Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

  Sam told him, leaving out any mention of the youngster in the car. Why he did that he wasn’t sure.

  “The homicide dicks will need you to explain how that perp got shot in the ass,” laughed Simpson. “And how he broke his ribs!”

  “Simple enough explanation. Remember, I had two assholes to control, and no cuffs with me. The one who killed the girl started running and I couldn’t very well chase him. I drew my weapon and yelled ‘stop’ and shit like that. I got all excited and my gun went off, then he fell down. That must’ve been when he broke his ribs.”

  Simpson was roaring. “Works for me!”

  “I can’t wait for the homicide guys right now. I’m in the middle of something important.”

  “OK, Sam. You’re testimony should fry these two punks! I’ve arrested them several times before, but they show up right back on the street. We’ll need a formal, concise statement from you,” said Simpson.

  “Will do, Charlie. I want them to get the needle! As I said, I was in the middle of something important when this happened. Could I swing by later?”

  “I guess. Don’t make me come looking for you,” laughed Simpson.

  “No problem. I don’t want these assholes to walk! Let me go move my van now. Give CSI some room.”

  Sam walked out of the alley and sauntered over to the white Toyota. It was empty. He glanced around, but didn’t see the blonde girl among the gathering crowd. He went to his van, secured his equipment, and started cruising around, looking for her.

  Twenty minutes later, he was about to give up when he spotted her sitting at a picnic table in a small local park about five blocks from the crime scene. He parked his van and retrieved a can of Sprite and a Diet Pepsi from his cooler.

  He strolled over to her and sat down opposite her. She looked up from the book she was reading and peered at him over her cheap reading glasses. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back in a pony tail that was shoulder length—and in need of washing. She was pretty, with bright blue eyes, but was thin and appeared to be undernourished. Her glasses detracted from her otherwise finely-shaped face—they were too large and had ugly, black frames. Definitely off-the-shelf KMart. Her clothes were early Salvation Army—faded blue T-shirt and tan pedal pushers. She wore well-worn black sneakers on her feet with white socks.

  “Soda?” he asked. “Take your pick.”

  Her blue eyes bore into his as she took the can of Sprite and popped the top. She took a long swig.

  “Thanks. I was thirsty. Don’t think I’m stupid—talking to a stranger. I saw you follow my sister into that alley. You a cop?” she said after she rubbed her mouth on the back of her arm.

  Sam didn’t answer her question, figuring she might talk to him more openly if she thought he was a cop.

  “That was your sister? What’s her name?” queried Sam, wanting to put the child at ease before telling her that her sister was dead.

  “Yes. Her name’s Rachel Rogers. She’s 18, I’m 13. I’m Rebecca Rogers. People call me Becky.”

  “I’m Sam Crown. People call me Sam. What was your sister doing with those men in the alley?”

  “Well, Sam, you don’t look that stupid! She was going to give them BJs. A quick $20. We need the money,” said the pitiful-looking girl. “I heard a shot. Is my sister OK?”

  Sam squirmed on the hard bench and popped the top on the Diet Pepsi, searching for the right words.

  Becky continued, “She’s not going to meet me here, is she?”

  “She was supposed to meet you here?” Sam asked, welcoming the delay.

  “Yeah. We always pick a place to meet in case of trouble. Tell me about Rachel. Is she arrested?”

  “No, she’s not under arrest, Becky. She’s . . . dead. Those guys killed her,” Sam finally blurted out.

  “Oh, fuck! Shit!” cried Becky as tears came to her eyes.

  She put her head down on her arms on the table and Sam let her cry. After a couple of minutes, she sat up, eyes red, face wet.

  “Do you have a tissue? Or a hanky?” she sniffled.

  Sam handed her his handkerchief. Fortunately, it was clean.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry. I told her she would get in bad trouble if she kept hooking. We could’ve made it without her doing that. Somehow,” moaned Becky.

  “Where are your parents?” asked Sam.

  “Long gone, thank God! That’s all I’m gonna say if you’re a cop!”

