Judgment

by Lee Goldberg

  "In the car."

  "Could you see Sergeant Shaw talking with Tomas Cruz?"

  "Nope."

  "Could you hear them talking?"

  "Nope."

  "Did you hear anything at all from that alley, Sergeant?" Sliran looked at Shaw.

  "Sergeant, answer my question. Did you hear anything at all?"

  "Some crashes, maybe."

  Shaw ran a hand over his face.

  "Yes or no, Sergeant, did you hear some crashes?"

  "Yes."

  "What kind of crashes?"

  Sliran turned to Yates for help. Yates sat impassively, his face expressionless. It had ended for him already.

  "I dunno, like garbage cans being banged around."

  "Did it sound like a fight?"

  "Objection." Yates made the obligatory motion, casually, not even looking at the judge. "He's leading the witness on. The witness already described the noises."

  "Objection sustained," MacFarland said.

  "How long did these noises last?"

  "I dunno, a few seconds, maybe a minute."

  "And when did your partner come out of the alley?"

  "I guess five or ten minutes later."

  "Thank you, Sergeant." Dexter smiled at Yates. "Your witness." Yates tapped his fingers on the table. "I have no questions."

  The courtroom fell silent. Shaw looked anxiously at Yates, who sat with his head down, doodling on his legal pad. Macklin watched the judge.

  MacFarland sighed and cleared his throat.

  "The defense has shown that there is considerable doubt as to the validity of the confession. Under the circumstances I rule that the confession is inadmissible as evidence in this proceeding."

  Dexter grinned like a monk set loose in a whorehouse.

  "Do you have any more witnesses, Mr. Yates?" MacFarland asked.

  Yates frowned. The case was lost. Without the confession, there was no way to convict the gang members. "No, Your Honor."

  Dexter was jubilant. "Your Honor, the defense respectfully requests that judgment be made in my client's behalf."

  "The charges are dismissed."

  The youths broke into laughter, clapping each other on the back and shaking Dexter's hand. Macklin stood up slowly, his eyes on the gang members doing their happy dance. Primo flipped him off.

  "So that's it, they're free," Macklin said.

  Yates was standing, stuffing his papers into his briefcase. "Yep."

  "Isn't there anything you can do?"

  "No, it's the law, Mr. Macklin."

  "The kid confessed."

  Yates glanced angrily over his shoulder at Shaw. "Maybe, but that doesn't matter anymore."

  Macklin grabbed Yates by the arm. "That scum killed my father. You can't let them slither out of here."

  "Let go of me, Mr. Macklin," Yates said coolly, carefully. Macklin glared at Yates. Fury raged in the pilot's eyes. Yates, for a moment, feared Macklin would crush his arm like an empty beer can. "Let go."

  "Mack . . . ," Shaw said quietly.

  Macklin saw his father, screaming in agony, fleeing across the street. He saw the blackened shape, twisted and smoking on the pavement. In that second, part of Brett Macklin died.

  Macklin sighed and released Yates. Shaw felt something pass, saw the strange flatness in Macklin's eyes.

  The prosecutor rubbed his upper arm. "Believe me, Mr. Macklin, I know how you feel." Yates slipped around Macklin and paused beside Shaw, who was still bewildered by Macklin's unnerving expression.

  "You'll be hearing from me, Sergeant," Yates said, leaving.

  The gang members began to file out, Primo strutting proudly and grinning as he walked past Macklin. "Hey, Jesse, I feel like some barbecued pork. How 'bout you?"

  "Sure," Jesse cackled. "Sure, barbecued pork sounds good."

  Baldo grunted, strolling casually out of the courtroom with Hector Gomez at his side. Mario, grinning, pretended to sleepwalk out of the courtroom, his arms held out straight in front of him and his eyes barely closed.

  Dexter smiled proudly, wheeling Cruz past Macklin and Shaw. "Next time, Sergeant, try to control your aggressive tendencies."

  Esteban skirted by quickly, bumping Shaw and Dexter on his way out.

  Shaw was left with Macklin. He didn't know what to say. Somehow, sorry just wasn't good enough. Shaw reached out to touch Macklin, hesitated, and walked out slowly, leaving Macklin alone with his thoughts.

