Chapter 8: What Clara Knew
Clara Vega was found three days later.
She had not been harmed.
She had been frightened.
When Patricia had realized, two weeks before the funeral, that someone inside accounting had been pulling records, she had called Clara directly and told her that if she spoke to anyone — anyone at all — she would ensure Clara's immigration status became a problem.
Clara had a daughter in school.
She had gone quiet and stayed quiet and had spent two weeks waiting to see which way it would fall.
Detective Reyes brought her in gently.
Clara sat across from Reyes and a colleague for two hours, and what she gave them was the last piece.
Reyes called me afterward.
"She kept copies," she said.
"Everything Marianne pulled from the server — Clara had a parallel set.
She stored them on a personal drive at home because she was afraid the company system would be wiped." A pause.
"Alexander, the transfers total just over four million dollars over four years.
It's not all Patricia.
Your mother received direct payments from the shell account on six separate occasions."
I was standing in the hospital corridor.
Marianne had been moved to a regular room that morning.
Through the window in the door, I could see her sitting up, talking to Sophia, her hands moving the way they always did when she was explaining something she cared about.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Patricia will be charged formally tomorrow.
Dr.
Lozano has agreed to cooperate in exchange for a lesser charge — he administered the sedative during what he claims he was told was a voluntary medical procedure.
We don't fully believe him, but his testimony is useful." Reyes paused.
"Your mother will be charged with fraud, conspiracy, and suppression of a legal document.
The hom*cide charge depends on what the DA decides about intent."
"And the threat against Sophia?"
"That text message is an additional charge.
Witness tampering, at minimum.
Her attorney is trying to argue she was distressed and didn't mean it literally." Reyes's voice was dry.
"We are not finding that argument compelling."
I thanked her and ended the call.
Ramon was waiting at the end of the corridor.
He had been at the hospital every day, quiet and steady, doing the things that needed doing — talking to the board, managing the staff questions, making sure the company didn't collapse while I was focused on keeping my family from doing the same.
He was four years younger than me and had always been the calmer one.
I had not always appreciated that.
"How bad?" he said.
"Bad."
He nodded.
He didn't ask me to soften it.
"The board will want a statement," he said.
"And the staff.
There are people who've worked there for twenty years who are scared right now."
"I know.
I'll be there Monday."
"And Mom?"
I looked at him.
He looked back at me.
Twenty years of shared history in that look — the same father, the same house, the same woman who had made our lunches and driven us to school and apparently helped suppress a will and stood at a graveside and said nothing while her daughter-in-law lay breathing in a box.
"She'll have good legal representation," I said.
"She'll have whatever she needs.
But I can't fix this one, Ramon."
He was quiet for a moment.
"No," he said.
"Neither can I."
We stood there in the corridor for a while, not saying anything, which was sometimes the only honest thing left to do.
Then Ramon said: "Rose Mendoza is still here.
She's been sleeping in the family waiting room.
She won't leave until she sees Marianne."
May you like
I looked at the door to Marianne's room.
"I'll ask her," I said.
