“Joe, there is one problem with that. I need a job to make some money to pay those credit card bills you’re telling me to establish.”
Joe looked thoughtful and asked, “What kind of work are you willing to do?”
“Any kind!”
“Will you wait tables at an Italian food restaurant?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods? Of course I’ll wait tables. Do you know someone at an Italian restaurant?”
Joe nodded his head, “I do. It’s only a couple miles away, I’ll drive you there and we’ll go see my family at my condo after.”
We went to the restaurant and Joe told me to grab a to-go menu to study on the way in. He introduced me to the general manager and set up an interview for a couple days later. We left and went to Joe’s condo to see the family. A couple of hours later Joe walked me into the garage. There was a Ducati speed bike in the corner I couldn’t take my eyes off.
Joe said, “That’s fucked up what Mr. Dudley did to you with your Harley investment.”
“I’m not holding any grudges. That’s behind me.”
“What about Brock trying to get you sent back to prison?”
“I’m not that worried about it. He shot his wad and came up empty.”
“I heard some things while you were locked in prison. People were advising Brock to give you the custom Harley you were invested in when you got out to clean the slate. I heard he was going to do that until other people made him feel like he’d be bowing down. They pressured him into thinking he’d look weak. Unfortunately, he went from getting ready to give you the Harley to trying to get you sent back to prison.”
I thought about it and realized something. If Brock had been close to wiping the slate clean with me, and then got influenced by some drug dealers to try and get me sent back to prison, he was probably feeling really paranoid right about now.
“Joe, can you get in touch with Brock for me and tell him I’m not holding any grudges and I want to put that old business behind us and move on?”
Joe nodded his head. “I can do that. That’s a good idea…. Do you want that Ducati you can’t take your eyes off?”
CHAPTER 134
Two days later, on my way to the restaurant, I saw detective Pincher parked around the corner from my Dad’s house. He followed me. I got to the restaurant having studied the menu front to back and got the job. Leaving the restaurant I waved to him. Another two days later on my way to church I passed detective Pincher again. This time he didn’t follow me. Maybe my Dad was right, as long as I worked, he couldn’t mess with me.
Things took off pretty fast after I followed Joe’s advice with the credit cards. I went to the local hotels to see some old friends and check on my limo business idea. The first one I talked to was Shane at the Marriot on the hill in the harbor. It was a three or four star rating with an excellent view of the ocean. Shane was the lead bell hop and had a lot of juice with the front desk manager, the concierges and the rest of the employees. I ran my idea by him and he gave me the low down.
“First of all to work with our hotel, you’d have to get licensed with the Public Utilities so you can get those T.C.P. numbers on the back of your bumper so you’re legit and we can’t get in trouble for doing business with you. If you do that, we have up to 200 check-outs a day during high volume and most of them ask for a taxi back to the airport. If you make your rates the same as theirs, I can get everyone to call you. The taxis kick us down $15 for every referral we give them to the Orange County airport and $25 for the L.A.X. airports. You’d have to match that.”
I left the Marriot and drove to the Ritz Carlton a mile away. I talked to a friend who worked as a bell hop and learned that a couple of bell hops that worked there a few years ago were enticed into starting their own limo business based on the large volume the Ritz provided. Now they were so successful that they had a fleet of limos and Town cars solely working out of the Ritz. There wasn’t much room for me but I found reason to be optimistic, none the less.
Driving down P.C.H., I saw a black Lincoln Town Car and noticed the T.C.P. numbers on the left side of the rear bumper and wondered how you went about getting them. I remembered what the preacher had said about being bold and followed the driver into a gas station.
After the driver of the Town car’s initial shock disappeared, being bold paid off. I learned that the driver of the town car, Todd, owned his own limo business with one town car himself. He’d just gotten into business with the business name of A Cut Above. He told me he worked for a pretty big local outfit by the name, California Limo, for a few years before branching out on his own. I learned he was relying on California Limo’s call volume they couldn’t get to for his business. Todd gave me the information to get an application from the Public Utilities Commission so I could get authorized in the limo business and offered me his card.
CHAPTER 135
A month later I got the application to start the limo business. After reading it I realized it was a risky roll of the dice, my kind of thing. I was going to have to get a Lincoln Town car, insure it with a special limo insurance with a lot more liability coverage, get an account with the D.M.V. to check prospective driver’s records, get registered with a blind drug screening company and a few other things and then process all of that information to the Public Utilities Commission in San Francisco for approval. Approval could take up to three months before authorization to get the T.C.P. numbers were granted to start the business.
I bought a couple-year-old black Lincoln Town car and named my business “Prestigious Transport” and handled all the rest. In hopes of getting my application processed faster I drove my completed application to San Francisco to turn it in. Driving back I wondered, did I just do the right thing spending all of my money on this? What if Brock or someone else calls in some more extravagant threats and I get violated? I felt that same anxiety the preacher mentioned squeezing in on me and prayed.
