Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  “You said,” Browning said with a softer voice, “you would need help with Omar being proclaimed dead tonight.”

  “Yes,” Jo said calmly, “and still do.”

  “Then why am I driving to a goddamn inferno with reports of gunshots in the area? Sounds like a war zone.”

  My plan’s working. Jo crossed her fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe Omar was ambushed?”

  “Maybe? I didn’t sign on to be part of a war. What the hell am I supposed to say happened?”

  “Nothing in the plan changes. You have reason to believe the region’s MS-13 was working with a reputed gangster, Marcos Omar, to make a move against the Los Angeles MS-13 region’s leadership. Infighting led to Marcos Omar’s death.”

  Browning grunted into the phone. “That simple?”

  Jo sighed. “Let’s hope.” Jo turned her head to look at Dzuy sitting on the couch next to her with a black shotgun laying across his lap.

  “I’m a few minutes from the scene. Anything you want to tell me?”

  “We’re too scared to sleep. If you can let us know what happened with Devil’s Bullet and Omar, we would really appreciate it.”

  Browning’s sigh echoed over the phone. “I’m sorry for how I started this call. It’s a scary situation for everyone involved. I just wasn’t expecting gunshots and an inferno.”

  “Just like I wasn’t expecting Devil’s Bullet to crash into me in the courthouse parking lot and threaten my family.”

  “You’re right, Judge. Which is why I agreed to your plan. But this wasn’t exactly it.”

  “I know. I guess Omar took things further. But thank you, Detective.”

  Jo watched the television pan to a car arriving at the scene.

  “Gotta go.”

  “Bye.” Jo pressed end on her cell phone, then turned to Dzuy. “Can you turn it up a little?”

  The volume rose on the television. A reporter hurried over to the car where Browning, wearing the same brown suit he had on when Jo first met him, pushed against the frame of the car to help him get out of the driver’s seat.

  “Detective, can you tell us what happened?” the reporter asked.

  Browning pointed to the building. “A fire.”

  “What about the gunshots?”

  “I didn’t hear any.” Browning walked towards the firefighters working on the scene. The camera stayed zoomed on him as he ducked under yellow police tape.

  “Two dead bodies. What does it mean?” the reporter shouted.

  “Two people are dead,” Browning called back from over his shoulder. He paused to look at the reporter. “Hey, just let me get a handle on the scene and I’ll talk with you when I know something. Leave the guesswork for your commentators.”

  Jo stared up at the ceiling.

  “What are you thinking?” Dzuy asked.

  “Commentators. Experts. Why not have one get on the news and advance our narrative?”

  “Have someone in mind?”

  Jo shook her head.

  The television panned to another car arriving. A tall man Jo recognized as Brian Hogan exited and walked towards the scene. The television cut to commercial.

  “Can we call a tip line?” Dzuy asked.

  Jo looked at Dzuy’s shotgun. “We need a 186.22.”

  Dzuy stared at her with confusion.

  “That’s the penal code section for a gang expert. We allow testimony to help explain to a jury what a gang is like.” Jo’s cadence quickened with her excitement. “If we got a 186.22 to help fan the flames of infighting between MS-13… Think about someone who can go on all the local news shows, and be interviewed by the papers. A constant reminder to MS-13 that San Diego was making a move against Los Angeles.”

  “Who?”

  Jo smiled. “Robert Smiley. He’s a retired cop and is one of the few experts that testifies for defendants in gang enhancement penalties. He’d jump at the publicity.”

  “Would it put him in danger?”

  Jo sunk a bit into the couch. “It could, but probably less than anyone else would face. He works for defendants. They wouldn’t want to go after one of the few experts who helps them. And he would know how to phrase things to keep his risk down.”

  “Seems like a good choice.” Dzuy added.

  Jo nodded. He’s also a self-serving asshole. Jo recoiled at her thoughts. Not that I’d wish him any harm.

  “How do we give him the tip?”

  Jo shrugged, looking at the TV for inspiration.

  “So, what will you do now?” the reporter asked the tall man, Brian Hogan.

