His name was Daniel Mercer.
For almost a year after Dad’s murder, Daniel Mercer had been the person I trusted most.
He had spoken gently to Matthew.
He had brought Mom clean clothes before hearings.
He had told me which reporters to avoid.
When prosecutors announced they would seek the death penalty, Mercer had stood on the courthouse steps and promised to fight.
Then he had lost.
I had believed losing destroyed him.
After sentencing, he withdrew from Mom’s appeal, citing health problems.
We never saw him again.
Now his younger face stared from a soot-stained photograph recovered on Ray’s property.
“When was this taken?”
Vega enlarged the image.
There was a date stamped along the bottom.
Eight months before Dad died.
“What were they doing together?”
“We don’t know.”
“Mercer told us he barely knew Ray before the case.”
Vega nodded.
“That statement appears to have been false.”
I felt anger rising.
“What else did he lie about?”
“We’re going to find out.”
Mercer was seventy-one now and living three counties away.
Investigators reached him that afternoon.
He agreed to speak with them.
Then, forty minutes before the scheduled interview, he suffered what his wife described as severe chest pain and was taken to a hospital.
Convenient.
I said so.
Vega gave me a look.
“We verify before judging.”
I was beginning to hear that sentence in my sleep.
Investigators obtained Mercer’s archived case files with his consent.
Most were stored in cardboard boxes in a rented warehouse.
The contents were chaotic.
Trial transcripts.
Witness statements.
Photographs.
Invoices.
Handwritten notes.
Among them was something Escobedo had never seen.
A memorandum dated twelve days after Dad’s murder.
It documented a telephone call from an unnamed witness.
The caller claimed to have seen Ray’s truck parked behind our house around the estimated time of death.
Mercer had written beneath it:
UNRELIABLE. DO NOT PURSUE.
I stared at the words.
“Who called?”
“No name.”
“Did he investigate?”
“No record that he did.”
“Did he tell Mom?”
Escobedo shook his head.
My hands curled into fists.
One phone call could have changed everything.
Ray had testified that he arrived after police were called.
A witness placing his truck there earlier would have shattered that timeline.
Mercer buried it.
There was more.
An investigator working for the defense had requested permission to examine financial records from Mendoza Auto.
Mercer canceled the request.
A forensic consultant questioned whether the blood on Mom’s robe was consistent with the prosecution’s theory.
Mercer never called him.
A handwritten note mentioned sedatives.
No follow-up.
Another note read:
T says E feared R. No corroboration.
T was Teresa.
E was Ernest.
R was Ray.
My mother had told him.
He knew.
And he had done nothing.
At the evidentiary hearing three days later, Mom entered the courtroom wearing county jail clothes.
No white execution uniform.
No chains around her waist.
I watched her take her place beside Escobedo.
Matthew sat with a victim-services advocate in the front row.
I sat behind him.
Ray was not there.
Mercer appeared by video from the hospital.
He looked frail.
His voice did not.
Vega questioned him first.
“Mr. Mercer, did Teresa Mendoza tell you before trial that she believed Raymond Mendoza was involved in Ernest Mendoza’s death?”
Mercer adjusted his glasses.
“She made numerous statements while under considerable stress.”
“That was not my question.”
“Yes.”
“Did you investigate Raymond Mendoza?”
“Somewhat.”
“Did you investigate his financial dealings with Ernest?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I considered it a distraction.”
“From what?”
“The physical evidence against Teresa.”
Vega placed the memorandum on screen.
“Did you receive this call?”
Mercer stared at it.
“I don’t remember.”
“Is that your handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you consider the witness unreliable?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Did you identify the caller?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Did you send an investigator to locate witnesses near the Mendoza residence?”
“I don’t recall.”
The judge leaned forward.
“Mr. Mercer, you appear to have forgotten a remarkable amount.”
Mercer looked irritated.
“It was six years ago.”
Vega produced the photograph.
Mercer’s face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“Do you recognize this?”
“Yes.”
“Who are the men?”
He named Dad.
Ray.
Salazar.
Himself.
“What was the occasion?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Eight months before Mr. Mendoza’s murder, you were photographed with the eventual victim, the man now suspected of killing him, and the police officer connected to disputed evidence in the case you later defended.”
Mercer’s mouth tightened.
“When you say it that way, it sounds sinister.”
