The Teen Book

By George Zamalea

Lynette Walker has never made any mistake in her life but when her wealthy husband is kidnapped and they found him dead her life begins to unravel at an alarming rate. The authority accused her of the killing and sending her to death row. Playing these double games of deep-thinking, she begins to create a monastic world before her lawyer, despite Lawyer Rodriguez' advice to confess all what she knows about the killing for which somehow the lawyer believes she knows who has killed her husband. She holds back when she places herself literarily inside Nancy Rodriguez's head and proceeds cautiously.
Confidently, she begins to seduce Romero Lamas, then Edgar Kessler, both detectives, which she is able to manipulate Detective Kessler to kill his partner Romero Lamas. Clearing the ways to destroy evidences Edgar discovers a past of raping and violence, most importantly, revenge to the man who has lied to Lynette when she was just a teen.
Enjoys and seeks out the truth, Lynette creates then an introspective, almost devious games in front of each one of them, to find witnesses who will be able to come further and to convince the judge she is an innocent. She is a thoroughbred and unobjectionably flirtatious to her lawyer first, then second to Edgar.
Throughout her investigation, Nancy Rodriguez finally believes she is an innocent and someone has killed Hector, Lynette's husband, and that there is another killer, but Lynette's sexual attraction has brought up another avenue to comprehend before Nancy there is more, much more.
Having her now sized, Lynette confesses her that she has been arguing with her husband Hector that night. She went outside of the house to refresh her head for a while and ended up in a bar. In the bar she found David Fernstrom, a past lover and she slept with him.
Expanding at both sides, one from Edgar's perspective and the other from Nancy Rodriguez, they perceive David's name has come up as two-faced lovers, with whom Nancy, then Edgar believed the man was who has pulled string on Lynette's husband, Hector.
Nancy goes through the usual speculation that David was jealous, accompanied by some retrospective pain, he confronts Hector and wants to make him to pay what he has done with Lynette.
Lynette makes Nancy to believe that was what happened and from the moment she could stand up and faces the last battle in court, all witnesses who are ready to testify against her and the man who raped her and left her breeding, she indeed has made them to pay for what they have done to her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Zamalea
• Release date: May 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311744692

George Zamalea

George Zamalea is a graduated student with degrees in Literature, Philosophy and History. Mr. Zamalea Lived in Spain, France, Italy, and Brazil. He received a recipient of Creative Writing & Language in USA. Awards: First place of the 2011 International Latino Book Awards in the category of Best Spiritual / New Age book in English with the Six Seasonal Amendments, A Hispanic Inspiration. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets, Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators, Latino Now, NALIP, Writing & Nonsense Club and American Hispanic in Journalism. His publications and literary journals include the Screech Owl, and others. He is currently working on Animal. He Lives in Rosamond, California.

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Introduction Prologue

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Acknowledgements

About the author

Other books by George Zamalea

Introduction

The Last Generation

At my parents’ world, there is nothing to grasp. A love of madness or a disappointment; either way that makes a sense of what it should be a sense of parent-child responsibility, I suppose. In this strange scenario, nevertheless, the truth is that there is no believable plot; a gratitude or guilt. It appears to me I am an outsider inside into the narrow meaning of what I call a world of fewer expectations, which jealousy does not play a role here and that lankiness has nothing to do of happiness or despairs for that matters. One thing is that I cannot criticize my parents in a way of savage or innocence a way that I may able to peel their skin and send them to hell. However, none of these carefully planned thoughts has such power to execute but to avoid rejection and failure. Any situations that I wish to add has nothing to do what I feel. A matter of fact, I do not feel a thing. Nevertheless, I’ve always been interpersonal in front of my sensibility toward my parents from the reminiscent moral of earlier age, and that difficulties cause perhaps for lack of strong emotion. That cannot be what you may say; there may be a resolution beyond that cage named parenthood; like a second feeling so deeply attached in front of this pessimistic and ill-tempered situation that now I want to explore in a one-dimensional sitting because only certain qualities are allowed to emerge before me.

That isn’t affairs, isn’t?

In spite of this do I need to manage my closeness and my distant emotion because I am so obliged to tell it? Even if there is a rule no matter what you believe, I am going to tell it anyway. I do understand there are many worlds of goods and evils out; normal and extreme and powerful and weak; but one could realize it from experience or long conversation that can be emphasized on good behavior. Women would love a good romantic ending, a perfect man or woman if you are in the level of bisexual spectrum, or a lovely maker to make you to come in watering stream. I do understand some of us will be so proud of telling you some advice given by your sister or brother or by your freaky grandfather sitting on his legs over the years.

