"So he comes over to your house that Saturday. What time was that?"
"Two, two-thirty in the afternoon. My mom is home Saturdays. He knows that. He makes a point a frontin' her off. She gets all pissed. It's like a dance they did. Finally, she's out on the front lawn screaming at him. Called him a dumb cholo. Fucking Church snapped and almost killed her right there. It was all I could do to get him to leave."
Tru looked down at his sleeve again and started picking at loose threads. Then, without looking up, he blurted, "I been raped three times in a month. Had ta have my asshole stitched up twice at the infirmary 'cause they ripped me open back there. I can't… I can't stay here anymore. You gotta get me outta this car." Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He rubbed at them savagely with his cuff, fought desperately to rein in his emotions, glanced at the other inmates furtively to see if they were witness to his breakdown.
"I could see if I could get you moved into the Administrative Segregation Unit."
"I asked. They won't move me to ASU."
"Let me see what I can do."
He reached out and grabbed my hand in both of his like he was clutching a lifeline. "I made a lot of mistakes in my life, you know? Stealing shit, slamming drugs… but I didn't never hurt anyone and I sure didn't kill my mom. I didn't do it. I loved her."
He was shaking, or shivering, I don't know which. I fought the urge to bolt. This kid was such a victim it was starting to rattle me.
"Go on," I said. "You and Church left the house to get beer. What happened next?"
" 'Kay." He sat with his eyes down, said nothing.
"You gotta tell it now. Go on."
"'Kay." He sat there for a long time. Then finally, like an engine taking a long time to wind up RPMs, he started again, slowly at first, then gaining momentum.
"Church makes me go to this strip mall on Sepulveda to buy the case of beer. It's halfway across the Valley. For some reason, he has to buy beer from this exact fucking store. It's the way he was. He was always like that. Everything's a project. Mike Church is insane. He really is."
"What next?"
"It's gotta be Bud Light, you know? Nothing but Bud Light. Here's this guy, weighs over three hundred pounds, and he's gotta have diet beer. He gives me a hundred bucks and says buy all the Bud Light in the market, we'll take it and drink it at this party he knows about where there's all these girls. Putas, he calls 'em. I told him I couldn't drink booze 'cause I was on Antabuse. Antabuse makes you sick if you drink alcohol. Mostly though, I just wanted to get away from him."
"Was the Antabuse court mandated?" I asked him.
"Yeah. I agreed to take Antabuse, so they didn't incarcerate me for my last DUI. Had t'go into a program. Lotta shit like that. It's why I was doin' crystal."
"And Antabuse doesn't hit the crystal meth," I said, knowing it didn't.
"Ain't that a hoot?" He smiled at me. His teeth were crooked, but there was something innocent and strangely unaffected in his smile. In that instant, I knew he hadn't stabbed his mother to death. Why, I can't exactly say. It was a vibe. An instinct.
I've come to realize that in this world some people are predators, others are prey. Sometimes it's hard to know which is which because you'll find guys who look like they can kick ass, but underneath they're weak. The reverse can also be true. In the animal kingdom, the predators are easy to spot. They all have their eyes in the front of their heads to facilitate an attack. Lions, tigers, and wolves are designed by nature to kill. Antelopes, deer, and rabbit all have their eyes on the side of their heads. These prey animals are designed for flight and their vision allows them to see things coming at them peripherally. In the wild there are no exceptions to this rule. With people, it was a lot harder to tell. You had to read body language and to try to see into a man's soul. When I saw the innocence and simplicity hiding behind Tru's smile, I suspected that there was no set of conditions that could ever bring him to murder. Tru Hickman was not a predator. He was food.
"Go on," I said. "So he wants you to buy beer at a particular strip mall."
