by Glenn Rogers
“Yes.”
“And are you aware that the sole basis for that charge is your testimony that Mr. Leventhal ordered Franklin Truman to kill you?”
“I am.”
“Would you please tell the court exactly how you came to be under the impression that Mr. Leventhal ordered Mr. Truman to kill you?”
“Sure. When I present Mr. Levelthal with the evidence against him, he glanced at Franklin. Franklin, who did not need to be there anyway, pulled a gun on me.”
Mr. Leventhal looked at Mr. Truman and when Mr. Truman produced a gun, you took that as Mr. Leventhal having instructed Mr. Truman to kill you.”
“It was a signal,” I said.
“A signal.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Like a prearranged signal between Mr. Leventhal and Mr. Truman so that when Mr. Leventhal looked at Mr. Turman, that was the signal for Mr. Truman to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Leventhal or Mr. Truman admit to you that there was such a signal in place?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know there was a prearranged signal and that it was a look from Mr. Leventhal?”
Her strategy was obvious. If all Leventhal had really done was overcharge Ryan for services rendered, he wouldn’t spend nearly as much time in jail. Maybe no jail time at all if she argued it well. She needed to make it look like I didn’t know what I was talking about. Like I had misinterpreted the entire sequence of events. She needed to make the jury doubt that Leventhal had instructed Franklin to shoot me.
“Experience,” I said, in answer to her question.
“Experience.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of experience?” she asked.
“Being a male. Being a former marine, a former FBI agent. Encountering a lot of people like Franklin. Knowing how they work.”
“And this experience as you call it, provides you with enough insight so that you are certain that Mr. Leventhal instructed Mr. Truman to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Badger, isn’t it actually the case that you were at that time and even now simply making an assumption, a guess, regarding Mr. Leventhal’s intentions?”
“A guess?” I said. “No. It is an observation, an insight, born of extensive experience. Mr. Truman had listened to the entire exchange between Mr. Leventhal and myself. He had heard the evidence I had. He was not being implicated as a participant in Mr. Leventhal’s crimes. He had no reason, based on the evidence, to believe that he was in any way being connected with Mr. Leventhal. He had no reason to attack me. In fact, he’d had no reason to even come to the meeting or to have come to the meeting armed. He was armed and ready to attack me because Mr. Leventhal surmised that I had evidence against him. Mr. Leventhal was planning to eliminate both me and the evidence. He assumed Mr. Truman had the skills required to do that. That’s why Mr. Truman was there and armed.”
“That’s a creative and inventive story, Mr. Badger. But you have no evidence of any of it, do you? You have nothing more than speculation as to Mr. Leventhal’s intentions.”
I didn’t respond. She waited. Finally, I said, “If you’re waiting for me to agree with you, you’re going to wait a long time.”
That annoyed her. She told the judge she had no further questions. I was excused and left. I didn’t know if the jury would believe me or her. Either way, it was out of my hands. I had done what I could and the DA had done what he could. Now it was up to the jury to decide.
Chapter 26
It was midafternoon when I got back to my office. I used Google Earth to look for tall buildings in the vicinity of Security Specialists in Reseda. It wouldn’t have to be a skyscraper. I found one that looked like it might work.
After a while, Mildred came into my side of our office suite, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down in front of my desk.
“I need Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday off next week,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Don't you want to know why?” she asked.
“Not unless you want to tell me.”
She frowned. “My youngest son wants to bring his new girlfriend to meet me. Says this one may be the one.”
“I thought your youngest son was married?”
“He was. Now he's not.”
“So the one he thought was the one turned out not to be the one, but this one may be the one.”
“You have an amazing grasp of the male psyche,” Mildred said.
“We're a simple lot,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“If you don't mind my saying so,” I said, “you don't appear to be thrilled at the prospect of meeting a possible future daughter-in-law.”
“I love my son,” Mildred said. “But when he meets a woman, his primary focus is her hoo-ha and her hooters.”
“Hoo-ha and hooters?”
“You heard me and you know exactly what I'm talking about. Don't be a smartass.”
