Earth Angels (8 page)

A woman shrieked as Stepanovich ran inside, Arredondo right behind. Pepe Gomez had one leg over the windowsill of the open rear window. "Hands up!" Stepanovich shouted, aiming his revolver at the man's chest. Gomez raised his hands. Arredondo ran into the other room.

Stepanovich thought of the little girl lying on the carpet in the church as he assumed the combat stance and aimed his Smith & Wesson directly at Pepe Gomez's kill zone. There were no witnesses present. At that moment, with his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, he considered wasting Gomez. He could let him have it and later say Gomez had reached into his waistband for what Stepanovich believed was a gun.

There was no doubt in his mind that the shooting would be ruled justifiable and in compliance with the police manual.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

"Don't shoot!" Gomez begged. "Don't shoot. I give."

"Go ahead and jump, cocksucker!" Black shouted from below the window.

"My hands are up!" Gomez begged. "Please don't shoot."

Arredondo reentered the room dragging an obese young Mexican woman wearing only a black bra and panties. He shoved her to the floor and took a position to cover Gomez with the shotgun. "She's the only other one here."

Stepanovich bolstered his revolver. Advancing to Gomez, he grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the floor. With his knee planted between Gomez's shoulder blades, he cuffed his hands behind his back.

As Gomez lay on the floor, Stepanovich took out his wallet, removed a Miranda warning card, and read it off. Concluding, he asked, "Do you understand those rights?"

"Yeah."

"Do you wish to answer questions?"

"No. I want a lawyer."

Stepanovich and Arredondo looked at each other, and Arredondo shrugged.

Black and Fordyce entered the front door and began searching the living room.

Stepanovich left his prisoner with Fordyce and walked into the bedroom. There was a mattress on the floor and a pile of clothing in the corner. A shadeless lamp was perched on a cardboard box next to a framed photograph of Pepe Gomez and three other shirtless, unsmiling gang members standing in the living room of Pepe's apartment. Gomez was holding a pump shotgun in the port arms position. The other three were holding revolvers.

"You OK?" Arredondo asked.

Stepanovich nodded, not taking his eyes off the picture. "I almost shot him."

"No loss to the world."

"I was halfway back on the trigger. He was unarmed and I almost let him have it."

"He's an asshole, man. He killed a kid. Anyone would want to kill him. Besides, you didn't do it. What you were thinking is your own business." Arredondo slapped him on the shoulder.

Stepanovich took a deep breath and exhaled. Picking up the photograph, he slammed it sharply against the edge of the dresser. The glass shattered on the floor as he pulled the photograph from the frame.

The task force detectives' search for weapons lasted until after eleven. Every piece of furniture was overturned, every drawer emptied, every piece of clothing thoroughly patted. Black even dumped the contents of the refrigerator and a brimming trash receptacle onto the kitchen floor and examined everything thoroughly.

There was no shotgun.

With the search completed, Stepanovich kicked aside some canned goods and kitchen utensils, slid a chair back from the kitchen table, and sat down. He reached into his pocket and took out a pen and the search warrant. Then, per the required legal procedure, he listed the items he'd seized as evidence on the reverse of the search warrant:

1.One 8 x 10 photograph depicting Pepe Gomez and three other males holding weapons (found in bedroom).

2.One pair tennis shoes bearing Eighteenth Street gang markings (living room).

3.Letter bearing return address of California State Prison at Chino (kitchen).

4.One shotgun shell 12-gauge (bedroom).

****

SIX

Stepanovich and Arredondo booked Gomez for murder at the Parker Center jail, then trudged across the street to the County Courthouse. Showing their badges to a guard at the door, they took an elevator to the district attorney's office on the fourth floor. The modern, well-furnished office was empty. A piece of typing paper taped to the reception counter read: "DEPUTY DA ON DUTY IN ROOM 210." An arrow on the sign pointed to the right.

In Room 210 a slender man whom Stepanovich figured to be about his age was sitting with his feet on a desk reading a
Model Railroader
magazine. A nameplate on the desk read "ELLSWORTH C. WEBER." Weber had neat, kinky hair and wore a wrinkled short-sleeved white shirt and a soiled necktie. Taking his feet off the desk, he hid the magazine under some papers.

"I'm Joe Stepanovich. This is my partner, Raul Arredondo. We're with LAPD CRASH. Is Howard Goldberg working tonight?"

"Why do you ask?"

"He's a friend."

"He's on nights next week. I'm in charge tonight. If you have a case you'll have to present it to me," he said, revealing a full set of braces.

Stepanovich handed Weber a stack of papers including the report of investigation at the church and the search warrant return listing the items of evidence.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Weber said.

"We've arrested a suspect and we want to file murder charges against him."

Weber let out his breath, picked up his eyeglasses by the bridge, and blew on the lenses to clear away possible dandruff flakes. With a flourish he balanced the spectacles on his face. "Pepe Gomez. Hmmm."

Stepanovich and Arredondo sat in silence as Weber read slowly, moistening the top of his index finger with his tongue each time he turned a page. With each lick Stepanovich found himself becoming more and more annoyed. The moment he had walked into the office, in fact, he'd decided Weber was an asshole.

"Hmmmm," Weber said as he finished the final page. "Where's the motive?"

"The motive is revenge," Stepanovich said. "The tennis shoes with gang markings and the letter from prison with references to the Eighteenth Street gang prove Greenie's gang affiliation. And I have piles of police reports proving that the Eighteenth Street gang is at war with the White Fence gang. In fact, it's gone on for generations."

