Sullivan's Justice (41 page)

Bobby had told them he wasn’t eating. It wasn’t unusual for inmates to go on hunger strikes. Some would do it to protest jail or prison conditions. Others would starve themselves to gain attention for a cause, such as abolishing capital punishment. But some deliberately lost weight to facilitate an escape. Ted Bundy stopped eating, lost weight, and shimmied out of the jail in Aspen through its ventilation system.

Carolyn saw hatred shooting from Moreno’s eyes. He knew she’d set him up after the first interview, locking him in the room for hours in scorching heat, without water, food, or the use of a toilet.

She doubted if Moreno weighed more than 115 pounds. The bulging biceps she’d seen before were even more sinewy. She started to look up at the ceiling for reassurance, then stopped herself. The clock was ticking.

Steeling herself, Carolyn began speaking. “I’m here today because one of the jailers came across this letter.” She reached into the waistband of her skirt and removed the note she’d dictated to Hank. After she handed it to Moreno, she watched as he read. “As you can see, the people you’re involved with have planted men inside the jail with explicit instructions to kill you.”

“Old news,” Moreno said. “I took care of those guys, remember? They carried them outta here on stretchers, bleeding and crying like a bunch of pussies.”

“These aren’t the same men,” Carolyn insisted. “They’re waiting for you to be released into the general population or they’ll make their move inside the tunnel. Your prelim on the assault charges begins next week. That means you’ll be in the tunnel twice a day.”

“Lying bitch,” Moreno snarled, pulling against the restraints and causing them to rattle. “If they didn’t have me chained like a damn pit bull, I’d break your skinny neck. Why would I buy this shit? You played me before. It ain’t gonna work this time.”

Carolyn stood, slapping her hands against her thighs. “I’m not conning you,” she told him. “But if you don’t want to talk, there’s nothing I can do. You think the jailers care if the inmates kill you? Most of them think you deserve to die. All these men have to do is slip a few guards some hundred-dollar bills and you’re a goner. No one will even know who killed you.” She walked toward the door, then turned back around as if she’d forgotten something. “Oh, do you have any friends or relatives who might be willing to bury you? The allotment for indigent deaths barely covers a cremation. It’s better if we take care of this type of thing in advance.”

Moreno’s mouth fell open in shock. Carolyn reached for the buzzer to be released. “Wait—come back,” he called out.

His eyes glistened with tears. Lack of food wreaked havoc on a person’s emotions. If Carolyn played her cards right, she just might get what she came for.

“Why do you care what happens to me?” he said. “The cops said I killed my mother and my sweet sister.”

Carolyn had to contain her excitement. One word said it all. She doubted if he would describe his sister as sweet if he’d killed her. Things were working better than she had expected. She bent sideways and retrieved the envelope off the floor, holding it in her lap as she pulled out two eight-by-ten photos. Picking up her chair, she repositioned it beside him, placing the first photo in front of his face. “Is this what you did to your mother?”

Mrs. Moreno was lying on her back on the floor, only a few feet from her wheelchair. Her neck had been slit with what the lab had identified as a scalpel, the cut so deep it had severed her head from her body. Her eyes were open and her face was sprayed with blood.

Moreno tried to knock the photo aside. The chains pulled against the metal restraint on his neck. “Get that fucking thing away from me. I ain’t talking about my mother.”

Carolyn pulled the photo back, replacing it with a second one. A twelve-year-old girl wearing a Catholic-school uniform, similar to the clothing Carolyn was wearing, was gagged and bound in a high-backed wooden chair. Blood streamed down her face and soaked her clothes. Forensics had identified the murder weapon as a household hammer.

Moreno became enraged. “Ain’t you got ears?” he shouted. “I don’t want to see no pictures. Maybe I should kill you, then the state would give me the death penalty. Tell them to put me in the main jail section now. Go ahead. Let them assholes try to kill me. They’ll find them like they did those other idiots. The only difference is this time they won’t be breathin’.”

