Zeke took some notes on his notepad, making sure Williams felt like he was being taken seriously. "Ok, I understand," Zeke said. "Can you give me a few minutes to speak with my client, hopefully get you an answer."
"Sure. This is an important decision. For your client, the city, and your career."
"Just one minute," Zeke said as he walked back into the gallery.
Most of the protestors had been cleared from the gallery. As the clock inched toward noon, fewer and fewer attorneys and defendants were left in the courtroom. Zeke walked toward the dock, where Alex was standing in a corner, still shackled.
"Hey, Alex."
"Hey, Zeke. I just wanted to say 'thank you' for taking—"
"It's no problem. You and you're parents are paying me, so it’s my job. Let's move past the pleasantries and get to it, we don't have much time."
"Sure."
"I've been trying to get the District Attorney down from 25 to life, but Williams won't budge. Says this is a high-profile case and the DA doesn't want to get skewered. He's offering some help on the back end, though. He'll make sure that you're placed in a level one, minimum security prison."
"What does that mean?" Alex asked.
"It's not exactly summer camp, but from what I've read it’s definitely the preferred housing situation. You'll have access to education programs and maybe some work. You'll be housed with non-violent offenders, too," Zeke said, looking at Alex's bruises, "which, given the state of your face, should be appealing."
Alex felt his face, it was puffy and sore, and considered the offer. He hadn't thought about pleading guilty. But if Jimmer was a preview of what maximum security prisons looked like, Alex didn't want any part of it. "Have you looked into the case at all? Find anything about Eddie Martinez?" Alex asked.
"Yeah, I looked into it," Zeke said, "and I don't think he did it. But apparently Martinez was working for Mikulski. Mikulski is a big-time drug kingpin in Los Angeles. He and Cahill had a fling, and something must've gone wrong."
"So . . . what’s your advice?" Alex asked.
Zeke's heart dropped. The decision to plead guilty was Alex's, but he was looking to Zeke for advice on whether or not he should plead guilty to a crime he didn't commit and guarantee himself 25 years in jail.
"I need more time, Alex. Frankly, I wasn't expecting Martinez to give us as much information as he did. Toward the end of our conversation, Mikulski's security guys showed up and lit up Martinez's office. There is definitely something going on, I just need time to figure it out. If you enter a not guilty plea, we can buy some more time to investigate."
"Can you at least get me out on bail?" Alex asked.
Zeke sighed. "Not likely," he said, "and even if the judge grants bail, it will be more than you or your parents could afford. Even with a bail bondsman."
Alex paused for a moment. They were both new at this, he and Zeke. But if he knew Zeke was out there canvassing witnesses, Alex figured, that could get him through a few more weeks of Jimmer. "Ok, then. I'll buy you some more time."
"Thanks, stay safe. I'll keep in touch," Zeke said. He turned back toward the gallery and walked into the Fish Bowl.
"What's the word?" Williams asked.
"No deal," Zeke said, "he'll be entering a not guilty plea."
Williams groaned. "Fine," he said, as he stood up and walked back into the courtroom. Zeke followed him past the bar and stood behind the defense table. They wait until Judge White called their case back onto the docket.
"Back to the Garcia matter. Have the People and the defendant reached an agreement."
"No, your Honor," Zeke and Williams said in synch.
Judge White sighed. He turned to Alex, "Mr. Garcia, how do you wish to plea?"
"Not guilty, your Honor," Alex replied.
"Clerk, please set the first pretrial conference in a few weeks. Will that be long enough for both parties?"
"That suits the People, your Honor," Williams said.
"That . . . should be fine, your Honor," Zeke said.
"Very well. Mr. Garcia, that will be all," Judge White said. A sheriff's deputy ordered Alex to stand up and escorted him out of the courtroom.
"The court will recess for lunch and resume proceedings at 1:30 in the afternoon. Proceedings adjourned," Judge White tapped the gavel on her desk and exited the courtroom. The remaining attorneys and spectators began walking out of the courtroom.
