Where The Hell is Boulevard? Read online

  At 2:45 this lazy September afternoon, Buck was in fact thinking about a weekend ride he had planned, including a stop for lunch at the well known San Diego biker spot, The Hideout, where Bikers young and old, male and female, hard core Hell’s Angels types, midlife crisis victims and senior citizens of the road all stopped for a great burger or some chili or just the opportunity to look the part and admire each other’s bikes.

  Thursday, September 20

  Cardozo Family Compound, Quacan, Mexico, 2:45 p.m.

  There was no question who the jefe was in the infamous Cardozo family of Mexico. Elias Alejandro Cardozo, the oldest of five brothers, at 43, was suave, almost senatorial-looking, but was as ruthless a businessman and killer as the Mexican drug trade had ever seen. Of the five brothers, there was an almost Godfather-like story of their involvement or roles in the family business. Tomás Ricardo Cardozo, the third in line at 32, was the member of the family that carried out whatever tasks Elias sets out for him. Tomas was known as the executioner of chores, plans, and other duties more in line with the literal title of his position.

  The fourth in line, Juan Pepito Cardozo, the hot head of the brothers, had met his predictable end at the age of 28 a few months ago in a brawl outside a bar in Juarez. Whether it was a business deal gone bad, a fight over a young senorita, or just a battle of testosterone where the other guy’s 9mm was bigger than the little .32 Juan carried for social purposes, no one seemed to know or really even care.

  The status of the second in line, José María Cardozo, was the current focus of the family. Jose Maria was currently enjoying a stay at the Metropolitan Correctional Center located in downtown San Diego.

  People tended to chuckle every time Jose’s name was read out loud but one better not joke about his middle name to his face. Where did María come from? On the eve of his birth, his mother was reading about a recent golf tournament success of long time Spanish pro, José María Oyazabal and thinking of the recent passing of her mother, María Elena Valdez, thus she thought ... why not name her second son in honor of those various legacies.

  José María, at 39, was clearly the second in command of the family cartel and an extremely close confidante to his brother Elias. While Elias was the titular head of the family, no decision was made without the two brothers closely scrutinizing the matter. While Elias may have been considered the business’s brain, José María was the distribution guru for the family’s products.

  José María’s capture by the Mexican federal authorities and prompt, almost unprecedented delivery to the United States federal authorities weighed heavily on Elias’ mind. This was a crushing blow personally to Elias and to the family business. Planning to deal with this issue was in full swing.

  Thursday, September 20

  Boulevard, CA, 2:45 p.m.

  The town of Boulevard consisted of about three or four bars (depending on who was in or out of business) and a charming but underutilized lodge. The lodge had quaint little cabins and Jacuzzis set among the trees and nicely lawned and flowered grounds and a couple of small stores. The lodge had a nice restaurant for the guests and locals and others who tried it by chance when lost in Boulevard.

  There was also a bakery, small market, two gas stations, and miscellaneous other small businesses that might be typical in a dusty little roadside town like Boulevard. To get to Boulevard, or to the casino, you had to get off Interstate 8, take the frontage road, and your adventure into Boulevard would then begin. While the tourists weren’t exactly sticking yet, the real estate market was beginning to boom by Boulevard standards, due to the new Indian gaming casino with restaurants and a large gas stop, all of which was situated about two miles up the road.

  Employees of the Indian gaming complex were buying to some degree and a few more people were giving Boulevard a further look as a resort destination at a very affordable end of the spectrum.

  Thursday, September 20

  Boulevard, CA, 2:45 p.m.

  Anderson’s convenience store across the parking lot from Dante’s Tavern was a teenage hangout even on a 96 degree scorcher. Eddie McDermott was a junior in high school, when he attended. He had gone to school today just to get to an air-conditioned room and avoid the sweltering heat. After the end of his last class at 1:30, he headed over to Anderson’s to just hang out for the afternoon. This was a common after school activity for the local teens in the small, dusty town of Boulevard, California.

  Jack Robinson had dropped out of high school about six months short of graduating. He had always boasted about his big plans to go to this or that tech school, but nothing ever came of any of these plans, nor did anyone ever expect it to. His only thought right now was getting something cold to drink, so he headed over to Anderson’s to see who was around that afternoon.

  Tommy Snyder was just 14 and like so many of his age, was in a phase of following one anti-establishment group or another. This month, he was focused on the Aryan Brotherhood whose website told not only of racial cleansing but of getting back all that was taken by the rich Jews, or the welfare money that was taken by the blacks and Mexicans, which in turn resulted in a loss of jobs for decent white people. How these deep economic insights were made or supported was of little importance to Tommy. He just wanted to bust some “Mesicans” head in order to make the world “right.”

  As Tommy arrived at Anderson’s, he saw Eddie and Jack talking on the shaded porch. Eddie had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Jack was chewing on a fresh piece of jerky, and both drinking a 25 oz. Red Bull.