Carolyn moved her chair back to where it had been previously. For a while, she sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap. When she began speaking again, her voice was soft and nonthreatening. “I saw in the file that Maria went to Saint Agnes’s. I’m a Catholic like you.” She reached inside her white cotton blouse and showed him her mother’s silver cross. Because it was large, she had stopped wearing it outside her clothing. Some of the guys at work had teased her, telling her she looked like a nun. Catholics had a bond, though, even strangers. “I checked with the school and they told me you paid Maria’s tuition every month in cash. Since your mother was confined to a wheelchair and couldn’t work, how did you come up with the money? It doesn’t make sense for you to kill someone you loved that much. I bet you loved your mother as well.”

Moreno transformed. The look in his eyes was no longer threatening. What she saw was a quiet, emotional young man. He was more than likely an introvert. How else could he have gone so long without speaking? She could see why the DA had decided not to risk putting him in front of a jury. He could pretend to be anything he wanted. All she had to do was figure out what was real.

“You didn’t kill them, did you?” she stated. “You never told anyone you were innocent because you were afraid the men who killed your family would kill you, too. Am I right, Raphael?”

His shoulders began shaking. He tried to suppress the tears, but the floodgates had opened. For at least ten minutes, he sobbed uncontrollably.

When he raised his head, Carolyn stopped breathing. She watched him rub his eyes with his right hand.

He had slipped it out of the handcuffs.

She jerked her head toward the door, terrified the SWAT team was going to start shooting. She wasn’t a fool. The room was the size of a closet. If they started shooting, Moreno might not be the only one to die. She whipped back around, seeing both of his hands in the cuffs. Her fear and lack of sleep could have caused her to have imagined that one hand had been free. Terminating the interview now would be a disaster. He was about to tell her everything. She took in a breath, then slowly exhaled. His voice broke through her panic.

“I know who the real killer is.”

 

 

 

 

 

R
aphael had been standing in front of El Toro Market on Cooper Road in Oxnard, killing time until his sister’s school let out at three. The sky was clear, not a cloud to be seen, and the sun felt warm against his skin. It was hard staying inside all day with his mother. Sometimes he wondered if he’d made the right decision bringing her and Maria to the States.

Three years ago, his parents were involved in a car accident in Mexico. His father was killed instantly and his mother’s legs were crushed. At the time, Maria was only nine. How could he leave them there with no money and no man to protect them?

For a seventeen-year-old, he’d done fairly well. Dropping out of school had been the hardest. He had gone to work for a chop shop located in the hills above Malibu. For the first year, he’d dismantled cars and sanded off VIN numbers. One day, he’d got lucky. The boss, Angel Romano, heard about the burden he was carrying with his family and decided to try him out boosting cars. His slender build and fresh-faced appearance made him an excellent candidate, enabling him to move in the same circles as the wealthy without drawing suspicion.

He’d been smuggled into the United States at the age of ten, crammed in the back of a sweltering truck with forty other immigrants. The last thing he’d aspired to be was a criminal.

The first year, he’d worked in the strawberry fields, then a family had taken him in. As soon as he’d become fluent in English, they’d enrolled him in school. They’d been amazed to find out how smart he was. They told him he could be a lawyer, a doctor, or anything he wanted. He’d loved reading in his room, writing on the crisp white paper, learning and expanding his mind.

His downfall was his inherent thirst for fighting. Because of his small size, he’d strengthened his body. He’d spent hours in a makeshift gym he’d set up in the garage. Filling two plastic milk containers with a mixture of water and sand, he had used them as barbells. He did wide-arm pull-ups on the beam above his surrogate father’s workbench, developing a powerful punch and great hand strength. Holding old tires to his chest, he squatted to strengthen his legs. He’d become muscular, yet fast and agile.

When he was threatened by other students, he’d beat them to prove his masculinity. It wasn’t long before he had earned the name “Mighty Mouse” at school. People began to fear him, everyone except Javier Gonzales. Raphael didn’t know when to stop. When he did, Javier was a bloody mess of broken bones. Fifteen hours in surgery, and the boy barely survived.

The Gonzales family pressed charges, then dropped them with a nominal payment by Raphael’s foster parents. If not, he would have never been able to become a U.S. citizen. That was the happiest day of his life. Soon after, his world was shattered. His foster father had lost his job, making it impossible for them to care for him. Social Services placed him with another family, but they were awful. They fed him spoiled milk and food that looked as if it had come out of a trash can.

