by Paul Bishop
He looked up at me. “Get the keys to the Navigator.”
I was a quick learner and didn’t stop to ask questions. I walked over to where Creed and Dixon had their cuffed arrestees leaning over the hood of the deputies’ squad car. I thought they might give me a bad time, but Dixon located the Navigator keys in Richards’ front pocket and handed them over without even a snide comment.
In fact, as he handed me the keys, he bobbed his head and mumbled, “Sorry.”
It sort of startled me.
“What is your partner going to do with the video?” Dixon asked.
I got it now.
He’d caught Pagan catching the action on his phone and knew things might not look good if the Sheriff’s internal affairs unit got hold of it.
“No worries,” I said. “Pagan is no snitch.”
“How about you?” Dixon asked. To his credit he looked directly at me.
I held my cane up slightly and waggled it. “Not exactly department issue is it?” I smiled.
He caught my grin and gave one back, knowing he was home safe – knowing I wasn’t going to push anything further.
I turned back to Pagan, who had Smack Daddy on his feet.
“Open the back door,” he said as I approached.
I pressed unlock on the Navigator key fob. The car’s system beeped and I pulled the door handle.
Pagan approached with Smack Daddy and helped him onto the backseat.
“Theo,” Pagan said to me, using Smack Daddy’s real first name, “has asked us to get him clear of the area before anyone sees him in this condition.” Pagan closed the car door.
I looked over toward the back door of Smack Records. I could see there was something stuck hard underneath the jam preventing it opening outward. Nobody from inside, who’d heard the commotion had been able to get out. If anyone had seen anything from the blind-covered windows and wanted to interfere, they would have to go out through the front door.
Pagan had obviously been busy while I’d been dealing with thugs, guns, and recalcitrant deputies.
“What did you do with the taser darts?” I asked. It often took a jail doctor to remove them.
“Wasn’t a problem,” Pagan said. “Only one hit him, and that was in his arm. His jacket slowed the impact and it popped right out. No harm, no foul, no bleeding.”
He reached over and tapped my cane with a long index finger. “That’s a real Tiger Woods swing you’ve got. I thought you were trying to drive Deputy Dixon’s balls all the way to the green.”
“Nah,” I said in as offhand a manner as I could muster. “Just a little putting practice.”
Pagan opened the Navigator’s driver’s door and motioned for me to get in.
“You’re a natural at more than lie catching,” he said. “Tanaka’s going to enjoy teaching you.”
Chapter 20
“I lie to myself all the time.
But I never believe me.”
- S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders
I drove the Navigator while Pagan sat in the back with Smack Daddy – or Theo, as Pagan was now calling him.
Pagan had brought a small backpack with him from the Escalade. From it, he now produced a packet of wet-wipes. He handed them to Smack Daddy, who took them surprisingly gratefully.
As Smack Daddy wiped his hands and face, he let out a big sigh in the form of a drawn out profanity. He leaned his head back on the car seat and closed his eyes. I watched this via glances at the Navigator’s rear view mirror.
Adrenaline was still coursing through my system from the parking lot confrontation, and I fought the urge to drive through traffic like a maniac. I kept my hands at eight and five on the wheel, and consciously kept easy on the accelerator.
I thought about the situation we were in and wondered if this hadn’t somehow been Pagan’s plan from the start. I realized how quickly a car can become an intimate space. There is nowhere to go, no way to get out while the car is moving. There is also something soothing about being on the move, a sense of safety, cocooned from the elements in a regulated temperature – ask any parent trying to put a crying baby to sleep. I turned the SUV’s internal temperature up two degrees.
With Smack Daddy voluntarily in the car – I had no doubt Pagan had used a phone app to record Smack Daddy’s request for us to drive him away from the parking lot…was even recording now – we had complete control over his environment. We had the ability to change it from the comfort of grandma’s feather bed to a pressure cooker. At this point it was a rolling interrogation room without any need for lawyers because the situation was non-custodial, which removed one of the three prongs – police, and custody, and interrogatory questioning – necessary for Miranda to come into play.