“Yes ma'am.”
“When you're finally ready to move on, Jake, you'd better be smart enough to focus on what matters—her heart and her mind. Don't get lost in her boobs and her ass.”
I was trying to keep a straight face. I raised my right hand and said, “I promise not to get lost in any woman's boobs or ass.”
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth became a straight line across the bottom of her face.
“When I go in,” I said, “I'll take a flash light and a compass so I can find my way back out.”
She stood. The expression on her face was sad. She shook her head and said, “Testosterone poisoning,” and walked out.
It was half past three. I took Wilson, stopped by our apartment for some stuff I needed and drove to Reseda to inspect the building I'd seen on Google Earth. I needed something a little under half a mile from the Security Specialists building. Preferably I'd needed to be able to see the front door of Security Specialists from the top of the building. I found one that from the street level appeared to be just what I needed.
I drove to a nearby building maintenance supply store and bought myself a pair of white coveralls. I parked in front of the building, leaving the windows down a bit so it wouldn't get too hot for Wilson. It was unseasonably cool anyway, so I knew he’d be okay. I put on the coveralls and grabbed the large canvas bag I'd picked up from our apartment. I told Wilson I'd be back in a while. He woofed that he'd be fine.
I went into the building and found an elevator that would take me to the roof. If anyone asked what I was doing, I'd say maintenance. By the time I stepped out onto the roof, no one had asked me what I was doing.
Security Specialists was south and east of my location. I looked all around. There were no other taller buildings nearby. No one could see me. I’d have to watch for helicopters, but otherwise I’d be okay. I went to the south side of the building, reached into my bag for a pair of range finding binoculars, located the Security Specialists building and clicked on the range finding feature. From where I was to the front door of Security Specialists was just a tad more than nine hundred and twelve yards.
I put the binoculars down and looked at my watch. Four twenty. I was hoping Jasper would call it a day before too long. From my canvas bag, I retrieved my M40A5 sniper rifle, the weapon I used in Afghanistan. It had an effective range of one thousand yards. I needed only nine hundred twelve. At that distance, I could put a round through a quarter.
It was a nice, still day. No wind to speak of. I set up and found my target in my scope. I could see through the glass front door. The receptionist sat to the left of the door. Directly beyond the front door was a water cooler. Nice. Nine hundred years, a glass door, a five gallon water bottle—nearly full—and a wall. No one would get hurt. But Jasper just might wet himself. At least, one could hope. I put one round into the chamber and began my wait.
I didn't know how long I'd have to wait. Once, in Afghanistan, I'd waited almost three hours for a shot. My legs were numb. The back cramped up.
My shoulders ached. The temperature had dropped to below zero and a thirteen-mile per hour wind had come up. But when the target presented himself, I adjusted for the wind and made the shot.
I didn’t have to wait three hours for Jasper. At ten of five, Jasper opened the front door to step through it into the late afternoon sun. As he did, I put a .308 slug through the glass three inches to the right of his head. He would have felt it go by. The glass door shattered. The plastic water bottle jumped as the slug slammed into it. Water went everywhere and Jasper hit the ground.
I put my rifle away, and left the roof. I went down the elevator, out of the building, and put my bag in the back of my Jeep. I climbed in behind the wheel, gave Wilson a scratch behind the ear, started the engine, and drove away.
Chapter 27
After I'd driven about a block, I pulled into a Shell station and sent Jasper a text. It said:
I missed on purpose. I can put a slug through a quarter at 900 yds. Call off your shooter or Rachel and your children are dead.
I had no intention of harming his family, but he didn't know that. Neither did I have any intention of killing him, unless I had to. But again, he didn't know that. I fully intended to put him out of business, but there were plenty of ways of doing that without killing him.
It was dinner time. I knew there was an In-N-Out Burger on Balboa in Van Nuys, just a few minutes away. I asked Wilson if In-N-Out Burger sounded good to him. He woofed that it did, so I headed in that direction. I went through the drive thru and we ate in the Jeep, listening to the Moody Blues', A Question of Balance.