Raphael swore he would never be arrested again. He practiced getting in and out of restraints. When he was picked up by the police after robbing a convenience store, he slipped out of the cuffs and ran. The officer gave chase, but he was too fast.

When he learned about his parents’ accident, he’d decided the only thing he could do was sneak his mother and sister into the States. Things weren’t going well with his mother. Her left leg was infected and the doctor was afraid he might have to amputate. Raphael hadn’t had the heart to tell her, but tomorrow morning, he would have to drive her to the hospital. If she did lose her leg, he would have to hire a nurse. He’d managed to save about twenty grand, but he knew it wouldn’t last forever. He needed a score.

Out of the corner of his eye, Raphael saw a flash of red. What was going on? Someone was unloading a red Ferrari off the back of a truck. Angel had a customer who wanted a fancy Ferrari. Could this be it? He’d never expected to see a car that valuable on the streets of Oxnard. He found most of the cars in Beverly Hills or Brentwood. When he delivered this one, he’d pocket five grand. Angel knew he had to pay his people well or they’d find buyers for the cars themselves.

His eyes scanned the area. Two drunks were sleeping in a doorway at the end of the street. An old lady, her back stooped and her face withered, was carrying a grocery sack across the street. Old ladies never talked to the police. Gangsters could mow down five guys, and an old lady would step over them and keep on walking.

Raphael carried a backpack so he’d look like a student. The only thing inside was his gun—a Tech 9. He yanked the gun out and dropped the empty backpack on the sidewalk, then sprinted toward the driver’s side of the red Ferrari. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t tell who was inside. He was almost certain there was only one man. Smashing the glass with his gun, he shouted, “Get out of the car or I’ll kill you!”

Everything happened in a heartbeat. He saw the barrel of a gun and instinctively pressed the trigger, shooting the man in the face. Yanking the bleeding man out onto the street, he was about to duck inside when he saw the passenger door was open. Spinning around, he saw another man at the rear of the car pointing a gun at him. They fired simultaneously. Raphael reeled backward as the bullet ripped into his right shoulder. Regaining his balance, he didn’t wait to see if he’d hit the man. He leaped into the driver’s seat, gunned the ignition, and sped away in a cloud of dust.

The Ferrari almost jumped out from under him. Checking his rearview mirror, Raphael saw the passenger scooping his friend off the pavement and placing his body in the back of the truck. Wasn’t he going to call the cops? The guy was limping, so Raphael assumed he must have shot him in the leg.

Blood was oozing out of his shoulder. Steering the car with one hand, he removed his shirt and pressed it over the gunshot wound. He couldn’t bleed all over the Ferrari, not after he’d killed a man to get it.

The house he rented was only four blocks away. Angel had insisted on a house over an apartment because of the garage. He couldn’t park expensive cars on the street, so his instructions were to garage them until it was safe to drive them to the chop shop. If there was still heat after a few days, Angel would send a truck to pick them up.

Raphael kept his garage door opener clipped to his belt next to his pager. Hitting the button, he drove the Ferrari inside, then rushed into the house to call Angel.

“What kind of Ferrari did you get? Get the operating manual out and tell me what it says.”

“It’s nice looking, man,” Raphael told him. “Never seen one like this before. You still got money for me?” He knew he couldn’t tell him he’d killed a man. If there were injuries, Angel wouldn’t touch it.

He raced to the garage, seized the manufacturer’s booklet and flipped through the pages. “It says it’s a 2001 five-fifty Barchetta Pininfarina Speciale. The car’s in perfect condition. I swear, man. There’s not a scratch on it.”

“You’re shitting me,” Angel said. “Ferrari only made one of those babies. Bring it in around ten tonight. We have a buyer creaming his pants for a car like that.”

Disconnecting, Raphael went to the bathroom to check the gunshot wound. It was not deep. Since the bullet wasn’t embedded, he didn’t have to worry about infection. He found some hydrogen peroxide and bandages in the medicine cabinet. After he’d dressed the wound, he put on a clean shirt. He peeked in his mother’s room and saw she was sleeping. Maria handled her medication at night when he was working.