by Kenneth Eade
CHAPTER SIX
Jack didn’t get a very warm reception at the LAPD. Luckily, since he had worked for them in the old days before his FBI career, he still knew some of the old-timers who had made their way pretty high up in the department. Jack went straight to LAPD headquarters and met with Capt. Martin Tennyson, the commanding officer of the Force Investigation Division.
“Hello Marty,” said Jack, as he stood in the doorway of Tennyson’s office.
Tennyson blew out a stream of smoke as he sprouted a full smile of nicotine-stained teeth.
“I thought it was against the law to smoke in public buildings,” said Jack.
“Not when you’re the boss.”
Tennyson crushed out his cigarette in a large tray cluttered with a collection of burned out butts, the predominant object on his desk, besides the pig-shaped lighter.
"Damn it, Jack! Is it true? You’re working for the lawyer who’s representing the cop killer?” asked Tennyson as Jack entered the wood paneled office which brimmed with trophies and pictures of the seasoned lawman with various politicians who had come and gone through the years.
“Good to see you too, Marty.”
“Hell, have a seat, Jack. It’s been a long time,” Tennyson said as he rose to shake Jack’s hand. Jack sat down in one of the velour chairs opposite Tennyson’s walnut desk.
“I don’t suppose we could talk you into working for the right side?”
“I’m working for the same thing you are, Marty – to find out the truth.”
“Once a cop, always a cop. You even still look like a policeman, Jack.”
“I get that all the time. Can I cut to the chase?”
“Yeah, we can catch up on 20 years’ lost time over a beer sometime, I hope. I can’t give you anything on the Shermer case, Jack. The D.A. has it sewed up tighter than the panties of a farmer’s daughter.”
“I have a subpoena.”
“Hell, Jack. Why don’t you just get the info from the D.A.?”
“Like you said, they’re not releasing anything until the arraignment.”
“Okay, gimme that Goddamned subpoena, then.”
Jack handed over a two-sheet piece of paper. Tennyson put on his reading glasses and looked at it as he grabbed his pack of Chesterfields from his desk and popped one out, catching it between his teeth.
“I can let you see the reports, but you can’t interview Officer Albright,” he said as he inserted the cigarette between his teeth.
“Did he make a statement?”
“Yeah, I’ll call it up now.” Tennyson picked up his marble pig-shaped lighter from the desk and lit up his cig, puffing smoke in short bursts. It was then that Jack realized that there were pigs all over his office. Statues of pigs in police garb, photos of pigs on police motorcycles, pictures of pigs putting handcuffs on bad guys, and police car models with pig heads sticking out the window.
“Pigs, Marty?”
Tennyson shrugged his shoulders and beamed.
“And I’ll need copies of the autopsy report on Shermer.”
“That you’ll have to get from the Coroner, but I can’t give you everything on this list, Jack.”
“Why not?”
“It’s still an active investigation.”
“Look, just give me what you can and I’ll let Brent Marks sort out the rest with the D.A. And there’s one more thing.”
Tennyson looked at Jack with impatience. “What?”
“What was a lone Metro unit assigned to NoHo doing on Burbank Boulevard in Sherman Oaks? That’s not exactly a high crime area, is it?”
“Not usually, but they had an assignment nearby and stopped when they saw suspicious activity. You know all cops do that, Jack. It’s either our sense of duty or our damned curiosity.”
Jack left Tennyson’s office with a modest stack of papers. Albright had completed his psychological briefing after the shooting, had been issued a new firearm, and was back in service. His statement was the most revealing.
The suspect became belligerent and violent during a routine examination for driving under the influence. He became combative and reached out and grabbed my baton, which I had withdrawn prior to the examination for my own safety when he had failed to follow verbal commands. I pulled the baton away from him and struck him on the knee to regain control. The suspect refused to be handcuffed, and I was forced to defend myself from his violent advances. The suspect then wrestled me to the ground and a struggle ensured. I subdued him, whereupon he reached for my pistol and withdrew it from the holster. I attempted to regain control of the pistol, but, before I could wrestle it away from his grip, he fired one round, which hit and killed Officer Shermer. He attempted to fire another round, but at that point, I was able to retrieve the weapon and render the suspect unconscious to prevent any more bloodshed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
William sat on the bunk in his cell at the Men’s Central Jail and looked out through the bars confining him to the three filthy walls of his cell that probably used to be white. More bars. Trash bags. Scumbags. The smell of years upon years of collective loneliness, guilt and shame was a foul mixture of body odor, bad breath, garbage and human excrement. He covered his ears to try to shut out the combined roar of talking, screaming and toilets flushing.