In consequence, I have none to tell you because I did not have a freaky grandfather or a topic moment of reflection or a world of sexual fancy. If I have in spite of that something different, I refuse to tell you a shit. Nevertheless, it comes with a resolution beyond my characterization or judgment. In fact, I do not care. But should I be like that? I am not afraid of situations that need extreme power of persuasion; I find it all interesting. I find it so thrilling and enjoyable than anything else and quite sexy I must say. In front of it I am so unpredictable. There I am unjustly accused of being cold, heartless, and passive-aggressive, because I am able to hide my emotions like a sociopath.

That fact I cannot explain the reason behind it. I can speculate that I am not into the world that pain is playing a major role on me, and that please me I must be under somebody else. That is not me, and you must believe I am always looking for being the one ahead as a winner.

So where I am and where I need to create a normal persona where an unknown place of flower emerges, and where I am able to see the happiness of something remarkable blue, and you believe it or not I refuse to see that remarkable blue in a normal way. I refuse of being normal because I am not. I am not a normal being who appears attach to this premise of being normal, because normal mind cannot see as normal because it was not as it is.

Do I confuse you? Well, you must figure it yourself.

That is the complexity I would like to be attached to it.

It is because reality is a complex issue that appears to its own axis and when I frequently judge that reality is a normal set of group try to decode the hypochondria to get attention from a normal sense of being normal people it intensify rebellious thoughts that seem to emerge brutally. I try my way to make it seen in front of my mother from an earlier age and I express that decoded love and these abilities to stare at her long enough.

I must sat adults’ emotion is more difficult than a teenager because their mind is drawn by such normal set of reality distanced from us and they are locked into a world of secret and domination. Our thoughts are more spontaneous and more anew and fresh, because they are younger and stronger contestant.

Nevertheless when my mother didn’t have time to decode my extend staring, however, I felt no guilty or remorse; and when I showed up unexpectedly at her discussion, she would be lost, not overwhelmed, because she has not expected it.

In this case, I reserved my judgment before her, and I have taken it as a normal link that we were an effective family. That is we were generally happy, but I was not coped with adversity or minimum of stress. I am a normal teen; and my mother knew I was as happy as I was not. But she was not interested on such, and I told her I was. From that fomentation of ethical standards my father was the same; a personal growth within him. I still have a little concerned if he has really understood me; so I supposed I could support he would; but I am not sure. In fact, many things from this stage have become that part of experience, and I am not sure either one day I am going to remember that.

Nevertheless, I am sure it will return to me as if a bird lost her way back home in the wilderness; lack of energy or powerful enough of her wings to shake any foundations that I left behind.

Prologue

Criminal Minds

In the last report she wrote that crime costs America about $800 billion per year and about $260 billion per year is government spending– $92 billion on police, $80 billion on imprisonment and $70 billion on courts. In her Internet blog, she posted, Criminal Minds shows that by a conservative estimate teenager’s cause 87% of $489 billion. (See her book titled: The Lost Hope")

It says, Teenagers in private schools have lower crime rates than those who are public schools, she added that among young aged girls 8 to 14 they are much less likely to be incarcerated than older ones. They are more unpredictable; they seem more vulnerable because of illegal status.

Dr. Wolf takes over on pregnancy, and that is teenage are really a fucking machine being, abortion, and drug. He tells us that the essential overall of teenage pregnancy prevention is not helping teen develop goals and education them about the consequences of sexual activity.

The U.S teen pregnancy rate at an all-time high across all ethnicities and it has increased to 89% creating such enormous impact in communities and schools. There is no pregnancy prevention works to yield a 1% reduction because always a new teen bitch will come alone. On the other hand, boys and girls from the ages of 11 to 12 have begun to be more active sexually because of Internet such as Facebook, YouTube or other social media. They have been experiencing masturbation, selfies, homosexuals and lesbianism that can be done by just asking questions it is all right of being a lesbian or gay because the society will accept me as it, wrote Canadian Writer Nancy McAres. You see, she added, before someone will talk to you or answer your questions, you just become part of this cool level of freedom and choice.

Moralist Peter JoAndler recognizes that taking off the gender from boys and girls have become confused in these days. Many teens’ heroes or models so suddenly have come up and they have said I am gay or lesbian and that is made up to them being cool". He wrote that there is not much structure of males or female because the society has made to so unpredictable dangerous.

