Jo’s mind raced at the potential illegalities of a shadow justice system.
“Holy shit!” Dzuy exclaimed softly. “I have a case for you. My friend had his laptop and cell phone stolen. I’ve got a picture of the guy who stole them, and I know they are at a pawn shop about a mile from here. But the police aren’t doing anything to help get them back.”
Jo’s heart thudded. She looked at Dzuy with wide eyes. They were trying to break free of Omar, not get intertwined further.
Omar shrugged. “If it was a truckload of computers and laptops, sure. That’s the idea.”
“I can pay full price,” Dzuy said excitedly. “Would I set a day with you and bring in receipts for the serial numbers, and then you make the guy hand them over?”
“Five grand, loser is to pay the fee.” Omar frowned. “I don’t want to chase down money from some little thief, though.”
“I’d be willing to pay five thousand to get it back.”
Jo closed her eyes for a second, wondering if she was in a nightmare. She reached her hand under the table and squeezed Dzuy’s thigh. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to be a part of this,” she said, as calmly as she could.
“Something doesn’t add up,” Omar said, looking at Dzuy. “You said the stuff is at a pawn shop. Why not just go buy it? Would be cheaper than five grand.”
“We tried. I tracked them there but they weren’t in a display case yet. I asked the guy about them. He wouldn’t sell them to me.”
“What’s it called?”
Jo squeezed harder.
Dzuy looked at her, ignoring the squeeze. “My Stuff, Your Stuff. I think.”
Omar shook his head. “Sorry. They’re outside my court’s jurisdiction.”
Jo let go of Dzuy’s thigh. “What? Why?”
“MS-13 runs that place for the Mexican Mafia.”
“Mexican Mafia?” Dzuy asked.
Omar nodded. “Prison gang. They have more power in the States than any cartel, any other gang.” Omar paused. “They run a system, kind of like what I’m doing, in the prisons. They get a third of all the action. The street gang, MS-13, pays tribute to La Eme.”
“La Eme?”
“The M. Mexican Mafia. M is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. They are outside of my jurisdiction.”
Jo watched Dzuy deflate back into the booth. Knowing she would regret it, she asked, “Do you know someone who could help us buy the stuff back? Someone the guy would be willing to sell to?”
Omar slid out of the booth and waved at the man in the truck. “What do you want him to get?”
Dzuy described the phone and computer. Omar stepped outside and talked with the man.
Jo whispered, “What the heck? You’re getting us in deeper with Omar?”
“Sorry,” Dzuy whispered back. “But for Mel, this is a chance to get his stuff back without him risking getting fired or prison time.”
Jo exhaled. “Melvin...”
“Yeah. Depending on his algorithm, it could be prison time. And really bad for our country.”
“Okay. But we need to distance ourselves from him,” Jo said, with a head nod towards Omar.
Omar opened the door. “You got cash?” he asked Dzuy.
Dzuy shook his head. “Let me go to the ATM.”
Without responding, Omar walked past him, past the kitchen.
“What’s he doing?” Dzuy asked.
“I’m guessing going to get cash to loan you,” Jo said quietly, shaking her head in disbelief.
A man from the kitchen approached with a tray laden with plates of tacos, each filled to the point where their toppings spilled onto the plate. As he set the tray in front of Jo and Dzuy, Omar shot right past him, handing an envelope to the man outside.
“Thank you,” Jo said to the cook before he retreated to the kitchen.
Dzuy reached for a taco.
“Dzuy,” Jo scolded. “Wait for Omar.”
Omar sat back in the booth. “Eat,” he commanded.
Jo picked up a carne asada, taking a small bite. The flavors and textures synergized into a nearly perfect bite. “So good,” she murmured as she chewed.
Dzuy nodded in agreement, chewing on a much bigger bite.
“How can I help?” Jo set her taco down, torn between her next bite and finding a way to get Omar out of her life.
“I read books. I listened to an audio book. I read articles. I even watched Judge Judy. Thing is, I’ve never been to real court. Only traffic court. So I want to know what to do. What to watch out for.”
Jo looked down at her taco. “Can you tell me about your case?” She glanced over and saw that Dzuy had finished his carne asada and moved on to the pollo.
Omar pointed at Jo’s taco. “Go ahead.” He put his hand back at his side and explained everything old man Bao told him, how Milk served Trung, and how they had the meeting set at a law office next week.
Jo finished her first taco, and Dzuy all three of his, just as Omar wrapped up. “That’s so fast,” Jo said. “From meeting with him to your trial in a week?”
“Yeah.”
Jo picked up a chicken taco and set it down in front of her. Might as well explain our system, no harm there. “I think the first thing you need to figure out is what standard of proof you are going to use. Our system has three main standards: beyond a reasonable doubt, clear and convincing, and preponderance of evidence.”
Omar nodded.
Jo tilted her head. “You know,” she said with some excitement in her voice, “you could have a hybrid system where if someone proves beyond a reasonable doubt, they get one hundred percent; if you are clearly convinced, they get seventy-five, or proportion your damages based in part on the level of proof.”
“So if the facts show Trung did cause Bao’s shipment to get seized, I could give him all or just part of the damages,” Omar offered.
