Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  “Nice place,” Browning said, his head and eyes moving around. His eyes stopped on the coffee table, darting between the shotgun and phone. “New phone?” he asked Jo.

  Shit. The burner. Jo gave a quick shake of her head. “No. Same iPhone.”

  Browning uncapped his water, took a swig, and glanced around the room again. “We got ID on seven of the eleven dead bodies.” He pulled out his notepad and read the names. “Know any of them?”

  “No,” Jo responded.

  “No,” Dzuy added.

  “Wait.” Jo leaned forward. “You didn’t say Marcos Omar.”

  “What about him?” Browning asked. “Have you heard from him?”

  Jo shook her head. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

  “Officially, yeah. But unofficially, I don’t think he was there.”

  He made it. Jo leaned back into the couch with relief.

  Browning looked at the shotgun on the coffee table, then at Dzuy. “How you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Dzuy looked at Jo.

  She nodded. “All things considered, we’re good.”

  “What kind?”

  Dzuy smiled. “Browning A5 Stalker.”

  Browning smiled back. “My dad’s, uncle’s,” he said with a slight pause as he thought, “grandfather was John Browning. The man who invented the automatic recoil shotgun.”

  Jo cleared her throat, looking directly at Browning’s eyes. “Why’d you want to brave the heat to come meet us today?”

  Browning closed his notepad. “To talk about a second part of your plan.”

  “What plan?” Jo asked.

  “MS-13.”

  “Sorry. But I don’t have a plan.”

  “Maybe not yet.” Browning opened his notepad again. Read off four more names. “Ever heard of them?”

  Jo and Dzuy shook their heads.

  Browning tapped his notepad on his thigh. “You know, Judge, I actually would take a beer if that offer’s still good.”

  Dzuy darted to the kitchen and retrieved a Stone IPA from the fridge. He handed the can to Browning and took his seat.

  Browning cracked the beer open and smiled like he was about to tell a story to his buddies. “Last night, Saturday night in the Gaslamp, we’ve got a squad parked on Fifth and F. Four Mexican-looking guys, tatted up and down, walk up to the car and start pissing on it.”

  “What?” Dzuy asked with a tone of disbelief.

  Browning took a swig of beer. “Yeah. So the squad belonged to two officers who were talking with some drunks getting kicked out of a bar. They got alerted to what was happening and rushed at the guys ready to draw their guns.”

  Jo’s eyes widened with fear. “Oh no.”

  Browning took another gulp then shook his head. “No. No gunshots. No injuries.” Browning took another gulp. “As the cops approached, the guys all zipped their pants, put their hands behind their heads, fingers interlocked—all without being told. As soon as one officer said ‘hood,’ all four men put their hands on the car, where they just pissed. Then one at a time they put their hands behind their back to get cuffed.” Browning took one final gulp then set the empty beer can down. “It was like they were doing the Macarena.”

  “Another?” Dzuy asked.

  “If you’ll join me.”

  Dzuy nodded. “Jo?” he asked before heading to the kitchen.

  “No, thanks.” She looked at Browning. “So they’d all been arrested before, they knew the drill for what the cops would want them to do.”

  Browning made a finger gun gesture towards Jo. “Bullseye.”

  “Based on the tattoos and ethnicity, you believe four MS-13 gang members purposefully got arrested here last night.”

  Browning fired his finger pistol again.

  “Why?” she asked as Dzuy handed Browning a beer and sat down.

  Browning cracked open the beer. “Why do you think?”

  The puzzle intrigued Jo and she wanted to work with Browning to solve it. Browning would know that about her and might be using this to set her up. “Detective, you know I can’t talk about cases that might be before me someday. I can’t help with investigations.”

  Browning leaned forward and set his notepad on the coffee table. He put the empty beer can on top, then leaned back in the recliner. “This is unofficial. I’m just trying to get ideas from the smartest person I know.”

  Jo smiled. That would be Omar. “Just so we’re clear. I won’t cross the line of separation of powers, and if anything we discuss could come before me, I’ll recuse myself.”

