by David Putnam
The driver rolled two times and came up running like some kind of circus acrobat. He ran right across our path, headed westbound.
Good gunned our car and jerked the wheel, trying hard to hit the suspect. He just missed him. The patrol car banged over the curb. I bounced and hit my head on the ceiling. Mr. Freeman moaned, “Lordy, lordy.”
Good brought his gun up with his right hand crossed over his left arm and rested it on the windowsill as he horsed the steering wheel one-handed. He lined up on the running suspect and fired. The noise exploded in the interior of the car. Bright light from the muzzle flashed the night in a strobe as he fired again and again until his gun clicked empty.
Mr. Freeman moaned and moaned, only now it came out muffled.
Behind us, more shots went off. I spun in my seat.
To our rear, the Hornet, without a driver, veered off and crashed into a block wall. A Lynwood black-and-white came up in the street we’d just left, and slowed. The deputy stood on the sill of his open passenger door shooting at the occupants of the crashed Hornet.
Good jerked the wheel hard. A split second before I turned to look forward, my mind clicked in and identified the deputy doing the shooting.
Sonja.
Good gunned the big Dodge Diplomat, spinning the back tires in the grass, trying to gain traction to run down the suspect in front of us.
Cordite filled our car like a fog bank, bitter to the taste.
I held on to the spotlight handle and the upright shotgun in the rack. I needed to get free of this crazed man, to get back to Sonja, to see if she was okay.
We gained speed, dodging full-grown cypress and pine. “Stop. Stop.”
Good paid me no mind, his eyes intense, his mouth a straight line. He only took in one thing: the man who ran in his headlights, the car eating up the distance in between.
I braced for impact.
The suspect juked at the last second and disappeared into the darkness off to the left. Good missed him by no more than a breath. Good jerked his head to look over his shoulder, his third or fifth mistake of the evening.
Without the driver’s attention, the car hit a dip, a deep one. The bottom dropped out of my stomach as gravity grabbed hold and pulled. The next second, I turned weightless.
The engine roared.
The tires spun free.
The car came down on something hard and immovable. I crashed into the ceiling. The world flickered on and off, then stayed on.
We’d come to a complete and abrupt stop. I didn’t know how. Everything had gone quiet except for the ticking and hissing car. I opened my door and fell out onto the wet grass that had once been someone’s front yard. I switched on my flashlight. Steam and smoke roiled out from the undercarriage.
Good yelled, “My gun, my gun. I can’t find my gun.” He floundered on the ground in the wet grass on his hands and knees on the other side of the car.
The suspect might not have run off. He might’ve stayed close and now lurked in the area looking for a little retribution. And Good didn’t have his gun. Worse, he’d told everyone within hearing range he didn’t have a gun.
I stumbled around the front of the car. For some reason the headlights stood out higher than normal. The car teetered a little. I looked underneath. We’d come down on the stump of a huge tree. The entire undercarriage looked mangled and shoved to the back, the transmission and drive train in ruin.
I grabbed onto Good, shook a little sense into him. I pulled my backup gun from my ankle holster and told him, “Here, cover us, I’ll find your gun.”
“No, gimme your service weapon.” He reached to grab the larger gun in my holster. I shoved him away. “Kiss my ass. Now cover. I’ll find your gun.”
He hesitated. I put my flashlight into his face. He flinched and brought his arm up, the distraction enough to pull him out of his crazed funk and back to reality. He brought his arm down, his eyes going wide. “Hey, hey, you better back me up on this. You hear me? Come on, let’s get our story together.”
He’d gotten caught up in all the excitement of the chase, the adrenaline of the violence, and violated ten or fifteen department policies, several of which carried enough weight for termination and even criminal charges: involvement in a pursuit while transporting a prisoner, shooting from a moving car, shooting with a transport in the car, crashing said car with a transport, totaling the car, leaving a deputy involved in a foot pursuit. The list went on and on.
