April 24, 1983 started off no different than any other day. On the outside, I probably looked and acted much like I normally did. However, inside, the grief was unbearable, and I couldn’t make it stop. A part of me thought I deserved to suffer—ultimately I blamed myself for everything. I could only understand that I failed. I had no one to talk to about the mounting and overwhelming sense of loss and grief.
The only person I believed would understand and help me through my anguish was my father. But he was in Colombia and didn’t know his grandson was dead, and it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have over the phone. I had no one to talk to or cry with. I was alone in my sorrow. As time went by it was more difficult to speak with Vanessa about what was destroying me inside because she believed I blamed her, so I kept my heartache bottled inside, trying to hang on and get through it all.
That evening, I picked up Vanessa on my motorcycle, a 1983 Kawasaki GPz750. It wasn’t cold and I wanted to ride. I drove up her block, but she was waiting at the corner. She smiled, and as soon as I stopped she sat on the back seat and said, “Let’s go,” and kissed me.
We rode off, and at the first light we came to I asked, “Why were you waiting at the corner? Did Loretta do something?”
“No, she has one of her new boyfriends coming over and I didn’t want to be there.” I nodded. She smiled and kissed me again.
We went to a house party in Covina. A guy I’d met during a business deal invited us, and when we arrived he was out front waiting but appeared disappointed I hadn’t brought my car.
“What’s up, Bill? Where’s your ride?”
“At the house. I felt like riding tonight. This is my girlfriend, Vanessa.”
“Hey, Vanessa, what’s up?”
She nodded her greeting.
“You guys go on inside,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. Grab a beer, whatever you want. Mi casa es su casa.”
“Right on, man. Thanks.” I needed this. I smiled for the first time in a long time.
I took a deep breath and went inside holding Vanessa’s hand. For the next few hours we listened to the live band and relaxed—just a couple of kids at a house party. Anyone who saw us saw a nice couple having a good time. No one could have guessed how things would end that night, not even us. If I had, I never would have taken Vanessa home.
We left the house party before midnight and went to a local burger joint on Arrow and Grand Avenue. We stayed around a while longer to eat and talk, then drove to a spot in the hills near La Habra where the lights of the distant city are a beautiful panoramic view. It was a quiet place where we could be alone and enjoy each other’s company.
I noticed Vanessa seemed happier than usual. We stood leaning against my motorcycle. She was in my arms while we kissed gently. She pulled away from our kiss to smile.
“Bill, I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Why do you think you’ll lose me?”
“I’ve almost lost you twice now. Once when you were almost stabbed to death, and since we lost our son you’ve been different—distant and angry.”
“We didn’t lose our son. He was murdered.” My muscles tensed and anger bubbled to the surface.
“I know, and I’m sorry. But maybe you could be happy again.” She looked at me. “I think I’m pregnant.”
I felt as if I’d been struck by lightning, and I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I was in shock. Her words took me by complete surprise. Finally, I spoke.
“Are you sure? I mean, how long?”
“A little while. Are you happy?”
“Yes, of course I’m happy, but I’m afraid. I won’t let anyone hurt our baby like they hurt William. He suffered. He felt what was done to him. I saw pictures of how he would have looked before, and he was fully formed and alive—a beautiful child.”
I got upset. My stomach tightened, my mouth went dry, and panic set in. My mind and emotions were in overdrive, and I vowed to protect our second child. We left our spot and I drove her home. A few blocks from her house, at the light, she told me to drop her off at the corner where I picked her up. I turned my head to look at her.
“I’m driving to your house and walking you to your door just as I always have. I’m not hiding from anyone and I’m not going to let you walk home alone.”
“Please. I just don’t want to argue tonight, and I want to go to sleep.”
The last thing I wanted was to upset her.
“What if I pull over a block from your house and I walk you the rest of the way. No one will know I’m there.”
She nodded, and we headed to her house. I parked a block away in a parking lot beside a baseball field, and we walked the rest of the way.
We arrived at the house and it was dark. I walked Vanessa to the porch, and as we kissed goodnight the door suddenly burst open. I instinctively put Vanessa behind me and faced Loretta.
“What are you doing here, you son of a bitch?”
“Making sure Vanessa gets home safely.”
“She doesn’t need you for anything. Get the fuck out of my house.”
Loretta got angrier, but at that moment I didn’t really care how angry she got anymore. Vanessa touched me and I turned to her. The look on her face said it all. She didn’t want to stay there. I turned to walk away with Vanessa, and that’s when Loretta hit me on the side of the head so hard it made my ears ring. I spun around to face her and she swung at my head again, barely missing another blow. Because it was so dark, I couldn’t see that Loretta held a wooden tonfa, a type of wooden baton-like weapon used in some martial arts. As she swung at my head a third time, I caught and ripped it from her grasp.