So drugs have become a big problem, as well as diseases and academics. The average teen in drugs rate increased 12 percent from 2008 to 2009 reaching an all-time high of 46.9 drug addicts per 1,000 young women aged 12 to 17.

CHAPTER 1

On the twentieth day of May in the year 1999—as a message of inspiration—that is, a woman called herself a teen—I got my first period and that was a moment of silence.

A part of this declaration is not surprising.

I can remember nothing else. Except that, I was able to get off the bed and walked to the bathroom. I started undressing and then I stepped into the bathtub. I began to wash myself slowly. How long this natural situation lasted was not easy to tell for comparatively little known about the way I wanted to wash the blood off. I could remember the first reading, which it fell into it. It read that blood—my blood—was the life. Moreover, for almost the first moment when I saw it I have formulated the question why I have to bleed like a pig? Why not something else, like sperm or grape juice? Why then life has to do with my bleeding? These irrevocable thoughts have begun to squeeze me after these ideas about the association between life and death, flesh, blood and the biological role of my acceptation of a teen or woman in front of this world of madness. In spite of that, I understood this was my blood as the same essential to life that I need to live or being an evolution of pig or monkey.

Here was what I read somewhere:

—Blood is essential to life, but that it is the essence of life itself. There is blood now of birth and blood at the moment of death

Moreover, there was blood in the ritual of defloration; that for many teens it seemed sacred and magical rituals and most cults of virginal world that blood has to do with purity of Mary. Not surprisingly, menstrual blood came to be seen as having a special power that was to command it to every practitioner of magic and witchcraft and alchemy. Among the American Indian blood is all meaning of growing and changing. In Maya blood had that weird name of k’ul or ch’ulel, which it emphasizes soul-force that imbues all sacred things, and that freaky me out thinking about these Mayan girls thinking about their tinny vaginas as soul forcing.

However, it was debatable whether the view of the menstruating-woman-as witch or pig or the puberty’s rite has to do with my first menstruation. As a sequence there was no way of knowing, but I know I am the one who is menstruating and the one that I am in the bathroom to take care of myself, and whatever this bullshit blood indicates I felt a little aware of this really, I just hate it.

Hours later I dried up and held the small towel between my legs and I got out of the bathtub. Slowly I walked to the cabin and retrieved a regular tampon and put it carefully against my sex and pulled up my underwear. I watched my hands many times and I looked at myself through the mirror. I was alive. I was afraid to find something else across my face. An evil’s presence; a moon filled with long teeth; or a monster God dressed like a dog. What I found was me—but now I produced it from my own expression of growing as a woman, I guess.

It was 15 years ago.

After that slowly motion I sat and began to write.

CHAPTER 2

It is a cold, rainy day when I do not care for anything. My cell number, 8171, is called up for a shower. I dress and arrange my clean clothes next to me. I select the new ones along with my shoes the night before, and I’ve painstakingly written down all the questions that I have to ask to my lawyer. I have not slept well, and I have been restless all night. In this nocturnal world I have heard other people sleeping and snoring. I do not call it a bad place. Prison is where you never seen mosquitoes, flies or gnats. It is unbelievably clean and smelled of disinfectants. I am here in this 7-10-foot-long room. I am in this cell within the cell housing unit that has two bunks and lockers for personal items. I am allowed to have nothing. I am required by the court to be put at a higher level of supervision because of the natural of crime. I have a bed and a private toilet. Photos are not allowed; not even from my three-year-old son named Sylvester Leann McCain II. For the past four years it has been my paradise in hell. I have been able to change myself into a robot. I forget all of the ugliest moments from my past and am able to reinvent myself. It occurs to me somehow I’ve got through another day until the final body of evidence appeared ready to be discovered.

My question for the past five years has been why I am here? How a teen like me who got everything possible in life is able being in this fucking place? My answer would come from the bureaucrats who run the prison. The dossier states that my name is Lynette McCain or number #717171. In their record it states she is born on May 17, 1978. Highest grade completed a master’s degree in Economics. Date of offense July 21, 2003. By the ends of this month she will be 27 years of age. And her residence is Grayerward County. Her race states white; and her gender is female. Hair color blonde and height six feet and two inches. She weights hundred and twenty-two pounds. Eye color blue and native South Carolina. Prior vice president of CVC and prison records none. The summary of incident stated: On May 17, 2002, Mrs. McCain’s husband was kidnapped from his Grayerward Hill County Mansion at night and Mrs. McCain strapped up her husband intentionally causing his death by beating him with chains, women’s shoes and wood. Mrs. McCain was arrested since all items belonged to her and she had no alibi. The murder was committed for a payout from an insurance policy that Mr. Hector McCain had opened a year earlier in the amount of $20,770,000 (in which Mrs. McCain was named beneficiary) as well as other assets which Mrs. McCain was named heir to Mr. McCain married Lynette Walker even though it was against his own family’s wishes. Mr. McCain was found by an employer of Vary Hotel with injuries so horrendous that the body was unrecognizable. The rent of the hotel room was paid in advance by a credit card issued of the name of Lynette Walker.

