by Marcia Clark
I got off the freeway at Woodman and headed toward Ventura Boulevard. I was on my way to the Chimney Sweep, a dive bar in Studio City. The name alone says, “Why go there?” But two things made it perfect for my purpose: the ambience—sparsely populated and so dark you have to hold on to your drink to find it—and its location, tucked into a dingy, aging mini mall and sandwiched between a ballroom dance studio and a Middle Eastern restaurant. It was a place where no one would recognize the Nazi Low Riders’ shot caller, Tuck Rosenberg. Neither one of us wanted to be seen together, but it was really life-threatening for him. The press had mentioned that I was helping Cassie. As far as the Nazi Low Riders were concerned, that put me in the enemy camp.
From the moment I walked in the door, I wished I’d worn latex gloves. But the truth was, nothing short of a hazmat suit would’ve made me feel okay in that place. I refused to feel my way through the maze of small tables, afraid of what I’d touch, so I bumped into more than a few of them in the inky darkness before I made it to the bar. I ordered a club soda but passed on the offer of lime—the pathetic excuses I saw in the plastic condiment tray were so dry and shriveled they looked like dead worms—and took my drink to one of the few booths. The middle of the cheaply shellacked table was a lot lighter than the six inches around the perimeter, which probably hadn’t been wiped since The Clash broke up. The damp air was heavy with layers of booze sweat, cake disinfectant that smelled like urine (and maybe was, but I tried not to think about it), and that musky old-building smell. I couldn’t see the water stains on the walls, but I knew they had to be there.
The good news: there were only three other people in the place. Two older men, hunched at a small table, their heads bowed over their beer bottles, and one older woman who sat in the back and worked a crossword puzzle book, an unlit cigarette behind her ear. None of them seemed even remotely interested in me—or anything else.
Five minutes later, Tuck showed up. It’s hard not to notice him, and even the three sad sacks in the place looked up for a moment when he walked in. Six foot four, long blond hair, built like a Viking, and tatted like the Illustrated Man, Tuck filled the doorway as though the bar was some kid’s dollhouse. I waved him over.
The booth creaked as he lowered himself into the seat. He glanced around the room, then spoke to me in a low voice. “Nice to see you.”
I waved him off. “No it isn’t, so thanks for doing this.” I nodded at the bar. “If you want a drink, I recommend . . . nothing.”
His eyes slid to the side, took in the bar, and came back to me. “You heard they picked up Dominic on those murders?”
Heard and saw. But telling him I’d actually been at the cop shop wouldn’t help matters. “He says there was no official hit put out on Paula Sonnenberg.” I looked into his eyes.
Tuck met my gaze with a solid ice-blue stare. “It’s true. And believe me, if anyone ordered a hit, I’d know about it.”
“You sure about that?” The white gangs weren’t known for their commitment to organizational management structure. They got into a lot of random shit because basically, they were a bunch of violent, low-IQ misfits. Not that other gangs weren’t. They just tended to be a little more amenable to the corporate hierarchy.
Tuck sighed, an implicit acknowledgment that a wolf pack was more organized. “I can tell you for sure there was no official hit in the works. That shit doesn’t happen without my say-so. But can I promise you some dumbass didn’t decide to go rogue?” He shook his head, his expression resigned. “No. No one can do that.”
I pressed on. This might be my only chance to talk to him. “Anyone been bragging?”
Tuck shook his head. “And something this big, I’d definitely hear about it. They’d want to take credit.”
True enough. One thing all gang members seem to have in common is the need to yap about their exploits. “If you hear anything, can you let me know?”
Tuck shook his head. “No promises. I don’t hang my own people out to dry. But I can say this much: it doesn’t feel like a Rider.”
“Because?”
“Too risky. Breaking into a house in the middle of the night, expecting to get away with offing a whole family—especially a white family.” He shook his head. “Not our style.”
Not his style, anyway. Tuck was pretty smart. But the same couldn’t be said for his BFFs. “For your sake, I hope you’re right.” If it were a Nazi Low Rider, Tuck’s operation would be in the crosshairs of every cop shop in town for a long, long time.
