The Queen Is Dead
(Page 2 of 3)
Then the dream ended—at the hands of the one person outside her family who stood to benefit most from her success.
The Killer
Yolanda Saldivar fit the classic stereotype of la dueña, the faithful chaperone or assistant. Neither attractive nor charismatic, the short, pudgy registered nurse from San Antonio was Selena’s constant companion. Her devotion and loyalty were beyond question. With the Quintanilla family’s blessings, Yolanda founded the Selena Fan Club in 1991. Whenever Selena y los Dinos played San Antonio or nearby communities, Yolanda was at Selena’s side. She was Selena’s eyes and ears, friends said—so trusted that she gave up her fan club position last fall to run Selena’s boutiques.
But some members of Selena’s circle spoke of another Yolanda. She was possessive and controlling, says Martin Gomez, who designed fashions for Selena until, he claims, Yolanda’s obsessiveness drove him to quit. She was a loner who had lived with her mother until recently and had few friends. She had once been accused of embezzling funds from a previous employer, and she had defaulted on a student loan. A woman who moved into an apartment with Yolanda discovered that Yolanda didn’t just have pictures of Selena on her walls—the whole place was “like a shrine.” Spooked, the woman moved out after two weeks.
Word reached Abraham Quintanilla in January that something had been amiss with the fan club. Several fans had complained that they had sent in their $22 but had never received the promised T-shirt, CD, picture or biography. About the same time, employees at the boutiques began to raise questions about Yolanda’s actions. Abraham began quietly investigating the matter and didn’t inform Selena until he felt he had concrete evidence.
In early march, Abraham, Selena, and Suzette met with Yolanda and demanded a full accounting. Yolanda denied the accusations and said that others were intent on making her look bad. Still, she must have seen what was coming. The person she had devoted her life to was going to cut her loose.
On March 13, after undergoing a background check, Yolanda bought a snub-nosed .38-caliber pistol from a San Antonio gun dealer. She then traveled to Monterrey, Mexico, where Selena planned to open a boutique, taking Selena’s business records with her. At some point during Yolanda’s trip, Selena phoned her and told her to bring the records back.
Subsequently, Yolanda resurfaced in Corpus Christi. On the night of Thursday, March 30, Selena and her husband, Chris, went to room 158 at the Days Inn, where Yolanda was staying, to pick up the records from her—despite the fact that Yolanda had asked Selena to come alone. When Selena got home, she realized some bank statements were missing, and she made arrangements with Yolanda to pick up the remaining records Friday morning.
On the morning of March 31, Yolanda asked Selena to accompany her to Doctor’s Regional Medical Center, claiming to that she had been raped in Monterrey. When test results were inconclusive, Yolanda changed her story: She hadn’t been raped after all. Selena and Yolanda then drove back to the motel.
Once again, Selena asked for the bank statements. Apparently, she also attempted to sever their professional relationship. Harsh words were exchanged. Yolanda demanded that Selena return a ring she’d given her as a gift from her employees. As Selena removed the ring, Yolanda pulled out the gun. When Selena ran out the door and yelled for help, Yolanda screamed, “You bitch!” and shot her in the back.
Selena crossed the courtyard and collapsed. The bullet had entered her right shoulder and severed an artery. By 11:49, when she crawled to the lobby door, she was bleeding to death.
“I’ve been shot,” she cried.
“Who shot you?” asked a motel employee.
“Yolanda.” Selena said. Then she passed out, clutching the ring in her hand.
An ambulance arrived within three minutes to take her to Memorial Medical Center. Notified almost immediately that Selena had been in “an accident,” Abraham and his family raced to the hospital, but the message had gotten confused: They thought she had been in a car wreck. A doctor met them in a waiting area near the emergency room and told them she had been shot. When he said he had administered four units of blood and had been able to restart her heart, Abraham became frantic and interrupted him. Because of her religious beliefs, he said, Selena would have objected to the transfusions.
But it was too late. The transfusions hadn’t helped, the doctor said. Selena was dead.
The Crime Scene
I woke up early on the morning of Sunday, April 2, with an urge to be in Corpus Christi. The outpouring of emotion on the news the night before was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
On the way to pick up David Bennet, who would come along for the ride, I tuned in KEDA-AM’s weekly Spanish-language mass from San Fernando Cathedral in downtown San Antonio. The priest was talking about Selena. “It isn’t the woman who senselessly killed her,” he said. “It is the whole culture of death we’re promoting.” He criticized the urge to retaliate. He begged the congregation to “say no to the spirit of getting even.”
When we got to the Days Inn in Corpus, we met up with about one hundred people, almost all of them Hispanic. Some were taking photos of themselves in front of the motel’s marquee, which read “We Will Miss You Selena.” Others were hanging around the lobby, where Selena spoke her last words. Still others were standing stoically near room 158, posing for cameras and video recorders. At the foot of the door were a bouquet of carnations, some roses, a pink oleander blossom, a votive candle, and several notes.
Many people seemed to be combing the site for something—evidence, perhaps, or a memento. Several young men hovered around the wooden trash container by the lobby, inspecting every square inch for flecks of dried blood. Two teenage boys in Dallas Cowboy jerseys ran their fingers through the thick blades of grass in the courtyard, where Selena had collapsed. Near room 158, three boys carefully picked up wood chips from the flower bed, studying each one for traces of blood.
Retracing Selena’s final steps, I felt the same cold chill I’d felt at Dealey Plaza in Dallas. I looked around for David, who had wandered off. I found him kneeling near the lobby, joining two men in silent detective work. After peering underneath an empty planter, he rose, his face paler than before. “I think I’m going to lose it,” he said. He had found a rust-colored spot that the cleanup crew had missed.
Home
From the motel, we drove south on Navigation Boulevard to Bloomington Street, where the Quintanilla clan lived. Traffic was stalled for five blocks as motorists lined up to cruise by. The three modest brick homes, surrounded by a single chain-link fence, were among the newest structures in the blue-collar, largely Hispanic neighborhood, and each had a paved driveway that took up most of the front yard. The house on the corner was Chris and Selena’s. It was small and unassuming — not the sort of place you would identify as the domicile of a superstar. The two-story house next door was Abraham and Marcella’s. The next house belonged to A.B. and his wife, Vangie.
Scores of fans stood in front of the fence, which had turned into a canvas of poster boards, banners, photos, flowers, colored ribbons, balloons, and teddy bears. There were flags of the United States, Mexico, and El Salvador. There were messages from Puerto Rico and Wisconsin, Dallas and Deer Park, Laredo and Three Rivers, and La Feria. One especially touching note was simply addressed, “To: Heaven, From: Houston.”
Staring at a picture of Selena on the fence, a toddler gleefully tugged at his mother’s skirt: “Look, Mommy. Bidi Bidi Bom Bom.”
The Long Good-bye
Downtown, for nearly a mile, people lined the sidewalk of Shoreline Boulevard on their way to Bayfront Plaza Auditoruim. They were waiting to see Selena’s closed casket, which was surrounded by five thousand white roses—Selena’s favorite.