  “Sure,” Browning said before taking a big gulp of beer.

  Jo watched Dzuy take a big sip of beer, then settle deeper into the couch so she and Browning could talk over him more easily. “From the news, I understand Jose Oliva is in jail for murdering Filthy Rose. Both MS-13 members. And from the night of the fire, a kid’s in custody. What’s his name?”

  “Juan Doe.” Browning shrugged. “We still don’t know. No prints. No DNA matches. He’s not talking.” Browning tipped his beer to Dzuy before taking another large gulp.

  Dzuy followed suit with a large gulp himself.

  “Okay. So we’ve got Juan Doe in jail awaiting first appearance and Jose Oliva in jail awaiting arraignment.” Jo leaned forward in thought, placing her hands on her knees. “Both MS-13. The news is reporting MS-13 is at war with itself, and suddenly four new MS-13 guys want to go to jail, not just a holding cell.”

  Browning gave Jo a shot with his left hand finger gun. “For information or revenge, we don’t know.”

  “What’s the difference? Jail or holding cell?” Dzuy asked.

  Jo nodded to Browning.

  “At the police station we have holding cells, you know, the drunk tank, where we can hold someone for a short while. If we want to keep someone in custody, we transfer them to jail.” Browning paused for another sip. “If they get convicted and have to serve more than a year, they go to prison.”

  Dzuy gave him an air cheers with his can. “Thanks.” He took a swig.

  The tiniest smirk crossed Jo’s face. “Seems like deputies could bug the cells and get a lot of information if they could put the new guys in cells next to Oliva and Juan Doe.”

  Browning downed the rest of his second beer. “I talked with the deputies this morning. The four are transferring to jail today with the goal of keeping Oliva and Juan Doe alive and getting whatever information they can about MS-13.”

  “That’s good,” Jo said, running her mind over what information could come out to hurt her.

  “So is the Stone,” Browning said. “I should have brought some with. Sorry, but do you have another?”

  “Of course.” Dzuy held up a finger and slowly chugged his beer down. He set the empty can down on the coffee table. “Jo, you in?”

  “Okay,” she said absentmindedly, ruminating on what Juan Doe and Oliva could possibly know.

  “What is it?” Browning asked her as Dzuy walked to the kitchen.

  “I was just thinking, Devil’s Bullet popped up after Jose Oliva was arrested for killing Filthy Rose, right?”

  “I think so. Would have to look at my notes for dates.”

  Jo waved him off. “He did. Which means he probably never spoke to Rose or Oliva about anything. Maybe he sent someone to see Oliva in jail before coming at me? I haven’t been able to put a finger on why he came at me.”

  Dzuy handed Browning a beer, set one in front of Jo, and opened his as he sat back down.

  Jo reached for it and felt the cool in her hand as she held the can. She closed her eyes and sighed. The Gangster’s Court.

  Jo steadied herself, not wanting Browning to decipher her realization. She cracked open her beer and took a small sip. “Thank you, Dzuy.”

  Browning nodded at Dzuy, “Thanks, man.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The burner cell on the coffee table buzzed with a text message. All eyes went to it, as did Jo’s hand out of instinct. Then another instinct kicke
d in before it was too late, and with the smoothness of Marcos Omar, she handed Dzuy the phone without looking at it.

  “Thanks,” Dzuy said. He looked at the cheap phone and read a text message.

  Jo watched Dzuy’s eyes move from the phone to the shotgun. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but didn’t want Browning to know until she knew first.

  Browning’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. “Browning.”

  Jo watched his face tense like Dzuy’s had.

  Browning stood. “Gotta go. Call you soon.”

  * * *

  Omar looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. The stubble on his head and face finally started to look a bit like hair and a beard. He pulled off his sunglasses, little bags under his eyes showed his lack of sleep. He glanced at the dashboard clock, 1:54. Four hours of sleep at a rest stop outside Medford helped him stay alert, but didn’t refresh him.

  He put his sunglasses back on, threw on a hat, then went inside the Medford, Oregon gas station. He waited for an elderly man to pay for his lottery scratcher, then put a hundred on the counter. “Fill-up on number three, please.”

