Chapter 48.
THEY WOKE ME again at two a. M.
Rafie and Tommy were back inside my cell with two sheriff's deputies, everybody in a big hurry to get moving.
"Come on, we're going for a ride," they said, as I started rubbing my eyes.
"Where?"
"You've been cleared by the docs here. You're getting booked at MCJ."
Ten minutes later I was back in cuffs, rolling down the corridor in the wheelchair, heading toward the elevator.
Rafie told me the thirteenth floor had booked fifteen people from the El Rey riot tonight. The rest were over at the Men's Central Jail. Because of all the celebrities involved, there was press roaming everywhere. In the lobby, on the first floor. They were even sharking around in the parking lot, writing down license plate numbers. To defeat them, the deputies had cleared the fire stairs and locked the interior doors for the three minutes it would take to transport me to the loading dock. I was pulled out of the wheelchair by Tommy Sepulveda and stood up next to the fire door on thirteen. I felt ten feet tall and a foot wide as I wobbled there lightheaded and confused. Tommy looked tired and frustrated as he studied me.
"You okay?" he asked.
"You really care?"
"Yep, I do. I feel terrible about this, Shane. We both do. Tell us how to play it differently and still keep our jobs, and that's what we'll do."
"How was / supposed to play it, Tom? My wife is shot and maybe dying."
"I know," he said sadly. "It all sucks."
Rafie came up the stairs after checking the eleventh-floor door, and motioned us forward. "Okay, let's go."
We walked down thirteen flights and took a supply corridor out of the hospital to the rear loading dock, where their Crown Vic was parked. A light rain was falling. Rafie led me across the dock, down the steps. He pushed me into the back of the car and then climbed in beside me. The handcuffs were rubbing my wrists raw, but I decided not to complain. I just wanted to get this over with. Tommy got behind the wheel, and with the windshield wipers clacking, off we went, zipping quietly around the side of the hospital, tires humming on the wet pavement. The parking lot at the front of the hospital was full of TV trucks. All seven local news channels and some cable and wire services were camped out waiting for a glimpse of me in handcuffs. My life had gone from bad to worse.
The drive across town was quick because there was no traffic at this hour in the morning. We got up on the freeway where the tires sang loudly in the rain cuts on the pavement as we flew along. The downtown horizon glowed a dull orange in the distance, the strange coloring caused by low clouds over L. A. that were up-lit by powerful yellow street lights. As we rolled down Sixth Street, the Police Administration Building loomed ahead.
"Turn right on San Pedro," Rafie instructed from the backseat. "Let's not go past the front of PAB. The press is still all over out there."
Tommy turned onto San Pedro and made a radio call to the jail, telling them we were seconds away. Then we pulled up to the rear of Parker Center and stopped outside the chain-link fence at the back entrance to the MCJ.
While the windshield wipers metronomed, Tommy blinked his lights for security, and after a second the electric gate opened. The car passed through the narrow driveway and pulled into an empty metal caged area where the gray jail buses were staged each morning to transport prisoners to court. A trustee wearing a purple jumpsuit pulled the gate closed behind us and locked it, securing us inside the chain-link box. There was an opening to the right of the car that led up ten steps to a sally port. The wire-enclosed pathway bent left and led to the booking area at the back of the jail. I'd been here hundreds of times, but it looked different to me now. Foreboding and dangerous.
Rafie again triggered his radio mike. "This is D-Nine to MCJ Central. We're in the pen with the prisoner. Send out some custodial officers and make sure the booking area is clear."
"Roger that," a voice answered.
Minutes later, two police custodial officers in blue LAPD-like uniforms came out of the cement block booking shed and approached inside the wire-enclosed walkway.
Jail custodians were not sworn police officers, but were trained at the Police Academy in jail tactics only. They carried no weapons and had spent no time on the street. They were strictly custodial specialists. Both men descended the stairs and opened the back door of the car. Everyone wore the same cut-from-granite expression. No one engaged my eyes.
"Hang in there," Rafie said, as I was pulled out of the back of the car.
