Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'
UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.
The screen in front of them is filled with a silent movie. If Sam Peckinpah and Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer had all sat down to make a movie together at the turn of the century.
The picture is grainy, black and white and blurry at the edges. But it isn't directorial whim that's made it this way. It's the poor quality of the surveillance camera whose footage they are all focused on.
Gil peels his eyes away from the video long enough to dart a glance at Jim.
The flickering light reflects off the detective's pale face. He winces, but doesn't look away from the screen showing the violent moments captured just this morning.
They pulled the camera off the storefront of a pawn shop. The owner is Panamanian, has been accepted warmly into the Salvadoran neighborhood, and has recently become appalled at the deterioration of the block. He told the cops it started with young people filling the streets at late hours; drinking from paper bag-wrapped bottles, smoking from fat hand-rolled 'cigarettes' that had them all giggling like fiends, hassling folks as they walked by. And recently, those young kids have turned feral, roaming the streets not with bottles and blunts, but knives and guns. Local shops had all had visits paid them by the MS-13, 'suggestions' made - backed up by icy grins and thinly veiled threats - that business would best be served by allowing protection help.
The pawnshop owner had stood his ground. He is an honest man, provides an honest service for immigrants in need of cash to start anew. He's made an effort to keep stolen goods off his shelves, and has recently, reluctantly, installed video cameras, inside and out.
On screen, Video Jim is hunkered down behind a paper box, screaming wordlessly into his radio. The spray of stucco, metal filings, and newspaper shreds is testament to the silent shots going off all around him.
The mother and her child are off in the corner, cowering behind a rusted out boat-sized Cadillac.
Catherine stares saucer-eyed at the picture. She gasps, hand rising to her mouth, as the boy breaks free of his mother's hold. Even though she knows the boy escapes unharmed, her mother instinct has her face frozen in fear-- a match to the mother's on screen.
Nick and Warrick enter the scene from parts unknown, grabbing up the kid and mother, pulling them into a storefront.
At a nod from Jim, Archie hits the fast forward, smearing all the action into jagged, flickering lines of black and white. He releases the button in time to see an SUV leaving the scene, figures scurrying in and out of doorways, flat out running off screen. Video Jim stands, levels his gun – the momentary flinch only evident because Real Jim knows its there - and pops off a single shot. The gun jerks back slightly, and then he's shaking his head and raising his hands as the nose of a police cruiser stops just inside the frame.
Gil's face is a blank mask, lips tightly set in a line nearly hidden by his beard. He turns to his friend, face hung heavy with respect and regret. Speaking to Archie, his eyes meeting Jim's, Gil says softly, "I want copies made of that tape. And make sure they get the time stamp nice and clear."
On the screen behind them, Toolie offers Jim a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his face.
In the low light of the A/V lab, Gil takes in the scabbed cut on Jim's cheek and shakes his head. He sighs out a long breath through his nose, and there's cold anger in his voice. "Jim, that was inexcusable. I'll make sure IAB gets this on the widescreen in the conference room."
Jim just smiles mildly and nods. "Worth a shot, huh?"
Catherine steps to his side, rubs his arm briefly, then turns and bends over Archie's shoulder, muttering something quietly to the A/V tech before returning her attention to the two men. "That was the most disgusting thing I've seen in a long time," she huffs. "And I've seen a lotta shitty stuff in my years."
Jim just raises his brow at her and shuffles uneasily. "Sam's following up on the license plate Archie pulled off the SUV," he says.
Gil sighs loudly and, odd for him, appears to weigh what he's about to say. "Wendy finished her DNA assay on the blood we found at the scene." He shifts his weight and leans a hip against the table, folding his arms across his chest. "It all came back as Nick's."
A small noise escapes Catherine and Gil quickly stands straighter, rests his hands on her shoulders and forces her to look him the eye. "It's not that much blood, Cath. And from the buccal calls and mucous found mixed with it, I'd wager it's a bloody nose; hardly a mortal wound."
Catherine takes a step back, pulling free from Gil's hands. She takes in a breath and looks ready to loose the hounds of Hell on the supervisor when there's a tentative knock on the A/V room door.
Mandy stands in the entrance, paperwork in her hand. She shoves her glasses up on her nose and takes another step in. "I, uh, got hits on the prints Catherine pulled off the produce truck."
