We had both been robbed. My dad with a knife. My mom with a sentence. And us with a lie.
Two patrol cars headed to the house with Matthew’s key, the prosecutor, the lawyer, and an urgent search warrant. I wanted to go, but they wouldn’t let me.
During those hours, my mom told us what we could never hear. —”That night,” she said, “your dad and Ray argued. I had taken some tea Ray made me because my head hurt. It made me very sleepy. I woke up to screams, police, blood on my robe, and your dad dead. When I asked about you, Ray told me you were with a neighbor. Then he whispered in my ear in the patrol car: ‘If you open your mouth about the accounts, your children will be left with no one.’”
—”What accounts?” I asked. My mom looked at me sadly. —”Your dad had discovered Ray was using the shop to move money for dangerous people. Fake parts, invented invoices, loans. I don’t know everything. I only know your dad found documents. That afternoon he said he was going to report him.”
The photo. The man in the photo. —”Did Dad go to report someone that night?” Mom nodded. —”He said he was going to see an internal affairs commander. He came back very nervous. He hid something in the wardrobe. He told me: ‘If anything happens to me, don’t trust my brother.’ I told him not to talk like that. We argued. I got angry. I went to sleep. And when I woke up, he had been killed.”
I remembered an image then that I had buried. My dad coming into my room the night of the murder. I was half-asleep. He kissed my forehead and said: “Take care of your mom, Val.” I thought it was just a regular phrase. It wasn’t. It was a goodbye.
At 9:20 PM, the prosecutor returned. He had a hard expression. In his hands, he carried an evidence box. Ray stood up. —”This is illegal. That house is in my name.” The prosecutor looked at him. —”We’re going to look into that, too.”
My heart raced. —”Did you find it?” The prosecutor placed the box on the table. —”We found the secret drawer. Behind the false bottom, there were documents, a USB drive, a notebook, and photographs.”
My mom stopped breathing. —”And the photo?” The prosecutor opened a clear bag. Inside was the photograph. A man with a mustache, a white shirt, and a hat, standing next to a black SUV. Next to him was my Uncle Ray. Behind them, my dad appeared half-hidden, as if he had taken the photo without the others realizing. On the back, in my dad’s handwriting, it said:
“Commander Salazar and Ray. Proof of deliveries. If I turn up dead, it wasn’t Teresa.”
I felt the floor vanish. My mom put her hands to her mouth. —”My God.”
The prosecutor continued: —”The USB drive contains videos from a camera in the shop. It shows Mr. Ray receiving money from this man, ex-Commander Salazar, currently under investigation for disappearances and extortion. There are also audios. One of them seems to record a threat against Mr. Ernest, your father.”
Ernest. My dad. Hearing his name from a prosecutor after so many years of being reduced to “the victim” broke me. —”What does the audio say?” I asked. The prosecutor hesitated. —”It is not recommended for the minor to hear it.”
Matthew clung to Mom. —”I want to know.” Mom shook her head. —”No, my love. You’ve been brave enough.”
They took Matthew to another room with a prison psychologist. Mom promised him she wasn’t going to the chamber, that she would be there when he came back. That promise, for the first time in six years, had air.
When Matthew left, the prosecutor played the audio. My dad’s voice sounded agitated. —”I already have copies, Ray. Tomorrow I’m going to Internal Affairs.” Then my uncle’s voice: —”Don’t be an idiot. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” —”I’m messing with you. You used my shop.” —”I fed you when the shop was sinking!” —”You dragged my family into this.” A thud was heard. Then another voice, colder. —”Ernest, think of your children. Sometimes accidents happen.” My dad replied: —”If something happens to me, Teresa knows.”
The recording cut off. My mom closed her eyes. —”But I didn’t know where the papers were,” she whispered. “Ernest wanted to protect me by not telling me everything.”
The prosecutor put the audio away. —”With this evidence and the minor’s statement, the case will be formally reopened. An arrest warrant has already been requested for Ray Mendoza for first-degree murder, evidence tampering, threats, obstruction of justice, and other crimes. Also against Salazar and anyone else responsible.”
Ray stood up screaming. —”Lie! Teresa planted all that! That woman always wanted to keep everything!” I looked at him. —”My mom was an hour away from dying, Uncle. When did she plant a drive in a house you kept locked for six years?”
He went silent. The prosecutor gave the order. The guards handcuffed him. It was strange seeing him like that. For years, handcuffs were part of my mother’s image. She was always on the side of the guilty, he on the side of the mourners. Tonight, the metal changed wrists.
Ray looked at me as they led him out. He was no longer faking affection. —”You don’t know anything, Valerie.” —”I know enough.” —”Your dad wasn’t a saint either.” My mom stood up. —”Don’t you dare.” Ray smiled with hatred. —”Ernest was going to sink us all. I saved what I could.” —”You killed him,” I said. He looked at me. —”There are deaths that are necessary.”
