Above the Law (21 page)

“You’re asking for the moon,” Bill said after we’d exchanged greetings, thumbing through my request memo.

“I’m being reasonable as hell,” I countered. “But if that’s how you feel, hire someone else. I hear Marcia Clark’s getting bored with her television gig.”

“If Luke doesn’t come aboard,” Nora said, jumping in, “it could take months getting someone else. Time is of the essence here.”

Bill had to try to lowball me. If he didn’t, some obscure civil service geek would discover these figures and throw a tizzy fit in the papers about them, and Fishell would have indigestion over it for a few days.

“I know, I know,” be said, glancing at Schwartzman, who sported the bemused smile of one who’d seen a variation of this dance a million times, “but I’ve got duly-elected officials to answer to, most of them so green they can’t find the bathrooms off the capital floor, let alone a piece of legislation. An on-call airplane?” He looked at the document in front of him. “That’s what the bad guys do, Luke, they’re the ones with the money. We’re government flunkies here.”

I was in the catbird seat, because although I did give a shit, it wasn’t life-or-death with me. I didn’t want him to call my hand, though, because you can’t bluff in this game.

Nora reasoned with him. “Look at this.” She pulled a newspaper clipping from her purse. “In Washington, D.C., it costs two hundred thousand dollars to clean the pigeon shit off one statue. One! And there’s thousands of them. They’re going to clean two this week, not even the Lincolns and Jeffersons, two nobodies. Three or four of those and that’s the airplane, with lobster and Jack Daniel’s thrown in on a daily basis, if that’s what Luke wants.”

“I prefer Johnnie Walker, but the gist of it sounds right to me. Given the work, and the caliber of person you have to have running this show, not blowing my own horn, just being realistic, this is cheap time you’re buying, and quality work. Any other lawyer with the background and capability for this is going to charge you more, bring in unnecessary staff, go crazy with your money.”

Fishell held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. You’re hired, you knew that before you came up here. At
three
hundred, not a dime more.”

I smiled at him. I knew the state wouldn’t go to four. “And the ancillaries, too, right?”

“Yes,” he gave in. “You’ll live as well as a major-league ballplayer.”

Nora was beaming. “You won’t regret this, Bill.”

“As long as we bag a turkey.”

“The DEA doesn’t think their people are dirty,” I reminded both of them.

“Somebody killed Juarez,” Nora said. The entire operation had left a sour taste in every Muir County mouth, and Binaca wasn’t getting rid of it.

“And everybody in the world thinks he deserved killing.” The first words out of Schwartzman’s mouth since the meeting started.

“Not by lynch mob,” she shot back. “Cops aren’t judges, not where I come from.”

Fishell calmed everyone down. “Enough already. We all know this is going to be a test of the system.” He looked to me. “How many people, Luke, and what’s your timetable? Any more thoughts about it?”

I pulled some pages from my briefcase. “I want to wrap it up in six months. I’m thinking three or four detectives, plus support: secretaries, paralegals, runners. Quality people, the best I can get. It won’t be cheap—we have to investigate everyone who was there, that takes time and talent. I’m assuming this wasn’t an accidental killing, an agent losing his head and shooting Juarez in the confusion of the chase. Their OPR investigation would’ve smoked that out.”

Fishell and Nora nodded in agreement.

“Almost sixty agents, eight of Juarez’s bunch in prison. We may be going back as far as grade school, looking for connections, grudges, sneaky motives, money that can’t be explained. A dirty cop, if he’s smart, covers his tracks, and the men on this detail were capable agents. This is going to be a national case, Bill. Once we get started, we’ve got to drive hard to the finish,
and win.
We drill a dry well, we’re the
Time
magazine cover of the year for assholes.”

“Yes, I know,” he said dolorously. Prosecutors hate getting involved in potential prosecutions they aren’t assured they can slam-dunk; it fucks up the batting average.

“Agreed,” Nora chimed in, nervous over the prospect of what might be coming, but clearly excited, too. Why shouldn’t she be? This was going to be the biggest event in her life, a way for her to forget, or at least to begin to overcome, all her negative baggage and forge something positive.

“When do you want to start?” Bill asked. He glanced at Schwartzman, who was taking notes.

“As soon as possible. We’re playing catch-up ball.”