"Yeah. I go into this mini-mart and buy this beer while Church waits outside. There's only one six-pack of Bud Light in the fucking cooler and Mike is so adamant about me buying Bud Light at that exact store, I remember thinking, thank God they ain't out, 'cause he'd bust my ass if I walk out empty-handed. I buy it and leave. Church's on his cell phone when I walked out. He owns a garage and towing service in the Valley and after he hangs up he says there's a guy had an accident on the one-oh-one Freeway and he's gotta go back to his garage, get the tow rig, and pull this guy's car. He tells me to take a cab and to take the beer home with me. He says he'll be over at my house in an hour and then we'll go to the bang, shag pussy, get wasted. Again, I try and beg off, but Church says he can hook me up with some crank, so that does it. I'm down, you know?"
"He wants you to take the beer home with you?"
"He says, 'cause CHP cops would be at the freeway accident. He's got one DUI beef of his own and I guess he didn't want a six-pack in the truck."
"So you go home."
"I go home. He shows up a few hours later, but my mom is on the warpath. They get into another huge argument on the lawn. It's so loud the neighbors next door and across the street come out to watch. This time it's over the damn six-pack of beer. My mom won't let him have it because I'm on Antabuse. I tell her it's Mike's beer, but she's not having any. This time she throws a rock at him, hits Church in the chest. He would a killed her right there if I hadn't pointed to the neighbors watching. She pulls out her cell and calls the cops while we're all shouting at each other. Me and Church had t'split before they arrived."
"You left without the beer?"
"Mom wouldn't let us have it."
"Then what?"
"I got totally buzzed at this party in the Valley. Don't even remember where it was. I did a lot of crystal and just aired out. The next morning, I have to walk home. I get to my house at eleven-thirty and find my mom dead on the kitchen floor. Man, it's a mess. Blood everywhere." His eyes started to fill up and the tears came again. "She was all I had, you know? She used to scream and bitch, but I'll be honest with you, man, it was just 'cause she cared. All my life nobody but her gave a damn what happened to me. I was such a fuck-up, on drugs and everything. I deserved everything she said."
I didn't want him to melt down again. I wanted him to stay on the narrative, so I interrupted this memory and said, "You walked in and found her dead. Then what?"
"I called nine-one-one. This guy, Lieutenant Devine, arrives almost immediately. He takes me down to the Van Nuys station and asks me if I'll take a lie detector test. Since I didn't kill my mom, I say okay, if it will help, sure. He gives me the test, then tells me afterward that I flunked it. He tells me my shoe print matched the one by her body, but I know I didn't step in the blood. I was so scared I didn't go near her. I could tell she was dead from the back porch. She was pale as ivory, gallons of blood on the floor, knife wounds all over."
"He told you he matched the shoe print to your boots?"
"That's what he said, but I don't know how. Like I said, I never stepped in any blood. There wasn't no blood on my shoes, or on the soles. Nowhere. He also tells me I was laying in wait to kill and rob her, which is a lie, but that makes it premeditated murder and a murder for financial gain. Both those things qualify me for special circumstances. The death penalty. I've got a long drug record. I know how the system works. After Devine tells me all this, I know I'm dust, so I signed a confession they wrote."
"And then you pled out?"
"Yeah. The court assigns me a public defender named Yvonne Hope. It's this girl with red hair and braids, looks like she should still be in high school. I couldn't fuckin' believe it when I saw her. They cut a deal, offer me twenty-five to life, and I took it. Shit, I had no idea what it was gonna be like in here. I only done CYA and county time before this. I didn't know my asshole was gonna get torn open and have to get stitched up twice in one month.
I didn't know I'd get a yard beat-down almost everyday. I can't live like this, Mr. Scully. I'll kill myself if this goes on much longer."
"Okay, Tru. I'll talk to somebody. I'll see if I can get you transferred to ASU. But you'll be lonely in there. No yard privileges."
"Hey, man, for me, the yard ain't no privilege."
"I'll try then."
" 'Kay."
I stood and he suddenly reached out and grabbed my hand again. "Don't go yet, man, okay? Please? I don't want to leave the visitor's center. Can't you stay a little longer?"
"I gotta leave now. I'll be in touch." I started to exit, then turned back and looked at him. He was standing there, head down, pulling at his frayed cuffs. There's a place where pathetic becomes heart-wrenching. I knew what Scout meant when she said Tru had been sacrificed. I also thought she was right when she said somebody must have it in for him. This wasn't right.