  Macklin slumped in his chair, the defeat sapping him of the energy to get up and walk out. The unfairness of it all, and his inability to do anything about it, drained him. He felt utterly powerless.

  The justice system Macklin had believed in, the system his father had dedicated his life to, had turned around and kicked him in the teeth. Justice wasn't blind. To Macklin, it was comatose. And there was nothing he could do about it. The murderers would go unpunished.

  They killed my father. How could the system let them free?

  As he asked himself that question again and again, the despair began to fade and he became aware of another voice trying to be heard. He stared at the judge's bench, trying to clear his head so he could hear it.

  Macklin enjoyed a moment of mental peace, the judge's bench the only image in his mind. Then he heard the whisper of his anger.

  He felt his heartbeat quicken. The whisper was telling him something, he wasn't sure what, but it seemed to lessen the crushing feeling of unfairness. It offered him a way out of his defeat.

  The whisper grew into a defiant shout that echoed in his head. The shout, thick with danger and violence, was a stony coldness that drowned memories and feelings and left anger in their place.

  The shout became a scream, evoking a fury that burrowed deep inside him and carved a warm niche for itself in his heart. Suddenly Macklin felt energized, alive again, and he understood what the screams were telling him.

  Make them pay.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Lieutenant, this is craziness," Shaw screamed, pacing in front of Lieutenant Bohan Lieu, who was leaning forward in his chair, unbending a paper clip.

  "Ronny, I'm sorry. But you know the rules. You're doing desk work until this is cleaned up."

  "You don't believe that shit. I didn't lay a hand on Cruz!"

  "It doesn't matter what I believe." Lieu arched his head towards the squad room. Two guys from Internal Affairs were talking with Sliran. "It's what they believe."

  One of them looked like Liberace, though he dressed better. The other guy, the one who was doing all the talking, was Mr. Regulation. Shiny shoes, short hair, Disneyland employee face. Trouble.

  Lieu opened his desk drawer and pulled out a package of Sugar Babies. He popped four into his mouth and offered the open bag to Shaw.

  "No, thanks."

  Lieu munched on the chewy gob. "I wouldn't get too attached to your victimized attitude, Ronny. You're to blame for most of this mess."

  Shaw held out his hand and Lieu poured a few Sugar Babies into his open palm.

  "I won't fault you, Ronny, for coming down hard on Tomas. Anyone might have done that." Lieu popped a few more caramel treats into his mouth. "But meeting that kid in an alley and not bringing Sliran in with you was stupid. That was mistake number one. Mistake two was not bringing the kid down here to make his confession. Mistake three was not arresting the kid then and there."

  Lieu snapped his fingers. "Three strikes and you're out. A cop with your experience should know better."

  Shaw fell into a chair. "You're right," he said glumly. He held out his hand for more Sugar Babies, chewed on them awhile, and watched the Internal Affairs boys grill Sliran. "Well, Lieutenant, what do you see in your crystal ball?"

  Lieu pondered a Sugar Baby. "I'd say you're heading into a world of hurt. I'd get yourself a lawyer."

  Shaw chuckled miserably. "Anyone got Dexter's number?"

  # # # # # #

  The streets were empty under a full moon that colored the world, through a cloud-streaked sky, w
ith hazy blue shadows. Wind whistled between buildings and the stillness seemed palpable, thick, and uneasy. Shadows became threatening, twitching and darting between crevices and alleys, doorways and other seams in the night.

  His shadow fell on the street. His footfalls echoed amidst the gutted, blackened buildings. The lone, unscorched streetlight cast its single unnatural glow on his face as he stood at the alley's mouth.

  His eyes were dark, made dull by a fury that had ebbed into a deep, intense anger. He felt almost inanimate, as soulless as the night itself. His shadow lay like a corpse in front of him, stretching into the alley.

  He felt utterly alone, unattached to any person, and unable to conjure any joy from the world around him. Unmoving, he stood there struggling to understand and control the changes occurring within him. He feared he might lose any humanity he ever had. It was an agony endured in silence.

  He stood. Sunlight slowly burned its way through the night, and the shadows melted away.

  He was at the hot-dog stand when Saul arrived at six a.m.