Pagan took a bottle of water out of his backpack, cracked the top, and handed it to Smack Daddy.
I kept driving while Pagan waited and Smack Daddy tried to pull himself together. I could feel anxiety churning in my gut. We had two missing children and we didn’t seem to be even close to uncovering clue one as to how to find them. Yet somehow, Pagan was as cool as if we were out for a Sunday drive heading for a leisurely picnic.
I confess his unperturbed countenance was beginning to irritate me. Yet, there was a dispassionate side of me realizing how my own anxiety was affecting me, and I began to understand how Pagan turned a subject’s anxiety against him or her.
“How are you feeling, Theo?” Pagan asked.
I longed for a stronger opening gambit. I wanted Pagan to reach over and throttle Smack Daddy – excuse me…Theo – until he coughed up something we could use.
“Better,” said Smack Daddy.
He brushed his hands down his clothes. I had no doubt he was uncomfortable in his urine damp pants, but Smack Daddy was never going to admit to it. His suit was dark blue, so if it wasn’t for the slight acrid smell, you wouldn’t know right off he’d peed himself. Pagan certainly gave no indication, sitting as close to Smack Daddy as was possible on the rear bench seat without actually touching him.
“I’m glad we were there to help you, Theo,” Pagan said. “That could have turned into a very nasty situation for you.”
“Those two idiots couldn’t find their own ass with two hands and a flashlight.”
“Hiring family hardly ever works out,” Pagan said.
Smack Daddy looked at him, a bit surprised Pagan knew the bodyguards were actually related to him. “Sometimes you can’t trust nobody else.”
Pagan gently bounced his head up and down in agreement. “Theo, you owe a lot of people a lot of money. How much good do you think Bobby and Elmo would be if things got serious?”
“How do you know I owe people money? Smack Records is back on top. I don’t owe nobody nothing.”
Pagan didn’t change the even tone of his voice. “You’ve got one artist. Granted he’s becoming a star, but you were deep pockets in debt before he came along. In debt to the kind of people who don’t ever want you to catch up with your payments.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I think we both know that’s not entirely truthful.”
Pagan had called Smack Daddy a liar, but in such a way it didn’t ignite any blustery explosions. Liar is a bomb word. Nobody likes to be called a liar – even if they are. Being told you’re not being entirely truthful is somehow far more acceptable.
Smack Daddy didn’t respond. Pagan didn’t want him thinking too hard, so he filled the void.
“How do you feel about talking to me?” Pagan asked.
“It’s cool,” Smack Daddy said.
“Tell me in your own words why we’re here talking.”
“It’s about that damn brat wandering off.”
That response was very telling. Unreasonable anger coupled with the soft phrase wandering off – not kidnapped…not even missing…wandering off.
Pagan reached over and put a hand on Smack Daddy’s shoulder. “Theo, if you had anything to do with Unicorn’s disappearance, you need to tell me about it
now.”
Words were weapons to Pagan – emphasis and timing were imperative. If Smack Daddy was complicit in Unicorn’s disappearance, he only had two choices to respond – admit or lie.
“No, man…Nothing.”
The back seat of the Navigator was suddenly filled with purple streamers, but there was something odd. I usually saw lies as deep purple streamers. Those attached to Smack Daddy’s words were a pastel purple. I didn’t know what that meant.
Pagan did.
“Theo, Theo, Theo,” Pagan still had his hand on Smack Daddy’s shoulder and was rocking it back and forth. “What do I do for a living?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s an easy question, Theo. What do I do for a living?”
“You’re a cop.”
“No, Theo. I’m a human lie detector.”