Sadness and misery covered William’s entire body like a heavy, dirty blanket, and the melancholy settled in his stomach like he had eaten something rotten. Come on, William, you’re gonna make it through this, he said to himself. He had always been the one who was positive. Always saw the glass half full to the point he would annoy his friends with his optimism. But this was an all-time low that he had reached in his life. There was no bright side left to look at. All that was left was despair.
“You get used to it,” said William’s bunkmate, a young man whose head was covered with matted coils of dreadlocks. “I been here for nine months.”
William didn’t really feel like socializing, but the man seemed to be trying to be friendly, so he gave a courtesy reply, “Thanks, man.”
“Besides,” said the young man. “I hear you a big ass cop killer. Ain’t nobody gonna mess wichu in here.”
* * *
Brent flipped through the pages of the police report, looked up at Jack across his desk, and took a sip of coffee. He shook his head.
“So it was William who attacked the cop and shot Shermer.”
“That’s what they say. It’s the word of a decorated officer against William and two drunk guys.”
This gave Brent pause as he thought whether his entire case would come down to a pissing contest between three black guys and one white guy in front of an all-white jury. He kneaded the coffee cup handle with his thumb and forefinger as he thought.
“But it was a routine traffic stop.”
“Lots of cops get blown away during routine traffic stops.”
“Yeah, but the guy's got six broken ribs, a broken knee, and he’s been in a coma for five days. Doesn’t that sound like excessive force?”
“I’ve been on the other side of this, Brent. William’s a big guy. You’d have to use a considerable amount of force to subdue him.”
“Yes, but that’s our whole case, isn’t it? Unreasonable force is illegal. The force used has to be reasonable under the circumstances to protect the police officers and the public.”
“And in this case, there was no public.”
“Right. Unarmed William was the public. Drunk Fenton and TJ were the public. We’re most likely going to have a jury of middle class whites. Most of them have never had a bad experience with the police. We need to spin our case so that they have to do more than just decide whether William or Albright are telling the truth.”
“How do we do that?”
“We make them feel uncomfortable about the amount of force that was used by Albright during the stop. Hey, I got something interesting from TJ during the interview.”
Brent handed Jack the disk with all the video footage on it.
; “There’s twice as much video on here than we’ve seen. Let’s get it enhanced so we can try to see more of what really happened. And let’s get an audio guy to enhance the audio track.”
“No problem.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brent hit the books to test his new theory of the case. These days “the books” didn’t mean those dusty, moldy volumes of law books that lawyers used to have to schlep off the shelves and pile onto a desk in stacks. It was all done with a keyboard and a mouse now. Brent flew through the cases, skimming them on his laptop and copying the notable ones for comprehensive reading later.
The research made it clear that the doctrine of “transferred intent” meant that if you shot at one person and hit and killed a third person, you were guilty of murder. However, if you are exercising a lawful right to self-defense when you shoot at the first person, you cannot be held responsible for the death of the third party, as you have no criminal intent to kill them. That cleared up William’s worry, but Brent’s theory of defense called for a lot more research.
As the day wore on, Brent lost track of time and stuck to the task like a bee foraging for nectar. A welcome silence came over the office after 5 p.m., as the phones stopped ringing, his secretary Melinda stopped asking questions (which always broke his concentration), and the clicking of his keyboard didn’t have to compete with any other office noises.
The cases seemed to indicate that when a police officer makes a traffic stop, he is allowed to use some degree of physical coercion to effectuate it. But the force used must be reasonable in order to effectuate an arrest, prevent escape, or to overcome resistance.
The determination of whether the force used is reasonable under the Fourth Amendment, which is intended to protect the public from unreasonable arrests and searches, requires careful attention to the facts and circumstances of each particular case, including the severity of the suspected crime at issue, whether the suspect poses an immediate threat to the safety of the officers or others, and whether he is actively resisting arrest or attempting to evade arrest by flight.
In William’s case, the suspected crime of driving under the influence of alcohol was hardly one that required a great degree of force. However, Jack did have a point in that policemen approaching unknown strangers in the middle of the night often are assaulted and even killed under the most unlikely of circumstances. Brent read on.
The 'reasonableness' of a particular use of force must be judged from the perspective of a ‘reasonable officer’ on the scene, rather than with the 20/20 vision of hindsight. That ‘reasonable officer’ is not the perfect cop, but one whose actions you would reasonably expect under any particular set of facts. As Jack noted, you also had to take into account that police officers are often forced to make split-second judgments in circumstances that are tense, uncertain, and rapidly evolving; about the amount of force that is necessary in a particular situation.
