by Samuel Logan
Still, nothing seemed to faze Denis. He looked right through Rodriguez, who couldn’t help but remind himself that Denis was a killer. He had stared death in the face and wasn’t afraid of cops. Defeated, Rodriguez left the room to consult with Ignacio.
In the silent little room, Denis sat, knowing time was on his side. He was aware that the cops would come back and try something else. He didn’t care about what he’d done or what the cops were going to do to him. He knew he was in serious trouble, but he felt confident that these two cops would have a hard time putting anything on him. He knew no one would rat him out or testify against him. He hunkered down and resigned himself to sitting out the interview, acting tough, then waiting to see what would happen. He breathed a sigh as he wondered what Rodriguez would come up with next.
Speak of the devil, he thought, as Rodriguez walked back into the room and sat down, adjusted his weight, and leaned forward onto his forearms, resting on the edge of the small table. His blue eyes stared from behind his glasses into Denis’s dark pupils. He was calm and ready for a new approach. Hit Denis with the truth, Rodriguez thought. Maybe Denis hadn’t thought through what prison was really like.
“Denis, you’re eighteen years old,” Rodriguez said, staring at him. “What would you normally be doing on a Friday evening?” he asked.
Denis didn’t answer.
“I’ll tell you what you would be doing on a Friday evening, more than likely,” Rodriguez continued, leaning forward another inch, getting a little louder. “You’d be out somewhere with your homeboys, you might be at somebody’s house watching TV. You might be at somebody’s house playing a video game. You might be out roaming the streets, driving around, maybe sitting at McDonald’s. You might be at a mall just walking around checking out the girls. You might be at a motel having a good time, drinking, smoking pot—who knows what you’d be doing? But you would be doing things that typical kids your age involved in gang activity would be doing. You might be driving around looking to steal a car. You might be driving around in a stolen car.”
Rodriguez gained momentum. He had filled Denis’s mind with images of freedom, of life as a happy teenager with not a care in the world. He knew the truth of his next words would stack in Denis’s consciousness with the weight of facing life behind bars. It would only be a matter of moments before the kid broke, he thought.
“But here’s the bad point, and you need to realize this. You are not going to be set free. Chances are, you’re not going to see the light of day anymore. And as an eighteen-year-old kid you need to start wondering. What is your life expectancy? Let’s say you live to be seventy-five. Do the math. How many years are you going to spend behind bars only because you don’t want to talk and you don’t want to cooperate?”
Denis didn’t care.
“Okay,” Rodriguez said, “let’s take it to another level.” He got right in Denis’s face, nose to nose, and with a forceful tone enunciated bitingly. “Do you realize that you will never—if this continues the way it’s going and you’re convicted of these crimes”—and here he amped up the decibels of his voice even louder—“you will never, ever, ever ride again in a car with your homeboys. You will never go to the beach. You will never go see a movie. You will never sit down at a food court. You will never walk at a mall. You will never enjoy another Corona. You might never enjoy another soda. You may not even get a chance to enjoy a marijuana cigarette. I don’t know, you may get that in prison, I don’t know. But you’re not going to enjoy another Christmas, New Year’s, or birthday.”
Rodriguez was counting off each “never” with his hands. As he moved ahead, Rodriguez remembered that after the interview with his mother, Denis had hugged her.
“This could be the last time that you ever embrace your mother,” he said with no note of sympathy in his voice, only cold, hard truth. “You will never hug her the way you hugged her tonight. There might be a partition between you two from now on. You will never smell her perfume. You will never feel her tears. You will see them, but you will never feel the actual tear.”
Still nothing. Rodriguez knew he hadn’t hit a weak spot yet. He hadn’t seen the flicker he was looking for that signaled that he’d tapped into that all-important anger. He knew there must be another approach. He thought he understood the mind of a teenage gangster, but he was running out of ideas. He looked past Denis at the back wall, going through his mental files on teenage gangsters. Then it hit him. Go after the girlfriend. With that flash of insight, he decided to focus on another female in Denis’s life. He backed off a bit before starting on his new angle of attack.
