Justice at Risk (10 page)

“All I’m saying is, the police may be doing more than we’re aware of. Will you grant me that much?”

“It’s a possibility, I guess.”

She returned her attention to Melissa Zeigler.

“Perhaps it would be wise if you let them proceed in their methodical way for now, and not let your concern for your fiancé cause your emotions to run wild.”

Zeigler folded her elbows into her lap, then clasped her hands, rubbing the palms together. She looked exhausted, spent.

“It’s all so confusing. There are so many questions that need to be answered. So many questions…”

After my meeting with Melissa Zeigler, and the unsettling new twist in the Tommy Callahan case, I returned to the office I shared with Peter Graff to view tapes.

I sat in a hard steel folding chair for an hour or two, looking at footage of circuit parties, gay bathhouses, and sex clubs, and two or three interviews Callahan had conducted, stopping, rewinding, fast forwarding, and noting reel numbers and time codes when certain snippets caught my interest. But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep my mind on my work. Finally, when Graff was out of the room, I called Templeton at the
Sun
.

“Make it quick, Justice. I’m on deadline.”

I told her that in addition to the police and autopsy reports on the Callahan murder, I needed similar documents involving a murder victim named Byron Mittelman and anything she could find on an incident of police brutality going back fifteen years to April 14.

“I should be able to get you the recent reports, Justice. But the one from fifteen years back, that could take some time. More than I’ve got at the moment.”

“It may lead to something interesting for a smart reporter I know who’s always on the make for a good story.”

The tone in her voice became more attentive.

“What’s going on?”

“Find me what I need, and if there’s something there I’ll talk to you about it.”

“How about if I turn you over to Katie Nakamura? She can dig for the old report while I round up the new ones.”

“You think she’s got the time?”

“Katie got her two-week notice. With only two years on staff, she was one of the first to go.”

“Tough break. She’s an ace. Nice kid, too.”

“It’s eating Harry up inside. So, yes, Katie’s got some time on her hands. Harry won’t bitch if she does a favor for you.”

Templeton transferred me to Nakamura, a graduate of Northwestern who had done an internship at the
Sun
, then a year of database research in the
Sun
’s library, and had spent the last year as a news reporter, following in Templeton’s footsteps.

When she came on the line, I told her I was sorry to hear she’d lost her job.

“I’ll survive, Mr. Justice. I know my way around the Internet pretty well. I’m not worried.”

“The Internet. The wave of the future.”

“I’m afraid the future is now, Mr. Justice.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Katie.”

I told her what I was looking for: any kind of police or ambulance report dated fifteen years ago on the night of April 14, in the proximity of the Egyptian Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. I suggested she look for a male victim, though he might be identified as wearing women’s clothes.

“That’s all you can tell me, Mr. Justice? No names?”

“I wish I had more.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

After that, I called Oree Joffrien at UCLA. This time, I managed to catch him in, and asked if he had plans for dinner. He suggested a Mose Allison concert first, at a small club on Vine Street in Hollywood. I managed to get home, feed the animals, get in a hike and a shower, and meet him at the club just as the first show was starting. Allison, the king of white cool in the world of jazz, was in top form, running through his standards and a few tunes I hadn’t heard in his inimitable, laid-back style. He was especially good on “Seventh Son” and “Parchman Farm,” and had the crowd hollering for more when his set ended at half past nine.

Oree and I stood at the rail separating the bar from the supper club, a great place to catch the show, and I should have been having a swell time, but I wasn’t. For the first time since I’d stopped drinking cold turkey a couple of months before, I was hearing the clatter of ice cubes in liquor glasses and the pop of wine and champagne bottles being opened; after a while, I realized I was paying as much attention to that distinctive cocktail music as I was to the crooner and his combo out on the floor. When we finally moved with the crowd out into the blinking neon night, I felt a sense of safety and relief, and tried to redirect my attention to the alluring man beside me.