“I’m not backing you on this. There’s nothing for it. It is what it is.”
He grabbed my arm. Something evil flashed in back of his eyes. For a moment I thought he might raise my own backup gun, point it at me, and shoot. I put my hand on the stock of my gun. “How,” I asked, “are you going to make this something it’s not? Not with a witness in our backseat.”
His head jerked to the side, to the back window of the patrol car. His mouth made a little “O” as he just started to realize the full ramifications of his actions and the mess he’d stepped in.
“Bruno, hey, buddy, you gotta back me up on this. You gotta help me out here or I’m totally fucked.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SIRENS FROM ALL directions started to converge on our area.
I moved the flashlight around in the front driver’s compartment, which smelled of fresh hamburger grease and hot sauce and shattered tortilla. It looked like a taco bomb had gone off inside. Bits of lettuce and taco shell stuck to everything, the ceiling, the dash, the windshield, and the upright shotgun. I couldn’t find Good’s handgun. I backed out and shined the light on my already wrinkled uniform, now further soiled with ground hamburger grease and taco sauce. I went to the back door and opened it.
The back seats in all the cop cars are not secured to the bottom bulkhead like in civilian cars. Every shift, the deputies are required, by policy, to look under the backseat to ensure that no suspect left any contraband, weapons, drugs, or—many times—identification. Without identification, they can’t be identified when booked and can give a false name.
The backseat sat on top of Mr. Freeman. He must’ve really banged around when the unit went airborne and landed violently. I lifted the bench seat off and helped him struggle to get out. Good’s revolver sat on the floor underneath Mr. Freeman. I opened the carriage, kicked out the expended shells, and reloaded his gun with my speedloader. In the back of my mind, I worried about putting my fingerprints on his weapon. I handed him back his gun and grabbed my backup out of his hand.
I took the handcuffs off Mr. Freeman and helped him sit down cross-legged on the ground. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
Good stepped in close, grabbed my arm, and in a harsh whisper said, “You idiot. If he’s not hurt, you’re gonna give him the idea that he could be. He’ll sue our ass off whether he’s hurt or not.”
I jerked my arm away. I went down on one knee and said, “If you’re hurt, it’s okay, we’ll get you some medical aid.”
He rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had chafed him. “I think I’m okay, Deputy Johnson. My back aches a little, but it ain’t nothin’ a little E and J won’t take care of.”
E and J, the brandy of choice in the ghetto.
I stood. “Excellent, that’s good. I have to go over there for a few minutes. You sit here, I’ll be right back.” I needed to go check on Sonja.
He grabbed the material to my pant leg. “Don’t leave me here.” He looked up at Good.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right, that’s probably not the smartest idea.”
Good flicked his hand in the air. “I wouldn’t do nothin’ ta the puke. Don’t insult me. In fact, I’m all for letting him go.”
“What, and add an escaped prisoner to the long list of offenses?”
My words stunned him for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “Nah, we just say we never had him.”
Mr. Freeman struggled to his feet. “I’m good wit dat.”
I shook my head. “Good, you told them on the radio you were ten-fif
teen with one for GTA. It’s on the log and recorded on the radio.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right.”
I took my cuffs out and handcuffed Freeman in the front instead of the back. “Come on, you can come with me.” I grabbed my posse box with all my report forms, and we headed back to the street we left when Good started his Wild West show, shooting from the window and playing cowboy and Indians with the patrol car.
Good fell in beside us and shifted his tone to gracious, which did not work for him at all. He said, “Hey, Mr. Freeman, what exactly did you see from the back? I mean, you were under the seat and all when we found you.”
“It’s Mista Freeman now? What happened ta puke?”
“Well, you don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
I stopped. “Good, go back and wait by our car. There’s at least one suspect on the loose, and we left the shotgun in the rack.”
Good looked at me and then at Mr. Freeman.