  “Hey, can I bum a smoke?”

  Eddie took the pack out of his pocket, popped one up, and held out the pack to Tommy.

  After about ten minutes of silence, Tommy piped up, “Let’s bust up some Mexicans when they come out of Dante’s.”

  While this may have been a political statement to Tommy in light of his newfound movement of the day, to Eddie and Jack it was just something to do on a hot, boring day in Boulevard.

  Eddie stood up, “Why not?” Jack just shrugged.

  As they looked across the lot to Dante’s, there was a perfect outdoor area to lay in wait and from which to launch their attack. On the side of the bar out of sight of the front entrance was an old brick BBQ, a few old redwood tables and benches, an outdoor wash basin, and several ways for them to get in, do their thing on the unlucky victim, and get out without any real likelihood of getting caught. It was sort of a semi-enclosed picnic area, a perfect spot to carry out their attack.

  Tommy outlined his plan. Eddie and Jack would post themselves at the opening to the picnic area at the back of the tavern right by the back fence. They would enter and exit through the old hole in the fence at the back of the property. It was never repaired because no one could ever figure out what they’d need to keep in or keep out of the area.

  Tommy would come in through the gap in the two concrete walls opposite the outdoor wash basin. If all went according to their plan, they could kick some ass, have some fun, and be gone in a few minutes at most with no chance of being caught. Who cared? Who paid attention? And who in their right mind would wander out of Dante’s in this heat?

  Thursday, September 20

  Dante’s Tavern,Boulevard, CA, 2:45 p.m.

  As hot as it was, the Santa Ana winds made it seem twice that hot out in the sun, but with the air-conditioning chugging full throttle, it was actually fairly cool inside Dante’s Tavern.

  Javier Molina appeared like many other Hispanic workers in the area, some documented, some not, who inhabited the dusty little spot known as Boulevard, California.

  Javier Molina looked at his watch as he finished his Tecate beer, then headed out the door of Dante’s. He made an immediate left turn toward the side of the building and then another left to the outdoor wash basin to clean up after the long day.

  Eddie, Jack, and Tommy assumed their positions at the appointed locations outside the picnic area, having paid little or no attention to the black Yukon parked outside of Anderson’s, (a faile
d observation that would cause more havoc in their lives than they ever imagined.) As Molina approached the outside wash basin, he took off his shirt, placed it on the shelf next to the basin and picked up the well-used bar of Lava soap that was sitting by the faucet.

  Within seconds, Molina was attacked from all angles, being pummeled for reasons he could not understand. Or could he? He was beat about the head and shoulders with the feeling of a small stick or pipe and fists hammering at his sides. Overpowered, he covered up to protect himself from what he believed, and hoped, would not be a fatal beating.

  His eyes quickly filled with blood from the blows to his head. Trying to make sense of what was occurring, “Que Paso,” he screamed but no one responded. He saw his attackers were nothing but a bunch of kids. He had a few bucks in his pocket and assumed, and hoped, they would eventually take his money and leave but, huddled in a ball on the ground and his attackers all over him, he had no way to escape.

  Although he had not personally experienced this type of attack before, he knew well that this was often the expected lot of, what the Americans so politely call guest workers from Mexico and Central and South America. It seemed like the end of the onslaught when he felt a sudden pain in his chest. He uttered and almost silent, “Dios mío” and, at that moment, all went dark for Molina.

  Eddie, Jack and Tommy were wailing away at the “Mesican” huddled next to the outdoor wash basin. Certainly better than any video game, they could actually feel the rush of the real thing. They heard the man cry out something in Spanish but ignored it and wailed on, Tommy almost laughing at times.

  In the mayhem they couldn’t tell who was who in the barrage of jabs, swings and punches. The beating continued with the sawed-off bat that Tommy found outside BBQ area and other weapons the group picked up and decided to use. In the midst of the melee, Tommy thought he caught a glimpse of a stranger joining in but he was too preoccupied to give it any real thought.

  Tommy was having fun and chalking one up for the cause of the Aryan Brotherhood. As quickly as it started, it ended. Their victim was bloody and slumped over by the side of the wash basin.

  Suddenly someone came around the corner from Dante’s Restaurant and yelled, “Hey, what the fuck?” With cries of “Oh shit,” Eddie, Jack, and Tommy scattered, not reuniting at Anderson’s, but beating a path to their respective homes … and frankly, scared shitless.

  Thursday, September 20

  Dante’s Tavern, Boulevard, CA, 3 p.m.

  Ed Simpson, the bartender at Dante’s, had stepped out on the entry porch of the tavern to have a quick cigarette and heard the commotion that he had previously been sheltered from hearing inside the closed-up,

  air-conditioner-humming, juke box roaring bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what he thought were two or three young men scattering from the picnic area, leaving the body of a recent bar patron slumped over by the wash basin, badly beaten, bloody, and not moving. Whether out of intent to preserve the crime scene (as he had seen on TV) or because he just did not want to get directly involved, he turned around, went back into the bar, and dialed 911. He thought to himself, “Let them deal with this.”

