Neil Knight Private Dick

It's not as bad as it looks

Some people believe the city was named after General Santa Anna, but that's never been the case. It was originally named "Vallejo de Santa Ana", which translates into Santa Ana Valley, or, Valley of Saint Anne.

Before California was ceded to United States by Mexico, after the Mexican-American War, the sixty-five-thousand acres that defined the Rancho Santiago de Santa Ana was originally granted, on behalf of the Spanish Government, to José Antonio Yorba and his nephew Pablo Peralta by then Governor José Joaquín de Arrillaga. Those lands extended along the east bank of the Santa Ana River from the mountains to the sea, and its boundaries encompassed present-day Santa Ana, Orange, Villa Park, Anaheim Hills, El Modena, Tustin, Costa Mesa, and a small part of Irvine California.

Now land grants were rare during that time, but the quiet exchange of a large sum of money between Yorba and Arrillaga seemed to expedite the transaction to the benefit of both men.

At the conclusion of the Mexican-American War, the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo assured that all previous land grants would be honored, thus securing the ownership of the Rancho Santiago de Santa Ana by Yorba and Peralta.

In 1854, the Yorba family sold Rancho Santiago de Santa Ana to José Antonio Andrés Sepúlveda.

Sepúlveda, a single man by choice, already an owner of properties in Los Angeles and another ranch in San Joaquin, became regionally famous for the sheer extravagance of the parties thrown at the elaborate adobe hacienda, El Refugio (the Refuge), originally built by José Antonio Yorba near what is now western Santa Ana. The money generated from his ranches funded his penchant for gambling and unrivaled hospitality.

The racetrack was Sepúlveda's true paramour, and his fortunes would rise and fall within hours depending on the agility of the horse, the ability of the rider, the amount of the wager, and, at times, the size of the bribe. No matter what they say, size matters. Not everything can be left to chance.

But gambling, lawyers, and nature, both human and maternal, proved his undoing.

The floods of 1861-62 were followed by the drought of 1863-64. The scorched hills and valleys of the Santa Ana Valley were covered with the corpses and bones of thousands of cattle.

Feckless breeders and equine owners, jealous of his success and effusive, over-the-top, devil-may-care lifestyle began to offer inaccurate information at the track on the chances of their horses to secure a win. His losses mounted, attracting even the honest to feed at the trough of his sorrow.

Court battles to prove his California property claims forced him to borrow money at staggering interest rates. Combined with mounting gambling debt, and under the constant threat of losing life or limb from debt collectors, Sepúlveda accepted defeat and sold his San Joaquin and Los Angeles holdings, keeping only the Rancho Santiago de Santa Ana.

Even then, under further financial duress, on October 10, 1869, he sold seventy-four acres of the ranch to a Kentucky entrepreneur, William H. Spurgeon, and his partner Ward Bradford, for the grand price of five-hundred-ninety-five dollars.

Twenty years later, in 1889, the property became the seat of government for the County.

And 100 years after firmly establishing the connections between Santa Ana and gambling, lawyers, entrepreneurs, rivals, the gaiety of unbridled celebrations and the fickle nature of human beings, the first Orange County Cultural Pride Festival parade was held at Santa Ana's Centennial Regional Park with around 10,000 people attending.

"So, you see, Mr. Knight, I was only 16 years old when I marched in that parade. I was surrounded by people I didn't know, but I never felt more at home, more accepted."

"It was exhilarating."

She turns her face slightly, the dim room light casting a thousand sparkles from moistened eyes.

Neil quickly did the math and puts the woman in his hotel room at 45 years old.

She does 45 well. Very well indeed.

"So, I assume you're a member of the gay community?" he asks.

The words hung in the air like the cheap perfume of a Walmart shopper.

"You're asking that because you're attracted to me and you're wondering." she states bluntly. "I don't consider gender when I'm attracted to someone Mr. Knight. Male. Female. They're just labels and appendages... or lack thereof."

"But I'm not here so you can admire the length of my legs, the curve of my breast, the fullness of my lips or the depth of my eyes. I came here because I need your help in finding out who sent me a message. A very clear message" she says as her fingertips trace the deep bruise on her right cheekbone, the caked blood in the hair near her ear.

"I apologize if my attention seems out of line." Neil responds. He drains his glass, unsure for the moment of how to move forward. On the bed nearby his dogs fix him in a disapproving side eye.

"Let's start with some specifics," he begins, "your name, where you live, and why someone might want to injure you."

"My name is Maria Fiorello Campana. I live at 206 West 20th Street in Santa Ana, directly across from the Bowers Museum."

Like most homes in that area, even the Bowers building itself, 206 West 20th was a Mission Revival–Style building. With massive adobe walls encircling enclosed courtyards, these buildings promise the kind of visual safety and security required by their inhabitants.

In truth though, these throwbacks of the Spanish Colonial style are nothing more than professional salve for architectural vanity.

"As to the why Mr. Knight, I can only think it is due to my lifestyle, or perhaps my place in society."

And the lightbulb finally comes on.