  Saul didn't recognize him at first. Looking at the stranger warily as he unlocked the hot-dog stand, he opened the shutters over the counter. The man sat on a stool, his face unshaven, his distant eyes watching the street awaken. Saul tied on his apron and heated up the grill. "You're Brett Macklin, aren't you?"

  Macklin turned.

  "I didn't recognize you at first." Saul scraped the grill with a spatula. "I've only seen you twice. You didn't look like hell then."

  Saul grinned at Macklin. The pilot looked ten years older than when he had seen him at the funeral.

  "Listen, Brett, sit right there and I'll fix you up some of my famous eggs." Saul cracked two eggs over the grill, then reached into the refrigerator for a handful of hash browns.

  "Your starch special," Macklin said.

  Saul saw a hint of brightness in Macklin's eyes. "I see JD told you about my famous breakfast platter."

  "And your grease burger."

  Saul laughed. "We can still be friends, can't we?"

  Macklin grinned. Saul's cheerfulness warmed him, and some of his emotional chill evaporated. "My father walked a beat so he could work off the extra tonnage you put on him."

  Saul pointed to the eggs with his spatula. "How you want them?"

  "Over easy." Macklin unzipped his jacket and leaned on the counter. "Listen, Saul, I didn't come down here just to eat."

  "Big surprise," he said, flipping over the eggs. "Hardly anyone does."

  "Dad talked to you—"

  "Yes, he did, Brett," Saul interrupted. "And I miss him. Every morning and every evening JD would sit right there, where you are, and just talk. We never saw him as a police officer, you know, walking a beat. He was just another street person, a shopkeeper, a friend."

  "Look, Saul, did he ever talk to you about the gangs?"

  "A little. Moe and me and your father couldn't believe how violent our neighborhood was getting. We were always hearing stories about kids doing awful things to each other. Why, I can remember when this was a peaceful place to li—"

  "What kind of stories?"

  Saul handed Macklin his plate of eggs and hash browns. "Horrible things, beatings and shootings and just horrible things, you know. Even your father was shocked. He couldn't figure it out. We'd hear all this talk, but your father just couldn't track down anything. But you know your father—that only made him more determined. He wanted to know where all these stories were coming from and why all this was going on."

  Saul buttered two slices of toast and set them in from of Macklin. "The neighborhood's just deteriorating. We noticed it, JD noticed it, everyone noticed it. JD, though, he took it personally. Like it reflected on his ability as a police officer, you know? It seemed like more violence every day. You know things are going bad when vultures like Elias Simon"—Saul pointed his spatula to the Silver Tabernacle looming in the sky behind Macklin—"come down and pick on your bones."

  Macklin looked over his shoulder at the towering glass monolith. "Like a vulture?"

  "Sure. Comes in here with his fancy duds and con-man smile and his missions and says he's gonna bring Jesus down here." Saul frowned. "Christ'll stay at the Bonaventure. He won't come down here. Simon just came to prey on our fear. People will turn to him cause they're scared and don't know where else to go. The schmucks."

  Macklin wiped up the yolk on his plate with a piece of toast and took a bite. "Why do you stay, Saul?"

  "Good question."

  And apparently not one that would be answered. Macklin pushed his plate away. "What can you tell me about the Bounty Hunters?"

  "I wouldn't invite them over for dinner. Why are you asking me all these questions? A walking encyclopedia I'm not." Saul looked at him questioningly and cleared away Macklin's plate. "Good, huh?"

  "Delicious. Look, Saul, I'm just trying to understand my father's death. I want to know why he was killed."

  "Senseless violence, that's all. Nowadays it happens all the time."

  Moe waddled up, the Los Angeles Times folded under his arm, and sat on the stool beside Macklin.

  "'Morning, Saul. Did ya read the paper?"

  Saul had his back to the counter. "Haven't had a chance, Moe. Say hello to JD's son, Brett."

  Moe set his paper on the counter and turned, offering his chubby hand to Macklin, who shook it.

  "Sorry about your pop. JD and I were close friends. He talked about you, yep. He sure was proud of you."

  Macklin tried to smile.

