Ana Rocha_Shadows of Justice

by Ammar Habib

  The second bedroom is where things get more interesting. A board hangs from a bare wall. Tacked and taped all over the board is a web of facts. Arrows lead from one fact to the next—trails that would appear chaotic to anybody other than the person who drew them: me. In the center of all the notes and pictures is a photo of my smiling sister.

  Coming through the front door and into the living room, I drop my bags on the sofa and lock the door behind me. The first thing I see is the picture on the coffee table. It was taken fifteen years ago when I was only seven-years-old. In the photo, I’m wrapped in my big sister’s arms while we’re out in some open fields. With her arms around me, she feverously tickles my sides. Our faces are filled with happiness and our eyes gleam with it. Joy radiates out of the frames. As she tickles me, I laugh so hard that I thought I’d die of it. And my laughter only amplifies hers.

  It was… it was only a few days after this picture when she died.

  ***

  The evening goes as can be imagined. Warm up a pre-cooked meal. Watch a little television. There’s a re-run of the X-Files showing. I’ve never been able to get into that show but my mother loves it. Seems a bit too convoluted to me. However, nothing else is on, so I watch the show about aliens and conspiracies.

  It starts to rain an hour later as I turn in for the night. The lights flicker for a moment but it’s nothing out of the ordinary for when a storm hits. I’m not sure where the rainstorm came from since it was cloudless and blistering all day. But then again, this is Texas weather we are talking about. It’s more bipolar than any woman I know.

  The sounds of erupting thunder makes sleep a little harder tonight, and I find myself still awake when midnight rolls around. But when sleep finally does come, my dream returns me back to my job interview.

  The chair is cold like it is every time and so is the room. Sitting across the desk from the two interviewers, my heart races like never before. The room possesses no windows and the ceiling lights are blinding. It almost feels like an interrogation; the only thing missing are handcuffs.

  I see that plump, red-headed woman’s face. The threatening gaze from her green eyes shows that she is more of an intimidator and less of an interviewer. Even just the first syllable of her insulting voice gets under my skin. Part of me thinks that she does this all on purpose. “Ms. Rocha, you do realize how unorthodox it is to jump from being a jailor to a narcotics officer? And that’s not to mention your young age. Most girls at twenty-two are graduating college, not going into narcotics.”

  I did not get a wink of sleep the night before the interview. I can’t remember the last time that ever happened. But after having worked as a jailor for a long while, I know how to keep a straight face and to never let others provoke an emotional response from me no matter how much of a nervous wreck I am inside. And all that experience comes to fruition in this bright and cold room. “Yes, ma’am, I do understand. But the recommendations from my supervisors demonstrate that during my time as a jailor I learned how to read people well—especially the criminal element. I know how they act, talk, and think. But most importantly, I know how to keep an upper-hand on them mentally. This’ll make me a valuable part of the narcotics unit.”

  “Perhaps it will. Your recommendations do show promise,” the second interviewer comments. He leans forward a bit as he stares me right in the eyes. His voice is not as annoying, but his gaze is twice as bad. The lank man pauses as if he is trying to be dramatic. “But seeing you here wanting this undercover position does raise a question.”

  This won’t be good.

  The red-head speaks again. “We’ve looked through the file of your sister’s murder.”

  Is that even legal? I don’t even know if these two people are actually officers or if they’re just some random intimidators.

  “Reading it, one cannot help but wonder. The drive-by shooters was caught and jailed shortly after the murder. However, there were rumors that the shooting was done due to a drug rivalry between two drug lords.”

  The second interviewer takes the reins of the interrogation. “Our undercover officers cannot be emotionally attached. They cannot have personal agendas. They need to do the job and do it well. Emotions affect decisions and bad decisions get people killed.”

  “So the question is,” the red-head says, “Ms. Rocha, are you doing all this because of your sister? Are you trying to achieve some sort of personal satisfaction by putting your life on the line in this job? Because if that’s the case, there’s no place for you here.”

  You want to know the worst part? I don’t know.

  Chapter 2

  Deadly Encounters

  “You must be Ana.”

  Looking up from my desk, I see the plain-clothed officer walk into my office. He’s a tall fellow, big enough to be an intimidating figure. In a glance, I assume he’s around ten-years-older than me and could easily life me with just one arm. His badge hangs from a chain that goes around his neck. It’s almost the same as my badge, except more weathered.

  “I was last time I checked,” I reply. Getting up, I meet him halfway and confidently shake his hand. He really does tower above me.

  “Bryan Fulton.” He politely smiles, but it’s awkward enough to tell me that he doesn’t do it often. “I’ve been assigned as your partner.”

  “Hope it’s not something you’ll be made to regret.”

  “Same here. But if it comes to that, one of us will probably be dead.”

  Was that supposed to be a joke? I’m not sure whether or not to laugh. He pauses as if expecting one, but the pause only makes the conversation more uncomfortable.

  Looking away, Bryan reaches back and closes the door behind him. “I heard about what you did yesterday. First day on the job and two dealers bit your bait.” He slightly shakes his head in amazement. “Wish I’d been there to see it.”

