by John Ridley
Without thought, what Soledad should do was obvious."I should quit things. That would be the smart play. It's what they want. Just take whatever out they give me, walk away."
Gayle said nothing to that.
Soledad: "I won't. I won't do it."
"No matter how bad it gets?"
Letting her head swing free, Soledad looked around the cafe. Didn't look at anything in particular. It was motion for motion's sake. It was being wound so tight some kind of release, no matter how slight, was needed."The good thing, bad thing about being a cop: the blue wall. The idea that we all stick together. Protects you from a lot of crap, you know? A lot of crap out there. But it keeps things in too. Things bounce off the blues. You get the echo of all the quiet voices."
"And the voices say?"
"They say: Look at her. She wouldn't be here if she wasn't a woman. Wouldn't be here if she wasn't a black woman. She got handed the job. She's no good. Why do we have to make exceptions for the black woman? Course 'woman, ' 'black': They've got other ways of saying that. You hear them so often you get good at reading lips at a distance. You can read eyes too. A cool stare, a cold look. And you can read between the lines: You're a good girl, Soledad. A credit to your race, Soledad. Backhanded compliments. A slapping back of the hand. All they're saying: You're okay, Soledad, but too bad you're not one of the boys."
A little laugh from Gayle.
From Soledad: "That funny to you?"
"You first met me, didn't we have a conversation about me being too good-looking to be a decent lawyer?"
"You don't trade on your sex?"
"Trade on it? No. Flaunt it? Yeah, I do. But I'm not about to hide the fact I have the capacity to look good when sixty-eight percent of the rest of America has the capacity to eat drive-thru fast food until they blow up like stuffed pigs. And if somebody figures my good looks equal stupid… well, my rearview mirror is littered with the wreckage of people who've made that mistake." Gayle took a breath, leaned back in her chair, gave Soledad a moment to see the error of her misjudgment."You know, I'm starting to get you. Maybe you're not always right, you've always got to prove other people wrong."
"I'm not getting run into the ground, have people think I got what I deserve for being nothing but a poster child for affirmative action."
"Isn't that the mistake you made with your gun? No one responded to you, they ignored you, so first time out you've gotta prove your thing works because Soledad O'Roark is never mistaken. Yes or no?"
Soledad said nothing.
"You're going to prove yourself into a grave."
"You came to me. You don't like what I am, you don't like what you're staring down…"
"I'm asking this: Who are you trying to prove things to? To yourself? Then good; stand. Fight. Go down swinging so you'll know you're the fighter you believe you are. But if you're trying to prove things to some old boys—no matter how things come out, they're going to think of you the same as they think of you now—then you're killing yourself for the wrong reason."
Soledad didn't answer. She was getting tired. She was burning out.
"I'm not quitting things." Gayle, lightening the mood, trying to: "You don't get rid of me that easy. I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, it's dirty. Okay. If that's how things are going to go, I can get dirty too. I can—"
"You can what?"
"If I have to, trust me, I can hit these fuckers coming out of the sun."
Northridge.
The man walked into the Devonshire police station. The interior of the building, the building looking to have been built in the sixties, was in a slow state of decay. Paneling was cracked and fraying. Tiles were missing from the floor. Tiles were missing from the ceiling. The furniture, what little there was, was hand-me-downs from LA Unified. Plastic and dirty and dated when it was factory new.
It was late and fairly quiet at the station. The desk sergeant was talking to a Hispanic guy with a bad, bleeding bash on his forehead. The Hispanic guy seemed only to be able to speak Spanish, and the desk sergeant communicated in a busted language that sounded as if it had been patched together after several years of trying to get information from people who knew Spanish and nothing but Spanish.
"Porfavor llene las formas," the sergeant said. Tried to say.
