This Is for the Mara Salvatrucha by Samuel Logan Read Free Book Online Page B

stretch to pick her up and bring her back to the Grand Prairie Police Department before taking her to the interview room for questioning.
    His first impression of Brenda was positive, despite the circumstances. She acted like there was nothing to worry about. Her wide smile accentuated high, rosy cheeks that stood out against the light brown tone of her face. She was a little overweight, but obviously comfortable in her skin. Dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a loose-fitting shirt, Brenda didn’t appear malnourished or addicted to drugs. To Oseguera, she looked like a normal, well-adjusted teenager. He wondered what she was doing corresponding with someone like Veto.
    While Brenda was in custody at the Grand Prairie PD, her disposition was confident, with a slightly hardened outer shell. She’s lively, Oseguera thought, with some attitude. Brenda had not been with her gang long, but she knew the first rule: Mara Salvatrucha do not rat. She would not break that sacred rule by speaking to this cop. When Oseguera began to question Brenda, he quickly learned two things. She was very smart. And she wasn’t going to tell him anything that would incriminate her or anyone she knew. Seated at the round table, across from Oseguera, Brenda remained relaxed despite her surroundings and the fact she was being questioned about a murder.
    “So where are your belongings?” Oseguera asked, knowing she was picked up as a runaway.
    Brenda replied she had been at a friend’s apartment for two days before moving on.
    “Do you know [his] name?” Oseguera asked.
    “No,” Brenda said.
    That much was true. Within her gang, there were no real names, only street names. It was a habit among gang members to use one another’s street name and never use given names. The result was often an added level of confusion for detectives trying to unravel a case laced with street names. This was really only the beginning of the gang’s code.
    Oseguera pulled out a stack of photos and flipped through them, asking Brenda if she recognized anyone. She easily identified the gangster Dallas Police were chasing down for their Virginia colleagues. Brenda knew that pointing out this guy to the cop wasn’t a big deal. He was long gone anyway.
    Once he was through the stack, Oseguera put the photos away and opened a new line of questions about the items he found in the shoebox. He also asked about the muddy shoes.
    “The stuff is mine, but the shoes you’re talking about are not,” Brenda said. “They’re Jessica’s.”
    “Can you describe the shoes?” Oseguera asked.
    “No,” Brenda said with a huff.
    Oseguera then asked her about Javier Calzada. He asked her about Bachman Lake Park and where she was on the Monday Javier disappeared. He didn’t mention that he knew Javier was dead. And he left out information about the young man’s green Malibu and the other details of the case.
    Brenda began recounting her story. She didn’t miss a beat. “That Monday I was home when Flaca came over in a green car around ten thirty,” Brenda recalled with surprising precision. “It was raining that night and very cold,” she added, becoming more animated. “I got in the car and asked Flaca if it was hers. She didn’t say, but later my homie Spooky told me that Flaca had killed some boy and stole his car.”
    Oseguera carefully noted the names Flaca and Spooky.
    “So we went over to Rio Loco, smoked some pot, and hung out. Then I went home,” Brenda continued, bored and slouching in her chair. “The next day, I called Flaca and asked her why she killed that guy and stole his car. She told me she took the guy out to the boon-docks and shot him to make rank in our gang, the MS. I’ve been a member for two months,” she admitted proudly before sitting up again.
    Brenda’s pride in her gang compelled her to declare her associationwith the Mara Salvatrucha even if she had to lie about what she remembered the night of Javier’s murder. She believed it was