"Let me say it this way, a little bit of knowledge can get you dead."
Chapter 12
At first, I was surprised how little Lewis Banks had to tell us. Or wanted to tell us. He looked nice on camera, and we probably got a few usable bites from him when he talked about policing the neighborhood where he grew up, about arresting people he went to school and church with, or, worse, seeing his neighbors victimized by drugs and crime. He called the dealers scum, parasites, and various forms of vermin, but he also seemed to have compassion for addicts because he felt that many of them were victims of their environment. He hated the gangs.
But all he had to say about Jesus Ramon's disappearance was that there were flyers all over town within twelve hours of his exit from Mike's car, and the police had a bulletin to be on the alert for him. Lewis knew Mayra and Julia from church; he was an altar boy when they were all kids, and he had helped raise money to pay for Mayra's wheelchair and medical expenses. Through church outreach he had spent considerable time with them, he said. Thought of them as family, he said.
I asked him about the brotherhood of police. How much of that closeness was reality and how much was myth?
"Probably half and half," he said. "When you ride patrol with a guy for a while, you get real close for that time. But we get moved around regularly, especially since the consent decree. Once you get transferred, or your partner does, you start to lose touch. You run into each other at reunion steak-frys, but it's never the same. You can never get as close again as you were when you spent whole shifts together in a patrol car. Not like the way it was when Mike was a patrolman working out of Seventy-seventh."
"But you watch over each other," I said. "I've seen firsthand how you folks pitch in to help when a policeman dies or gets hurt."
He nodded. "We look after each other."
He wasn't going to tell war stories that could embarrass either himself or the department. I was ready to cut him loose, but I asked one more question, and hit a little jackpot. He mentioned that he had been an altar boy, something Julia also mentioned. Seemed like a good character issue to talk about, cops and God. I asked him whether sometimes things he needed to do while on patrol interfered with the teachings of his church.
He canted his head and thought for a moment before he responded. There was a lot going on in his face while he worked out his answer.
"There was a time," he said, "I turned my back on my faith. I was a young cop, hard-drinking, hard-driving. Thought I knew everything. Thought I had the world by the tail."
He needed to take a breath, shake off some wave of emotion.
"Did something happen to change that?" I asked him.
He nodded. "A lot of things happened, one right after the other. Rodney King, the verdicts, the riots. You gotta add O.J. Simpson, because that verdict was like the city dumping garbage on the cops. Couple of bad police scandals made things worse, Rafael Perez at Rampart, then Boni Erquiaga. The feds came in about then and took over the department. Why do they call it a consent decree? What did we consent to? They should call it federally occupied LA."
"This was in the mid-nineties," I said.
He nodded. I thought he was just getting wound up, but he took a couple of deep breaths, calmed himself down.
"For guys like me on the job, that was a very difficult time." He dropped his volume, softened his tone, emotions contained by sheer will, but the message was still rife with anger.
"A lot of guys left the department," he said. "Couldn't take the pressure, couldn't do their job right shackled by the feds, and crime rates soared. Some guys took it out on the community. Others took it out on the people they love."
He looked directly at me. "Me, I took it out on the people I love. I admit I was a devil to live with back then, so full of crap. My pretty wife left me, took the kids; they hated me. My mom asked me not to come by one Christmas if I couldn't behave right, stay sober, keep my mouth shut."
"You're still on the job," I said. "What happened?"
"Some guys started a prayer group," he said. "One of the sergeants in Hollywood was an ordained preacher. He started the group. Met a couple of times a week to read the Bible and pray. Talk things out. A prayer circle, he called it."
"Do you still attend the prayer meetings?" I asked.
"No. Some of the group got pretty hardcore about religion, Bible thumpers, full of righteousness and revenge. After a while, I went back to my old parish, confessed my sins to the family priest, started taking my mom to church on Sundays, like when I was a kid. Then my kids started coming with us, then my wife. About that time, the prayer group broke up. But it helped a lot of us, for a while. Got us on a better path."
I thought that was a good place to end. Very poignant. I had heard officers express similar feelings any number of times. What he said could be good as foundation. The time frame worked. About the time Jesus disappeared, Banks's prayer group was breaking up, a new normality under the consent decree had settled over the LAPD.
I thanked Banks for talking with me, escorted him out.
After I saw him to the parking lot, I returned to my office to find Guido sitting at my desk thumbing through one of the three-ring binders full of photocopies of Mike's records and notes and clippings that the interns had assembled.
"Ballsy," Guido said. "Those women were putting copies of Mike's stuff in binders, and Kenny walks in on them."
"Could have been embarrassing," I said. "But all he could see was the blank back sides of the copies and office workers doing office work. Fergie had things under control; she told him it was end-of-the-month report time."
"What do you think of Banks?" he asked.
"Can't decide," I said. "Maybe he's curious, maybe he wants to be in the movies. And maybe he's flirting."
"With you?" He chuckled.
"Or you," I said.
"Doubt it," he said, pretending to read one of Mike's pages. "Anyway, I think he has some competition."
I looked at him, hard. I'd heard that particular tone in his voice before, part competitive sibling, part jealous suitor. Relationships among long-term co-workers can get very complicated as work and private lives intersect; we often spend more time with colleagues than with family, as Banks had said.