Tuck blew out a breath. “Got that right.” He gave me another one of his solid stares. “We done?”
“Yeah.” I stood up. “I’ll leave first.”
I wove my way through the empty tables, arms and shoulders scrunched together to avoid touching anything. I didn’t let myself take a full, deep breath until I got into my car.
As I headed down Ventura Boulevard to the freeway, I saw an In-N-Out Burger. My stomach saw it, too, and started grumbling. Now that I was out of that sinkhole of a bar, I realized I was starving. I pulled in behind a long line of cars—I’ve never seen an In-N-Out that wasn’t packed—and took out my phone to check my e-mails. I’d deleted a bunch of junk when my phone rang. It was Michelle. “What’s up?”
“You’re going to be in the office tomorrow morning.”
“Says who?” Not that I wasn’t planning to be there, but it was my go-to reaction to any order.
“Those creepy Orozcos are coming in. Arturo called to give me the heads-up.”
My heart gave a hard thump. “What’d you tell them?”
“That I’d see if you were available. But he’d already hung up.” Michelle gave an irritable huff. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d wrap it up with them.”
I’d represented Ricardo Orozco on an ugly gang shooting. He and his fellow Grape Street Boyz dickweeds had shot up a house that was supposedly the casa where the shot caller for the rival gang—the Southside Creepers—lived. Except he didn’t and never had. And Ricardo had fired the shots that killed a six-month-old baby in his playpen and maimed a young girl for life. He’d laughed about it, said the baby would’ve just grown up to be a Southside Creeper piece of shit, and made foul remarks about the “gimp-assed puta” who’d “never get laid now.” In short, I’d say Ricardo was a sewer rat, but that was unfair shade to throw at sewer rats.
Unfortunately—I say that because I’d actually wanted to lose this time—the case went belly-up when the gang found a way to shred the sole eyewitness’s credibility. All that was left was an illegal weapon possession charge. Ricardo wound up with a low-term state prison deal that, for him, was nothing more than a vacay with old homies.
Injustice is a fact of daily life. Whether it’s a jerk who steals your parking space or a judge who screws you with a bad ruling. You don’t like it, but you move on. You deal. But there’s a line, a point after which you don’t deal. At least, there is for me. And that case had crossed it.
Just before Ricardo’s guilty plea, while the court was busy with another matter, I sidled up to the custody list—a printout that shows where prisoners are supposed to be housed—and made a slight change. Ricardo wound up getting assigned to the Southside Creeper section of the jail. Half an hour after he got to his cell, they found his body. He’d been shivved at least a dozen times. No witnesses.
Ricardo’s father, Ernesto, and his brother, Arturo Orozco, asked me to look into the murder. They had a civil lawyer working on the money side of things, but they wanted to find the pendejo who’d sent Ricardo into the death trap. They didn’t believe it was just a mistake, and they didn’t trust the cops. Since I’d done such a great job on Ricardo’s case, they asked me to take care of it. I couldn’t afford to say no. I needed to control the situation. And I needed to find someone I could blame for altering the custody list to keep my neck off their chopping block. That meant someone who’d have access to the custody lists and someone who deserved to be the object of the Orozcos’ wrath.
But it’d been a few months, and the Orozcos were getting impatient. It wouldn’t be long before someone pointed out that I’d been one of the people standing next to the bailiff’s desk, where the custody list had been that day. And if the Orozcos got wind of that, they’d turn their sights on me. They wouldn’t care that no one had actually seen me make the change on that list. “Beyond a reasonable doubt” meant nothing to them.
I tried to sound reassuring, though my mouth had gone dry and my heart was beating like a metronome on crack. “Don’t worry, Michy. Their case should wrap up pretty soon.”
By the time I got my food, I’d lost my appetite. I threw the bag onto the passenger seat and took a long swig of my soft drink.
I’d have to come up with a story to back them off, buy myself some more time. Then I’d have to drill down on that fall guy.