We ate nearby at Chan Dara, the cozy little restaurant just off Sunset Boulevard that had helped start the Thai craze in L.A. back in the seventies. Our table was tucked into the little window nook in the side room, where we could look out at the drunks, hustlers, and homeless people shuffling between Sunset and Hollywood boulevards, looking for a handout or just a place to get out of the cold for the night. It wasn’t the most romantic setting one might hope for, but in this part of town it would have to do. We started by sharing a bowl of Tom Kah Kai, a spicy soup of chicken cooked with Thai herbs in coconut milk, then gorged on peppery Beef Panang and thick Pad Thai noodles, washing it all down with tall glasses of sweet Thai iced tea. The conversation was just as rich and varied and went down just as smoothly, without the awkward silences that plague so many first dates.

Toward the end of dinner, I found myself asking Oree about his friendship with Cecile Chang.

“Why so curious about Cecile, Ben?”

“She’s your good friend. I work for her. Is there a problem?”

He studied me a moment, his eyes thoughtful.

“No problem.” He sipped some of the creamy tea. “We met by accident, really. We were both deep in the closet at the time, and damned miserable about it. One night I got up my courage and attended a meeting of the Gay Students’ Union. This was the late eighties. The subject was coming out in the age of AIDS, something like that.” He smiled a little, shaking his head. “I sneaked in with my collar turned up and a cap pulled low over my ears, and took a seat as far in the back as I could. I felt like a nigger crawling to the back of the bus, if you want to know the truth.”

“Cecile attended the same meeting?”

“She arrived just before it started. Took a seat near me. During a break, we started talking. Maybe because she was female, and that made me more comfortable.” His smile widened. “We’ve never stopped talking, really, even when I came west, and she stayed behind, making her mark in the documentary field.”

“When was that?”

“I joined the faculty at UCLA in ninety-two, three years after getting my Ph.D. Four years ago, Cecile came to L.A. to be with Tiger.”

“They met in New York?”

“They hooked up on an all-lesbian cruise, up in Alaska. Tiger’s the first woman Cecile’s ever been in love with, from what she tells me. And if I know Cecile, there won’t be another.”

“She seems to know what she wants, and how to get things done.”

“No question about that.”

“In a roundabout way, she brought us together.”

I reached across the table, laid my hand over his. He allowed my hand to stay for a polite moment, then withdrew his own.

“She also brought you together with Peter Graff.”

“Peter and I work together, that’s all.”

“My eyes deceive me, then.”

“He’s hard not to look at, Oree.”

“For some, maybe.”

“You’re telling me you don’t find Peter Graff attractive?”

“Not my type at all. Too young, too pretty. I like a man with some years on him, who’s a little rough around the edges.”

“Do I happen to fit the profile?”

“Very nicely, as a matter of fact.”

“The feeling’s mutual, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You seem to have a wide range in tastes.”

“They narrow pretty quickly for the right man.”

“I don’t believe in moving too quickly myself. Not in matters of the heart.”

“Been hurt once too often?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s late, Ben.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, really, it is.”

“I think this is where we said goodbye the last time.”

“Different time, different place, Ben.”

“But not the right time yet.”

“It’s been a nice evening. We should do it again. Keep getting to know each other, little by little.”

“Do you mean that, Oree? Or are you just being polite?”

“You’ll have to be patient, Ben. You’ll have to be willing to let things develop. I can’t be hurried. I won’t be.”

“I’ve never been the patient type.”

“Maybe it’s time you gave it a try.”

I drove home along Santa Monica Boulevard mulling that last minute before we paid the check and said good night, with a brief hug but nothing more. I was still mulling it as I pulled into the driveway on Norma Place. It was a few minutes after eleven, and I could see Peter Graff up in the apartment, practicing Tai Chi movements under the bare bulb. I turned out the headlights and sat watching him for several minutes, deciding whether to go up and say hello before I finally climbed out and went into the house instead.

