This Is for the Mara Salvatrucha (6 page)

L
ike a good gangster, Brenda had remained tough and collected under Oseguera’s questioning during both interviews, but she still had doubts about being an MS member. She had been a member for less than a month when she witnessed Javier’s murder. After less than four months in the gang and just weeks before she turned sixteen, Brenda had become a prime suspect for capital murder in Texas. This was not what she had signed up for. The time span between her two radically different lives, from beloved daughter to gangster wanted for murder, had passed too quickly, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

After her second meeting with Oseguera, Brenda realized that she had to run. She couldn’t trust the cop, and she couldn’t go to her family in California—the MS might follow her and harm them. She couldn’t go back to her sour uncle, Rafael, or to Honduras. Her only option was to do what Veto had told her to do in a letter from prison: go to Virginia and find Denis Rivera, a trusted homie Brenda had met briefly when he came down to Dallas to help Veto take care of a rival gang member. Veto was in prison, and the other guys at Calzada’s murder were leaving the state. Without Veto, she had no direction, no stability in Texas. She needed another anchor to keep her street life stable, so she placed Denis in her sights and traveled to Virginia to find him.

On March 23, 2002, Brenda turned sixteen. It was a lonely birthday. When she’d turned fifteen in Honduras, she had been surrounded
by friends and family. This time, she was on the run from a murder rap in Texas and a member of a violent street gang. What a turn her life had taken.

Through the spring, Brenda traveled with some of her homies from Texas throughout the Southeast and connected with other MS cliques in Tennessee and North Carolina. They traveled by day and squatted in hotels, living rooms, and garages by night. Brenda began to understand that her gang had a real presence all over the country. She had no problem finding a place to stay or making money. There were many parties, new faces, and stories to tell. She reveled in the experience, the good side of gang life, yet she continued to feel very conflicted about being a member of the Mara Salvatrucha. Javier’s murder weighed heavily on her conscience. On the outside, Brenda had permanently affixed the mask of a gangster, but she needed something more to harden herself against the fearful possibility that she would let the mask slip at the wrong time, in front of the wrong person. This gang was serious. There was no room for maybes or doubt. She was hanging with true-to-life gangsters. If she didn’t match their fervor, there would be serious consequences, so she lied to protect herself.

She told new acquaintances on the road that her dad was an MS member and that she was jumped in when she was thirteen in Los Angeles. She knew enough about MS history and Los Angeles to back up the story. Each lie boosted her credit among the MS members she met. Brenda was still a second-class member simply because she was female in a macho gang world, but her affiliation with the Normandie Locos, combined with her lies about her MS origins, generated respect everywhere she went. Doors opened for her.

The combination of real power and street credit were heady drugs for a girl her age. They kept her alive and propelled her forward, away from Texas and toward an unknown future. Surrounded by gangsters and protected by her lies and a tough outer shell, Brenda kept the doubts and fears of a normal adolescent girl away from the men. She learned more than she should have, and remembered everything she saw and heard, just like a video recording.

Once Brenda decided to head toward Virginia, she knew exactly where to go. Through Veto, she had strong connections with gang leaders in northern Virginia, particularly with Denis Rivera. Denis and Brenda had met in passing before her arrival in Virginia. Veto knew he wasn’t getting out of prison anytime soon, so he wrote in a coded let
ter to Denis that he wanted Denis to take care of her. It was a relationship sparked by an order from a senior gang member to ensure Brenda’s protection and companionship.

Denis was not the typical MS member. He was respected by members of the Normandie Locos, as well as a number of other cliques in the area, including the Silva Locos and the Centrales Locos—both Los Angeles “13” cliques that were well established on the East Coast. At eighteen, Denis was the leader of his own clique, the Biggie Gangster Locos, and was as respected as any leader solely because of his willingness to kill.

When Brenda met Denis after her trek from Texas, his reputation as a cold-blooded killer didn’t turn her off. She’d already been desensitized by Veto’s stories and his penchant for using murder as a solution. Just as she had been attracted to Veto, Brenda found Denis’s power and confidence alluring. Denis found in Brenda a smart and charming girl.

