The Murder of Itzel Villafranca: Documents Implicating the Attorney General of The Republic of Mexico

by Philip Charter

This manuscript was discovered among the contents of the house of Doña María Guadalupe Villafranca (deceased), in 2019. It was submitted to the Ministry of Culture and Arts of Oaxaca and appears here, along with the original letters in an exhibition titled Ruin and Repair—1920s Mexico.

At the door, I waited. My task was to organize my helter-skelter thoughts into words would inform the Villafrancas in the most sensitive way that their daughter was dead.

Before I could knock, the door opened and the master of the house, dressed in a Sunday suit, stood before me. “What is it, man?” he said. “I’m away to church.”

“Señor Villafranca. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Eliseo Eduardo Hernández of Oaxaca City. I bear news.”

He was a stern man, tall and thin with a prominent nose. “Hernández … should that mean something to me? As you can see, I’m rather in a hurry.”

From his annoyance, I gauged my arrival had come before the Oaxaca state police. In case of his absence, I had transcribed the last few days’ happenings onto paper. The man’s reaction to my version of events would be critical. “It’s regarding your daughter,” I offered in a somber tone.

“Itzel? What’s that brazen girl done now?”

The words would not come. “Here, please look.” I handed him the papers. It was better that he read for himself.

Page 1:

For the attention of the Villafranca family,

It brings me great sadness to inform you of the death of your daughter, Itzel Villafranca, in the early hours of June 11th in the city of Oaxaca de Juárez. I offer my heartfelt condolences at the loss of such a talented and charismatic young woman.

Although I fear that by the time you read these pages the worst will have befallen my employer, it is my sworn duty to offer a true and correct version of events which surrounded Itzel’s death. I beg that before you cast judgment, you read these letters and guard them in a safe place. Representatives of the state of Oaxaca will soon be in contact to inform you that Itzel was murdered by her husband. This is not true.

Jacinto Ramírez is a good man. You knew this when you matched him with your daughter, and over time, nothing has changed. The following passages were written by the hand of the accused himself accompanied by my own small interjections, which serve to explain the gaps in the text.

I am certain that you will find some of the contents distressing, but if my child had passed away, I would desire the facts presented in such a frank manner.

Lic. Eliseo Eduardo Hernández

June 14th 1927

Page 2: (written by Jacinto Ramírez).

Two sheets of paper and a small piece of charcoal serve as my only companions in this stone cell. For that reason, I must be brief in relating the impossibility of my situation. To the entire Villafranca family, I pray this reaches you before the agents of your daughter’s murder spin their lies.

I am incarcerated in a jail on the outskirts of the city. Having been denied the right to legal counsel and a fair trial, I suspect I am to be executed on the orders of Governor Genaro V. Vázquez.

It is true that Itzel and I have endured months of difficulty. Both families believed it a good match at the time—her artistic connections would boost my electoral ambitions in Oaxaca, while my stable law practice would prove to tame her wildness. Our letters back and forth between Oaxaca and Puebla were full of anticipation and desire. Yet, after the marriage proved unfruitful with regard to children, her drinking and fraternizing at elite parties gained in pace. While I disapproved of her sinful tendencies, I played no part in her death.

On the night in question, June 10th, I was engaged in a consultation with residents of the sixth section on matters of property boundaries. I had ridden to the district to survey the plots with one Miguel Zárate. Since that day, Zárate has refused to corroborate my story. I believe the Governor’s office offered him a sum of money in exchange for withholding his testimony.

Itzel performed at a function that night, and I was not surprised to find her absent when I returned to the house at 1 a.m. As I prepared for bed, there was a knock on the door. Two uniformed policemen displayed their badges and requested entry. They said the neighbors had made a noise complaint. I informed them of my visit to the sixth section. They noted Zárate’s details and entered the house. These men passed through the rooms and into the back courtyard.

Then. “Señor Ramírez, you are under arrest for murder.”

I was stunned. “Murder of whom? Where?”

The officer with an ugly mustache pushed me into the back yard, the other leading the way around the bushes with an oil lamp. A dark foreboding began to press down upon me. “For what could you possibly detain me?” I demanded. When we reached the back wall of the property I saw her. Itzel lay face down, still, a broken hummingbird at rest. My wife. The policeman held the lamp over her body.