“Yes. If you do that, I think you’d want to make it clear what could happen before you start. I think the most important thing you need is trust in the system. That’s really what all the rules boil down to in the end. Each person gets a fair shot, with the same rules as everyone else, so they can understand the outcome.” Jo grabbed her chicken taco, took a good bite, and watched Omar chew over what she said.
Omar smirked. “Since I’m the system, trust should be easy.”
“Omar…” Jo chided like a friend, not someone she feared and wanted to distance herself from.
“Try the pork one,” interjected Dzuy. “Whatever you don’t finish, I will.”
“Just save me a bite.” She pushed the plate towards Dzuy, then looked at Omar. “We have statutes and precedent to guide our decisions. It’s supposed to make the system predictable, which it generally does. We also have mandatory discovery in criminal cases, where the prosecution has to show the defendant everything. And we have the adversarial system so both sides get a chance to make their case and attack the other side’s case.”
“Judge Judy doesn’t let them talk to each other.”
Jo shrugged. “Different system. She hears cases much faster. Maybe some sort of hybrid would work for you. Where they get to ask a few questions of each other?”
Dzuy set the last third of the pork taco in front of Jo.
“Thanks,” Jo said, looking up as Dzuy’s eyes opened wide in anticipation. “What? Is it that good?”
No response. Jo followed his gaze out the window. Omar’s man was returning. The three sat in silence for a moment as he parked and exited the car, balancing a black cell phone on top of a silver computer.
“Oh my God,” Dzuy whispered. “Omar, you are amazing.”
Jo felt Dzuy scooting towards her so she stood to let him out. He went to the door and opened it for the man.
“Guy says his tech guy couldn’t even get them open. Four hundred for both,” the man said, as he set them down on the counter and headed back out to his truck.
Dzuy looked at Jo. “I’ll run to the ATM. I’ll be right back?”
“Okay,” Jo answered, without any hesitation or fear. She was feeling comfortable talking about ideal justice obtained in a kangaroo Court. It slipped her mind that it was intended for criminals. Especially because it was easy to see the good that Omar could do. In fifteen minutes, he was able to get Melvin’s phone and computer when the police didn’t do a thing.
Dzuy paused, holding the door open. “How much do I owe you guys for your help? I want to pay my way.”
“Four hundred, plus give my cousin a hundred.”
“Done.” Dzuy darted out into the heat.
Jo sat alone, across from Omar, a man she suspected was a murderer – and gave tips about adjudication for his Gangster’s Court.
9
No fucking air conditioning. Maggiore frowned in discomfort as she waited at the counter of the dirty glass-walled office at a used car tire business. The chubby young woman with wet, long, curly hair left her spot in front of the fan to see if Filthy Rose was in back.
She reappeared. Maggiore stared impatiently for a report.
The woman didn’t say a word until she was back on the stool in front of the fan. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
Maggiore looked around the dirty office. She was glad she stopped at home to change into the yellow summer dress, but didn’t want to risk getting that dirty by sitting in either of the two oil stained plastic folding chairs. She chose to stay standing, hoping to pull information from the girl. “He has an interesting nickname. Do you know how he got it?” She said with a little smile.
“I don’t know.”
“You work here long?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know,” the woman responded while looking back into the fan.
“Is it usually this busy?”
Still looking into the fan, she said, “I don’t know.”
Maggiore sighed, no small talk to keep her at the counter. No clean chair to sit on. “Do you know if he’s doing tires right now? I might walk across the street and get a soda if I’ve got time.”
“I-“
“You don’t know,” Maggiore interrupted. This woman sounded more like a suspect than a receptionist. Maggiore didn’t know if she was naturally ambivalent or trained to avoid providing any real information. The heat, the lack of a place to sit, and not being on duty to be able to force the meeting made her feel jumpy.
A man wearing a dirty white t-shirt and heavily stained blue overalls entered from the back door. “You looking for me?”
“Umberto Salazar asked me to talk with you,” Maggiore said flatly.
Filthy Rose looked at her blankly for a second, then turned towards the woman. “Run to the store and get me cigarettes and a coke.”
“Sure,” she said, opening the register and pulling out some cash.
Filthy Rose took her seat in front of the fan. Once the girl left the store, he said, “What he say?”
“I went to see him about the murder he’s being held without bail for. The person who set him up is Marcos Omar.”
“Nah,” Rose said with a look of disbelief.
“Yeah.”
“Why Berto make you the messenger?”
“I’m not here to give his message. I’m here for your help in finding information that will help me prove Omar set him up.”
“Prove it?”
Maggiore felt his eyes looking her up and down.
“You a cop?”
“Yes.” She watched a confused look come across his face.
“But…”
“Rose.” Maggiore put her hands on the counter. “I’m here to try to help find information that could make sure we don’t convict the wrong person for murder. I understand you don’t work with the police, but in this case, it’s your best chance to make sure Umberto doesn’t go to prison.”
“What you know ‘bout Omar?” he asked, cocking his head.
“He collects debts for people. There was a marijuana shop that was robbed by a man. He got murdered and we accused your friends because they were set up, I think. I think Omar set them up so he could get away with the money. I’m trying to bring this to the DA but I need proof.”
