I looked at Bob Utley. He was supposed to jump up and object, but he said nothing. Every time I glanced at Alexa, her face was cold with fury.
"Could I have a minute with my client?" Utley finally said.
We were shown into a little six-chaired conference room that adjoined the chief's office. Bob shut the door. When he turned, his eyes weren't Santa-friendly anymore. He was staring daggers. Like all honest cops, he hated police corruption. He knew I was dirty, and it pissed him off.
"They can't--" I started.
"Take it," he interrupted.
"Admit I was on the take? That I took money to boot the case?"
"You tanked a solicitation-of-murder investigation and got into a sexual relationship with that movie star. I know it, and they all know it. Take the deal. It's a lifesaver."
"And sign away a twenty-year pension?"
"If you're convicted, you'll lose your pension anyway. If you fight this, you'll go down, Shane. They've got a very tight case hacked by videotape of you and Tiffany Roberts swapping spit all over town.'
"But--"
"Take the fucking deal! You're damn lucky the department doesn't want to eat any more bad press." His voice was rising in anger. We'd been friends for years, but I could tell he had nothing but contempt for me now.
"What's the lesser charge they're gonna accuse me of?"
"Obstruction of justice. It's a misdemeanor requiring no time served but results in your immediate resignation without benefits."
"Can't I at least have a day to think about it?"
"No. The chief said the offer comes off the table the moment this meeting is over. After tonight, you'll face the full IA charge sheet."
"How come I get the feeling you're on their side?"
"Shane, take the deal." Frustration with me was packed into every word.
"Okay, okay," I said. "Calm down."
"Okay, what?"
"I'll do it. I'll sign the damn confession."
Chapter 3
But that wasn't even the worst of it. The worst part happened outside the chiefs office just after the meeting broke up. Alexa and I were caught waiting for the elevator with the others. The rage on her face told me she was about to let me have it right there in the sixth-floor hallway despite the audience of concerned onlookers standing behind us.
"You're moving out of the house tonight, you son of a bitch."
I'd been expecting this, but her voice was so low and filled with hate, it sent a chill down my spine.
"Before tonight, nobody ever said anything about you having an affair. Of course, with that in the picture this all makes much more sense."
"Let's not go into it here, Alexa," I said softly.
"Go home. Pack up your things and get out. I'll spend tonight in a hotel. I don't want to see you when I get home tomorrow."
"Alexa, please, let's talk about this."
"Talk about what? Throwing your honor and integrity away for a few dollars and a cheap piece of bleached-blond ass?" "That's not-"
"Shut up, Shane. Be out of the house by morning. I'm hiring a divorce attorney."
Then she stepped into the elevator and punched the button. None of the witnesses to this disaster moved to get in there with her. In the face of such rage, they let her ride down alone.
After she was gone, Lieutenant Matthews turned to me. "You still have your gun and badge," he said. It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes."
"Your commander is down on five. He came in specially at the chiefs request to accept your resignation and equipment. We can take the stairs."
So I left them all standing there. The rawboned, ash-blond fed, the city attorney, the Legal Affairs guy and my worthless POA--the whole seemingly ungrateful mess. I followed Lieutenant Matthews down one flight of stairs to Homicide Special.
As I entered the squad I saw the old mismatched cubicles, borrowed from other departments, the bric-a-brac of felony fliers and fugitive want notices pinned on the cork walls. The metal desks and clashing styles of cribbed office furniture. It had once seemed comfortable and familiar. Now it felt as cold as a doctor's examination table. There were only one or two cops working late, because at midnight this place wasn't like other squad rooms. One of the nice perks about Homicide Special was, except for the long hours we spent when a new case was breaking, the unit operated mostly on a day-shift mentality.
The lights were on in Jeb Calloway's office and I could see him through the glass--a five-foot eight-inch muscle freak with a black shaved bullet head. He was originally from Port-au-Prince and, because he was a popular CO with a ripped muscular body, we called him the Haitian Sensation. He'd been my boss for two years and he'd always given me a fair shake. But not tonight. I wasn't counting on anything tonight.