  The attendant took the hundred, marked it with a pen, held it up high, then put it behind the counter. “Okay.”

  Omar walked back to his Civic to fill the tank.

  The elderly man paused and looked at Omar’s license plate. “Good time to be leaving California. Seems our luck is changing. Ten dollars.” He smiled at Omar, clutching the winning ticket with pride.

  “Congrats,” Omar responded.

  “Where ya coming from?” he asked, in the middle of the driveway.

  “San Diego.”

  He shook his head. “Shame about those fires down there.”

  “Fires?”

  “Yeah. A big one at this lawyer’s firm, some little lady’s taco shop, some car repair place. Gang war or something.”

  Omar blinked. His heart thundered and he let go of the gas pump. “I was driving all night, I didn’t hear. What happened?”

  The man shuffled closer to Omar. “Some Smiling guy’s on NBC talking ‘bout a gang war with MS-13 that could affect the whole country. I only seen it for a minute. Crazy.”

  “You hear if anyone was hurt in the taco fire?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Omar reached into his pocket, hoping he could pull out a cell phone to call Milk. Disheartened by the news and lack of a phone, Omar softly called out, “Thanks. It’s crazy. Glad I’m not down there no more.”

  The man smiled. “Get you a scratcher. They hot today.” He turned and walked back into the store.

  Mom’s shop. Omar leaned against his car for support. Even in death they want to hurt me.

  * * *

  “The files just arrived,” Dzuy called to Jo from the couch.

  Jo nodded to Dzuy, then said into her phone, “Look, sis, I need to go. Just get somewhere safe. I think I’m out of it but don’t know for sure. So, please, just be safe.”

  “Okay. Love you, sis,” Jami responded.

  “You too, Jami,” Jo said before hanging up the phone. She hustled to sit next to Dzuy on the couch and watched the surveillance video from inside Omar’s taco shop. Four men entered and waved guns around until everyone left. They emptied the register, put a gas stove on high, caught a roll of paper towels on fire, and put that on top of a grease trap. A minute later, a roaring kitchen fire was going. Their job done, the men casually walked outside, got in their car, and left.

  “Can you rewind?” Jo asked. “I want to get pictures of all the guys, the car, and the plate.”

  “Okay.”

  Jo dialed a number on her phone.

  “I’m kind of busy,” Browning barked.

  “Got your notepad open?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The taco shop had surveillance cameras. Request a warrant for the footage from…” Jo read the name of the security firm and account number from the burner phone message, “and I’ll email you pictures of the guys who burned it down, and the license plate of their car, in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “This is an anonymous tip, okay?”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  Jo scrolled through the message chain from Milk. “Rumor is forty guys came down with El Flaco, the boss of L.A.”

  “Shit. Happen to know where they are?”

  “No. Not yet. If I hear something, I’ll let you know.”

  “Damn. My day off, too.”

  31

  Omar squeezed the steering wheel. It took every ounce of his restraint to barely speed. It felt like he was crawling south, still hours north of California.

  He grabbed the prepaid cell phone on the passenger seat and dialed Milk’s number. Three rings, then he heard the phone click live.

  “Who this?”

  “Is she okay? You okay?”

  “We cool. Got your mom and the whole crew rallied up.”

  Omar’s left-handed vice-grip on the steering wheel eased. “Thanks. What the hell’s going on down there?”

  “Don’t know. They burnt down yo taco shop. Burnt down Filthy Rose tire shop. Don’t kill no one—yet.”

  “Who?” Omar asked, darting his eyes to the still foreign green countryside, a different world than the brown desert and brush of San Diego.

  “El Flaco.”

  “Shit.” Omar tensed. “How many guys with him?”

  “Thirty. Forty.”

  Omar’s vice-grip returned on the steering wheel. “Where you at?”

  “Your – I mean, my crib. We dug in. We good.”

  Six. Omar shook his head. He only had six rifles at the Alpine house. Santiago was a good shot, the only one with military training in the group. Hopefully the crew brought more rifles and ammo with them. “You got a plan?”

