At school the next day, Ernesto ran into Carlos Negrete. He and Dom Reynosa used to be taggers in the barrio and dropouts from Cesar Chavez High. But Abel, Ernesto, and Luis Sandoval, Ernesto’s father, “rescued” the boys and convinced them to return to school. Now they had painted a beautiful mural at the school, a work of art that was the pride of the school.
“Hey, Ernie,” Carlos said, “I got something to tell you. Me and Dom were out late last night, and we saw something awful.”
Ernesto wondered what Dom and Carlos were doing out late at night. He hoped they weren’t up to their old bad habits, marking the barrio with graffiti. Some very dramatic graffiti had just appeared on the side of an abandoned warehouse on Polk Street—a dashing figure of Joaquin Murrieta, an outlaw once from California. It looked like the work of Carlos and Dom, but Ernesto didn’t want to make any accusations. Still, it had created quite a stir in the neighborhood, and there was a difference of opinion over whether to paint it over or leave it.
“What did you guys see?” Ernesto asked.
“Me and Dom, we were just hanging out, you know, and we saw these guys taunting the old bum who died,” Carlos said in a matter-of-fact voice that seemed to miss the extent of the horror he was describing.
“What?” Ernesto gasped.
“Yeah, it was like eleven o’clock or something, and there were like three guys with sticks, and they were like makebelieve dueling with the old guy. And he was running this way and that. They were laughing like crazy,” Carlos said.
“And you guys just watched and did nothing?” Ernesto demanded. “You saw them harassing the poor guy, and you didn’t do anything?”
“Oh no, man,” Carlos said. “We stopped, and we ran them off. Me and Dom didn’t have no weapons or anything, but you know the big wind we had a coupla days ago? Street was full of those palm fronds, and we grabbed them and whacked at the dudes and they ran. They were pretty drunk.”
“Was Griff Slocum hurt or anything?” Ernesto asked.
“No. They didn’t even touch him with the sticks. He was scared, though. He was glad when we run them off,” Carlos said.
“Who were these guys, Carlos?” Ernesto asked. “Students at Chavez?”
“Yeah,” Carlos said, “but remember, dude, I ain’t telling you any of this. You never heard it from me. I’m no snitch. I don’t tell on nobody. They ran off and got into a Toyota and took off. Rod Garcia was driving. I didn’t recognize the other two. There was another guy in the car, but he was sleeping or something. Remember, Ernie, I never told you nothin’, right?”
“I got it, homie,” Ernesto said. “But just one thing. They didn’t actually hit Griff Slocum, right?”
“Right. They were waving the sticks and laughing … like a make-believe bullfight. After we run them off, this guy Slocum just walked away. He wasn’t hurt or nothin’. Dom, he asked the guy if he was okay. Slocum don’t talk good, but he nodded and hurried away. Then he kinda stopped. He turned and looked at us. I think he said ‘thanks’ or something. I’m not sure.”
“Thanks, Carlos,” Ernesto said. “Oh, and by the way, there’s an amazing mural on Joaquin Murrieta over on Polk, and it’s pretty striking. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”
Carlos smiled. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.” He turned then and headed for class. Both Carlos and Dom were now seniors making decent grades and very likely to graduate.
Ernesto was disgusted by the story Carlos had told him, but he could imagine a drunken Rod Garcia acting that way. The guy had no class, and he often expressed a hatred of panhandlers. Ernesto thought that if Garcia and his friends were on Washington Street with Griff Slocum at eleven, they may have seen the person who killed Griff soon after.
At lunchtime, Ernesto walked over to where Rod and Clay and Mira Nuñez were eating. He didn’t want to break his word to Carlos, so he looked directly at Rod Garcia and said, “Some lady in the barrio saw three dudes hanging around Griff Slocum last night shortly before he was killed. You were one of them, Garcia.”
Rod Garcia turned pale. “That’s a lie!” he screamed.
“She saw you and a couple of other guys harassing Griff, poking at him with sticks,” Ernesto said coldly.
“Well, she’s a liar,” Rod stammered. “You trying to get me in trouble, Sandoval?”
“You guys were pretending Griff was a bull, and you were taunting him, and then some guys with palm fronds came and ran you off. That’s what she saw, man. She recognized you, but she didn’t know the others,” Ernesto said. “I think you and your friends need to go to the police and tell them if you saw anybody else hanging around. You could have valuable information about the murder.”
“The old witch who told you she saw me there was lying, Sandoval. You tell that old witch to stop telling lies about me. I was home last night studying.”
Clay Aguirre had been silent to this point. He looked upset, though. “I was there at Rod’s house. Mira was too. We were working on math problems till almost midnight,” he said.
“Yeah, the boys were home all evening doing their homework,” Mira added. “They never left Rod’s house.”
Carlos hadn’t seen Clay Aguirre in the trio harassing Griff Slocum. He was probably in the car during the incident. But right now, he was willing to lie for Rod. He was lying for Rod, and Mira was backing him up.
“Well, in case you were there, dude, I’d go to the police and talk to them before they come and talk to you. If this lady saw you, then other people probably did too,” Ernesto said.
