by Randy Alcorn
“You see the driver?” Ollie asked.
“Not real good, not like I seen his Ace Kool. But I could see a little from the streetlight. Had on a red sweatshirt too. And definitely a brother. No way was he a Spic.” Ellis had obviously told him Mookie’s story.
“Anybody else in the car?”
“Not unless they was lyin’ flat.”
“What kind of car?”
“No bucket, tellin’ you that. Impala? Not even close. Deft, real deft. Laces, man, chrome spokes. And lifts maybe. Not so sure on that.”
“Make and model?”
“Don’t know my rides that well. Real fancy. Like a Beemer, but trickier.”
“How about a Lexus?”
“Maybe.”
Ollie pulled a Lexus catalogue from his briefcase and started flipping pages. “Look familiar?”
“Yeah. That’s it! Or maybe that one.” He pointed first at one picture, then at another, the LS. Ollie turned to the back and showed him a page of a dozen exterior colors. Big Dog pointed immediately at the Alpine Silver Metallic. “That’s it for sure.”
“You ever seen it before or since?”
“Not that one. I’d remember. Hot car.”
“Why didn’t you come forward with this before?” Ollie asked.
“Man, I had some outstandings. Last people I could go to was the cops. You know how it goes. You tell the cops anything and they make it like you’re the one that did it and that’s how you know so much. But there’s another reason I’m talkin’. My life’s been pretty messed up. But I got involved with Prison Fellowship in the county jail before they sent me here. And I’m a Christian now. Goin’ through discipleship. And they been sayin’ we should tell the truth. That God’s watchin’ us, even when nobody else is. So Ellis was askin’ about his sister, if anybody knew anything. I did, so it seemed the right thing to do, even if it means gettin’ into trouble.”
“I appreciate that, Ken,” Clarence said.
“Let’s go back over this.” Ollie sounded like a field general putting together all the reconnaissance. “You said the gun was pressed up against the side-view mirror.”
“Yeah.”
“What does that tell you about the shooter?” Ollie looked at Ken and Clarence both.
“I don’t know,” Clarence said. “What?”
“He’s left-handed.”
“How can you know that?” Clarence asked.
“Look. Let me draw you a picture.”
Ollie drew quickly on his legal pad. Clarence looked at the sketch, impressed with the artwork. It was a man in the passenger seat, shoulders parallel to the side of the car. The rifle pointed out the car, pressing close up to the side-view mirror. It was cradled in the arm, finger on the trigger. Left arm, left finger.
“Was that how it was, the angle of the barrel?”
“Yeah. Real close anyway.”
“No way the rifle could be pointed out, angling away from the front of the car, that close to the mirror, if it was cradled in the right arm. Not without the whole body lying up on the dashboard. He’s a lefty, all right. Has to be.”
“Yeah,” Ken said. “That’s right. Didn’t think about that.”
“There’s a lot of left handers out there,” Clarence said.
“Sure, but if we get close enough to narrow down the shooters, it’ll help. Ninety percent of the population is right-handed. If we get it down to a few guys, or if two guys claim the other was the shooter, we’ll know which one.”
Ollie nailed down a few more details. “Thanks, Ken,” he said, finally satisfied. “You’ve been helpful. Anything we can do for you?”
Ken looked at Clarence. “Send me some books, would you, bro? They have to be straight from the publisher, you know, like the ones you get sent to Ellis? Please, send me some good books, Christian books. They got lotsa garbage in here. I want to read some good stuff.”
“I will,” Clarence said. “I promise.” He shook Ken’s hand and wished him well. Clarence hesitated, then said, “Do me a favor, will you?”
“Name it,” Ken said.
“Pass on this hug to Ellis for me.” Clarence put his arms around Ken. The two men embraced like old friends. “And do what you can to get him to your Bible study, okay?”
As a guard escorted Ken back to his cell, Clarence and Ollie walked out of the building toward Ollie’s car.
“So what have we got?” Clarence asked.
“Two black males, the shooter left-handed with possible facial hair, mustache, and goatee. Hair was a short afro then, who knows now. Probably Bloods.”