  “I’m not a cop, Becky. I used to be, but now I’m a private detective. I just happened to be there on other business. I shot and wounded one of the men who hurt your sister. They’re both in jail by now. They’ll be properly punished—I’ll see to that! Now, what are we going to do with you? Any relatives? Whose car were you in?” asked Sam.

  “No relatives. That’s Rachel’s car. All my clothes and stuff are in it. We live in it. We were trying to save money so we could get an apartment or something. That’s why Rachel was hooking—extra money. She worked at Denny’s during the morning. I do some tutoring. Shit! We have a job at 7 o’clock!” exclaimed Becky.

  “Job? What kind of job?” asked Sam.

  “Every Saturday we go to this college guy’s apartment. It’s over near UCI. It’s shower day. While Rachel . . . does him, I get to take a shower and wash my hair. Then afterwards, I tutor him in calculus for an hour. I get $20,” explained the girl.

  Sam wasn’t sure that he had heard her correctly. While her sister screwed the guy, Becky took a shower, then tutored him in calculus?

  “Er, Becky. I think you had better explain that to me. Does that guy . . . touch you?”

  “No. Only Rachel,” she answered as she pushed the book she had been reading across the table to Sam. He turned it around and read its title: Differential and Integral Calculus by Courant.

  “You understand this?” asked Sam, amazed.

  “Of course. I like to use Courant with students because his presentation is clear and concise. Most of the newer texts are murky.”

  “You said that you’re 13, right?”

  “Yes. I’m what they call a mathematical genius. Not autistic. That’s something different. I have a photographic memory and a penchant for logic,” replied Becky. “I tutor four seniors at UCI. I met them through Rachel, of course.”

  “OK, Becky. Let’s back up a bit. Do you go to school? Where are your parents?” asked Sam, wanting to dig into this girl’s past a little more before he decided what to do with her.

  “Look, Mister Crown . . . Sam. I don’t know you, but I need help. The police can’t find out about me. They’ll just put me in the System . . . and I’ll die there! But with Rachel gone, I don’t know what to do. I can’t drive, so I can’t get to my tutoring jobs. The car was my home, so now I need a place to stay until I can figure out what to do. I’ll tell you about me, but if you turn me in, I’ll run away!” exclaimed Becky.

  The kid sure has grit!

  “OK, Becky. One step at a time. Tell me about your problems, who you are, what happened to you.”

  Sam’s heart was going out to this poor waif—genius waif! He had one of his flashbacks to ’Nam—seeing visions of the countless children he could not save. Could he help this one? Save her?

  Becky told her story. She was born January 12, 1985. She never knew her biological father—just someone her slut of a mother slept with. Her sister Rachel also could not remember her father—a different one from Becky’s. Eventually, Becky’s alcoholic mother Clara married a loser named Jake Rogers when Becky was 8 and Rachel was 13 and changed their last names to his. He began screwing Rachel and her mother never interfered. When Rachel was 16, she could take no more of it and left home. That was two years ago. Becky was 11 at the time and was crushed not to have her sister to protect her from the stress and the violence in the house. When Becky turned 12, Jake Rogers started screwing her just as he had Rachel. Six months ago, Rachel dropped by to visit Becky and caught her stepfather on top of Becky, her mother stoned. She hit him in the head with a lamp, knocking him
cold. They packed Becky’s meager belongings and left. Rachel had left a note for her mother saying she was calling the police.

  As soon as Jake Rogers woke up, he and the mother packed up and moved to Georgia where Jake had some relatives to sponge off of. Becky had not seen them nor heard from them since the day she left. She and Rachel had been living out of the car ever since.

  Rachel had dropped out of high school, but Becky—whose IQ was off the charts—went to school everyday so the authorities would not get wise to the fact that she was living on the streets. Child Protective Services would have picked her up. Faking the 8th grade was a challenge, of course, because with all of her reading, she had already absorbed the equivalent of a college education. She did not want her teachers to know how smart she was, because they would want a meeting with her parents to discuss special education programs. Then, the jig would be up.

  Sam’s heart was breaking, but he didn’t know what to do with the pitiful, lost girl. He knew he should not get involved, but something made him press on.

