On The Grind ss-8

by Stephen Cannell

  At the end of the day shift I walked back to the elementary school, changed in the locker room, clocked out and drove back to the Bicycle Club. Kven though it was only five o'clock, the parking lot was already full of cars belonging to dedicated gamblers. I went up to my sand-and peach-orange-colored room, kicked off my shoes, flopped down on the bed and spent half an hour trying to think what my next move should be.

  One of the biggest problems working undercover was managing stress. Most uniforms, if they want to, get a chance at working a stint in Vice while still in the Patrol Division. Since Vice is a plainclothes gig, it's thought to be a good stepping-stone to the Detective Bureau.

  When patrol cops got this opportunity they were generally excited about it. But it quickly became obvious that some of them didn't have the temperament. It was emotionally devastating to be sitting across from a dangerous drug dealer in a dark shooting gallery full of murderous characters, wearing a wire, knowing that at any moment you could be discovered and killed.

  A lot of officers who had been eagerly looking forward to UC assignments ended up asking the watch commander to let them work support instead. Living a lie under the constant threat of exposure and death could become unbearable. It's why most law enforcement agencies limit UC work to only a few weeks.

  For the past several days I'd been feeling the pressure. Not sure who was watching me, not able to trust anyone, including the guy who'd asked me to take the assignment in the first place. I missed my wife and had temporarily lost the respect of my son. Why the hell was I doing this?

  At a little past seven I was so fatigued that I fell asleep sprawled across my peach-orange bedspread.

  Suddenly I was jangled out of a troubled dream by my new cell phone. I sat up and looked at my watch: 7:40 P. M. I'd only been out for half an hour. I stumbled over and fumbled the cell open.

  "Yeah?" I mumbled.

  "Scully?" a voice I vaguely recognized asked.

  "Yes."

  "Lieutenant Eastwood. You've got a call-up."

  "What's up, Loo?" My nerves instantly on edge.

  "You'll be briefed when you get here. We've got an 'all hands' situation. Get to the training facility on Pine Street and get in harness. Roll call is in the gym in twenty minutes."

  "On my way, sir."

  I hung up and wondered, was this finally it? Had I just been called in to be kidnapped, killed, then dumped in the L. A. River?

  Chapter 21

  Most of the Haven Park poliee foree was already crowded into the elementary school locker room when I got there. Judging by the tight expressions, something major was going down. As I stripped off my street clothes, I heard two guys at the next locker discussing an upcoming gang fight at Haven Park High tonight-a perfect setting for me to take an accidental bullet in the back.

  I needed to give Agent Love a quick heads-up, so I grabbed my brand-new cell, stuffed it into my Jockey shorts and hurried into the bathroom. I found a vacant stall, locked the door, sat on the toilet and sent her a text message using the number I'd memorized at the Manhattan Beach condo. I typed out:

  911-SSCC-18L-MWHS-415-MA 415-M was LAPD code for a major disturbance. Just as I hit send I heard Alonzo Bell enter the bathroom.

  "Scully, where the fuck are you?"

  "In here," I yelled through the stall door.

  "Get your ass out here. Roll calls in five minutes." "Coming."

  I couldn't walk out carrying my damn cell with a 911 message to the F BI in its memory chip, so I looked for a place to ditch it. The high school was a fifties building and the toilets in the locker room had old-style surge tanks. I lifted the lid and dropped my new cell into the water, replacing the porcelain top. When I came out of the stall, Bell was standing there, frowning impatiently. "Let's go," he said. "Move your bowels on your own time."

  I dressed quickly and followed my partner into the gymnasium. As soon as we got inside, Alonzo moved up to the podium and stood with the other shift sergeants and our command staff officers.

  Dirty Harry Eastwood was strapped up in black Second Chance riot gear. Despite the Kevlar, I had a feeling if any trouble went down, he'd stay safely inside his tricked-out mobile command center. Standing next to him was Deputy Chief Talbot Jones.

  I spotted Hector and Manny Avila in expensive sport coats to one side of the podium, looking worried. I had no idea what they were doing at our roll call.