“Because of the sweatshirts?”
“Yeah. We’ve got three sources on these guys now. Mr. Kim and Herb at Taco Bell couldn’t connect them to the shooting itself. That was all guesswork. Now we’ve got the direct link. It’s not a theory anymore. Our killers did the job, then headed down 1-5. If they were Bloods out for revenge, they might have flamed on, dressed down, worn their colors. Crips wouldn’t wear red sweatshirts. They’d either fly their blue or something else, but they wouldn’t wear red. Besides, it’s a Crip neighborhood. Makes sense Bloods would be behind the hit. That’s what I figured in the beginning—until we got sidetracked by this Hispanic thing.”
“Sorry,” Clarence said.
“Forget it. I took Mookie too seriously myself.”
“You really think he was lying?”
“Probably. I’m sure gonna find out.”
“What can you do with what Ken told us?”
“Well, I’ll put it into the computer under GREAT and crosslink it. Now that we’ve got some accurate info, that might help. Manny and I spent days pursuing this phony Hispanic connection over on the west side. We’ve lost valuable time. At least now we know what we’re going for. Things are clickin’. I just wish I could get hold of Norcoast’s phone records and explore the Sacramento connection. But no way I can make that case to a judge. If only us law enforcers weren’t under the restraints of the law. Sure makes it complicated.”
Clarence approached Ray Eagle after Bible study. “Ray, is there any way to get copies of phone records?”
“Well, there’s ways and then there’s ways. Tell me exactly what you’re looking for.”
“Okay, this is confidential, right? I’m looking for calls made from Councilman Norcoast’s office to Sacramento, say in August and September.”
“The cops are looking at Norcoast?” Ray whispered. Clarence stared at him. “Don’t worry,” Ray said. “I won’t say a word. I’ve got some good phone company contacts. Detective Chandler can’t pursue them without probable cause. I can. Let’s see what I can turn up.”
“Earth is a picture of heaven, isn’t it?” Dani asked Lewis. “A poor exposure, distorted colors, grainy images, but a picture nonetheless.”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” Lewis said, as pleased with Dani’s insight as she was. “Consider a picture of a lion. It’s a two-dimensional representation that reflects certain qualities of the lion, is suggestive of the lion, makes one think of the lion. But, of course, it is not the lion. Earth reflects certain properties of heaven, though it reflects them poorly at best. In its best moments, earth anticipates heaven, points toward heaven. But earth is not heaven.”
“And those who expect it to be,” Dani said, “can never know Joy.”
“Precisely, dear lady! And those who fail to look to heaven can never understand or appreciate earth. For it is heaven that gives meaning to earth. Without heaven, earth is an empty and meaningless place. As the picture of the lion is but a fraud if there is no lion, so earth would be no more than a fraud if there were no heaven. Earth without heaven would be a bad joke.”
“You and Torel have taught me so much. I look at the same earth now, but I see so differently.”
“The world is a book most people never bother to read,” Lewis said, his voice pitched with excitement. “It sits before them calling out to be understood, but they are too busy with the details of their lives to take the time to rea
d the book. At best, they skim it. They live lives of endless activity without bothering to understand that which gives meaning to activity, to happiness, to pain and struggle. Many of them die without ever understanding why they were alive. The moment after they die they will know how they should have lived, but then it will be too late. What a needless tragedy. They must learn to heed their inner ache for heaven, not dull it with earth’s anesthetics. Only then can they see on earth that which will point them toward heaven.”
“Thought you might be interested in these.” Clarence handed Ollie U.S. West phone bills printed from a laser printer.
Ollie looked at them wide eyed. “Where’d you get them?”
“Never mind. I’ve highlighted the calls to Sacramento. Here’s what I’ve put together. Six employees in Norcoast’s office, four full time, using four phone lines. This one,” he pointed to a line on the top sheet, “is Norcoast’s private line. This one’s Gray’s private line. No other phones tie into these lines. The other two lines can be accessed by anyone—Norcoast, Gray, receptionist Sheila, office manager Jean, and two part-time secretaries.”