“Big man, you think you’re something, don’t you? You weren’t so big when I killed that monster growing inside of my daughter. Do you know why I killed it?”
Loretta laughed, then spat, and I started to tick like a time bomb. Everything—all of it rushed to the surface. I was losing control, so I tried to turn and escape. But she poked me hard in the middle of the chest with her finger.
“Because it would have been just like you. Yeah, big man. One down, one to go.”
She poked me even harder again, and while she spoke my vision turned red.
“You’re next,” she said as she spat in my face.
Images flashed before my eyes. In a split second I saw the cradle I’d labored to make, I saw myself burying the fragmented pieces, touching Vanessa’s stomach and feeling our baby move, missing his first words, and all the things I imagined we’d have done together. Then all the thoughts and images of what I’d learned about how he’d suffered surged through my mind. A father never stops being a father. I started to shake, but I moved to walk away. I had to escape. Loretta slapped me hard across my face again. I heard a pop in my head and my vision went completely red. Agony, pain, rage, grief, and heartbreak engulfed me, and that’s the last thing I remember.
Over the next eight months, I was worse than ever. Not only did I fail to protect my son, I lost control and was responsible for the loss of a human life.
What happened haunted me. I couldn’t get past any of it and felt I should be punished. Those thoughts manifested during every waking moment. I started to self-destruct. My anger faced inward onto myself, and I became an even more distant loner. I couldn’t shake the guilt or shame. I searched for the person I once was, the guy who competed in disciplined martial arts competitions and reveled in stealing cars, but I only found emptiness. I was a mere shadow of my former self, and worst of all, I knew it.
In a desperate attempt to find my way back, I drove to Huntington Beach at 2 a.m. I walked to the water, taking off my shirt and shoes, and dove in. The cold water took my breath away, but a calmness set in. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. I considered swimming until exhaustion overwhelmed me and allowing the ocean to claim me. I swam on, passing the end of the pier. I remembered the first time I swam that far. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Where was he? That guy I used to be? I pressed on. My shoulder muscles burned, but I needed to keep going. I needed to find my way back. Suddenly it was there. That burning anger I always relied on. My only true constant. I stopped swimming, took a deep breath, and looked back to the shore—easily half a mile. As I swam back to shore I thought of William and allowed the tragedy of it all to burn inside of me. As I reached the shore, exhausted and in agony, I accepted that I would bear the burden.
Vanessa was mistaken. She wasn’t pregnant. I think she hoped for it, and a part of her wanted to replace what was taken from us. I took it like a man who’d been chained and whipped. It was another deep gash in an already bloodied soul. Or maybe the opposite was true. Perhaps it was preparation for what was to come, hardening me, like the folds of a Katana sword as they’re bent and hammered to produce “shadows,” a process that increases its strength. Maybe it’s why I wear a ring that reads, “Soul of a thousand shadows.”
Nevertheless, I forged on. I competed in fights I should never have taken. I found a certain justice in pain, and routinely allowed myself to be hit before letting my rage surface and brutally beating my opponents.
I also resumed stealing cars at an even more alarming rate. I was undisciplined and was arrested on multiple occasions. I made mistakes but didn’t care. I’d make bail and continue on my path of self-destruction.
Late one night I was driving home from the city of La Habra when a black-and-white cruiser behind me started flashing its lights. I pulled over and two cops walked up on either side of my car. One stood on the driver’s side, the other behind the passenger side bumper with his gun drawn. I placed both hands on the steering wheel.
“Step out of the car, Mr. Noguera.”
I was relieved. For a moment I thought I was finally being arrested. It had been months since that fateful night. But that night it was about cars, specifically the beautiful ’62 convertible I drove. It was a car I’d only finished recently.
“Step out of the car, Mr. Noguera, and put your hands on top of your head.”
I did as I was told. The cop stepped behind me and patted me down, then cuffed my wrists. I was turned around as the head of the car theft squad pulled up behind us. “Mr. Noguera,” he nodded. “Good evening. This is one beautiful car.” He looked inside. “Amazing. This may be the best one you’ve put together for yourself. How many has it been? I’ve seen you with ten? Twelve?” He answered his own question. “Yes, at least. Well, I told you I’d someday catch you. And this is that day.”
I didn’t respond and didn’t care what he said. I’d beat him every time we met. Why should this time be any different?
“Take him to the station and book him. Grand theft auto. Though I’m sure it won’t hold him very long, will it, Mr. Noguera? No matter. This time the charge will stick.”
As I was placed into the back of the cruiser, a large flatbed pulled up behind my car.
“Hey, Lieutenant. Scratch my car and you’ll pay for the paint.”