  The entire Haven Park patrol force assembled expectantly in the bleachers and the room quieted immediately as Harry Eastwood stepped to the podium.

  "Deputy Chief Jones is going to take the first part of this briefing. Tal?" The lieutenant moved aside to allow Talbot Jones to come forward.

  "Okay. You guys all know this has been coming for a while," Jones began in his rich baritone. "According to sources the Avilas have on the street, this rumble is going down tonight." He paused and looked at Bell. "Al, pull that blackboard out here."

  Alonzo went to the big double doors of the gymnasium and rolled in a large blackboard, placing it in the center of the basketball court. Taped to one side of the board were blown-up mug shots of eight Hispanic males in their twenties, all with names and numbers printed underneath. On the other side of the board were ten same-sized mugs of African-American Crip G-sters.

  "Okay. For the past few weeks Manny and Hector Avila have been working under contract with the city of Haven Park as gang violence consultants," Jones said, explaining their presence at our briefing. "As most of you know, they have very good Eighteenth Street connections. A few hours ago, they picked up a rumor that a rumble is planned during halftime at tonights home football game between Haven Park and South Compton High. Ten or twelve armed Crips are heading our way right now. These shots on the left side of the board have been identified as the probable Crip shooters by our Inner-City Gang Intelligence Division."

  He tapped the blackboard with his knuckle. "The shot-caller is this guy." He pointed to a picture of a scowling black banger in his late twenties with close-cut hair. "His name is Harris Karris, street handle K-Knife. The guy is bad news, with a long list of agg assaults and unfiled murder allegations, so if you see him, cut this asshole no slack."

  Ballpoints clicked as cops wrote down Harris Karris s name, street handle and identifying characteristics.

  "The Locos know this is going down and have agreed to lay-back and work with us." Jones tapped the side of the board with the pictures of eight Locos. "We have a shared objective with in these guys, so lets make sure we're focusing on the right people tonight."

  I couldn't believe he was telling us to give the Locos a pass and only go after Crip shooters. But it got even worse as the briefing continued.

  He motioned to Hector and Manny Avila. "As you know, the Avilas have been very helpful trying to diffuse Eighteenth Street gang violence. Their participation in the youth center has helped to contain what was once a very dangerous citywide problem." He turned toward the Avilas. "I'm going to turn the briefing over to Manny Avila, so he can give you his take."

  "Thank you, Captain Jones," Manny said as he stepped behind the podium.

  "To begin with, let's get something straight. The Eighteenth Street gang is not a bunch of innocents. I'm not going to stand up here and tell you they're choirboys. But we need to remember they're from our neighborhood. These South Side Compton Crips are outsiders who come into our city and incite violence.

  "Tonight can be a defining moment for Haven Park. Of the officers gathered here, my brother Hector and I have been privileged to know and work with most of you."

  He pointed to the side of the blackboard that displayed the eight scowling eses. "We're making progress with this bunch. Veterano shot-callers like Ovieto Ortiz are finally seeing things our way." He tapped 007's picture.

  "Using our influence, we're convincing them to forgo violence and walk a new path."

  I had seen the LAPD crash reports on 18th Street arrests outside of Haven Park and the gang was growing and becoming more violent, not le
ss. But I kept my mouth shut and my expression blank.

  "What happens tonight can begin a new era," Manny said.

  "One without Crip violence. Eighteenth Street eses will be able to stop fighting over territory and focus on living more productive lives. But before that can happen, these mallates from Compton need to be taught a lesson."

  He looked at Harry Eastwood and said, "The quality of life in Haven Park is in your hands." He turned and stepped away from the podium. Not exactly the Gettysburg Address, but all the cops in the gym were nodding enthusiastically.

  "Good stuff," Eastwood said, as he again addressed the room. "We all certainly owe Manny and Hector Avila for everything they've done in gang intervention down here.

