The Knife Before Christmas

by Jamie Lee Scott

  “Capurro and Parks?” he asked without a hint of Spanish accent.

  Charles looked him up and down, paling in comparison, with his black skinny jeans, dark purple loafers, and untucked gray rugby shirt.

  “Hello, Mr. Ibara, I’m Mimi Capurro.”.” I put my hand out to shake his, embarrassed at my pronunciation of his name.

  He took my hand and held it a few seconds too long. Without correcting me, he said, “Call me Memo.”

  With a hint of distain, Charles said, “Memo.” No hand shaking going on between those two divas.

  “I’d like to explain a few things before we go in,” Memo said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Charles said nothing.

  Oh, brother, this was going to be fun. Charles was pissed he hadn’t dressed better, I just knew it. He’d never admit it, though. Besides, Memo had dark-skinned, dark-eyed handsomeness that allowed him to dress in torn sweatpants and a dirty white tank top and still look heavenly. Then again, I had a soft spot for that dark skin, considering Nick had dark skin, black hair, and gray eyes. And Dominic was Italian.

  Don’t get me wrong, Charles was gorgeous, with his wavy, yet well-groomed blond hair, blue eyes, and perfect skin, but I knew him too well to think he was good-looking.

  Memo looked at Charles and chose to ignore his silence.

  “What else is there to explain?” I asked.

  “I just want you to know Hector asked that I escort you in. I’ll introduce you, go over a few details of the case, and then take my leave. I guess there are things he doesn’t want me to know.”

  I looked up at Charles, who had skepticism all over his face. I wasn’t sure about this to begin with, and now I was thinking it was a huge mistake. We’d be sitting alone with a known gang leader in the county jail. It wasn’t like he was going to shiv us or anything, but the hairs on the back of my neck tickled a little.

  My research revealed our potential client was one of the higher-ranking members of the Norteño gang, a Northern California offshoot of the Nuestra Familia. His rap sheet…well, there was no rap sheet. This guy was as clean as a choir boy. I’d forgotten to give that information to Charles on the way over, and now didn’t seem like a good time.

  “Your client is completely clean. No rap sheet, nothing. Is this because he has the right representation, or because he’s never needed it?” Charles said.

  Not having a record didn’t mean the guy was clean. It only meant he was a top dog and handed out the dirty work to the underlings. I was sure there was blood on this guy’s hands, even if he hadn’t killed his fiancée.

  We both knew we’d be taking this client. Even Charles was afraid not to, and I knew it wasn’t because he was worried about himself. He’d been gone more than he’d been around in the last year, and that meant he couldn’t protect us the way he liked should something happen. This weighed on him, I could tell. When he was gone, he was a ghost. No calls, no texts, no emails, nothing. We never knew when he’d return, or if we’d see him again. And he never said a word about it when he got back.

  Charles’ partner, Max, got the same communication we did. And now Max was on assignment. I think he and Charles had some contact, but not like normal. Max made Charles happy. That was good. Right now, though, Charles looked more disturbed than happy.

  “Attorney client privilege,” Memo responded.

  Charles rolled his eyes, not even trying to hide how he felt. “Fine, if that’s how it’s going to be.”

  Memo picked up his briefcase. “That’s how it is. Not my rules. If he gives me permission to share, then I will. But you can ask him yourself. Do you have any questions before we go in?”

  “Will we be seeing him in the visitor’s lounge or behind glass?” I asked.

  “He’ll be in the visitor’s room.”

  I looked to see if Charles had anything to ask.

  “Let’s get this show on the road then. We don’t have all afternoon.” We did have all afternoon, but it sounded believable when Charles said it.

  Memo took the lead as we walked into the jail. I looked behind me to see the fog rolling in, thick and heavy. It felt like an omen.

  The main waiting area was painted a pale yellow and not designed to be inviting. There were just a few chairs along one wall, and the “reception” windows had bulletproof glass and a speaker. Memo pressed a button, and a woman wearing the Monterey County Sheriff’s Deputy uniform approached.