  He pulled his eyes away from his office and looked down at the reporter. “I don’t know. Contact the courts to get continued hearings for all my clients.” He rubbed at his bald head. “Soon as that’s done, I’m going to take a break and write a novel that I’ve had in my head for a long time.” He looked at the camera. “Look for my book, Number One Dad.”

  Jo pointed at the television. “People might think the tip came from him. Or anyone. As long as we keep our distance.” She leaned forward, picking up the closed laptop from the coffee table. “I’ll write up a letter and we’ll hand it to him anonymously.”

  “Sounds good.” Dzuy closed his eyes. “I might sleep for a bit, okay?”

  “Of course. How are you holding up?”

  Dzuy took a breath and stood. “Under the circumstances, pretty well. I’m just hoping I helped Omar get out. And this is all over.”

  “But you’re afraid it isn’t?” Jo asked while looking at the shotgun on the coffee table

  Dzuy nodded. “Can you write that in the bedroom? Nothing new has happened in the past hour with the news coverage and I’d like to sleep with you near me.”

  “Sure.”

  They walked to the bedroom. Dzuy locked the bedroom door and placed the shotgun on the floor next to the bed. Jo climbed into bed, spending the next half hour writing her letter and scanning various news sites for information. She finally shut her eyes at three am.

  * * *

  Omar put his feet on the ground. He stretched his calves while steadying the motorcycle between his legs, hoping to see the light stay red for a few more seconds so he could stretch. He looked to his left; Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles sounded amazing, but there was no time.

  Omar sat back down on the bike. With Los Angeles’ shitty parking, he could be driving for miles before he spotted his car. At the green light, Omar drove off at the speed limit, scanning for a 1997 green Honda Civic and the right license plate.

  After checking nearly a hundred cars, Omar smirked with relief under his helmet. An old bucket never looked so good. Omar signaled and pulled in, head first, behind it. He turned off the bike and stood; standing upright felt amazing on his back.

  After a moment of stretching, Omar opened the trunk, took off his helmet, and tossed it in. He found a backpack, suitcase, and small duffle bag. He grabbed the backpack and closed the trunk.

  “Shit,” he muttered as he climbed into the car. He wished for a more luxurious car for the next part of the trip. He tossed the backpack on the passenger seat and started it up. While old and cheap, this little green Civic was reliable. Especially with its new battery, tires, brakes, and fluids he entrusted Milk to get. Omar turned on the radio and headed back to the highway.

  Once steady on the road, going five over the limit, he unzipped the backpack. He pulled a plastic bag from it and retrieved a warm bottle of Mountain Dew and protein bars. He devoured the bars and drained the soda over the next five minutes. He tossed all the trash on the floor of the passenger seat, reached back into the backpack. His fingers explored plastic bags full of firm objects until he thought he found it.

  Omar pulled out the large wallet-type object and set it on his lap. He opened it and saw a passport. A big rig approached him on the left, its light spilled into his car as he opened the passport.

  Omar reached up and flipped on the cabin light. He looked at the passport photo, a handsome bald Hispanic guy. Good start. L
ooks like me. Pablo Vincente Alvarez. “Hi, I’m Pablo Alvarez.”

  Omar glanced at the road, then back at the passport. Five foot eight and a hundred eighty pounds. Need lifts. And to lift. He was four inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than what was shown on the passport. Omar noted the address and birthdate. He glanced back at the road before going back to the passport, flipping through to see the places he’s traveled to. Six stamps, they were too hard to read while driving, he’d have to study when he got gas.

  When Omar put the passport back in the wallet’s slot, he saw a California Driver’s license, debit card, credit card, and some checks. Good work, Santiago. Omar grabbed the checks, ten blank cashier’s checks for nine thousand dollars each.

  Omar put the passport and wallet back in the backpack, flipped off the light, and dreamt about when he would pull over for coffee and a bathroom break.

  * * *

  Jo was startled awake by her ringing cell phone. She turned and found Dzuy alert and staring across her at her phone.

  “What time is it?” Jo asked.

  “After four.” Dzuy nodded to her phone. “Think it’s Browning or Omar?”