  Thursday, September 20

  El Cajon EMT Station #22, 3:05 p.m.

  Station 22 Paramedic Unit caught the call. Although the initial facts were hazy, the indications seemed to be that there had been a beating outside a bar in Boulevard. Jim and Billy jumped into the ambulance, hit the siren, and headed for Boulevard, thirty minutes away. Since Boulevard was within the policing jurisdiction of the San Diego County Sheriff’s office, they expected a Sheriff’s cruiser would be on the scene in minutes and do whatever could be done for the victim. The Sheriff would then radio the status of injuries. Life Flight was routinely in the loop, but would only be dispatched if specifically requested by the on-scene officers.

  As the newbie at Station 22, Billy, so far, had been spared any trips to the back country. Billy blurted out to Jim, over the scream of the ambulance sirens as they headed out, “Where the hell is Boulevard?”

  Jim laughed at the question, “ A little local history my boy, the sleepy little town of Boulevard off Interstate 8 in about as far east as our jurisdiction goes used that exact phrase as its town motto. Actually there was a time when “Where the hell is Boulevard?” bumper stickers were displayed around town, thanks to being printed and distributed by the good merchants of Boulevard, California. After all, hey had to do something to get people interested in their little berg.”

  Thursday, September 20

  San Diego County DA’s Office, 3:10 p.m.

  A sheriff’s dispatcher also directed the 911 call to Kyra O’Neill as the duty DA. At this point the alert was routine. The extent of necessary follow-up on Kyra’s part would not be known for some time.

  Thursday, September 20

  Boulevard, CA, 3:12 p.m.

  San Diego County Sheriff cruiser #13 arrived at Dante’s Tavern and pulled up to find the bartender, Ed Simpson, waiting on the steps. Ed pointed to the side of the building. There Deputy Brent Dixon and Deputy Barbara Berkeley observed the crumpled body of a young male, too covered with blood and dirt to tell much more than his gender and age range.

  Deputy Dixon put on his latex gloves, approached the body to try to get a better determination of its condition, and whether the victim was dead or alive. Deputy Berkeley, on Deputy Dixon’s instructions, began to immediately inspect the scene to piece together whatever they could about the event and determine if there were any assailants remaining on the scene. Deputy Dixon gently turned over the body and immediately checked for any sign of life. He quickly felt the carotid artery. There was no pulse and no sign of breathing. CPR would be of no assistance.

  Dixon immediately radioed the dispatcher and was patched through to Jim Duncan in the speeding ambulance and advised that the victim was dead and there was no real need to hurry.

  Thursday, September 20

  San Diego County DA’s Office, 3:30 p.m.

  Kyra O’Neill’s duty cell phone rang. “Ms. O’Neill, this is Sherriff’s Communication Control. We have officers at the scene of and apparent homicide in the town of Boulevard.”

  “Please advise officers on the scene that I am on my way.”

  Kyra opted to take an office vehicle equipped with lights and siren if she needed to move through any traffic congestion getting out of town. Never having actually been to Boulevard, she at least knew it was east off Interstate 8 and figured she’d be in contact with the Sherriff’s office on her way for an exact location within the town.

  Kyra mused to herself, “So much for a quiet Thursday evening and a restful, easy weekend.” On the other hand she felt, “what the hell, a murder is a lot better case to work than a routine robbery or domestic violence case.”

  Thursday, September 20

  Boulevard, CA, 3:30 p.m.

  Deputy Dixon turned his attention to Ed Simpson after Deputy Berkeley had completed her initial survey of the tavern grounds. She had scouted the grounds, which included the picnic area where the victim was assaulted in order to be able to report to her partner the general lay of the land.

  Ed Simpson could not add much. He told the Deputies that by the time he stepped out on the porch for a smoke, the fun was over and he thought he saw one or more boys scattering beyond the wall. Ed Simpson told Deputy Dixon that “young thugs” usually hung out at Anderson’s across the parking lot.

  “I’m sure it was one or more of those ‘do nothings’ that likely beat up the guy, likely for no reason at all.”

  With no direct leads other than that and a cursory review of what anyone in the small crowd saw afterward, they had nothing much to go on

  The crime scene unit arrived and began their routine, tedious task of taking pictures, gathering any forensic evidence that one could gather. Fingerprints? Doubtful. Footprints? Sure, hundreds in the dusty square, some discernible, most a jumble, and mixed with blood around the body. There was no shortage of blood samples from
anywhere around the body. These samples might at least help to tell them to see the number of people involved. They would search for any DNA and other evidence to tie the perpetrator or perpetrators to the victim.

  In the sweltering heat, no one had much interest in hanging around the scene for any longer than absolutely necessary.