“Last I heard,” Hayward interjected, “that case wasn’t going so well for them anyhow.”
“That’s right,” Burt said. “We covered our bases there. We started with a report of hostile behavior.”
“A rather questionable one…” Robin said.
“Just how far that manager stretched the truth is between him and the good Lord. It’s what we had to go on, and that’s what matters to us.” The other men nodded in agreement. “The next thing we did right was not to overreact before one of them made a potentially threatening move.” Robin began to open her mouth to respond to that ridiculous claim, but then decided not to. “So however it might have looked to that couple, we have a solid case that everything we did was in the interest of preserving safety.”
“So the trick then,” Jack said, “is making sure we keep covering our bases in exactly the same way.”
“Bingo.” Burt sat back in his chair.
“What if one of these confrontations leads to someone getting needlessly shot?” Robin asked.
Burt shrugged his shoulders. He had clearly thought about this at length already and didn’t consider it a major concern. “We’ll be cleared. It’s that simple,” he said with a smile, and the other men smiled along with him. “And a whole lot fewer people out there will be inclined to follow their example.”
Robin thought the Chief’s response sounded more than a little cavalier, but that was pretty much how he saw it. He knew what he was talking about too.
Chapter 3
Crackdowns
January, 2006
The whole state of Washington was in the midst of a vicious cold snap. Engines that had plenty of antifreeze froze anyways, and roads were covered with heavy ice that not only would send you sliding off the road to God-knew-where, but provided plenty of big, hard bumps to knock you off course and get you started. The only thing anyone had to joke about was global warming somehow being the cause.
Randy kept his eyes fixed on the road as he headed south on Interstate 5 toward the state capitol. Every time he passed another spinout or car that had slid off the road, he gripped the wheel a little harder. He couldn’t afford to join them, because he had places to be.
* * *
A few hours later, State Representative Phillip Newman was sitting at his desk, looking over Randy’s proposal with more than a little concern in his eyes. “You have any idea what a ruckus this’ll start?” he asked.
“I do,” Randy replied. “But this is a problem that needs to be addressed before someone gets killed rather than after.”
The representative lowered his wire rim glasses to read a little closer and make sure he didn’t miss anything. “Randy, law enforcement support is a lot of what got me here. This would be like doing their kneecaps in return.”
“That’s not true at all,” Randy asserted. “We’re talking about lawmen here. All we’re asking them to do is not break the law, and this bill won’t touch them. If they really believe in the rule of law for everyone, then they’ll have no grounds whatsoever to object to this.”
Newman shook his head a little. “Of course there’s a problem with that theory.”
“I know, the problem is that most police don’t really believe the law applies to them.”
Newman set the paper down on the desk. “You and I both know there’s truth to that, Randy. But John and Susie Public don’t see it that way, at this point in time anyhow. The only side of law enforcement they hear about on TV or talk radio is the selfless hero with the tough job who’s risking it all for the rest of us. Until that changes, you’ll never get the kind of broad support that you need to get a bill like this moving.”
“Well, there’s a lot of support among people who have been victimized by police for carrying weapons.”
“That helps, but what else do you have? Is the NRA backing this?”
“They unfortunately don’t want to be seen as anti-cop either.”
Newman smiled and pushed the paper back across the desk to Randy. “Well then, you see what we’re up against. Your idea has some good merits, but you’ve got some more groundwork to do before it’ll have a chance of going anywhere.”
* * *
The Bourbon Street Tavern sat on the East side of Forest Hill, just a few miles from Randy’s place. It was a pretty good size club, and drew a decent crowd on the weekends. This being a Sunday night however, the parking lot wasn’t so packed.
The inside was split up into two sections. One section had the bar and the dance floor, the other side had tables for eating. At that moment Randy was sitting at the bar, trying to get the attention of Alicia, the pert, brown haired twenty-something bartender. Vincent sat on the stool next to him. “She won’t pay you any attention ‘til you throw her a compliment,” Vincent told him. He seemed to be right about that too. Every other guy down the bar who was throwing weak pick-up lines in her direction was getting all the attention, but Randy wasn’t getting a bit.
“Well, maybe I better give it a try,” Randy said to Vincent, then he mustered his nerve and shouted across the bar. “Hey, Gazongabooty!” The whole length of the bar fell silent, and all eyes slowly turned and fell upon him.
Randy finally had her attention, but not exactly in a good way. “What the fuck did you just call me?” she inquired.
Randy threw his hands up. “Jesus Christ, I’m trying to get your attention so I can order a beer!” Then he pointed at Vincent. “And anyhow that was his idea!”
Vincent turned away from him. “Leave me out of this, Randy, that was all you…”
Alicia stepped over to where Randy sat. “What the hell does Gazongabooty mean anyhow? You mean my ass is huge?”
“No, it means more like… hugely awesome, or something…” Randy struggled for words as she slowly nodded with a sure, I’ll buy that expression. “Look, if I give you a nice tip, can I get a Coors Lite?”
The girl shook her head and turned away to get his beer. “Man, the shit that I have to put up with…”
Vincent patted his shoulder. “Told you it’d work.”