“I wouldn’t dream of scratching it. Besides, I’m sure the rightful owner will love what you’ve done to it. You’re an artist, Mr. Noguera, and this is quite the masterpiece.”
I was booked and within a couple of hours released on bail. But something about the Lieutenant’s demeanor bothered me. He knew something I didn’t. I’d never seen him that confident in all the years we’d faced each other. It was as if he’d already won.
On the third day after my car was impounded, I called the Lieutenant. By law, he had five days to prove the car was stolen. If the original owner couldn’t be found, then the car would be returned to me. It was a game we’d played for years and I always won because of how difficult it was to check every reported stolen car throughout the state. I could have taken the car from anywhere, which made it that much more difficult for him.
I dialed his number, using the card he’d given me. He always told me if I ever needed to “talk,” meaning to rat someone out and save my own skin, he’d always lend an ear. That would never happen. After the second ring, he answered.
“Hello?”
“How you doing, Lieutenant?”
He recognized my voice and said, “Mr. Noguera. I was just talking about you to the district attorney.”
“Really? Is he going to help wash and wax my car before I pick it up?”
“Actually, no. We were talking about the ’62 and how tomorrow at ten a.m. the legal owner will be driving from Santa Barbara to identify it. Ms. Christine was on vacation, which is why it wasn’t done days ago.”
As he spoke, my stomach tightened and my mouth went dry. Someone had talked, and the list of people who knew where I’d taken the ’62 from was extremely short.
“Lieutenant, you’re swinging in the dark again. I’ll be by the day after tomorrow to pick up my car.”
“Not this time, Mr. Noguera. You have a nice day.” He hung up.
I tried to recall the entire conversation. First, he knew where I’d got the car because someone told him. Second, and most importantly, its original owner would be there the next day to identify it, meaning it hadn’t been ID’d yet. The owner had to see it in person, but even then it would be difficult to ID since I’d changed it so much. Maybe the owner wouldn’t be able to. For a moment, I allowed that idea to give me hope. Nah, if my car was stolen and the cops had a car they said was mine, I’d ID it quickly, especially if it looked as good as that car.
I made up my mind—the owner would never see the car. The Lieutenant made a big mistake telling me the owner would identify it the next day. I’d take it back that night. It wouldn’t be easy. The ’62 was held at the police station impound yard. But it was either that or sit back and let fate take its course.
At 1 a.m. I approached the impound yard and climbed to the top of the twenty-foot wall. About one hundred feet away I saw the white top of my car. At first glance I knew I was faced with a bad situation. If I jumped into the yard it would be difficult to get out, so I needed an escape route. I retreated back to my motorcycle and rode home to pick up a small pair of bolt cutters and the tool bag I always carried to hit a mark. I rode to the corner of Colima and Hacienda Boulevard to make the first of a series of phone calls. Each call I made got me closer to the impound yard.
I knew the yard had two tow trucks working the night shift, and I made calls to draw them out. I disguised my voice to request an emergency tow. I told the dispatch operator I was at the corner of Colima and Hacienda. I jumped on my motorcycle and rode to the next street corner, Gale Avenue and Turnbull Canyon Road. I made another call to request service, but this time I said I was in the opposite direction, near Puente and East Temple Avenue. Finally, I rode to a telephone booth a block from the impound yard and made the last call to request a tow in yet another direction.
I parked my motorcycle and ran to the yard to watch the action from across the street. First one, then the other tow truck left the impound yard from out of the main entrance. The impound yard had two entrances—one gate for civilian business and the second gate for the police. As soon as the second truck was gone, I ran across the railroad tracks and heard a train horn bellowing in the distance as it approached. It was then or never. In seconds, I climbed over the twenty-foot wall, landing on the impound yard pavement, and ran to my car and got inside. I shut the door and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of my car. It would be the last time I’d drive her.
I hit the electric fuel pump, and its sound filled my ears. I turned the key, which had been left dangling in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. With the lights shut off, I drove toward the police gate, which was far from the main office and out of earshot. I got out, cut the lock off the gate, and slid it open. Then I drove quickly to the house of a guy I knew, but who had no connection to my car stealing business. I parked my car in his locked garage and gave him instructions to let no one see the car or know about it. I explained it was my car, but the cops were looking for it, and that I’d be back in a few days to strip and cut it up. I asked him for a ride and he dropped me off a few blocks over from my house. I jumped several of my neighbor’s backyard fences to get to my house through the back door. As soon as the cops discovered the ’62 was gone, they’d come for me. I crept into bed, and within ten minutes the cops surrounded my house and the Lieutenant was banging on my door.
I opened the sliding glass window next to the front door.
“What the fuck? What are you doing here at two in the morning?” I wiped my eyes as if he’d awoken me from sleep.