A day later while waiting for the P.U.C. to get back at me with an approval or a denial of my application I took my Ducati out for a ride before work at the restaurant. My usual route was up the steepest hill to an oyster of a view of the Pacific Ocean overlooking Laguna Beach, Dana Point and San Clemente. I soaked in the view and thanked God for the blessings. On the way back my Ducati stalled out in San Juan Capistrano. I pulled to the side of the road and tried to start it unsuccessfully. I was about to try to jump start it when I saw a Crown Victoria with a couple of undercover officers rubber necking me.
I watched the Crown Victoria flip a U-turn and pull over about ten feet away. Neither detective was detective Pincher. They walked up to me and I imagined what I looked like in a black tank top looking like a body builder from four years of disciplined prison workouts.
Both detectives looked pretty young but looked like they were wired up and on steroids. One of them asked, “Have you ever been arrested for a felony?”
I felt the smart alec in me burst out. “Hasn’t everyone in California who doesn’t work for you guys?”
“Since you’re on parole Benny, you won’t mind if we search your Ducati.”
So they knew who I was… “Since you already know who I am you must know my parole officer Douglas Heimrick, the guy you work for. He’ll tell you I’m running a clean program and just working.”
“That’s what he is saying, you’re lucky about that, but the problem is your name keeps coming up in our briefings so you can expect a lot of our attention.”
I watched one of the detectives ask the other, “Where are the V.I.N. numbers on these motorcycles?”
“We have to pull off the fiber glass fairings.”
I watched the detective that asked pull on the fairing until the screws he should have unclipped popped off and rolled on the ground. The detective let the fairing grind against the concrete and I felt my temper slipping.
“You don’t have to tear up my bike to do your job!”
“We’re gang coordinators! What do you expect?”
&n
bsp; I felt my mouth moving before my mind engaged. “Miss me with that gang coordinator shit! This isn’t gang land. Take that shit to Santa Ana or East L.A. where that’s what’s cracking. You’ve got an empty job title over here. You can just kick back and get a pay check and do your job like a professional instead of tearing up my Ducati.”
I almost laughed at their stunned expressions. One of the detectives got over it like he might feel the same way. I watched the other detective react and knew he was the alpha dog of the two, He exploded.
“Shut your mouth convict. You’re not going to last out here very long with that attitude. We’re the ones keeping these streets safe and putting away the gang members!”
“Tell the truth. You’re sweating my program because a drug dealer told you guys I threatened him. If after finding out the information wasn’t credible and you impinge on my rights all you’re doing is working for the drug dealer. Now, since you’re claiming to be a high powered gang coordinator, tell me the names of these gangs you’re coordinating.”
“We’re…We’re…Doing parole sweeps on Hispanic gangs that kill each other from San Clemente to San Juan Capistrano.”
“Are you kidding me? What has there been, one killing in the last ten years between them. That’s just kids being kids and doesn’t warrant 50 of you gang coordinators violating everyone’s rights. If you knew what you were doing, you would have started by searching my person and found my D.M.V. printout and insurance for that Ducati. Then you wouldn’t have had to damage my Ducati like that!”
As soon as my mouth stopped moving my brain caught up with it and I remained silent and thoughtful. The other detective had me get up to search my person. He took my wallet out of my back pocket and told the one I’d mouthed off to that he found the D.M.V. information for my Ducati. Alpha detective got on the phone and I heard him asking detective Pincher what he wanted him to do. I couldn’t discern what was said any further and watched him get off the phone. I sat on the curb and watched my Ducati get completely stripped down to the frame. The detective I’d mouthed off to said, “We’re searching for drugs and stolen parts.”
45 minutes later I got un-cuffed and watched the detectives drive away. While I had been on the curb there had been a number of other undercover vehicles drive by and wave to the detectives detaining me. I couldn’t help but look while trying to start my Ducati. It still wouldn’t start. I put the motorcycle in second gear, held in the clutch and ran as fast as I could and jumped on and let the clutch out. It started. I rode to the freeway and at the last second decided not to get on it. I took back roads and kept under the speed limit and took a route that allowed me to go up the steepest hill to get home. Halfway up the hill I leaned into a turn and felt the fairing alpha detective fucked with fly under my back tire. The back tire came off the ground for a split second, and then chirped back on the pavement. I managed to hold on and pull over. I got off the bike and walked around in shock and nervous energy wondering how I hadn’t eaten pavement. I thanked God over and over and looked at the Ducati. It was a mess with most of the frame visible underneath the torn-apart fairings. I went back and grabbed as much of the fiber glass fairing as possible and pushed as hard as I could to get up the rest of the hill wondering how to deal with the problem. As I thought about it I realized I was insured like regular people and could file a claim.
I got home and explained what happened to my Dad and asked for his advice. He looked at me like it had to have been my fault.
“I told you it was a bad idea to have that Ducati speed bike! Just get rid of it!”
“So you don’t think I should report the incident to my insurance agent?”
“For what? What do you think you’ll get out of that?”
“Some justice maybe! I didn’t do anything wrong and got harassed for nothing again!”