  "After roll call we're gonna deploy into smaller groups in classrooms for specific shift briefings, then we'll van over to the Haven Park High football field. After the players go onto the field we'll muster in the locker room under the stands and be ready when these South Side Crips show. We have spotters up in the press box and plain-clothes officers in the crowd. Keep your radios on tactical frequency two."

  Eastwood turned and motioned to Alonzo, who rolled another blackboard out in front of us. It had a big schematic map of the Haven Park High football field and parking lot. Several photo reconnaissance blowups were also taped there.

  "Day watch will be covering the parking lot and the refreshment stands out front," Eastwood continued.

  He pointed to several recon pictures of the front of the high school stadium. There were metal bleachers on one side of the field that looked as if they could hold six or seven hundred people.

  "Alonzo Bell is in charge of the day shift. Your radio call signs will be Thrasher One through Twelve.

  "Mid-watch will cover the football field and bleachers. Sergeant Dobson is in charge. Mid-watch, you're Constrictor One through Twelve. I want the mid-watch guys stationed under the bleachers behind these concrete equipment rooms," he said, indicating the location. "Your job is to protect the people in the stands."

  "The graveyard shift is Stone Breaker. Sergeant Lunderman has that group and you'll be held in reserve back at the command post."

  I couldn't believe that Eastwood was going to keep the entire graveyard shift at the CP as his personal security.

  But then he cleared that up by saying, "Graveyard is going to do the critical response work. I'll spot-deploy that bunch as the situation demands. Okay, let's make this a neat, clean operation. Remember that Haven Park parents and students will be in the stands. I don't want any innocents to get shot.

  "Unfortunately, we need to let this situation happen so we can make felony arrests and finally put an end to all this Crip violence on our street corners. Stopping that game in advance and clearing the stands will only alert the Crips and we'll lose a golden opportunity. I think, with this many guys, we can swarm them and get a good, quick result without risking collateral damage.

  "Lastly, let me say that these Crips are hardened killers. If any of them go to God tonight, I'm not gonna be writing down badge numbers."

  A murmur of approval came from the cops seated around me.

  "Let's do it and let's do it right. Meet in your individual groups for briefings with your sergeants and then see the armorer and pick up the new Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine guns and Second Chance Kevlar vests that just came in. We'll reconvene out front in twenty minutes."

  I couldn't believe that they weren't going to stop the game and clear the stadium. But as Talbot had told me when I first got here, the Haven Park PD wasn't out there to protect and serve. This was all about our envelopes.

  The day shift, most of whom I still barely knew, met with Alonzo in one of the old elementary school classrooms that no longer had any desks or furniture. He had some chalk in his hand and had already drawn our sector of the parking lot onto the blackboard.

  "Okay, everybody gets a number," he said. "Belkin, you're Thrasher One; Ashcroft, you're Two; Scully, you're Three…" He continued until all of us had a radio designation.

  "I've got your call signs written down on a card, but to tell the truth, I'll never remember them. The call signs are just more of Dirty Harry's movie bullshit. How we're gonna use 'em is to marshal troop strength. Like I'll say, 'One through Three respond to the east side of the parking lot' — that kind of thing. But if you call me, use your fucking name so I'll know who I'm talking to."

  He turned to face us. "Okay, we all know what this is about. We're gonna throw down on these Crips and bag this K-Knife character, I got a raise in grade for the guy who dumps him. Is everybody straight on what we're trying to do here?"

  "You got it! Done deal!" the officers of the day watch shouted back.

  The adrenaline was really pumping in our little classroom.

  "Okay, study the parking lot layout on the board and saddle up. Everybody gets totally flacked for this one. These new Second Chance vests will stop armor-piercing rounds, so even though they're bulky, wear them. I don't want to lose a guy to a stray bullet. Roulon Green is gonna be passing out vests and MP5s."

  He motioned to a tall black officer who was a Policeman II, standing in the doorway in front of a large rolling cart stacked with H amp;K shipping crates and boxes of Kevlar vests. There were plenty of extra magazines.

  "See you all out front."