“How would you say it?”
“A social gathering.”
“Where?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Why did you tell Valerie Mendoza that you barely knew Ray before the homicide?”
Mercer looked toward the camera.
“I may have misspoken.”
I felt Matthew reach for my hand.
I held it.
Vega continued.
“Did Raymond Mendoza pay you?”
Mercer blinked.
“Legal fees?”
“Any money.”
“No.”
“Did Officer Salazar?”
“No.”
“Did anyone associated with Mendoza Auto?”
“No.”
Vega lifted another document.
“Then explain this.”
It was a bank record.
Two weeks before Mom’s trial began, Mercer deposited thirty thousand dollars in cash.
The courtroom stirred.
Mercer’s lawyer objected.
The judge overruled.
“Where did that money come from?”
Mercer looked suddenly older.
“I sold a vehicle.”
“What vehicle?”
“A classic car.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t remember.”
Vega waited.
Mercer looked down.
The silence lasted too long.
Finally he said, “Ray.”
My mother shut her eyes.
The courtroom erupted in whispers.
The judge ordered silence.
Vega did not raise her voice.
“Raymond Mendoza paid you thirty thousand dollars while you were representing Teresa Mendoza?”
“It was unrelated.”
“For a vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a bill of sale?”
“No.”
“Registration transfer?”
“I assume one existed.”
Investigators had already checked.
No such transfer existed.
Mercer began asking to end the interview.
The judge refused.
Vega returned to the missing witness call.
“Who called you?”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“Was it Officer Salazar?”
“No.”
“Raymond Mendoza?”
“No.”
“Someone from the shop?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Mercer stared at the camera.
His breathing became shallow.
His lawyer touched his shoulder.
“Daniel.”
Mercer closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he looked directly into the lens.
“A woman.”
The room became silent.
“What woman?”
“I never knew her name.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That Ray’s truck was behind the Mendoza house.”
“When?”
“Before the police arrived.”
“Did she see Ray?”
Mercer hesitated.
“Yes.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Doing what?”
“Coming out the back door.”
“What was he carrying?”
Mercer looked away.
“A towel.”
Matthew squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.
Vega’s voice remained steady.
“What color?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did the witness?”
Mercer nodded.
“What did she say?”
“Yellow.”
Our kitchen towels had been yellow.
“Why didn’t you pursue her?”
Mercer’s face collapsed inward.
“Because Ray told me she was lying.”
Vega stopped.
“You discussed a confidential defense lead with the man your client accused?”
Mercer said nothing.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Mom turned toward Escobedo.
He whispered something to her.
Vega continued.
“What did Ray say when you told him?”
Mercer swallowed.
“He said if I kept digging, I would regret it.”
“Was the thirty thousand dollars connected to that threat?”
“No.”
“Then what was it connected to?”
Mercer’s lawyer objected again.
The judge allowed the question.
Mercer began crying.
Not dramatically.
Tears simply ran down his cheeks.
“I had debts.”
Vega waited.
“He offered money.”
“For what?”
“To keep the trial simple.”
The words seemed to suck the air from the courtroom.
Mom stared at the screen.
“Simple how?”
Vega asked.
Mercer covered his face.
“Don’t chase Ray. Don’t chase the shop. Don’t chase Salazar.”
The judge called an immediate recess.
People stood.
Reporters rushed for the doors.
I remained seated.
Matthew whispered, “Does this mean Mom comes home?”
I looked at her.
She was still technically a convicted murderer.
But the case against her was collapsing piece by piece.
“I don’t know yet.”
After the hearing resumed, the judge ordered a full review of Mercer’s conduct and all undisclosed evidence.
Then Vega received a note from an investigator.
She read it.
Her face tightened.
“What?” the judge asked.
Vega stood.
“Your Honor, investigators have located the woman who called Mr. Mercer six years ago.”
My heart stopped.
“She is alive?”
“Yes.”
“And willing to testify?”
Vega looked toward me.
“She says she will testify only if Valerie Mendoza is present.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Witness Who Saw Ray Leave Our House Had Stayed Silent for Six Years Because She Believed My Father’s Killer Was Watching Her
Forty Minutes Before My Mother’s Execution, My Little Brother Pointed at Our Uncle and Finally Told Us What He Remembered
Part 6 of 12