Before leaving In-N-Out Burger, I took off the white coveralls and put them in the canvas bag with my rifle. Then I drove back to Studio City to the Bailey’s lounge. I thought it was time to have a talk with Stan about the goings on at Security Specialists.
Just as I pulled into the lot, Alex called to tell me that Kraft would have lunch with me tomorrow. I called Mildred at home and asked her to schedule me a round-trip flight to San Francisco, getting in mid-morning and returning late afternoon.
Bailey’s was not very busy. A few people were scattered around the dining area enjoying dinner. Two guys sat at the bar. I didn't see Stan. I sat at the bar and ordered a Coke Zero.
“Stan around?” I asked the chunky Latina behind the bar.
She scanned the room. “I know he's here,” she said. “But I don't see him right now. He'll be back in a minute.”
It was nearly five minutes before Stan emerged from a door to the right of the bar. Stan looked to be about six foot and weighed maybe one eighty. He looked like he worked out. But his face was puffy and his eyes were too small. He had big ears. He wore a blue blazer over a white shirt. His slacks were tan. He sauntered self-importantly through the bar to a table on the edge of the dining area. He opened an iPad and a waitress brought him a cup of coffee. I took my Coke over to his table and sat down.
Stan looked slightly annoyed. “May I help you, Sir?” he asked, trying to be polite.
“Yeah. I want to buy some drugs.”
“What?”
“Drugs,” I said. “I want to buy drugs. You sell drugs; I want to buy them.”
“Get lost, asshole,” Stan said, derisively.
“Wait a minute, now. I thought you worked for Security Specialists. Isn't that who you work for? Because if it is, then you're a drug dealer. Because that's what Security Specialists does, it sells drugs for the cartels.”
Stan shook his head slowly and said, “You have no idea how much trouble you just bought yourself.”
With my left hand I took hold of my left lapel and pulled it back far enough so he could see my weapon. With my right, I reached in and pulled it partially out of the holster. “No, Stan. You're the one who is in jeopardy. Not me.”
His eyes were now locked onto mine.
“Here's what we're going to do,” I said, “We're going to stand up very casually and walk out of the bar to my Jeep. We’re going to get in, and then we're going to talk. And if you think I won't shoot you because we’re in a public place, you're mistaken. I can shoot you and be out of here before anyone even knows what happened. Ready?”
He looked uncertain, but he nodded.
“Slowly now,” I said.
We both stood and Stan obeyed my instructions. When we got to my Jeep, I said, “I'm going to cuff you. Put your hands behind your back.”
He hesitated.
I pulled my weapon and pressed the barrel to his head behind his right ear.
He complied.
I cuffed him. I opened the passenger door and Wilson jumped into the back. Stan looked at Wilson and then at me.
“That’s Wilson,” I said. “He won’t bite you unless I tell him to.”
“You gonna tell him to?”
“No. I don’t want him to get sick. Get in.”
Stan got in and I put my .357 away and walked around and got in the drive's side.
“Okay, Stan, here's the deal ...”
I told him that I knew all about Security Specialists. I told him that Jimmy had been undercover DEA. I explained that I knew that Security Specialists had killed or had had Jimmy killed. I told him that I had visited Jasper and that we'd come to an understanding. That part was a little exaggerated, but Stan didn’t know that.
“So, Stan,” I said, “who killed Jimmy?”
Stan just looked at me.
“His real name was Jason Carrillo. Who killed him? Was it someone in Security Specialists? Or did Jasper hire an outside shooter?”
Stan stared through the windshield at the building in front of him.
“Was it you, Stan? Did you shoot Jason?”
“I didn't shoot anyone.”
“Who did?”
“I don't know. Even if I did, I couldn't tell you. You know that.”
“What's your name, Stan? Your real, full name.”
He didn't respond.
“You know I can get it,” I said. “No point in annoying me.”
After a moment he said, “Stanley Atkins.”
“Middle name?”
“James.”
I called Alex.
“Run a name for me?”