Filthy Rose stood up. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”
“You’re not going to help get your friend out of a life sentence?”
He muttered, “I can’t help you, policia.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I don’t know,” he said with the same blank look the woman had given her earlier.
Maggiore picked up a business card from the small stack on the counter. “I’m going to keep investigating Omar.” She took a step back and sighed. “Look, I get it. You can’t help me. But I’m doing a lot of this leg work while off duty and could use a hand when I can’t be there to keep an eye on him. Can you help me, help your friends?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll call you,” Maggorie said, a strong warm breeze washed over her as she opened the door. She stepped out into the repressive heat, burning on the inside, too. Sitting in her car, she watched the “I don’t know” woman walk back into the shop with two bottles of Coke.
“What she want?” the woman asked, handing Filthy Rose a bottle of Coke.
“She leaving,” Rose said, watching Maggiore pull away.
He took a swig of cold soda watching Maggorie drive off. “Gotta go.”
“Where?”
“You don’t know,” he said flatly. He reached into the register and pulled out all the cash, almost six hundred dollars, folded the fat wad, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Bye.”
Rose walked outside to a twenty-year-old green Honda Civic. He ran his fingers across scratches he would soon be buffing out, dings he would be pulling out, and pictured the fresh paint. His fingers nearly singed from the heat of the car, but he kept running his fingers across the hot metal, fantasizing about finishing this car.
He stood in front of the driver’s door, rubbing has hands against his butt and the back of his thighs. He inspected his hands, no oil or dirt. After opening the door, he paused; he stared at the brand new tan leather seats and the improved – not restored – dashboard and panels. The interior looked more like a new Lexus than an old Civic.
“Fuck it,” he whispered and got into the car. He fired on the ignition and his four hundred horsepower replacement engine roared to life. He eased over the uneven driveway, feeling every bump in his overly tightened suspension.
He swiped his thumb against an emblem in the leather-clad steering wheel. A single rose rising from a pile of fertilizer. He slid his thumbs to the buttons on the steering wheel, turning on the radio.
Rose merged onto Highway 5 going south. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of My Stuff, Your Stuff pawn shop.
“Rose Dog,” the man behind the counter said with a beaming smile.
“Hey,” Rose responded flatly. He noted the store was empty. “I need something untraceable.”
“Oh. Come on back. Let’s see what we got.” The man flipped up the counter on a hinge, allowing Rose access to the other side.
They walked past racks partially filled with electronics, movies, memorabilia, and the like until they came upon a heavy wooden desk on top of a shag rug.
Without a word, each man grabbed a side and moved the desk. Rose stepped back and watched the man pull up the rug, revealing a refrigerator-sized safe in the floor.
The man turned the dial several times, turned the handle, then pulled hard against the hundred-pound door to reveal the contents of the safe.
“Whatcha need?” he asked between forced breaths.
Rose looked at two rifles and four shotguns, then his eyes were drawn to the pistols. “Something small. Not flashy.”
“Up close. Who is it?”
Talking to the pistols, Rose said, “Dumb bitch cop brings-” he stopped himself and looked up at the man. “You don’t know.”
“You right.” He pointed to a small black gun. “For what you need, nothing better than the LC 3
80. Seven-round clip. Reliable. Great gun.”
“Ruger?”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching down into the safe to pull it out.
Rose felt the weight of the gun in his hand. “This’ll do.”
“Ammo?”
Rose nodded.
The man reached into the safe and pulled out a box of ammo, handing it to Rose. He stood and pulled against the door with both hands, then shifted to lower the heavy door slowly. After letting out a breath, he pushed the handle up and twisted the dial. He replaced the rug, then looked at Rose. “Give me a hand?” he asked, pointing to the desk.
Rose nodded, shimmying the gun into his pant pocket. He set the ammo on the desk, then helped the man replace the rug and desk over his safe.
“How much?” Rose asked.
“Eight.”
Mierda. Rose dug into his other pocket and pulled out all the cash, hoping somehow he pulled out close to that amount from the register. Rose counted out the cash onto the table, getting through the single hundred and wad of twenties much sooner than he hoped. He stopped counting when he got to the ones. “I got like five-fifty.”
The man shook his head. “Empty handed and thirsty, huh Rose?”
“You know I’m good for the rest.”
“How you never have money? You do so much work.”
Rose shrugged. “I donno.”
The man picked up the money and put it in his pocket. “You pump too much money into your car?”
“Fuck off. I’ll make good.” Rose seethed.
The man nodded. “Hey, no problem. I trust you.”
Rose felt the adrenaline pulse through his body. “Good. Just don’t fucking question me about shit.”
“Of course. Sorry, man.”
“I’ll be back next week with the rest,” Rose said, turning to walk back into the shop.
“Sounds good,” the man said following behind, pausing to grab Rose’s ammo. “Hey Rose,” he called out as Rose was almost to the shop’s door.
Rose turned. “Yeah?”
“Your ammo.” He held up the box.
Rose snatched it, then pulled at the door.
Gangster's Court Page 6