“Hey, idiot,” Rod almost shouted, “I wasn’t there! What part of that don’t you understand? If some old witch says she saw me, then maybe she needs new glasses!”
As Ernesto walked away, Clay, Rod, and Mira were in animated conversation. Ernesto couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Mira Nuñez talked to Naomi later on. Though Ernesto and Clay were enemies, Naomi and Mira maintained a cordial relationship.
After school, Naomi told Ernesto that Mira had confided in her.
As Ernesto drove Naomi home, she said, “Mira is really worried, and Clay is just furious. Rod and Clay and two junior guys who’re friends of Rod’s were out drinking last night. Clay was sick. Rod pulled over on Washington. Clay tried to sleep it off before they drove on. While he was sleeping, the two juniors and Rod apparently spotted Griff Slocum stumbling around, and they thought they’d have some fun. They decided to harass him and play matador and bull or something,” Naomi said with disgust.
“Carlos Negrete and Dom Reynosa came along and broke it up. Mira said Rod and the juniors were so drunk they were almost falling down. By the time they got back to Rod’s car, Clay was coming around, but Rod drove home. Too bad a cop didn’t pull him over. He would have gotten a DUI. Anyway, Clay didn’t know anything about the incident until you told him that story of the witness, and now he could strangle Rod, but still, he’s backing up the guy.”
“Well, according to Carlos, the bobos didn’t hurt Griff, and I don’t think they had anything to do with what happened to him. Carlos said Griff was fine when the jerks drove away. I just hope I scared them enough that they go to the cops and give them any information they might have,” Ernesto said.
Ernesto took a deep breath and headed home.
In the next few days, the results of the autopsy on Griff Slocum came out. He died of blunt force trauma to the head. The weapon, which was not found, was probably a pipe or poker. Because of an item found at the murder scene, the news reporter said the police were interviewing a person of interest.
The family of Rod Garcia contacted the most respected lawyer in the barrio, Arturo Sandoval, Luis Sandoval’s brother, that day. Everyone in the barrio knew that no lawyer was better.
When police officers descended on the Garcia home, there were shock waves in the neighborhood. From something Rod Garcia’s mother told a friend, the story quickly leaked. Rod Garcia’s student body ID card was found in the vicinity of the murder scene. As he jumped around Griff Slocum wielding the stick and shouting, he had apparently dropped his wallet. He retrieved the wallet, but his ID card must have slipped out without him seeing or missing it.
“This is just unbelievable,” Luis Sandoval said. “I have little respect for Rod Garcia or Clay Aguirre because of things they have done in the past, but I can’t believe either boy was involved in what happened to poor Mr. Slocum. You told me, Ernie, that Rod and two other boys were harassing Griff, and he probably lost the ID card then. The boys were drunk. It easily could have slipped out.”
“I told Rod to go to the police and admit to the ugly harassment. I didn’t know he’d dropped his ID then, but it would’ve looked a lot better for him if he’d owned up to his stupid behavior before the police found the card,” Ernesto said.
The Garcia family was in a state of shock during their son’s interview. They knew nothing of what he and his friends had done, and they were repulsed. They were frightened too. A man had been murdered, and their son’s ID was at the murder scene.
Rod admitted everything to the police. He identified the two juniors as Humberto Gomez and Rick Alanzar. Rod told the police that he and Rick and Humberto were drunk, and that it had seemed funny at the time to harass the bum, but they did him no harm. Rod swore that Griff Slocum had been alive and well when they left.
Police investigators called in Carlos Negrete and Dom Reynosa, and both boys told the same story that Rod had told. They described beating the drunken teenagers off with palm fronds, and they corroborated Rod Garcia’s account that Griff Slocum was all right when the drunken boys drove away.
Later, the police interviewed Rick Alanzar and Humberto Gomez, and their story was the same as well.
No charges were pressed against Rod Garcia, but the police told him they may want to talk to him again.
At school the next day, Carlos Negrete approached Ernesto. “Dude, everything’s coming up roses,” he said. “Turns out those creeps, Rod and his friends, needed me and Dom to clear them of hurting the old homeless guy. When the cops found that idiot’s ID card, they were hot on his trail. He had to admit what he and his friends had done, but he swore he never hurt the guy. If it hadn’t been for me and Dom, he’d be in real hot water. When the cops found that ID, they thought they had their man. They had the handcuffs ready. It wouldn’t bother me to see Garcia in the slammer, but I had to tell the truth. They left the guy standing and without a bruise.”
“Then somebody else came along and killed Griff Slocum,” Ernesto said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, what a weird thing, dude. Slocum gets harassed by some drunken creeps, then he gets murdered by somebody else. I mean, it wasn’t the guy’s night, I guess. They say when your time comes, it comes.” Carlos’s expression changed then as a lighter mood took over. “I got good news, Ernie. You know that mural on Joaquin Murrieta on the side of the warehouse on Polk?”
“Yeah, the mural you know nothing about,” Ernesto said wryly.