Brenda arrived in Arlington, Virginia, after many weeks on the road. She was tired of moving and looked forward to getting to know a new place where no one knew her, especially the local cops. Her reputation, built partly on lies and partly on Veto’s letters, had preceded her, and Denis and many of the other MS homies in northern Virginia accepted her with open arms. They treated her as family. This was the part she most loved about being MS. Anywhere she went, people took her in as family.

Brenda was the only member of the Normandie Locos in Virginia, so she spent time hanging out with homies from different local cliques. Denis introduced her to the men who operated at his level, the leaders. Veto had taught Brenda when to be respectful and when to be sassy. She knew the rules, but found the MS members in Virginia to be a little less serious. Compared to Veto, these guys are easy to deal with, Brenda thought. With Denis at her side, she easily made new friends and settled into her new life on the streets of Fairfax, Arlington, and Alexandria. It took some time, but after a few days, she felt safe from Detective Oseguera, far away in Texas.

Brenda hadn’t yet spent a year in the gang, but after the initial days of meeting important MS local leaders, she relaxed a little. She started to smile again. One by one, she easily won over Denis and the others. They slowly began to trust Brenda. She was privy to all but the gang’s most secret information, which set her apart from all other female members and many males. As she went from party to party at night
and from one job to another during the day, Brenda’s mind never stopped working. It took snapshots of everything she saw. She recorded names, places, faces, numbers, and addresses.

Most of what she recorded was unimportant and didn’t bother her, but disturbing scenes from Texas began to creep into her dreams. In Virginia, she learned information that burned away her innocence. Javier’s murder was one scene she’d never forget, but she was especially disturbed when Denis told her about the time he killed someone he thought was a member of a rival gang. Denis had said that cutting out the guy’s throat was like cutting through raw chicken. She’d cut raw chicken before and knew what that felt like. Brenda had fought hard to control her emotions. Denis wasn’t kidding. He had a disturbing dark side, and he’d shown Brenda only a peek. For days after that moment, Brenda couldn’t shake the image of Denis sawing through someone’s neck. It was too gruesome and entirely too real. She knew Denis had killed this guy. Like Javier’s murder, it was another horrible scene that played in her mind constantly.

D
enis Rivera’s youthful, handsome features and smooth, light brown skin veiled well what was simmering underneath, a desire to control everyone around him through fear, violence, and even murder. His good looks were not marred by gang tattoos of rank or reputation. His face was clean. In another life, Denis could have passed for a pretty boy, except for one thing: his dark eyes held no remorse.

When Denis told Brenda about the time he cut out a kid’s throat, he began by explaining that it had happened in the fall of 2001, when he had planned the murder of Joaquin Diaz, a twenty-year-old Latino who he believed was a
chavala
, a rival gang member. Joaquin hadn’t seen it coming, Denis said. As was customary among street gang members, those targeted for death were lulled into a false sense of confidence. It was a tactic they called “rocking the cradle,” and it has been employed by organized crime for decades.

Joaquin sold marijuana from time to time, and Denis thought asking to buy some would be a legitimate reason for them to meet up. The two met on a chilly evening in Alexandria, Virginia, at a fast-food restaurant where Joaquin’s girlfriend worked. Denis and another friend sat in a booth, with Joaquin on the other side. After a few minutes of idle conversation, Denis began to tease Joaquin, jokingly acting like he was going to punch him, threatening to jump him and deliver a beat-down. It was a macho act Denis liked to do in jest. But Joaquin didn’t
think it was funny and got up and left. I don’t need Denis’s money that bad, Joaquin thought as he hurried out the door. Shouting for him to stop, Denis got up and followed him outside. Joaquin was startled and broke into a run.

Denis ran after him, shouting that he was just kidding, that everything was cool. He kept shouting as he followed Joaquin across the parking lot. Joaquin decided that maybe Denis was kidding after all, so he slowed down to a walk and turned around. Denis caught up with Joaquin and calmed him down. Denis tried to convince him that he just wanted to hang out and invited Joaquin to a nearby house party. Reassured, Joaquin agreed to hang out, but he wasn’t going to stick around that long. Just enough time for Denis to get too drunk or stoned to care. Then he would leave.