  "Couldn't believe they let those punks off. Jesus. What's happening to our legal system?" Moe shook his head. "You know, pretty soon those old farts in the Supreme Court are gonna make it illegal to fight back when some guy jumps you. You'll have to roll over on your back, point to your nuts, and say 'Kick me here and please take my wallet.'"

  "What do you know about the Bounty Hunters?"

  "Buncha punks, what more do I need to know?"

  "Where can I find 'em?"

  Moe laughed. "See that street behind you? Just walk out there some night and they'll find you."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The exit signs on the Santa Monica Freeway whizzed past Brett Macklin at seventy miles per hour as he drove the Batmobile towards the patch of glowing, towering names scrawled in the night sky. Crocker Bank. Simon Ministries. Hilton. Transamerica. Jesus Saves. Wells Fargo. They shined blue, green, and bright white against the blackness.

  He turned up the stereo, letting Bruce Springsteen run full throttle down "Thunder Road," and veered south away from the downtown skyline towards the softer lights of the neighborhood his father had patrolled.

  Earlier that evening Macklin had tried to sleep. But no position in bed was comfortable. His body was damp with sweat and the sheets stuck to his skin. His limbs were tingling so strong, so strangely, that relaxing was a fight. He was tortured by a nameless compulsion that needed no rest. It struggled with him, racing his pulse and making his head throb. He yanked off the sheets, lay for a few minutes, and then bolted from the bed, pacing nervously around the room.

  The image of the empty judge's bench and the whisper in his head prodded him again. The next thing he knew he was dressed and slicing through the night, his face reflecting the unearthly green light from the Cadillac's dashboard.

  Macklin tried to lose himself in the music. It was no good. The compulsion was louder. No matter how high he cranked up the stereo, no matter how fast he drove, Macklin couldn't force back the compulsion.

  The only thing that seemed to ease his tension was the image of himself holding his father's gun, pumping bullets into the gang members that had been set free. That image scared Macklin. It went against everything his father had taught him. Yet it was only when he envisioned himself killing that the painful ache in his stomach ebbed. Only then did he feel any comfort.

  The image teased him now. The pain was gone, but the compulsion was as strong as ever.

  Macklin followed the curving off-ramp and slid qui
etly onto the trash-strewn streets of the neighborhood, lowering the volume on his stereo and settling back into his seat. He felt removed from what he saw, as if seeing it on television or from the comfort of a tour bus. This was a foreign land, an alien planet, a world entirely different from the middle-class streets of West Los Angeles.

  This was where old General Motors cars go to die, Macklin thought. GM heaven. Monte Carlos, Chevelles, Novas, sharp Buick Rivieras, and pretentious Pontiac Bonnevilles—here they were world-class touring cars. The trappings of ghetto status and loyalty.

  Macklin cruised the streets slowly, looking at the faces, learning the terrain. People gathered near an open-all-night liquor store, warming themselves on its neon fire as if it would keep the desperation that stalked this urban wilderness at bay. The people were smileless and had tired, gentle faces.

  Teenagers played video games, hung out, strutted, and hit on girls at the Burger Shop. Little placards ran along the flat roofline advertising Chinese food, fried chicken, hickory burgers, and tacos.

  The neighborhood people all seemed to be performing to Macklin, acting rough and hard because some script somewhere told them to, because men like Macklin expected them to.

  Macklin scrutinized the faces.

  Maybe he was wrong. They seemed like frightened, angry people. Just like him. Not animals, not creatures he had to punish. Could Shaw have pushed Tomas Cruz too hard? Was the confession what Dexter claimed it was—a lie, the desperate act of a person afraid for his life?

  Then Macklin remembered them. Primo, Carrera, Teobaldo Villanueva. The violence he saw in their eyes. They didn't bother to hide it. They flaunted it, reveled in it, too.

  But did they kill Dad?

  Macklin twisted the wheel, the car screeching around the corner in front of Sho-More Adult Films and speeding away from the neon promise of "BIG THRILLS, HARD ACTION, TITILATING FUN."

  He passed Saul's hot-dog stand, following the path his father walked before his death. Bars covered all the storefront windows and doors. It was as if the neighborhood were a prison that kept its captives locked on the streets.

  Macklin steered clear of the charred section of the block, turned the corner, and headed north towards downtown LA.