Free Fall (29 page)

Two uniforms came through with a young black kid in cuffs. The kid was smiling. Murphy watched him pass, her face set, and then she said, “That young man says that he did it.” The kid was maybe fourteen.

“He didn’t do it. I was there. I saw it. D’Muere pulled the trigger.”

“Three other young men admitted to being present
and also said the kid did it. They pulled him out of a lineup.”

Pike said, “Come on, Murphy. D’Muere found a kid to play chump. The boy does juvie time and comes home a hero.”

Murphy’s hard jaw softened and she suddenly looked like a woman who wanted to go home, take off her shoes, and drink three or four glasses of some nice chardonnay. “You know it and I know it, but that young man still says he did it and three eyewitnesses say he did it, too. We can’t file against D’Muere, Elvis. That’s just the way this one’s going to work out.” She didn’t wait for me or Pike or anyone else to speak. She and Fallon left, walking heavily as if the weight of the city were on them. Greenberg followed after them.

“But he murdered James Edward Washington.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Garvey said, “Go home, Cole. You’ve done a lot, and you’ve done it well, but there’s nothing more to be done.”

T
he watch commander authorized the release of my car and the personal possessions that had been taken from us at the time of our original arrests. He could have ordered a staff uniform to do it, but he did it himself, and we were out of there faster because of it. I guess that was his way of showing respect.

It was seventeen minutes before two that morning when we walked out of the Seventy-seventh, got into my car, and legally drove off the police grounds and onto the city’s streets. We climbed onto the freeway, then worked our way north through the system toward Lancaster. There weren’t many cars out, and the driving was easy.

Pike’s Jeep was where he had left it, on a little circular drive outside the hospital. I parked behind it, and then we went inside to the waiting room and asked the nurses about Mark Thurman.

A nurse maybe in her early forties with a deep tan and a light network of sun lines checked his chart. “Mr. Thurman came through the surgery well.” She looked up at us, first Pike, then me. “Are you the gentlemen who brought him in?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and went back to the chart. “It looks like a bullet nicked a branch of the external iliac artery in his left side. No damage to any of the organs, though, so he’s going to be fine.” She closed the chart as she said it.

Pike said, “Is Jennifer Sheridan still here?”

A black nurse who’d been sitting with a young Chinese orderly said, “A couple Lancaster police officers came for her. That was at about eleven-thirty. She said to tell you that she would be fine. Mr. Thurman was out of surgery by then, and she knew he was okay.”

Pike said, “What about the other officer? Garcia?”

The two nurses stopped smiling, and the black nurse said, “Were you close to Mr. Garcia?”

“No.”

“He did not survive the surgery.”

We went out, Pike to his Jeep and me to my car, and we headed back through the rough barren mountains toward Los Angeles. The high desert air was cold and the surrounding mountains were black walls against the sky and the desert. At first we drove along together, but as the miles unwound we slowly grew apart, Pike with his drive and me with mine. Alone in my car, I felt somehow unfinished and at loose ends, as if there was still much unsaid, and even more unrealized. I wondered if Pike also felt that way.

I pulled into my carport just after four that morning and found a message on my machine from Ray Depente. He said that James Edward Washington was going to be buried at Inglewood Park Cemetery at eleven
A.M
. tomorrow, which made it today. He said that he thought I’d want to know.

I stripped off my clothes, showered, and climbed into bed, but the sleeping was light and unsatisfactory and I was up again before seven. I went out onto my deck and breathed deeply of the air and thought how
sweet it smelled with a hint of wild sage and eucalyptus. I did twelve sun salutes from the hatha-yoga, then worked through a progression of
asanas
that left me sweating. At five minutes after nine I called Joe Pike and told him of James Edward Washington’s funeral. He said that he would come. I called a florist I know in Hollywood and ordered flowers. I thought roses would be nice. It was late to order flowers, but the florist knows me, and promised to deliver the flowers to the church in time for the service.

I ate breakfast, then showered and dressed in a three-piece blue suit that I bought six years ago and have worn as many times. Once to a wedding and five times to funerals. Today would be number six.

