Guilt by Association (24 page)

“His ID?” she said as she slid mine back out in the chute and nodded at Luis.

I took a moment to let the blood find its way back to my brain, then nodded and gestured for Luis to put his license into
the chute. Luis complied, and for some reason she didn’t frown this time. She briefly looked at the license, dropped it into
the chute, and shoved it back out to him. Feeling a little miffed at how much less scrutiny he got, I missed the fact that
she had said something to me.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ll have to wait. Attorney rooms are all busy right now.”

I nodded and sent my briefcase and Luis’s legal pad and file through the metal detector, then stepped to the door. When the
deputies on the other side had finished having their way with my
briefcase and gave the “okay” sign, she buzzed us through. The jail was huge but poorly equipped for private visits. I’d anticipated
the wait because I knew there were only five attorney rooms. We stood against the wall and watched the row of visitors talk
through the glass that separated them from the row of inmates. It was largely mundane stuff—whether they’d sent food/clothes/books/pictures,
how the mom/girlfriend/wife/kids were doing, and the usual litany of complaints about their lawyers, who never saw them and
just wanted them to cop a plea.

I tuned them out and thought about all the effort Bailey and I’d gone to for this meeting. The jeopardy wasn’t just mine either.
If it got out that Hector had a visit from a DA, he’d be dead within twenty-four hours. When it came to snitches, bangers
had a policy of shanking first and asking questions later. I was going to be good and pissed if, after all this, the kid had
nothing of interest to say. I vowed to beat it out of him with my bare hands if I had to.

A deep male voice boomed out and broke into my Dirty Harry reverie. “Attorney for Hector Amaya?”

I gestured for Luis to join me, and we moved toward the beefy sheriff’s deputy who was standing next to the row of attorney
rooms.

“He’ll be in room five,” the deputy said as he motioned us to the last room in the row and held open the door on our side.

“Thanks,” I said as I entered and pulled out a chair.

“Take one more look at that briefcase, ma’am.”

It was interesting to see how the other half lived. He’d never have done that if I’d come here as a DA. I turned over my briefcase
and he rifled through it for a while, then gave it back to me.

“How long you going to be?”

“About ten minutes, but it could be longer.”

“You’ve got an hour,” he said, then left and closed the door behind him.

I looked around at the glass walls that enclosed our little Cone of Silence. They were smudged and dirty with grime that had
probably accumulated for the past ten years, and the air was even staler in this little enclosed cubicle. I wasn’t claustrophobic,
but spending enough time in this filthy bubble could convince me otherwise. I spread out my file and legal pad on the badly
banged-up metal table that was bolted to the floor and patted the chair next to me. “Take a load off, Luis.” Luis was standing,
looking out at the waiting visitors, his expression fierce.

“Luis. Get a grip. You’re a paralegal, here to help with an interview. You’re not here to trip down memory lane.”

Luis slowly lowered his gaze and sat down, muttering to himself.

“What? What’s your issue now?” I asked, annoyed.

“Jus’ wonderin’ what’s it like for Droopy. This place is intense, and he’s jus’ a lil’ guy, you know?”

Of all the bangers in the world, I had to get Mr. Sensitive. Droopy, I assumed, was Hector Amaya’s gang moniker. I wondered
why they were always so unflattering. Me, I would’ve at least picked something like Foxy or Jet. Which, I supposed, explained
in part why I wasn’t gang material.

I saw a pale and skinny young sheriff’s deputy escorting an inmate down the corridor toward us. He was so small, his county-jail
jumpsuit swam around him like a parachute. He looked to be about twelve years old. His hands were shackled to his waist, and
his feet were chained at the ankles, so the two made slow progress. When they got closer, I understood the Droopy moniker:
his eyes sagged down at the corners, giving him a perpetually sad look. Hector, aka Droopy, was indeed a little guy—short
and thin, with the long wiry arms that made him a perfect cat burglar. But the colorful tattoos that lined them meant short
sleeves would be a dangerous fashion choice.

The deputy unlocked the door on his side, and I watched as Hector
entered the room and realized suddenly who was with me. His eyes bulged and his face turned ashen, but I had to hand it to
him—he otherwise kept it cool and uttered not one sound as the deputy put him into the chair. I waited until the door had
closed securely behind the deputy and he’d taken his seat outside before addressing Hector.

