Never ever never ever ever judge a book by its cover. That is what I did with Father Mark, and it forever changed my life. I used to work at a nice hotel in southern California but I have since moved on. I got to meet a lot of interesting people in that line of work. I had seen it all, from gangsters to movie stars, to crack heads and teens who ran away to chase their dreams. But no other was more peculiar and odd than good old Mark Ramirez.
It was a nice Friday night and I got the “normal” crowd of people wanting rooms. Then, around 10:30, Father Mark walked in. For as long as I worked there, he would always come on Friday night and leave the next morning. He was always in the company of several nuns. But I never saw the same nun twice. He always paid in cash. Never check. Never card. I didn’t get to talk with him much because his English was not great, but from what I could make out of his pause- filled sentences dotted with umms and eyys he was in charge of a church in Mexico that came over every week to California to try and spread the word of Catholicism. Despite his perceived devotion to the church, I found it odd how he always stayed in a room with one bed even though there was normally four or five sisters with him. And he always insisted on being in a room on the bottom floor next to a fire exit. He also would never let any of the bellhops touch or grab any of his or the sister’s luggage. Despite these clear signs I dismissed any thoughts of suspicion I had about the father.
Friday night came, and again the father entered, with large bags in hand, and several sisters in pursuit of him. I checked him in to see the same room I always had. Next to the exit, first floor. The layout of the hotel made it so as soon as you enter my desk is on your left and the fire exit is dead ahead with the father’s room on the right of the exit. I gave him his key and they moved into the room. It was about 11:30 when the police walked in. I expected them to be there looking for the usual drug addict or prostitute. The cop walked up to me and showed me a picture of a Hispanic man smoking a cigar who vaguely resembled the father. But surely it couldn’t be him because the father was a Christian and they didn’t smoke. But it was him. I pointed to the door of his room. And at the same instant I raised my arm, a barrage of bullets came through the door. I fell to the floor clutching my leg. My head felt fuzzy and everything was spinning. For a moment time slowed down and I could see the father open the door and the cop who showed me the picture fall down with several holes in his chest. Then everything was back to real speed. The pain hit me. I felt as if an elephant was stabbing me with his tusk. More cops streamed in as the father ran out of the fire exit. I could hear the sound of police cars in the distance as my world faded to black.
I awoke to a sharp pain from my upper thigh. I looked down and saw the bandages and the new night gown I wore. I was connected to several machines that I believed to be keeping me alive and I looked up to the television in the corner of my room and saw the father’s face. The headline of the news clip read “Drug dealer busted after shootout in Hotel”. The story then proceeded to explain that the Father had been smuggling in drugs and weapons using the protection of pretending to be a priest. He had the girls tape the drugs and weapons under their habits. He would get the girls to do this by telling them he would grant them safe passage to America if they could get through. All of those times I saw him carrying those bags and always with different nuns, and I never thought anything wrong of it because of what I focused on. I could have stopped all of this. None of the cops would be dead. Now I am always suspicious. Always on guard. Always looking.