Joaquin and Denis talked casually as they walked a half mile to the apartment of a local leader from Denis’s street gang. They walked up the stairwell, and as they approached the door, the sound of people talking and laughing mixed with thumping music and the smell of marijuana and cigarettes. When they entered the living room, where a number of his friends were hanging out, Denis introduced Joaquin to his homies in the room, asked someone to get him a beer, then told Joaquin to sit tight. Denis turned and walked down the short hall to a back room, where he knew the leader, known as Fiel, would be hanging out. He needed Fiels’s support to kill Joaquin.

In the back room, far out of earshot from an unsuspecting but slightly nervous Joaquin, Denis explained to Fiel that he had a
chavala
he wanted to kill. Fiel said it was cool but suggested Denis take some help. He knew the young killer could handle it, but didn’t want the murder to get out of control.

He left the room and headed back toward the living room to round up his crew. Denis was getting excited. He had received backing to make a hit in the name of his gang—a
luz verde
, or green light. All gang members considered a
luz verde
serious business, but most tried to avoid being the one to pull the trigger. Fewer than two in ten actually request a
luz verde
on someone. It meant taking the life of a specified target. If they were assigned the task, a member either killed the target or received serious discipline for not carrying out the hit.

When asked if they would kill for the gang, most homies puff up and give a resounding affirmative, but secretly they hope they don’t have to follow through. Denis was different from most members in his
gang. Fiel knew that Denis was a seasoned hit man. He would carry out the hit and come back to celebrate the next day. The willingness to kill was what separated Denis and a limited number of hard-core members in his gang from the rest, who tried to avoid violence.

Denis stepped into the living room and spoke discreetly to the men he wanted to join him that night, one by one. One was the largest guy in the house; Denis wanted him to come along to add muscle. Another went along for fun. A third grabbed a knife from the kitchen and agreed to help Denis kill Joaquin; he was another of the gang’s seasoned killers. The fourth homie offered to drive and be the lookout. The owner of a green Toyota Camry offered to let Denis use his car. Denis had pushed through the crowded living room to speak to each homie he wanted in on the plan. He had whispered under the loud music, planning his murder in the very apartment where the victim sat waiting on a couch.

With the plans in place, Denis and the other four prepared to leave. Denis invited Joaquin to come with them to pick up some marijuana for the party. Maybe on the way back they will drop me off, Joaquin thought, so he agreed. They all left the apartment and in the chilly fall night, piled into the Toyota Camry and headed for an address in northeast Washington, D.C. On the way, they decided to make a stop at Daingerfield Island.

Daingerfield Island was a national park just off of the George Washington Memorial Parkway, a couple of miles north of Old Town in Alexandria. It was close enough to Reagan National Airport to hear the constant drone of plane engines during takeoff and the screeching of rubber tires as they landed.

But between flights, the natural sounds of a wooded area in Virginia prevailed. During the day, birdsong mixed with car tires crunching over gravel as visitors came and went. Like many park areas along the river, Daingerfield was a known meeting spot for clandestine lunch encounters among gay men and illegal nighttime activity for local teens. At dusk, crickets were in song. Otherwise the park was quiet and empty. Later in the evening the park was silent, save for the noise from the airport and the gurgle of water lapping against the muddy slopes and tree roots along the banks of the Potomac. While major crime in these parks was fairly uncommon, the density of the forest and the confusing number of footpaths that meandered through the overgrown underbrush made it a perfect place for murder.

Denis told the driver they would just make a quick stop by Daingerfield Island to see if any of their friends were hanging out by the river. If so, they could get more money for the marijuana. Everyone thought it was a good idea except for Joaquin, who was silent and stuffed in the back of the Camry. He just wanted to go home, but he decided it was best to keep his mouth shut and just go along with Denis’s plans. It was nearly dark when they arrived at the park. The small group wasted no time in piling out of the car to head toward the water.

Denis offered to let Joaquin start down the path first. It was a single track, a winding trail thick with the thorny green branches of blackberry bushes and the creeping tendrils of vines crisscrossing the forest floor. Woody tree roots rose from the earth, daring visitors to run and not trip. Denis followed close behind Joaquin, with another homie just behind Denis. Two more homies followed in case Joaquin tried to run back up the path. The driver stayed with the car.