"Just say it," I said.
"All right." He stood up to be at eye level with me. "First, I'm happy to see some flicker of your old self again. As much as I hate it when you tickle me, it's a good sign when you're being your obnoxious self again."
"Thanks," I said. "And?"
"This guy, Early. I don't think he's up to your standards."
"Standards for what?" I said, knowing exactly where he was headed. "For neighbor? For white knight? Or for technical expertise and support?"
"You know what I mean."
"Ohhh." I pulled out that single syllable. "For the old hootchy-kootch, Guido?"
"Shut up."
"You'll always be my first love."
He finally smiled, if sardonically. "Doubt that very much."
"He has a lot of talent," I said
"In this town, that and a nickel..."
"Do you listen to yourself?"
"I try not to," Guido said. He took a breath and set down the binder. "So, Mike decided a long time ago that Jesus is dead."
"So it seems," I said. "If the story Mike gave about dropping off Jesus downtown is true, then Jesus probably disappeared from that general area pretty soon after Mike dropped him. Auntie Mayra, with whom he shared drugs, took a dose of pure heroin when she finished work that day, and damn near died. We know they shared drugs. What if she gave some of the pure heroin to Jesus, his usual cut, say. And he found a quiet place to shoot up, as she did. Only she got found in time, and he never was found at all."
Guido looked like a bobblehead doll, waiting for me to finish. "Last night, when Mayra and Julia were talking, that's exactly what I was thinking. So what now?"
"We're taking a walk downtown tomorrow," I said. "I want to start at the all
ey where Jesus got out of Mike's car and try to retrace possible routes he took."
"What do you want for a crew?"
"I hoped you and I could do it alone, the way we did that report down in Chiapas all those years ago. Remember? You walk with the camera, I talk."
"I remember," he said. "A nightmare. Had to re-record sound when we got back because quality was crap. We can walk, if you want to, but let's do it right the first time. You need to be mic'd and we need a good sound guy."
I nodded. "Fine, but let's try to be as unobtrusive as possible."
"Sure. But you need to goop your face and comb your hair because I'm going to shoot you in front from time to time, Mag. I don't like the disembodied voice. You have to be there, in the picture. The damn program has your name on it, remember?"
"That's fine," I said. "Who do you want for sound? Craig Hendricks is off on an assignment somewhere."
"When do you want to take this walk?"
"Tomorrow morning."
He dropped his head. "You asking him or am I?"
"Who?" I asked, so innocent.
"Drummond."
"Guido," I said. "You want the sound guy."
"What I said earlier stands." He jabbed a finger toward me. "But he's the best field guy I know."
"Why don't you ask him?" I said. "If I ask he might misinterpret the invitation."
"So-o," he gloated, "you admit--"
"Nothing. And you'll have to get him released by the folks in News." I pulled my Thomas Guide map book off its shelf and opened it to the page for downtown Los Angeles, got a yellow legal pad and a pencil, and sat down at my desk. "You go do what you need to get ready for tomorrow, my friend. I'm going to be right here for a while."
When he was gone, Fergie put her head in the door. "I made a third copy of Mike's notes, as you asked. The courier will pick it up within the hour. It will be delivered to your lawyer's house right away."
"You're the best," I said.
"I try."
She set the day's bundle of sympathy mail on the corner of my desk, an unusually thick and irregular one.
I thanked her again and she went out, shutting the door behind her.
A tidbit I found in Mike's notes had rattled around all day long. I called Harry Young at home and caught him shortly after he got out of bed, hoping he had a good answer for that noisy little concern.
"Haven't found Nelda," Harry said. "I think she may have gotten scared after you took her picture. Looks like she took off."
"If she was smart, she did," I said. "But the reason I called is, I have a couple of questions about the good old days."
"Don't care what folks say, these are the good old days," Harry said with a chuckle.
"I've heard stories about Mike and his little posse of aiders and abettors at Seventy-seventh Street station, and the things they got away with on patrol, the way they covered for each other. The Four Horsemen they were called, or the Four Whoresmen," I said. "Were there other groups of cowboys like them?"
"Oh sure," he said. "Happens a lot less now than back when Mike was on patrol. Since the riots and all the federal oversight over the department now, cops can't get away with a lot of the stuff they used to pull in the name of keeping the peace. Guys like Mike and Roy Frady and Doug Senecal and Hector Melendez were doing their jobs the best they knew how, watching out for each other. But the way they did things just wasn't always according to the regulation book, if you know what I mean. There's a whole new culture of police since the fallout after the riots."
"Did you know Tom Medina well?"
"Medina? I knew him well enough." The question made him pause. "Worked with him for a while at Devonshire before I got sent back over to Central."
"Were you close?"
"I wouldn't say that," Harry said. "He'd been reassigned from Southeast on some disciplinary beef and I was supposed to keep an eye on him, do some retraining."
"What was the beef?" I asked.
"I'm not real sure what it was all about. Medina had a tendency to get real salty with the citizenry, had too many excessive use complaints in his jacket and got put on a 'watch' list by the Police Commission."
