Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  Omar scrolled through his iPhone and played A Matter of Interpretation, by Justice Antonin Scalia, through his speaker system. He listened intently as he drove through Coronado. While high atop the Coronado bridge, looking across the bay to downtown, he concluded that Justice Scalia would be of little help to him. I’ve got no Constitution or statutes to interpret. He pressed ‘stop’, letting himself think.

  Omar’s razor-sharp memory stopped on an article he recently read, Predictability is the Hallmark of an Effective Judiciary. That’s why Scalia ruled based on the exact language of the statute, so anyone who reads the statute knows what to expect.

  He gripped the wheel harder. He was inventing the system and didn’t know what to expect; hopefully Judge Jo would have ideas at lunch tomorrow.

  7

  Officer Maggiore lay on her queen-size bed staring at a framed picture of her and Brad holding up targets at a shooting range. He was finally getting silly girls out of his system and was almost ready for me. The only way he would charge into Cassie’s home to be ambushed is if someone set him up. Some silly girl wouldn’t have gotten the best of him. It had to be a real criminal. It had to be Omar.

  She reached for the tiny stuffed bat lying next to her and held it to her chest. After winning the bat at a Halloween carnival, she was so excited she grabbed Brad by the face and kissed him. And he kissed her back. It was their first kiss.

  Her lip quivered. Cassie’s trial would start soon. When it was over, people would forget about Brad. He would just be a dirty cop. But that wasn’t him. He was always honest. Before they hooked up, he said wasn’t ready for anything serious. He was honest. A good cop. And so much fun.

  Maggiore shook her head. No more tears. She rocked to sit up on the perfectly made flower-patterned bedspread. She fluffed her frilly pillows, resting her prized stuffed bat on one. She walked across the tan berber carpet to her closet.

  After retrieving a banker’s box, she walked to her lace tablecloth covered kitchen table. For a street cop, she enjoyed a remarkably soft aesthetic. She sat in a white chair and pulled out a spiral notebook.

  [Do you know anything about Marcos Omar?]

  Maggiore looked up at the white popcorn ceiling, willing herself to remember more details from her last short conversation with Brad. She looked down at her notes.

  [I should be coming into some money. But I’m afraid the person might welch.]

  Maggiore squinted, trying to remember exactly what she said in response. I’m sure someone in the City Attorney’s office can recommend a good lawyer. That’s the way to go, Brad. Don’t get involved with Omar. She looked at her notes.

  [It’s not something a lawyer can help me with.] She clenched her jaw tight as her anger built and her mind raced. What is it, Brad? I’m here for you. I reached out and touched his shoulder – the last time I touched him.

  She stared at the last thing she remembered Brad ever saying to her. [Don’t worry, a girl has something of mine, no big deal. See ya.]

  With a pained look on her face, she slowly closed the notebook and set it aside. She reached into the box and pulled out four pieces of paper, stapled together. She looked at the first page, a full page of a Xerox of a small business card for a medical marijuana shop. The second two pages were an article about the Salazar murder. She quickly read it for the tenth time. She flipped to the final page and stared.

  She shot up out of her chair. “I’ll go see him.”

  She paced her apartment. There will be a visitor’s log. The conversation will be recorded. I need to be smart.

  Walking with purpose, she stopped in front of her closet and put her hand on her uniform. She shook her head and looked further down the rack of hanging clothes. She nodded when she saw her grey pant suit.

  Fifteen minutes later, with light makeup and a brushing of her hair accomplished, she was out the door and headed to jail.

  Maggiore drove past the jail, looking for a parking spot. She gripped the wheel with frustration when she saw several squad cars parked in the red next to the jail. If she had her squad car, she could park anywhere.

  She drove past Broadway and eyed Horton Plaza on her left. She whipped her head around to look for any open metered spots. How could it be so effing crowded on a Friday afternoon? There! She slammed on her breaks and twinged with excitement when she saw a gray Civic with its reverse lights on.

