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“She’s seen it before,” Ballard said quickly.
Oscar and his mother exchanged words and Oscar translated.
“She said it was my brother’s. He gave it to Olga because they were in love. Where did you find it?”
Ballard knew the question had come from him.
“I can’t tell you right now,” Ballard said. “But I think your brother is going to get out of prison with it.”
“How?”
“I think I can prove that somebody else killed Olga.”
Suddenly Oscar’s tough shell cracked and Ballard saw hope and fear in his eyes. He then turned away and translated for his mother.
“Dios mío,” she said.“Dios mío.”
She reached out and grabbed Ballard’s hand.
“Please,” she said.
Oscar’s hard shell slipped back into place.
“You better not be fucking with us,” he said.
“I’m not,” Ballard said. “Ask your mother if she knows where Jorge got the bracelet.”
The exchange in Spanish was quick.
“She doesn’t know,” Oscar said.
“What about the charm?” Ballard asked.
The next exchange didn’t need to be translated. The woman shook her head. Ballard looked at Oscar.
“What about you?” Ballard asked.
“What do you mean?” Oscar asked.
“Was your brother in Vineland Boyz?”
“No, but you people at the trial sure tried to make it look that way.”
“What I’m getting at is, where do Vineland Boyz get their chains?”
Oscar didn’t answer, his hesitation rooted in the gang ruleabout talking about the gang to the police. It could get him killed.
“Do you know whatprovenancemeans?” Ballard asked. “Besides having your mother identify the bracelet as your brother’s, I may need to establish where Jorge got it. Then I would have two confirmations when I go to the District Attorney’s Office.”
“He was not a gangster,” Oscar said. “He was an artist.”
Ballard knew from the review of the case file that the prosecution presented photos of street art attributed to Jorge Ochoa and used it to suggest gang affiliation. It was an underhanded way of tilting a jury’s view of him.
“I’ll leave you my card,” Ballard said. “If you think of anything, maybe a local store where Jorge might have gotten the bracelet, call me.”
“I don’t talk to thepolicía,” Oscar said.
“Even if it might help your brother prove he didn’t kill Olga?”
