She put her eyes down. Her hands twisted, slowly annihilating the tissue. When she next spoke it was close to inaudible.
“Anyone,” she said.
I asked where her car had been parked.
“Near the corner.”
“Which corner?”
She hesitated.
I gave her my notepad and my pen. “Can you draw it for me, please? Where you were, and what you remember.”
I watched her carefully scribe the lines of the street, the position of her Camry, the path she had taken. She drew an asterisk at the point of impact, three quick uniform strokes. She handed the pad back to me. What she had drawn corresponded to the tire marks I had noted at the scene, including the jump onto the curb.
I asked how she’d heard about the party.
“Online.”
“You went with a friend, or…”
She bound two fingers in a Kleenex rope. “I was alone.”
“Do you recall how much you might’ve had to drink, prior?”
“I didn’t have anything. I had to drive home.”
“What about the gunshots? You remember hearing them?”
She went quiet for a ten-count, blinking. Then the words came tumbling out: in the backyard. Away from the dancing. That’s where she was, when the shots went off. Curled up in a deck chair, nursing her solitude, toying with getting herself a beer. Yeah, she had to drive. But she felt lame. She didn’t have to drink it. Just to have something in her hand, give the impression that she was occupied and not a completely pathetic loser.
Finding the bar deserted, she realized that the majority of the partygoers had migrated toward the front yard. She hadn’t noticed, she was in her own head, she got like that from time to time, more than was good for her.
She followed the current, ended up on the front lawn. She went up on her toes to see what the fuss was about. Next thing she knew she was running. It seemed the correct thing to do. Everyone else was.
“Did you witness any of the shots going off?”
“…no. I don’t think so. No.”
“So by the time you got to your car, the shooting was over.”
“I don’t remember. There may have been more. I don’t know. I can’t…”
Once again she lapsed into silence.
I said, “Were you scared of getting shot?”
She looked at me. “I wish I had been.”
* * *
—
BEFORE I LEFT she asked me to turn off the lights.
Down at the curb, I sat in my car, collecting my thoughts.
When it comes to determining the manner of death, intent is irrelevant. The coroner’s definition of homicide is death at the hand of another. Jasmine Gomez had died as a result of actions taken by Meredith Klaar.
But that’s a ways to go from determining criminal liability. I’m far too familiar—personally familiar—with the section of the penal code that deals with vehicular manslaughter. To qualify, you have to show negligence. Texting, or speeding, or ignoring stop signs. Intoxication makes it worse.
Other circumstances mitigate, one of which is the perception that you’re in imminent danger. To my mind, a shoot-out was about the best example imaginable. I had a hard time believing you could convince twelve people otherwise. If I were Meredith Klaar’s lawyer, I’d play the YouTube video in court. Failing that, I’d wash the blue out of her hair, put her in a drab dress, stick her up on the stand, and let her cry.
And while I’m not a lawyer, I do have a feel for how district attorneys think. I could see little upside to pursuing a criminal charge, and plenty of pitfalls. Simpler to leave the parties to hash out their grievances in civil court.
My phone rattled in the cup holder.
Luke.
Personally familiar.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Not much,” he said. “You?”
“Working.”
“Cool,” he said. “Hey, so, first off, thanks for dinner.”
A torrent of sarcastic responses rushed into my throat. I held back, thinking of something Amy had said to me while we lay in bed together on Christmas Eve.
Believe in him when you can.
She dealt with addicts, day in and day out, could calibrate her expectations. More important, she didn’t bring her entire family history to the table.
Whereas I found it hard to lower the bar for Luke. I knew. He couldn’t lean on the standard environmental excuses. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor. My parents weren’t perfect, but they weren’t reality-show-bad.
It had been my environment, too.
He’d made his choices and the rest of us had to live with them.
Do it for you Amy said. Her hand on my heart. Not for him.
I said to Luke, “You’re welcome.”
“Andrea really enjoyed meeting you guys,” he said.
I forced the words: “Us too.”
“She’s very sensitive,” he said. “You know? To the way people are? So when she feels a connection, it means a lot.”
“I’m glad.”
“So, yeah. Good food, too. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Amy’s the master. I’m the student.”
“Shit, man. Look at us, all domesticated.” He laughed. “Anyhow, I told the kids about you. They’re hella excited.”
“Which kids.”
“Late-night ball.”
“You told them I was coming?”
“I mean.” He paused. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, now. Cause if I don’t, that makes me the asshole.”
“Come on, man. Chill out.”
“Look, you want me to do you favors, that’s fine. Ask. But wait for the answer.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Believe him. When you can.
I rubbed one eye. “Remind me when you play.”
“We have a game this Saturday.”
“I have work the next day.”
“Yeah, no problem. What about Tuesday?”
“New Year’s Day?”
“Most definitely. That’s the whole point, man. Keep em busy.”
“I might be able to. I have to check with Amy.”