Ollie scanned the printout, eight pages long. “Wow. They make a lot of long distance calls.”
“Why not?” Clarence asked. “They don’t pay for the calls. Taxpayers do.”
“So, in the weeks surrounding the shooting,” Ollie said, “we’ve got seven calls to Sacramento on Norcoast’s private line.”
“And five on Gray’s,” Clarence said. “Plus another half dozen on the general lines.”
“Look at these numbers,” Ollie said. “I’m guessing 555-1230 and 555-1237 are in the same office or department. Four of Norcoast’s calls and two of Gray’s are to 1237. Norcoast has one going to 1230. I’m calling it first.”
Ollie dialed 916-555-1230.
“Sacramento Public Works. How may I direct your call?”
“Yeah, hi, this is… Oscar Carey calling from Portland.” Ollie smiled at Clarence, who rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot of notes mixed up here. I may have dialed the wrong number. Reg Norcoast gave me two numbers I could call, and I forget which is which. I think the other might be the private line: 555-1237. Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Harper’s direct line.”
“Yeah, of course. Let’s see, I’m sort of disorganized today. I’m trying to remember why Reg wanted me to call him. Mr. Harper’s the head guy, isn’t he?”
“Director of Human Resources.”
“Human Resources, yeah, that’s it. Look, something just came up. I’ll call him back in a little bit. Thanks so much for your help.”
Ollie hung up triumphantly. “I love my job.”
“Oscar Carey?”
“That’s my a.k.a. Comes in handy when I’m on a hunt and don’t want to leave a trail. Okay, Mr. Harper. I’ll get his first name and run a background check on him.” Ollie dialed another Sacramento number. He took the phone away from his ear, and Clarence could hear the shrill high-pitched sound of a fax line. He dialed the first number again.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, ma’am. This is Oscar Carey, you know, the one who just called? I decided to send a fax to Mr. Harper but I wasn’t sure which fax number to send it to. Would that be 555-1347?”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Harper’s private fax line. Or you can send it to our general fax number, 555-1798. He’ll get it either way.”
“All right. Oh, and remind me of Mr. Harper’s first name. Matthew? Of course. I’m so forgetful. Won’t bother you again. Thanks so much. Bye.” Ollie hung up.
“Matthew Harper,” Clarence said. “That name’s familiar.”
“Between the two voice lines and the two fax numbers, we’ve covered nearly all these Sacramento calls,” Ollie said, rubbing his hands together as if he were coming off a week long fast to an all-you-can-eat buffet. “Now the thirty-two-thousand-dollar question is, who’s Matthew Harper?”
Clarence heard a light knock on the front door Saturday morning at 7:15. Surprised, he opened the door.
“Morning,” Manny mumbled to Clarence.
“Something wrong?” Clarence asked.
“Just here to pick up your dad. We’re going fishing.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Forgot all about that. I know Daddy’s up. I’ll get him. Come on in.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just wait out here.”
Clarence disappeared into his father’s room for a moment, followed out by his daddy.
“Manuel,” Obadiah said warmly. “I’s movin’ a little slow this mornin’. But I gots my fishin’ rod leaned out by the garage door. Want to see them ol’ Shadow Ball pictures?”
“Yeah. I’d love to.” Manny disappeared into Obadiah’s room.
Clarence considered admitting to Manny he’d been right to doubt Mookie’s story about the Hispanics. But he just didn’t feel up to an I told you so.
The men didn’t reappear from the bedroom for a half hour. Manny escorted Obadiah out the front door, lost in conversation.
Clarence sat at his desk Monday morning, looking at three-by-five cards and typing.
The body of Robert Sandifer lay in an open casket. He’d been arrested twenty-three times for felonies. At the time of his death he was wanted for the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl. He was executed by members of his own gang. He lay in the casket with his arms wrapped around a teddy bear. Robert Sandifer was eleven years old.