I took notes during the final minutes of that night’s rerun of
On Patrol
. The name I was looking for in the end credits was that of the executive producer. It turned out to be Jacob Kosterman, which I jotted down. But during the crawl, which I’d learned was the correct term for the rolling credits, I saw another man mentioned, whose name also went into my notebook. His title was technical consultant. The name was Taylor Fairchild.

An unseasonable warm front hit the Southland, and the route through Laurel Canyon on Tuesday morning was a journey through speckled sunlight and steamy air infused with earthy fragrances rising from the damp wooded hillsides.

My belly was filled with a good breakfast and plenty of coffee from Duke’s up on the Sunset Strip, where I’d eaten at a long table that included a heavy metal band at one end and two uniformed deputies at the other, and the usual odd assortment in between. I had the top down and the radio on to 88.1 on the FM band, and I twisted the wheel through the winding canyon to a nifty Art Pepper rendition of “Patricia,” his mellow sax providing a perfect punctuation to the pleasant rhythms of the morning. I wondered if Oree Joffrien might be listening to the same tune at that moment, and, with any luck, thinking about me the way I was thinking about him.

I smiled at the thought, and was still smiling when I pulled into the small parking lot at New Image Productions. When I arrived a few minutes later for a scheduled appointment with Cecile Chang to sign the final contract I’d approved I found a note taped to her office door:
All meetings canceled Tuesday while I finish cutting the grants video upstairs. Apologies. Please reschedule with Denise.

Denise, I learned, had called in sick with the flu, and wasn’t expected back for another day or two. Meanwhile, I was close to being flat broke—Mose Allison and dinner with Oree had pretty much tapped out my checking account—and I needed a paycheck sooner rather than later. At the very least, it seemed to me, Chang could take a minute or two to move my signed contract to accounting, so my first check could be cut, a two-thousand-dollar payment that had become due upon approval of my outline the previous Friday, to tide me over through the writing of the first draft.

I was told by the operations supervisor that Chang was in Editing Bay Number Four but was not to be disturbed. I thanked her, followed the numbered doors down the hallway, found the right one, and rapped with my knuckles. Inside, I could hear a voice on audio that sounded like Chang’s, talking about the importance of research in the documentary process, then a whirr as the audio was rewound before being played again. I closed my fist and pounded on the door with the meaty part of my hand. This time the audio went silent and Chang pulled open the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Cecile—”

“Didn’t you see the note posted on my office door?”

“I’m afraid I need to sign my contract and get a paycheck moving.”

“Ask Denise to take care of it.”

She started to close the door, which I stopped with the flat of my hand.

“Denise is out sick.”

Through the half-open door, I could see an editor working at the knobs and switches of the AVID control panel, making pictures appear, disappear, fade, or dissolve. On one of the two monitor screens, Chang could be seen walking slowly through the crowded research room, dressed in the outfit she’d been wearing the first time we’d met. In the background, as she talked directly to the camera, young men and women worked at their cluttered desks; file cabinets with open drawers were crammed with papers, shelves were filled with videocassettes, and a wall clock indicated the hour of ten-fifteen.

“Your contract is on my desk, Ben. Sign all the copies and leave them on my chair so I don’t miss them. I’ll take care of it at lunch.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I should have seen to it sooner. Now, please, I must get back to work. This video is due for presentation on Monday, and we still have my narration to record and lay down before we go to on-line.”

Over her shoulder, I watched the editor put his dissolve function to work, blending one cut slowly into the next.

“Maybe I could sit in and observe. Learn some of the tricks.”

“I prefer to work without distractions.”

The tone of her voice told me the conversation was over.

“Sorry I disturbed you.”

She smiled tightly and shut the door in the same manner. I heard a lock being turned inside.

