Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

  “Dammit, Sam! Why do you keep doing it?” growled Reese from his black leather executive chair.

  “What, Charlie? Saving people’s lives? That woman would have died if I hadn’t gone in there when I did. And he might have shot the kid, too,” shrugged Sam, sipping his coffee. “That was not only a good shooting, it was a necessary one!”

  “Shit, Sam! You know what I mean! Making Jastro look like an ass! And on TV at that! That Claudet woman took Jastro apart on the morning news!” blurted Reese as he stood and started pacing. Reese, Captain of the Criminal Investigations Division (CID), was wearing a blue suit—already rumpled by 10 A.M.—and his white shirt was pushed out, his stomach hanging over his belt. He and Sam had graduated from the academy in the same class, and Reese’s political aspirations had allowed him to climb the promotion ladder to his current position.

  “Yeah, I caught her broadcast. Crazy Crown saves woman and child while disobeying order given by asshole Jastro, who would have let them both die while his head was up his ass. Pretty accurate, I’d say. I didn’t make Jastro look like an ass. He did that all by himself. She does have a way with words, doesn’t she?” smiled Sam.

  “Oh, yeah! ‘We were privileged to see a true hero—one who was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving his platoon in Vietnam—again risk his life’ . . . blah, blah, blah. Jastro wants to bring charges against you, but that bitch has things set up so even if we give you a slap on the wrist, she’ll tear us apart again.”

  “Maybe you deserve it. Why do you support that asshole?”

  “You could have had that job instead of Jastro. But, oh no, you have to stay down in the muck. I still can’t figure you out, Sam,” grumbled Reese, sitting back down. “Do you know how many officer-related shootings and excessive force complaints you’ve had? You and your version of the law—‘Crown’s Law’ everyone calls it.”

  “No, but I’m sure you do. All my shootings have been good ones. You know that. I can’t help people while sitting in an office. Well, I know you’re between a rock and a hard place, Charlie. You have to do something about Jastro, or take action against me. I don’t think you have the guts to buck the system anymore, so I’m gonna make it easy on you. You’ve been a good friend through the years. I have no intention of putting up with Jastro’s shit charges. I’m tired of fighting with the idiots around here.”

  Sam stood and placed his badge and gun on Reese’s desk. He pulled a folded paper out of his inside jacket pocket and laid it next to his gun.

  “My resignation, Charlie. All I’ve ever wanted is to help the victims and their families, but I can’t fight the system anymore. It takes too much effort,” said Sam, a note of sadness in his voice.

  “Oh shit, Sam! You can’t do this! You’ve got 17 years in. Just calm down and we’ll figure out a way for you to hang in and get a pretty good pension. I can make you a lieutenant over in narcotics. I’ll shut Jastro up somehow!” moaned Reese.

  “You know my answer to that, Charlie, but thanks for caring.”

  “You’ve got a ton of enemies on the street, Sam. What’ll happen when they find out you’re without a badge?”

  “Shit, Charlie! Do you think it’s my badge that protects me on the street? Send that asshole Jastro out into the real world and see how long his badge keeps him alive. Besides, I’ll still be packin’. I got my P.I. license sometime ago. Also, a bodyguard license. I knew this moment was inevitable, and I don’t want to be naked in the streets.”

  “Hell, Sam, if you’re set on doing this, stay off the streets! Go enjoy the good life,” said Reese.

  “This was the good life, Charlie. Whatever I do now won’t be as good. Who’s gonna be an advocate for all those victims out there now? Jastro? You? All the friggin’ laws favor the perps. The victims and their families are left blowin’ in the wind.”

  Part 1

  Crazy Horse

  “It’s a good day to fight;

  it’s a good day to die.”

  Crazy Horse (1849-1877)

  A Chief of the Sioux Nation

  Chapter 1

  June 1970

  Capistrano Beach, CA

  Samuel Crown was not listed as “Most Likely to Succeed” in his high school year book. In fact, the only reference to him was under the group picture of the San Clemente High School graduating class of 1970.