“Denis, do you realize you will never, ever make love to another woman or girl again?” He registered a flicker of anger as he repeated, “Again…never, ever!” Rodriguez continued, focused on winning another flicker of anger, “You will never touch another female again. It’s just not going to happen. If this continues, you will not. Which means that if you have a girlfriend, who do you think is gonna make love to her from now on? As a matter of fact, while you and I are sitting here, somebody in your clique may be hitting it. Somebody’s balls deep in your girl.”
That made him flinch.
“Why you gotta go there?” Denis asked, looking at Rodriguez, visibly perturbed.
Rodriguez drove his point home, probing the weak spot. “You’re not going to please her. She’s not going to wait around for you. She’s eighteen, she’s seventeen, whatever age she happens to be, she’s not going to wait for you, and you know it. You know how this thing works. You know one of your homeboys is going to take care of her. And you know why I gotta go there, Denis?” Rodriguez asked, softening his voice a little and backing away from Denis’s face.
“You know why I’m gonna go there? Because nothing else seems to get to you. We are trying to talk to you; we’re trying to figure things out. Whether you look at it as if we’re trying to help you or trying to harm you, legally, I don’t know. But you heard your mother plead with you. She pleaded with you. Your own mother, the one that gave birth to you and brought you into this world, who cares for you. She has pleaded with you and you have ignored her pleas. Your aunt came in here and she laid down the law to you. She told you exactly what she thought was going to happen to you—it didn’t seem to matter. Your mother’s tears did not affect you. And I’m sitting here as a detective watching an eighteen-year-old, and I can’t help think that when I was your age, what were some of the things I enjoyed doing in life?
“Nobody’s perfect. But even if you chose to continue down a path of crime, you will not enjoy the things that I just mentioned to you ever again. You are going to be confined to a small room with bars. You’ll be fed certain meals a day. Your freedom will be gone. And you may not think that that’s a possibility, but it is a possibility, Denis. Your girlfriend is not going to be faithful to you. She’s not going to wait around until you turn fifty and get out, if you get out. She’s not going to wait around for you at all. While you’re sitting in here thinking everything’s cool and you’ll be out soon, some homeboy is just tapping it and probably mentioning your name, like, ‘Aww, poor Denis.’”
Denis still didn’t say much, but he had reacted to Rodriguez’s dig. Rodriguez could see it was a hook in him. He knew that whoever this girlfriend was, it was important to reach out to her.
Rodriguez didn’t know at the time, but that girlfriend was Brenda Paz.
CHAPTER 17
When Brenda left Texas, she knew she would probably never see Veto again. His name was tattooed on her wrist, but she no longer considered him the love of her life. Veto’s presence in her mind receded even further when she hooked up with Denis in Virginia. Veto was strong and confident, but so was Denis, and bonito too. He was good-looking and he gave Brenda all the attention and respect she was used to in the gang. During the weeks before their arrest, the two spent every day together. It was not long after Brenda’s arrival that they began dating.
After her arrest and joint interview with Denis,
Brenda was separated from her boyfriend, classified as a runaway, and placed in a holding pen at the Arlington County court. Before any papers could be filed or her parents contacted, the court required a lawyer, appointed by a judge, to act as Brenda’s advocate, or guardian ad litem, on behalf of the state.
As Brenda awaited her fate, a judge began the process of deciding what to do with her. “Look out in the hall and tell me who’s there,” the judge told his deputy. After sticking his head out the door, the deputy quickly returned.
“Hunter’s out there.”
“Call him in,” the judge said, not even looking up from his papers.
Brenda’s case was classified as a child in need of services, or CHINS. She ultimately was just another piece of paperwork, one step in a process repeated every day as the court’s bureaucracy ground out its daily tasks. But for Greg Hunter, a rookie lawyer, the day was anything but routine.