I looked back at Figueroa and Sepulveda. We had shared space on the fifth floor of this building for almost a year, their desks only a few feet from mine. Now a cavern of distrust loomed between us. But I wasn't mad at them. They were as compromised as I was.
"Would you guys call Glen Gustafson and tell him I need his help fast? If he can come down here tonight it would really help."
Rafie and Tommy exchanged a look. "You really gonna use that liar?" Tommy said, surprised. "Even for a lawyer, he's roadkill."
"That's why I want him."
"Can't do it, Shane," Rafie said. "We're on this side now, you're over there." That pretty much covered it.
The custody officers removed my cuffs and gave them back to Rafie. Then I was led down the chain-link corridor into the jail area.
The booking shed was painted in ugly, contrasting colors, creamy yellow with a bilious green trim. In front of me were five booking windows that looked a lot like teller stations at a bank, complete with bullet-resistant acrylic glass. I was led up to the first station and the lone booking officer inside nodded at me.
"Empty your pockets and take off your belt and shoelaces. Leave all your money and personal effects on the counter, comb included."
I did as instructed, then asked through the scratched glass, "When is my bail being set, and when am I being arraigned?"
"No bail. Not tonight."
"Bail gets set automatically when you're booked," I reminded him.
"Except when the D. A. puts a hold on you. He's going before a judge on a bail deviation hearing at your arraignment, which, right now, is scheduled for Tuesday at nine a. M."
He put my possessions, including my badge, wallet, and both empty, clip-on holsters, into a cellophane bag and counted my money, laying it on the counter, getting ready for me to sign off on it.
I started to panic. If my arraignment was Tuesday, I was stuck here until then. I needed to get out, now. I needed to be at UCLA by ten a. M. I couldn't remember what I had done in the El Rey Theatre, but since they were charging me under the Felony Murder Rule, the witnesses and videotapes obviously couldn't get me for shooting that rapper straight off. The standard bail cap for all homicides is one million dollars. More than I had. But I had a plan on how to get it knocked down. I'd been hoping to hire a criminal defense attorney named Glen "Gunner" Gustafson. Twice I'd testified against clients of his whom I'd arrested. Both times during the cross Gunner had shredded me on the stand, attacking my choice of words and recollections, creating the impression I was impeaching myself even though I wasn't. He was brutal but damned effective. I was hoping Gustafson could get the charge knocked down to involuntary manslaughter or even wrongful death. That would depress the bail to a figure I could handle. Bail on lower weight felonies were usually in the hundred-thousand-dollar range.
Bondsmen will traditionally take 10 percent of the bond in cash and a guaranteed appraisal on your house or other personal property as collateral for the rest. I had about ten grand in the bank that would cover the lower bond. There was no way I could see to get our house appraised before eight a. M.
I signed for my possessions and was moved back over to the booking area where I was instructed to sit at a small wooden desk with a night-shift WC named Patrick Collins. I watched Collins fill out the booking sheet, charging me with first degree 187, which was a joke. Then he led me to the fingerprinting area to be photographed and printed. Just as on the thirteenth floor, all the sleeping drunks and
bystanders had been cleared out of the downstairs holding cells. The rooms were empty as they rolled my prints electronically and shot the mugs.
"I need to talk to my attorney," I said.
"It's pretty late," Collins said. "Let's get you settled, then we'll see if anybody's up to take your call."
He led me to the first-floor elevator. "We're putting you on the Walk of Fame," referring to A-block, which was a corridor of single occupancy cells where celebs like OJ, Robert Blake, and Robert Downey were all held in isolation before their arraignments. Afterwards they were transferred to the Iso unit in the main jail at the Twin Towers two blocks away. A-block at Men's Central Jail contained ten cells, and unlike the large dormitories situated on the second floor, none of these cells had pay phones inside.
We took the elevator up and I was led down the hall past the sleeping figures of men locked in large, twenty-man barred rooms. As I passed one dormitory, I noticed a man dressed in a silk shirt and shiny leather pants. His scowling face looked familiar.
"I smell bacon burnin'," the man said malevolently as I passed. I was closed inside my isolation cell before I realized who he was. Stacy Maluga's bodyguard, Insane Wayne Watkins. He was locked up in his Oasis Awards glitter clothes, looking like he wanted to tear my head off. Worse still, he was only twenty feet away. Almost close enough to do it.