  There were some juicy entries handwritten by several of the girls who had surrendered their virginity to him. He wasn’t a bad student—he had a B average—and he was quite popular, but he had spent only his freshman and senior years at the high school. Much of his time had been spent elsewhere—subject to his father’s work assignments.

  His father, John Crown, was in the CIA and was moved about quite a bit. Sometimes Sam and his mother Helena went with him, sometimes they did not—depending on the location and security level of the assignment. Sam had spent time in schools in Spain, England, Italy, Holland, and Turkey—not to mention several stateside cities. He got to spend his senior year at San Clemente High School in San Clemente, California only because his father was stationed somewhere they couldn’t be—Vietnam.

  So Sam contented himself with being a surfer in pursuit of easy girls and big waves, since it was not really feasible for him to get involved in school activities or organized sports in his senior year. Too many cliques develop over the course of four years of high school, and he had been absent for two critical years.

  His social calendar was full, however, since he lived in Capistrano Beach on the renowned Beach Road—right on the beach. He was quite famous for his parties and he always had a bevy of beautiful beach bunnies swarming around him.

  Capistrano Beach is a sleepy, comfortable community in Southern California nestled between Dana Point Harbor on the north, and San Clemente on the south. The elite area of the community is the Capistrano Bay District, a Community Services District run by a Board of Directors. This district consists of two and a quarter miles of road running along the south-facing beach, and has a guard gate at the west end—blocking entry to all except residents and their invited guests. The name of the street is Beach Road and nearly everyone referred to the private community simply as “Beach Road.” Most people assumed all who lived on Beach Road were wealthy—given the price of beachfront property and the numerous mansions visible from Pacific Coast Highway—but that wasn’t actually true. Many people had bought property there in the 1930s and 1940s when a building lot could be purchased for as little as $500. They built modest houses and still lived there on pensions and Social Security in 1970.

  Others were very wealthy, which was the case with the Crowns—at least, Helena Crown was. Helena Crown nee Barkley—of the Boston, Massachusetts Barkleys—came from old, East-coast money. Her grandfather had come to Orange County in the 1930s and bought a great deal of prime real estate, including several lots on Beach Road. Helena eventually inherited the property, and in 1960 she built two huge, Spanish facade houses side by side. Each house spanned three building lots with the fourth lot for a pool and other entertainment-oriented facilities. Each lot had 40 feet of beach frontage, which meant that each two-story house was about 12,000 square feet in size with plenty of party space on their large redwood decks and pool lots. Each had a six-car garage.

  The Crowns’ “home of record” was the southernmost (actually easternmost, since it was a south-facing beach) of the two; Helena rented out the other one—or, at least, her business manager did. She had very little to do with it. Her plans for Sam were that he’d become a famous lawyer or surgeon, get married, live next door, and she could dote on her grandchildren as she wished.

  Sam, of course, being 18, only looked forward to the next weekend. His 18th birthday—July 5, 1970—was a big beach bash, of course. It was a fun time for Sam and his friends, but a worry for Helena. He now had to register for the draft, and to avoid getting drafted, he had to get into college in September. She couldn’t get Sam to sit still long enough to discuss whether he wanted to g
o to Harvard, or Yale, or even the nearby University of California at Irvine (UCI). He needed to enroll somewhere immediately. Her husband had to be in Vietnam, but she didn’t want her only son there!

  In August, the two had another big argument about it, and Sam jumped in his sports car and roared off. Two days later he called his mother and told her that he had fucked up royally. He had gotten drunk, stayed that way for 24 hours, then had enlisted in the Marine Corps. He was in San Diego.

  Helena called her husband John—after much hassle getting connected to him—to see if he could pull some strings and get Sam out of this mess!

  John told her, “He made his bed, let him lie in it! Stop mollycoddling the boy! Let him grow up!”