  “Give me your mother’s and stepfather’s names again. I’ll track them down and have them prosecuted. The bastards belong in jail!” exclaimed Sam, livid over what they had done to Rachel and Becky.

  “No! Please! I would have to testify, and that would put the spotlight on me and I would end up in some fucking foster home!” pleaded Becky.

  She’s got quite a mouth for a kid her age! Can’t blame her I guess.

  Sam made a decision. Temporarily, he would not turn Becky in. He would talk to his mother and father before he did anything—get their advice. He was probably breaking a bunch of laws, but he was once again invoking Crown’s Law.

  “OK, Becky. For now, I’ll not turn you in. We’ll try and figure something out. Your 7 o’clock appointment will have to be canceled,” said Sam, having no idea how much this decision would impact his life later.

  “But I could use the $20,” complained Becky. “And the shower.”

  “You can reschedule the tutoring after I absorb all of this. I’ll see that you get a shower. Hungry?”

  “Famished! I haven’t eaten all damned day. That’s why I need the $20!” shrugged Becky.

  Sam thought, What a package! Foul street mouth at times, college grad at others! Tough kid!

  “OK, let’s go get something to eat and talk some more. If I’m going to help you, I need to know everything about your situation. My van’s right over there.”

  “Oh, sure! How do I know you’re not just another dirty old man like my stepfather? I hear perverts always drive vans like that,” said Becky with a dead pan face.

  “If you thought that, why did you tell me all that you did? I thought you trusted me!” replied Sam.

  “I do. That was supposed to be humor. I guess I need some work in that area. Let’s go, I’m hungry!”

  Sam took her to a nearby cafe and she had a chocolate shake, two cheeseburgers, and a large platter of fries. He had never seen such a small person eat so much before. He had a chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, all covered with country gravy—something he liked but never cooked for himself.

  Becky wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and said, “That’s better! Thanks! Now, we have a couple of problems.”

  “Oh? What would they be?” smiled Sam.

  “One, my sister. How does she get a decent burial? Two, all my stuff’s in Rachel’s car,” explained the scrawny girl. “And three, I would love a shower. I’m filthy!”

  Sam replied, “One thing at a time. Your sister’s . . . er, body will be at the morgue for awhile. I’ll try and think of something. Now, let’s go to your car and get your things, then I’ll take you to my parents’ house where you can get cleaned up. Then we’ll plan our next step. Sound like a plan?”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “But first, we have to swing by police headquarters so I can give them a statement about those guys who killed Rachel. You can stay in the van out of sight. It shouldn’t take long.”

  ***

  It was 7:35 P.M.—nearly dark—when Sam drove back to the crime scene area and parked behind the beat-up Toyota. Becky stared at the entry to the alley where she had last seen her sister alive. Yellow crime tape was strung across the alley mouth. No one was watching as Sam and Becky got out of his van and approached the car. Becky reached in the driver’s window and popped the trunk open. She went to the trunk and retrieved a shabby suitcase and a Von’s plastic shopping bag with some books in it. Another plastic bag held some dirty clothes. There was similar suitcase there, presumably Rachel’s.

  “Do you want any of your sister’s stuff?” asked Sam, a pressure tightening around his heart.

  “I don’t think so. I have a picture of her in my suitcase—so I can remember her. Maybe, if you have room, we can bring her suitcase. She might have hidden some money in there, or something. Her clothes don’t fit me, though.”

  “Where are the car keys?”

  “They were in Rachel’s purse. She never left them in the car,” explained Becky.

  They loaded the suitcases and the plastic bags into Sam’s van. Becky climbed up into the passenger’s seat and put on her seat belt. Sam debated on whether to tell the cops about the Toyota, but decided not to. It added nothing to their investigation, which was cut-and-dried, and they would wonder how he knew about it. It could not be sold for much. He decided to let things run their course—let the cops find an abandoned car and do their thing. He cut across to the I-5 and headed north to Santa Ana to switch the van for his flaming red Camaro convertible.

