WHAT'S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT WHEN CARMA'S INVOLVED?

UNO

Resuming life in California moved along for me. As of this moment, I am in the process of closing a case. During such times, Rosa, the superwoman of everything I can’t find time for, knows I dislike interruptions. She wouldn’t have knocked if there wasn’t some importance to the disruption of my thought process. A couple sat in the waiting area claiming to be in desperate need of representation. Román Savage, the head honcho, allows me to run this office the way I see fit. Knowing the number of people in need of competent legal representation, I convinced Román to test run a program with a maximum of five pro bono cases per month. It’s difficult to turn people away in their time of need. I do my best when choosing between those in dire need. If all goes well, I have other ideas ready to roll out.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Sanchez.” Listening to their complaint shouldn’t take too long.

“Miss. How can I possibly assist you?”

The Westings are a couple in their sixties who sadly lost their daughter five months ago. Mr. Westing handed over an envelope containing a police and coroner’s report. Before reading, I asked them to tell me about their daughter since their complaint revolved around her. Her name was Angelique, and she loved art. So much so, she became an art teacher. Her free time was spent volunteering at animal shelters, reading to kids at her local library on Saturdays, tutoring, and helping anyone who asked for it. Her mother placed the last known picture taken on my desk. Family and friends were celebrating her thirtieth birthday, and from the picture I could tell she had a sunny disposition. Her smile was wide, hiding any sadness or pain she may have been carrying around. I asked them to continue telling me about her while I unfolded the documents to learn how she perished.

A report of Angelique’s disappearance was recorded, but a missing person’s report wasn’t filed until forty-eight hours later. The police gave the Westings some spiel about her being an adult that could make her own choices and blah blah. By the time they finally got off their asses to investigate, it was possibly too late for the young woman. The night she went missing, she was out with friends celebrating the milestone. By all accounts, the night was peaceful and light. Officers checked footage from inside the club and reported no incidents involving the women. Cameras outside the club showed the friends parting ways around two in the morning, getting into separate cabs. The other women safely made it through their doorways. Unfortunately, Angelique did not. Considering the time of night, her ride home should have taken no longer than twenty minutes.

It is not out of the ordinary for cabbies to wait across the street or around the corner from clubs and restaurants for intoxicated patrons in need of a ride home. The cab company’s name, cab number, and license plate number were visible. When officers spoke with the owner, he informed them the cab wasn’t one of his. As if that wasn’t scary enough, the license plate didn’t exist in California’s system. Yet the report fell miles short of saying she was abducted. Questions were mounting in my head. Angelique’s body was discovered in a shallow grave covered with leaves and branches by hikers in the forest a month after she disappeared. The medical examiner estimated she was deceased no more than forty-eight to seventy-two hours from the time she was found. He noted the multiple areas of lividity, which meant her body was moved after death. Evidence also showed her wrists and ankles were not only shackled, but her hands and feet were shattered. To prevent her from fighting or trying to escape is the obvious conclusion for me. Skin was missing from her lips and a sticky substance was collected and sent for testing. It was good ole fashioned duct tape. Her oculus uterque, a fancy way of saying eyes, had x’s carved into them. Did the assailant not want her to see them? Or maybe it was to ensure they were the last thing she saw after she was s*xually assaulted and murdered. Multiple semen deposits were found. Unfortunately, a match for the owners was not. As to how she met her end. It was extremely violent.

“It seems the police have hit a dead end. What is it that you think I can help with?”

“My wife overhead an officer saying what happened to Angelique shared similarities with a couple of other cases they have. When we asked about it, we were shooed away as if we didn’t have the right to know if this happened to other young women.”

“Mr. Westing, if there is an ongoing investigation surrounding similar circumstances, I would hope the police wouldn’t disclose any details until they were confident in their suspicions or assumptions.”

“Miss Sanchez, I’m sure you’ve seen my daughter on the news. My husband and I begged for her to come home if she ran away or be returned to us unharmed if someone took her.”

“I’m sorry. Television is not a luxury I have a lot of time for. It may have been on for background noise purposes, but I don’t recall hearing about other missing women or your daughter. Again, what is it you think I can do to help?” I was not trying to be rude. There had to be a specific reason they sought me out.

“Jorge Sanchez Sr. He is your father. Is he not?” Color me befuddled. “Why would the district attorney reach out to us if there wasn’t a connection or person of interest?” Good question.