An officer's fear for his safety is a factor upon which he can reasonably rely, either for investigating further potential criminality or for containing a threat. But, an officer's use of deadly force is only reasonable if the officer has probable cause to believe that the suspect poses a significant threat of death or serious physical injury to the officer or others.
Hence, the D.A. would argue in Court that Officers Albright and Shermer approached William’s vehicle when they saw it sitting on the side of the road with the driver inside of it and two passengers outside of the car engaged in suspicious (and possibly illegal activity), which gave them the right to detain the occupants and investigate.
During the investigation, Officer Albright observed that the two occupants were intoxicated and instructed William to exit the car and perform some routine tests to determine if he was under the influence of alcohol. He became combative and tried to grab Officer Albright’s baton. William continued to act violently, making Officer Albright fear for his safety, so he attempted to subdue him. During this process, there was a struggle over Officer Albright’s gun. William seized it, fired the fatal shot, and attempted to fire another shot when Albright wrestled it away.
Brent reached for a glass of water, as he realized he was parched. Not only that, his stomach was growling. Continuing to research at this time without energy would be futile. The silence was broken by a knock on the office door.
Brent opened the door to the lovely sight of Angela Wollard.
“Angie, what a great surprise!”
“I came to invite you to a picnic,” she said, as she flew her arms around him and kissed him on the neck. The warmth of her body radiated through his as she squeezed.
“I thought picnics were for afternoons. It’s already…” He looked at his watch “…seven o’clock.”
“This picnic’s in my dining room,” she said, brushing her lovely light brown locks from her springtime green eyes. How could this invitation be refused?
“I can’t think of a better place. I’d be delighted.”
CHAPTER NINE
Judge Malcom Leonard was a tough-on-crime judge, which meant that Brent could expect him not to exhibit any leniency toward William at his arraignment. The only real order of business at an arraignment was to plead guilty or not guilty to the charge. However, it was also the first opportunity to seek William’s release on bail. Brent met with William in the holding cells behind Department 100 in the Van Nuys West Courthouse before court.
“Brent, you’ve got to get me out of here.” William looked at Brent with wide-eyed hope.
“Sorry to tell you this, William, but I don’t think the chances of getting you out before trial are very good.”
“But my family’s here. My career is here. How could they think I would run under those circumstances?”
“Your lack of a criminal record, the likelihood that you will appear at your trial, and all your appearances are all factors the judge will consider.”
“Then why do you think my chances aren’t good?”
“One of the other factors is the seriousness of the offense. Now, a judge can’t set an excessive bail no matter what the offense, but he can deny bail in a capital murder case.”
“I know it’s not up to you. Just do your best to get me out. The guards aren’t too nice to accused cop killers in County.”
“Don’t worry, William; I will. I’ll see you in there.”
Brent got up and turned to leave.
“And Brent?”
“Yes?”
“In case I don’t get out, could you please keep an eye on Sarah and the kids for me?”
“Of course, William.”
Brent took advantage of the fact that he arrived early, before the hustle and bustle of arraignment court had begun, to meet with the Assistant District Attorney on William’s case. She was a plain-looking, mousy-haired 30-something in a classic business suit, with a wire cart (like a shopping cart) full of case files. Brent summoned up all his charm, even though he felt it would be wasted on her, and took his best shot before the judge took the bench, approaching the busy woman in the midst of shuffling her papers.
“Excuse me, Ms.?”
“Heartland; Jean Heartland. Pleased to meet you, Mr.?”
“Brent Marks. I’ve got the Thomas case.”
“My most interesting one. Murder of a police officer.”
“Yes, well, that is the accusation. I wanted to discuss the release of the defendant.”
“Well, we’re going to ask for no bail.”
“I was hoping for an O.R.” This meant a release on William’s own recognizance, a request she greeted with an “Are you kidding?” smile.
“That would, for sure, get me fired. My boss would like to win the next election for District Attorney.”
“Will you stipulate to a reasonable bail?”
“Ordinarily I would ask what you thought was reasonable; but in this case, I’ve been instructed not to make any agreements, and just put it before the court.”
“And ask for no bail.”
“Right.”
Judge Leonard took the bench half an hour late. He looked impatiently through his wire- rimmed glasses at the gallery full of people of all walks of life: the front row of attorneys (whose cases would be called first, so they could move on to the next courtroom) and the jury box (loaded with prisoners; most of them who had, most likely, been here many times before). For Leonard, it was an endless stream of scumbags pleading guilty and receiving their punishment, or pretending they weren’t guilty and going on to try to find a better deal. He looked down at his overloaded calendar and called the first case.