"Come on in, Mandy," Gil says, waving a hand at her.
She stops, uncertainty clear in her expression as she flicks eyes at Catherine's face and reads the tension in the room. She actually bends forward, feet rooted to the floor as she hands over the results to Grissom.
Mandy clears her throat and sets her shoulders. "It's definitely the truck Warrick and Nick were, uh, transported in. Their prints came back, along with the driver, Mr. Chavez. There were about a dozen unknowns, probably various people loading and unloading the produce south of the border. I, uh, don't have access to prints from Mexico, obviously."
Catherine's foot begins to tap, not quite subtly, and Mandy picks up the pace. "I got hits off two sets. One belongs to an Ernesto Salazar, street name Joker. And the other is a Federico "Freddy" Aguilar. Don't know how much help that is though."
"Why not?" Catherine almost snaps.
"Because INS shows them being deported two years ago. They're supposedly in El Salvador."
Jim sighs, shakes his head. Mutters something about 'ants' under his breath. Takes the results from Gil's hands, taps them distractedly against his hip. "Let's operate under the assumption that they're back. I'll run these by Cavaliere and see what shakes out."
The detective leaves and Catherine pauses, then turns on her heel to follow him out, brushing past Mandy without a word.
Gil lets out a long-held breath, rubs briefly at the bridge of his nose, and reconsiders his poorly worded reassurances to Catherine. He hopes he won't come to regret them.
Warrick has no idea how long they've been at it. Seems like a long time. Probably seems like FOREVER for Nick, since he's been getting most of the attention. At least they've stopped working his face.
Warrick can't see how bad the right side is, but Nick's profile and the left side of his face look like a nightmare. Warrick bets ten'll get him twenty Nick can't see out of his eye. His cheek's puffed high and shiny, but it's the swollen blue and purple eyelid that's what's convincing Warrick. That, and the blood; there's blood everywhere: from temple, brow, cheek, eye, nose, and mouth. Warrick can see crimson streaked through Nick's hair and pooled in the cup of his ear. Jesus Christ. "Hey, Jeff. Jeff. Listen to me for a second, man."
The banger glances down at Warrick from where he stands; one hand bloodied, the other holding Nick firmly against the cinderblock wall of the store room. "¿Que pasa, hermano?"
"Hey, jefe. I gotta take a piss, man," Rabbit slurs listlessly from his perch on a stack of naugehyde and burlap bolts.
"¡Por la puta, cállate, Conejo!" Jeff shoots over his shoulder before addressing Warrick again. "What's up, bro?"
"Maybe you can chill on my partner a little bit."
Jeff tightens his grip on Nick's henley and kicks the Texan's bound feet out from under him.
Nick's dropped to the ground, Jeff's hold on his henley roughly pulling up the shirt at his armpits, hoisting his shoulders even higher. He hisses out a 'Son of a--' but doesn't get any farther; his butt hits the concrete, and the curse is pinched off by an animal squeal.
Warrick's nostrils flair but he stays quiet and still as Jeff releases Nick's shirt and steps over to him.
Jeff squats and cocks his head. "What'd you say, prieto?"
Warrick sniffs, tastes his own blood on the back of his tongue. "I'm sayin' you're beatin' the shit outta him. And if you ever do get around to actually askin' us any questions, he's gonna be in no condition to answer. So why don't you chill on him a little."
A slick smile spreads over Jeff's face. He stands, crosses his arms, stares down at Warrick. "Questions, huh? You want questions? Man, you cops are always with the questions."
There's something angry and sharp in Jeff's voice.
"Rick?" Nick sounds mildly panicked through his puffy lips.
"Right here, man," Warrick replies, never taking his eyes off Jeff.
Jeff drops back down in front of Warrick. "You wanna know what kind of questions I'm used to cops asking me?" The vice grip Jeff applies to Warrick's jaw is tight enough to raise bruises. "I get hauled in for walking down the street, man. For looking sideways at a passing car. What's the word?"
"Profiling," Rabbit calls out, sounding like an eager 5th grader.
And Warrick instantly gets it. All that blood on his partner's face and not a single question about Graciela Flores? This isn't about getting busted for murder. Not yet, anyway. This is about Jeff hating Cops. Hating Whites. Hating the World. And Nick's just the closest ring to the bull's eye for all the gang banger's anger and frustration; Jeff's using Nick's face as a sociological soapbox.