"Not half bad!" Matty said, standing up in the gallery, "except for that first bit. You're fresh meat, I suppose. Alex isn't looking too good, either."
"Yeah. I didn't expect him to actually consider the DA's plea deal. He's getting beat up pretty bad in jail. He agreed to give us more time, though."
Zeke saw Salter approaching him and Matty. He had been sitting in the back of the courtroom, hidden from view. "Hey there, Zeke," Salter said.
"Detective! I'm surprised to see you here," Zeke replied.
"Shouldn't be too shocking, newbie. The Department requires us to attend all of the courtroom meetings leading up to a suspect's trial."
"Ah, right. Well, it was good to see you—"
"Funny thing happened to me, yesterday. Got a call from dispatch that there was gunfire in the Fashion District. Over near where Martinez hangs out."
"Well, you know how people get about clothes . . ." Matty quipped.
". . . right. Look, I know you went to see Martinez. Do you know anything?"
"I . . ." Zeke responded, searching for how to answer.
"Awful strange coincidence that a shootout happens just a few hours after I tell you where to find him." Salter said.
"As you know, Detective, we're pursuing Martinez as part of an investigation into the People's case against our client. Even if I had anything to tell you, it would be confidential attorney work product."
"You and I both know that's bullshit," Salter replied.
"I'm sorry I can't help you, Detective."
"I'd be careful if I were you, counselor. You don't know what you've got yourself into." Salter said.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Matty asked.
"Your client, whether he knew it or not, pissed off some powerful people. There is a shadow turf war going on for control of Los Angeles. They won't be afraid to knock you off if you make their lives . . . complicated." Salter paused a beat. "Have a good day, Mr. Blackbird."
"Bye," Zeke replied, as Salter walked out of the courtroom.
Matty turned to Zeke. "That was a little rude, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but he has a point. We don't really know what we're dealing with. The VMK drug ring came as a complete surprise, who knows what else is going on?"
"I guess it's our job to find out. So where do we start?" Matty asked.
"Martinez said VMK is filming a movie on the Universal backlot. Told me that some of his staffers were aware of Mikulski's fling with Cahill. They may be willing to talk."
"And what . . . we're just going to walk onto the Universal lot to chat up VMK employees."
Zeke smirked, "I have an idea."
February 16th, 7:00pm
"What the hell happened?" Victor asked. He and Wainwright were sitting in his office.
"We tracked the lawyer to Eddie's compound in Downtown L.A. The plan was to make it look like Eddie had holed up in his office and executed Blackbird for knowing too much. We were spotted, though, by one of Eddie's guys, as we pulled up to the building. They're ordered to shoot at will, for protection. They fired on Eddie's third floor office."
"So where the hell is the lawyer?"
"He . . . escaped. Apparently, there is a back—"
"Why didn't you have guys around the perimeter?"
"He's a lawyer," Wainwright explained, "Frankly, no one expected him to climb down a fire escape and jump down to the street."
"Damn it! How much am I paying you and your guys anyways?"
"Well, we—"
"What about Martinez?"
"One of my guys is confident that
he took out at least one of Martinez's guards. He must not have many left at this point, most of them have been dropped by rival drug gangs."
"You haven't answered my question."
Wainwright paused a moment. "The cops showed up faster than we thought. Someone must have tipped them off. Eddie is probably paying his neighbors to keep an eye on neighborhood. We laid down a lot of gunfire through his office window, though. It’s possible he may be dead . . . but we have no way of knowing. As soon as we heard sirens, we took off."
"So Eddie Martinez may be alive?"
"That's possible . . . yes," Wainwright replied.
Victor paused. He had known Wainwright for years. They had met just after Victor started selling drugs to his fellow acting students. He had needed some muscle to help convince a few of his regulars to pay their tabs. Victor had found Connor in Santa Monica, employed as a bouncer at a popular nightclub. Ever since, Connor Wainwright had virtually never screwed up.
"Do I have anything to worry about?" Victor asked.
