Final Judgment

by Marcia Clark

  Alex stared at me intently. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  It bummed me out to admit it. “Yes.” I had to get to the truth. I just couldn’t help it.

  He stood up. “Okay, I’m on it.” He started to leave, but he paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Assuming we find out he did . . . something. What are you going to do?”

  I dropped my gaze to my desk. “I don’t know.”

  Later that morning, Dale emailed me the list of investors. And he also came through with information about Tito. He delivered the latter via cell phone that afternoon.

  As I answered the phone, I heard the roar of buses and cars honking in the background. “Where are you calling me from? A freeway median?”

  “I’m heading for the churro cart on the corner. I smelled them on the way in this morning and couldn’t stop thinking about getting one.”

  I laughed. “One? It’ll be three by the time you’re through. So you called to make me jealous? And hungry?” My stomach rumbled at the mention of those delicious cinnamony cylinders of perfection.

  “Hang on.” I heard him ask for two churros in Spanish. After he told the vendor, “Gracias,” he was back on the phone. “Got information for you on Tito.”

  “Great. Spill.”

  He spoke with his mouth full. “No gig deal or his ory.”

  He was talking with a mouthful of churro. “I have no idea what you just said. You can’t hold off on dessert for thirty seconds?”

  I heard him swallow some water. “Obviously not. From what I can tell, Tito’s not that big a dealer. At least, not the kind with enough reach to get to Angelo if the cops give him protection. That’s the story according to Major Narco.”

  That was good news. Sort of. It meant Angelo could snitch and not worry about getting killed. But if Tito wasn’t “that big,” Angelo’s information about him might not impress the cops enough to get him the deal I’d been hoping for. I’d just have to find out whether the cops would give him protection and what they’d be willing to give Angelo for his information. I thanked Dale for the info on Tito. “And thanks for the other stuff.”

  He paused. “What other stuff? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Mr. Paranoia didn’t want any mention of the fact that he was helping me with an open investigation. One that happened to have placed my boyfriend in the ten-ring of the bull’s-eye. “I just meant that list of great restaurants in Tuscany.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  I almost laughed. But it really didn’t hurt to be careful. “Go pound some more churros.”

  We ended the call, and I went over to Alex’s office to tell him about Tito. “So here’s the plan: you go talk to Angelo, find out what kind of information he can give up on Tito. Then I’ll talk to the D.A. and the detectives and see whether they get excited enough to make a deal that’s worth Angelo’s while.”

  “Got it,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ve been digging into Niko’s history. Have you ever met his brother, Ivan?”

  “No.” He’d mentioned a brother but not much more than that. “I got the impression they’re estranged.”

  Alex gave a humph. “And with good reason. He was a shot caller in the Rollin 90s.”

  I’d heard of them. So had every other cop and criminal lawyer. The Rollin 90s were about as bad as they came. Their game was mainly drugs. But they had virtually no limits when it came to protecting their territory or their product. Police estimate that gang was responsible for hundreds of murders and assaults over the past ten years. I could understand why Niko never wanted to talk about his brother. But it was hard to picture Sophia being able to handle a son with a lifestyle like that. I voiced the sentiment to Alex.

  He opened his iPad. “I agree. But Sophia divorced the dad and moved out. Not sure when Ivan got jumped into the gang, whether it was before or after that.”

  I mulled that over. “Wasn’t Ivan the older brother?” Alex nodded. That worried me. Younger brothers sometimes follow in their older siblings’ footsteps.

  He saw where my thoughts had taken me. “Remember, my brother was in a gang.” He pointed to himself. “But I didn’t go there.”

  True. Alex had come from some of the roughest beginnings, and joining a gang would’ve been a natural act of self-preservation. But he’d resisted the temptation. Maybe Niko had, too. “What else have you got?”