Her black curls matted with blood. Head trauma. A red-brown dust sullied the brilliance of her white dress. The shorter officer jammed his boot underneath her shoulder and flipped her body over. When I saw her mouth flap open, it struck me that nobody would ever hear that beautiful voice again. The woman I loved was gone, and I was ruined because someone needed to silence her.

“She was at a function … the governor … there must be witnesses,” I stammered.

“Come with us, you dog.” I was shackled and led into the waiting carriage.

The night before she was strangled, beaten and tossed over our back wall, Itzel had sung at one of Genaro Vázquez’s private functions. He is a keen supporter of the arts and much was at stake for Itzel. That scoundrel is known for taking the women he wants. I gave thought to the fact that by framing me, he could eliminate a mistress and a future opponent with one wave of his hand. No paperwork will be found pertaining to my arrest. Instant trials are much more convenient.

After reading the first two pages, Señor Villafranca attempted to pass the papers back to me. His hand was shaking violently. “Take them. If this is true, why wasn’t I notified until now?”

“My apologies, señor, but it’s necessary that you continue reading. The governor cannot be permitted to—”

“I don’t know you, man,” he said. “I’ve never met you, nor heard of you! You say you are an employee, some lackey of my son-in-law, yet …”

I lowered my gaze and remained silent for a second. “It’s imperative you know the truth before the police arrive.”

“Police? I’ve a good mind to call the police now and sort this mess out.”

“Please. I have traveled far to bring you this news. The police may be looking for me.”

“Damn your police, damn the governor, and damn your infernal state,” he shot back. “Itzel was a good Poblana girl.”

I nodded. “May she rest in peace,” I said. Although Itzel had her demons, she was indeed a talent. I only heard the woman sing once, but had seen no other musical performance like it. Itzel possessed an intense spiritual beauty that took flight in her song. She could freeze the air in a room with her Zapotec verse.

Señor Villafranca studied the pages, looking for clues. “This is Jacinto’s hand … we wrote frequently.” He looked to the heavens, and for the first time began to accept that his worst fears about sending his wild daughter to an even wilder state had come to pass.

“Follow me. We best continue this inside, away from my wife.” We hurried into his study in order that he finish reading the letters.

Page 3:

Note by Eliseo Hernández: When Jacinto did not arrive at the office the following day, I was not overly concerned, but that afternoon, word reached me that he had been detained. At once, I proceeded to the station.

The holding cell contained around fifteen people, rough men, all of them with hands bound by stout cord. Jacinto detailed the events of the night of the tenth and implored me to find the client who could account for his whereabouts.

At once I traveled to the sixth section and inquired about Señor Zárate. One of the young dressmakers on the street pointed me to his finca. When I rang the bell at the farmhouse, Don Miguel’s wife, a hunched lady with a sour face, told me he was away and his return date unknown. Even after I explained the severity of the situation, she refused to check for the signed document which could serve as proof. She was neither sympathetic nor interested in the news of Itzel Villafranca’s death, and I returned from my journey exhausted and frustrated.

By that time, it was dark, and the zócalo was alive with evening birdsong and music. At the police station, the officer present informed me that Jacinto had been moved. My knowledge of criminal law is still in its infancy, yet, I am certain that moving prisoners to clandestine facilities and holding trials behind closed doors is an affront to democracy.

Regarding our young governor, he has shown himself astute and opportunistic. In the grand leagues of Puebla, Oaxaqueño politicians may not appear frequently in the newspapers, but he is a powerful man. Not only has he pacified the great number of ex-revolutionary soldiers, but he has advanced the interests of the land reformers. He is allied with Calles and Cardenas, and is set to take a cabinet position in the national government. Yet, while his well-reimbursed friends in the media print pictures of women’s conferences and school openings, the town whispers of his lavish parties—champagne, young singers, and money changing hands in back offices.

The market porters of Oaxaca can locate any person within a few hours given the right motivation, and I had spared no expense in search of the man that might exonerate Jacinto. Zárate had been spotted in the Casa del Mezcal, a dark house of debauchery with empty bottles and a sawdust floor. Zárate was incomprehensible. He lay slumped in the middle of a binge that would last as long as the hush money did, clasping his dirty wad of peso notes. Zárate refused to accompany me to the station to verify the visit of Jacinto to his property, but after much physical persuasion, he gave me a document signed by the two men that evening. He had carried it with him. I have enclosed a copy of the land title, clearly dated, with this letter.