In the last five years violent crimes committed by juveniles rose 60 percent. The number of murders committed by minors doubled between the 1980s and the 1990s. Juveniles now account for half of all concealed weapons violations, a third of all robberies, a third of all aggravated assaults, a quarter of all weapons assaults, and a quarter of all murders. In another two years there will be a million more teenagers, children of baby boomers, in the crime-prone ages of fourteen to seventeen. Statistics indicate 6 percent of the males in this group will be chronic lawbreakers, responsible for 50 percent of serious juvenile crime. Which means that America is about to be overrun by 30,000 more juvenile thieves, muggers, rapists, and killers.
Clarence reread his first two paragraphs. Why should he write such discouraging news? Because it’s true, he thought. But he didn’t feel like writing anymore. He had an appointment with Ollie—and a face-off with a crime-prone-aged boy called Mookie.
“Well,” Ollie told Clarence, “Matthew Harper has no criminal history. Went to work for Sacramento Public Works in 1994. I made a contact there that pulled his resume. Guess where he worked until 1994?”
“Reg Norcoast’s office,” Clarence said.
“How’d you know?” Ollie seemed disappointed.
“It came to me just as you said it. I knew the name was familiar. Red-headed guy.”
“Among other things, Harper was Norcoast’s financial man and his campaign director. I need to find out exactly what he did here, why he left, what his connections are.”
“Ollie, this thing about Leesa Fletcher?” Clarence asked. “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t the autopsy have shown she was pregnant? I mean, not even my source at the Trib who told me about the cocaine knew about the child.”
“I’m one step ahead of you. I’ve got a call in to the medical examiner, the one whose signature is on this autopsy report. I want to know why he didn’t mention the pregnancy.”
“Do you think she went ahead with the abortion and didn’t tell Sue?”
“If she did, the autopsy report would indicate the surgery. Either way, something’s really fishy. We have to nail down the father of the child. If it’s not Norcoast, we lose his motive, that motive anyway, but we might pick up a new suspect. Anyway, right now let’s focus on our boy Mookie. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
“Okay, Mookie,” Ollie ushered the trembling boy into a barren room. It wasn’t a standard interrogation cubicle, but an office where the walls were so thin you could hear sounds from the next room. “I’m asking your permission for Mr. Abernathy to be here, since he’s the one yo
u first talked to. This isn’t an official interrogation or anything. We just want to talk. Is that okay with you?”
Mookie nodded, looking like a kid who’d rather be anyplace else in the universe.
“Okay, Mookie, we’ve got someone in the next room who says you lied to us. You weren’t out there that night. You didn’t see two Hispanic guys in a gold Impala.” Ollie turned to Clarence with a smile. “Or even a green Impala. You didn’t see anybody at all, did you?”
“Yo, man, I seen what I seen.”
“Maybe you lied just for the hundred dollars. Or maybe somebody else paid you a lot more to lie. Well, that wouldn’t be that serious of an offense. But then we talked with a homeboy of yours. What if I was to tell you he says you were right in the thick of this whole thing?”
“What homie? What thing?”
“We don’t want to name names. But we’ve got him in the next room. He’s been putting the finger on you, big time. Good chance we can cut a deal with him, and he’ll testify against you.”
“Testify ’bout what?”
“Just walk us through it one more time, okay, Mookie? Were you really out there that night when the murder happened?”
“Yeah, I was there.”
“Well, that’s what your homeboy says too. Except what would you think if he says the reason you were there is that you did the shooting?”
“Didn’t do no shootin’!”
“You sure?”
“Didn’t do it. No way.”
“Stay here with him, Clarence. I want to check this out again with our friend in the other room.”
Ollie left the room, and Mookie looked at Clarence and trembled. Clarence stared hard at Mookie, whose forehead now glistened. Suddenly muffled voices filtered through the wall, followed by a smashing impact. Voices were louder now, the words clear. “Mookie did it. Mookie shot up the house. It was Mookie!”
“No way!” Mookie said to Clarence. “No way!” he yelled at the wall.
“You killed my sister and my niece? It was you?” Clarence stood to his feet and walked toward him. Clarence gazed down at Mookie, who knew Ty’s uncle’s already legendary rep in the hood. He’d heard what he did to Georgie.