“As far as anyone will ever know, I’m your defense attorney, and this is my assistant,” I said, gesturing to Luis.

I continued, “I’m actually the prosecutor on the rape case involving someone Luis knows pretty well. And she just happens
to live very close to where you got caught the other night. Which just happened to make everyone think that the Sylmar Sevens
were working that hood. And this gave us the unfortunate impression that Luis was the rapist.”

“Pissed me off good,
ese,
” Luis said, his voice menacing.

Hector shrunk in his chair and looked down at the table, unable to meet Luis’s eyes, which were trained angrily on his face.

Luis leaned in and said in a low but raw-voiced whisper, “What the fuck you thinkin’, pullin’ a job like that without askin’?
You forget who’s the shot-caller?” He spoke with a quiet intensity and menace that showed me what kept him on top of the heap
known as the Sylmar Sevens.

Hector drooped so low in his chair that he’d probably have slid onto the floor if he hadn’t been shackled into it.

“I guess I’m goin’ to have to find a way to remind you,” Luis said. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you,
pendejo
.” Hector obediently looked up as much as his still-bowed head allowed. “I got a lot of people in here. They can take care
of you… or not. You understan’?”

I had to walk a fine line, letting Luis flex his muscle to make this kid talk without being a party to a felony. Misdemeanors
were my limit.

“I can’t be hearing threats, Luis,” I said quietly, with as little
challenge as possible, then gave Luis the power to keep Hector’s respect by letting him work the interrogation. “He needs
to tell us now why he picked that hood and that house.”

Luis looked at Hector like he was a turd hanging off Luis’s shoe. “Tell the lady,” he said.

Hector took a deep breath, then blew it out and shrugged. “I don’ know. Was stupid, but I never meant for it to come down
on you, Luis, you gotta believe me,” he said.

I would’ve felt sorry for the kid, but I didn’t really care whether he meant to frame Luis or not. “What made you choose that
neighborhood and that house? And don’t tell me your grandma lives in the area,” I said.

Hector swallowed hard for a minute, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down before he managed to squeak out, “Really,
it was jus’ bad luck. No reason. I jus’ was ridin’ around with my homies and we drove by this place and it looked real good,
so I decided to hit it.” He paused to breathe and looked between Luis and me, trying to gauge our reactions.

This was total bullshit. Hector looked good and scared, but for some reason he wasn’t coming clean.

“Pinche cabrón mentiroso,”
Luis spit at him. “You bring all this trouble down on my head. I’m givin’ you the chance to start makin’ it right, and you
disrespectin’ me with this fuckin’ shit?”

Hector’s chains were his “tell.” He was shaking so hard they rattled loudly under the table, sounding like Ebenezer Scrooge’s
ghost of Jacob Marley. Luis continued to stare at Hector, his brows knitted, his expression thunderous.

“Luis, I know I got no right to ask, but if I give it up, you gotta get me protection in here or I’m dead, man. I’m dead.”
Hector had tears in his eyes, and his already high-pitched young-boy voice got even higher. This was starting to really worry
me. What had this goofy kid gotten himself into?

Luis paused and stared at him for several beats. The rattling of Hector’s chains punctuated the tension in the air. Then,
in full
Godfather
mode, Luis slowly nodded. “You have my word,” he said softly, sitting back in his chair.

Hector’s chest heaved, and he began to sob. Luis looked away to give him a measure of privacy, and I did the same. When the
sobs had reduced to sniffles, I looked back. Finally Hector began to speak.

“Was this dude tol’ me he knew a house, real rich people, they were gonna be gone for the night. The back door would be open.
There’d be cash an’ jewelry an’ he’d let me keep the cash—”

Hector stopped abruptly and looked at Luis. The shot-caller’s nostrils flared as he rasped, “Why don’ you think? Think! Some
vato
you don’ even know gives you all this, you don’ say to yourself, ‘Hector, this shit’s too good to be true’?
Qué tonto estás!
You see? This is why you have to ask permission.” He stabbed his finger at Hector’s head. “Because you don’ got nothin’ up
here.”

Hector again bowed his head and nodded. “I shoulda known. But I thought if I pulled this off, you’d let me move up.”