It was a warm, hazy day, and the drive along the Harbor Freeway to South Central Los Angeles was relaxed and pleasant I left the freeway at Florence, then went west to Inglewood, and then through the gates to the cemetery there just north of Hollywood Park. The cemetery is broad and green, with gently sloping grounds and well-kept headstones and winding gravel roads. A dark green canopy had been erected on the side of one of the slopes to protect the casket and the minister and the immediate family from the sun. A hearse and a family limo and maybe twenty cars were parked nearby. They had just arrived, and some of the older people were still being helped up the slope. I parked near Joe Pike’s Jeep and moved up the slope to join the mourners. Joe was standing at the back of the crowd, and Cool T was four people away.

Twin rows of folding chairs had been placed under the canopy for the family. Ida Leigh Washington was seated in the center of the front row, with the elderly man to her right, and Shalene with the baby on her left. Ray Depente was behind Mrs. Washington with a hand on her shoulder. He was wearing a dark brown herringbone suit with a U.S.M.C. pin in his lapel. When Ray
saw me, he said something into Mrs. Washington’s ear, then stood and waited for me. I went to Mrs. Washington, offered my hand, and told her how sorry I was. She thanked me for the flowers and said, “Someone from the police called my home this morning, as did one of those people from the city council. I understand that the truth about my boy Charles Lewis is going to come out because of you.”

I told her that I didn’t know if it was because of me, but that it was going to come out, yes.

She nodded and considered me for quite a long time, and then she said, “Thank you.”

I offered my condolences to the old man, and then to Shalene. Marcus said, “I remember you,” loudly, and with a big smile. Shalene shushed him. She still didn’t like me much.

Ray Depente led me away from the grave and Joe Pike drifted up behind us. Cool T watched from the crowd. Ray said, “How come that bastard D’Muere is walking around free?”

I told him.

Ray listened, his face tight and contained. When I was done, he said, “You remember what you said?”

“Yes.”

“You said we’d have justice. You said that bastard would pay for killing James Edward. Him getting a fourteen-year-old fool to take his place isn’t what I call justice.”

I didn’t know what to say. “The DA’s people know what’s going on. They’ll keep digging for a case against D’Muere, and when they find it, they’ll file.”

Ray Depente said, “Bullshit.”

“Ray.”

Ray said, “That bastard called the Washingtons. He said that if they open their mouths about this, he’ll kill that baby.” He pointed at Marcus. “He called that poor
woman on the day of her son’s funeral and said that. What kind of animal does something like that?”

I didn’t know what to say.

Ray Depente said, “Fuck him and fuck the DA, too. I know what to do.” Then he walked away.

Joe said, “I know what to do, too.”

I looked at him. “Jesus Christ. Marines.”

Cool T came out of the crowd and met Ray Depente and they spoke for a moment, and then the minister began the service. Maybe five minutes into it, Akeem D’Muere’s black Monte Carlo with the heavily smoked windows turned into the graveyard and slowly cruised past the line of parked cars, his tape player booming. The volume was cranked to distortion, and the heavy bass drowned out the minister. The minister stopped trying to speak over the noise and looked at the car, and everyone else looked at the car, too. Ray Depente stepped out from the row of chairs and walked toward the car. The Monte Carlo stopped for a moment, then slowly rolled away. When the car was on the other side of the cemetery, the minister went on with the service, but Ray Depente stayed at the edge of the dark green canopy and followed the car with his eyes until it was gone.

Guard duty. The kind of duty where your orders are to shoot to kill.

When the service was over and the people were breaking up and moving down the slope, Joe and I stood together and watched Ray Depente help Mrs. Washington to the family’s limo. Joe said, “He’s going to do something.”

“I know.”

“He’s good, but there’s only one of him.”

I nodded and took a breath and let it out “I know. That’s why we’re going to help.”

Pike’s mouth twitched and we went down to our cars.

A
t two oh-five that afternoon, Joe Pike and I found Ray and Cool T together in Ray’s office. Cool T looked angry and sullen, but Ray looked calm and composed, the type of calm I’d seen on good sergeants when I was in Vietnam. Ray saw us enter and followed us with his eyes until we were at his door. “What?”

“Are you going to kill him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Innocent.

“Well, there are ways to do it. Get a good scoped hunting rifle, hang back a couple of hundred yards, and drop the hammer. Another way would be to drive around for a while until you see him, then walk up close with a handgun. There are more apt to be witnesses that way, but it’s a matter of personal preference, I guess.”

Cool T shifted in his chair.

Ray leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Man, do you think I just fell off the watermelon truck?”

