Prologue-Alma
PAST
16 years old
Los Angeles, California
LOS ANGELES— An 18-year-old man, who authorities confirmed was a confidential informant for the Los Angeles Police Department, was found dead early Sunday morning.
Esteban Nevarez was shot twice in the chest shortly before 3 a.m. at the residence of his parents, Bud and Angela Nevarez. The suspect fled the scene before officers arrived, according to authorities.
Neighbors reported hearing screams shortly before 3 a.m. Police responded at approximately 3:12 a.m., where they found Nevarez’s 16-year-old girlfriend, Alma Gutierrez, at the scene. She appeared disoriented and was transported to San Miguel Medical Center for evaluation. Her condition has not been disclosed.
Nevarez’s younger brother, Efren Nevarez, 16, was present at the residence at the time of the shooting. He told investigators he heard the initial gunshot but did not see the suspect.
Investigators reported signs of forced entry at the residence. The Los Angeles Police Department is reviewing current and pending cases in which Nevarez was involved as a confidential informant, though officials have not confirmed whether the shooting is connected to his cooperation with law enforcement.
No arrests have been made, and no charges have been filed. The family declined to comment.
The investigation remains ongoing.
Anyone with information is urged to contact the Los Angeles Police Department. Tips may be submitted anonymously.
“I don’t know why you keep reading that trash. Ain’t gonna bring the son of a bitch back,” Nan says from the recliner in the living room.
She’s smoking with her oxygen in again, not that I’m surprised. Nan never has had much enthusiasm for life what-so-ever. Even less now that her only daughter has passed away, and she’s stuck with me—the granddaughter she never wanted.
Nan’s full name is Encarnación. One of many names that gives ode to the embodiment of the Virgin Mary. Despite the nine-thousand statues crammed into this trailer, there’s no sign of those saint-like qualities inside of Nan. Motherhood isn’t her strong suit.
My mother, Missy, ran away from home at sixteen and never looked back. Not until she got sick last year. Her need to make amends brought us back here with Nan. We weren’t necessarily received with open arms, but when treatment failed, Nan kept her promise to watch over me, which she proceeds to remind me every day while also adding that I’ve become more trouble than I’m worth.
A loud knock sounds from the front door of the trailer. Nan stands, but her coughing starts up strong. Don Cheetos, her loyal tabby cat, glares up at me.
“Don’t just sit there. Get the damn door!” she snaps.
On the other side, I find a slender woman in a dark blue business suit. Nan is slow but grabs her shotgun from behind her rocking chair and aims it at the woman. Nan has always been very vocal about her distrust in white women. Having one show up on her doorstep isn’t just a bad omen, it’s a death sentence.
“No need for that ma’am. I promise I come in peace. My name is Detective Jill Johnson. I’m here to speak with your granddaughter if that’s okay with you.” She pulls back the lapel of her suit jacket, flashing a shiny badge.
“Does she need a lawyer?” Nan asks while returning the sawed-off shotgun back to its resting place.
“No ma’am. I don’t believe a lawyer is necessary.” Detective Johnson flickers between the gun and the oxygen tank briefly before her eyes return to mine. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Alma. I’m with the Los Angeles Homicide Unit. We need to bring you in for more questioning.”
I notice the man in uniform standing behind her on the porch. I remember him from the night Esteban died—the night I’m still trying to make sense of. Nan looks at me for a brief moment, then sits back down, unmuting her novella on the TV.
I’m whisked away in the back of a cop car, the interior too clean and far too silent for my liking. Every home in the trailer park has someone watching from the window. Curtains pull back, wandering eyes peering out, curious to catch a glimpse of me. Most people in this neighborhood have had their eyes on me since my name first appeared in the newspaper a week ago. Somehow, in seven days, I went from the sweet girl down the street who babysat their kids to the snitch’s untrustworthy girlfriend.
The entire week has been a blur to me. I attended the funeral, watched them lower the casket into the ground, but I was completely and utterly numb to life. Esteban’s death was just another part of the never-ending loop of my existence. I’m starting to see why Missy ran away so much. It’s an uncomfortable feeling having to face the world’s judgement of you. I want to roll down the window and scream my defense.
I didn’t know!
He lied to me too!
But it’s useless. I don’t have the energy to explain when I’m still processing the fact that in the six months we’d been dating, I didn’t know shit about Esteban. Not his favorite song, his favorite color, hell, I didn’t even know his middle name until I saw it in the obituary. I don’t feel like the grieving girlfriend the media has made me out to be.
I know grief well, and oddly, I’m not processing Esteban’s death the way I processed Missy’s. When my mother took her last breath, it was as if my very soul went with it. Sadness spread through me, and every cell in my body felt her absence. That pain was sewn into the very seams of who I was and everything she was to me. But with Esteban, every time I tap into my emotions, there’snothing.
Out the window, bodegas flash by with their metal gates halfway open, and teenagers watch us from the street corners. When we reach the closest police station, I’m taken into a small room. The scent of stale cigarettes hits my nostrils, and ironically, it’s comforting to me. Like Missy could appear any moment down the hallway, a cigarette in her hand, humming a song. But Missy isn’t here. Instead, seated in front of me is Detective Johnson, rummaging through papers.
