationship, I thought. But I also could not leave him.
When I didn’t know what else to do, I contacted two of his friends: Carnalillo, a DJ from Que Buena, and George, the guy who was at the club when Fernando and I first met. We were going to lure him into a trap to take him to a center. But he figured it out before we were able to put the plan into action.
One day his mom begged him to go, and finally he gave in to her. She drove him to a facility in South Central LA and checked him in at about 7:00 p.m. He met the staff and the other patients. Soon after it was time for bed. They put him in a room with eight other guys. One guy was pacing back and forth from one end of the room to the other. Fernando sat in bed and watched him for a few hours, then stood up and decided he couldn’t take it. This was not for him. He got out of his bed and put his shoes on. The guy who was pacing back and forth tried to get him to stay.
“You can do it, man,” the guy told Fernando. “Don’t give up. I know you can do it.”
Fernando walked past him and right out of the facility and headed in what he thought was the direction home. He walked all of South Central at two in the morning with seventy-five cents in his pocket. He called me from a pay phone, but I did not hear my phone ringing. He somehow made it to a friend’s house miles from the facility. That friend brought him back to his mother’s house.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t stay at that place,” he explained to us. “It was worse than county jail. I can kick this by myself. I promise.”
It was a promise he could never keep. The meth had already taken its hold on him. He sank further and further into a black hole. His weight dropped to ninety pounds; he was sleeping wherever he could find a couch. For a while he was sleeping on a park bench in Hollywood. He was doing anything he could to get his hands on some money to buy more meth. He would call me at five in the morning, wide awake, and tell me about all the people who were after him. I felt helpless. Nothing is worse than watching someone you love destroy himself while you can do nothing to stop him.
I was running out of ideas. And I couldn’t take the madness anymore.
I read up on how to deal with someone on meth and how to help him get better. All of the experts advised that you have to let the addict spiral and hit rock bottom. You cannot keep letting him back into the house or back into your life. As cruel as it may seem, the most loving action you can take toward an addict is to stop contact with him. I had to walk away from my soul mate and my best friend when he was at his weakest moment. I hoped that Fernando might clean himself up if he knew that he was going to lose me for good, but I knew that there is no reasoning with someone who is that far gone. All sense of logic had left him. This was not the man I had known. His light was beginning to fade, and the only thing I could do was pray for the Lord to help him find it again.
The next few months were so brutal, and I was constantly worrying about Fernando. I called his mother almost every day for an update. Sometimes she would know where he was, but other times she had no clue. He could have been anywhere. One day in April of 2007 I was in Mexico for a concert and I called her from my hotel room. The second she picked up the phone, I knew something was wrong. Fernando had jumped off the roof of a four-story building because he thought someone was chasing him. He’d shattered his leg in twelve places. He was in the hospital.
As soon as I got off the phone with his mother, I called him at the hospital and was able to get through to his room.
“I’m coming back,” I told him.
“No, please. Do your concert and then come back. I’ll still be here,” he joked.
I performed that night and then flew back to LA and went straight to him. He was a mess. So thin and beat-up and a shadow of the man I’d known. But I could still see the spark of light in his eyes. I knew my Fernando was in there somewhere, and I vowed to stay by his side until he found himself. He stayed on the couch in his mother’s house, and many nights I slept on the floor right next to him. I was seeing another guy at the time and he was so pissed at me. The guy and I broke up over it and I could not have cared less. My brother Pastor Pete and his wife, Ramona, would come over and pray for Fernando.
Slowly we started to see him coming back. Because he was immobile, he couldn’t go anywhere to get a fix. Out of all of the things we had tried, the only remedy was his jumping off a four-story building.
We didn’t officially get back together after that. We always stayed in touch, though, and we’d meet up for lunch or dinner. We’d meet up to talk, or not talk at all. Despite everything we had been through, I felt happy because I had my best friend back. I had gotten back the love and passion I had been missing for so long. But I was not going to be a fool either. I wanted to see if he was going to stay straight. I waited for him to get a steady job and a place of his own. I wanted the assurance that he was going to be okay. I could not go through that scenario all over again, and I could not put my kids through it either.
I knew that I would never love another man the way I loved Fernando. But I also knew that to truly love him, I had to love myself first. And to truly be there for him, I had to stand back and let him find his own way.
19
* * *
“Celibacy” and Sex Tapes
No tengo aires de la Salma
con la Machado nada que ver.
No tengo fama de la Trevi
estrella porno no quiero ser.
(I do not have the airs of Salma
I have nothing to do with Machado.
I do not have the fame of Trevi
I never wanted to be a porn star.)
—from “Dama Divina”
In October of 2007 my ex-husband Juan was arrested for drug trafficking and sentenced to ten years in prison. My two youngest children, Jenicka and Johnny, were devastated, and so was I. In the same year both the fathers of my children were put behind bars, and the man I loved was facing down the demons of a drug addiction. My father and brothers told me, “You are so good at everything else, but you are so shitty at picking men.” I did not argue their point.
Throughout my heartbreak with Fernando I cried so much. “Why would God have me meet the love of my life and t
hen not have me be able to be with him?” I used to ask Rosie.
To try to cheer me up she would say, “There is a man for you out there. Tell me what he is like.”
So we started to make him up. “My husband wakes up at five in the morning and goes jogging. He takes care of himself. He eats healthy.”
“And what do you call him?” Rosie asked.
“I call him Runner Boy.”
Whenever I got down about Fernando, Rosie would say, “Tell me more about Runner Boy.”
“Runner Boy is an older man. He is already successful. He doesn’t need my money. He can buy me my engagement ring. And he is already retired. That way he has time for me.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is tall and handsome. He knows how to dress and he always smells good.”
“Is he a white man?”
“Oh, hell, no. I can’t deal with pink balls. I want a sexy, romantic Mexican.”
We were always dreaming about Runner Boy. When a man would approach me, Rosie and I used to turn to each other and say, “Oh, that’s not Runner Boy.” Or we would text it to each other from across the room: “Cute. But not Runner Boy.” Or she would whisper in my ear as she passed, “You should F him. But he’s not Runner Boy.”
I should explain that Rosie stopped swearing and fucking around years before. To be exact, the date was Sunday, November 6, 2005. Rosie called me after church that day. Her voice was light and full of joy.
“Sister,” she said to me, “something happened to me in church today. I feel only peace and love. I feel freed. God loves me and I love him and I’m going to live a different life.”