  Sam Crown was in Vietnam before the end of the year. Helena was mortified!

  ***

  When Sam first arrived in Vietnam, he found himself daydreaming about how different his life could have been if he had made other choices. At first, he wished he had been born earlier—he figured he would have made a perfect hippie in the 60s: play guitar, wear beads, drive an old van with peace symbols painted on it, partake of lots of free love, smoke dope. That being a pipe dream, he focused on a version of the good life he could have had by letting his mother pay his way through college: play guitar, screw a lot of coeds, smoke dope, surf, some studying. No beads or painted van, though. Just his Porsche.

  After surviving his first fire fight, Sam forgot about daydreams and what could have been and began focusing on the present  and staying alive.

  ***

  Sam didn’t clearly formulate his theory of concentric realities until he found himself immersed in the insanity that was Vietnam. The theory, as he conceived it, was that the world was made up of concentric realities and you had to recognize and accept the reality that you found yourself in or life would become confusing and unbearable. It was better to accept your situation, no matter how miserable, do the very best you could, and then maybe later move on to another reality—some circle outside your own.

  He had unconsciously begun forming the theory when he was in boot camp. A stupid, impulsive decision had put him there. If you considered boot camp as one of his reality circles—his reality at the time—then drew another circle around that, then the outer circle was the reality space where the guys who went to college—or Canada—lived. Perhaps even the protestors. An even larger circle contained people living ordinary lives—people who didn’t give a shit about the war in Vietnam. Then a larger circle contained politicians playing their international games, and so on.

  The circle Sam was in in Vietnam was one he knew he couldn’t leave until his hitch was up—or he was dead. There were other circles, however, within the Vietnam circle. One was populated with those who were biding their time, trying to stay alive until they could go home. Another was inhabited by those who really fought the enemy with fervor. Sam ultimately became a hardcore member of the latter.

  Chapter 2

  September 1972

  South Vietnam

  Sam heard the shots and the screams off to his left. He knew there was a small village there, and he had planned to skirt it. Now his plans changed. He crept silently through the heavy jungle until he was able to peek into a clearing. The bodies of four old men were stacked in the middle of the clearing, their bodies riddled with gun shots, blood everywhere. There were three women huddled against a hut—one old and wrinkled, two young. They were each holding onto a child. Sam guessed two of the children’s ages at 2 or 3 years old, and the older one maybe 9 or 10.

  There were four Vietnamese Regulars there, armed with AK-47 automatic weapons. Sam was too late to save the old men, so he just watched. It had rained earlier that day, and the smell of the damp foliage mixed with the sharp odor of cordite and blood was sharp to the nostrils. He wondered if there were more soldiers nearby. He knew he should just move on to his objective and leave these people to their fate.

  The two toddlers were crying, making quite a racket. The older child was trembling, cowering behind her mother now. As Sam started to disappear back into the jungle, one of the soldiers approached the old woman, snatched the toddler from her arms, and tossed it several feet. While the child screamed in agony, the soldier yanked the old woman up and dragged her to the pile of bodies and threw her down on it. Another soldier gave her a burst from his AK-47. They all laughed—more like cackling than laughter.

  Sam hesitated. Soldier Number One jerked one of the young women to her feet and ripped her tattered clothes from her body. All four soldiers were laughing with glee as they awaited the onset of the raping—often the prelude to annihilation.

  Sam could take no more. He would have to risk stopping this. He clicked the safety off on his M-16 and unhooked the leather thongs on his two Colt .45 six-shooters. Two of the soldiers were a few feet away from the women and children, providing Sam a clean shot at them without endangering the innocents. He cut the two soldiers in half with his M-16, leaned it against a tree, and stepped into the clearing, a cocked revolver in each hand. The soldier holding the naked woman spun around, putting her frail form between his body and Sam. The other soldier raised his rifle as Sam shot him in the chest with the pistol in his left hand. He was flung backwards to the ground by the momentum of the .45 slug.