  “Hey Memo, here for Hector?” she said.

  Wow, he must have a good number of clients if she knows him by his nickname.

  Suddenly, Memo’s perfect English wasn’t so perfect. He spoke with a heavy Hispanic accent as he said we were indeed here to see Hector Varga.

  She looked past Memo to us. “I.D.s please.”

  Charles and I removed our driver’s licenses from our wallets and placed them up against the glass. She opened a drawer and pointed. We placed the licenses in the drawer, and she pulled it closed. When it opened on her side, she scanned the cards through a government machine of sorts. I figured it was the same equipment police used when running licenses on the street. She was making sure we didn’t have warrants before allowing us to enter.

  She nodded, smiled, and placed the licenses back in the drawer and slid them back to us. “Go on in. I’ll have a jailer bring him to the booth,” she said. She was friendly enough to not be rude. I liked her instantly. I could only imagine the things and people she dealt with on a daily basis.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Memo said. “We’re meeting in person. Three people can’t talk on one of those phones. And including Hector, we’ll have four.”

  She shook her head. “Not today, it won’t. You can visit him in the other room with the phones, or you can come back next week. No contact visits this week.”

  Memo frowned but didn’t argue. We all knew who had the upper hand.

  She pressed a button and the door opened. We followed Memo.

  This room had the same pale yellow cinderblock walls as the entrance, with a shade darker yellow on the steel trim, but there was a row of windows lining the wall to our left. A long shelf ran the distance of the wall, and each window had a privacy divider and a low stool with a round metal seat. It looked so comfortable and inviting, it screamed, “Take a seat, sit awhile and enjoy yourself.” Only not.

  I wondered who would get the stool and who would stand.

  We were the only people in the room at the moment, and we only waited a few minutes before a jailer escorted Hector into the room on the other side of the glass panel.

  He shuffled his feet, the leg irons making normal steps impossible. His hands were cuffed in front of him with a chain attached to the leg irons. He didn’t look so tough in the orange and white striped coveralls. As Hector sat down and reached for the phone on the wall, I noticed his droopy eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days. But they weren’t bloodshot, which would generally accompany lack of sleep. I doubted the jail provided Visine. The jailer stepped back against the wall.

  Memo stepped forward and leaned down to pick up the phone on our side. He stood straight and said, “These are the private detectives I told you about. Talk to them.”

  I couldn’t hear Hector, but reading his lips, I think he said, “Fine. Whatever. Now go.”

  Memo handed the phone to me and stepped back. I had no idea how we were going to help Hector if we couldn’t both talk to him. I looked at Charles as if to ask, “You want to talk?”

  Hector started waving his arm. I looked back at Memo, then to Hector again. He shook the phone, as if to tell me to put it to my ear. I did.

  “Tell Memo he has to leave. I’m not talking to you with him in the room.”

  I turned to Memo. “He wants you to leave.”

  “Not yet. I want to help you get acquainted, then I’ll go,” he said.

  “He said—”

  Hector interrupted. “If he doesn’t leave now, I’m not talking.”

  “He wants you to leave no
w,” I said.

  Memo shook his head and walked out.

  When the door closed, I said to Charles, “You want to talk?”

  “We’re going to mostly be listening, so I’ll just read his lips and take notes. If I miss anything, you can fill me in,” Charles replied, pulling his phone from his back pocket.

  I looked back to the window at Hector, who looked both exhausted and impatient.

  “I’m Mimi Capurro, and I own the detective agency your attorney wants to hire.”

  Hector shook his head. “Guillermo doesn’t want to hire you, I do. That little no good prick couldn’t care less if I get the gas chamber. If I go down, his nephew moves up.”

  “Then why not hire another attorney?”

  “It’s a long story we don’t have time for right now,” Hector said.

  Hector, who looked to be around twenty-five years old, had creamy dark skin and short cropped black hair. I didn’t see any visible tattoos, and he had only a slight accent. If I didn’t know, I’d have no idea I was talking to a Norteño gang leader.