"Revenge," Weber said to an El Monte College of Law diploma on the wall to this left. "Very good. Now how do we prove the suspect had the means to commit the murder?"

"The crime was committed with a pump shotgun. In the photograph we found in his apartment he is standing with three other known Eighteenth Street gang members holding a pump shotgun. We found a shotgun shell in his bedroom. Also, he's been arrested twice before in possession of sawed off shotguns "

"But you found no shotgun during the search of his apartment. "

"Didn't really expect to," Arredondo said. "In gang shootings the shooter always hands off the murder weapon to a another gang member right after a shooting. He would never keep it where he lives."

"But there's no shotgun," Weber said condescendingly.

"We found a shotgun shell," Arredondo said.

"That's not evidence of anything. What do you have that ties Gomez to the scene of the crime?"

Stepanovich crossed one leg over the other. "We have an eyewitness who picked Gomez's photograph from a spread."

"Just one?"

"Just one what?"

"Just one witness."

"That's what I said."

"How many people in the church when the shooting went down?"

"More than a hundred."

"Out of a hundred people only one person got a look at the shooter?"

"The witness was sitting in the pew nearest the door when the shooter entered."

"What assurance is there that the witness will actually show up in court and point the finger at Pepe Gomez?"

Stepanovich cleared his throat. He had a feeling of déjà vu. "The witness will show up."

"People in East L.A. know it's not healthy to testify in court against a shooter. Witnesses who we are sure are going to testify and make a big case often chicken out the day of the trial. When this happens, the prosecutor on the case is left holding the bag. I speak from experience."

"We'll personally bring him to court," Stepanovich said.

"I see here that when you arrested Gomez he refused to make a statement. No confession. No incriminating statements."

"He asked for an attorney."

Weber set the reports down and adjusted the pile. "Looks like we have a cliffhanger."

"What do you mean by that?" Stepanovich asked.

"Your witness takes the stand and says Gomez was the shooter," Weber said. "Gomez takes the stand and says he was home washing his Chevy. It's a one on one."

"If I had a lot of witnesses, I could prosecute the case myself."

Weber glared at him. "But you don't. You have one witness and a bunch of nebulous bullshit for evidence."

"I guess that means you're not going to file the murder charges."

"You guessed it."

"What should I tell my captain, that the DA said the case was a cliffhanger and we had to let a shooter go?"

"I don't care what you tell him."

"May I ask you a question?" Stepanovich said.

"Um hm."

"If your nine year old daughter had been murdered and an eyewitness identified the killer, would you be satisfied with the case not being prosecuted because the DA thought the case didn't look like a sure winner?"

"It's not my daughter, and as far as I'm concerned, this is just another ghetto murder one of six or seven I've reviewed this evening. There's not enough evidence to prosecute and that's that." Weber held out the reports and Stepanovich and Arredondo stood up to leave.

"Try reinterviewing the witnesses," Weber said as they walked out.

From the district attorney's office Stepanovich drove straight down Fourth Street to a soot covered industrial area near the L.A. River. Parking the car in a truck space in front of a cardboard container factory, he and Arredondo walked across the wide street to the Rumor Control Bar, an establishment identified only by the letters "R.C." spray painted above the door. Inside, the dark bar was filled with male cops wearing loose fitting shirts to cover off duty iron. There was only one female in the place: Brenda Last Name-Unknown. Barefoot, the beefy, ponytailed young woman was wearing tennis shorts and a halter-top made of two large seashells cupping her breasts which was tied in back with a thick leather thong. She was perched on a stool near the middle of the bar: a seat she'd earned, as Sullivan the bartender often remarked, by blowing any and every swinging dick in the division without regard to race, creed, or rank. Stepanovich knew from the grapevine this included sucking off a platoon of motorcycle cops after the traffic division steak fry, the entire Wilshire Division morning watch, a group of narco detectives at an on duty swim party, and every badge carrying male who attended last year's robbery homicide Christmas party. Rather than being simply tolerated like other camp followers, the veteran fellatrix was a distinct source of pride to the entire division because of her consistent refusal to go down on sheriff's deputies, firemen, and officers from other police departments.

As Stepanovich and Arredondo approached the bar and ordered beers, Brenda waved at Arredondo.

Sullivan, a retired police officer with puffy eyes and habitually unruly hair that made him look as if he had just awakened with a hangover, set beer bottles on the bar. He picked a cigarette from a pack and lit it with a silver LAPD lighter. "I hear you two have been assigned to the CRASH special unit."

Stepanovich nodded as he set money on the bar.

"A Bob Harger brainstorm, right?"

"Right."

Picking up the money, Sullivan used a soiled rag to wipe the bar. "I knew Harger when he first came on the Department. We worked together at Central Division."

Arredondo swigged his beer. "What do you think of him?"

Sullivan sucked on his cigarette and gritted his teeth, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs. He turned his palm and looked at the cigarette. "First day I met him I could tell he'd make rank," he said, holding the smoke inside.

C.R. Black whistled shrilly from the other end of the bar. "Hey, Sullivan, you baggy eyed creep! Bring some beer down here!" The bar crowd laughed.

"You're going to be working with him too, right?" Sullivan said, reaching into the cooler for a bottle of beer.

"How do you know?"

"Black wangles his way into any unit where he can earn overtime pay," Sullivan said. With a practiced motion he popped the cap and handed him the bottle.

Stepanovich and Arredondo joined Black and Fordyce at a table in the corner and Stepanovich explained what had happened at the district attorney's office. Fordyce shook his head as if he'd been informed of a death in the family. Black smiled sardonically. "I'm not surprised."