“Please, no more advice…” Randy grumbled, forcing a chuckle out of Vincent.
“Hey, you get any more goodies for that M1A yet?”
“Well, I put a bipod on it, now it needs a weapon light mount.”
“Weapon light? You goin’ poaching?” Before Randy could answer, the front door opened and two Forest Hill city cops walked in. “Oh great, I wonder what the hell they want,” Vincent wondered aloud.
Sergeant Jack Hayward walked to the bar with a twenty-something rookie named Zachary Simmons at his heel. He waved Alicia over. “I need to talk to the owner. Can you bring him out please?” It was worded like a request, but that’s where the similarity ended. An observer could tell that Alicia had a response on her lips, but not wanting to make things worse, she went to get the owner. While they waited, Hayward noticed Randy at the bar. “Mr. Gustin! What a pleasant surprise.” No shortage of sarcasm in that voice. He turned to his rookie trainee. “Zachary, this is Randolph Gustin, one of our more civic-minded residents.”
Not knowing yet what relations were really like, Zachary stepped forward to shake Randy’s hand. “Nice to meet you sir,” he said. He’d be hearing about that later.
“Randy, you’re not carrying any weapons at this time, are you?” Hayward asked.
“Absolutely not,” Randy replied. “Protecting my life or anyone else’s in a liquor-serving establishment would violate state law, and I would never consider doing such a thing.” Randy could do the sarcasm thing pretty well himself when he was so inclined.
Hayward addressed Zachary again. “Randy here is a gun rights absolutist. He believes that everyone needs to pack everywhere, all the time, or they’re a homicide stat waiting to happen.”
“Now that’s not true!” Randy interjected. “The greater minds in government have determined that here in this place, everybody’s safer if we just don’t have such things. So if anyone happens to walk in that
door with an AK and open up on us, I’ll just call you to come save us. Then I’ll find a place to hide, and I’ll pray that I’m not among the dozen or so who die before you get here. That’s what a good citizen does, isn’t it?”
Hayward broke a grin. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Zachary tried to quell the discord. “Mr. Gustin, there are alternatives available in an instance like that…”
Vincent broke in. “Young fella, there’s things they haven’t explained to you yet. Among them, when citizens die due to regulation, that’s not really your problem. It’s just paperwork.”
Hayward chimed in again. “Besides which, he’s got his own solution in the works. Mister Gustin is the one trying to change the law so we can’t detain anyone for being armed.” Now Zachary knew who he was talking to. He took a step back and his demeanor chilled.
Thankfully, Alicia returned at that moment with the owner. Frank was a thin and abnormally tall man with a friendly demeanor that he kept on display even when it wasn’t warranted. “Gentlemen! What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid we found some underage people drinking in a car on your parking lot,” Jack replied.
Frank stepped away to question the doorman about it, but he was by himself and it was hard to watch the inside and the outside at the same time. Frank returned to the bar. “So, what are we looking at?”
“Well, we cited the kids and sent them on their way. But we’ll have to pass this on to Liquor Control, and the rest’ll be up to them. Considering the number of violations you get, I doubt they’ll be very happy.”
“You know, we do our best, but we can’t be everywhere at once,” Frank said.
“It’s your lot, you should have had your personnel watching it,” Hayward responded.
“That’s true,” Frank replied, “but then it hardly seems necessary. Every time something does happen here, you’re ready and waiting.”
Hayward smiled at that, the smile of a man who loves getting his way, but he said nothing more about it. He bid Frank good night, and he and his trainee left. When they were gone, Randy broke the silence. “Well, at least they didn’t break anything,” he said.
“Considering how big a cut of our profits this town takes,” Frank opined, “you’d think they wouldn’t try so hard to make us want to move.”
“You’d think,” Vincent said, “but money ain’t the reason they do this shit.”
“So what is?” Frank asked.
“Because they can.”
Frank laughed a little, and headed back to his office. Everybody went back to what they were doing, and things were pretty normal for a while. Randy and Vincent talked about plans for their next shooting trip, and Alicia kept pretending to be mad at Randy, at least until he needed refills. Randy had to go to work the next day, and he was beginning to think it might be time to head home, when his phone started vibrating. He looked at the display and saw with some surprise it was Will calling.
“Will, haven’t heard from you in a while,” he said after answering.
“Randy, are you close to a TV?”
Randy glanced at the TV up on the wall behind the bar. It was solidly fixed on women’s volleyball, and changing it didn’t appear likely. “Maybe, what’s up?”
“Turn it on channel 5 right now. You are not going to fucking believe what just happened in California.” This sounded serious. Randy leaned over the bar, asked Alicia what the chances were of changing channels long enough to see if there really was something important going on. To his surprise she picked up the remote, changed it for him and turned up the volume.
The news came on, and the caption behind the anchorman read, “Shooting in Chino, California.” The somber-looking anchorman read from his prompter. “KTLA in California obtained this exclusive footage that was filmed by a resident who lived close to the scene of the shooting. We warn you, the video we are about to show is extremely graphic.”