The narrow footpath led from the back of the parking lot to the river. They walked in silence for a few minutes, marching farther away from the parking lot and any chance for discovery with each step. When the small group was two hundred yards from the river, Denis silently removed a knife from under his shirt. He then quickly reached over Joaquin’s shoulder and stabbed him in the chest.

Suddenly frenzied with pain and adrenaline, Joaquin ran, wrenching the imbedded blade from Denis’s grip before it fell to the ground. I’ve been stabbed! Joaquin’s mind screamed with disbelief. The reality of the moment flooded in. If they caught him, he would die in that park. How stupid he was to trust Denis! Fear flooded Joaquin’s senses. The pain in his chest was sharply focused on the point where Denis’s knife had ripped through his skin. It hurt to breathe and even more to run. Adrenaline took over. He had to escape.

Denis and his homies pursued. Crazed with fright, Joaquin began screaming. Maybe someone would hear him.

Denis caught up with Joaquin only moments later, after he tripped on an unseen root. Sprawled out on the ground, Joaquin fought the pain in his chest and tried to get up, but it was too late. Denis jumped on top of Joaquin and held him down. Joaquin bucked and fought to get Denis off of him, but when another one of Denis’s friends ran up and kicked Joaquin in the head, the world spun. His ears were ringing and his vision was blurred. He was on his back on the cold ground with Denis straddled on top. Still he fought to get Denis off him. A second
homie arrived and passed Denis the knife he had grabbed from Fiel’s kitchen. Denis gripped the knife and attacked Joaquin with powerful downward strokes, slashing his raised forearms and hands and stabbing him repeatedly in the chest and stomach. Before Joaquin stopped trying to defend himself, Denis had stabbed him thirteen times, a macabre salute to his gang. Still on top of Joaquin, Denis breathed heavily from the exertion. Joaquin’s body was still, but his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. Joaquin still wasn’t dead, and Denis wasn’t finished.

As the others watched, Denis sawed at Joaquin’s neck, cutting deeply to the spinal cord before cursing, frustrated with the inadequate steak knife. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut off the head. Denis settled for what he could do with the dull blade: he cut out his victim’s larynx, esophagus, and windpipe. Finally done with his grisly task, Denis threw the body parts aside, stood up, and stepped over Joaquin’s body to begin the walk back to the car. The others followed in silence, stupefied by what they had just witnessed. But no one dared to say a word. As calmly as they had arrived, the group drove back to an apartment in Alexandria, where Denis washed off the blood.

Early the next morning, two fishermen nearly stumbled over Joaquin’s remains while walking to the river. They were sickened by the sight of a nearly decapitated body and immediately called 911. The next day, news of Joaquin’s murder hit the papers. Denis loved it when the press picked up on his work. As word of the crime spread through the ranks of his street gang, Denis once again enjoyed a swell in his reputation as a heavy hitter and a man who had no problem committing grisly murder.

Many months later, in the summer of 2002, as Denis got to know Brenda, he readily shared his story of killing Joaquin. He respected her as someone he thought was a hardened homie who was jumped in at age thirteen, and he wanted to boast. Denis’s story represented everything she hated about her gang. His story pushed her to the edge of what she thought she could handle. Smile now, cry later—it was a mantra she found harder and harder to follow. Brenda wanted to cry now and smile later, but she maintained her façade. After Denis told her about Joaquin, Brenda had to focus on what she liked about Denis. She didn’t dare allow herself to think about what he had told her.

Brenda longed for a moment alone, but after Denis confided in her, he was more watchful, careful to see how she carried the weight of this
information. Now she knew about two cold-blooded murders. These two murders settled heavily on her conscience, mixed in with all the other images and experiences she had endured as a member of the MS-13. As much as she loved the gang, and some of the men she had met during her time as a gangster, Brenda felt like she needed a break. A small part of her even wanted out. This gang life was too intense, a small voice in her head began to repeat softly. Her inner feelings of disquiet and desire to leave the gang sat dormant until a fateful day when the Arlington police finally separated her from Denis and the Mara Salvatrucha world. That break she longed for set her on a path to becoming something she never thought possible: an informant.