“Okay. Awesome. We start at eight.”
“The game, or the meditation?”
Luke laughed. “Why? You want to meditate?”
“Not really.”
“Telling you, dude,” he said. “Changed my life. Changes it every day.”
I rang off and started the engine. In the middle of San Pablo Avenue, on the median, a man sat hunchbacked on a folding stool, brandishing a sign that said WILL WRESTLE U 4 BEER. Without meaning to—I was staring into space—I made eye contact with him, and he bounded up, wiping off his jeans, making come here gestures that could have been cheerful, or hostile, or both. The line’s not always clear.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday, December 29
6:10 p.m.
There’s nothing particularly wrong with Lafayette Square, but there’s not much to recommend it, either. Westerly downtown, a lumpy grass rectangle, tot lot and bus stop, morose conifers dully envious of the skyscrapers that loom blocks away.
Not the neighborhood of the shooting. Not a hub of civic life. Why choose it for the vigil? As my high school coach used to say: Ain’t no ability like availability.
Several nonprofits had attached their names to the event, along with a real estate developer and an HMO, tragedy creating strange and opportunistic bedfellows. Sponsorship took the form of a PA setup and a vinyl banner that read OAKLAND STRONG, paralyzed in the sharp, slack air.
Short memories and low temperature
s had suppressed turnout: I estimated fifty people, mostly white, an even gender split. The overlap with the party attendees had to be significant. Scruffy ectomorphs in bike helmets, chin straps waggling as they sipped canned beer. Girlfriends side-hugged to ward off the chill. They complained about jobs. They made New Year’s plans. The mood was more anticipatory than somber, like the rootless lull that descends after an opening act vacates the stage.
I’d come early, wanting to get the lay of the land.
I joined the line formed in front of a picnic table. A woman was distributing votive candles and matchbooks branded with the name of a popular downtown brewhouse.
“Please wait,” she said, filling my hand. “We’re all going to light together.”
I took my candle and matches, and retreated to the shadow of a solitary palm tree.
At twenty past Nwodo arrived, dressed in track pants, running shoes, a navy bomber jacket with a screen-printed lion.
She plucked at my Cal sweatshirt. “Nice disguise.”
While we waited, I updated her on my progress with Jane Doe’s credit cards. “I pinged a buddy in cyber-crimes. He basically laughed at me. They get a hundred calls a day for that kind of thing.”
“How’s their solve rate?”
“I didn’t think it was polite to ask. Meanwhile, warrants are in the mail.”
“Look at you,” she said, smiling faintly.
“Like I said: an investment.”
“You’re a regular walking, talking 401(k).”
I laughed.
Nwodo told me that forensics from around the shed was proving unhelpful. There was simply too much crap to single out any one item as evidentiary. They had latent fingerprints to last a lifetime. Same went for the interior of the house.
“I was thinking of asking my sergeant for permission to release Jane Doe’s photo to the press,” I said.
Nwodo shook her head. “I already asked. Permission denied.”
As a rule, we avoid publishing pictures of decedents, and almost never so early in the investigation. But this was a bigger-than-usual mess. I’d figured the brass might loosen up.
I said, “Even for an unidentified vic?”
“Even. Maybe especially. I think they’re scared of being accused of Pretty White Girl syndrome.”
“That’s bananas.”
Nwodo shrugged.
I said, “If that’s their issue, why’d they put Bischoff on the Felton murder?”
“Instead of the black lady detective, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
A dry smile. “Who’s gonna look better solving it?”
I got what she was implying. OPD needed to rehab their image, and a white man toiling around the clock to bring the killer of a black child to justice provided more PR punch than a black-on-black solve.
“You are a cynical bastard,” I said.
“Among my finer qualities.”
By five minutes past official start time, the crowd had doubled in size, bodies continuing to collect at the edges.
“What are they waiting for?” I asked.
A ripple passed over the park.
“That,” Nwodo said, pointing.
The mayor. She’d driven up in her own car, accompanied by a single aide in the passenger seat. No City Hall posse. No security. Too arm’s-length, too police-state, contra her down-to-earth woman-of-the-people image. With a photographer trailing in her wake, she clasped elbows and inclined her head, her features fluid, intelligently gauging the need in each pair of eyes and reacting accordingly.
Now wistful, now encouraging.
She took the stage and lowered the microphone. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. We’re going to get started. Reverend.”
A black man in a clerical outfit stepped forward. “Thank you, Mayor. We come together tonight, in the depths of winter, to warm one another. We celebrate, and commemorate, young lives.”
Nwodo and I split up, circulating, attuned to anyone who didn’t fit in, who’d come alone or who held himself apart, who appeared skittish, whose demeanor betrayed excessive morbid curiosity or a noteworthy lack thereof.
“Let us make no mistake. Their loss is a loss for our whole community.”
