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“He stole. Shoplifting, that was first. Little things, foolish things . . . at first. If I found out, I made him go back to the store with me, take back what he stole. Or I’d pay for it. He broke into places after they’d closed, and into cars on the street.”
She sighed, then reached for the water Eve had on the table. “He broke windows, tagged buildings, started fights. The police would come, take him, question him. He went to detention, but it didn’t help. It was worse after. He got into more fights, worse fights. He’d come home bloody, and we’d argue. They said he cut a boy, and put him in the hospital, but the other boy said no. He lied, I know, but the boy said he didn’t see who cut him. He killed, my Lino. He took a life.”
“Whose life?”
“I don’t know. They never came for hi
m, never arrested him, not for that. It was always smaller things. But I knew he’d killed. I knew what it meant the night he came home with the mark under the tattoo on his arm. We fought—terrible, terrible fight. I called him a killer. I called my son a murderer.”
She broke then, tears rolling. Pulling out a tissue, she mopped at her ravaged face. “He told me I didn’t understand, that he did what he had to do, and he was proud. Proud, and now the others, they knew he was a man. Now, he had respect. He was fifteen years old. Fifteen years old when he came home with the kill mark still raw on his arm.”
She stopped, struggled. “I wanted to get him out of the city. If I could get him away from the streets, the gangs. But when I told him what I planned to do, that I was buying two bus tickets to El Paso . . . My godmother lived there, and said she’d let us come, help me find work.”
“Your godmother?”
“A friend of my mother’s, from their childhood. My mother was dead. My father beat her to death when I was sixteen. I ran away, and he beat her to death. So I married the same kind of man. I know it’s typical, it’s a cycle. It’s a sickness. But my godmother had a house and work, and she said to come. I told Lino, and he refused. I threatened, argued, and he went out, slammed out. He was gone a week.”
She stopped, sipped water.
“Terri, it’s enough.” Tony stroked her arm. “It’s enough now.”
“No, I’ll finish. I’ll finish it. I went to the police, afraid then he was dead. But a boy like Lino, he knew how to hide. He came back when he wanted. And he told me I could go, but he wouldn’t. Go, he said, he didn’t need me. But if I thought I could make him go, he’d just run again. He wouldn’t leave his family. He wouldn’t leave the Soldados. So I stayed. He defeated me. He lived as he chose, and I allowed it.”
Eve let her get it out. “He kept the medal, Mrs. Franco.”
Teresa looked at her, eyes blurry with tears and gratitude.
“Mrs. Franco, you said he’d left before, for days, even a week. But this last time he told you he was leaving—leaving New York, when he’d objected and refused to leave New York before, when you had somewhere to go.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true. I didn’t believe him, even when he packed his things. I didn’t really believe he was leaving, and part of me hoped he was. That’s a terrible thing to feel, but I did. Still, I thought he was just angry, in a mood. I know he’d fought with Joe—Joe Inez—about something, and Lino was so mad at him. I wondered since it was just Lino and the Chávez boy planning to leave, if Lino had fought with Penny.”
“What were they fighting about? Lino and Joe Inez?”
“I don’t know. He never told me his business, the gang business. Lino didn’t talk to me about that kind of thing. But I know they were all mad, all upset about the bombing at the school. The neighborhood was in an uproar. A girl died. A young girl. Other kids had been hurt. Lino had cuts and burns. One of his friends—one of the other Soldados—was very badly hurt, in the hospital. They thought he might die. We held a prayer service at St. Cristóbal’s for him. He got better, but it took a long time. It took months and several operations, I think.”
“There was another explosion, and there were several fatalities, only days later.”
“Yes, it was horrible. They thought it was retaliation—the other gang members said, and people were scared there’d be more violence. The police came to talk to Lino, to question him, but he was gone.”
“He left New York after the second explosion.”
“No, before. Two days before. I remember thanking God he’d gone, that he didn’t have a part in that, in taking those lives.”
“How did he leave New York?”
“By bus. I think. It was all so fast, so quick. I came home and he was packing. He said he’d come back one day, rich, he’d be somebody. He’d be the most important man in El Barrio. More than Mr. Ortiz, Mr. Ortega, others who were rich and had position. Big car, big house. Big dreams.” She closed her eyes. “A couple weeks later, when I went to pay the rent, I found out he’d taken the money out of my account. He’d gotten into my bank account by the computer, he was clever that way. He stole from me before he left, and I had to ask Mr. Ortiz for a loan, an advance to pay the rent. Lino, he’d send money now and then, as if that made it all right that he’d stolen from me so I had to beg for money to pay the rent.
“He was my child,” she finished, “but he was his father’s son.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done, Mrs. Franco, and I’m sorry for all you’ve lost. As soon as I’m able, I’ll notify you so you can make arrangements for your son.”
After she’d led them out, she went to her office. At her desk, she checked access for the case files she wanted, found Whitney had come through.
She got coffee, sat, and as she read made notes of the names of the investigating officers, the witnesses, the victims, the fatalities.
She stopped on Lino’s name, saw the notation that the subject could not be located, and the statement from Teresa about him leaving town two days prior. A statement corroborated by others. Including Penny Soto.
Joe Inez had been questioned and released, alibied up tight. And he, too, had corroborated Teresa’s statement regarding Lino. The investigators had canvassed the neighborhoods, hit all of Lino’s and Chávez’s known haunts, followed up at transpo stations. Lino had gone into the wind—and reading between the lines of the detective’s report, he hadn’t believed Lino had blown prior to the incident.