Lieutenant Matthews and I entered Jeb's office and he immediately got to his feet and handed me a sheet of paper.
"That's a Surrender of Property receipt for all your city-issued equipment. I already got your two-way radios and homicide books out of your desk. I'll need you to have a meeting with Sally Quinn at nine tomorrow to pass over any outstanding case information she doesn't have." He was all business. No Sorry about this, no What the hell happened, Shane? Just, Here's the property sheet. Get the hell out of here.
I read the one-sheet. "Some of this stuff is at my house or in my car at home," I told him.
"You can sign it tonight and bring it all in and leave it with Sally tomorrow. I'll be at the chief's weekly meeting."
"Okay."
"I'll take your gun and badge now," he said.
I pulled them off my belt and laid them on his table. Almost twenty years on the job and in a second it all ended with that simple statement. We performed the receipt-of-badge signing ceremony.
"Anything else?" I asked. And then came the one comment that told me he cared.
"You fucked up big, Shane. I can't believe you could be so stupid."
"Right." I turned and left.
Lieutenant Matthews didn't stick around to drive me home.
He had a detonator on his liver that needed a barstool. One of the IOs drove me, the one whose name I couldn't remember. I sat beside him in the same maroon Crown Vic. We rode in silence until just before we hit the freeway, when he glanced over and saw I hadn't clicked up. He gave me a piece of advice that would define my life for the foreseeable future.
"Better fasten your seatbelt for the ride," he told me.
Chapter 4
The heavy rain had let up by the time I got home, lessening to a gentle ocean mist.
I sat on the back porch with Franco, our adopted marmalade cat, on my lap. Franco was a midnight prowler and could definitely pick up a victim s vibe. He sat there feeling mine, keeping me company even though the gentle mist was beginning to soak us both.
I knew the best way to deal with my loneliness and sense of loss was to keep moving forward, not to look back or self-examine. I had to stay on this treacherous path I had for some reason chosen. Nonetheless, missing Alexa and not being able to confide in my son, Chooch, was unbearable. He was away at college on a football ride. I knew it was best to just walk the walk. Tomorrow I would begin my job search. I would start the hopeless task of applying to other incorporated cities around L. A., looking for work as a police officer, which was the only job I enjoyed or understood how to do.
Td known this was all coming, so I'd already looked on the Internet and had found a few departments in the area that were currently hiring--places like Pasadena, Long Beach and Santa Monica. But I knew that the real reason for my dismissal would be immediately posted on a secure Internet site called POLITE, which is an acronym that stands for Police Officers Legal Incident Termination Evaluation. When accessed with a password, POLITE would notify sister departments of the circumstances surrounding any police officer's firing. The official word was I'd been fired for misdemeanor obstructing justice, but I knew the felony case tampering charge and affair with the Hollywood actress I was supposed to be
investigating would be on that Web site in all its prurient glory, blocking any further legitimate police employment. I had to try nonetheless. I needed to go through the steps.
When all else failed, my last stop would be the City of Haven Park because everybody in law enforcement knew that the Haven Park PD would hire anybody.
I carried Franco into the house and dried him off with a bathroom towel. He looked up at me with concern in his savvy yellow eyes. They say cats have no expression, but Franco could definitely communicate. We both knew I was in deep shit.
I finally flopped down on the bed and Franco stuck close, lying in the hollow beside me. I'd found him starving in Carol White's apartment after she'd been murdered and had rescued him. Now it seemed, instead of going out and prowling for lady cats, he had my back, or at least my side. Then he nuzzled me and licked my hand. Cat affection. You know you're down to last straws when your only emotional support comes from a cat.
The next morning, I dressed in a suit, then collected my city-issued gear, took my uniforms out of the closet, folded them and stuffed everything into a bag with my Maglite, cuffs, reg book, and shoulder rovers.