Arms linking. Torsos swaying in response to the rhythm of the words. The concert vibe persisted: the majority of the audience had their phones up, a ghostly ocean of blue light. There was a professional film crew, too, a young man prowling the periphery with a camera on his shoulder, while an older man limped behind, holding the boom and whispering instructions into his ear.
“And yet, while we do not deny the tragedy, forgetting neither the individuals nor the void left by their departure, let us also acknowledge their power, their vast and beautiful power, to unite us.”
I slid between peacoats and overshirts, whispering excuse me, drawing glares.
“People will try to tell you that this is about one group or another,” the minister said. “They will tell you that it is about us versus them. Black versus white. Rich or poor. Friends, I stand before you and I say: refuse to accept that. Don’t let the ignorance that leads to hatred come into your heart. Banish it. Banish it, and reach out to your neighbor.”
He turned the mike over to the mayor.
“Thank you, Reverend, for those inspiring words. Lucy, if you’d like to…”
The candle-distributing woman stepped forward. “Thanks, Mayor.”
Lucy Candle-Giver wanted to let everyone know that a GoFundMe had been established to benefit the victims’ families. Donations could also be made to a memorial fund with the Greater Oakland Harmony Project, which supported musical education in the public schools, which was something she hoped we could all get behind.
I began moving up to the front of the crowd at a snail’s pace.
Before they lit, Lucy Candle-Giver was going to read the names of the victims, followed by a minute of silence. If we wouldn’t mind putting away our phones, please.
She unfolded a piece of paper; I could hear it crinkling nervously through the speaker, hear her tremulous exhale as she bent to the mike, too close. When she spoke Rebecca Ristic’s name, it belched out, overloud and distorted. A collective flinch.
“Grant Hellerstein,” she said.
From various quarters came weeping, in soft pulses.
“Jalen Coombs.”
How many people were here for Jalen Coombs?
I thought about his bloody sneakers.
I thought about my brother.
I wondered if Jalen Coombs had a brother; if they ever fought over shoes.
Looking around for Nwodo, I spotted her stationed along the opposite edge of the crowd. She was tracking the progress of the film crew: the director with his hand on the cameraman’s back, urging him to get closer, closer. I couldn’t tell if she was suspicious or simply put off by their lack of tact.
Lucy Candle-Giver said, “Jasmine Gomez.”
I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was. One week out, we had yet to release her name. You couldn’t prevent people from talking, though.
Nevertheless it felt like a violation. Her family remained out of reach.
I waited for the announcement of Benjamin Felton’s name.
Nothing. Either they didn’t know it, or they’d decided to exercise restraint when it came to a child.
“If you’ll please get out your candles.”
Lighters sparked. Matches scraped. I held mine in my hands but didn’t light.
The mayor angled toward the mike. “Careful, please, everyone.”
An ivory glow seeped up, filling in colors, carving out cheekbones and eye sockets. It was beautiful and also frightening, as though the earth itself had caught fire.
“Silence, ple
ase,” Lucy said.
Up front, five or six bodies deep, I noticed a man in a denim jacket.
Whereas most folks were holding still, with their heads bowed, his was on a swivel, swinging left and right like a harried weather vane; like he was expecting a punch from any of four compass points.
Unshaven throat; untidy fringe of hair.
Red beanie.
Same as the shooter in the video. Dane Jankowski.
Big World.
But.
How many guys in need of a haircut?
Who own red beanies?
In the East Bay?
With a close interest in the events on Almond Street?
I pocketed the candle and matches, got out my phone, thumbed on the camera.
The man glanced over his shoulder.
I snapped a photo.
Too blurry.
I edged up to try again. People were shooting me dirty looks, muttering: Douche. Meanwhile I was counting down, the minute bleeding away, to be followed by the breakup of the crowd, disorder, opportunity lost.
The guy glanced back again. I tapped the screen.
This time the image came out crisp.
With hurried, numb fingers I texted the picture to Nwodo. Shooter?
I looked up.
The guy had wrenched around to stare at me.
He started shouldering his way out of the crowd.
The minute of silence came to an end.
Over the mike, Lucy Candle-Giver said, “Thank you. Reverend?”
Without benefit of amplification, the minister began to sing “Amazing Grace.”
The guy in the beanie cleared the crowd and started across the lawn toward 11th.
I followed, dialing Nwodo. When she answered, I heard the hymn in the background, buzzy and desynced to the sound receding at my back.
“He’s moving,” I said. “Eleventh toward Jefferson.”
“Hang on, I can’t hear you. Hang on.”
A scrape; the call cut out.
Reaching the end of the block, the man hopped down to cross against the red.
All else failed, I could cite him for jaywalking.
I fixed the distance between us, advancing along the hollowed-out street. Behind me the singing dwindled. We passed a parking lot stripped bare; passed an office worker striding in the opposite direction. In their nowhere spaces—in architectural crannies, atop hot exhaust grates—the homeless lay swathed in cardboard.
A Measure of Darkness Page 11