"Profiling," spits Jeff. "Fancy cop word. Nice way to replace something dirty like 'stereo-typing'. I get hauled into the PD, and you know what I get asked? 'Where you from, son? You got a green card, boy? Who you run with, hombre?' Like I'm some Mexican beaner piece of shit who splashed my way across the river."
Rabbit sniggers from his spot across the room.
"I was born in this country, hijo de puta! To proud Salvadoran parents who came here to make a better life. You know what they got? My father bled to death on a bus, trying to get across town to the county hospital. The rich bitch whose patio he was laying when the stone saw took off three of his fingers? She wouldn't call an ambulance because she didn't want anybody to find out she was employing an illegal."
Warrick pinches closed his eyes. Oh, shit, shit, shit…
"People come to this country to make a better life, and they get treated like animals. Like stray dogs in the street. And when we mobilize, join forces, fight for a little piece of anything? They lock us up. Throw away the key. Watch us bleed in the streets and then turn the other way. Mara Salvatruchas take power back, man. They won't give it to us? We steal it. We take it by force."
Jeff reaches around his back, under his t-shirt, and brings a knife to Warrick's face. The weapon is decidedly un-gang banger-ish, far more deer hunter; blade about seven inches long, serrated along one edge, curving up in a sharp hook at its tip.
Warrick holds his breath.
"Say hello to my little friend," says Jeff with a sick grin.
Oh, that's just great. Another banger who's seen "Scarface" a few dozen times.
The chuckle from Nick sounds ridiculously fraught, catches them all by surprise. "You know, Tony Montana dies at th' enda that movie."
Oh, shit, Nicky…
Jeff's on him in a flash, so fast it's like a magic trick; glimmer of the overhead light off the knife acting as a kind of lightning bolt puff of smoke. The hooked tip of the blade rests heavily in the dip below Nick's adam's apple. "We all gotta die some time, weto. Laugh now, cry later."
Fuck. Shit. Damn it, bro! But Warrick knows Nick can't really help it; he's hurt, he's scared, he's HIGH. "Why did Graciela Flores have to die?" Warrick asks. Anything to get Jeff – and that knife – away from Nick.
Jeff spins on Warrick so quickly, Warrick can't initially register why Nick's suddenly gasping and pulling back his head. Then he sees the little tributary of red tumbling down his partner's neck.
"Jesus, man!" Not bad. Warrick can see the cut is small. It's not that bad. But Nick's BP is up because of the weed, and there's already been so much blood…
Jeff dances the knife before Warrick's face. "It's sharp, man. Sharp knife."
The banger looks to Nick, who's huffing out short-quick breaths like the little engine that thinks maybe it CAN'T, and lifts the Texan's chin. "That's nothing, man. Like a slip with your razor." Jeff turns back to Warrick with a glint in his eyes to match the one off the blade. "Graciela, though…We sliced that puta open good."
The confines of the station, massive as the brick structure is, has become claustrophobic. Too many faces, heads bent together in quiet talk, straightening only barely to acknowledge him, grudgingly. His office still stinks of Ecklie and Burdick; Bryllcream and wint-o-green Lifesavers for the former, Cuban cigar and heavy Paco Rabanne for the latter.
So Jim heads for his car. Even if he has to sit out in the parking lot and make a few calls, it's the lesser of two evils.
The Taurus is at the back of the lot, his captain title not enough to earn him one of the primo spots under the trees that line the front by the entrance. In hottest July, the trees kept the cars' interiors under a hundred and fifty, but also meant their owners probably spent a mint on bird shit removal.
Jim pops the car open, regretting again his Charger's presence in the garage. He misses the souped-up power of the Dodge, but the Ford is at least roomy, comfortable. And in this winter chill, the sun has heated the interior, making it damn near cozy. The V8 rumbles under him as he lets it run for a bit, flicking on the heat and rubbing his hands in front of the blower.
He can feel the warmth soak into his tired bones and wishes he could just close his eyes, recline the seat a bit and close his eyes for ten minutes. Ten minutes in, what? He glances at the radio clock. Jesus, it's been damn near a full twenty-four hours since his eyes last closed, in his bed at home.