"Did you tell Lieutenant Devine that the second argument was over that six-pack of Bud Light?" I finally asked. "Of course. I told him everything."
"So what happened? The six-pack wasn't in the court evidence box. Didn't he find it in the refrigerator?" "I don't think he ever looked."
Chapter 6
"All this railroad needs is tracks and a whistle," Secada said.
We were in a Mexican restaurant on Olvera Street named La Golondrina. The food was always excellent and after six p. M. mariachis strolled between the tables and performed for the dinner guests.
Olvera Street was the first street built in Los Angeles and is just a few blocks from both Parker Center and the Bradbury Building. We had agreed to meet here after work. Scout's black eyes danced in an almond face, framed by shiny, black hair that shimmered in low flickering candlelight. We had already ordered dinner and, while we waited, were on our first margaritas.
"We need to get Hickman moved to ASU," I said. "I filed a request before I left, but it's gonna creep through channels. He could be dead by the time it gets approved."
"I agree. Our best bet is to keep working and see if we can get him a writ of habeas corpus for a new trial."
"I found the two hundred dollars," I told her.
"The murder money? How can that be? Devine said Tru spent it on crystal meth the night of the murder."
"It was in the court evidence room. In the side pocket of Olivia Hickman's purse."
She put down her margarita. "No way." She looked puzzled, her brow furrowed. "So if Tru or Church didn't take the money, what's the motive for murder?"
"Near as I can tell, it was over a six-pack of Bud Light that Church and Hickman bought that afternoon."
I told her about the trip to the mini-mart, the two arguments with Olivia, and about Tru being on Antabuse. I ended by explaining how Mrs. Hickman threw a rock and hit Church in the chest, and how they left because the cops were called.
"It sure ain't Leave it to Beaver," she said as she finished the last of her margarita and looked up. "A six-pack of beer, huh? Not much of a motive."
"Rage was the motive," I said. "The six-pack of Bud Light was just a trigger. I've been worried about the twenty knife wounds. That kind of extreme overkill would seem to indicate a close relationship like with a son, but Tru said Church was on anabolic steroids. If he was popping Amies and having 'roid rage, then maybe the overkill actually fits him as well. I don't know."
Our combo plate dinners arrived, along with a second round of margaritas. I love margaritas, but two is definitely my limit, especially when I'm with a beautiful woman who isn't my wife.
Secada smiled and took a sip. "Mamacita, yo amo Cuervo Gold."
"Aye, Chihuahua," I smiled back.
We both dug into the huge enchilada-taco-burrito-and-bean dinners. She ate like it was serious business, holding her knife and fork like instruments of war-nothing dainty about Secada at meal time.
"So, what're we gonna do with this buncha pendejos?" she asked between bites.
"We got two doors here. Door One is we go check out Mike Church. See what kind of slime trail he's leaving behind him these days. Or we can go talk to the District Attorney who pled the case. Get the state's version of what happened."
She thought about it for a minute. "How much cover is your wife going to give us?" she asked.
"I haven't talked to her."
"Don't you think you should? I mean, Captain Sasso took this off the board. If you and I ask the wrong questions of the wrong guy, this could snap up on us and we'll both be facing an internal review. If that happens we'll need Lieutenant Scully to shut it down."
"I'll tell her when or if I feel we need to."
"Look, Shane, I don't mean to tell you how to deal with your wife, but that's a mistake."
"Drop it, okay?" Our eyes locked for a moment. I wasn't about to get into Alexa's problems with her.
"The only real reason I came to you was because of her."
"I thought it was because of my huge cajones."
"I've been ordered off this case. If we go to Tito Morales and he makes a call to check on why, we'll be in deep grease."
"Tito who?"
"Morales. He's the D. A. who pled the case out for the State."
"The Tito Morales?"
"Yeah. But don't let it panic you. He's my carnal." She grinned and pointed to my plate with her knife. "The guy eats burritos just like us."
"We're talking about the lead prosecutor for the whole damn Valley? Tito Morales? The guy who runs the Van Nuys D. A.'s office?"
