FICTION SERIES

Maria

Excerpts from Gehenna

Photograph by Author (Brandon Vaughan); west 13th & Tyler; Eugene OR 2024

Gehenna is defined as a place or state of misery. In the Bible, Gehenna is a cursed valley south of Jerusalem. Here, children were sacrificed to a false God. Gehenna is considered a place of divine punishment. Many biblical scholars believe it is Hell.

• *Dedicated to my friend Maria Dominguez (1978-2021)**

I’m named after my mother Maria, who is named after my abuela. In Spanish, our name means beloved, bitter, or rebellious.

Soy todas estas cosas.

Madre is doing thirty years to life in Supermax prison. Eligible for parole in fifteen years. Twenty-two hours a day locked down in a windowless, soundproof coffin.

They transferred her to Idaho so we couldn't visit. It's an eight-hour drive; she is housed 400 miles northeast of Gehenna.

Her fucking dumptruck attorney didn't do shit. He told her to just plead guilty across the board. He only visited her twice in jail. Her phone calls were ignored.

He didn’t interview a single witness. During trial, his sole objection was overruled; flushing, he sat and shuffled legal pads for the remainder of the session. Several times he fell asleep during testimony. Took a jury less than fourteen hours to find her guilty.

Mama pleaded no contest to Accessory to Aggravated Murder. Felon in Possession of a Firearm. Criminal Trespass. Hindering a Criminal Investigation. Perjury. Absconding Parole.

Ten additional years were added because she almost killed her lawyer right there at the defendant's table. She fought off three bailiffs, despite ankle fetters. She managed to wrap the Martin chain around his throat. His face flushed an angry pomegranate color when he shit himself.

They tased her repeatedly, tackling her to the floor. Mama didn’t make a noise, even when one deputy stomped on her cuffed hands. Her facial expression never changed. Her eyes found mine in the audience; we maintained eye contact.

I never looked away. Not even when that deputy kicked her in the side. It sounded like snapping breadsticks when her ribs broke.

Papa visited her lawyer. Daddy threatened to make some things go boom. He insinuated the lawyer would have trouble golfing with no hands.

A few days later, la policia rang the doorbell. Mi hermanita, Ajax opened the door. They asked for papa. Daddy lumbered toward them, rolling up his sleeves, grinning around a wooden matchstick.

They charged Daddy with Terrorist Threats, Criminal Threats, and Felony Resisting Arrest.*

[Terrorist Threats: 5 years prison max.*

Criminal Threats: 1 year in County.

Felony Resisting Arrest: 18 months prison ]

Prosecutors offered him fifteen months in the plea agreement. It was a sweetheart deal, and he would have been out in twelve with good time.

“Always take it to the box,” he often advised. And so he did. Juez handed him forty-two months.

About a year into his set, Daddy stacked new charges. They're trying to give him another six years right now. While appeals pile up, Papa is in the Hole. Re-assigned to Administrative Segregation indefinitely.

El encierro can be like that. Go in a short-timer, leave an old-timer.

Mis padres did what they had to do. Everybody’s got choices, to quote my friend Father Acme. They’re old school. Anything to protect us.

Mi tio Cutty moved in to take care of us. He is hermanos mayor. My childhood memories are full of him. Always smoking blunts. Always with different women under arms. He used to tell us that Cutty Sark whiskey was named after him.

I remember him dressed as Papa Noel. His fake white beard caught fire one year. He wore high-top Chucks with the costume. One Christmas, he fired an AK-47 into the sky. I watched him collect the spent shell casings into a paper sack.

Cutty showed us how to vender drogas. He schooled us to arma de fuego, laws, and how to throw hands. How to shoot C-Lo and craps, kneeling on cardboard on the front stoop. How to trap out anything.

Mostly, he drank Schlitz malt liquor and cursed at ball games on the television. He fell asleep drunk at night in Daddy’s leather recliner, a loaded pistola in hand.

“Come to it, I’d put a hole in Mister Sandman,” Cutty said. “Bring me no motherfucking dreams, sheiiiiiiiiiitttt.”

I graduated Escuela Secundaria the following year. Made the Honor Roll. I turned eighteen a few months later, assuming guardianship of Ajax.

One night, Cutty got pulled over for excessive speeding. He rolled down the driver's window and turned down the stereo. Smiling politely, Cutty shot the approaching state trooper twice in the face.

In his statement to the court, Tio Cutty said: “Estoy en prison de cualquier manera. Que se joda la policia.”

Cutty is serving 280 years in prison, with no possibility of parole.

He writes me letters twice a mes. The paper is always fragrant, hand-drawn rosas in the margins. Each conclude reminding me to keep putting money on his books.

On the first of every month, I send dinero. It's my honor. My privilege. Mi responsibilidad.

Los extrano.

I think about mi familia often. Drawing strength from theirs. Mi antepasados stand beside me, generations of mighty Aztec warriors.

Mi venganza is in each breath.

Mi objetivo is to carry on. Para seguir viviendo la vida.

I do not seek immortality, but rather infamy. In these streets, in your ears, in your fantasies. En tus suenos.

They will answer for their sleights. They will pay their debts.

I will make this right.

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