His eyes are winning the battle. The heater air is dry and makes him blink - each blink turns into a game; leave one closed, then the other. He feels his chin hit his chest and the little hit of adrenaline he gets is enough to awaken fully. He reaches out, flips off the heat, and hits the express down on the window. Cool air rushes in and he slaps his cheeks lightly, then harder. Lord, what a sight he must look to anyone walking by in the parking lot.
The phone at his hip rings and vibrates and he flips it open, checking the caller ID as he grunts out, "Brass."
"Jim, it's Sam."
The video - the pimped out Escalade. "Please tell me you got something, Sam."
"Better than something, Jimmy. I got what we in the trade call 'a lead'."
"Oh, thank God," Jim breathes.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. What you got for me, Sam?"
"We found the owner of the Escalade. Genius was still in the damn thing and carrying. We pulled enough hardware outa that car we're gonna be matching ballistics to cold cases 'til Easter."
"And?" Jim asks, tamping down his impatience but unable to completely mask the edge to his voice.
"And, with that much hardware, as long as we can keep him? Lets just say it gave me something to work with. Dude's name is Juan Jimenez, aka Johnnycakes, aka Johnny Jay, aka el Nariz."
"The nose?"
"Yeah, you gotta see it to believe it. Anyhow, he's a capitan in the Eastside Jinetes. Part of a Sinoloan Cowboys set that runs the area that butts up against Puesta del Sol. They get into scraps with the Sol Set pretty regularly. Fights over territory for drugs and working girls. Turns out he's pretty damn happy to spill on the competition."
Jim reaches out with his free hand and drops the Taurus in reverse, already craning his head to check behind him as he backs out of his space. He pins the phone against his ear with a shoulder and completes the maneuver as Sam continues feeding him information.
"Turns out the guy who runs the Sol Set isn't so great a mystery to those who deal with them regularly. El jefe goes by the name Alex. Alejandro Salazar Arrue. And he does most of his business out of a club on Segundo called El Beso."
Jim pounds the steering wheel happily, invigorated with the first real break he's had since the morning's shit went down. "I still owe you a coffee, Sam. Care to join me?"
El Beso is squeezed between an all-purpose Mom and Pop dry goods store (pots and pans, baptismal gowns, religious candles, tools) and a Ritmo Latino. No need for a juke box during the day – the music store blasts it loud enough to seep through the brick and stucco walls. And by night, Wednesday through Sunday, there's live bandera or reggaeton music blaring from the stage near the back of the small club.
When Alex walks in, the somber drinkers at the bar sit up a little straighter. The over-painted young women (whose shifts on the street won't start for hours) stop their catty back and forth in the booth along the wall. Their eyes follow the trim Salvadoran as he glides from the front door, snaking through tables and chairs, to the bar.
"¿Qué tal, Alex? ¿Cómo te va?" asks the meaty bartender, extending his hand across the worn wood.
Alex grasps the man's hand firmly, pumps it twice, holds it a second longer. "Los monos están haciendo mucho ruido en la selva. Is Eduardo here?"
The bartender motions with his head to the dark rear of the club.
Alex nods. "Dos cafés, por favor," he says over his shoulder as he walks toward a small secluded area in the back.
Eduardo Flores looks aggrieved. Alex has known him for years, and he's always been a sullen man, but clearly the death of his sister has added to his heavy heart. He sits, shoulders slumped, tattooed arms stretched over the booth's table top; hands flat, fingers splay. 'La Vida' is inked into the back of one hand, 'La Raza' on the other.
"Eduardo," Alex says, and the other man rises.
They embrace, gripped hands pressed between them, fists pounding once, then twice, against the other's back.
"My deepest sympathies for you and your family, my friend."
"Thank you," Eduardo breathes into Alex's ear, then breaks the embrace and scoots back into the booth without looking at him.
Alex slides in opposite. "What can I do for you, Eduardo?"
The other man stays silent for a moment, fingertips resting on the table's smooth worn surface, palms tented. "You and me, Alex…" Eduardo's shaved head nods first at his right hand, then the left. "The Life. The Race – The People."
"Brothers."
"Competitors," Eduardo responds, with a calmness that belies the fire underneath it. He looks up, eyes bearing down on Alex's. "This morning I went to the city morgue and identified the body of my 19-year-old sister. My aunt broke down in the hallway, weeping. Begging God to take it back."
