AHMM, June 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I nodded.

  "So did Lieutenant Portillo. He asked me where it had come from."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him I didn't know.” She sighed. “But he assumed the worst."

  "Which was?"

  "That she was taking money from Henry Carranza. Drug money. Maybe involved in some way."

  Henry was well known in the barrio. The leader of Los Diablitos—also known as “Los D's"—a gang of punks who hang out near El Cinco de Mayo Park.

  I waited, afraid to ask Ezzy if that was true. Suddenly, Ezzy realized that my silence meant that I was asking the question. She turned to me, eyes afire. “You can believe that Juanita was taking drug money? She wasn't. No way."

  I spread my fingers. “Sorry, Ezzy.” I pulled out the ledger I'd found in Juanita's room and handed it to Ezzy.

  Listlessly, she thumbed through it.

  "Do you have any idea what those entries mean?” I asked.

  She handed the ledger back to me. “None whatsoever."

  "What did Henry Carranza have to do with Juanita?” I asked.

  "Her boyfriend,” Ezzy said matter of factly. “He was like a puppy dog around Juanita. She owned him. But he was too short. So who needs him?"

  "But Henry's a member of Los D's. And Juanita was a good girl."

  Ezzy groaned. “Please, Gonzo."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean good girls like to have fun too."

  "With a gangbanger?"

  "Have you seen any of the guys in the Chess Club lately? Juanita settled for what was available."

  "But she brushed him off?"

  "Like a flea."

  "So that must've embarrassed him. Made him look bad with his homeboys."

  "Juanita never made anybody look bad. Just the fact that he dated her gave a runt like Henry Carranza more status than he deserved.” Ezzy stared back into space. “Henry idolized Juanita. Always said he wished he could be as smart as her. He was proud that she would leave the barrio some day and he had dated her. He wasn't trying to hold her back. If you ask me, he was afraid of her."

  "Afraid?"

  "Sure. Afraid of her brains. Afraid of the spotlight that shone on her wherever she went. Vatos hate the spotlight. Unless it's in their own neighborhood."

  "Ezzy,” I said, as gently as I could. “Boyfriends, even puppy dog boyfriends, kill their girlfriends every day."

  Ezzy thought about this for a moment, then spoke resolutely. “No. Whoever killed Juanita didn't know her. They couldn't have. Everyone who knew her, loved her."

  I wasn't going to argue with a bereaved mother. But every cop knows that if you find a lover, you find a potential murderer.

  "Lieutenant Portillo has been assigned to the case, Ezzy,” I said. “He's a good cop. One of the best. He'll figure out who murdered Juanita."

  "No. That's not good enough. Besides, I don't trust him."

  "I thought you said you wanted to cooperate with the police."

  "I do. But now you've made me realize that they'll treat Juanita like just another problem on a very long list of problems."

  Mistrust of the police runs deep in East L.A. Ezzy wasn't immune to it and I didn't want to add to her burden of worry. Better to reassure her. Make her believe that on a murder investigation the LAPD would do its best, no matter who the victim might be.

  "Let's not jump to conclusions,” I told Ezzy. “Give the cops a chance."

  Ezzy leaned forward and grabbed my hands. “No. They don't know Juanita. They don't know anything about her. I want you to find out who murdered her, Gonzo. Not the LAPD. You.” Ezzy squeezed my hands tighter. “You can find the person who did this. I know you can. You must."

  * * * *

  My first stop: Hollenbeck.

  In school, the Anglo teachers taught us about the French Revolution and the freeing of the prisoners from the Bastille. I always pictured the Bastille as looking exactly like the LAPD's Hollenbeck Division. Big cement walls three stories tall, barbed wire security fences, armed guards at the front door, and dungeons down below.

  At the front door, I flashed my driver's license. The grayhaired security guard wrote my name in a wrinkled ledger and I stepped through the metal detectors.