  Everyone got an MPS, a vest and two spare mags, then started to disperse. Once they were gone, Alonzo took my submachine gun out of my hand and leaned it against the wall next to me. As I started to shoulder into my vest, he took it as well. "Gimme your cell phone."

  "Left it in my hotel room. Why you always on me?"

  "Why you always such a hard-on?" he replied.

  I shrugged, but didn't answer.

  "You're with me tonight," he finally said. "You stay close by. I don't ever want you outta my sight."

  Then suddenly, without warning, he ran his big hand over me, under my arms and down my chest, looking for either my cell phone or a wire. This time he made no attempt to disguise the frisk. All cops know that people wearing a wire will often hide the recorder in the crotch because most men have a homophobic dislike of frisking another guy's package. But that wasn't going to stop Alonzo. I grabbed his wrist as he went for my groin.

  "When are you gonna give this a rest?"

  He smiled and said, "You gotta get with the program, man."

  "I'm trying." I grabbed the MP5, my extra mags and Second Chance vest.

  Then he said, "I got your back out there tonight."

  It was the scariest thing he could have told me.

  Chapter 22

  Lieutenant Eastwood and the graveyard shift officers were under the bleachers, locked inside the black-and-white bus that served as his sixty-foot mobile command center. The rest of the Haven Park police force gathered with Deputy Chief Jones in the Haven Park football teams locker room under the stands where pictures of the ten Crip shooters were taped up on the coach's chalkboard. We had nothing to do but study their scowling faces and wait.

  I thought it strange that our chief, Ricky Ross, had not even made an appearance. Not at the elementary school briefing, not here. Did he even know this was happening?

  We could hear the five hundred or so people in the stands above us cheering as the ball was kicked off and the game began. The department spotters high up in the bleachers were keeping us apprised of outside activity.

  "Still all clear out here," someone said over the radio. I didn't have a clue who the spotters were.

  "We got a good complement of Locos roaming the stands. They're mostly in their regular black gang coats with blue neck scarves, so watch out for them," the spotter said.

  The tension inside the locker room was growing. It was hard to sit in twenty pounds of Kevlar and wait to go into action. I tried to stay calm, but was overdosing on a mixture of stomach bile, anxiety and adrenaline. Even though I was flacked, I knew that if I was a target, my own teammates could cancel my pension with one head shot.

  As I
looked at the tense faces around me, I wondered which, if any, of the cops gathered with me had my kill number. I wondered which one was Officer Oscar Juarez.

  "We got bogeys entering the parking lot," a spotter said ten minutes later. "Three black Lincoln Town Cars. Mother ships. Four guys to a car."

  "Roger that," Talbot Jones said, then turned to face us. "Okay, Alonzo, you and your bunch are up. Remember, let this get started. Make sure these Crips get some chrome out before you go into action. We need felonies to get clean DOAs here. Once it gets going, lead enemas all around. Move out."

  We left the locker room and ran beneath the stadium seats toward the parking lot. Our operation plan had been discussed beforehand and the deadly mission was reflected on our drawn, expressionless faces. Our boots were setting up a rumble, echoing underneath the bleachers as we ran.

  Alonzo was in the lead. I was second, with the rest of the day watch strung out behind me. As we sprinted away from the football field toward the parking lot, Alonzo directed our squad with arm gestures. Some flanked right, some left, peeling off in both directions.

  We had been told to deploy into the lot, and set up a pincer movement. Then the center column, made up of myself and three other guys, led by Alonzo, would make a frontal assault and initiate a firefight away from the stands. The pincer groups would close in after the shooting started and surround the Crips, catching them in a crossfire. Once we had them contained, the swing shift would leave their position where they were protecting the stadium and bleachers and offer tactical support. Graveyard would cover critical response and swarm a position if any of us got pinned down.

  I was hanging with Alonzo, running right behind him, and soon only four of us were left in the center column, still heading straight toward where the twelve Crip shooters were supposed to be waiting in their smoked-windowed Lincolns. We were all clutching new MP5 burners in death grips as we ran. Equipment rattled, adrenaline surged.