  “Keep our head down. Hope the lady and po-po fix it.”

  Omar stopped breathing. He remembered she could be in danger. He forgot she could help. He exhaled. “Good. You want to bring her in?”

  “No. She working wit po-lease.”

  “Okay. You’re doing perfect so far.” Omar took a deep breath. “You need guys? You call Bao and Trung?”

  “No. No.”

  “I’ll keep this phone. You can call me.” Omar paused, wanting to ask to talk to his mom, but deciding to let her and everyone else still think he was dead. With that last thought, without a goodbye, he hung up.

  Omar tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He was a thousand miles from home, a thousand miles from joining the fight. By the time he got there, it would be over.

  He snatched the phone back up and dialed the judge.

  “Hello?” a tentative voice asked.

  “You okay?” Omar asked, without identifying himself.

  Silence. She’s probably trying to confirm that it’s me.

  “It’s me,” Omar said. “Are you and Dzuy okay?”

  “Can I call you right back?”

  Omar hung up. He gripped the phone tight. A second later it rang.

  “Sorry. I switched to a pre-paid cell I got to text with Milk. Are you okay?”

  “Not until things settle down.” Omar stared down the long highway. “I didn’t think there’d be this kind of blowback. I—I thought it would be over with my death.”

  “I guess it’s not clear how much they know about what happened.”

  Omar nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking. The fires are to intimidate. Make people afraid. To get them to talk. A way to get intelligence before a war.”

  “We’re gathering information too. A plan’s been in place all day and should be bearing fruit soon.”

  She’s on my side. Omar smirked. I’ve got a chance.

  * * *

  Almost done playing musical inmates, Deputy Dennis Quinn thought as he rolled the door of the jail cell closed on Jose Oliva. Before this, he put Oliva in a cell with a TV in it, and made sure KUSI was on so Oliva would hear the segment with a gang expert. Then he had to call Oliva ou
t of that cell, put the waist chains on him, cuff him, and shuffle him in his green jail uniform down to this cell.

  He looked at the four Hispanic men in the next cell. “No hablan,” Dennis said, scratching at his short red hair to think of how to finish with him in Spanish, “con él.” Dennis pressed record on an old tape recorder set on a little desk outside the cell. Underneath the old tape recorder was a modern listening device that would record everything, including what the mics in all three of the cells picked up. The tape recorder was simply there to ensure they had no expectation of privacy so that any recordings would be admissible.

  Dennis stood outside Jose Oliva’s cell, pointing at his cuffs. Oliva walked to Dennis, leaned against the bars, and put his hands through the opening. Deputy Quinn undid the foot cuffs, the waist chain, then finally the hand cuffs, stepping back safely.

  One more. Dennis walked away with relief, cuffing and uncuffing dangerous inmates made him nervous every single time. He passed empty cells and stopped at a locked gate. Some deputy must have been watching a screen somewhere and pressed a button, which unlocked the gate. Dennis walked through to the elevator and strained his ears. No sound from the five men talking. He called the elevator to go retrieve Juan Doe.

  A few minutes later, Dennis stood outside a holding cell with six people in it, of various ethnicities, sizes, and states of cleanliness. Five wore jail house blues, garb for regular people. One youngster, a short skinny guy, probably a teenager, wore green. Green was reserved for killers or people who posed a threat, like Jose Oliva and the four other guys upstairs.

  “Juan Doe. Guy in green,” Dennis called into the cell while holding waist chains. He tapped his foot in frustration, stopping when he felt a hand tap on his shoulder.

  “Hombre en verde,” Deputy Valencia called out. “Sorry about the last one. Had to deuce real bad, man. Didn’t want to shit myself.”

  Dennis let out a little sigh of relief, he had backup for this final transfer. “No problem.”

  Dennis and Valencia signaled for Juan Doe to come to the bars. A few moments later, Dennis had his legs and hands cuffed to his waist chains. Valencia called for the prisoners to step away from the cell door, used a key to let Juan Doe out, then locked the door.