From across the room, Schwartzman kicked in, “Is there any kind of budget you can give us?” Schwartzman, as a career assistant A.G., had been there for half a dozen administrations. He knew how to deal with the power players, the state senators and assembly people who approved budgets.

“No,” I answered, “I don’t know who the players are going to be yet. I’ll do the job as cost-consciously as I can, but you can’t hold me to a figure. It’s the nature of the beast.”

Fishell nodded. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Millions of them, if it dragged out.

“This will be a political goodie,” I told them, reading their minds, which were transparent on the subject. “We win, there’ll be plenty of reflected glory for everyone to bask in.”

There was nothing more to say. We stood up, shook hands all around.

“I’ve got about a week of cleanup to do at home,” I said, “then I’ll get going. I’ll be making calls, see who’s available and willing. I hope to be set up and running within a month.”

“Whatever I can do,” Fishell said.

“You’ll be hearing from me plenty,” I assured him. “But,” I also reminded him one more time, “this investigation is mine to run. It has to not only look completely independent and neutral, it has to be, in fact.”

Bill cuffed me on the shoulder. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

Nora and I had lunch at Frank Fats, the downtown Sacramento restaurant where the power brokers break bread. All around us, men and women, the men in dark suits and white shirts, the women in the female equivalent, were chowing down on high-cholesterol mandarin food, virtually every table overflowing with platters. All on someone else’s tab, the same as with Nora and me.

“This is going to be exciting!” She was giddy with anticipation.

I had to deliver the news; I wanted to be diplomatic about it, but it had to be said, in plain, clear, unadulterated English.

“This is my show.”

What I’d said already, more than once. I took a bite of my Chinese chicken salad—I gave up the heavy lunch thing years ago. I want to dance at my son’s wedding, when I’m old and sloppy.

She answered blithely, “I know.” Like she heard me, but the words, not the portent.

“I’ll tell you what I’m doing,” I said, “I’ll counsel with you every step of the way. But you don’t get a vote. That’s what
independent
counsel means. I answer to no one.”

She looked up at me. She’d been concentrating on her plate.

“You’re not happy hearing that.”

“No. But I understand.” She started to fork up a piece of fish, put her utensils down. “I can offer advice, can’t I? If I have an idea, you’ll listen to me, won’t you?”

“Of course. But we’ve got to be purer than the driven snow. I’ve never seen snow being driven,” I added, trying to lighten the moment. “What does it look like?”

Her response was flat. “White.”

“You won’t be shut out, Nora, I promise.”

“Thanks.”

She was glum now; she’d get over it. Those were the rules; I didn’t write them, but when I’m in the game, I’ll play by them. We all will.

“That applies to your staff as well.”

“I understand that.” She’d lost interest in her fish.

“And everyone else.”

She stared at me:
Meaning?

“Sheriff Miller and his deputies.”

“Uhhh.” She looked like I’d kidney-punched her. “That’s hard.”

“He’s a tough old guy, I know. Excellent at what he does, too, I’m sure. He has more experience, that the rest of us put together. But…”

“I know you have to conduct this in a prescribed way,” she said, “and I can handle my end. But look, Luke—Tom was shut out of the raid, which shouldn’t have happened. Jerome went against his own department’s guidelines, which mandate local law enforcement has to be part of whatever they do. It’s not supposed to be optional, and he messed Tom over, and it hurt things. Tom could have helped, if that egotistical shit had listened to him. Now you’re telling me this.” She shook her head sadly. “Tom’s really going to be upset.”

“And he’ll have the right to be, and I still can’t help it.”

The waiter hovered over us with the bread basket. We both declined; he went away.

“I’ll tell him,” I said. “You don’t have to. It’s my job to.”

She pushed her plate away. “He’s going to be miserable. And angry.”

“It’s a potential conflict of interest. He was there.”

Her head jerked around. “You’re going to investigate
Tom Miller?
”

“He was there. I have to.”

Now she really looked morose. “This isn’t going the way I expected it to, Luke.”

I reached over and covered her hand with mine. “It’s a formality. We’re together on this every step of the way. But I have to do this by the numbers. I’m going to be under intense scrutiny. If it does turn out that any of the DEA guys have complicity in Juarez’s murder, in any way, I don’t want them or their lawyers to be able to shoot us down on a technicality.”