Against my better judgment, I agreed to reach out to my estranged father. Maybe there is a slim chance he will share a morsel of information to satisfy this grieving mom and dad.

Walking into the government building mi padre worked out of, it didn’t surprise me to see much had not changed. His office had to be the biggest since he considered himself to be the big cheese. Taking the stairs to the top floor for exercise, I noticed the redesign of his reception area along with his secretary. After informing the upgrade who I was, she made a call. When she was done, she escorted me through the door and closed it.

Padre was not at his desk, so I utilized the free time to snoop a bit. Papers scattered over his conference table caught my eye. My inquisitive nature wondered about the current case he seemed to be obsessing over. Nonchalantly waltzing over, I moved a few papers around and three men’s mugshots stared back at me. The familiarity caused panic within me, and my breathing became labored. These men were part of the gang Padres de las calles. Translation: Fathers of the Streets. Why was he investigating the gang yet again? There was a memo clipped to a folder and after reading a few sentences, I had a better understanding surrounding the cases that paralleled Angelique’s. Five minutes passed, and Padre still hadn’t walked in. It didn’t come as a surprise, since he loved making people wait until he was ready. Screw him. Seizing the opportunity, I snapped pic after pic. My heart pounded as thoughts of knowing what I was doing was against the law. Just know I wasn’t doing it for the sole purpose of helping the Westings find the answers they were searching for. It’s more personal than that.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your gracing me with your presence?” Don’t let him fool you. There was no pleasure for either of us.

“Work.” Right to the point is how we both like it.

“Speak.”

“Angelique Westing.”

“Can’t help.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Harmoney Izabella Sanchez, let me be clear. I can’t and won’t help you. Tell me, how did you get caught up with that name?” Before he allowed me to answer, he held up his hand. “Whatever game you are playing, it’s not going to work. You live in Boston and have no authority in California.” I’m licensed in both states, but whatever. “I wish I could say it was good to see you, but I can’t, and it wasn’t. Show yourself out.” It’s hard to believe I once considered this man to be my hero.

Upon returning to my office, I spent a couple of hours fiddling with the photos before sending them to the printer. With nothing to report to the Westings, I sat back to reminisce. Almost a year and a half ago, I thought moving to a new and exciting place was the change in life I needed. For some, it is a need, want, or must. In my case, change was all of that, really. My entire life had been spent in California, but it was time to start anew in Boston, Massachusetts.

Moving across the country, away from my entire family should have been the hardest decision for me to make. As it turns out, every single one of them made it easier for me when they rejected then exiled me for coming out as a lesbian. Seriously, how did they not know? A lifelong lack of interest in the opposite gender did not tip them off? Unlike my sisters, I never snuck out to meet a boy. Or girl for that matter. I am shy and reserved most of the time for reasons they never cared to acknowledge. They never once heard me gush over a boy. For Christ's sake, a boy never entered our home with me unless he was there to study. Let’s clear something up. I do find men handsome and attractive. Though I had never found one I wanted to feel inside of me. I had a few relationships with women during my college years. We never got to the point where it became s*xual. In all honesty, that was completely on my shoulders. Once they found out how deep in the closet I was, they refused to share the tiny space with me. How could I blame them for my insecurities?

After passing the bar exam in Massachusetts, I made the three-thousand-mile move. Being shy of thirty years old, I thought it was a way to help better myself. Maybe I could find love in the process. In case it is not clear already, I am an attorney by trade. So, when the esteemed Mr. Román Savage of Savage & Sons Law calls you personally after watching a recent win because he liked what he saw.... You take the call even if the number looks to be that of a telemarketer. Many of my professors over the years had us study and re-enact quite a few of the cases that put him on the map. I find it necessary to reiterate that his offer could not have come at a better time in my life.

Upon acceptance, Román booked my flight, found me a two-bedroom loft, fully furnished said loft, and had the kitchen stocked with enough food to feed an army for a month or two. Who can go wrong with a deal as good as that? Not me, that’s for sure. I found the man to be extremely generous, and he expected nothing but to make him look even better than he already was as repayment for his generosity. He even paid for a month's worth of work in advance to drag me across the country sooner than planned. I settled in perfectly and enjoyed my first week in ‘The city that never gets old’. Their slogan needed work, but it is a pretty city, and I could not wait to see it in the fall. I had no doubt that I would be busy, but I knew in the blink of an eye the leaves would change color and I probably wouldn’t notice right away or at all.