The Burning Plain (16 page)

She shoved a paper at him. “This is a court order for his immediate release. Uncuff him.” The deputy gingerly stepped past her and complied with her demand. To the woman behind her, she said, “Can he be moved?”

“There are no broken bones,” she said, “but he’s probably in a lot of pain.”

“No probably about it,” I said weakly. “I hurt like hell. What happened?”

Inez came to the side of the bed. “I don’t know. They found you sitting in the lobby last night in cuffs. You told the jailer to call me. Do you remember anything?”

“They hauled me out to the desert and put a gun to my head. Sheriff’s deputies.”

“Gaitan?”

“No, some thug friends of his. Shit, I hurt.”

“I know,” she said, touching my hand lightly, “but, Henry, while they had you in custody last night there was another murder in West Hollywood.”

I lay back in bed and laughed until I choked on the pain.

The third victim’s name was Tom Jellicoe, twenty-seven, a sales associate at Barney’s in Beverly Hills. He was last seen getting into a cab by the bouncer of the after-hours club which he had just left. The next day, his body was found behind a discount shoe store that fronted Santa Monica Boulevard. He’d been tossed naked into the Dumpster, beaten and stabbed, the words
FAG-AIDS
etched across his chest. I studied his picture in the
Times
. Streaked hair, pudgy, smooth-faced. Cute but only just. Nothing special about him except the manner of his death.

The
Times
characterized the murders as “puzzling to police” and went on to say that “one man had been questioned in connection with the earlier murders, but no arrests have been made.” The paper’s libel lawyers were more cautious than the TV stations. They continued to broadcast my name and picture in their reporting of Jellicoe’s murder, albeit also running clips from the press conference. Anticipating this, Inez had wanted to hold another press conference on the steps of the hospital, but I asked for a few days for the swelling to go down, both physical and psychological, before we made any statements. She quickly agreed, making soothing noises about my need to rest and recover from the trauma of the assault, and I let her believe that was all the damage there was. I couldn’t tell her that what had really happened out there was when the cop had pressed his gun against the back of my neck and I knew I was going to die, in the last second, after I shouted “No,” I felt not terror but relief. Maybe it was no more than a chemical reaction of the body to ease the inevitable moment of death, but it bothered me how easily prepared I was to let go. Had Tom Jellicoe felt something similar in the last seconds of his life? Was he glad to be done with it? I tossed the paper into the recycle bin.

The doorbell chimed. I hobbled to the door in my bathrobe, on a sprained ankle, and put my eye to the peephole. My visitor was wearing a flowered shirt and khaki shorts that showed thick, pale legs, but the mirrored sunglasses still made him look like a redneck cop from the wrong side of the bayou. Odell. When I opened the door, his glasses reflected my bare, battered torso.

“Jesus,” he said.

“But no broken bones,” I said, my refrain to everyone who had seen me in the past three days. “I’m guessing from your get-up this isn’t an official visit.”

“I heard what happened,” he said, removing the mirrored glasses.

“Really?” I said, leading him into the living room. “Maybe you can explain it to me because I’m still not sure.”

“What I heard was secondhand. Hearsay. I’d like to hear your version.”

“Why, Sergeant? Why should I talk to you?”

“Because I have information that could help you if you decide to take some kind of legal action against the department,” he said.

“Off the record, of course.”

His small, bright, intelligent eyes met mine. “That depends.”

I told him what I remembered. “At some point as they were working me over,” I concluded, “I passed out. I came to in the jail ward of the local hospital where they’d dropped me off, charged with resisting arrest.”

“What were their names?”

“They weren’t wearing shields.”

“What about the booking sheet?”

“I was never booked. They left me sitting on a bench in cuffs. There’s a note in the jailer’s log with my name and the charges beside it, but he swears he didn’t write it. He claims he didn’t even see them bring me in.”

“Would you recognize the deputies if you saw them again?”

“I don’t know. Most of the time I was staring at the backs of their heads. When the one cop pulled his gun on me, his face got so big I could’ve counted the hairs in his eyelashes, but now it’s fading. My doctor says I have a mild concussion, and between that and the painkillers, my memories are sketchy.” I yawned. “You work for the sheriff. Do you know who they were?”