  I nod in appreciation. “So what’s the word on me in the station?”

  Bryan slightly shrugs. “Cap loves you. He even called a few of the vets in and bragged about you this morning. I’ve only ever seen him do that once before.”

  “How about the rest of the guys?”

  “Well… the rest of the boys think you’re a hard-ass.”

  My lips curve into a slight smile, having expected as much. “And what do you think?”

  “I think you made them all jealous, especially Mark. He’s the real hard-ass around here.”

  “I got that already.”

  I sit back in my chair while my new partner takes a seat across the desk. The office is not a big one, but it’s roomy enough. Being in the middle of the building, there aren’t any windows, except for the one on the door that lends a view of the hallway. Next to the door hangs a calendar that is turned to the current month and year: March 1999.

  Just having moved into the office, there are not too many adornments. A bulky computer monitor rests on the wooden desk, its hard drive on the ground. A few pictures are scattered across the desk, showcasing my father, mother, brother, sister-in-law, and my late sister. Next to the photos is a stack of case files that were dropped on my desk just an hour ago. Behind me is a framed certificate with my name plastered on it. Under it are a few filing cabinets, but they are mostly empty at the moment. And on my door are the bolded words:

  Ana Rocha

  Deputy

  “So did Cap fill you in on everything?” Bryan asks, putting an end to all the small talk. Working with this guy is sure going to be a kicker.

  “Everything from Pearland to the Galleria is our turf.” Discreetly glancing at his hands that rest on the desk, I see that there’s a small tan mark where his wedding ring would have been.

  Bryan nods as his eyes scan the pictures. “Seems like you already know the spots where you’ll find the best pickings.”

  “I grew up here so I heard things all the time.”

  “Drug dealers do seem to be more daring in Houston than in other places.”

  “Hopefully we can change that.”
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  ***

  “So whad’ ya want?”

  We’ve not been at the gas station for even thirty seconds when Bryan starts talking to the guy at the pump next to ours. Apparently, gas stations and parking lots are the best places to find these dealers. The Hispanic man Bryan is targeting drives a beat up, black Ford Contour whose rims and wheels are more expensive than the car itself. The target is dressed in the same manner as the two people I bought from my first day on the job.

  Bryan did not give me any warning, other than telling me to stay in the car. He hopped out of the vehicle right after switching off the ignition and almost immediately started conversing with the target. With my head slightly turned, I can see the two, but try not to make it too obvious. I have my Glock out in my lap in case anything happens. It’s out of sight from the two men, but ready.

  As soon as Bryan steps out of the car, he becomes a whole new person. His voice changes. His demeanor alters. His very aura is different. I don’t know if even his own mother would recognize him. I stay in the car like he requests and watch him work flawlessly. He keeps the upper hand in the conversation and masterfully guides it in the direction that he wants.

  And before I know it, Bryan has the man talking about… well, as he calls it, ‘stones’.

  “I just wanna know if you really got stones or not, brotha’?” Bryan replies.

  “Depends on if you lookin’ fo’ some.”

  “If you got them, then I am.”

  “Well…” The man looks to his sides as if expecting to see something. “If that the case, then I do. How much you got?”

  Bryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few bills. “This enough for you?”

  The man greedily grins as he sees the money. After a long moment, he looks back up at Bryan. “I got you.”

  A few minutes later, Bryan is back in the car with me. And instead of gas, he has a bag of white powder with him. He does not say a word and quickly pulls out of the station. It seems like right as he shuts the car door, his persona switches back to its real self. He acts as if nothing has happened and doesn’t say a word about what he just did. Arriving back onto the main road, he still remains quiet. I’m not sure what to say or if he’s even expecting me to say anything.

  But once we are almost a minute into driving, he speaks without looking my way. “Write something down for me.”

  Opening the dashboard, I take out a notepad and pen.

  “Name: Hugo Viel. License Plate number: CVN897. 5 feet 11 inches. Hair color brown and eye color brown. Around 185 pounds.”

  I write it as fast as he says it. “Got it.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  There is another silence before I break it. “…so that was pretty great.”

  Bryan keeps his eyes focused on the road. His tone is like the annoyed older brother. “It was alright.”

  “Within five minutes you got him to sell you almost fifty dollars worth of goods. I think that’s better than ‘alright’.”

  “Remember these words Ana: the moment you start to think you’re getting too good is the moment you are at most risk of getting killed. Don’t get comfortable in this job—ever.”

  There is another awkward silence as I’m not sure what to say. We continue down the road, and I don’t even ask where we’re headed. I assume Bryan is heading over to another ‘hot spot,’ hoping to find another dealer.

  For a few minutes, the only thing heard is the music of the car tires as they beat against the gravel. I get the feeling that this may be the first of many awkward and silent drives. There are not too many cars out at this time of day. It’s almost two in the afternoon. Once the clock hits five, the roads will be clogged with Houston’s rush hour traffic.

  Finally, I look back at Bryan. “So… how did you know to target him?”

  “His car, outfit, and demeanor.”

  “Profiling?”