"Excessive use of force?"
"Yeah. He was pretty quick on the trigger," he said.
"Could it be that's why he's dead?" I asked. "Off duty officer, interrupts a robbery outside a 7-Eleven, identifies himself as a cop, gets shot. Maybe that just wasn't a smart way to handle the situation."
"Goes against training."
"You were a pallbearer at Medina's funeral," I said.
"His wife asked me. I was his last patrol partner."
"Lewis Banks was also a pallbearer."
He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I guess he was. That was, what, five, six years ago?"
"Six," I said. "Tom Medina died the week before the grand jury convened to look into the Jesus disappearance."
"Huh. Is that right?" Another pause. "Is there a connection?"
"Who knows, Harry? That's how I remembered the date, that's all. Tom died, Mike got subpoenaed, all reported in the same edition of the LA Times."
"If you say so."
"Thanks, Harry," I said.
Harry was quiet long enough that I asked if he was still on the line.
"Maggie," he said at last. "Is that what you called to ask? If I knew Medina?"
"That's it," I said.
"Sure." He sounded doubtful. "I hear your movie pals are retracing our ride-along, filming where we went. I thought you had your camera out most of the time."
"They're just filling in coverage."
"How's the project going?"
"Pretty well, I think. Thanks for all your help."
"Anything I can do for you, honey, just call."
Honey. I tried to remember how many times I had been called honey or sweetheart during the last week and a half, ran out of fingers and toes and gave it up.
Eldon Washington called. After leaving the studio, Kenny had put in a call to Eldon, asked him to take a look at Boni's employment jacket to see if the answers to my questions were there. He asked Eldon to call me if they were.
"What did you find?" I asked.
"Boni left Parker Center at twelve-thirty P.M. on January sixteenth." Eldon sounded stressed, or weary. "He called in a lunch break, and reported back at Central Station at three-thirty."
"Long lunch," I said.
"He was docked some pay and he got a beef letter in his jacket, and that's the only reason I know the time he left HQ," Eldon said. "I hope that helps you."
"It just might," I said. "Tomorrow, I'm taking a video crew downtown to retrace Jesus' last day. Can you join us?"
"On camera, on record?" He sounded doubtful.
"I promise we'll only talk about Jesus."
"Why not?"
We arranged a time and a place for him to meet us.
"Do I get the full treatment?" he asked.
"What would that be?"
"My own star trailer, makeup and wardrobe girl, personal assistant?"
"You LA cops, so Hollywood," I said.
"Did a lot of moonlighting, working security on movie shoots. I saw how it is for the stars."
"The best I can offer you is your own bottle of water."
"That'll do," he said. "That'll do just fine."
Chapter 13
We started downtown where Mike said he had left Jesus, at the mouth of an alley behind a block of commercial buildings that fronted on Broadway, near Third Street. Guido walked to my right with a handheld video camera that was connected by an umbilical to the recorder Early carried, and that picked up the radio signal from the microphone clipped to my collar.
It was an old-fashioned lash-up, but Guido and Early agreed it was the best way to both pick up my voice and filter out the street noise. The independent voice record would also make editing easier later.
In some parts of the world we might have looked like a parade, the three of us plus two interns carryin
g gear in our train and serving as security, but in downtown Los Angeles it is just awfully normal to see people walking around with video equipment.
As we walked, Guido videoed the street, catching me from time to time in his frame. I gave an unadorned narrative based on Mike's notes, later investigation reports, and my best guess, explaining where we were and why we were there, speaking in a conversational tone. Occasionally, Early would ask me to repeat something, or Guido would stop to make adjustments or to reshoot a sequence to pick up more detail, or to filter some out. Most of the time we just walked.
Mayra had run her taco business from an open-air atrium in front of a sunglasses shop on Broadway, about halfway between Third and Second Streets, less than two blocks from the alley where Mike said he dropped Jesus. We walked out of the alley, from deep shadow into bright sun, and made our way over to Broadway.
We were in the old jewelry district. Though there were still many jewelry wholesalers doing business, the area was undergoing one of its regular transformations. Broadway at street level still belonged to vendors. Though now and then there were some chain stores, most of the shops were small family businesses whose racks of wares spilled out onto the sidewalk to the very edge of the overhang of their awnings, small stores offering everything from clothes to electronics, noisy and colorful like a Third World bazaar.
Much of the ground-floor window space on the west side of the block was taken up by massive quinceanera and wedding emporia, their windows full of a fruit salad of bright, ruffled dresses with silken skirts puffed huge over stiff petticoats, proper confections to celebrate the two big transitions in the lives of young Latinas, turning fifteen, and getting married. The east side displayed imported jewelry and electronics.
On the floors above the old Orthodox jewelry mart, space that had once been manufacturing, offices, and wholesale showrooms was being converted into pricey residential lofts that most of the shoppers on the street below could never afford to live in. The ornate old movie houses on Broadway, when the street had been an elegant shopping district, were now Spanish-language churches, their mission-Baroque facades intact. When the well-to-do moved in upstairs in large enough numbers, I wondered what those old palaces would become next.
In the Guise of Mercy (Maggie Macgowen Mysteries) Page 17