Chapter 49.
I WAS IN cell A-5. It was small and contained only a bed, a sink, and a steel toilet. The bars were painted the same cream color as the floor. I sat on the thinly padded, red vinyl mattress and tried to sort this out. I knew I had to recapture my memory of what happened inside the El Rey Theatre, so I started with my last recollection. I pictured myself back inside Chooch's Jeep, parked on the street outside, and tried to walk myself through it a step at a time.
I remembered watching the black Chevy Impala SS slide by my parking place, its darkened windows vibrating gangsta rap. I tracked my progress, as I followed the black, four-door Chevy down the alley behind the theater. This time, my memory continued on beyond where it had stopped before and I remembered the fat gangster dressed in black, wearing chrome shades. Mister something . . . Smith. With the gaudy yellow crocs. Crocodile Smith. I remembered Krunk and the other one Little Poison and the two younger bangers. In my mind's eye I watched as those four scaled the fence and knocked on the back door. I remembered Stacy, or someone who looked a lot like her, letting them inside. A lot of pieces were starting to return. The VIP room. Walking down the glass-walled corridor to meet Lionel Wright in the sound booth. A big guy in a tan Kufi hat. Elijah Mustafa from the Fruit of Islam. Then I recalled Louis Maluga bracing me in the crowded lobby, threatening my life while the gorgeous woman I assumed was Sable Miller stood nearby and watched, waiting to see what would happen. But there the memories abruptly ended. I still couldn't fathom what I had done that led to the riot.
I needed to get the custodial officer so I could make a phone call. I stood and started tapping on the bars with my wedding ring the only piece of jewelry the booking sergeant let me keep.
"Stop that racket or I come down there an' put a foot up yer ass," a sleepy voice from another cell growled.
After a minute, Sgt. Patrick Collins arrived and looked in at me. "Shhh!" he hissed. "One riot a night oughta be enough for anybody."
"There's no phone inside this cell."
"It's three a. M. No attorney's gonna talk to you until morning."
"Hey, Patrick, that's just not your decision to make. I got a right to phone calls twenty-four hours a day, no exceptions. Read the jail manual."
"It's great havin' a cop in here, so we don't forget the real important stuff," he complained.
But he took out his keys, opened the cell, and led me down the hall. The big holding dorm that housed twenty sleeping prisoners was dimly lit by night-lights, but even in the faint glow, I saw Insane Wayne standing at the bars glaring, dressed to thrill in silk and leather.
"You best look out, motherfucker," he growled as I passed. "Bad shit be coming."
"Don't talk to him," Sgt. Collins ordered.
"That's a threat," I said. "Aren't you going to do something about it?"
Collins didn't respond and pulled me farther down the corridor to a large shower room with a wire mesh door. He opened the door, pushed me inside, then shut and locked me in. There was a phone on the wall outside with a cord that was just long enough to reach through a metal porthole that had been cut in the chain link. The way it worked, I could stand in the locked shower stall and by pulling the receiver in with me, I could then reach through and dial the phone attached to the wall outside. I retrieved the handset while Sergeant Collins watched me.
"You mind?" I asked.
He finally turned and walked out of earshot. I could just make out the corner of Insane Wayne Watkins's cell a few feet beyond the intersecting corridor. It was so dim over there, I couldn't quite see him, but I could feel his insolent glare coming out of the darkness, vibing me.
I reached through the narrow port, dialed information and asked for Gustafson Law Associates. Once the operator gave me the number, I called it collect and got a woman on his answering service who was polite, but seemed tired of dealing with dirtbags calling collect from jail in the middle of the night. I told her what I wanted.
"He makes jail visits after court in the morning. If you got booked tonight, you won't be arraigned until Tuesday or Wednesday, anyway."
"I need to talk with him now."
"Honey, it's three a. M."
"Wake him up. I'm the cop accused of killing David Slade and that rapper, Diamond Back, at the Oasis Awards. My case is gonna be worth a million in free national publicity. You tell Gustafson to call me in the next ten minutes or I'm moving to Thomas Mesereau, who happens to be the next celebrity guy on my list."