  The gangbangers I’d seen and heard in my years living in Salinas (which wasn’t many) had a heavy Spanish accent or a vato lilt to their speech. They wanted everyone to know they were in a gang. Not Hector, apparently.

  “Okay. I’m not sure what you want from us, so let’s start at the top.” I looked at my watch. “I’m sure your visitor time is limited.”

  Hector shrugged. “Memo can get us more time. He has a lot of pull in here. Crazy mother…”

  I pulled the phone from my ear and asked Charles, “Do you have any questions?”

  “Pretend I’m not here, unless I tap you on the shoulder,” he said.

  I put the phone back to my ear. “Okay, go ahead.”

  Hector tried to run his fingers over the top of his short hair, but it was difficult with the cuffs and one hand on the receiver. He dropped the phone and picked it back up.

  “My fiancée, Zhen, was killed a few days ago. Last Thursday. I’m sure you read about it in the papers.” He stopped, waiting for confirmation.

  I hadn’t read about it, but murder wasn’t big news around these parts. Salinas had the same murder rate as Los Angeles, and was one tenth the size. “I heard about it,” I said. I wasn’t about to admit it was from a homicide detective.

  He nodded. “She was stabbed to death in our home. In our bedroom.”

  Charles tapped my shoulder. I turned to look at him.

  “His girlfriend’s last name. I want to google her.”

  “What is Zhen’s last name?” I asked.

  “Franks. Zhen Franks,” he said.

  “White girl?” Charles asked under his breath as he tapped and swiped at his phone.

  “So, Ms. Franks was your fiancée. And you say you didn’t kill her?”

  “I didn’t, I swear,” he pleaded.

  “Okay, then tell me what happened.”

  “I’d gone out with my homies that night. Lulu Salas was heading north, and we had a going away party at Daphne’s Saloon in San Juan Bautista. Lulu loved that place because he loved their shuffleboard. I’d had a lot to drink, and one of my homeboys gave me a ride home. When I got home, I couldn’t find my keys. And it was so late, I didn’t want to knock on the door. Zhen would have been furious with me. I’m not sure of the exact time because I was too drunk to even look at my phone. But I’m sure we closed the bar, so with the time it took to get home, it was probably around two-thirty or three in the morning. I was so out of it, I couldn’t even call my homeboy to have him find my keys. I fell asleep on the front porch.”

  This was his alibi? “Isn’t that dangerous? Especially in East Salinas?”

  “I don’t live in East Salinas,” he said.

  “Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t really sorry; it was an honest mistake.

  “I woke up freezing my nuts off a couple of hours later. I’d sobered up enough to realize I did have my keys. They were in the pocket of my shirt. I was wearing a blue flannel shirt that night.”

  “And you couldn’t find your keys earlier?” I wondered how true this story was.

  “Right,” he said. “I know it sounds moronic, but haven’t you ever been that shitfaced?”

  I shook my head, then turned to Charles. “You getting all of this?”

  “Shitfaced, passed out, cold, found keys.”

  I looked back to Hector.

  “She was dead when I got inside the house.”

  “What time was this?” I asked. I was trying to calculate in my head; he said he thought they’d arrived home around three, and he’d fallen asleep for a couple of hours.

  “I don’t remember for sure. I’d say it was around six. I just know it was still dark outside.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  He shivered. “I went to the bedroom and there she was, covered in blood. She had to have been ambushed in her sleep because she was wearing just a top and pajama shorts. The covers were over half of her body. She was laying on her stomach on our bed. There was blood everywhere. The walls, the floor, the nightstand. It looked like she didn’t even have a chance to roll over and fight.”

  I watched his face more than heard his words. The anguish in his tight features, the tortured look in his eyes, made me want to believe him. “Go on.”

  “I tried to find a pulse, like they taught us in high school first aid class. Nothing. I didn’t even think about the blood as I screamed. I don’t know how long I screamed, or how loud I was, but it was enough for my neighbor to call the police. The bedroom window was open, and it was right next to their house.”