  Sam flicked his attention to the sole remaining man and his naked shield. The young woman was screaming hysterically. Only the right side of the soldier’s face was available as a target. It was enough.

  Sam shot him in the right eye with the gun in his right hand. The naked woman scooted into the hut. Sam stopped and listened, searching for any sound that would indicate others were rushing to the village, but the wailing toddlers made it difficult. The crying children were huddled around the other young woman.

  Sam dragged the four dead soldiers by their feet and lined them up next to the pile of bodies. He methodically cut their throats and severed their left ears, stringing each ear on a leather thong. The woman watched closely, but was not frightened by the man with the grease-painted face, dark aviator glasses hiding his eyes. She sent the children into the hut and approached Sam.

  She said in broken English, “Thank you. You save us. You come with me. To hut. I make happy.”

  She was a pretty woman, probably 20 years old, and the thought of screwing her caused a contraction in Sam’s loins. She was offering herself to him. He couldn’t allow himself such pleasure now, however.

  He replied in his pigeon Vietnamese, “Thank you, but no. I would be no better than them.”

  He pointed to the four soldiers lined up on the ground.

  He continued, “Go! Take the children and leave this place. Save the children! Others will be here soon, and I must go.”

  “Thank you, again! Go with God!” said the woman fervently in Vietnamese.

  While he reloaded his weapons, Sam thought, God? If there is one, He must be laughing his head off watching us use the free will he bestowed upon us to create our own Hell!

  The naked girl—now wrapped in a sheet—crept out of the hut as Sam disappeared into the damp jungle, his killing day barely begun.

  The clothed woman said, “We were just saved by the Apache. He really exists!”

  ***

  Four hours later, Sam found Corporal O’Reilly. His head adorned the top of a stake at the end of the path that entered Da An village from the south. A warning to any American who might approach the village that way. Sam moved to the east, and settled in to watch the Viet Cong guerrillas who occupied the village at the moment. As he waited for dark, he determined that there were 14 of them. O’Reilly’s headless body lay a few feet away from the stake that bore his head. Sam controlled his rage by visualizing what he would do later—after dark.

  ***

  The next morning, a platoon of Vietnamese Regulars entering the village was greeted by 14 grisly heads on as many stakes. Their left ears had been sliced off.

  Corporal O’Reilly’s head and body were no longer there.

&nb
sp; At the same time that morning, back in Base Camp Able, Staff Sergeant Spencer said, “I hear Crazy Crown went in and brought out O’Reilly’s body.”

  Lt. Mack answered, “You heard right. He took a body bag in with him. O’Reilly had been beheaded, but he stuffed both pieces in the body bag and called for a pickup 2 clicks from Phan Rang. He must have carried that dead weight quite a distance!”

  “Ears?” queried the sergeant.

  “The scuttlebutt is 18 new ones.”

  “Shit! I’ll make sure to get rid of them. I don‘t want them on that damned totem pole!”

  “OK. Morning recon chopper reported seeing 14 heads on stakes at Da An. How do you suppose that happened?” mused the lieutenant.

  “How does he do it? But where’d the other 4 ears come from?”

  “Go ask him.”

  “No, sir! I’ve got enough troubles with Charlie. No need stirring things up here!”

  “Well, enter the body counts and see that you get rid of the ears.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 3

  September 1972

  South Vietnam

  Gunnery Sergeant Burt Collins—a grizzled two-tour veteran—was giving Lt. Ralph Manley a tour of Charlie Company’s area. Lt. Manley had just arrived for his first tour. He had recently been commissioned and had no experience in combat. His first impression was how primitive the living quarters were. And how shabby the men were. He was used to the spit and polish of Camp Pendleton.

  Sergeant Collins hated breaking in new officers. The last one had lasted less than a month. He certainly didn’t like this one who carped about the facilities and how the men were dressed. He was really apprehensive as they approached the last tent. Crazy Crown’s tent.