  The steps to the basement were constructed in the old style. Made of brick, sturdy wooden handrails, broad enough for three cops to walk abreast. As I descended past the first landing, a line of vatos were being hustled down a long corridor by an armed squad of uniformed cops. The homeboys were shackled at their wrists and at their ankles, chained like a human train, one to the other. Despite their humiliating circumstances, each of the homeboys held his clenched fists straight out in front of his waist, as far as his chains would allow, and strutted down the hallway, like Mayan princes on their way to a king's throne room.

  To vatos, Anglo chains are a badge of honor.

  I continued down to Basement Three.

  I wound my way past three or four plainclothes cops sitting at their desks, drinking coffee, chatting on the phone. A plywood cubicle against the back wall was painted sky blue and held three large sheets of smoke-stained glass. Lieutenant Portillo acted as if he'd been expecting me. He opened the door and motioned for me to sit on one of the folding metal chairs. Then he sat down behind his desk.

  "What've you got on Henry Carranza?” I asked.

  Portillo stared at me for a long time and then shrugged. “I didn't arrest him."

  "Who did?"

  "The Gang Unit."

  Of course. The members of the Gang Unit were the bold ones in the LAPD, the unstoppable force. The ones who acted first and thought about it later. That's why Henry Carranza had been arrested so quickly.

  "What was the probable cause?"

  Portillo laced his long fingers together. “When a girlfriend is murdered, it's probable that her boyfriend is the one who did it."

  "In other words, they didn't have anything."

  "What are you, a defense attorney? I thought you'd be on our side on this one. The Gang Unit questioned the suspect, asked him what his alibi was for that night, and when he didn't have one, they slapped the cuffs on him. Meanwhile, they dug up a witness. A witness who put Henry Carranza there, in El Cinco de Mayo Park at the time of the killing."

  "Who?"

  Portillo unlaced his fingers and fiddled with a paperweight on his desk. It was a stainless steel replica of a Spanish conquistador on horseback. “Some cholo. One of the punks who hangs out near the park. They call him Chuy the Squirrel. Leo Barreras is his real name."

  "A drug dealer?"

  Portillo shrugged again.

  "Is that going to stick?"

  He gazed at the plasterboard wall, as if longing for it to have a window with a view. Any view.

  "Henry Carranza and Juanita Silva had just broken up,” he said. “Henry was spotted at El Cinco de Mayo Park at the time of the murder. The witness has already made a statement to that effect. When we searched Henry's car we found a ring in the glove compartment. A ring that had once been worn by your niece, Juanita Silva. As far as her mother knows, Juanita never returned the ring to Henry. That means he stole it from her."

  Portillo started counting things off with his long fingers.

  "Henry Carranza had the means, he had the motive, and he had the opportunity to murder your niece. That, coupled with the lack of a convincing alibi, resulted in the arrest. Guilt or innocence will be decided by a jury."

  "What do you think?"

  Portillo sighed again. “Look, Gonzo, the only reason I'm telling you all this is because you're a member of the victim's family. If you're planning on interfering with an official homicide investigation or mouthing off to the newspapers, you can forget about further cooperation from me."

  "Ezzy and I just want to make sure that the right man is punished."

  "Who else could it be?” Portillo asked. “Mothers never believe that the boys their daughters admire are capable of being so cruel. You were a cop. You kn
ow better. You know how violent a jealous man can be."

  "But Juanita didn't have another lover."

  "You know this?"

  "I believe it."

  Portillo's heavy eyelids seemed to droop even lower.

  "A man can be jealous of something other than a rival,” he said. “He can be jealous of a woman having a future. He can be jealous of her having hope."

  "Can I see the lab reports?” I asked.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you're not a cop anymore."

  I stood to leave.

  "Gonzo,” Portillo said. I stopped and looked back at him. “Don't, for your own sake, mess with the Gang Unit."

  "Why not?"

  He spread his long fingers. “They're hot blooded in the Gang Unit. They do things they regret later. Don't let one of those regrets be you."