I am not prepared for what is awaiting me. The media, the crime, the powerful figure of McCain’s father and his connections all are against me. I am a beautiful, ambitious young woman and I am very smart which all of these were used against me. The media was all over me. They called me The Black Young Widow. The only thing I remember from that fateful day was that I have been waiting for Hector for the evening dinner. He had called me somewhere and I had heard noises and music and the voice of a woman. We got through our conversation and I was angry. I threw the dinner plates off the table and moved out. I told our nanny to take care of McCain II. I’d gone to relax. Really, nothing in my life had changed since I met Hector.

But he still loved his exciting life and we were still attached to the sensation of living. I could not figure out what had been going on until it was too late. I found out about his old love. Somehow their affair had emerged into my life as if it was a poison and it burned me. It burned him too.

I retaliated by going out with an old flame of mine from junior high school named David. I suggested to David that we should try it again and to forget for a moment we were both married. For a moment we laughed together conspiratorially, and then I found myself first at Brown’s Café and then at Motel 8. We each took the unusual step of going all the way. Three days later, as I was waiting for my husband, Hector, a dozen cops moved into our Grayerward Hill County Mansion. I was accused and arrested.

The charge was I killed my husband.

CHAPTER 3

They brought a woman last night. Her name is Lynette McCain. She has been accused of killing her husband.

All day alone it has been a show outside the police station. There were a hundred of news networks and reporters from everywhere are filled the lots and blocking the streets.

That is when we recognize we have a high case in our hands.

Edgar!

This is me.

Edgar Kessler.

I am a detective of Orange County, and from this forward I have only 130 days of living.

My partner, Romero Lamas, walks to me. He would have only 60 days.

He handles to me a file.

What is that?

Just open it.

Jesus!

I am thinking of a truck rolling over a street dog which all his bones have been crushed into melt.

If you get any uglier than this, we’ll have to quit right now.

But who is this?

The case we are going to handle, asshole. It’s her husband, Edgar. This is Hector McCain.

I just can’t believe it.

He was hammering with steels, chains, and woods. He has been tightened up against a chair. He has been recognized only through DNA.

Slowly, I look down at the hall where the cells are. And then I look back at the photos.

CHAPTER 4

Who is she really? Edgar Kessler quietly asks as he and Romero Llamas come up to the decorated office of Captain Lester Kubik.

He looks at Edgar; he does not reply until he has reached to a lovely homemade lower table and lifted up two files neatly next to a strange cactus.

You must know. She is all over the local newspapers and she is with us for the twenty hours and so far she has refused any representation. Her name is Lynette McCain. Soon she will be transfer to Los Angeles County.

This is very delicate, Captain. What happened with Helen McAqur and the case I am working on Dorothie Witts?

He sits. He reserves his own observation and gives a long stare over Edgar.

Lester Kubik is a massive man; he may height about three hundred pounds. He is in his later sixties with dark hair and steady eyes. He wears like a CEO: Navy color suit and red tie, and a law medal cross his chest.

Detective Helen Thorn and her team has been removed from this case, he says casually. That’s I want you to interrogate her and put all on print and send it to District Attorney John Roger. Read those files, Edgar. It’s very important. Ah, Dorothie’s case has been assigned to Detective Mins.

They say they found a ton of evidences, Romero observes.

District Attorney’s Office wants something unbreakable.

Everything is fixed then, isn’t it?

He fishes a See’s nuts candy from the desk and guides it to his fish’s mouth. Edgar and Romero know they are not going to bring out of him anything else; but when Romero Llamas tries to decode such quietness of the man, he cannot only come up with this cool expression of the lawman but also that steady look of his dead eyes.

All right, chief, and you will have this tomorrow morning.

Thanks.

CHAPTER 5

The prosecution and pretrial services were unalterable long. The prosecutor made a show of me in front of the media. Hector was a rich boy and I was a college girl with ambitions. The adjudication procedures took less than a month. In this amount of time it was impossible for my lawyer, Miss Nancy Rodriguez, to go into details with me on things that were very important.

