This is chapter one of “The Clean Fix,” available now on Kindle and Paperback!
Imelda Vasquez looked up at me with puffy red eyes and a scream she barely held back. The light on the front porch illuminated her puffy red eyes and trembling bottom lip. She’d been crying nonstop for hours.
I’d broken enough traffic laws on my way to the small shotgun house to put me in debt for several lifetimes. Imelda’s bloodshot eyes welled up with tears that she fought to hold in. But the dam broke anyway.
Imelda hugged me like a life preserver in the Pacific. I felt her sobs before I heard them. She let out a wail that could have drawn tears from an oak tree. I held her there, letting her get it out. After a moment, the sobs slowed, and she took deep breaths, her face still buried in my chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Please come in,” she said, choking down more tears.
I hadn’t seen Imelda in years, but she hadn’t changed much. Hispanic, stout, with a smile that felt like a warm fireplace in the winter. But grief had banished the smile I’d become so fond of. I’d have done anything to see it again.
I’d known the Vasquez family for years. The yellow-and-teal paneled home looked the same as it did ten years ago. The bars on the front window denied entry to the bad crowd and quietly showed visitors what kind of neighborhood they were in.
The home was old enough that you’d wonder if the rest of the paint would chip off as soon as you knocked on the front door. It had seen better days, for sure. But it still survived in Mid-City New Orleans.
The interior looked much better than the outside. Imelda always took pride in creating a warm atmosphere. It smelled faintly of spices. Cumin. Cilantro. Oregano. Chipotle peppers. The scent gave visitors a preview of what to expect if they were lucky enough to enjoy one of her home-cooked meals.
She offered me something to drink. I declined, and Imelda sat next to me on the worn brown couch. She was in her early fifties, but looked like she’d barely turned forty. Still, the worry lines on her face revealed a life of struggle and the grit to push through it.
“Jackson,” she began in accented English. “Steve... he is in jail. They say he killed someone.”
I blinked. “What happened?”
“La policia... they show up last night... men with guns... I didn’t even hear them knock, just boom!”
I’d reported enough on policing to predict where Imelda’s story was headed.
“They... they broke through the door... came in screaming,” Imelda said. “Two of them... they pinned me to the ground while the others looked for Steve.”
I saw the scene in my mind. Screaming officers restraining this fifty-year-old woman like a common criminal. Anger joined the lead balloon in my chest, but I maintained my poker face.
“Where was Bianca?” I asked. She was Imelda’s youngest child, about eleven years old.
“Sitting where you are now,” Imelda said. “They left her alone. They... wanted Steve.”
At least they didn’t give Bianca the same treatment. Still, the sight of armed men bursting into her home would traumatize adults. I couldn’t imagine how it might affect a child.
“Okay. What happened next?”
“They... they brought my son out of the kitchen and threw him to the ground; they sit on his back. They search him... and...and... said he was under arrest.” She cleared her throat and took a breath. “For murder, Jackson. Murder. Why? He would never hurt anybody.”
Imelda’s breathing quickened, making me concerned that she was hyperventilating.
“Did they say who the supposed victim was?”
“I don’t... remember his name.”
“I’ll check with the police. Where are they holding him?”
“Orleans... Justice Center.” Her voice was raw, as if she’d been screaming nonstop for hours.
I took her hands in mine. “Have you spoken to the police since they arrested Steve?”
“I... I tell them he was a good boy,” Imelda replied, trying to keep her breathing in control. “He would never kill anyone... he was getting his life back together...”
The tears returned, but she fought through them. There was a reason she called me. The police wouldn’t take her seriously. Their job was only to arrest who they were told to arrest. It’s how the system works.
“I didn’t know who else to turn to. We can’t afford a lawyer.”
“I’m glad you called me,” I said. “I’ll do everything I can to figure this out.” I paused for a moment. “Does Hector know?”
Hector Vasquez was Imelda’s oldest child. He was in his mid-twenties now. To say he ran with a bad crowd would be like calling Mt. Everest an anthill.
“He’s on his way.” Imelda’s brow furrowed. “Can you talk to him? He was... so angry, I’m afraid of what he might do.”
I waited with Imelda until we heard a car pull into the driveway. Seconds later, Hector pushed what was left of the door open, which was easy, given that it was barely hanging on its hinges.
“Mami, what the fuck happened? You okay? What did—”
Hector stopped when he saw me. “Jackson? What are you doing here?”
Imelda answered for me, “I called him after I talked to you. He’s going to help Steve.”
Hector nodded and put up a reassuring hand. “I appreciate that, brother. But I got this shit handled.”
He wore a blue flannel and khaki work pants on his lanky six-foot frame. Tattoos covered his arms like a sheath.
“Handled?” I asked. I knew exactly what he meant, but I figured I’d ask anyway.
“Yeah, me and my boys are gonna figure out who did this shit to Steve, and we’re gonna deal with ‘em.”
Hector was the leader of the 509ers street gang. They dealt in low-level drugs. They weren’t the biggest gang in New Orleans, but were active enough to be considered dangerous.
“Hector, I know you’re pissed. I am too. But whatever you’re planning is only going to make it worse.”
“Well, what the fuck you gonna do, write an op-ed?” Hector snapped.
“Mijo!” Imelda cried. “Please... Listen to him.”
I knew it wasn’t personal. We went way back. I tutored him and Steve when they were still in elementary school.
“There are better ways to go about this,” I said, keeping my voice even. “We know Steve couldn’t have killed anyone. The key is proving it.”
“Fuck that.” Hector dropped into an easy chair. Less than two seconds later, he stood again and started pacing. “All these pendejos see is some Mexican thug. You’re black. You know how they look at us.”
“I don’t disagree. But the safest way for Steve—and you—is to beat them at their own game. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Fuck you. You ain’t seen what I seen in these streets. It’s easy for you to say in your nice cushy office.”
And that was it. I stood. It took me only three steps to be in Hector’s face. He flinched slightly, but didn’t back away.
“I’m here trying to keep your sorry ass out of jail, you dumbass,” I growled. “It’s bad enough your brother’s getting railroaded. You think your mother wants to see you behind bars too? Or are you only thinking about yourself?”
Imelda let out a sob, but composed herself. Hector didn’t respond, but the gears in his head turned. Finally, he said, “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But if it don’t work, I can’t make no promises.”
“That’s all I ask.” My eyes never left his.
Hector walked past me and sat next to Imelda, who had begun crying again. He put his arms around her. “It’s ok, Mami. It’s gonna be ok,” he said.
He looked at me with glassy eyes. “I didn’t mean all that shit I said.”
I waved his apology away. “I get it. But we have to do this in a way that keeps everyone out of the system.”
“I know you got connections,” Hector said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m gonna visit Steve. You wanna come?”
“I’ll stay with Mom. Tell Steve I’ll be by later. Let me walk you out.”
I said goodbye to Imelda and assured her I’d be in touch. Hector followed me to my jeep.
“Hey man, I didn’t want to say this in front of mom. I’m gonna do this your way. But the streets are already talking,” he said. “When they find out Steve got popped for some shit he didn’t do, I don’t know how long I can hold them back. You gotta figure out who did this shit and get him behind bars before I—they find him.”
“Just do your best. For all we know, their case is weak, and Steve could be out sooner than later,” I said.
“I hope so. You got my number if you need anything.”
Thanks for reading!
To find out what happens next, get your copy of The Clean Fix on Kindle or Paperback!