  Alex was looking at his iPad. “It’s weird, because it seems like the family was doing okay, and then all of a sudden, everything went down the shitter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He frowned. “No indication that the father lost his job or that he was abusive. And no indication that anyone got sick or died.” He glanced up at me with a perplexed expression. “Everything was fine. Then, like, out of the blue, the parents got divorced, his father got busted for a hit-and-run while drunk driving—nearly took out a family of four—and then Sophia got sick. And a couple of years later, Ivan got busted for vandalism. Graffiti, actually.”

  I knew what that probably meant. “Gang graffiti?”

  “Right. So by then he’d obviously joined the gang.” He stopped and stared out the window behind me. “It just bugs me. I know I’m missing something.”

  How to learn more? I ran through the options in my mind. We had to be careful about who we contacted. I didn’t want Niko to know I was investigating him. Ever. I could think of only one possibility. “Do you know where we can find Ivan?”

  A look of disdain crossed his face. “Must we? He’s a scumbag gangbanging loser. Even if he’ll talk to us—a big if—he’ll just spew bullshit.”

  I know it’s hard to tell, but Alex has no love for bangers. I’m no fan, either. But I’ve known some who are okay people. Occasionally even helpful. They did a nice job helping me get rid of a homicidal cop. “He’s our only shot. So yes, we must.”

  Alex sighed. “Yeah, I think I have an address for him. Assuming he didn’t get busted in the past hour and a half.”

  “What’s his rap sheet look like?”

  He glanced down at his iPad again. “Actually, it’s pretty minimal, all things considered. A couple of drug possession busts. A shoplifting charge—which he beat somehow.” He scrolled for a moment. “I show an address for him in the Miracle Mile area. Looks like a house.”

  Not an apartment. The Miracle Mile area, in the Wilshire Boulevard corridor, is close to downtown Los Angeles. It’d fallen into disrepair in the not-so-distant past, but now some pretty pricey neighborhoods—with multimillion-dollar homes—were sprinkled among the middle- and lower-middle-income-bracket ’hoods. “Business must be good.”

  Alex gave me a sour but resigned look. “When do you want to go?”

  I looked at my watch. It was only three o’clock. A perfect time to avoid evening rush hour. I stood up. “If you’re waiting for me, you’re backing up.” He got up as slowly as he possibly could and slumped over to the door. “Your protest is duly noted.”

  He made a face. “We’re taking your car.”

  When I told Michy who we were going to see, she said, “How did I know you’d have to do this?” She sighed. “Be careful.”

  “We’ll make nice with Ivan. I’m not worried.”

  Michy shook her head. “I was referring to Niko.”

  Oh, that. I told her we’d make sure he never found out, and we headed for the elevator. Once we got into my car, I typed the address Alex gave me into Waze and pulled out of the garage.

  On the way there, Alex made one remark about wasting time talking to an idiot banger, but otherwise we rode in silence. I was as curious as hell to meet Niko’s brother. Although they were estranged now—and it seemed like that had been true for many years—Niko had spent his childhood with this man.

  We were just twenty minutes away when I stopped musing and realized we’d need to come up with a cover story. “Who are we going to be?” Alex and I have a whole arsenal of personas to use when we want to talk to someone without letting them
know who we are. “Real estate agents looking to list homes in the area?”

  Alex shook his head. “I couldn’t pull up the image of his place for some reason. If it’s a dump, he won’t buy it.”

  You never know. He might. But no need to take chances. “How about we’re thinking of moving into the area? All you need to do is check your iPad for a house that’s for sale nearby.”

  He gave a half smile. “Funny you should think of that. When I tried to pull up an image of his place, I saw a FOR SALE sign on the lawn next door. Assuming it’s a recent photo—which we’ll find out soon enough—that’s a damn good choice.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes I get lucky. But you know what I say.”

  “Yeah, I do. Because you say it all the time. So please don’t—”

  “I’d rather be lucky than good.”

  He put his hands over his ears. “Why must you always torture me?”

  I gave him a beatific smile. “We only torture the ones we love.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Now I’m going to vomit.”