“What I think is that you’ve got a pretty good life doing well by a lot of folks, and you’re about to mess it up.”

Ray looked at Cool T and Cool T grinned. Ray didn’t. He gave me lizard eyes. “That’s what it is to you, that it?”

I spread my hands.

“So you come down here to point that out? Maybe set me straight?”

“Nope. We came to help.”

“Well, we don’t need the white man coming down here to solve the black man’s problems. We can manage that just fine, thank you.”

Pike’s mouth twitched for the second time that day.

Ray gave the eyes to Pike. “What?”

Pike shook his head.

I said, “The DA would file if they thought they could win, and maybe there’s a way we can give them that. Maybe not on James Edward, but on something.”

Ray Depente waited.

“If you want Akeem, you’re going to have to go to him. That means his home, and it used to be a crack house. It’s fortified like a bunker. But once we’re in, I’m betting we can find something that the DA can use to put D’Muere away.”

Cool T said, “Ain’t no way we can get in there. Goddamn police use a goddamn batterin’ ram to get in a crack house. Where we gonna get that?”

Ray glanced at Cool T. “There are other ways.” He looked back at me. “If it was worth it. If it would lead to that sonofabitch getting what he deserves.”

“We won’t know until we get there, will we?”

Ray nodded. “Why are you doing this, Cole?”

“Because I liked James Edward, Ray. Hell, I even like you.”

Ray Depente laughed and then he stood up and put out his hand. “Okay. You want to help out on this, we’ll let you help.”

Forty-two minutes later Joe Pike and I cruised past Akeem D’Muere’s fortified home in Joe’s Jeep. We
parked six houses down on the same side of the street in an alley between a row of flowering azalea bushes and a well-kept frame house with an ornate birdbath in the front yard. Ray Depente and Cool T were one block behind us, sitting in Ray’s LeBaron. Akeem D’Muere’s black Monte Carlo and the maroon Volkswagen Beetle were parked at the front of his house, and a half-dozen Gangster Boys were hanging around on the Beetle. A couple of young women were with them. I wondered if they called themselves Gangster Girls.

Pike said, “Brick house across the street. Clapboard two doors down, this side. Check it out.”

I looked at the brick house across the street and then at the clapboard house. A heavy woman with her hair in a tight gray bun was peeking from behind a curtain in the brick house and a younger woman, maybe in her early thirties, was peeking at us from the clapboard. The younger woman was holding a baby. “They’re scared. You live on a street with a gang for your neighbors and I guess peeking out of windows becomes a way of life. Never know when it’s safe to venture out.”

Joe shifted in his seat. “Helluva way to live.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

A tall kid leaning against the Bug’s left front fender looked our way, but then went back to jiving with his buddies. All attitude, no brains.

Pike pulled a pair of Zeiss binoculars from the backseat and examined the front of D’Muere’s house. “Windows set close on both sides of the door. Bars on the windows.”

“What about the door?”

“Solid core with a couple of peepholes. No glass.”

“Does it open outward?”

“Yep.” Pike put down the glasses and looked pleased. Dope dealers often rebuild their doors to open outward instead of inward. Harder for the cops to bust
in that way. It was something that we’d been counting on.

Fourteen minutes after we parked in the alley, Cool T turned onto the far end of the street in Ray Depente’s LeBaron and drove slowly toward D’Muere’s as if he were looking at addresses. He stopped in the middle of the street, and said something to the kids on the Volkswagen.

I said, “Now.”

Joe and I rolled out of the Jeep and moved through the backyard of the near house and into the next yard toward D’Muere’s. We moved quickly and quietly, slipping past bushes and over fences and closing on D’Muere’s while Cool T kept the gangbangers’ attention. Akeem D’Muere’s backyard was overgrown by grass and weeds and thick high hedges that had been allowed to run without care or trimming. A creaky porch jutted off the back of the house, and a narrow cement drive ran back past the house to a clapboard garage. The garage was weathered and crummy and hadn’t been used in years. Why use a garage when you can park on the front lawn? Ray Depente appeared from the hedges on the far side of the yard and held up a finger to his mouth. He was wearing a black Marine Corps-issue shoulder sling with a Colt Mark IV .45-caliber service automatic. He pointed to himself, then gestured to the east side of the house, then pointed at us and then at our side of the house, and then he was gone.