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  I slightly shake my head.

  “Give me a one minute conversation with somebody, and I can tell you if they’re selling or not. Do this long enough, and spotting dealers becomes second nature.”

  “And how long have you been doing this?”

  “Six years.”

  “All in Houston?”

  He nods.

  “Do you have a family here?”

  There’s no response. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me.

  A part of me wonders if the captain paired us together knowing that my personality is completely the opposite of Mr. Uptight here. Maybe he’s back at the station laughing his head off at the thought of all this.

  As I look away from Bryan, something tells me that this will be a long ride.

  ***

  When I get home in the evening, the red light on my house phone is blinking. I feel like I’m having a heatstroke after being out under the Texas sun for what felt like a lifetime. Closing the door behind me, I make my way to the phone and hit the switch. My mother’s calm voice suddenly fills the room.

  “Hey baby, just calling to check up on you. Haven’t seen you since you started the new job. I hope office work doesn’t make you too busy to call your mom anymore. But this weekend Ramon and Laura are coming over for lunch, and your father and I wanted to invite you over as well. Miss your smiling face around here. Umm…. just call me back when you get this message. Love you.”

  The line goes dead. I let out a sigh as I take a seat on the nearest couch. I toss my badge onto the coffee table and lean my head back, shutting my eyes. For obvious reasons, I have not mentioned the real nature of my work to my parents. Instead, I let them believe that I have a desk job and am a glorified receptionist at the police station. It does not take much to imagine why this deceit is necessary.

  These past days have been so much that I nearly forgot the weekend starts the day after tomorrow. I haven’t seen my parents since I moved out three weeks ago, outside of church, but if my brother and sister-in-law are coming over, then I best be there as well.

  That is, if I survive tomorrow.

  ***

  I barely arrive in my office when Bryan barges in.

  “Ana, let’s go.”

  I’m not surprised that he skips the pleasantries. Holding several photographs in his hands, he’s dressed for undercover work. I snatch my Glock and badge from my desk. “What’s going on?”

  “An informant called. We’ve got work to do.”

  I follow him out of my office and down the illuminated corridor.

  “We’ve got to make contact with four suspected dealers: Guel, James, Rodriguez, and Miller. These four people have been on our watch list and we finally caught a break on their whereabouts.” Bryan hands me two of the photographs. “My informant told me where each of them will be from ten ‘til noon today morning.”

  As we continue down the corridor, we pass several other men and women—some officers and some not—but I pay them no heed. I take a look at the photos and see two headshots. One displays a Caucasian male with a long scar running down his left cheek. The second shows a Hispanic male whose face hints at his heavy figure.

  “We’ll have to split up to get them all in time. You’ll go after Guel and Miller. I’ll go after the other two.”

  “Why don’t we just send teams to pick them up?”

  “We need hard evidence first.”

  Bryan and I are nearly at the station’s front doors.

  “Make contact with them. If you can, buy from them right now and then tag them. A team will pick them up later. If not, set up a meet for later and we’ll go from there.” He pauses for a moment. “These are four people we’ve been after for a while, Ana. You want your chance to prove yourself as an officer? This is it.”

  A part of me knows that splitting up is a little unorthodox, but there is no other option given the small window of opportunity. And I am sure Bryan got the captain’s permission for all this. “Got it.”

  ***

  “You must be Miller.”


  It hasn’t been two minutes since I pulled up to the convenience store when I start talking to him. The shop is a rundown joint. Half the windows are cracked, chipped, or even broken. It’s just off the main road and is in full view of any cars that may pass by. Based on all the signs hanging from the store windows, you’d think that all they sold here was alcohol. Miller and another man are lounging outside the store’s front. I imagine that this is their turf. Sitting on lawn chairs, they each have a bottle in hand. The scar running down Miller’s face is just like the photograph showed. Probably got it from his line of work.

  It’s blistering hot today, and the sun beats against the back of my neck. However, I know that the heat is not causing even half my sweating. My jet black hair is tied back into a long ponytail. A sleeveless top covers my torso while my legs wear a pair of shorts. My Avenger’s running engine makes it hard for my voice to be heard as I stand next to the vehicle.

  Miller looks my way for a few moments. After a while he glances back at his lackey before smirking at me. His voice is just as I imagined: a confident shell with a cowardly inside. I’ve heard it plenty of times from inmates to recognize the type. “Well, honey, that depends on who’s asking.”

  “I’m new in town.” Unbeknownst to both these men, I have my loaded Glock in my back pocket. “I need a new source.”

  “Source for what?”

  “My neighbor said she gets her stones from you. Says you’re the best game in town around these parts.”

  He raises one of his eyebrows. “Neighbor? What’s your neighbor’s name?”

  I annoyingly put my hand on my car’s top. “Are you Miller or not?”

  He glances back at his friend for a moment. The friend is a tall fellow and possesses devilish eyes. His sleeveless shirt and shorts show his toned arms and legs. It seems like the two of them are communicating through their eyes, but I cannot figure out what it is. Finally, Miller’s gaze returns onto me. “How much you got?”