During the arraignment, I was informed of the charges. Miss Rodriguez advised me of my rights as a criminal defendant.

A week later I was already on the front pages of every newspaper in the country as the killer of my husband.

My lawyer began to play the tough game of plea bargaining. First, she decided to plead guilty. But I explained to her that I was innocent. Second, she tried to play the games with District Attorney John Roger to reduce my sentence if I am called myself the killer. Third, my lawyer, after that faggot refused, wanted me to tell her what she has missed.

However, all the evidence still pointed at me, and I was still silent about having been with David that night.

Who is this David?

Well, David is a politician and his reputation will be destroyed, if I say I was with him. So if I say I was with him during those three days, there will be a consideration not from District Attorney’s Office, rather from my lawyer. I tried to put it all in front of Miss Rodriguez in a different away.

Nevertheless, there is not much to choose from. There are four pleas that I can opt for.

Guilty.

This is the tough one.

If I am to plead guilty I will have to accept what the prosecutor has on me without admitting guilt. My lawyer has told me that pleading guilty may bring a rejected plea in front of the grand jury. But there is the risk of being misunderstood, and the nolo contendere plea can be a pain of ass. Both of these could hold up, and in the end I can be sentenced.

It appears all is dependent upon what the judge will see or hear. It is then that my lawyer makes it openly—NOT GUILTY. In spite of this I was held without bail and the trial date was set for the following month.

By that time Lawyer Rodriguez has presented all my information to Judge Pierson. During the preliminary investigation, Miss Rodriguez has identified the violations of the prosecutor and the media. She pushed about how the police have coerced me into a confession such as Detectives Helen Thorn, Carlos Bello and Willy Beeks, and the other team leading by Edgar Kessler and Romero Lamas. But Judge Pierson was deaf to her pleas.

The next month on July 21 I was sentenced. But Miss Rodriguez did not give me up yet. She was upset with the whole criminal justice enterprise and promised me she was going to fight it.

CHAPTER 6

I got a feeling that there is something else you have held back from me, Lynette. It’s a matter of logic, since the case does not make any sense. If I fail at an appeal, you will be on Death Row. I need to know which piece of the puzzle you are holding back from me.

I turn my heard toward my mother where she sits in the courtroom on the opposite side. She is with my sisters and brothers and some relatives and friends. Then I become aware of my husband’s family.

While the big crowd of the media is so full of joy and shouting. They got my pictures, and finally I see myself naked before David. The politician as I am remembering about those moments of pleasure when I was with him. I am conscious of all the changes against him and his wife and three kids. His reputation will be a mess, and while I am thinking, and watching, Miss Rodriguez leans over to my shoulder and says:

I don’t get a good feeling about this, Lynette. Please tell me in your own words what really happened that night. If you would not, believe me, I won’t stop until I find the truth.

I look at her. I wish to hug her as a sister; but I can’t. I am still a prisoner, manacled in chains.

I didn’t kill my husband, Miss Rodriguez. I pray that you will not forget me.

I won’t, Lynette.

CHAPTER 7

Lynette McCain screams, and the sound of her voice coming from the cell down to the hall.

She is cursing everyone in the police station, demanding us to find the real killer, accusing all of us that we have created a conspiracy theory toward her and that she is going to file a lawsuit for liability for the entire department.

She is standing against the bar. Her beauty is remarkable still with this cap-sleeve mock turtleneck dress stretches to a gathered sarong side treatment and it is fastened with a rhinestone ornament that is all diamond. I admire her as everyone in the department has done before me, and I like her and love her, too, even as the media has been calling her the black young widow.

She is a striking young woman who every one wishes to have, and with exceptional beauty men and women are willing to kill for her and giving everything they possess, and with red golden hair cascading on this stunning boy, there is a mysterious spirit is muttered every line of her slender body.

She is sarcastic and funny and smart and oddly childlike when I start to speak with her, and can be said she does not look that image of the newspapers have drawn of her and being honest she is very young. She seems younger than my daughter Ann, who is only twenty.

I am experiencing spasms of guilt to admire her as a woman, a desirable woman. I have been divorced now for ten years now, and I feel so rewarded to have that woman next to me.

She is fully aware of her beauty, and not what the people are accusing her.

I will not doubt there is something on her that has fascinated me, something diabolical good and sexy and erotic and danger, that I do not give