Through the trees we’d dodged while trying to run down the suspect, red and blue lights from the arriving cop cars reached out to us. Good nodded, turned, and went back. I gently took hold of Mr. Freeman’s arm and started walking.
After a few steps, I said in a quiet tone, “What exactly did you see?”
He stopped before we got any closer to the mob of cars building over on the street. “Whatever you want me to ’ave seen, Deputy Johnson.”
“No, I don’t want you to lie. I want you to say exactly what you saw.”
He hesitated. “Ahite den. Nothin’. I ain’t gonna throw my dog in ta this fight. In all dat mess back dere, bouncin’ all round, all I saw was dat metal cage and da flo and the roof and the flo.”
I nodded. “Maybe it’s better that way.”
He pointed back the way we’d come. “But dat man, back dere, he’s got an ugliness inside, an awful bad ugliness.”
“I won’t argue with you on that one.”
We made it to the street. Trainee Woods came running by. “Hey,” I said.
He stopped, looked at me, and then at the mess on my uniform. He looked up the street where the Hornet sat mashed into the wall, surrounded by uniforms. He wanted to go see and be a part of it all.
“Sorry, man,” I said. “I need you to take this ten-fifteen, put him in the back of your unit, and stand by the car. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I pulled out the booking app from my posse box. “Here’s his booking paperwork. He can’t go to Lynwood and has to go to LCMC.”
Woods’ face fell even more. He knew what that meant: hours and hours at the hospital when all he wanted to do was get into the action.
He took hold of Freeman’s arm and escorted him back the way he’d come.
Now it was my turn to be conflicted. I looked up the street at the mashed-up Hornet and Indian Joe’s unit right behind it. Bullet holes in the Hornet stood out in the bright light from all the sheriff units’ spotlights. Four hits out of six—not bad shooting with both cars moving.
Sonja had been in an officer-involved shooting. I had to see how she fared. She’d be emotional. I looked back at the departing Freeman and Deputy Woods.
Down by Fernwood Avenue, an ambulance turned up the street. Someone was hurt. Maybe Sonja.
“Hey, Woods?”
Freeman and Woods stopped and looked back. “Yeah?”
“You gotta cite book?” Of course he did, all trainees did. I hurried over to him.
“Yeah, sure.” He smiled.
“Then cite him for GTA, grand theft auto. Cite him for CVC, California Vehicle Code 10851 with a regular in-custody court date.”
His smile disappeared. “Can we cite for that? It’s a felony. I don’t think we can cite for felonies.”
“We can’t. Put my name on it.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Mr. Freeman, I’m crawling way out on a limb for you. You better show up on that court date or I’ll be mad as hell and I’ll personally hunt you down. And you won’t like me when I’m mad.”
“No, no, I’ll be dere, I promise. Thank you, Deputy, thank you.”
I uncuffed Freeman. “You got this now, Woods?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two paramedics from the ambulance hustled by, pushing a gurney that rattled and shifted under the wheels. I quick-walked alongside them. “Who’s hurt?” I asked.
The older one with thinning brown hair said, “It’s a deputy.”
“Which one?”
“All we know is that there’s been a shooting and that a deputy’s down.”
Sonja.
I didn’t wait for them. I ran on ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I CAME UP on a concerned Joe Lopez, who stood over a deputy on the ground.
Sonja.
I went down on one knee. The first thing I noticed was breath. Her lungs expanded and exhaled. The second thing I noticed was her expression: anger. Her eyes blazed.
“You okay? What happened? You shot?”
“Ah, Bruno, I fucked up. I did. I really fucked up this time.” She rocked back and forth, both hands holding her foot. I knelt and put my arm around her. It felt good to touch her. The relief that she wasn’t hurt made me almost giddy.
Indian Joe leaned down, took hold of my arm, and pulled me away. “Come on, come on, we gotta talk.” His eyes dropped to my shirt. “What the hell happened to your uniform?”