  It was quite dark by the time Sam and Becky were speeding south on the I-5 toward Capistrano Beach and his parents’ beach house. Becky sat silently in the soft leather front passenger seat of the Camaro. Her world as she knew it was about to change forever. She just did not know how. She was now an official orphan at 13 years old. She was tired, depressed, and silently grieving for Rachel, but she tried to keep her lips from trembling.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, August 8, 1998

  Capistrano Beach, CA

  Sam had called his mother and told her that he was bringing a waif to the beach house for the night, and he thought his mother seemed a little bit too agreeable. Sam knew his parents—especially his mother—were disappointed with their only son, Samuel, for not producing a grandchild. Sam could not help it—he hadn’t found a woman with whom he wanted to settle down and make a family. Maybe he never would. Besides, he enjoyed variety, having bedded dozens of beautiful women in his life. And he intended to bed many more. Sam was sure that his mother would have a great time doting on Becky until he could decide what to do with her.

  As they passed through the Beach Road guard gate, Becky finally spoke. “Wow! Is that the ocean I hear? Cool! Right on the beach!”

  “Yes. That parking lot we just passed as we turned in is called ‘Meter Beach’ because of the parking meters they put in. It’s a state beach. Inside the gate here is all private beach. You’ll like it here. And you’ll be safe.”

  “Thank you for this, Sam. I didn’t know what I was gonna do without Rachel,” said Becky.

  When the two of them entered the house through the door from the garage, Mrs. Helena Crown was waiting for them, a big smile on her face.

  “There you two are! My goodness, child! So thin! You must be hungry!” Helena rattled on.

  “No, Mother, hungry she’s not. Becky, this is my mother, Mrs. Crown. This is Rebecca Rogers, Mom,” replied Sam. “She likes to be called Becky.”

  “How do you do, Becky! Welcome to our home.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am . . . Mrs. Crown. Thank you for letting me spend the night. I’ll try to not cause you any trouble, but could I have a shower, please? This was to be my shower day.”

  Helena looked at Sam and her face was signaling that her heart was cracking.

  “Of course, dear! Samuel, carry Becky’s bags up to the south guest room so she can get cleaned up. Then, come back down here. We need
to talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Sam, and he led Becky upstairs to her room.

  The room had a queen-sized bed, a dresser, two night stands with Tiffany table lamps, and a small makeup table and chair. It was done in Spanish antiques and was the best looking bedroom that Becky had ever seen! Becky plopped down on the bed and bounced up and down. She couldn’t believe her good fortune!

  “Oh, my! I haven’t slept in a bed in forever! And never a bed like this! Either I won’t be able to sleep, or I’ll never wake up! I don’t know which!” exclaimed the excited child.

  Sam showed her the bathroom—and soap, shampoo, towels, and a new toothbrush.

  “Get cleaned up, then come on downstairs. We’ll talk. Oh, and one more thing, Becky. Mrs. Crown doesn’t allow bad language—not even from me! So watch your mouth, OK?”

  Becky smiled, “Sure, Sam! I’ll try real hard!”

  Sam closed the bedroom door and left her alone. She took off her shabby clothes and then stood in the shower for a long time, silently crying. She had not wanted anyone to see her cry, but now she let it all out. She felt so alone. What would she do without Rachel? Where would she be tomorrow? She was scared.

  ***

  Downstairs, Sam filled his mother in on Becky’s situation, telling her everything he knew about Becky, including the sexual abuse.

  “Poor child! You should find those people and have them punished, Samuel!” she exclaimed. “You’re good at finding people.”

  “She doesn’t want that, Mom. She’s afraid if the authorities find out about her, she’ll get thrown into the foster care system. She says she’ll run away before she endures that. I think there has to be a better way. Do you realize that she is tutoring college students in calculus? A kid like this has to be saved from the system! I have to think of something!”

  “She’s such a polite child, too. It’s a wonder she has survived so well, considering her circumstances.”

  Sam laughed, “She’s a little Jekyll and Hyde! She has a pretty foul mouth when she slips into her street mode. Then, out of nowhere, she can start using big words that I don’t even know the meaning of. She can exhibit unbelievable maturity one minute, then slip back into frightened child mode the next. It was quite a mixed bag when she told me her background. I don’t know what to think of her.”