“I guess.”

“Trust me. We’re partners.”

Her eyes locked into mine. “You promise?”

“We’re partners,” I reiterated. “It’s your jurisdiction. You won’t be disappointed.”

I had to say that; she was miserable. I hoped she wouldn’t be for too long, but we were in the deep waters now. She was going to have to swim on her own.

She forced a smile. “I trust you, Luke.” She paused. “Don’t hurt me.”

I winced; I prayed not visibly. I could feel the anguish in those three raw words all the way to my backbone.

“I won’t.”

Not only wouldn’t I hurt her, I’d bend over backward to make good by her. For the first time in her life since law school, Nora Sherman Ray was going to have a positive experience. And it pleasured me that I was going to be the instrument to make that happen. Sometimes, I thought to myself, the past
can
be brought into the present. And washed clean.

I had a courtesy call to make—not one I wanted to make, but one I had to.

I drove the 101 south from Santa Barbara into downtown L.A., getting off at the Temple Street exit, heading south on Temple past the Music Center and through Little Tokyo until I got to my destination, the tall, salmon-pink granite Roybal Federal Building at Temple and Los Angeles Streets. I parked in the six-dollar all-day parking lot and crossed Temple on the green.

It was one-thirty, the end of lunchtime. A warm, clear L.A. day. There isn’t as much smog in the basin as there used to be—the world makes cleaner cars than when I was a kid growing up in the San Fernando Valley, because the state of California and the U.S. government makes them. Which proves the government can work, even better than expected, when it’s forced to. I strolled by pretty Latina secretaries in tight blouses and black heels, Asian businessmen in dark suits wearing wraparound shades, lawyers and bureaucrats and government employees, the downtown L.A. workforce. Hot dog and burrito vendors sold food from carts.

My first pass through the metal detector triggered the alarm, even though I’d deposited all the obvious stuff—money clip, keys, watch, briefcase—in the plastic tray. That didn’t satisfy the machine, however, which has a hair trigger considerably more sensitive than the standard ones, at LAX for example. This one was set up like Tel Aviv’s, with good reason: the Roybal Building, a nice piece of pork named after one of Los Angeles’ old-time congressmen, whose district this was when he was alive, is the regional headquarters of the DEA, ATF, FBI, Secret Service, almost every federal law-enforcement agency. From their perspective, you can never have enough security. If it was up to them, no civilians would ever be allowed in the building.

My belt and wedding ring didn’t stop the buzz, either. It was a loud, irritating sound; even though I half-anticipated it, I still clutched.

The line behind me was growing. That was their problem, although I was beginning to feel self-conscious.

The guard running the machine eyeballed my wardrobe, settling on my feet. “Take off your shoes.”

I slipped out of my Cole-Haan loafers, sent them via the conveyor through the X-ray machine. Then I tried the detector again, almost flinching. If this didn’t work, I’d be stripping down like Mike Tyson at a weigh-in.

The third time was the charm. “Your shoes have a steel last, to help keep the shape.” The guard pointed to the X-ray screen. “They’re good shoes.”

I slipped my good shoes back on and gathered up my personal items. Then I walked down a long hallway and around a corner, past the magazine stand that also sells cigarettes, coffee, breath mints, prewrapped sandwiches, and other snacks, and took the elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor, where the DEA offices are located.

More security. I produced a photo ID—my driver’s license—and signed in, stating whom I was seeing, the time of my arrival, and the purpose of my visit. I put “professional courtesy” in that space, although I didn’t know how much I’d get.

“What time is your appointment?” the receptionist asked, not looking at me, too busy with important work. She was a middle-aged, light-skinned black woman with a no-nonsense visage. Another civil-servant gatekeeper who took her work and herself too damn seriously for my current taste. We were separated by a reinforced Plexiglas window, which
I
assumed was bulletproof. All the doors leading into the complex were locked from the other side.

I looked at my watch for her benefit. “Now.”

She instructed me to take a seat and wait for Special Agent Kim to come out and escort me back to his office. Kim was the head of L.A. OPR, the Office of Professional Review, the DEA’s version of Internal Affairs. He was in charge of the investigation into the Juarez killing.