by Michael Nava
“I’m a native New Yorker,” she’d explained. “I didn’t get my license until I was in my thirties and I’m still a pretty anxious driver, so my husband said I needed to drive a tank and bought me this.”
Notwithstanding her claim of nerves, she steered the behemoth with surprising agility in the heavy traffic of the Santa Monica freeway. The city spread out on either side of the road in the sun-smeared, smoggy air— palm trees lifting their shaggy heads over the flats, the hills obscured in the chemical mist.
“You put on quite a show,” I remarked.
“It helped that our two main plaintiffs are sympathetic white ladies. If it had only been Gwen and Wyatt, I promise the press would not have shown up like it did.”
“What was that about daring the cops to produce Sumaya? You don’t really think they will, do you?”
“No, but now every time a reporter talks to the department, the first question they’ll ask is where is Sumaya. Eventually, we’ll flush him out.”
“How will the department respond to the lawsuits?”
“If they’re smart, they’ll take the standard ‘we don’t comment on ongoing litigation’ line, but the chief’s a hothead and an idiot. I’m hoping he’ll say something stupid I can use against him.” She shifted lanes and chuckled. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he has to face the lawyers from the city and the county.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mayor and the chief loathe each other, and we’ve got allies on the City Council and the Board of Supervisors. They’ll want answers from the chief and from the sheriff. They’ll be pushing for investigations, commissions, what have you.” She glanced at me and smiled. “This is as much a political fight as a legal one.”
“I’m mostly interested in the legal case. What do we do next?”
“We wait for the defendants to file their answers to complaints and start drafting discovery requests. Civil litigation isn’t the same as criminal prosecutions, Henry,” she warned. “Your clients have a constitutional right to a speedy trial. That doesn’t apply in civil cases. In civil, the name of the game is delay. It’s a war of attrition. The defendants have deep pockets; we don’t. They’ll string this out as long as they can, hoping we’ll run out of money and give up. That’s why the political pressure is so important. Otherwise, it could be years before we get to trial.”
Although I knew this, it was still sobering. Our plaintiffs— Jess, Kim, Gwen and Wyatt— would be fed into the meat grinder of the legal system, answering endless interrogatories, sitting through deposition after deposition, and being run over rough-shod by an aggressive media wanting the next big bombshell. Could they stick it out for years?
••••
The phone intercom buzzed. I flicked on the mic. “Yes, Emma?”
“There’s a gentleman here to see you.”
Since I’d hired Emma full-time, I’d become familiar with the minute gradations in the voice she used to announce my visitors, which could indicate approval or disapproval and everything else in between. I’d never heard this voice before. It was both circumspect and inquisitive, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I glanced at my calendar.
“I don’t see an appointment on the book.”
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “He said he’s here on the Latour case. You’ll want to see him.”
Vouching for a mysterious visitor? Also new.
“Sure,” I said. “Send him in.”
A thin Black man of average height, formally dressed in a nice navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt and blue tie, with a lean and intelligent face rendered rather professorial by the gold wire-rimmed glasses, let himself into the office and approached my desk. He carried himself with conscious dignity. I stood and extended my hand.
“Henry Rios.”
“Caleb Cowell,” he replied, shaking my hand in a grip that was assertive without being obnoxious.
“Please sit down, Mr. Cowell. Would you like coffee? Water?”
He shook his head. “You’re the man behind the lawsuit against my church,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“You need to talk to Susanna Vane about that suit. She’s the attorney of record.”
“Jessica Herron sent me to you.”
I didn’t immediately know what that meant. Had she sent him because she didn’t want to be badgered by the church or for some other reason? So I asked, “And who sent you to her?”
He blinked, apparently surprised by my aggressive tone.
“I went of my own volition.”
“Why?” I pressed.
He sat back in his chair and replied, “I will answer all of your questions if you will answer one of mine.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you sincerely believe that people in the church were involved in Pastor Herron’s murder?”
Here, I thought, was a man who, when he asked a question, however difficult, expected it to be answered truthfully because that’s what he would do.
“Yes, I do.”
Now it was his turn to press. “Why?”
“A member of your board of Overseers had a conversation with the undercover cop who planned the bombing a few days before the bombs went off. Jess told me the man in question wanted Dan Herron removed from his position as pastor.”
“May I ask the name of the Overseer?”
“Robert Metzger.”
He took the news impassively.
“You don’t seem surprised,” I observed.
“Are you a Christian?”
The question startled and irritated me. “How is that relevant to anything?”
“I’d like to know to whom I’m speaking.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “Do you speak only to Christians?”
He removed his glasses, cleaned them on a starched handkerchief, and said, “You don’t like us. I appreciate your honesty.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Cowell? Did the church send you to try to persuade us to drop the suit?”
“No, I’m here because I believe I can help you with the lawsuit, but I needed to know if there was anything to it.”
“Metzger’s name convinced you?”