She hesitated, so I said, "I'm in a shower cell. I'm holding a phone through a porthole. This is not a good situation down here. Don't keep me waiting." I gave her the pay-phone number and hung up.
Three minutes later, the wall phone rang. I reached through the hole and picked it up.
"Shane Scully?" a rough voice said.
"Yeah," I replied, keeping my own voice low so I wouldn't be overheard by Wayne Watkins.
"Gunner Gustafson."
"Didn't take you long," I said.
"Knock it off. Let's go, cowboy, it's late so gimme your story."
His voice was raspy, like a fighter who'd been hit in the windpipe too many times. But it fit him. I remembered he was only five-foot-six, but the guy was definitely street product. When I'd testified against his dirtbag clients, both were found not guilty. It had angered me at the time, but now it warmed my heart.
"Start at the top and don't leave anything out," he said.
I filled him in on all of the facts I could remember. I told him I had amnesia surrounding the immediate event, but my memory was slowly coming back.
"You didn't tell the cops you couldn't remember what happened," he said, sounding worried.
"I may be stupid enough to be in jail, but I'm not that stupid."
I explained where I was being held and about Alexa and why I needed to get out on bail by ten a. M. When I finished, I heard him breathing slowly on the other end of the line.
"And you said the D. A.'s going after a bail deviance on the first degree murder?" he asked.
"That's what the booking sergeant told me. I don't have a million. I guess my house is worth maybe three-quarters of that and I only have about one hundred grand in equity. But none of it matter because I can't wait until Tuesday. I need out fast."
"You don't make it easy, friend. You've left me no time to put together a bail package. And if you can't make the million bond, we're gonna need to file our own bail deviation request, which means I'll need to put together the standard choir of angels who can hallelujah and amen all my arguments as to your saintliness. We need people who are beyond reproach your son, your division commander, if he'll stick his neck out, your pr
iest if he's still talking to you anybody else you can think of. But I can't do any of that by ten a. M. I also need to get an appraisal on your house and have a bondsman qualify you. Again, no time. Put this off until Tuesday, you'll at least be giving me a fighting chance."
"My wife is undergoing surgery. Didn't you hear what I told you?" I was getting angry with him.
"Okay, okay, hold your water. I'll call the guy who books Division Thirty arraignments first thing in the morning and have your name put on Monday's court appointment sheet. But I won't promise anything. If I screw this up, it's one hundred percent on you." The recent story of my life.
"Thanks," I said.
I hung up the phone and whistled for the custodian.
"Hey, fish! I got somethin' for you," I heard Wayne Watkins growl from across the hall. "You about to get fronted. There's people in here 'bout to buck down on yer ass."
He was threatening me right in the men's jail. Something wasn't right. How would he pull it off? I was a high-profile, isolated prisoner.
Sergeant Collins arrived. The door to the shower was unlocked and I was led outside. Collins walked ahead of me, leading me back to my cell.
"I got yo four-one-one right here," Wayne growled, holding something out through the bars a rag or a torn sheet.
I swerved slightly, putting myself between Sgt. Collins and Insane Wayne, blocking the custodian's view. Then as I passed by his cell I snatched a torn cloth out of his hand and wadded it into a ball inside my fist.
After I was locked back in my cell, I held the cloth up to the dull corridor light. It was a torn piece of bed sheet. On it, Wayne had written something in blood. I strained to read it.
Trustees. Maluga rules. Fire.
I looked at the message again, trying to figure out what it meant. I sat down on the bed and then lay back, turning the problem over.
I took the three sections of the note one at a time.
Trustees.
I knew from past experiences with the jail that trustees more or less ran the place. Most of them were first-timers in on low-weight drug dealing beefs. They swept up and delivered the food trays to isolation cells, made minor repairs, and kept the jail buses washed and cleaned. The majority of the trustees were gang-bangers, both black and Hispanic, but without serious violent crimes in their jackets. That still didn't mean one or two weren't monsters in training.
White Sister (2006) Page 23