Page 4: (written by Jacinto Ramírez)

Although I requested the presence of a lawyer immediately, it was not until the afternoon that Eliseo visited the police station. I had given my account of the evening, and after several hours the guards informed me that my alibi, Señor Zárate, was absent. With every passing minute, my faith in the legal system of our country waned. Eliseo endeavored to investigate the disappearance of Zárate.

After darkness fell upon the station, two non-uniformed men extracted me from the cell. None of the other prisoners seemed concerned about the forced removal of another accused man. I was blindfolded, kicked for good measure, thrown onto a wagon and covered with a tarpaulin. I had no way to judge in which direction we traveled. The journey lasted around forty minutes but I still do not know where this facility lies.

In the morning, a guard brought water and tortillas. Scraps tossed to a starving animal imbue loyalty. I had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours. Nobody said a word to me all day. As far as I knew, there were no other prisoners within earshot. After so many hours barking for answers, dogs lie quiet. I longed for conversation, for an acknowledgement, and for the feel of a newspaper or pen in my hands. “Tell me what sin I have committed,” I cried. “Good Catholics cannot leave a man in such purgatory.”

The conversation which next took place, I wish to recount word for word. It may be important if it can ever be corroborated. One of my jailers opened the cell door and entered. His demeanor appeared less cruel than the other guards. He clamped a finger to his lips.

“None of this is right, but I can’t change that,” he said.

I stood to attention.

“You don’t know about the baby?”

I indicated that I did not.

He sighed. “A man cannot die without knowing why. You must promise not to talk. Do I have your word?”

I nodded greedily.

“You go to trial tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I objected, but he raised his hand to silence me. My eyes bored into his, searching for answers.

“Your wife was pregnant,” he said.

The room span. It couldn’t be mine. Years of angry stares and silent breakfasts told me that.

“She had been seeing Señor Vázquez for some months. He took an interest in her career.” My wife’s infidelity was not a surprise, but the baby was. “At the party, she made threats,” he said. “The Governor tried to be reasonable, but she would not stop.”

When the guard left I cried. I cried because every word I wrote to her in my courtship letters was worthless. I cried for Oaxaca, for my people. I cried because I was to be a sacrifice to a rotten cause.

The next day, after the farce of my twenty-minute trial, I awaited my fate in my cell. My prayers were answered as that evening God sent a mango through the high window in my cell. I suspect that Eliseo had something to do with it, as the mango was wrapped in these sheets of paper and contained a small stick of charcoal.

May the soul of Itzel rest in peace, and may God strike down those responsible for her death.

Jacinto Ramírez

June 13th, 1927.

Page 5:

Note by Eliseo Hernández: After exhaustive enquiries, a sandal maker near our office provided a lead to follow. A cousin of his knew of a group of buildings on the property out towards Monte Albán. The buildings used to be empty, but around two years ago (when the Governor took his temporary seat), carriages and even motor vehicles came and went with shackled passengers.

The cobbler offered to take me there, and I procured horses for the journey. It was unlikely that I would be permitted entry to the compound; Being seen would place me in danger. Thus, I brought paper and charcoal in the hope of exchanging a message with Jacinto.

The trek up the winding paths taxed the horses due to the blazing sun. We stopped some one hundred meters from the group of brick buildings. I tied the horses to a cactus. A lone guard with two long-barreled pistols in his belt walked between the buildings, occasionally smoking.

Eventually, we saw a blindfolded man being led into the central building. This man was taller than Jacinto and sported a darker complexion. Twenty minutes later, two heavy-set men dragged him back to his original building, supporting the fellow under his arms. I instructed the cobbler to leave.

When night fell, the guard headed inside to the main building. I went about wrapping the paper I had brought around fruit, rocks and whatever projectiles lay to hand. It was too dangerous to attempt verbal contact, as the guards would hear me. Instead, I tossed the paper and writing implements into each of the four outer buildings (which I judged to be cells) and left. If Jacinto was there, he would write a message that I could collect the next evening.

My final duty in this communication is to transcribe my final conversation with Señor Jacinto — the man who changed my life and helped countless others.