"No, sir. The lawyer still doesn't know anything about the business. He'll be any easy loose end to tie up. And we'll find Eddie eventually. It just may take longer than I initially thought."
"I meant with you. First screwup was at the party, letting Eddie kill Cahill. Now this. Are you sure I shouldn't be worried that you and Eddie have got a side project going on?"
"I would never—"
"Because a reasonable man could deduce that you've let Eddie slip away twice now, after taking out one of my main moneymakers."
"Absolutely not, sir. I've been loyal to you since the beginning. This is just an anomaly. It won't happen again."
"It better not," Victor said. "So now what?"
"I've got someone keeping an eye on Blackbird. The guy they rolled up for Cahill's murder, Garcia, he's claiming innocence. Blackbird and his hippie sidekick are mounting an investigation to support their case. If it looks like he's getting to close, we'll take him out."
"Do what you have to do. And make sure it doesn't lead anywhere near VMK."
"You got it, boss."
February 20th, 1:15pm
Alex woke up to a guard opening his cell door.
"Morning, Garcia. How's your face?" the guard asked.
Alex shuffled out of the top bunk and looked around for his prison-issued shoes.
"Quiet today, huh? Doesn't matter. Probably better that way. Now get to work," the guard said, kicking a mop bucket in Alex's direction. It sloshed dirty water on the floor. "And clean that shit up."
Alex was slowly learning how to keep a low-profile. Shut up and keep your head down, he thought to himself. When he had confronted Jimmer in the common area, Alex had figured the guards would be obligated to intervene. He was wrong, unfortunately, as Jimmer explained that the guards themselves were in on the contraband conspiracy. Everyone knew about it, at least, and Jimmer had a number of guards and inmates on his payroll.
At least I've got a lawyer. Alex resolved to do whatever he could to survive the next few weeks, until Zeke could get more information on Martinez, Mikulski, and VMK. If that meant he was an unwilling mule in Jimmer's drug ring, then so be it.
After he finished cleaning up the puddle in his own cell, Alex carried the mop and bucket down the stairs and across the common area. As he approached Jimmer's cell, a guard was walking out with large, black gym bag. The guard looked at Alex and said, "shit you're moving quick today. We must've served Wheaties yesterday!" He finished zipping up the gym bag and exited the pod.
Alex walked into Jimmer's cell. It was empty, as it usually was in the morning. Alex had figured out that Jimmer played backgammon in the morning, so it was the best time to pick up his daily deliveries and drop off the request lists from the day before.
Alex pulled a package the size of a fist out of Jimmer's toilet. It was wrapped in plasticwrap, an old newspaper, and encased in a Ziploc bag with the list of which cells he had to visit that day. Alex was starting to figure out how operation worked. Inmates would tell Jimmer what they needed—drugs, cell phones, matches, and anything small—and Jimmer would pass off a list of requirements to the guards. They would source the stuff from outside, and deliver the goods to Jimmer's cell, for a hefty fee. And Jimmer—through Alex—would deliver the goods. Rinse and repeat.
He glanced at the first cell on the list, sighed, and made his way across the common area to the pod's only exit.
Alex knocked on the door. Holding his mop up to a camera, "Hey, I need access to Pod 3 for cleaning." The door buzzed, and Alex walked into the floor's main walkway. Guards walked back and forth from a central command station in the middle of the floor. It was almost 9am and officers were on the cusp of a shift change. Its architect designed the Twin Towers Jail complex as a panopticon, allowing guards in the center of the floor a complete, 360-degree view of each pod from behind a one-way mirror built of impermeable glass. Inmates, of course, couldn't see through to the control room, so assumed they were being watched constantly.
Alex heard a few of the guards chuckling as they opened the door to the control room. "How's it going today, Larry?" one guard said.
"Fine. No problems last night. Docile as usual," another guard replied.
"Oh good. Must be all those hormones we're pumping into the mystery meat," the first replied, busting into laughter.