Downstairs, I found my contract on her desk, placed neatly in the upper right-hand corner, anchored by a cigarette packet with the name Capri on the front. I bent over the contract pages, signing where my name was required, and left all three copies on the seat of Chang’s chair. I was about to step from her office into an empty hallway, when I changed my mind. I stepped back in, shut and locked the door, placed the contracts on the credenza, and took the chair myself. For the next several minutes, I faced the PC screen, moving through Chang’s directories. After failing to find anything interesting, I stepped across to her file cabinets, which looked more promising. I was particularly intrigued by the one marked
Applicants/Résumés
.

I went directly to the files under C; Tommy Callahan’s was among those at the front. Inside were three documents: his résumé, his application for a job with New Image Productions, and a cover story neatly clipped from
Broadcast Monthly
magazine. It was a profile of Jacob Kosterman, who was identified beneath his smiling cover photo as the president and CEO of the cable Documentary Channel—the same Jacob Kosterman, I presumed, who was also listed in the credits of
On Patrol
as its executive producer. Callahan’s résumé showed a gap in his employment history of more than a year before he came to New Image looking for work. His last job had been with Jaffe-Edwards Productions on a military history series the company had produced for the Documentary Channel. In the margin were several notes in Chang’s distinctive handwriting:

1/23 Callahan interview OK, check J-E Prod.

1/24 Jaffe re: Callahan—blackballed per Kosterman direct order.

1/26 Kosterman details on T. C. firing (off the record)

1/26 Put in Callahan hire ASAP

I scanned the rest of Callahan’s work history, which went back twenty-seven years to his first job in television, as an apprentice editor with a local public affairs show in Cincinnati when he was in his mid-twenties. For twelve years from that point forward, his career showed a steady rise, with jobs of increasing responsibility that took him to Chicago, San Francisco, then to L.A., where he hooked up with
On Patrol
. In his résumé, he described it as “the first true cinema verité show in the history of network television,” and obviously considered it a feather in his cap. After leaving
On Patrol
in its second season, his work record was spotty at best; it appeared that every job he landed was of brief duration, with wider and wider gaps in between. After more than a year without work, his hiring at New Image in late January, along with his subsequent promotion to writer-producer, must have seemed like extraordinary luck to him.

I replaced Callahan’s résumé in his file, removed the
Broadcast Monthly
cover piece on Jacob Kosterman, and photocopied it on the Xerox machine in Denise’s office. I replaced the original where it belonged, shut the file drawer, put my signed contracts back on Chang’s chair, and went out to find a decent cup of coffee and do some reading.

I took my caffeine at a sidewalk table outside a small joint called Java Time that had somehow survived the Starbucks invasion, and scanned the Kosterman profile, which the editors had rather pompously titled “The Man Who Put Truth Back in Television.” The article ran five pages, and was replete with photos of Kosterman aging from a wild-haired sixties radical to a dapper, mustachioed man in his late fifties with a shaved head and a single gold earring in his left ear. It was essentially a puff job, with little in it that was probing or critical, but it told me what I needed to know for the time being: Jacob Kosterman had been a firebrand documentary filmmaker as a young man, with a bachelor’s degree in journalism and a master’s in film, along with a passion for leftist causes. During the seventies, he had drifted back toward the mainstream, married, and had a growing family to support. A skillful low-budget filmmaker, who knew how to get “maximum bang for the buck,” as the article put it, he developed a successful career as a producer of cheap syndicated specials that garnered unusually high ratings. His subject matter tended to be on the sensational side: “Scandals of the Rich and Famous,” “Inside the White House Bedrooms,” “Mondo Oscar: Behind the Scenes at the Academy Awards.” By the early eighties, Kosterman had found his niche in a television world that was rapidly expanding, with new outlets hungry for viewers that lacked the huge budgets of the three major networks. According to
Broadcast Monthly
, that was when Kosterman came up with a surefire concept: Put an athletic cameraman in a police car, have him tape whatever happened on patrol, get the suspects to sign clearances, then edit the raw footage into a fast-paced half hour that captured the action, drama, humor, and pathos in the daily life of the big city cop.