“Yeah, well … anyway, some dude liked it so much he took pictures of it. Came up on Tumblr. Some dude saw it, and he wants a mural on the side of his building now, and he wants to pay for it, man. In real money!” Carlos said.
“Oh, too bad it wasn’t you guys who did the Murrieta painting,” Ernesto said, laughing. Then he grabbed Carlos and gave him a hug. “I’m proud of you guys.”
“Thanks, dude. We’re gonna paint that Padre Hidalgo who started the Mexican Revolution against Spain. We’ll do a bangup job,” Carlos said. “Your dad never told us studying history could make us some cash.”
In Mr. Davila’s class the next day, Rod Garcia was very subdued. He knew he’d had a close call. Maybe it wasn’t over yet. Until they had the person who killed Griff Slocum, Rod wasn’t home free.
Everyone at Chavez High knew what had happened, and Rod Garcia felt humiliated. He didn’t like Griff Slocum, but if he hadn’t been stupidly drunk, he never would have harassed him like that. It was beyond stupid.
After school, Ernesto went over to Julio Avila’s trailer where he lived with his father. Ernesto wanted to tell Mr. Avila that he had the right to be proud that he had brought some joy to the poor, lonely homeless man.
As Ernesto pulled into the driveway of the trailer, he was surprised to see a VW bug already parked there. The Avilas did not usually have visitors. In fact, they did not let most people into their trailer.
Julio saw Ernesto pull up, and he swung open the door. “Come on in, homie,” he said.
When Ernesto went inside the trailer, he saw a small white-haired lady sitting at the fold-down dinette.
Ernesto had never seen the woman before. She didn’t look Hispanic. Julio cleared up Ernesto’s puzzlement immediately. “Ernie, this is Griff Slocum’s mother. Mrs. Slocum, this is Ernesto Sandoval, one of my buddies,” he said.
Mr. Avila was sitting at the table opposite Mrs. Slocum. “She came all the way from San Francisco,” he said.
The woman looked like she was past seventy, and her eyes were deep set and sorrowful. “Griff was my only child,” she said.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Slocum,” Ernesto said. “I saw your son all the time. He was a nice man. He never bothered anybody. If you showed him a little kindness, he was so gracious and thankful.”
A tear slipped down the woman’s face. She looked fragile, like a glass goblet that could easily break. It was at that moment that Ernesto noticed the little box on her lap. It didn’t look like an ordinary box. It looked like it contained something of value.
“I had my son cremated,” Mrs. Slocum said. Her voice trembled for a moment, and then steadied itself. “These are his remains in the box. It’s an ivory box. I’m taking him back to San Francisco, and he’ll be interred with my husband, who died many years ago. Griff loved San Francisco. He liked to see the Giants play back in the day.”
She cleared her throat then and said, “The reason I came here was to thank Mr. Avila in person. I have already been to the Iraqi man’s store—Mr. Hussam. I thanked him. He allowed my son to stay there by his store where he felt safe. My son didn’t contact me often, but he would sometimes write a letter. He always told me that he had one good friend who talked to him as if he were a normal person. A friend who would treat him to dinner and coffee when he could. That was you, Mr. Avila. And I want to thank you. Griff had said that when most people came in contact with him, they treated him as if he were garbage … but you treated him with respect.”
Julio’s father nodded. “I liked your son, Mrs. Slocum. He was a real person. There was nothing phony about him. He had this problem speaking, but we got to know each other well enough that I could understand him, and we had some nice conversations. He wanted to talk about baseball. I’m a baseball fan too, and we had good times talking about the old players who were so great.”
Julio’s father continued, “Life had batted him around, same as it’s done for me. We both been in dark places, but Griff’s was darker. I got this one big blessing that Griff never had.” He looked at his son. “This boy here. Without him, I’d be worse off than Griff was. So I don’t judge him. I don’t judge nobody.”
Mrs. Slocum almost smiled. “When my son was a little boy, he’d sneak into the baseball park to watch the games. And he collected baseball cards. He was a good pitcher in Little League. He showed a lot of promise. But then he got into drugs. My husband and I tried to help him, but he started selling drugs. Went to prison. He came out a changed person. He’d been injured in prison, and he couldn’t talk normally anymore. Griff was a kind boy, and he was so ashamed that he let his father and me down. That’s why he didn’t want to call us or write much. He was so ashamed of what had become of his life.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Drugs are a terrible thing,” Mr. Avila said. “I’ve done some, not the real hard stuff, but I know how terrible addiction can be.”
“I wrote to Griff when his father died, but he didn’t write back. I think it crushed him to know that his father had died without ever seeing him normal again. He had so much guilt. But, you know, even before the drugs, I always thought there was something wrong, but my husband and I didn’t know how to deal with it,” Mrs. Slocum said. She started to get up then. “Mr. Avila, thank you so much for bringing a little happiness into his life. Thank you.” She grasped the man’s hand. Then she tenderly picked up her little ivory box and held it close to her chest. She turned once more, this time to Julio. “Your father is a very nice man,” she said.
“I know,” Julio said. “I love him very much, ma’am, and thanks for taking the time to come here. Vaya con dios.”