  * * * *

  What I like about downtown L.A. is that when you enter the city you feel for a moment as if you're entering Old Spain. First, you cruise past the Union Station with its thick adobe walls and red tile roof, and then Olvera Street, with its lush fountains and the plaza dedicated to Mexican restaurants and cantinas and curio shops. Finally, you reach the downtown area itself, with its palm trees and splashes of greenery interspersed strategically so the men loitering in hope of employment don't congregate in one area.

  But the illusion is shattered if you allow yourself to notice the car-jammed intersections or the grating roar of combustion engines atop the Harbor Freeway.

  Still, I love it down here—the open-fronted discount stores, the street hustlers barking through megaphones, the sleazy bars open at all hours. And always a nearby stand where you can purchase carnitas wrapped in a warm corn tortilla or a plastic bowl filled with chili colorado laced with pinto beans. There's a bustle to the city. A sense of purpose.

  Los Angeles. The City of the Angels. In Spanish, El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles. The Village of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels.

  Only Anglos have the gall to shorten all that to “L.A."

  * * * *

  Shackles clanked as Henry Carranza shuffled toward the thick glass partition that separated us. He wore the loose, bright orange tunic and pantaloons of the high security prisoner. Before he sat down, he paused, staring at me. Surprised. He hesitated, working it out, figuring that I must've faked my way in here. Then he thought it over some more, as if deciding whether or not to waste his time. His lip curled. One stray tuft of straight black hair fell over a smooth forehead.

  The big guard shoved him toward the chair.

  Henry didn't react. He just kept staring at me as if the roughness of the guard was of no concern to him whatsoever. The guard shoved him again and this time Henry Carranza made his decision. He strode forward and plopped down in the plastic chair. When the guard left, Henry lifted the black phone to his ear.

  "They told me someone named Vicente Fox was here to see me."

  "Sorry, he couldn't make it."

  Neither Henry nor the Anglo guards who logged me in had realized that Vicente Fox was the President of Mexico.

  "What you got? Phony ID?"

  "A green card."

  Henry was being held temporarily on possession of illegal substances. That's why the guy I knew at the front desk had allowed me to see him. The murder one charges were not yet official. That and the fifty dollar bill I slipped him.

  The young Henry Carranza leaned back in his chair and studied me carefully. “You're related to Juanita."

  "Her tío,” I said.

  "I seen you around, man. An old booze hound."

  I tried not to squirm, but I did anyway.

  "At least it's legal,” I said.

  "But drugs don't put the weight on you like la cerveza."

  I glanced down at my waistline. Not bad. Not like it was a few years ago, but not bad nevertheless. The kid had me on the defensive. He was rail thin himself. Short but darkly handsome. With forearms and shoulders that bulged as if he worked out in gymnastics.

  "They say you killed Juanita."

  "They say a lot of shit, man."

  "They have a witness who puts you at the park at the time of the murder."

  "Lies."

  "Where were you?"

  "Kicking back with my homeboys."

  "They'll testify to that?"

  "Sure. If anybody'll let them."

  Corroboration by gangbangers wasn't exactly like having the word of a Catholic cardinal.

  "So who killed her?"

  "When I find out,” Henry said, “I'll kill him myself."

  He rocked back in his chair and continued to stare at me. I kept my face stern and my eyes focused on a point between his eyes.

  "Who's their witness?"

  Henry shrugged. “Somebody who wants to take me down."

  "There a lot of those people?"

  "Sure. A lot of money can be made at El Cinco."

  "And with you gone, Los D's might not be able to hold their turf."

  "They'll hold it.” But his face darkened, as if a rain cloud had drifted in from the sea.

  "You're not sure."

  "I'm sure,” he snapped. He leaned forward in his chair. “What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I'm going to find out who murdered Juanita."

  "Why you? Why not the cops?"

  "Because I'm good at digging up the truth."

  Henry rolled his eyes. “You don't really believe that the truth will come out, do you? La verdad? In East L.A.?"

  Instead of answering, I let him continue.

  "The Gang Unit took me off the street. That's what they wanted."

  "Maybe."

  "No maybe about it. As long as they keep busting vatos, they keep getting promotions. I'll be rotting in prison and some Gang Unit cabrón will be el jefe, the chief of the entire effing police department."