Or the Orozcos would drill down on me.
EIGHT
I had the nightmare again that night. This time I woke myself up with actual screams instead of my usual strangled croaks. I peered at the clock on my nightstand. Four a.m., early even for me. But I didn’t try to go back to sleep. I couldn’t take the risk. The Orozcos were beyond punctual—probably their only virtue—and I couldn’t leave Michelle to deal with them alone. I took a long, hot shower to clear my head, then forced myself to have some toast with my coffee. I thought about how much longer I could push them off. Probably not much. The last time I’d seen Arturo, he’d gotten up in my face. Old Man Ernesto’d had to pull him back. But he’d let me feel the wrath for a few seconds before he’d yanked Arturo’s leash.
I drank my fourth cup of coffee on the balcony so I could check out the day. A thin white layer of clouds covered the sky like a gauze bandage. The sun shone through them and bathed the sky in a pale, silvery light. I would’ve appreciated something dark and ominous to go with my mood—or a bright blue day, for contrast. Friggin’ weather.
I finished my coffee and headed out. It was only eight o’clock when I got into the office, but Michelle was already there. I noticed she was wearing a black Scünci. A pretty funereal theme for her. She usually favored patterns and bright colors. “You trying to send me a message?”
Michelle gave me a hard look. “Yeah, get rid of those guys, or I’ll kill you.”
“You don’t have to be here. I can handle them.”
Michelle’s face softened a little. “I didn’t want you to be alone with them. Alex is here, too.”
I noticed his door was open. He always closed it when he was working. Except apparently when he was worried about my well-being. It was reassuring that everyone was watching out for me. Especially since Alex really knew how to fight. But I didn’t think the Orozcos would make a move on me here in the office with so many people around. Not when it was so much easier to get to me in my very unsecure apartment. Those two were at the helm of the Grape Street Boyz gang, and they didn’t get there by singing Christmas carols. Ernesto was from Honduras, where the gangs made ISIS look like a Cub Scout troop. And he’d trained his sons well. They didn’t have to do the dirty work themselves anymore, but they wouldn’t mind getting back into that game if need be, just for shits and giggles. Still, I appreciated the effort. “Thanks, guys.”
She flapped a hand at me. “Just make them go away.”
I went to my office and took my .38-caliber Smith and Wesson out of the left bottom drawer, made sure it was fully loaded, then put it in my top left drawer, which I kept open for easy access. I tried to focus on casework. I had a search-and-seizure motion that was due on Friday, but I was straining so hard to hear the buzzer at the outer door that I couldn’t concentrate. By the time it did sound at eight thirty, I was almost relieved. I wiped my sweating palms on my pants legs and took a deep breath, hoping it would make my pulse slow down. I heard Michelle buzz them in.
I came out and stood near her desk with a big, fake, confident smile. As they entered, I gave them a big, fake, hearty welcome. “Ernesto, Arturo, so nice to see you. Please, come in.”
A black cloud of menace always seemed to hover around them, and I don’t think I’d ever seen either of them, father or son, crack a smile—which, when I pictured what that might look like, struck me as a good thing.
They didn’t smile now, either, as I turned and led them back to my office. I stood behind my desk and gestured to the two chairs in front of it. They actually match now. So uptown. Ernesto moved slowly on thick, heavy feet. From past experience, I knew his hands felt like blocks of concrete. I bet his fist would feel like a pile driver. His son, Arturo, had the beginnings of a tire around the middle, but the muscles in his biceps and chest strained against the fabric of his shiny, cobalt-blue shirt. He leaned forward in his seat, and the sickly sweet smell of his cologne and the greasy goo he used to slick back his hair filled the room. I had to breathe through my mouth to settle my stomach.
I did my best to channel a calm voice. “I have an update for you.”
Arturo rubbed his right fist with his left hand. A habit of his. “We already heard that bailiff who was in court said he didn’t write nothing on the custody list.”