The man, the man who'd just entered the station, sat in one of the dirty plastic chairs and waited for the desk sergeant to finish his business. The man dabbed his upper lip with a handkerchief and had himself a look around. Not much to look at. A few plaques from the Rotary Club, Kiwanis Club, the Chamber of Commerce thanking the police for this or that. A few softball trophies. Old. The man didn't figure police officers much got together for things like soft-ball anymore. Some public service posters reminding people to be safe, telling kids to stay off drugs and stay in school. Considering the state of the world, the posters didn't seem to be doing much good. Maybe if they were hung somewhere besides inside a police station…
"Sehor, llene las formas."
The Hispanic guy was sent over to a chair to sit and fill out some forms.
The man stood, dabbed at his upper lip again, went to the desk sergeant.
"Can I help you?" the desk sergeant asked. Didn't sound like he meant it.
"Yes. Yes, I think… I hope you can."
Just a little, but the desk sergeant looked relieved. Relieved that the man spoke English. It wasn't that the desk sergeant had anything against Hispanics. He wasn't like that. For LAPD the sergeant was nearly forward thinking. It was just nice, on occasion, to be able to talk to someone in his native tongue.
The man said: "I'd like to make a report."
"What kind?" The sergeant opened a drawer filled with papers, poised a hand to take out the appropriate form for the information he was about to receive.
"Well, I'm not exactly sure. I've never made a report like this before. I've never made any kind of report, for that matter. And what I saw, maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's nothing. But, well, it was odd. I… I think it was odd."
"Why don't you just tell me what happened. You tell me what happened, and we'll figure out what kind of report to make."
"That seems like the way to do it. Well, I was over in… I guess I should tell you my name is Theodore. Theodore Kopeikin. I guess you'll need to know that at some point, so I might as well tell you now."
"All right, Mr. Kopeikin—"
" 'Ted' is fine. I know my name is kind of a mouthful. Thought you might need my whole name, but Ted is what everyone calls me."
"Ted, then." The desk sergeant's hand was still poised to grab up a form."Tell me what happened."
"First thing I should say is I work in real estate. Now, I'm not some kind of big tycoon, I'll tell you that right off and have no problem doing so. Just being honest. You should know I'm honest. You're going to… I'm going to want you to know I'm an honest man. But I do work in real estate."
The relief that had come to the desk sergeant when he first talked with Mr. Kopeikin was fading. Maybe they both spoke the same language, but he seemed to be getting less from Mr. Kopeikin than he did from the Hispanic guy.
"Does this have anything to do with what you're reporting?"
"Yes. In a way, yes. I was looking at some property in Northridge. You see, I deal in low-value property. We like to call it undervalued, it sounds better, but it is low-value property. Land near freeways, near dumps, condemned and tenement housing. I'm only telling you that because I'm not selling to you. Believe me, if I was selling, undervalued property; that's what I'd be—"
"If you could just get to what it is you're—"
"I only want you to know I'm an honest man. Taxpayer. I'm sure you get a lot of crackpots off the street, and when you hear what I saw, I don't want you to think—"
"You're an honest man. Yes, sir." Below the desk, above the drawer, the sergeant's hand balled into a fist."If you could just go on."
"Well, as I was saying, I was looking at some property here in Northridge. Ap
artments where the management has had some troubles, gone out of business. Abandoned, I guess you'd say they were. Now, while these buildings are sitting vacant it's not unusual for squatters to move in."
"Squatters. You want to report squatters." The sergeant was already looking for his trespassing forms.
"No. Not exactly." Mr. Kopeikin found a clean spot on his handkerchief and blew his nose."I'm out looking at some property, as I said, some condemned property, when I see this man up on the eighth floor of the building. He's out on the fire escape laying out some clothes to dry. I think that's what he was doing. Anyway, he was out on the fire escape doing something, and it gave way. The fire escape gave way. As I said, these properties are old, abandoned. He shouldn't have been there in the first place."
"And the man?"
"Well, he fell. Fell straight down to the ground. Straight down and headfirst."
"So you want to report an accident." The desk sergeant started reaching for a new form.