  “Then please roll down the window.” I turned onto Vista Street. “This is his block, right?”

  “Yeah. Slow down.” He pointed to a small beige ranch-style home on the corner with a redbrick walk and a charming set of bay windows that wrapped around the right side. Sure enough, the house next door had a FOR SALE sign on the lawn. It didn’t look nearly as nice as Ivan’s.

  I parked around the corner out of the sight line of his house, in case we had to make a fast dash out of there. I looked at Alex. “Here goes nothin’.”

  He gave me a deadpan expression. “Probably.”

  We held hands as we moved up the brick walkway. Just two young newlyweds about to buy their first home together. Now I wanted to vomit. I couldn’t find a doorbell, so I knocked. I didn’t hear any movement or sound, and I worried that no one was home. I raised my hand to knock again, but then I heard the thud of heavy footsteps on wood. Someone was home, and they were coming.

  The door opened, and a balding, heavyset man in his forties, a little over six feet tall, wearing skull stud earrings, peered out at us. “Can I help you?”

  Could this be Niko’s brother? I took in his worn jeans, faded Affliction T-shirt, and flip-flops. He didn’t much look like a gangbanger. And he didn’t look a whole lot like Niko—though he did have the same strong jawline. I smiled charmingly (I hoped) and leaned toward Alex. “Hi. I’m Sally, and this is Mark. We’re hoping to buy the house next door, and we were wondering if you could tell us about the neighborhood?”

  He sized us up for a moment, then stuck out a hand. “I’m Ivan. Come on in.”

  We all shook hands, and as we followed him inside, I felt a frisson of anxiety. I was going behind Niko’s back to meet a brother he clearly didn’t want in his life, or mine.

  But as always, curiosity won out over decency, common sense . . . and guilt.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ivan ushered us into a sparsely furnished living room. He gestured for us to sit on the sagging green couch and took a seat opposite us in a matching—and equally worn—recliner. I heard a television playing in a room toward the back of the house. Had he left it on? Or was someone else here? I didn’t hear anyone moving around. We must be alone. Good.

  Now that we were in closer quarters, I noticed Ivan had tats crawling up the back of his neck and letters tattooed above the knuckle on each finger. I couldn’t make out what—if anything—they spelled without seeming obvious. But finger tats are a very typical gang thing.

  We chatted about the neighborhood. Ivan said it was pretty peaceful, though “the assholes” were only a few miles away. He told us his house was on the fringes of the gentrified section, and the lower—and no—income neighborhoods were close enough for you to hit them if you “swung a dead cat.” I didn’t know why anyone would want to swing a dead cat, but I nodded and feigned a look of concern.

  Alex wisely used that opening to talk about his own poor beginnings and how he’d been steeped in the gang life for years.

  Ivan peered at him with narrowed eyes. “What gang was that?”

  I hoped Alex had thought this through, because he had to be careful. He had to give the name of a real gang, but it couldn’t be one Ivan might be able to access—and find out Alex wasn’t a member.

  Alex returned his gaze. “Calle 18.”

  Nice choice. 18th Street had started out as a Los Angeles street gang. But now it was a transnational gang that stretched across the United States and into Central America. From what I’d heard, it was one of the most violent gangs in the Southern hemisphere—which should get Ivan’s respect—but even better, it had at least thirty thousand members. There was no way anyone in LA could tell Ivan whether Alex was a member. Especially since we’d given fake names.

  Ivan began to probe Alex with questions about his gang life, and Alex was happy to oblige with gnarly—and authentic-sounding—stories. Stories he’d probably heard from his brothers, who really were gangbangers. It was a good strategy. If you want to get someone to open up about himself, you go first. And it seemed to be working. Ivan was nodding and leaning forward, eating it all up.

  Alex finally said, “I’m going on and on. I hope I haven’t bored you to death.”

  Ivan waved a hand. “No, man. I used to be in the life, too. Chosen Few MC.” He stared off. “Me and my little brother.”