  “Not Omar.” She turned and grabbed her phone. “Browning,” she said after seeing the caller ID. “Hello, Detective.”

  “Morning, Judge. We got some situation here. Fire finally let up and we’ve got the two bodies outside, nine bodies inside, and one suspect in custody.”

  “Holy shh—,” Jo whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Omar?”

  “Can’t tell if he’s one of them, but the official story will say he is.”

  Jo felt Dzuy’s nudge. She pulled the phone away and whispered, “No news on Omar.” She spoke into the phone, “What about the suspect?”

  “Hispanic guy in a black shirt driving away from the scene with a flat tire. No identification. Won’t say a word in any language. We’ll see if his prints can ID him.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen, plus or minus a few.”

  Jo shook her head. A kid. “He’ll be charged with felony murder, nine counts?”

  “Probably eleven. Two bodies shot to death out front and nine burned inside. Plus driving without insurance.” Browning snorted out a laugh.

  Holding her hand over the phone, Jo whispered, “Eleven bodies. Two shot outside, nine burned up.”

  “That’s gotta mean Omar got out,” Dzuy whispered back, pumping his fist in excitement.

  Jo nodded, whispering, “I think so too.” Jo cleared her throat. “What do you think this means about the threat against me?”

  “If you were a means to get to Omar, the threat should die with news of his death.”

  “Can you let me know when you find out who Juan Doe is?”

  “I will.” Browning cleared his throat. “When I’m looking at what Omar just did here, I’m wondering if he was the one who set up the Filthy Rose and Maggiore murders. Level with me. Did he orchestrate it?”

  Jo froze. Browning could still be after her for conspiracy to commit murder on the Officer Maggiore murder or a host of other crimes. While he was part of the Omar faking his death plan, he wasn’t part of the kill Devil’s Bullet plan. Browning isn’t in the inner circle. Jo paused for a breath. “I honestly don’t know. While he’s capable, I just don’t see him picking a fight with MS-13 or the police. So, I don’t think so.” Jo exhaled, satisfied by her answer.

  “Yeah. We picked up Jose Oliva yesterday; found a rifle in his car. I’m trying to figure out if I owe Omar one or if he’s lying to me and set the guy up as a patsy.”

  “Wait. You arrested Oliva yesterday and didn’t tell me?”

  “Sorry, Judge. You and Omar were persons of interest, couldn’t show you my full hand—just in case.”

  Jo sat in silence for a second. “I understand,” she said coolly. “I guess we’re clear now?”

  “I think so. Unless something unusual happens—yeah. I’ve got a picture of Oliva and Rose together on the night of the murder. I’ve got the rifle that killed Filthy Rose, scrubbed of prints, in the trunk of his car. I’ve got motive in that the gang leader was meeting with a cop. And if that doesn’t stick, I’ve got him dead to rights on aggravated battery against a senior. He beat the hell out of one and stole his damn cancer meds.”

  “When’s arraignment?”

  “Monday.”

  “Jesus…” Jo muttered.

  “What?”

  “That’s my first day in felony arraignment. He’ll be on my calendar, so I’ll have to recuse myself. Like I said in chambers when we spoke before, we can’t talk about criminal investigations just in case something like this happens.”

  “You know what, Judge?”

  “What?”

  “Your name isn’t anywhere in any official report I’ve written up. In my notes, you’re down as initials only, and not even your real initials. So I won’t mind at all if you arraign without bail on Monday. Not at all.”

  “Thanks for keeping me out of your reports. I guess we’ll see on Monday, but I want to do things right and by the book.”

  “However you want to do it.”

  “What initials did you use for me in your notes?”

  “H-J. Anyway, I need to sleep so I can focus on the paperwork tomorrow. Have a good night.”

  “Good night. Thank you, Detective,” Jo said before pressing end. She looked at Dzuy. “His initials for me are H-J.” She shrugged. “Hanging Judge, Happy Jo?”

  Dzuy smiled. “It’s so obvious.”

  “What?”

  “Hot Judge, duh.”

  Jo smiled. “Better than U-J.”