“Sure.”
I gave him the name. He ran it through the FBI database.
“Comes up clean,” Alex said. “No arrests.”
“Thanks, Alex.”
“According to the FBI database,” I said, “you're clean. Here's the thing, Jasper and his drug distribution enterprise is going down. You can go down with it, or you can walk away and start over somewhere, doing something legitimate, something that won't lead to prison or an early demise. The choice is yours. Tell me what I want to know and I'll let you go.”
Stan looked at me.
“The DEA's already had a man on the inside,” I said. “It's just a matter of time.”
After another moment, Stan said, “I don't really know anything. I'm just a middleman. Jasper places me in a business, clubs mostly, and I let it out that I have product to move. When someone wants something, they tell me. I place the order. It gets delivered to me and I pass it on to the buyer who pays me. I pay Jasper. He pays me well. Social Security, 401K, sick leave, everything.”
I studied his eyes.
“That's all there is,” Stan said. “I swear. I call the order in; I pick up the product. I collect the money and turn it in. I get paid twice a month. First and fifteenth.”
“Who killed Jason?”
“I don't know, man. I didn't have anything to do with it. I didn't work here then, okay? I was at a different club. I was at Hot Shots in Van Nuys. Never met this Jason guy. Don't know the first thing about what happened here. A few days ago I get a call from Jasper saying he's moving me to a new club. Said I did a good job at Hot Shots and he's moving me to a bigger club that does more business. He says Bailey’s. He tells me where to work and when. I show up and do my job. I get paid. That's all I know.”
I didn't particularly like Stan, but I believed him. I g
ot out of the Wrangler and went around to the passenger side. I opened the door and told Stan to get out. He got out.
“Turn around,” I said.
He did and I took the cuffs off him.
“I'm gonna let you go, Stan. If I were you, I'd go to my apartment and pack my stuff, get my hands on whatever money I had in the bank, and I'd get as far away as I could as quickly as I could. But it's your call.”
He looked uneasy. “You're really gonna let me go?”
“Yes.”
“You're not gonna shoot me in the back when I turn to go?”
“That sort of thing only happens in the movies, Stan.”
He still wasn't sure.
“Stan, I'm giving you a second chance at life. Don't blow it.”
Finally, he nodded and walked away.
Chapter 28
I got in the Jeep and Wilson jumped back into the passenger seat. As I turned the key and the engine cranked, I said, “Well, that didn't generate a lot of information, did it?”
Wilson woofed softly and licked my nose.
We drove back to the office. I called Mildred. She said my flights were scheduled and I needed to be at the airport by eight a.m. I thanked her. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was still put out with me. Maybe she was just annoyed at her son and I was feeling the brunt of it.
I sat down at my desk to go through the mail. Wilson got his leash and brought it to me.
“Okay,” I said. “Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. You spent a lot of time in the car today, didn’t you?”
We walked down Coldwater Canyon for fifteen minutes and turned around and walked back. I was wearing my Kevlar and was alert. If the sniper was still out there, and I had no clue whether he was or wasn't, I was vulnerable. But I wasn't going to let the possibility of an adversary keep me from living my life. However, when I stepped back into the front door of the office, I breathed a little easier. Wilson went to his large pillow in the corner behind and to the right of my desk. I sat down and went through the mail.
At seven twenty my father called. The partners wanted me to meet with them tomorrow to consult on a case. I explained that I couldn't tomorrow because I'd be in San Francisco all day. What about the next day? Well, I might be able to find the time. It would depend on what I discovered in San Francisco. Perhaps if he explained the issue I could give him the answer now. A wealthy client of theirs had passed away. Her main heir was a grandson who did not relate well with the rest of the family, nor did he care whether or not he inherited Grandma’s money—which was probably why Grandma decided to give him the money. Anyway, last anyone knew, he was somewhere in Louisiana. He needed to be found. My father's question was, should they send me or use someone in Louisiana? I told him they should use a Louisiana detective. Someone who knew the area. Dad thanked me for my advice and told me to enjoy San Francisco.