  His little brother . . . that couldn’t be. I tried to sound pleasantly—not intently—interested. “You have a younger brother?”

  Ivan’s expression hardened. “Used to. We don’t speak. Not since our little sister . . . died.”

  Little sister? Maybe this wasn’t Niko’s brother. Not only had Niko never mentioned being in a gang, he’d certainly never mentioned a little sister. “I’m so sorry. What happened to her?”

  His expression turned bitter. “Drive-by shooting. Rival gang—Nazi Low Riders.” Ivan shook his head. “I spent years looking for the pieces of shit who did it. That’s why I stayed in Chosen Few. But not Niko. He bailed. Blamed me for her death. Hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  A sister. One who died. Because a rival gang—as in a gang that was a rival to Niko’s gang—killed her. What else was I going to learn about him? That he ran a high-stakes poker game in Dubai? That he laundered money for the Russian mafia? “Family gatherings must be pretty hard.”

  Ivan gave a short bark of a laugh. “They probably would be if we’d ever had one. Parents got divorced about a year after Kristina died. Dad drank himself into a fatal car accident, and my stepmom . . . she never forgave me. Haven’t seen her since I graduated high school and moved out. She found a place somewhere on the west side and took Niko with her.”

  So Ivan was Niko’s half brother. That’s why they didn’t look much alike. They had different mothers. I was trying to wrap my head around all this.

  Alex could see I was reeling. He stepped in. “But Niko was in the gang, too. Why didn’t they blame him?”

  I thought that’d elicit a wounded remark about the injustice of it all. But Ivan gave a heavy sigh and hung his head. “Because it was my fault. I’d gotten into a beef with one of the Riders over a drug deal they screwed up for me. I beat the guy up pretty badly, put him in the hospital. My little sister was payback.”

  From the sounds of it, Niko had turned his life around after Kristina’s death. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who’d suggested they move out of the area. “Did you ever find the person who killed her?”

  Ivan’s eyes darkened. “No. But the shot caller of the gang dropped off the face of the earth a few years later. People say he’s dead. Cops suspected me for a while. I told ’em I wished I had killed him.”

  I asked, “Did they ever suspect Niko?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said. “He wasn’t around. He’d been gone for a few years by then.”

  Right. That made sense. Niko would’ve been in college by that point, and he’d told me that he scored a scholarship
to the University of California, Santa Barbara—which is where he’d taken his first martial arts class.

  A woman wearing cutoffs and a Nirvana T-shirt that was at least three sizes too small came in. When she saw us, she ran a hand through pink-tipped black hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in months. “Ivan, the air-conditioning keeps cutting off. You said you fixed it.”

  Ivan turned to look at her. “I did. Just give me a few minutes.”

  She gazed at Alex for a long beat—as women so often did—then shifted her gaze to me. “Who are you?”

  I introduced Alex and myself with our fake names and told her we were thinking about moving to the neighborhood. “Ivan’s been kind enough to give us the pros and cons.”

  She nodded slowly. I didn’t like the way she was staring at me. I stood up. “Well, we’ve taken enough of your time, Ivan. Thank you so much for—”

  The woman pointed a finger at me. “I know who you are. You’re that lawyer!” She turned to Ivan. “Babe, she’s that lawyer who got her dad off for murder.”

  I moved toward the door. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

  Alex reached out for Ivan’s hand. “Thanks for your time. It’s been a real pleasure.”

  But now Ivan was staring at me, too. He ignored Alex’s outstretched hand. “Yeah, that’s right. I knew you looked familiar.”

  I had my hand on the door, but the woman was moving toward me. “And you know what? She’s Niko’s girlfriend! I read it in USA Today.”

  Ivan stood up, his eyes blazing with fury. “What the hell are you up to?”

  Alex stepped between the woman and me. “Nothing. Your wife is just a little . . . confused.” He moved past me and opened the door.