“You don’t have any rights! What do you expect?”
“I expect for them to at least be professional about it. Their negligence could have cost me my life if I would have got on the freeway and been going faster in traffic!”
“So what are you going to do about it? You can’t fight against the police. You’ll lose. Just write it off.”
“I can’t let it go. I’m going to file a claim with my insurance agent so it’s on record and on paper.”
“You’ll just be baiting them to spend more time on you!”
I called my insurance agent and explained what had happened. He questioned me while writing up a report.
“So you’re telling me that it wasn’t the Sheriffs that pulled you over for speeding or anything else.”
“I didn’t get pulled over. My Ducati had stalled out and plain clothed detectives that must have been following me in a Crown Victoria pulled up to me and identified themselves as gang coordinators. They stripped my Ducati down while searching it and didn’t put it back together properly.”
“Take your Ducati to a shop and have them put in an order to fix it. I’ll file a claim against the county for negligence. You’ll have to pay a $500 deductible but the rest will be covered. Just be thankful that you didn’t get hurt.”
“I am. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 136
For the next week my Dad showed me newspaper clippings that had to do with gang coordinators harassing suspects. One of them mentioned a parolee, “Who was on the run and fleeing an investigation.” The article stated that gang coordinators shot the suspect dead in a gas station parking lot. There was an “ongoing investigation.”
The next article was similar in nature. Gang coordinators stated they had been following a suspect “Under investigation” and shot him in the back in the Crystal Cathedral parking lot for “Fleeing from their investigation.” I kept reading the article and realized my Dad must not have read it all. The article went on to state that the gang coordinators had misidentified the individual. He wasn’t the suspect they first thought he was! He had just gotten out of his Mom’s car and she had witnessed the plain clothed detectives pointing guns and one of them shooting her son in the back. He lived.
“Dad, I appreciate your concern but try to imagine what I’m feeling. Try to see through my eyes on this. When I went to prison Mr. Dudley alleged I in home invaded him with a silencer enhanced gun! He alleged I was a cartel level gun and drug dealer. He alleged I would shoot it out with the police! That was all a smoke screen to take the attention away from his scam with my investment. I was so overwhelmed with that slander I never got the chance to show the courts he scammed me out $12,500 except for the $5,000 check to my attorney. I should have counter sued him to have something on paper to support it. Now that I’m out his son is making up accusations that I’m threatening him! Don’t you get that I have to defend myself? If the gang coordinators want to, they could shoot me dead and say I was fleeing an investigation and print up all that slander that I never got defended against. The public reading it would think, thank God that guy is off the streets.”
“I told you how I feel about it. I think you’re just asking for trouble.”
The next morning I heard a caravan of vehicles pull up. I got to the door and saw twice as many vehicles as last time. I counted eight undercover vehicles and saw detective Pincher and what had to be half of the gang task force dressed in raid gear holding guns. My parole officer was behind them.
“Hands behind your back Benny! We’re searching your entire residence.”
I looked at my Dad’s shocked face and told him, “You don’t have to let them search your room. They only have a right to search the common areas.”
Detective Pincher asked, “Is that where you’re stashing the drugs Benny, in your Dad’s room?”
“I’m clean! I’m telling my Dad that so he knows his rights and I don’t get kicked out of his house from you abusing them!”
I watched the detectives search my room. They dumped everything in the drawers on the ground and tossed everything upside down. They did the same thing in the bathroom. My Dad let them in his room. They wer
e in and out without making as much of a mess. Downstairs the detectives unzipped all of the cushions on the couches, searched the kitchen and then the garage.
I felt like telling detective Pincher that this is the third time I’ve been searched and come up clean and that next time he should bring the dogs so the place wouldn’t need three hours of work to put back together, instead, I looked at my parole officer and said, “This might get me kicked out of here.”
“Benny. I’m deciding if I should take you to prison for a violation right now. You should have reported that you had police contact last week.”
“I reported it to my insurance agent.”
While explaining what happened I thought about my limo business. I’d never asked permission to start it. As soon as I realized I wasn’t going to get violated, I asked.
He listened thoughtfully and responded, “I’m not going to stop you from working.”
Two hours after they arrived, my Dad and I followed the raiding party outside. All of our neighbors were in front of their houses watching. The task force and my parole officer drove away and my Dad looked at me and said, “You have to move out.”
“Dad I just put almost $15,000 into my limo business.”
“You shouldn’t have started it. You’re in no position to do so and you don’t listen to my advice.”
“At least give me a little time to figure something out.”
“You’ve got a week.”
CHAPTER 137
The next day I got the authorization from the P.U.C. to do business as Prestigious Transport. The D.M.V. gave me livery plates that read PRESTO 1 and I was off and running. I woke up every morning at 4 a.m. and sat in front of the Marriot to transport. Immediately luggage went into the trunk and I was in motion to L.A.X.
The rest of the week I touched every other So Cal. airport until my shift at the restaurant.
ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story) Page 37