Oh boy, I didn’t like his tone. “I’ll be right back, kid. I’ll just be right over here.”
I went with Indian Joe to the other side of the patrol car. “What happened? She shot in the foot?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” His words came out a little harsh, angry, and in a rush. “I don’t think she’s hurt bad, maybe a sprained ankle. I don’t think it’s broken. We were coming up the street and—”
Johnny Cane came hustling by and didn’t slow. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “Lardass’s here. I’m grabbin’ my trainee and we’re splittin’.”
Lardass was Lieutenant Rodriquez’s nickname.
“Quick,” I said to Indian Joe. “Tell me what happened.”
The paramedics caught up.
“Right here,” I said to them. “It’s her ankle.”
They stopped, took their gear off the gurney, and set it down by Sonja and went to work. She said, “Leave me alone. Get the hell away from me.”
Indian Joe said to me, “I’m tryin’ to tell ya.”
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t take my eyes off Sonja. “Okay, so tell me.”
Indian Joe talked and moved his hands as if they came attached to his words. “Like I said, we were coming up the street right here. There was a unit in front of us, right behind the suspect’s car.”
“That was me and Good.”
“Right, but I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was Ciotti. I couldn’t see what you guys were seeing because we were still tryin’ ta catch up. All of a sudden your car veers off and shots were fired. I couldn’t tell if you guys were taking rounds or if you did the shooting. But you couldn’t’ve been shooting. Not from the moving car, right? Tell me you didn’t shoot from your moving unit, right?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Ah, shit. Good. Good, that dumb son of a bitch. You gonna cover for him?”
I ignored his question. “What happened?”
“All right, so I was paying too much attention to what happened at my left, looking at you guys as your shots went off. My trainee—”
“Sonja.”
“Right, Kowalski. All of a sudden shots went off right in my own car. In my own damn car right next to me. I look to my right and Kowalski has her door open. She’s standing on the sill shooting over her open door. Shooting at the suspect vehicle as it crashed into the fence. I swear it happened in two seconds. That’s all, two, nothing more than that.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Yeah, exactly. I say what the hell and slam on the brakes. Kowals
ki gets shoved into the door and falls to the ground. She’s moanin’ like she’s hurt. I don’t know if she’s been shot. So I put it out. I put out officer down.”
“Ah, man, I didn’t hear that go out over the radio. No wonder we got us a full-blown circus here.”
“Yeah, and I don’t know how I’m going to cover this, Bruno. She was shooting from a moving patrol car. I can hear Lardass now: ‘This ain’t Custer’s Last Stand, what the hell you doin’ lettin’ your trainee shoot like that?’”
“You gotta cover for her. She probably heard Good shooting and thought the shots came from the Hornet.”
“Yeah, that’s what she said.”
“Well, that’ll work, she did what she thought was right. She’ll just take a hit on the policy violation, maybe a letter in her training file. At the worst, a written reprimand.”
“What about me, Bruno? What about me? She was in my car. I’m gonna take a hit for failure to supervise. They’ll take away my bonus status.”
“No, you won’t. Rodriquez is gonna have his guns loaded and aimed at Good. What Good did is gonna overshadow everything else, by far.”
Indian Joe finally smiled. “Really? Did he really screw the pooch that bad?”
I hit him on the shoulder. “Worse. You got nothin’ to worry about. Not with Good on the job.”
Only I had a larger problem. I had to work as a street cop and depend on the other deputies to back me up. If I didn’t back Good on his Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, I’d be labeled a snitch. No one would work with me, and on the street I’d turn into a danger to myself and others. Department supervision would eventually label me a hazard and ship me back to work MCJ, Men’s Central Jail, to toil the rest of my career in that dark, smelly hole.
I moved back around to Sonja. The paramedics helped her onto the gurney. I took her hand. She shoved me away. “Not now, Bruno. We’ll talk later.”
I nodded to no one and looked at the paramedic. “How’s her foot?”