Greg Hunter’s tendency toward proper manners might have classified him as a southern gentleman, but those manners were just a fine veneer covering an underlying fervor and competitiveness. Greg was driven and ambitious, and he had no problem stepping on people in his way. At six feet, six inches, and three hundred pounds, Greg was easily the biggest lawyer in the courtroom. His towering bulk and swagger clashed with a youthful face that masked a sharp intellect.
Greg’s easygoing nature and appreciation of humor seemed to mix well enough with his profession, one that required a measured amount of levity to deal with courtroom politics and the grinding nature of bureaucracy. As a criminal defense lawyer, Greg dealt with some of the stupidest criminals in northern Virginia. “Evil is rare, but stupid is everyday,” he liked to joke.
Because of his relatively minor position at the time, and his fateful location in the hall when the judge needed a lawyer, Greg was called upon to serve as Brenda’s guardian ad litem. For all legal purposes, he was to serve the court as a parental representative for Brenda until she was free of her legal entanglements and could be returned to her real parents. It was a relationship that eventually brought Greg in close contact with more evil than stupidity.
Entering the chambers, Greg stood before the judge.
“You’ve been appointed as the guardian for this young girl,” the judge said, indicating a stack of papers on this desk. “Here’s the file; go talk to her,” he told Greg in his authoritative, matter-of-fact tone.
Quickly reviewing the case file as he walked to Brenda’s holding cell, Greg surmised it would be an easy case. She seemed just like a lot of the other runaways who came through the system. He quickly estimated investing about fifteen minutes in a conversation with the girl and then some paperwork. As he opened the door, he mentally calculated that within sixteen hours, maybe less, the case would be filed, and he’d bill the county for his time—easy money.
He smiled as he sat down with Brenda and began to walk her through the details of her case.
“Where are you from, Brenda?” Greg began. “And why did you run away?”
Brenda quickly glossed over her story about running away from her uncle’s house in Texas. She told Greg as little as possible, hoping she wouldn’t be sent back to Texas, but not willing to give this lawyer anything. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him the truth about her family in California. It was the best possible place for her to go. She would be with her father, aunt and uncle, and cousins, but it was the last place she would take her gang affiliation. The last thing Brenda wanted was to hurt her family in California.
Moving from the basics, Greg delved into more important questions concerning her past and possible gang connections.
“Look,” Brenda began, “I’m not gang-involved.” She was tough and unrelenting.
Brenda dodged most of the other questions. Greg focused on her uncle in Texas. One way or another, Greg thought, this girl’s going back to Texas.
For the moment, Brenda’s story was believable. Greg did not know she had been arrested with Denis Rivera. Nor did he see her gang tattoos. Feeling that he’d covered everything, Greg made his exit. Just as he stepped out of his interview with Brenda, Greg ran into the youth probation officer assigned to Brenda’s case. She was a short Latina woman who was very pushy and direct, likable but not one to sugar-coat anything. The officer had spoken with Brenda before Greg arrived. She took the opportunity now to share her findings with Greg.
“Did she tell you she’s with MS?” she asked.
“What?” Greg was shocked, instantly realizing his slam-dunk legal guardian case had just become a little more complicated. He was a young lawyer, just turned thirty, but he’d been around long enough to know that the MS was one of the nastiest street gangs in the country. News of a near decapitation on Daingerfield Island just south of Reagan National Airport had made the Mara Salvatrucha a familiar name in Virginia’s law enforcement community. A number of violent crimes associated with the MS crossed his desk monthly.
The officer repeated herself. “Did she tell you she was with MS?”
“No,” Greg replied, his mental wheels spinning, thinking about how he would get out of this case and recalling everything he knew about the gang.
“She’s got a bunch of warrants. They’re coming in right now,” the officer told him matter-of-factly, almost as if she enjoyed watching the big man squirm.