Move up the corporate ladder of the Sylmar Sevens. I supposed it was always good to have goals.

“Was it true, was the back door open?” I asked. This was a key point.

“Yeah, it was, but—”

“But the people were home,” I finished for him. Either the “dude” had left the door open himself because he had access to
the place, or he knew the family’s habits well enough to know that they left their door open all the time. Either way, it
was an inside job.

Hector nodded.

“This dude got a name?” I asked.

“I never knew his name.”

Of course not. That would be too easy. “Describe him,” I said.

“White guy, kinda big. Long black hair, wears it kinda slicked back, in a ponytail.”

“Beard, mustache, soul patch?”

“Nah.”

“Any tatts?” I asked.

Hector nodded and tapped the left side of his neck to indicate where the tatt was, and I heard the chains rattle again as
he began to bounce his knee nervously. His reaction to my question told me why he’d been so scared.

“AB?” I asked.

Hector nodded again, and Luis grunted as he sat back in his chair. The AB, or Aryan Brotherhood, was one of the oldest, most
powerful, and violent prison gangs. Hector would definitely sleep with the fishes if they found out he’d ratted on one of
their own. But nowadays they weren’t as big as the Sureños, a Hispanic prison gang that went back to the original Mexican
Mafia. Ultimately the bigger, badder gang would make sure nothing happened to Hector if Luis had enough pull. The baby gangster
and I were both hoping he did. But what weird quirk of fate caused a young Hispanic gangbanger to cross paths with an AB guy?

“Where’d you run into him?” I asked. Hispanic gangbangers and white-supremacist groups didn’t mix as a general rule.

Hector licked his lips and looked from me to Luis. “You gonna go arrest him?”

“Eventually, if we find him. But we’ll have you safe by then,” I said with more confidence than I probably should have. With
prison gangs, there was never really such a thing as “safe.” Lucky, maybe, but not safe.

Hector didn’t look entirely convinced, but it’s not like he had any choice.

“I seen him at the Oki-Dog,” he replied.

If it was the place I was thinking of, it was a dive with mostly
outdoor eating. Located on Fairfax, it was literally a place where, in the words of Jim Morrison, all the “creatures meet.”
Punkers, bangers, all-night druggies, wannabe actors, high schoolers trying to be cool—they all congregated at the Oki-Dog.

“You see him there a lot, or just this time?”

Hector shrugged. “I seen him there a few times before.”

I pulled out as much more of a description of the guy as I could, and when I’d run out of questions, I turned to Luis. “You
got anything?”

Luis shook his head, and we stood up to signal the sheriff’s deputy that we were done. The shot-caller started to pick up
his file, then stopped and looked down at Hector. “You my homie, so I’m takin’ care of you for now. But that can end, you
mess up again,
m’entiende?”

Hector nodded quietly. I wondered whether Luis really had the power to protect him from the Aryan Brotherhood. I’d find out
soon enough, when we picked up Oki-Dog man. And then the answer would come swiftly.

Luis and I emerged
from the jail, blinking into the forgotten sunlight, and made our way to Bailey’s car. I ripped off my wig and glasses the
moment we pulled away from the curb. Bailey drove us to a nearby clinic, where she had connections that would get Luis’s inner
cheek swabbed and blood drawn, no questions asked. I filled her in on what I’d learned from Hector as she drove, and she absorbed
the news without comment. Uneasy with our alliance with Luis, Bailey wouldn’t say any more than she had to in front of him.
I should’ve been even less enthused with his company, but for some reason I believed he did aspire to something more than
being the gang shot-caller.

As we walked out of the clinic, I found a nearby waste container and dumped the long blond wig. I didn’t want to keep any
evidence around. Luis seemed disappointed. “Looked kinda hot, you ax me, but whatever.” He finished rolling down his shirtsleeve
and said, “We gonna get my poly done now or what?”

We all got into the car. Bailey and I looked at each other. Getting Luis into the station to do a polygraph exam without anyone
realizing who he was would be very tough. If he was spotted, they’d lock him up no matter what we said, and that would mean
I’d get nothing more out of Hector if I needed it. Besides, a deal’s a deal. I’d
promised to keep him out of custody if he delivered, and he had. And I wasn’t a big fan of polygraphs anyway. Bailey turned
a quick left, taking us back to Bauchet Street.