He seemed to study my injuries before he spoke. “Six, seven years ago,” he said, “there were rumors about a paramilitary group inside the sheriff’s department. Maybe you remember?”

“Vaguely.”

“It was supposed to be centered out at the Antelope Valley station. There’s a lot of crazies out in the high desert, survivalists, militia-types, white supremacists.” He grinned. “It’s a little bit of Idaho right here in Southern California. A lot of deputies live out there.”

“The Simi Valley syndrome,” I said, referring to the distant suburb of LA county that was home to many LA police officers. It was famous as the site of the first Rodney King trial in which a white jury’s verdict acquitting the cops who beat King precipitated a riot.

He shrugged. “Something like that. The sheriff wanted to get to the bottom of things, so he sent a couple of deputies in kind of an undercover capacity. I was one of them.”

“You worked Internal Affairs?”

“Not officially,” he replied. “The sheriff just figured I’d fit in.”

I nodded, easily imagining Odell in the role of a bigot. “Is there a militia inside the department?”

“It was more like twenty guys getting together in a bar once a week, complaining about how the world’s going to hell in a handbasket and how they would take care of business if they were in charge, and then one day a light goes on and they realize, hey, we’re police officers. We are in charge, at least out there on the streets.”

“Every cop eventually has that revelation.”

“These guys were more organized about it,” he said. “They put themselves in positions where they could give each other cover.”

“You mean cover-up,” I said. “For what?”

“Excessive force, illegal searches, falsified police reports, planted evidence,” he said. “Everything you defense lawyers claim we do, these guys did, and they protected each other.”

“Was Gaitan one of them?”

He nodded. “He was four years out there after he did his stint at the jail.”

“What happened with your investigation?”

“We got the goods on six of ’em.”

“Including Gaitan?”

“No, but we knew he was involved. Deeply involved.”

“And the ones you caught?”

“Five were allowed to resign to avoid criminal prosecution. The last one, he pleaded no contest to one count of falsifying reports and served nine months. Another dozen, including Gaitan, were reassigned.”

“That’s not even a slap on the wrist.”

“The sheriff wanted to break things up, not send deputies to prison. Bad for morale.”

“Not to mention public relations.”

“LA is the hardest place in the country to police,” Odell said. “People here want it both ways. They expect us to put our lives on the line for them but they dump on us every chance they get.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I’m not going to argue the point,” he said, the softness of his voice concealing steel.

“So why are you here?”

“I think the men who came to your door were two of the guys who resigned.”

“Where’d they get the gear?”

“From their buddies in the department,” he said. “We didn’t catch all of them and some who were reassigned have drifted back. I hear on the grapevine they’ve started meeting again. I’d be surprised if their attitudes toward law enforcement have changed.”

“Police vigilantes,” I said. “Does the sheriff know they’re back?”

“He does now.”

“Gaitan was behind it, wasn’t he?”

“That’s gonna be hard to prove. Mac’s much smarter than you give him credit for.”

“Smarter? He’s just a thug.”

“That press conference of yours was a provocation.”

“To him or to you?”

“It hurt all of us,” he said, emphatically. “Good cops and bad. I’ve personally worked real hard to build up trust with the gay community in West Hollywood. You destroyed that.”

“Blame the bigots in your department. Besides, how do you think I felt about having my name appear in the media as a murder suspect?”

“That was Gaitan working freelance.”

“It doesn’t matter. I had to respond. My reputation was on the line.”

“We could’ve worked something out,” he said.

“Not according to your boss, the sheriff,” I replied.

“He listens to me.”

It occurred to me that while Odell might look like a corpulent southern sheriff, he had the soul of a frontier lawman; Gary Cooper’s heart in Andy Devine’s body.

“I thought you worked for him.”

“Chuck Ramsay and I go back a long way. We have our understandings.”

“Why aren’t you running West Hollywood if you’re so tight with him?”

“I do,” he said. It was a simple declaration of fact. “I’m not still a sergeant because I can’t get promoted. I choose to stay in the field.”