"No. No, I… well, here's why I'm so… The man fell, and I thought that's it. He's dead. Eight floors straight down, on his head; he's dead. But he hit the ground, he lay there for just a moment then… then he got up."
The desk sergeant suddenly got unbored with the story."You said he…?"
"Hit the ground, lay there for a moment and got up. Got up like all he'd done was nicked his toe on a rock. He looked around for a bit, in a strange manner, as if he were afraid someone might have seen what had just happened. After that, well, after that he went back into the building."
The desk sergeant got himself up from where he sat and he was quick about it."I want you to stay right here," he said to Mr. Kopeikin, and said it in a way that would make it stick."Stay here, and I'll be right back."
Mr. Kopeikin started to say" Okay," but the sergeant was already gone.
Wasn't even a minute and the sergeant returned. With him was another cop who had even more stripes on his uniform.
The desk sergeant introduced him."This is Captain Lanning. I want you," the sergeant directed,"to tell him what you told me."
"Well, I work in real estate—"
"The man you saw; just tell him about that."
"I appraise low-value property. Now, normally we call them underval—"
"He saw some guy fall from a eighth-story window." The desk sergeant did the storytelling for Mr. Kopeikin.
"Fire escape," Mr. Kopeikin corrected.
"Fell on his head, right?"
"Yes. And it was onto concrete. I don't think I—"
"The guy fell, and got up like nothing happened."
"An invulnerable?" Lanning asked.
"I couldn't… well, I couldn't say," Mr. Kopeikin said."When I saw it happen, I thought: That's one of those superpeople. Has to be. I couldn't be sure. Never seen one before. Not in real life. But a man takes that kind of fall…"
Captain Lanning looked square in Mr. Kopeikin's eyes and was very serious about things."Mr. Kopeikin, in all likelihood you did see a metanormal human. It's very important we make a record of everything you witnessed, do you understand?"
"I think I—"
"Everything. Even the slightest detail could be important to us later."
"All right. I'll… I'll certainly try."
"I want you to wait here with Sergeant Harris. I'm going to get someone from DMI—"
"Those are the special policemen, yes?" Things were happening fast now, too fast for Mr. Kopeikin.
"Division of Metanormal Investigations. They handle situations like this," Lanning explained."And if they determine we are dealing with a metanormal, they'll issue a warrant and send an MTac element after it. I'm going to bring someone from DMI out here, and then you're going to tell him everything you saw."
"Yes. Yes, of course."
"Sergeant?"
The desk sergeant, Harris, practically snapped to."Yes, sir?"
"Make sure Mr. Kopeikin is comfortable."
"Yes, sir."
Fast, Captain Lanning disappeared back into the station.
Harris gave Mr. Kopeikin his full attention."There anything you need? Something to drink, if there's someone you need to call…?"
"Actually" — Mr. Kopeikin went back to work on his upper lip—"if maybe you could find a tissue for me. For some reason, this never happens to me, just never, but I seem to have the worst nosebleed."
MTac funerals are the best. Not as good as they used to be, not like the first few in the years just after San Francisco, but they're still better than what most cops get sent away with. They were the best for two reasons. One was because a whole lot of show went into the services, kind of like Viking funerals. At least like the Viking funeral I saw in that one movie. The other reason they're so good is 'cause they've had a lot of practice burying MTac cops. A lot of practice.
When the first bunch of MTacs started getting killed, their funerals rated live TV coverage. Networks, CNN. Precoverage on the morning shows and afterthoughts on Nightline. All the airtime they wanted to spend on ceremonies as long as it didn't cut into prime time. Except when the Baltimore Eight got buried. But when the president makes a eulogy, you carry it, you carry it live and you carry it live even if it bumps the sitcoms.
That's part of the reason the funerals aren't as good anymore. Beautiful as they are, there were so many of them so often they got mundane. How many times can you watch cops in full dress salute flag-draped coffins? How often can you look at young widows and widowers hug busted-up families? How much speechifying can you stand from the brass and politicians about" the greatest service you can give" and" not dying in vain"?