I packed a second personal bag with my shaving gear and a few clothes, grabbed some job-hunting duds, a blazer and a pair of slacks, and put them in the trunk of my car. Then I took one last walk around the canal house. I'd bought this place before I ever met Alexa, but now had to find a lonely hotel someplace.
Just as I was about to leave, I heard the front door open. I went into the entry and found Chooch standing there with his backpack over his shoulder. He seemed shocked to see me.
"You . . . whatta you ... I came to pick up some laundry Mom did for me."
"Son, I need to talk to you."
"Leave me alone," he said and pushed past me.
He headed toward his room, which was a space we'd remodeled for him, turning our two-car garage into a third bedroom after his girlfriend Delfina's family died and she'd moved in with us. Now Del was living in a freshman dorm at USC and Chooch was in his second year there. He was currently playing third-string quarterback for the Trojans, but was moving up the depth chart. Needless to say, he was a big guy. Six-four and a half, two thirty. But more than being big physically, he was big emotionally. He and Alexa were the reason I'd survived my dark, dangerous period. I had invested a lot of myself in Chooch, but more than that, he had invested in me. Now I could tell that, because of what had just happened, and because of what Alexa had obviously told him, everything had changed.
"Chooch, I need to talk to you about this," I persisted.
"I talked to Mom. I know what happened," he said. He was pulling folded laundry out of a basket, shoving it angrily into a canvas bag.
"You don't know my side of it," I said. Of course, when you got right down to it, I really didn't have a side.
"Okay." He turned to face me. "Is it wrong what they're saying? Did you take money and have . . . and do things with . . ." He stopped, his face contorted in pain.
"Son, there's more to it. You'll understand it all one day."
"Just tell me you didn't do any of that," he challenged.
"I can't, Son. I wish I could, but I can't."
"Then get out of here, Dad. Leave me alone. Everything you ever told me, all that advice on how to live my life and be a man, was bullshit. It was all a lie. I don't ever want to see you again." He slammed the bedroom door in my face.
I stood there for several moments, unsure what to do. I wanted to go in and tell him he was wrong, but I couldn't. There was nothing I could say. Finally, I just walked out and got into my Acura MDX. I took a long moment to collect my thoughts. Then I heaved a deep sigh to try to settle myself down. I put the car in gear and pulled out. I was so upset I could barely breathe as I drove on still-damp streets under a cloudless blue sky heading back downtown toward Parker Center.
The meeting in the chiefs office and the deal I'd made was supposed to be a closely guarded secret. The idea was that my resignation over a misdemeanor was a situation that wouldn't provide any recriminations or public scandal. But I wasn't three steps out of my car in the Glass House garage before an old friend of mine from Robbery-Homicide walked past me without even saying hello. His vibe was toxic. He knew.
More of the same followed as I entered the elevator and took the short ride up to five. Eyes were averted. My hellos went unanswered. This is not the way you treat a colleague who made a mistake and lost some evidence.
The secret we had all sworn to in the chiefs office was out. Everybody in the building knew I'd been accused of sleeping with Tiffany Roberts and had taken money to boot her solicitation-of-murder case. The entire ugly mess had leaked in less than ten hours. Who was it that said if three people are trying to keep a secret, two of them had better be dead?
When I walked through Homicide Special I was greeted by an awkward silence. Even people on phone calls hung up and looked angrily over at me. I found my way to the cubicle that Sally and I shared. She was sitting there looking like my crime had somehow also been hers. Eyes down, humiliated, frosted reddish blond hair catching and reflecting the fluorescent overhead lights. When she turned her freckled face up to me, her normally sunny expression was gone. She looked different. Hard to explain. Her demeanor was so altered I was seeing her as a different person.
"Hi," I said.
"Right," she responded. "I've been through your murder books Cal left for me. I think I got most everything I need."
I put the bag full of my city police possessions on my chair. "You want to go over any of the cold cases?" I asked.
"Not this morning. If I need anything, Fve got your cell number."