“Oh, fuck. Okay,” Greg said, his mind racing. He’d better think quickly about his next move.
CHAPTER 18
In the span of minutes, Greg’s case went from boring to exciting, from simple to a considerable challenge, possibly even life-threatening. Greg felt like he was in over his head. He had practiced criminal defense for just over eight months, hardly the expert counsel Brenda needed.
As he stood in the hall and turned the possibilities of Brenda’s gang affiliation over in his mind, Greg realized he needed to talk to her again and try to get to the truth. He walked back to the holding cell where Brenda sat with the probation officer for another chat. Greg started firing away as soon as he walked in the door.
“Look, you can play it straight with me or not,” he started. “I don’t really care. But it’s a lot easier for me to do this thing, to help you, if I know what’s going on. Tell me what’s going on,” Greg said, looking down at Brenda, trying to read her.
Brenda still didn’t say much, so the probation officer helped her out.
“She’s Denis Rivera’s girlfriend,” the officer said, pushing Brenda to speak. The officer turned to Brenda and offered her a bit of advice. “Don’t bullshit him, honey.”
Before Brenda could react, the officer reached forward and pushed Brenda’s T-shirt low enough on her chest to reveal a large M tattooed above Brenda’s right breast and an S tattooed above the left. Greg was now convinced. Brenda was definitely MS.
“This is going to be a fun case,” Greg said with biting sarcasm. “I’ll see you in court in the morning,” he told Brenda before turning on his heel and walking back to the judge’s chambers.
On the way, Greg bumped into an Arlington County detective who was eager to speak to Brenda. In Grand Prairie, Detective Rick Oseguera had put out a national alert on Brenda Paz and the capital arrest warrant waiting for her in Texas. The detective had seen the bulletin on Brenda Paz, and when he had heard that she was in custody in Arlington County, he set out to find her and see about sending her back to Texas. Oseguera would be happy to know a Virginia colleague had served his warrant.
Greg cut the detective off before he got too excited. “Look, she isn’t talking about anything because you can’t make her. She’s got Fifth Amendment rights, and I understand that as of right now you’ve got nothing.”
Take that, Greg thought. He was right—the detective had nothing. Greg was a fierce advocate, even as he struggled to get his head around this bomb of a case that had just landed in his lap. In that moment, though, Greg was more interested in putting the detective in his place than protecting Brenda. This was a matter of professional pride. Greg’s first impr
ession of Brenda as a smart-ass runaway soon changed, but at that moment he didn’t have time to think about where Brenda’s case would take him. There were more immediate concerns, and at the top of the list was keeping Brenda in Virginia until he could get a handle on her case.
Still reeling, Greg speed-walked the rest of the way to the judge’s chambers.
“This case is way more complicated,” Greg said when he walked into the judge’s chambers. “I know you were expecting to sign an order sending her back to Texas, but it’s not going to be that way,” he continued. “There are warrants coming in,” daring to point out the obvious, but in need of buttressing his position before pressing on.
“Look, I don’t think I’m qualified to do this. You know, she’s definitely going to need criminal defense counsel help on that side because it’s an ethical thing.”
The roles of a defense counsel and a guardian ad litem are naturally in conflict. What’s best for a client from a legal point of view is not always what a parent would want for the child. Greg wasn’t comfortable working as both Brenda’s guardian and her defense counsel.
“All right,” the judge said. “Tell you what, here’s a list of who’s going to be here tomorrow. Pick someone on this list you’d like to help you out,” the judge offered, only letting Greg off the hook slightly. Greg would remain Brenda’s guardian. He chose a young lawyer and friend named Jason Rucker to be her defense counsel.
The next morning, Greg visited Brenda with Jason before her court case to give her the reality check she needed to make a hard decision.
“Look, you’ve got a capital murder warrant coming from Texas and a list of other stuff. You can help and get out, or you can not help and, you know, go to prison for what somebody else did.”