  “I heard half the conversation, what did he say?”

  Jo recapped the full conversation before pulling out her laptop to update the letter to the gang expert.

  * * *

  Omar yawned at dawn’s first colors. Three miles to Bakersfield, his stop for food, gas, and sleep.

  Omar saw the sign for Motel 6. It was hard being cell phone-free, but the directions were simple, another thousand miles or so up I-5 North to Canada. He’d sign up for the newest iPhone once he got to Europe.

  Omar followed the signs to Motel 6. He pulled into the registration parking spot, grabbed his backpack, and walked to the large glass door. The windows were clean, the mat free from stains, and the smell was antiseptic. The owner of this branch took pride in the business.

  Omar nodded at the night clerk, a heavyset man with curly hair. “Have a room?”

  “Yeah.” He handed Omar a clipboard with a form on it. “Fill this out. It’s sixty bucks, plus tax, for twenty-four hours. I need your credit card and ID.”

  Omar handed the man Pablo Alvarez’s driver’s license and credit card. He tried his hardest to give a sheepish grin, but it was still mostly a smirk. “Hey man, I told my old lady I was driving out to the ocean to go fishing. I’m actually meeting someone, so don’t really want a record of being here. Can I just pay cash?”

  The man looked at Omar. “Pay upfront and leave your license with me, to make sure there’s no damage.”

  Omar pulled a hundred out of the wallet and handed it and the license over. The man took it, counted out Omar’s change, and gave him back his credit card along with a room key. He pointed behind Omar to the right. “Second floor, about halfway down.”

  “Thanks.” Omar went back to his car. A minute later, he was reparked and grunting at the weight of the suitcase, well over sixty pounds. He wore the backpack and carried the duffle and suitcase upstairs.

  He set his bags on the floor, locked and chained the door, then unzipped the duffle. He pawed through neatly folded shirts, shorts, underwear, and socks.

  Afterwards, he unzipped the heavy suitcase. A black garbage bag was folded over on its contents. Omar fussed with the bag, reaching his hand in and pulling out a little gold bar that weighed a pound; it was worth more than fifteen grand. There should be thirty in there, half a mil.

  Omar put the bar bac
k, flipped through more clothes, and stared at two pairs of shoes. That’s everything he had. A quarter mil in cash and checks, half in gold, and fifty grand in Pablo’s account.

  Omar stood and stripped on his way to the shower. He unwrapped the little complimentary soap while the shower warmed up. He stepped in, soaping up his body as he thought about his long-ass day.

  Twenty-two hours ago he met with Jo at Court. Then it was off to Brian Hogan’s office, giving him two grand in cash to leave for the day. Dzuy and Milk showed up with three pots full of thermite and a canister of street blaze ultra-high octane gasoline. He left those two to prep while he went to a lawyer’s office to create a trust. He named his mom as the beneficiary of the office building, Milk as the beneficiary of his house in Alpine, and Santiago as the beneficiary of his downtown condo.

  Omar smirked when he remembered his next stop. He upgraded his million-dollar life insurance policy to five million and named all fifteen of his guys as beneficiaries. Omar had studied the policy carefully, the effective change date was when the policy premium was paid and the policy delivered. He paid in cash, taking the policy and receipt back to his attorney’s office. His crew and mom would be well taken care of.

  Omar scrubbed his body odor and the smell of smoke away. All I have to do is stay dead.

  29

  Omar woke due to an overwhelming urge to pee. His eyes scanned the dark room, there were no threats. Wearing only his boxers, he went to the heavy plastic curtain and peeked outside—it was dusk; no one suspicious in any cars or standing around.

  He walked to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and sat on the toilet to pee, hoping for double duty. Twelve hours of driving tonight would get him out of the state. Twelve hours tomorrow night would get him out of the country. Each stop was a risk, so Omar willed himself to make use of this clean toilet and not whatever option he might have at a truck stop in the middle of the night. With a quick contest of wills, Omar had success. He wiped and washed his hands, went back to the dark bedroom and did fifty push-ups, paused to catch his breath, did fifty sit-ups, paused, then did fifty air squats.