  I studied him. That was a long speech for Henry Carranza. He straightened his orange tunic and leaned back once again in his chair.

  "Maybe,” I said. “Maybe everything will happen just like you say. Or maybe we can change it.” Henry waited. “If I find out who really killed Juanita."

  His shoulders slumped and he lowered his head. The long black strands of his forelock hung loosely.

  "Yeah, man. I'm sorry someone did that to her. Really sorry."

  Maybe this was an act. If so, Henry Carranza was a talented actor. Most cons are.

  "Who would've done it, Henry?"

  "I wish I knew. Everyone loved her, you know?"

  "People tell me that you were going out with her and then she dumped you."

  He looked into my eyes. “Yeah. We were going out. We were close. Real close. She used to tell me shit that I never dreamed about. About chemistry and physics and stuff like that. About mathematics and about how our ancestors used to be geniuses at it until all us dumb Chicanos forgot how to do it. She blamed the Spanish, said they raped and pillaged our civilization. And then the Anglos, who stole half of Mexico and now act as if we're not supposed to be here. Treat us like strangers. Foreigners in a land that our ancestors occupied for thousands of years. She was into that stuff. You know, Chicano pride and all that. I respected her for it but I couldn't figure where she was going with it. You know, how it would pay off. But I knew she did. She had it figured out. That's what I liked about her, man, she had it all figured out."

  Henry Carranza leaned forward in his chair. His chains rattled.

  "When she ‘dumped’ me, we had a long talk. She told me about all her plans and how she needed to go away to college and how being married or anything like that would make it impossible. Maybe you don't believe this because you're her tío and all, but I agreed with her. I know who I am. I'm boss jefe in my own neighborhood, man. But I couldn't keep up with Juanita. Nobody could. Nobody I know anyway. So I let her go. I told all my homeboys that I was letting her go. No hard feelings. And I put out orders that none of the local Chicanos could touch her. No way. Not while I w
as around. I was going to let her leave the barrio without me. I wasn't going to hurt her. I wasn't going to stand in her way.” Then he paused and took a deep breath. “And I didn't kill her."

  A long silence grew between us. I let it. Then I said, “Sounds good, Henry. But if you did kill Juanita, you'd say all that shit anyway."

  Once again he leaned back in his chair, rearranging the hard lines on his face.

  "There you are, man. They got me. Whatever I say don't mean nothing."

  "They found Juanita's ring in your car."

  "In the glove compartment,” Henry answered easily. “Where I put it when she gave it back to me."

  "Why'd you leave it there?"

  He shrugged. “Maybe I wanted it nearby. You know, handy. In case she changed her mind."

  "Somebody,” I said, “must've had a reason to kill her. What about other boys at school? Somebody who was jealous."

  "You'll have to ask somebody else about that. I finished with la escuela after the eighth grade."

  "At El Cinco de Mayo Park, who should I talk to? Who knows what goes on there?"

  Without hesitation, Henry answered: “La ardilla. Chuy the Squirrel. They call him that because he's at the park so much. Some guys say he stores nuts."

  Chuy the Squirrel, a k a Leo Barreras. The same person who, according to Lieutenant Portillo, had spotted Henry in El Cinco de Mayo Park on the night of the murder.

  "This guy works for you?"

  "On a contract basis."

  "He also works for other gangs?"

  Henry nodded. “It's good sometimes to have somebody who can move back and forth between us."

  I had one more question, a question I'd been mulling over since I'd left Ezzy's house and I wanted to hit Henry with it right between the eyes.

  "I found the money."

  His jaw muscles tightened.

  "And I found the ledger Juanita was keeping. She was a smart girl, she knew about money, she knew how to handle business. That's what brought you two together, isn't it Henry?"

  I was winging it here, but when Henry didn't contradict me, I kept going.

  "You've been in charge of Los Diablitos for at least two years, Henry. You must've pulled down a nice piece of change selling drugs at the park and yet you still have to use a public defender. What gives, Henry? How was Juanita tied up in all this?"