  “Wasn’t it cold that night? And the window was open?” I said.

  “It was fucking freezing, and it was cold in the house. But I hadn’t been home for a few days, so I had no idea why the window was open.”

  “Were you standing over her when the police arrived?” I asked.

  “No, I was pacing the room at the foot of the bed. I was in shock. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. I didn’t even think to call the police. Why would they want to help me anyway?”

  He had a point.

  Hector looked around then leaned in close to the glass. “Look, I ain’t never killed anyone. And I ain’t never asked anyone to kill anyone. I don’t even like this life, man. I want out, but I’m stuck.”

  I raised my brows.

  “Right? Shocker, I know. But I was born into the life. My dad was a gang leader, and my mamá was his chula from the beginning. And when he died, she made sure I took his place at the head of the gang.”

  “Chula?” I asked.

  “Chula, like ‘she’s mi chula,’ my girl,” he said.

  “Why on earth would a mother want that for her kid?” Too late, I realized I’d said it aloud.

  Hector slammed his hand down on the table on his side. It made so much noise that the jailer stepped forward.

  Hector put up both hands. “It’s cool, I’m cool.” He turned to me. “That’s just it. Why? I think she liked the status. I was the oldest and old enough to step in. My papa, he died because of the gang, and then my mom wanted me to replace him. I’d planned to move out of Salinas, then suddenly I was stuck.”

  “Wow.”

  “I had plans for college. But drugs and people trafficking were way better money than I’d ever make by going to college. I ain’t killed anyone, but I’m no good.” He looked around again, then whispered, “I was going to get out. Zhen and I been saving our money. Like a lot of money. We were going to get out. She wasn’t from this life. Wasn’t her fault I fell in love with her.”

  Charles tapped my shoulder again. “How long? Dating?”

  “How long had you two been dating?” I asked.

  “Man, I loved that girl since my senior year. Not many cute white girls at Alisal High School. And all the Mexican girls wanted to be hooked up, get married, have kids. Not me. I had big plans. Then my dad was killed when I was nineteen and everything changed. But Zhen stuck with me. We used to drive out
to Airport Road and lay on the hood of her car, look up at the sky, and talk about our plans. I’m telling you, that girl waited for me. She was the love of my life. Only, problem was, she’d dated my brother before me.”

  Blood is thicker than water, but it isn’t thicker than lust, I thought.

  “Mario is handsome. He’s a year younger than me. When Zhen and I were just friends, he asked her out. And they dated for almost a year, I think. He was in love. But it would never happen.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because even though I was the oldest boy, he was the baby. I have an older sister, too. She’s married to a Norteño. And my brother is all about the blue. X4 tattoos, sombrero tattoos, you name it. He wants everyone to know his affiliation. He’s proud of the time served and the body count of his crew.”

  “Is this why he and Zhen broke up?” I asked.

  He waved a hand at me. “Naw. They broke up because he was too jealous. Zhen was happy and fun, and Mario was jealous as hell. He made her life miserable.”

  “And then you hooked up with her?” I asked.

  “Not at first. We were just friends. She talked to me, told me things. And I told her things. Then next thing I knew, we were having sex, and one thing lead to the next. I fell in love.”

  “What about the brother? How did he feel?” Charles asked.

  “What did your brother say about that?”

  Hector shrugged. “What could he say? I was his boss. I was the leader. Was he going to come after me? No way. My boys would shoot him down.”

  “So he just let you have her?”

  “It ain’t like that. By the time Zhen and I knew we were in love, Mario had moved on. When she broke up with him, he called her a whore and told her to watch her back. But I don’t think Mario expected Zhen and I to get together. I’d never told him I had a crush on her from the beginning.”

  “What does this have to do with Zhen’s murder?” Charles asked.

  I repeated the question.

  “Me and Zhen been friends forever, but we only hooked up a couple of years ago. She and I always talked about me getting out, but we never told no one. You know?”

  I didn’t know, but I nodded.

  “This guy talks a lot but doesn’t say anything,” Charles said.