“I ain’t…”
“Hold on!” Pagan said, throwing his free hand, index finger extended, right in front of Smack Daddy’s face, cutting off what Smack Daddy was about to say. “Don’t say anything else. You need to listen to me right now. I’m the one hope you have of coming out of this situation.” Pagan’s words were articulated clearly, clipped and delivered firmly, brooking no interruption. “Right now you are under so much pressure from what is going on in your life, you have no idea which way to turn. Your business is in trouble…”
Smack Daddy made to interrupt and disagree, but Pagan raised his finger again, effectively shutting him down.
I was stopped at a light on Sunset Boulevard. There were cars on both sides of me. I cut my eyes from the rearview mirror and checked out the other cars’ drivers and passengers. None had any idea of the drama unfolding in the back compartment of the Navigator. It struck me as more than a little surreal.
The light changed and I accelerated smoothly. I had to do everything smoothly, allowing nothing to disturb the verbal and physical dynamic Pagan was building. He was dominating Smack Daddy, but the energy being generated was as fragile as gossamer.
“Your business is in trouble,” Pagan reiterated. “Your marriage is crumbling. Your partners are filing lawsuits. Your wife’s lawyer is on your back. You’re surrounded by incompetents like Bobby and Elmo. You have to use them because you can’t trust anyone else, plus they’re family, and family brings with it even more pressures. You have a lot of mouths to feed. And there ain’t nobody looking out for Theo.” Pagan squeezed Smack Daddy’s shoulder.
“Even being Smack Daddy is a burden.” Pagan continued in full verbal flow. “When you’re being Smack Daddy it takes constant effort…thinking on your feet…making decisions involving millions of dollars…making sure nobody gets a leg up on you. Whew! Man, you are under a ton of pressure.”
Pagan had moved in even closer to Smack Daddy, into the intimate space where great interrogators operate. “But you know what the great thing is about pressure?” Pagan didn’t wait before he answered his own question. “It produces diamonds. And you are a diamond, Theo.”
What a crock of old cheese, but one glance in the rearview mirror at Smack Daddy’s face was enough for me to see the tears in his eyes. Listening to Pagan’s lulling voice almost had me believing. Smack Daddy didn’t have a chance. He was a fish hooked hard on the line. Pagan only had to reel him in.
Pagan kept right on talking – monologing. This wasn’t the regular ask and answer most interrogators employ. This was something else. This was Pagan defining the narrative, throwing out themes like bait, seeing to which one Smack Daddy would respond, which one Smack Daddy would think was a socially acceptable motivation for his actions.
We’d agreed the most important thing in Smack Daddy’s life was Smack Daddy. Now, Pagan was working his patter to make everything about poor, hard-done-by, misunderstood, little Theo Davis. He was working his way behind Smack Daddy’s Oz-like façade and selling snake oil for all it was worth.
People who don’t understand why anyone would ever talk to the cops have never been questioned by a professional interrogator – let alone a savant inquisitor like Pagan.
Listening and watching, I began to understand what Pagan had tried to tell me about how knowing somebody is lying isn’t enough. You have to be able to turn the lies into something substantial, something that will make a difference in the case.
I drove on and on, giving Pagan the time he needed to do the job.
“Diamonds, Theo.” Pagan was digging deep. “They are clear, and pure, and hard. Nothing can dull their luster. Those people who are diamonds. They are the ones who are still standing when everyone else has fallen away.” He’d been saying the same thing a number of different ways, never pushing too hard, but never allowing Smack Daddy off the hook.
Communication has been deemed to consist of fifty-five percent physical gestures, thirty-eight percent verbal tone, and only seven percent verbal content. Somebody, like Smack Daddy, who is under stress, is only hearing seven percent or less of what you actually verbalize. Repetition is key to an interrogator being able to get a message across.
But I was missing something here. I’d seen the pastel purple streamers attached to some of Smack Daddy’s earlier words. I didn’t know how they were different from the deep purple streamers I knew were lies. It was making me anxious about my own role in this new partnership.