Kosterman called his show
On Patrol
, opened it with a pounding Isaac Hayes R&B score, sold it to the fledgling United Broadcast Network, and struck television gold. The show, more gritty and realistic than any commercial network had ever dared to put on the air, caused an instant sensation. More important, it attracted a loyal audience of male viewers in the fifteen to thirty-five age range that was so coveted by the big national advertisers pushing beer, cars, and razor blades, and became the Sunday night “anchor” program for the fledgling UBN network, second only to
60 Minutes
in the ratings for its time slot. When the show had gone into reruns after its fifth season, as a five-day-a-week syndicated “strip,” Kosterman became an instant millionaire, with money flowing in that he literally did not know what to do with. In the meantime,
On Patrol
ignited a wave of so-called “reality” shows that swept the airwaves, as imitators rushed to cash in on the public’s appetite for “fact-based” programming.

At that point, when Kosterman could have continued to exploit the reality craze he had helped to spawn, he took a dramatic turn professionally and creatively: He founded the Documentary Channel, a twenty-four-hour cable outlet devoted to nothing but nonfiction films and series. With his vast wealth, abetted by coinvestors, he had returned to his original passion for documentary filmmaking, and was now president and CEO of one of cable television’s most successful enterprises. The magazine’s editors had pulled one of his quotes and framed it in a box within the article:

“With
On Patrol
, I brought something fresh to television, giving the audience a dose of truth it couldn’t find anywhere else. Now, with the Documentary Channel, I’ve been able to take that principle of truth in television and build on it, giving viewers the opportunity to see subjects explored in documentary form, where facts are the driving force.”

—Jacob Kosterman

President & CEO of The Documentary Channel

I set the article aside, and stopped to consider what I was doing: sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, worrying about matters that had nothing to do with me. Things were going pretty well for me again. I was healthy, living in reasonable comfort, and becoming involved with a remarkable man who seemed at least somewhat interested in me. I had a television show to write, visuals to select, interviews to cull, footage to edit. I was earning a paycheck again, with at least the glimmer of a chance at a new career. I didn’t need to alienate Cecile Chang, and certainly not a television big shot like Jacob Kosterman, by asking troubling questions neither of them wanted to hear. What I needed, more than anything, was to work again, and to keep working.

I finished my coffee and walked back to New Image Productions, intending to view my way through more of the videotapes that sat in the three boxes on Peter Graff’s office floor—intending to stay focused on the work, and forget the intrigue swirling around the murders of Tommy Callahan and Byron Mittelman. But when I arrived, I found Melissa Zeigler waiting for me in the lobby.

She jumped up from her seat the moment she saw me, her big body jiggling like Jell-O in the same lavender warm-up suit she’d worn the day before. Her dirty blond hair was in even more of a tangle, and she wore no makeup. Her words came in a rush, but halting at the same time, as if the connections between her brain and her mouth were short-circuiting.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Ben. It’s just that, I don’t know, this whole thing has me—I’m very upset. I don’t know what I’m going to do, I just—”

“Take it easy, Melissa.”

“I have no right to ask you to help me.”

“I don’t really know what I can do for you.”

She was wringing her hands now, pacing the lobby.

“It’s just that, I don’t know, you seem the only one who wants to listen. The detective they put on the case, this Sergeant Montego, I don’t think he really intends to investigate this at all. I think he’s trying to ignore me, hoping I’ll just go away.”

She whirled on me, her face an anguished mix of grief and fury.

“But I won’t go away, Ben! Because what’s happening is not fair. It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to Byron. Have I shown you a picture of Byron?”

Before I could answer, she rushed back to her chair, where she dug frantically in a large handbag, spilling items onto the floor. Harold, whose spiked hair had gone from lavender to neon green over the weekend, stared at me pleadingly, as if she were my responsibility. She returned with a wallet-size photo of a plump, fortyish man whose unruly dark hair was going thin on top, wearing horn-rimmed glasses with soft, pleasant eyes behind the rims.