So no more live coverage and not as many politicians giving speeches. Unless it was an election year. Election years they fought like white trash at a Wal-Mart sale about who was going to say what over which body.
Except in California. Harry was at every funeral. Harry spoke at every funeral. He didn't give a speech, he spoke. He was one of the few politicos who could talk about pain and loss and the need to be strong and mean every word he was saying. Sometimes he would cry, but most times he wouldn't. But everyone who listened cried. Everyone who listened felt like they shared his pain. We didn't, because no one had lost more than him. And if he could survive and carry on, couldn't we?
And Harry never said any more than he had to, and he never said anything about anything that had to do with politics. From him there were only comforting words, there was an expression of understanding and there was a vow to protect the normals from the metanormals.
Harry made you proud to be MTac. Harry made you glad to know that when your time came, there would be someone like him to say a few words overyou.
Sometimes LA was a beautiful city. The beautiful days mostly followed the bad ones. Hard rain and strong wind carried away the smog, left clear skies behind. The hidden was revealed. Behind downtown were mountains. Under the clouds of car exhaust the Valley was a decent stretch of land. At night, glowing electric below the Santa Monica mountains, it was downright good-looking. On those days, the beautiful days, you could almost understand why people wanted to live in the place.
But it just figured LA would decide to be beautiful on the day Reese got buried. Wasn't right. Should've been raining. Los Angeles should've been crying for her.
The black cars, the limos that carried the family, the brass and suits were all pulling away. The other cops had scattered, gone home clutching their own family members while reassuring them— not real convincingly but giving it a shot anyway—that what happened with Officer Bannon wouldn't happen to them.
The reporters, the few local media that still bothered showing up for" these things," were gone. Harry Norquist had stayed, lingered, not rushing off like the other bureaucrats. Tried to comfort the family. But he'd gone now too. There was, after all, still a state to be governed. All that was left at Veterans Cemetery were the rolling greens, the rows of headstones and the dead.
Among them walked Soledad with Bo, Yarborough and" those two," which is
what Soledad called Vin and Whitaker.
Looking up at the sky, the blue sky, Soledad said: "Ought to be raining. It's the kind of day people get married, not buried. It's not right. It ought to be—"
"She had more family than I figured." Bo stumbled into Soledad's thought. Half because he wasn't listening, half because he wanted to at least steer the conversation toward something positive."Think that's good she had so much family come out and see her off."
"Just that much more family she's left behind." Soledad brought back the dark clouds.
Whitaker: "They should be proud of her. Reese was good cop."
Soledad was downright nasty with the" who asked you" look she flashed. Whitaker took it, shut up, looked away.
"I'll tell you this, though." Yarborough talking now."She hung in there, huh? Never did anything the easy way right up to the last. That's how I want to go."
"That's how you want it? On your back, in a coma?" Vin didn't care for that idea. Cared for it zero."No thanks. When it comes for me, I hope it comes quick."
"Sure. Live like a bitch" — Soledad shared her ace boon nasty look with Vin and was glad to do it—"die like a bitch."
Vin didn't look away like Whitaker had. Vin gave Soledad nothing but smile.
Yarborough modified himself: "All I'm saying is she didn't go down easy. You gotta respect that. She was a fighter. A fighter. I don't want to go down without putting up a fight."
Soledad, looking at the blue sky again: "It's too nice a day. Should be raining."
"Well, now, it's not like freaks give you a choice on how you want to go down," Bo pointed out.
Vin asked: "You ever get a choice? There isn't much in this life that won't kill you. Read the other day about a guy trying to shake a soda loose from a machine. Fell over and crushed him. Died for a Coke. Now, how messed up is that?"
"A woman one time," Yarborough said, recalling a story,"got drunk and passed out in her Jacuzzi. Boiled to death. Like human soup or something."
"Honest?" Bo asked.
"For real," Yarborough answered.
Whitaker didn't say anything. Whitaker could do without any more looks from Soledad.