Randy and Vincent glanced at each other with raised eyebrows, as the screen cut to a grainy black-and-white video. The video showed a man lying face down on the ground next to a car, with a cop standing above him. The two were exchanging words, and a lot of them were bleeped out. The cop’s gun was already in his hands and pointed at the man’s back. After a short while the cop ordered the man to stand up, and the man on the ground replied that he was getting up. Immediately after that came the shots, and the screaming.
By this time everyone in the bar was watching the screen, and not one person in the room had any idea what to say.
* * *
It was the night of January 29th in 2006, and 21-year-old Elio Carrion was having his going-away party. He was an Air Force military policeman on a thirty-day leave, and he was due to return to duty in Iraq. So friends and family had gathered to give him a warm send-off.
Elio was well-liked, so there was a pretty good turnout for this party. He drank, he laughed with the others, and he drank some more. Quite a bit actually, but considering where he was headed, it didn’t seem out of line. It was his party, after all. Around ten in the evening, Elio climbed into a Corvette owned by his friend Luis Escobedo, to make a run to a store and also to stop by another friend’s house. Then as he sat in the passenger seat, he passed out.
When Elio awoke, Luis was speeding through residential neighborhoods, way too fast. Luis was just as intoxicated as Elio, which is to say, he had no business of any kind behind a wheel. He was swerving about, and Elio felt he was putting people, including themselves, in danger. Then they passed a patrol car, and it started following them. “Hey man, you need to slow down,” Elio told his friend.
“It’s all right, I know what I’m doing,” Luis replied as he continued speeding along. Then the patrol car turned its lights on. Luis skidded into a U-turn and managed to zoom past the patrol car in the opposite direction. Elio told him to pull over and stop, but Luis only replied again that he knew what he was doing.
They briefly lost the pursuing car, but the cop found them again shortly afterward and began to chase. Depending on whose account you listened to, the chase went as fast as either 60 to 70 miles per hour, or up to over 100 miles per hour on residential streets. Either way, it ended when Escobedo skidded his Corvette into a concrete wall beside the road. They were immobilized, and the cop parked behind them got out.
Elio knew that this was bad. As a military policeman with plenty of training and experience of his own, he knew this cop had valid reason to consider them potentially dangerous, and after being led on this chase he was not going to be in a mood for any shit. So he opened the passenger door, got out and crawled face down on the ground to show right up front that he was no threat. Most would agree that this was the wise thing to do. The trouble with that sort of approach however is that violent individuals, such as the policeman who was now approaching, will often interpret such submissiveness as permission to attack. And that’s what Deputy Ivory Webb did. He walked up, screaming obscenities and kicked Elio in the face.
In a nearby house, Jose Valdes had heard the crash. He and his wife went to the door and looked outside, where they saw Deputy Webb behaving like a maniac, swearing and kicking the man who was lying on the ground and trying to be compliant. Jose didn’t like what he saw, so he ran to grab his video camera. What he caught on film would horrify everyone who saw it.
“I’m here to tell you that I’m on your side,” Carrion was saying to the officer. Deputy Webb’s weapon was already drawn on the unarmed man, held in both hands and pointed straight at Carrion’s back. “I’m military, I’m here to tell you that I mean you no harm.” Webb’s reply was to tell him to shut up.
After they went back and forth for a little while, Deputy Webb finally said, “Okay, get up.”
“I’m gonna get up,” Carrion announced back to him, just so there would be no surprises. Then he pushed himself up to his knees, but got no further. Three rounds blasted from the barrel of Webb’s weapon, which had never moved away from Carrion’s back. As he was f
iring and Carrion was falling back to the ground, Webb kept moving behind him to keep a clear shot at Carrion’s back. One round went into his chest, one into the back of his shoulder, and one into his leg. Carrion would never fully recover to his former self again. He wasn’t paralyzed at least, but his days on active duty were over, not to mention his own plans to become a police officer.
Carrion screamed in pain as Webb yelled, “Shots fired, shots fired!” into his radio. On the ground next to the Corvette, Carrion cried out for help. “Shut the fuck up,” was Webb’s response.
After some more deputies had arrived, Webb told them that Carrion had gotten up and charged him. Saying that was a mistake, because the video proved differently and he’d have to change his story after he saw it. Then after Carrion had been cuffed, he looked through his wallet for identification. On finding a military ID card, he felt a chill. “Shit,” he said out loud. Cops could typically count on one another to help sweep evidence of an unjustified shooting under the mat, at least where an ordinary citizen was concerned. But where an American hero was concerned, it became more complicated. Webb had his first sense that he might actually be in trouble. And aside from his concern for himself, it also felt wrong to him that he should even have to worry about such a thing. He was the law. When the law shoots somebody, it can only mean that they needed to be shot.
When the paramedics arrived, they called for a helicopter to fly Carrion to a trauma center. Getting a nighttime helicopter ride over the city out of this was at least a small silver lining. But it wouldn’t keep his mind occupied for long, because from within the pain of his wounds came another pain every bit as grievous, every bit as taxing on a man’s need to believe there is good in the world he can count on, and that was the pain of betrayal.
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