  She rolled her window down and frantically waved for the cars behind her to pull around so she could back up. Two minutes later, she used a credit card to max out the time in the meter and congratulated herself for wearing flat shoes on the four-block walk to the jail.

  A woosh of cool air refreshed her as she opened the door. She dabbed at her forehead; her hair was sticky from walking in the heat. Four people were in line. Better to wait than badge the line.

  Ten frustrating minutes later, with two new arrivals behind her in line, one smelling like he could use a de-lousing, Maggiore was face-to-face with the woman behind the thick glass window. She put her driver license and badge into the little metal dish. “I’d like to see Umberto Salazar.”

  “Questioning?”

  “Not officially. Not related to his case. I have a few questions about something unrelated.”

  “Personal visit?”

  Maggiore shrugged. “Sure.”

  The woman pushed Maggiore’s badge back into the metal dish, picked up the phone, and wrote down information from Maggiore’s license as she told someone that Umberto Salazar had a personal visit. She hung up. “Elevator number three.”

  “Thanks.” Maggiore pointed to her license.

  “Oh, here you go.” She pushed it into the tray.

  Maggiore retrieved and pocketed it next to her badge. She passed by several people who had checked-in before her. There was some officer courtesy given to her. She stepped into the plain gray elevator box, scanning the graffiti etched on the walls opposite the doors.

  She pressed the button. As the doors closed, she second-guessed her plan. Then third-guessed it. As she was debating whether she should just leave, the doors opened. She stepped out and was led to the area for personal visits.

  “I don’t know you?” the lanky twenty-something with cropped hair asked, his inflection making his statement sound like a question.

  “No, Mr. Salazar, you don’t,” Maggiore said in a steady tone. “I wanted to chat with you about a Mr. Marcos Omar.” Maggiore observed Umberto Salazar’s facial expression transition from a slight squint of recognition to raised eyebrows of confusion.

  “Who?”

  Maggiore inhaled, playing her ace early in this hand. “The man who I think killed your friend and set you up.”

  His face went blank. Maggiore couldn’t tell if it was in rage or disbelief. She watched his eyes move up slowly from her chest directly into her own. She matched his stare for several seconds in silence.

  Just as she was about to break the eye contact, she saw his head lean down as he pulled against his jail-house greens.

  With Umberto’s silence making her uncomfortable, Maggiore darted her eyes around the room. “I’m here to ask if you have any information that could help me figure out how Marcos Omar did this.”

  With exaggerated slowness, he raised his head. “Why you think Omar did this?” He pulled against his cuffs so the metal clinked.

  “I think Jimmy robbed the store and they hired Omar to get the money back.”

  Umberto looked down at his right hand as he circled his thumb with his index finger. “The collector,” he whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  Umberto’s circling finger changed directions.

  Maggiore leaned across the table. “I couldn’t hear what you said,” she said softly.

  Umberto clenched his fist. “Talk to Filthy Rose. Tell him everything. He help you.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He own a tire shop. Up in Linda Vista.”

  “Which one? What’s it called?”

  Umbert
o shrugged. “It’s before the McDonald’s.”

  Maggiore squinted, wondering if he was putting her on. “What McDonald’s, what street?”

  Umberto sighed like he was dealing with an idiot because she didn’t know where this place was. “From the highway, go up Linda Vista for a bit. It on the right, past the schools but before the McDonald’s.”

  “Schools?”

  “The rich people college and high school.”

  Maggiore nodded with understanding. The University of San Diego is a private college. Just north of it was Francis Parker, an elite private preparatory school. Just north of that was the rest of the mixed ethnic and economic neighborhood of Linda Vista. “It’s on the main street? Not a side street?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s not easy for me to come see you. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  Umberto shook his head.

  “This is your best shot of getting out of here. Are you sure you want to put it in the hands of this Filthy Rose character?”

  Umberto nodded.

  8

  “Morning,” Jo whispered when Dzuy stirred.

  Dzuy grumbled as he woke up. He turned to face her, following her stare to the ceiling. “You okay?”

