Reward money in Baby Jane ‘Cordova’ Doe case awarded to the Las Vegas toddler’s sister 10 years later

Lesley Figueroa smiled and celebrated Monday evening, surrounded by friends, relatives and a $30,000 check in her name. But the occasion was bittersweet.

She’s 17 now, but 10 years ago, Figueroa was just 7 years old when her 3-year-old sister, Crystal Figueroa, otherwise known as Baby Jane “Cordova” Doe, was found bruised and dead in a garbage bin in Las Vegas.

The money Lesley accepted Monday evening wasn’t originally meant for her. It was a reward, donated and earmarked for anyone who could identify Baby Jane “Cordova” Doe or her killer.

When authorities named the toddler in 2006 — then arrested her mother, Gladys Perez, and her mother’s former boyfriend, Marc Colon, in connection with Crystal’s murder — the reward money wasn’t awarded to anyone.

“Detectives gave me the check back and told me no one was qualified for the reward,” said Javier Barajas, owner of the valley’s Lindo Michoacan restaurants, who made the original $10,000 donation.

Barajas didn’t know the family or the little girl, but when he heard about the case, he “wanted to help in any way possible.”

“The only way I thought possible was giving the money as a reward,” he said. And when he was told to take it back, he felt defeated.

He asked again if there was any way he could still help, and that’s when a detective told him — if he really wanted — he could save the money for Lesley, the toddler’s sister, and present it to her on her 18th birthday.

“I have kids, too,” Barajas said. “ But after that, I thought that was a great idea, and we decided the money was going to be for Lesley.”

The $10,000 grew to $16,000 after Barajas hosted a few fundraising events, “then I put the money in the stock market, and thank God everything went well, because now it’s $30,000,” Barajas said.

He hopes she can use it for a car or college classes after her 18th birthday on Feb. 5.

The girl’s grandmother, Lilia Perez, 52, watched quietly as Lesley talked with TV news reporters and held the huge, symbolic check.

“She has moments sometimes, when she sees a real family, like a real family — dad, mom, brother, sister — together, happy,” Perez said, away from the commotion. “I see it affect her. But day to day, when she’s doing what she likes to do, she feels happy, normal. She works very hard to continue on with her life.”

And on a night that dredged up so much bad for Lesley, she gracefully talked about the good: How far she’s come, how much she’s grown.

She’s a cheerleader. She plays softball and basketball. She loves to hang out with her friends.

She wants to study law enforcement in school. Maybe sociology. She wants to help children going through trauma.

“Kids younger than I was have gone through a lot worse things,” she said.

What she’s gone through comes back to her sometimes. Not in words or sentences but visions and feelings.

“I’ve looked back and tried to piece things together,” she said. “I can explain to you what I’ve read and seen on TV. But I can never explain to you what I’ve seen, the feeling that someone took something away from me that I can never get back.”

The feelings come in waves, she said, but she’s thankful for the family she does have — her grandparents, aunts, uncles.

“Their experiences in life have helped me through mine,” she said.

She’s gotten closer with her mother too, who — along with Colon — is serving life in prison on murder and child abuse charges, though the mother has parole eligibility after 20 years served.

Lesley wrote her mom once, when she was 8, to vent. To ask why. Then for a while, she didn’t speak with her mom at all.

But things changed. Time passed. Lesley got a cellphone. “She calls me a lot now, actually,” Lesley said of her mom, adding that it always happens to be at the right time.

Once, when Lesley was in the midst of a bad breakup, her mother called. She often calls as Lesley starts to think about her.

“It’s a gut feeling she has,” Lesley said.

Her mother calls so much now, Lesley saved the prison’s number in her phone as her mother’s main contact number.

“When someone says something bad about their parents, their real parents, I get upset. I just want people to appreciate the little things,” she said. “To see my mom’s number pop up on my phone, even if it’s not her cellphone, it’s an amazing feeling.”

As she finished her sentence, her phone started ringing. The caller ID read: “Mamma.”

Contact Rachel Crosby at rcrosby@reviewjournal.com or 702-387-5290. Find @rachelacrosby on Twitter.