"Listen, Sally--"
"Don't, Shane, okay? I don't want to hear it." She was talking loudly enough that Jim Diamond and Don Stonehouse in the next cubicle were able to hear it all. She was talking loud on purpose. She needed everybody to know she wasn't part of my corruption. She had her own career to worry about.
"See ya," she said. "You can leave your stuff there. Til give it to the captain. He's at the chiefs weekly COMSTAT meeting." "Right."
I got up and walked out of the cubicle.
I wanted to keep moving forward, wanted to get my job apps started, so I left Parker Center and took the 110 Freeway to the Pasadena Police Department, which was twenty minutes east from the interchange downtown and was located behind a beautiful domed turn-of-the-century city hall.
The PD administration building was in an old-style structure with magnificent two-story glassed-in stone arches. I found the personnel office and sat across from a uniformed sergeant. When I told her I was recently off the LAPD for personal reasons and was looking for a job in Pasadena, she quickly entered a secure password, logged in to POLITE and found me on the site.
I don't know exactly what was written there, but her face hardened. Suddenly we were just going through the motions --fill this out, sign that. I left twenty minutes later with no hope of ever being employed there.
Long Beach was the same deal. So was Santa Monica. Except in that quaint beach city the personnel officer was an old sergeant with six three-year stripes on his uniform sleeve. We were about the same vintage and I saw a flash of sympathy pass through his gray eyes. He told me Santa Monica PD wasn't looking for anybody with my qualifications right now, which of course was B. S. But then he took an ounce of pity on me.
"Why don't you try Haven Park?" he suggested. "They'll hire guys with bad POLITE write-ups."
"I was thinking about that," I answered. "But isn't their starting scale like really low? Less than fifty-five thousand a year?"
"You want to stay in law enforcement, that's your best bet." Then he leaned forward. "Listen, Scully, you got some serious shit on you." He pointed at the computer screen in front of him. "You're wasting your time here or on any other legitimate department. Haven Park's your only shot."
I thanked him and left.
No luck in the Valley or at the sheriff's department, but I put in my
application everywhere just the same. I had twenty years of service on the LAPD and two Medal of Valor citations, but because of what was posted on POLITE, nobody was going to give me a second look. Regardless, I had to apply everywhere else first. Had to go through the steps.
Tomorrow, I would go to what had been called by the press "the most corrupt police department in California."
Tomorrow, I'd give the dreaded Haven Park PD a try.
Chapter 5
I spent the night at a downtown hotel. The Biltmore on Grand. I can't even remember what the room looked like, I was that upset.
The next morning, I dressed in my charcoal-gray suit, a fresh shirt and tie. I got my Acura out of the parking garage beneath the hotel and loaded all my stuff from home in the trunk and began the short four-mile trip into downtown L. A. where the tiny, one-square-mile, incorporated city of Haven Park was located.
I took the freeway past the City of Commerce with its rail yards and warehouses. On the other side of the freeway were the small, incorporated cities of Maywood and Cudahy. I left them behind, finally getting off on Ortho Street. How fitting, I thought, to be traveling into a criminal cesspool on a street named after a fertilizer. I turned left and, after driving about a mile, took another left on Lincoln Avenue and I was in Haven Park. Only it looked more like a small town in Mexico, or at the very least, a Texas border town. Td read somewhere that the population of Haven Park Was u largely made up of illegal aliens. Thirty thousand Hispanics living in a one-square-mile stucco town.
As I drove down the main drag, I saw nothing but urban sprawl, most of it run-down businesses that had been painted in bright south-of-the-border colors--yellows, greens and oranges. Most of the building signs were in Spanish. I passed the Mendoza Clinica Del Dentista, a yellow one-story building with heavily barred windows. Most people run from a dentist's office, but Dr. Mendoza was worried about people trying to break into his. A huge King Taco on one corner advertised TENEMOS TACOS DE POLLO, and under that was a sign for Mexican ribs.
On the Grind (2009) Page 2