  “Couldn’t fall back asleep. Feeling stressed about meeting Omar for lunch.” Jo’s long auburn hair splayed out on her pillow as she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. Only four hours from now.” Her bright yellow t-shirt didn’t match her mood.

  Dzuy took her hand. “It’s just lunch.”

  Jo turned towards him. “Feels like it could be my last one as a judge.”

  Dzuy looked away.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” Jo pulled her hand away.

  Dzuy sat up. “Maybe a little.” He scooted back so he was resting against the headboard of his modernly decorated bedroom.

  “Dzuy-” Jo started, as she scooted upright against two pillows and the headboard.

  “-I’m just saying,” Dzuy interrupted.

  “What, Dzuy?” Jo asked, urging caution in her tone and crossing her arms.

  “We’re meeting the guy for lunch at a restaurant. This is a public place, there’s no shady backroom or anything. If he asks for anything crazy, you know people in the prosecutor’s office, you can cut a deal. We’ll be fine.”

  Jo looked down at the covers. “My mind tells me there are logical steps to get through this. But then it just feels so overwhelming. And you seem like everything’s so easy for you.”

  “It is,” Dzuy said, with a little smile. “Because I’ve got you next to me.” He playfully tugged the sheet covering her legs.

  “Uh, no.” She tugged the sheet back over her legs. “Good answer, though.”

  “I mean it.”

  Jo smiled. “I feel the same way, Dzuy. I love you.”

  “'Bout time you actually said it,” Dzuy said, smiling broadly.

  Jo cleared her throat, “Ahem?”

  Dzuy chuckled. “Yes, dear?”

  “It’s okay, I know how you feel,” Jo said with a fake pout.

  “That I love you?”

  Jo nodded.

  “Good, because I do.”

  “Do what?” Jo asked, with a playful smile.

  “Feel the same way,” Dzuy responded slyly.

  Jo chuckled. “I guess my cross-exam skills are rusty. I’m trying to get you to tell me.”

  Dzuy shook his head. “You remember doing show and tell?” He flashed his eyebrows.

  “Thinking about schoolchildren—not sexy.” Jo smiled at the curveball she just threw him.

  Dzuy waved his hand, a gesture that knocked her curveball out of play. He tugged on the sheet, revealing her legs. “I love your toned legs.” He kissed her thigh.

  “And?”

  He looked at her eyes. “I love the amber flecks in your brown eyes.”

  Jo’s heart fluttered watching Dzuy look into her eyes.

  Dzuy stated several body parts before he said, “I love you. I knew I would the night I met you.”

  Jo inhaled, feelings of calm and euphoria washing over her. She put her hands on the bottom of her shirt. “I guess we’ve told, we’ve got time to show.”

  * * *

  “That’s it right there.” Jo pointed to a small red-painted building with two large square windows and a yellow roof.

  Dzuy flicked the turn signal and pulled into the turn lane. “Right there, on the left,” he joked.

  Jo rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. “Couple spots open.” She noticed four tight spots, cars in two of them.

  “They look kind of small – I’m going to park on the street if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  Jo flipped down the visor and checked the mirror. Her tan baseball cap only slightly bulged with all her hair tucked inside it. She adjusted it until the brim was down as low as she could get it without having to look up to see straight.

  Dzuy backed into a spot and put on his matching cap. It went well enough with his blue Padres t-shirt, but not quite as well as Jo’s oversized brown Padres jersey and short-cut jean shorts. With a baseball game later that afternoon, Jo looked like a short-haired woman in her twenties. It would be hard for people to recognize her if they were expecting to bump into Judge Jo Channing.

  As they approached the taco shop, Jo took Dzuy’s hand. She felt stronger holding it. “I forgot to Yelp! what’s good here.”

  Dzuy glanced at the shop. “I’m guessing the tacos are legit at Leticia’s Taqueria. Let’s get a few different kinds.”