Alex walked up to the door that read 'Pod 3.' He repeated the process to enter the pod, and the door slammed behind him. Each pod had the same design, so Alex knew his way around. He walked to the first cell on his list and knocked on the open door. There was an inmate reading on the lower bunk.
"Hi," Alex said, "I'm supposed to leave something here.
"Hey there, hombre. Yeah, I think that’s for my cellmate. You must be Jimmer's new guy. That's shit luck, kid. You must've done something wrong in a previous life," the inmate said.
"Yeah, I guess. So where should I leave this?" Alex replied.
"Toilet. Never pass the packages to another person. There can't be any direct contact. Everything we do is recorded on tape. If you mess it up, Jimmer will beat you. And If he doesn't, the guards will. Just ask the last mop guy."
"What happened to the last guy?" Alex asked.
"He got caught handing a package to a guard. Apparently Internal Affairs did an investigation, saw footage of the transaction. They fired the guard. His buddies drummed up bogus charges and threw your predecessor in solitary. He's been in there a few months, no hope of getting out."
"Jeez," Alex said, as he delicately placed his delivery into the toilet.
"Jeez is right, kid. How long have you been here, anyways?" the inmate asked.
"Not long, about a week."
"A week, really? You're tiny. What gives?"
"What do you mean?"
"I just mean that most guys when they get here know the first thing they have to do is bulk up. You know, lifting weights."
"I've never been a gym rat, though."
"Ha! Clearly!" the inmate said.
Alex, a little offended, finished up mopping the cell floor, and started to pack up his cleaning supplies.
"I'm gonna offer you some advice, kid. If you want to survive in here, or at least have a chance, there's really only one thing you need to know. The biggest, baddest guy always wins. As long as you look . . . the way you look, you're gonna be at Jimmer's mercy. And when Jimmer gets killed or moved somewhere else, the big guy that replaces him is gonna do the same thing. The only person you can count on is yourself."
"So what're you saying."
"Man you are dense. You need to start working out. Toughen up. Learn how to fight."
"And how do I do that?" Alex asked.
"Well, if you're up for it, I'll teach you."
Alex looked over the inmate, skeptical of anyone at Twin Towers of offering something for free. "Yeah, and for what price?" Alex said.
"Free. Straight Up."
"Yeah, right," Alex said, "I'm out of here—"
"S
eriously. Your predecessor was a friend of mine. He was a good dude, and now he's damned to solitary because of Jimmer. No one has more reason than me to see Jimmer get a taste of his own medicine," the inmate said.
"Then why don't you confront him," Alex asked.
The inmate pointed at a wheelchair in the corner. "I would," the inmate started, "but it would be an unfair fight. I was a southpaw, back in my fightin' days in the Navy. I can hold my own with guys my size now, but I don't stand a chance against a brick wall like Jimmer."
"What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't. I'm Rodrigo. Rodrigo Fuentes. It's nice to meet you—"
"Alex Garcia. So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I'll train you. Pod 3 is minimum security. We're the only unit on this floor that has its own weightlifting equipment. But since you're a trustee, and Jimmer's go-between, you'll have access here whenever you need. And I can teach you to how to throw a punch and juke in my cell," Rodrigo said.
"But won't Jimmer find out? It seems like everyone works for him?"
"All Jimmer cares about is making money. As long as you keep delivering those packages, he won't pay you any attention."
"And what do you want in return?"
"Nothing, like I said. When the time comes, I hope you'll take on Jimmer. I'll make sure you're ready. But I won't hold you to it." Rodrigo swung his legs over the side of the bunk, pulled himself into his wheelchair, and held out his open hand. "So, we got a deal?"
Alex thought about what Alonzo said. Just shut up and keep your head down. But he also thought about his last fight with Jimmer, how he was helpless to defend himself. How the police had pulled him out of bed, put him in handcuffs, and stranded him in jail for a crime he didn't commit. His head still pulsated where it had slammed against the concrete after Jimmer hit him with a mop. He could feel something rise up from his stomach. A deep anger driving him to prove that he could defend himself.
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