I’d always been so sure before, but now it was as if Pagan was taking me with him down a rabbit hole where all the things I’d depended on before were shifting. I was being forced to pay attention with intent to what Pagan was doing. I knew he was leading Smack Daddy somewhere, but I didn’t think it was to an admission of being complicit in the disappearance of Unicorn.
Then I got it.
I realized the difference between the purple streamers attached to words I knew were lies, and the pastel purple streamers I’d seen attached to Smack Daddy’s denial of involvement was the intent attached to the words. When somebody intends to lie, I see the deep purple streamers flowing from the words. When somebody is attaching unfocused guilt – anxious, not sure if they are lying, wanting only to believe they are telling the truth – the purple becomes a lighter pastel shade.
If I was right, then Smack Daddy wasn’t specifically complicit in the disappearance of Unicorn, but still felt guilt attached to whatever role he believed he might have played.
Pagan was way ahead of me from simply reading not only Smack Daddy’s body language, but also the words he chose and the tone and emphasis he placed on them. Pagan had said he needed me to keep him from making another mistake, but clearly I needed him to teach me more about how to use my gift first.
My gift. It had been a long time since I’d looked at it as anything but a curse – a trait setting me apart. In a little more than forty-eight hours, my life had undergone a watershed of change.
I forced myself not to think about it, to let it happen. I was scared, but I knew somehow I trusted Pagan. I had to concentrate – had to think about driving…and listening.
Chapter 21
“We lie loudest when we lie to ourselves.”
- Eric Hoffer
As I passed the entrance to the UCLA campus on Sunset Boulevard, I realized one of the main perks of being teamed up with Pagan was focus.
Right now, RHD detectives were working two missing children cases – one involving a high profile individual. They were being run ragged by parents, relatives, family friends, the police brass, and the press.
Each detective was also responsible for an array of other cases, and cases don’t get to RHD in the first place unless they’re high profile, each one with its own high maintenance demands. The daily juggling act often spiraled into a stress filled nightmare.
Working with Pagan meant none of that was my worry. Per the chief’s mandate, we could cherry pick not only investigations but parts of investigations. I had no doubt Pagan’s brain was working ahead, but right now, our only focus was Smack Daddy.
The lack of distractions was liberating – intense, but liberating.
I pulled into a campus parking lot and turned around. I exited east on Sunset Boulevard, back the way we had come. Traffic was still dense, but moving. Keeping my speed steady at thirty-five miles per hour helped coincide with the traffic lights turning green. I was covering ground on the wide surface street with very few stops, keeping our moving interrogation room on a smooth even keel without any distractions – a perfect, protected bubble, completely separated from the world outside the Navigator’s tinted windows.
Pagan was still talking, but one quick glance in the rearview mirror was enough to see Smack Daddy wasn’t listening.
However, I knew this was a good thing.
Smack Daddy was not employing the deliberate non-listening of mental escape – checking his brain out to a beach in Hawaii. This was something very different. Smack Daddy was in what interrogators call transition.
His head was bowed, the crown of it showing to Pagan – a sign of submission – and I knew he was literally experiencing a change of chemicals in his brain. His mental processing was moving from, I can’t admit to anything, to what is the best way for me to give up the information I’m hoarding.
“I feel for you,” Pagan kept talking, not letting Smack Daddy’s lack of response deter him. This was not a conversation or a dialogue. Pagan was not asking questions. It was still a monologue – Pagan verbally leading Smack Daddy down the path to the truth.
“You’re scared of what you think might have happened to Unicorn. You’re worried it might be your fault. You don’t want to think about it, but we have to think about it. We can’t deal with it if we don’t talk about it. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.”
In an interview, you are attempting to get information somebody wants to give you. In an interrogation, you are trying to get information they don’t want to give you. Pagan clearly believed Smack Daddy had information he didn’t want to divulge. Whether it was significant to the disappearance of Unicorn, or related to something else in Smack Daddy’s self-centered world, would only become clear if Pagan could pry it loose.