  He opened the door for Jo. She walked in and noted a small counter in front of two windows where a young man was chewing on a burrito. On her right were two small booths; on her left, a fountain soda machine next to a refrigerator with beer, Mexican Coke, and what looked like flan or some sort of dessert.

  A fan above the fridge was aimed directly at her. There was another fan above it pointing at the line in front of the counter. On a hot day in the hot shop, the spot felt pretty nice.

  Jo smiled at the dark-skinned man behind the counter. He smiled back. “Hola.”

  She looked behind the man, into the kitchen area, but didn’t see Omar. “Is Mr. Omar here?”

  With a quick nod of his head, he walked through the doorway to the back office. A few seconds later, he walked back through. “One minute. What can I get you to eat?”

  Jo looked at Dzuy, who was staring at a chalkboard above the counter.

  “How about two carne asada tacos, two pollo asado tacos, and two adobada tacos?” Dzuy asked Jo.

  “Sure,” Jo said. “Oh, and a Mexican Coke.”

  “Make that two.”

  “Got it. Have a seat.” The man turned around to wash his hands.

  “Can we grab our sodas?” Jo asked.

  “Si,” the man called out over his shoulder.

  Dzuy grabbed the sodas while Jo chose the booth furthest from the door and the other patron.

  Jo leaned forward and whispered, “Is it right to say Mexican Coke? That’s not racist, is it? I just can’t tell these days what can be offensive.”

  Dzuy took a swig and looked at the bottle. “Hecho en Mexico.” He looked at Jo. “Means made in Mexico. I think you’re fine.”

  Jo whispered, “That’s good, I don’t want to be remembered as a racist. I don’t want Omar’s people to remember me at all.”

  Dzuy leaned back, still speaking softly but no longer in a whisper. “This tastes a little different. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a different kind of sweet. Maybe sweeter somehow, but also more subtle.” He looked at the ingredient list. “I think I like this more. It’s made with azucar, sugar, not corn syrup.”

  Jo took a sip. She shrugged. “It’s good. Not sure I can tell the difference.”

  Jo looked past Dzuy to the doorway as Omar approached, dressed in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt.

  Jo scooted out of the booth to stand, Dzuy following suit.

  “Thanks for coming.”


  Dzuy shook his hand. “We’re excited to try the tacos.”

  Jo did likewise. “Hello,” she said flatly.

  Dzuy scooted into the booth; Jo followed him. Omar slid in across from them.

  “Serge, veinte minutos, por favor,” Omar called out to the man finishing his burrito at the counter.

  The man stuffed the last bite of burrito in his mouth, gathered his trash, and tossed it into the bin next to the front door. Jo and Dzuy watched him get into a truck parked in the lot.

  Omar looked Jo square in the eye. “What’s the most important thing about being a judge?”

  Unease washed over her. What’s he asking? She shrugged pensively. “I’m not sure. What do you mean?”

  “If you have to make a decision between two people, what’s the most important thing?”

  Jo looked down at her Coke bottle. “I don’t know. Find out the facts, focus on them, then rule according to them.”

  Omar nodded. “If one person says one thing, and another says something else, how do you choose who to believe?”

  Jo looked up at Omar. “It depends. We try to base it on the facts. If we can’t tell, sometimes we look at the impact. Like if there’s a request for a restraining order and you can’t tell if the person is really a threat or not, you err on the side of granting it. While it stinks for the person to have one entered against them if they shouldn’t, that harm is much less than the risk of not granting one if it could have saved a life.”

  Omar squinted. “Is there a manual for this?”

  Jo shook her head. “Not really. From judicial college, we have some written materials on how to proceed.” Jo sensed that Omar was thinking hard on the subject. “What’s this about?”

  “Remember when I first met you, I was talking about expanding my business to kind of mediate disputes between...certain businessmen.” Omar gave a little smirk. “Let’s just say you inspired me to judge their disputes.”

  Dzuy asked, “Like how?”

  “Let’s say you’ve got a dispute but the police can’t help you. You pay me to bring it before me, I’ll rule, and then I’ll enforce the judgment.”