They’d apparently been doing some digging on their own. A very bad sign. “That’s true. But apparently there were quite a few handwritten scratch-outs and notes on that list. And it got passed around to a lot of people. All the bailiffs on the floor, the jail deputies who work transportation. Even some of the prison guards. But I just got a tip yesterday. It’s from a source who’s in tight with the shot caller of the Southside Creepers. According to my source, there’s a deputy sheriff who might be the shot caller’s homie—”
Arturo cracked a knuckle. “Who is this pinche source of yours?” His lips twisted in contempt.
I shook my head. “I can’t tell you that. And you don’t want to know. Because if anything happens to him, they’ll be looking at me. And you. And then you’ll never get that deputy’s name.”
Ernesto looked at me through eyes that were slits in his fleshy face. He was the only one who could handle any semblance of rational thinking. He slowly nodded. “When will you get us the name of this deputy sheriff?”
“I’m working on it. My source wants a favor from me first. Some legal help. It’ll take me a little while to get it done—”
Arturo gave me a narrow-eyed glare. “How long?”
How long could I push it? “Three months, max.”
Arturo shook his head, his eyes still fixed on me. “Too long.”
Ernesto frowned at him. “My son is not a patient man.” His eyes shifted to me, and he fixed me with a flat stare. “But we have waited a long time already. We would like you to get us the name in one month. If you cannot do it by then, you give us the name of this pig who is friendly with the Creepers. We will find a way to persuade him to give us this deputy.”
I forced a calm smile, though I could barely hear him over the roaring in my ears from the throbbing headache that’d been mounting ever since they walked in. “I will do what I can, of course. But it would be best if you let me handle this. We don’t want any more bloodshed, right?” Ever since Ricardo’s murder, a gang war had been raging between the Creepers and the Grape Street Boyz. The body count was reaching epic proportions. This struck me as a win-win for the rest of us, but the two vipers in front of me were unlikely to share that view.
Ernesto stood and stared down at me. “No one wants bloodshed. But it can’t always be avoided.”
Arturo joined him. His eyes shone like polished knives. “One month, Abogada Brinkman.”
I kept the smile on but spoke in a firm voice. “I’ll do my best.”
As I walked them to the door, I noticed Alex was sitting on Michelle’s desk. He made it look casual, but I saw that he was sizing up the Orozcos, ready for action. Seeing him made me cocky. “Oh, and I meant to tell you. We’ve just about run through my retainer, so you’ll be getting a bill for my time starting Friday.”
Ernesto turned sideways and nodded. Arturo opened the door for him, and they
left. I let out an exhale that went on for so long I didn’t know how I’d been breathing all this time.
Michelle looked mildly impressed. “You go, girl. Way to show ’em you’re the boss.”
I strutted over to her desk. “I know, right? Anyhow, their money spends the same. May as well get it while we can.” As in, while I was still alive. “And thanks, Alex.”
He gave me an innocent look. “What? I was just hanging out, talking to Michelle.”
I gave him a knowing smile. “Then thanks for that.”
I went into my office, closed the door, and dropped onto the couch. I was pissed at myself. My little bullshit story about the Creeper snitch had only bought me one month. I’d have to move fast. But I didn’t have time—or the kind of access I needed—to dig up a credible fall guy. How the hell was I going to get out of this?
Then it came to me. I didn’t have access, but I knew someone who did. Dale. If there actually were a jail deputy with a connect to the Southside Creepers, Dale could find out. I reached him on his cell phone and gave him a version of the Orozco situation. One that—of course—omitted my part in Ricardo’s untimely demise. “So the Orozcos want to know which deputy had connects to the Southside Creepers.”
Dale paused for a moment. “Maybe there is no connect, Sam. Maybe it’s just a screwup. It happens.”
Which was the story I’d counted on selling to the Orozcos. Unfortunately, they weren’t buying. I had to admit, messing with that custody list was one of my bigger mistakes. I know I can be impulsive, but this one was an all-time low, even for me. I told Dale that if he couldn’t find a connect, that would be the end of it.
He sighed. “Fine. But if I do come up with a dirty jail deputy, you keep it quiet until we get him some protection.”