“If everything’s copacetic with you and the sheriff, why are you giving me ammunition to sue the department?”

“I don’t like what happened to you.”

“That’s touching,” I said, “if not entirely convincing.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you want. There’s a problem in the department. I want to see it solved.”

“You’re an insider, Odell,” I said. “Someone like you doesn’t tell tales out of school unless you’ve already been to your friend, the sheriff, and he blew you off. Is that what happened?”

He got up to go. “I did what I came to do,” he announced. “The ball’s in your court.” On his way out, he paused and said, “But I’d keep an eye on your lawyer.”

The next morning, while I was still pondering Odell’s warning, Inez turned up at my door with a bag of
pan dulce
and a box of
Abuelita
cocoa. She removed her pinstriped jacket and went into the kitchen, where she went about making the cinnamon-laden hot chocolate. Refusing my offers of help, she clattered through the shelves and cupboards, cursing when she couldn’t find what she was looking for. I had never seen Inez in a kitchen before. It was unnerving.

“Whenever I was upset, my mother always served me
pan dulce
and
Abuelita”
she said, running her finger along the rim of a serving plate. “Look at the dust on this. When was the last time you cleaned in here?”

“I don’t dust my dishes. Wouldn’t it be easier if I did this?”

“You’re sick,” she said. “Fuck! I burned my hand on the fucking pot. Don’t you have pot holders?”

“On the rack under the sink. And I’m not sick, Inez, I’m battered.”

She turned from the stove to me. I was wearing drawstring pants and sandals. “You look better than you did in the hospital.”

“They were very careful how they hit me,” I said. “Soft tissue damage only.”

She poured the chocolate into mugs. “Here, you take these. I’ll bring the pastries. Let’s sit outside.”

It was a musty midsummer morning, the air dry and stale. The canyon was more brown than green. Fire season. We sat down at the picnic table. The chocolate burned my tongue while the
pan dulce
, a little mound of bread topped with squares of crumbly sugar, was flavorless. So much for Inez’s home remedy. My mother gave me chicken soup when I was sick.

“I’ve been talking to the sheriff,” Inez said. “I think we’ve worked out a deal.”

“A deal? Three days ago you wanted me to show my wounds to the world.”

“The sheriff disclaims any responsibility for the men who abducted you,” she said, through a mouthful of pastry. “He says they were impersonating deputies.”

“I know,” I replied. “Odell told me.”

“Odell?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “When did you talk to him?”

I told her about his visit, leaving out his warning at the end.

“He should’ve come to me,” she huffed when I finished. “Still, I guess it doesn’t matter as long as you understand why it would be a bad idea to sue the department.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I want to sue the department. I want to crucify the department. Those men were acting under color of authority whether or not they were employed as deputies.”

“Do you know how hard that’s going to be to prove?” she asked, blowing across her cup. “Or how long it’s going to take? Years, Henry. Not to mention the expense.” She sipped her chocolate. “I’ve been acting as your lawyer as a favor, but if you take on the sheriff, the firm will expect to be paid for my time and I’m not even sure I’m the best lawyer to handle this kind of case.”

“Inez, I was kidnapped, threatened with a gun and beaten,” I said. “I want those punks punished, and if Gaitan is connected, I want him punished, too. I don’t care how long it takes or how much it costs.”

“I understand,” she said. “You feel victimized, but think about it as a lawyer for a minute. You’ll be in discovery for a decade just to figure out the identity of the men who kidnapped you, and you’ll spend another ten years arguing over whether the department was liable for the action of a couple of rogue cops or ex-cops. Are you ready to depose every deputy who works or ever worked out in Antelope Valley? Subpoena every piece of paper? Because that’s what it’s going to take to get answers, if you can get answers. We both know cops and cons don’t snitch.”

“One of the many ways you can’t tell them apart,” I said. “Odell will cooperate.”

“I wouldn’t count on him,” she said. “He may have a hair up his ass now but he’s a company man. He’ll come around. Besides, what about that daughter of his in LAPD? They find out the old man’s a snitch and they’ll make her life miserable.”