Alex knows this aunt, can imagine her. Can picture the strong, gruff woman - who had fed him on many occasions, had known his mother, in childhood, in El Salvador – wailing and pounding her fists against institutional linoleum. Alex knows her. Knew Graciela… He halts the sad cast his eyes want to make, refuses to show any weakness in front of Graciela Flores' only brother. Because he knows Eduardo is not here to grieve with him; Eduardo is here on business. Personal business. The Life. The People. "Talk to me, Eduardo."
The other man winds his fingertips across the table, skating them into a pattern of no real intent.
Alex follows the movement with his eyes, looking for some prophetic sign to confirm or dismiss the growing feeling in his gut; that he knows exactly why Eduardo is here.
"Jeff. Antonio. Carbonell."
Jeff. And it's like a reassuring fist clenching in his chest and a hard punch to his middle all at once. I knew. I KNEW. He knows now he should have trusted his intuition; his feelings that Jeff was out of control, power hungry. Looking to move up and move in to his place. "You believe he has something to do with Graciela's murder."
"He's been talking big, on our turf, selling your wares where he shouldn't be selling."
"You have to give me more than that, Eduardo, unless you're coming to me as anything other than a friend." It's cold and sharp but serves its purpose. Alex watches Eduardo straighten. Because Eduardo has come to ask for retribution; an eye for an eye, a soldier for a sister. In the end, it's business. The life. And it hurts Alex a tiny bit to know that always comes before The People – because power corrupts even friendship. Even love.
Eduardo leans into the maroon leather of the high booth, pressing against the upholstered bench back. The padded red shrouds him like a robe of dark blood. "Jeff knew Graciela was muling for us. He threatened her twice when he saw her on del Sol. Second time got a little too friendly. I had some of my boys go talk to him."
"This was about a month ago?"
Eduardo nods and Alex answers with the same. He remembers Jeff coming into the shop one morning looking like he'd taken a few runs at a wall with his face. Jeff told him he'd gotten in a scrape at a bar with some asshole's slutty girlfriend. That he'd been drunk and stoned, and the guy had got the better of him. Had jumped him in the parking lot with a couple of homies to help.
"Her throat was slit, Alex. From ear to ear, clean and straight. Like a ribbon tied around her neck."
Alex flinches a little when Eduardo forces eye contact. Yes. Yes, they both know what it looks like when someone's throat has been slit. They'd seen it enough as boys, they'd done it enough themselves.
"You and me…" starts Eduardo, but his words catch and cut out as he leans his body forward, toward Alex.
The words don't need to be said. It's understood. It is what is; anyone who'd lived through the brutal wars in El Salvador like they had, anyone who'd experienced that first hand like they had… Killing with a gun is very different, Alex imagines, though he's never done it himself. But killing with a knife, with a machete, is close-up work. It's hands-on and personal. And it's born of either complete desperation or blind cruelty. People like Eduardo and Alex - who had been thrust into such desperate situations at such desperately young ages – escaped from El Salvador and vowed never to bloody their hands again.
It doesn't mean either of them are above employing others who have no problem with that type of work. Doesn't mean a smart leader – a good business man – doesn't place value on someone like Jeff, who lacks the conscience not to slide the blade.
The Life. The People.
"Let me talk to him. Let me hear his story first, before you make a move."
Eduardo purses his lips and cocks his head to the side.
It's customary. It's proper. No leader is going to throw a strong, useful soldier into the arms of the opposing army unless they have good reason. You don't shoot your best dog just because he killed a couple of chickens.
"Twenty-four hours," Eduardo says finally. "While I make funeral arrangements for my little sister."
Alex bites down hard and holds back the words he wants to say. They won't have impact, he knows. You can't hold onto The People while you live The Life. No matter how much you want or try or think you can.
Their hands meet over the table, their eyes over their hands.
"I'll call you as soon as I have a chance to discuss this with Jeff."
Eduardo disengages the handshake silently, pushes sideways off the table top with his hands, and slides out of the booth.
Alex watches him leave, brushing past the bartender who's entering with two cups of coffee. Alex is so intent on the drinks – needing to wash the conversation from his mouth – it's a moment before he notices the apologetic look on the bartender's face and the two police detectives standing behind him.
To be continued...