“Where were you tonight?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Right here, Lieutenant. Why?”
He looked at his partner. I could see he was unsure.
“What’s the problem? Why are you here?” I asked.
“Would you step outside for a moment, Mr. Noguera?”
“I’m not stepping outside from nowhere. What’s this about?”
As I said that, my mother had woken and stepped to the window to see what was happening.
“What’s going on? Why are you bothering my son? You have nothing better to do?”
“Mrs. Noguera, has your son been home all night?”
“Yes. Can’t you see you woke us up?”
The Lieutenant asked to speak with my mother alone, so I left but hid in the dark hallway to listen in.
“Mrs. Noguera, this is a serious matter. I need your help.”
“First of all, it’s Ms. Salinas. I’m divorced. Now, what do you want? I’m tired and want to go back to sleep.”
“Has your son left the house tonight?”
“No.”
“I noticed he has fresh scrapes to his arms. How did he get them if he hasn’t gone out?”
“He was pulling weeds and gardening right over there next to the chain-link fence. The wires cut him.”
I heard the Lieutenant instruct his partner to check if it looked like someone had, in fact, been working in the garden.
“Yeah, Lieutenant. Looks like quite a bit of work has been done, and there’s a sharp wire that keeps the roses protected.”
There was a long pause.
“Both car engines are cold and haven’t been driven tonight.”
I had them now, so I walked back into my room with my mother.
“Well, Lieutenant, are you going to tell us why you came here to wake us up? Please tell me there’s more to it than being worried enough to make sure I’m asleep and safely in bed.”
“I don’t know how you did it, but you’ll go down for this. You’re involved. I know it. Someone got into the police impound yard and took the ’62. I know it just happened because the gate was found open and it wasn’t like that less than half an hour ago.”
“I haven’t left my house tonight. My car was left in police custody and you allowed someone else to take it?”
“It’s not your car. You stole it, you son of a bitch,” he yelled.
“I own the car, the pink slip is in my name. Correct me if I’m wrong, Lieutenant, but you have no proof I stole anything since the supposed original owner never identified it.”
He glared at me and it all set in. He realized his mistake. He was so happy thinking he’d finally caught me that he’d boasted, giving me a piece of information that I used against him to eliminate the case. No one came to identify the ’62, making it the last time he and I played our cat-and-mouse game. I was tired of it, anyway. Sooner or later, my luck would have run out.
On the morning of December 20, 1983, I woke with a start. I sensed something was wrong. I got out of bed to get ready for my daily run, leaving through the back door of my house. I ran the usual five miles as I’d done countless times before, but a part of me knew it was the last time. I memorized every scene, every scent, promising myself I’d someday return.
The week before, I did the same thing when visiting my son’s grave in my secret cave.
“I’ll never forget you, son,” I said, as I placed my hands on the rocks covering the buried pieces of his cradle. “I’ll hold you inside my heart forever.”
I returned from my run and woke my mother. I planned to take her and my grandmother to the Los Angeles Jewelry Market later that morning. It was a few days before Christmas and I wanted them to pick out jewelry they liked for their Christmas presents. As they readied, I showered and took my dog for a quick walk. While I walked him I felt I was being watched. I stopped, then looked around and continued back to my house. Moments later, with my mother and grandmother in the car, I pulled out of our driveway heading to the 605 Freeway. As we reached the end of the street, an unmarked police car pulled in front of us and cut us off. At the same time, another unmarked police car pulled up behind us. With weapons drawn, they ordered me out of the car.
“Put your hands where we can see them,” yelled a cop.
I opened the driver side door and stepped out with my hands on my head.
“He’s on bail,” my mother cried. I turned to look at her, but instead caught the weight of my grandmother’s eyes. She gave me the sign of the cross and whispered, “Qué Dios te bendiga, papito.”
I read her lips—those words were familiar. She’d said them to me since I was a small child. Closing my eyes, I took a moment of comfort in her words, and turned to face the chaos.
Guns were pointed at me as I was forced to kneel and lay face-first on the asphalt. I was rushed from all sides. Knees pushed into my back and the cold steel of handcuffs bit down on my wrists. My ankles were cuffed.
“Just in case you get any ideas of using your feet,” one of the detectives said.
They threw me down face-first into the back of the unmarked police car, and before the door closed I turned my head to look outside. There, on her knees, my grandmother cried. Immediately rage boiled to the surface and I struggled to comfort her.
“Easy, you’re not going anywhere. Relax.”
“What’s the charge?” I asked through clenched teeth.
“Oh, it’s a doozy. How’s murder grab you?” said the detective. I looked at him and he smiled.
“Yeah, I thought that’d get your attention. Welcome to hell.”
I closed my eyes. It was finally over.
