Chapter Eighteen #2
It was a tearful discussion. Both brothers cried and beseeched me to find another way.
Jesus insisted that he did not kill Martha Renteria.
He said he had lied to the detectives to protect Fernando, who had given him the money after a good month selling tar heroin.
Jesus thought that revealing his brother’s generosity would lead to another investigation of Fernando and his possible arrest.
The brothers urged me to investigate the case. Jesus told me Renteria had had other suitors that night in The Cobra Room. The reason he had paid her so much money was because she had played him off another bidder for her services.
Lastly, Jesus told me it was true that he had thrown a knife into the river but it was because he was afraid.
It wasn’t the murder weapon. It was just a knife he used on day jobs he picked up in Pacoima.
It looked like the knife they were describing on the Spanish channel and he got rid of it before going to the police to straighten things out.
I listened and then told them that none of their explanations mattered.
The only thing that mattered was the DNA.
Jesus had a choice. He could take the fifteen years or go to trial and risk getting the death penalty or life without the possibility of parole.
I reminded Jesus that he was a young man.
He could be out by age forty. He could still have a life.
By the time I left the jailhouse meeting, I had Jesus Menendez’s consent to make the deal.
I only saw him one more time after that.
At his plea-and-sentencing hearing when I stood next to him in front of the judge and coached him through the guilty plea.
He was shipped off to Pelican Bay initially and then down to San Quentin after that.
I had heard through the courthouse grapevine that his brother had gotten himself popped again—this time for using heroin.
But he didn’t call me. He went with a different lawyer and I didn’t have to wonder why.
On the warehouse floor I opened the report on the autopsy of Martha Renteria. I was looking for two specific things that had probably not been looked at very closely by anyone else before. The case was closed. It was a dead file. Nobody cared anymore.
The first was the part of the report that dealt with the fifty-three stab wounds Renteria suffered during the attack on her bed.
Under the heading “Wound Profile” the unknown weapon was described as a blade no longer than five inches and no wider than an inch.
Its thickness was placed at one-eighth of an inch.
Also noted in the report was the occurrence of jagged skin tears at the top of the victim’s wounds, indicating that the top of the blade had an uneven line, to wit, it was designed as a weapon that would inflict damage going in as well as coming out.
The shortness of the blade suggested that the weapon might be a folding knife.
There was a crude drawing in the report that depicted the outline of the blade without a handle.
It looked familiar to me. I pulled my briefcase across the floor from where I had put it down and opened it up.
From the state’s discovery file I pulled the photo of the open folding knife with Louis Roulet’s initials etched on the blade.
I compared the blade to the outline drawn on the page in the autopsy report.
It wasn’t an exact match but it was damn close.
I then pulled out the recovered weapon analysis report and read the same paragraph I had read during the meeting in Roulet’s office the day before.
The knife was described as a custom-made Black Ninja folding knife with a blade measuring five inches long, one inch wide and one-eighth of an inch thick—the same measurements belonging to the unknown knife used to kill Martha Renteria.
The knife Jesus Menendez supposedly threw into the L.A. River.
I knew that a five-inch blade wasn’t unique.
Nothing was conclusive but my instincts told me I was moving toward something.
I tried not to let the burn that was building in my chest and throat distract me.
I tried to stay on point. I moved on. I needed to check for a specific wound but I didn’t want to look at the photos contained in the back of the report, the photos that coldly documented the horribly violated body of Martha Renteria.
Instead I went to the page that had two side-by-side generic body profiles, one for the front and one for the back.
On these the medical examiner had marked the wounds and numbered them.
Only the front profile had been used. Dots and numbers 1 through 53.
It looked like a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle and I didn’t doubt that Kurlen or some detective looking for anything in the days before Menendez walked in had connected them, hoping the killer had left his initials or some other bizarre clue behind.
I studied the front profile’s neck and saw two dots on either side of the neck. They were numbered 1 and 2. I turned the page and looked at the list of individual wound descriptions.
The description for wound number 1 read: Superficial puncture on the lower right neck with ante-mortem histamine levels, indicative of coercive wound.
The description for wound number 2 read: Superficial puncture on the lower left neck with ante-mortem histamine levels, indicative of coercive wound. This puncture measures 1 cm larger than wound No. 1.
The descriptions meant the wounds had been inflicted while Martha Renteria was still alive.
And that was likely why they had been the first wounds listed and described.
The examiner had suggested it was likely that the wounds resulted from a knife being held to the victim’s neck in a coercive manner.
It was the killer’s method of controlling her.
I turned back to the state’s discovery file for the Campo case.
I pulled the photographs of Reggie Campo and the report on her physical examination at Holy Cross Medical Center.
Campo had a small puncture wound on the lower left side of her neck and no wounds on her right side.
I next scanned through her statement to the police until I found the part in which she described how she got the wound.
She said that her attacker pulled her up off the floor of the living room and told her to lead him toward the bedroom.
He controlled her from behind by gripping the bra strap across her back with his right hand and holding the knife point against the left side of her neck with his left hand.
When she felt him momentarily rest his wrist on her shoulder she made her move, suddenly pivoting and pushing backwards, knocking her attacker into a large floor vase, and then breaking away.
I thought I understood now why Reggie Campo had only one wound on her neck, compared with the two Martha Renteria ended up with.
If Campo’s attacker had gotten her to the bedroom and put her down on the bed, he would have been facing her when he climbed on top of her.
If he kept his knife in the same hand—the left—the blade would shift to the other side of her neck.
When they found her dead in the bed, she’d have coercive punctures on both sides of her neck.
I put the files aside and sat cross-legged on the floor without moving for a long time.
My thoughts were whispers in the darkness inside.
In my mind I held the image of Jesus Menendez’s tear-streaked face when he had told me that he was innocent—when he’d begged me to believe him—and I had told him that he must plead guilty.
It had been more than legal advice I was dispensing.
He had no money, no defense and no chance—in that order—and I told him he had no choice.
And though ultimately it was his decision and from his mouth that the word guilty was uttered in front of the judge, it felt to me now as though it had been me, his own attorney, holding the knife of the system against his neck and forcing him to say it.