I returned to the buildings at dusk on the thirteenth of June, and once again waited for the guard to leave. Summoning all the courage I could, I approached the first outbuilding and whispered up to the small air inlet. “Señor Jacinto.” A few seconds passed.

“Yes. Keep your voice low. Who goes there?” said the voice on the other side of the wall.

“Thank God. It’s Eliseo. Did you receive the paper?”

There was a shuffling sound inside the room followed by two faint taps. “Take it.” At the third attempt, the ball of paper rattled through the hole and fell to the ground. “It’s too late, Eliseo,” he said as I scrabbled around in the dark for the paper.

“No, señor. I will raise a militia, to set you free. This is not legal.”

“Nor is raising a militia.”

I stood in silence, waiting for instruction.

“They’ll have organized the paperwork by now,” he continued. “I’ll be shot tomorrow.”

“But, why? And what of Itzel?”

“It’s all in the letters, Eliseo. Take them, get word to her family.”

“Of course. I will travel first thing.”

“She was pregnant. It was his, the gov—”

Before he could finish, a key clicked in the door and nearby voices sounded. The guards scurried between buildings, fumbling for the keys to each building.

“We are armed, cabrón. This is private property.”

All I could do was take the letters and run. As I fled toward my waiting horse, there were gunshots. Two, three, four bullets whistled past me and somehow missed. The men were slow in mounting, preferring to make use of their guns. I navigated the steep paths down the hillside and raced back to the city.

On arriving home, I read the papers. What could this upstanding citizen, this God-fearing man, have done to earn such a fate?

Though it was late, I roused three neighbors who owned firearms. We returned at first light to Monte Albán, but it was too late. All of the five buildings were deserted. It was as if he’d never been there. It is probable that Jacinto Ramírez is now dead.

I ask that upon finishing this letter, the families coordinate a response and ensure that Vázquez is brought to account. It may be too late to save a good man, but it is not too late to serve Godly and rightful judgment on an elected villain.

Lic. Eliseo Eduardo Hernández.

Señor Villafranca sat behind his desk, and when he had finished reading the letters he looked at me, his eyes burning with questions. I shuffled from foot to foot. Perhaps it would have been better to deliver the letters and leave.

“Hernández, can I trust you? Is this all true?”

Without hesitation, I replied that he could. His suspicion was natural. We had never met, after all.

He crouched and turned the combination lock on the safe in his office cabinet. “I will guard these letters.”

“Very well, señor, but we must notify the newspapers, and open an investigation here in Puebla. Do you have any contacts?”

“We’ll travel to Oaxaca. I’d like to verify your stor—”

Before he could finish his thought there was a sharp knock at the door. I inched toward the window and saw the dark blue jackets of state police.

Señor Villafranca put his finger to his lips, then shouted to the front door. “Who goes there?”

“Representatives from the Oaxaca Police Force. We bring urgent news regarding Itzel Villafranca.”

I cursed the fact that I no longer had Jacinto’s written testimony. The innocence of that man, the justification for the death of his wife, and perhaps even my freedom, now lay in the hands of Itzel’s father. Did he believe me? Would he invite the police in to discuss the matter?

There was no time to dwell on such matters. I ran from the room, turning left into the kitchen, stealing out of the back door. Returning to talk with Villafranca may be a possibility, but not for some time.

I could not have acted differently without risking my freedom, and the livelihood of my family back in Oaxaca. I had endured enough. As I ran through the dusty streets, back to the carriage station, I vowed that however long it took, this story would not be silenced, as was the voice of Itzel Villafranca.

The manuscript ends abruptly, and no further sections have been found. State records show that on 14th June, 1927, Jacinto Ramirez was convicted of the murder of Itzel Villafranca and sentenced to death. Since the discovery of these letters, an investigation into the conviction and sentencing has been opened. It is still ongoing. There is no surviving record of the manuscript’s author, Eliseo Eduardo Hernández.

About the author

Philip Charter is a British writer who teaches writing to non-native English speakers. His work has been featured in The Lit Quarterly and FlashBack Fiction, among other publications. In 2021, his story "The Fisherwoman" won the Loft Books Short Story Competition and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Visit his website at philipcharter.com.

About the illustration

The illustration is "Woman from Tehuantepec" by Tina Modotti, Ca. 1928. Photograph. In the public domain via Wikimedia Commons.