"It's why I think it's a good idea to have your wife riding shotgun."
"Why didn't you tell me that up front? According to the L. A. Times, he's planning a run at the mayor's job in two months and has a great chance of winning."
"Mexicans are eventually gonna run everything around here." She grinned at me. "Look out, Scully; you might have to get a Green Card yourself one day soon."
I sat looking at her for a long time, trying to digest this.
"Don't worry. Yo hablo espanol. Better still, I understand the culture." She was still smiling.
"I'm glad you find this funny," I said. "It kinda explains a lot of this other stuff though. It explains why Jane Sasso pulled Townsend and Summers into that meeting to convince you to drop the case. Since Tito Morales cut the plea deal, and since he's the front-runner for the mayor's office, he undoubtedly won't want it to come out two months before the election that he sent a guy up on an incomplete investigation. He probably called Sasso when he heard you were looking into it."
"Shane, I don't think the pressure is coming from him. He's a Democrat. Cops are mostly all Republicans. It's Plain Jane's doing. She's from the Dark Side. That woman is Darth Vader in sensible shoes. For all we know, Townsend and Summers were in her office on something else and for sport, she just let 'em sit in on my beat-down."
"Get some rearview mirrors, lady, or you're gonna get run over by an I. A. dump truck."
"This Hickman one-eighty-seven is a nothing case. Even if Church was the doer, it's still just some gang-affiliated tow truck driver who killed a supermarket checker. Despite Morales, this isn't the kind of case that gets the sixth floor's attention."
"But even still, you think my wife needs to be involved to protect us? You're not being honest with me." She shrugged. I continued. "Brian Devine's head of Van Nuys Homicide. Tito Morales is head of the Van Nuys prosecutor's office. This is starting to sound like a lot more than some tweaker murder over a six-pack of beer."
"I thought you were supposed to be a White Knight-a walk-alone who wants to get it right and doesn't sweat the fallout."
"That's the Disney movie," I said. "In the Miramax version I shit my pants and run like a rabbit."
"Okay, look. You don't want to alert Morales. I think you're wrong, but let's say I buy into that for the moment. So let's finish dinner and then go check door number one. Mike Church is a criminal dirtbag, so he won't call the police to complain."
"How did you last in PSB for three years being this naive?"
She looked angry, almost fierce. "My parents came from a country where the government is basically corrupt. My uncle disappeared into prison and never came out. My papa calls the Mexican government a criminal organization posing as a government. There's graft and corruption everywhere. My parents came across the border as braceros. They got their citizenship status under the Reagan eight-one amnesty. This country is a much, much better place than anywhere else. Better because Americans don't look the other way when there's injustice. Remember what Edmund Burke said. 'All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.' "
"Let me write that down. It might work on my IRS review." "Make fun if you want, but I love this country. I love what it stands for. I love police work because I believe in the principles of the law. I know that sounds corny, but my family came from a place where evil reigns and good people did nothing. I don't want that to happen here. If you want to preserve what we've got, you gotta take on the shitty ones, Shane. You gotta fight evil one case at a time."
We sat looking at each other. I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or just give her a raspberry.
"Mike Church," I finally said. "That's what you wanta do?" "Let's go brace the motherfucker."
Chapter 7
On the way out to Church's house in North Van Nuys, Secada and I reviewed his five-page rap sheer, which she'd just handed me. He'd been raised in the north end of the Valley, but a lot of his early crimes took place at "Tragic Magic," which was LAPD speak for Six Flags Magic Mountain, a notorious gang hangout. At the tender age of eleven, this guy was already getting busted for aggravated assault, throwing down on line-cutters out there.
The Gang Squad had him getting jumped into the Vanowen Street Locos at fifteen. The VSLs were a particularly violent, Hispanic gang that worked the corners around Vanowen Street and Gloria in Van Nuys. That neighborhood was a drug corridor and the Locos sold more bags of rock than McDonald's sold bags of fries. According to his rap sheet, Mike Church had been doing more than just making Tru Hickman's life suck. He made everybody's life hell.
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