“Yes,” he said, simply. “He despised Pastor Herron. He wanted to remove him, but that required unanimity among the Overseers and some of us would never have gone along. When Daniel was killed in the bombing, I thought it was a remarkable coincidence it happened as the quarrel between him and Bob was coming to a head.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Bob was going to force a vote of no confidence in Daniel. He lobbied me and Dan’s other supporters with threats and promises, but we held firm. There was no possibility that vote would have been unanimous. I thought it equally remarkable that the bombs went off on the one night Daniel was alone at the church and in the building where he had his office.”
“You didn’t buy the story that the bombing was carried out by a radical gay group?”
“Why our church?” he replied. “Ekklesia is a single, unaffiliated congregation in Los Angeles. If this group wanted to make a political statement, why not attack a national or international denomination? The Catholics, the Southern Baptists, the Mormons? They all have large imposing structures in the city. Bombing one of them would have made headlines around the world. The leaders of those denominations have been far more vocal on the issue of homosexuality than Daniel. Far more supportive of the quarantine initiative. Dan would have avoided the issue altogether had he been able to.”
“Why? Didn’t he share the prejudices of the pope and the president of the Southern Baptists?”
He frowned. “Those aren’t prejudices. Homosexuality is the unnatural use of our God-created bodies, and homosexuals will have to answer to God for it.” He spoke this matter-of-factly. “Our church is clear on that, but there were members who felt we weren’t getting that message out as aggressively as we should. They pushed Daniel to endorse the quarantine initiative and wanted to devote even more time
, money, and manpower to its passage.”
“Are you saying he wouldn’t have gone along on his own, even though he shared those bigoted beliefs?”
“Name-calling is the lowest form of argument.”
“Bigotry dressed up in the Bible is still bigotry.”
“To your point,” he said coldly, “Pastor Herron was an intelligent man. He realized this quarantine measure would be ineffective in preventing the spread of AIDS and would ally the church with people who truly are bigots and not just against homosexuals.”
“Like the Mormons who didn’t admit Blacks into their priesthood until the 1970s or the Southern Baptists, a denomination created by slaveholders who claimed the Bible sanctioned slavery?”
“You know your church history,” he observed.
“I know the history of hatred,” I replied, “and I know that just as the Bible was used to justify the oppression of your people, it’s being used to justify the oppression of mine.”
“You’re gay,” he said, surprised, and then, “I suppose I should have guessed by your hostility.”
“Yeah, I’m not much for turning the other cheek. You were saying Dan worried about being associated with haters.”
“Dan wasn’t a hater.” His eyes dimmed, and he permitted himself a small, sad smile. “Far from it.” He sighed and returned from whatever memory had provoked the smile. “He also worried that involvement in a political issue would deflect the church from its salvific purpose.”
“That concern didn’t prevent him from publicly supporting the initiative and spending your church’s money on it.”
“He had to toss Bob and his group a bone.”
“Aren’t Christian leaders held to a higher standard of conscience than ordinary politicians?”
“The day Daniel was supposed to deliver a sermon announcing his endorsement of the initiative, he preached on love your enemies instead.”
“That’s nice, but how about, charity begins at home? Dan didn’t have the courage to reveal to your community the gay, biracial son he had with a woman he never married. Or maybe that was simple hypocrisy.”
“I knew nothing about that until after his death.”
“Metzger did,” I said. “Jess told him.”
“Why?”
“She was angry. She wanted Metzger to punish him. Maybe he did.”
“Is that why you think Bob was involved in Daniel’s death? To prevent a scandal? That was a youthful indiscretion, long before Daniel’s conversion. No one would have held it against him.”
“Then why do you think Metzger conspired to kill him? Because it’s clear the idea doesn’t shock you.”
“‘No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both and the world.’”
“Even I know that from the Gospels.”
“Matthew six, verse twenty-four. This is a perilous time for Christians, we all agree on that, but there’s a deep division among us about how to confront that peril. Paul says in Thessalonians that ‘the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night.’ Many of us believe that commands us to step away from the world, fortify our communities, and wait for the signs that will herald the end of days. Others want to engage the world on its own terms and enter its political and ideological battles. They think they can Christianize society by electing the right politicians or supporting the right causes. But, like my grandmother used to say, lie down with dogs, get up with fleas. Politics are a cesspool; no one comes out of them clean. If you wade into that swamp, you risk drowning in the very corruption you’re fighting against.”
“Were those the factions in your church? Daniel wanted to focus on theology and Metzger on politics?”
“Salvation, not theology. Those were the factions. Bob’s an important man in the secular world. He’s accustomed to power and doesn’t understand why everyone doesn’t want it. He sees how Christian leaders like Falwell and Robertson helped elect the President. He wants Ekklesia to have the same influence. Daniel understood his role to be pastoral, not political, and as long as he was leader of the church, Bob was stymied.”
“So Metzger had him assassinated.”
“The new pastor is very much in Bob’s camp,” Cowell said. “His first act was to demand the resignation of every member of the Overseers. He then reappointed Bob and his allies, but not those of us who had supported Dan. We were replaced with Bob’s men. One of the new Overseers is someone I think you’ll be very interested in.”
“Who might that be?”
“A very close friend of Bob’s named Raymond Moore, an assistant chief of police in the Los Angeles Police Department.”
My pulse jumped. “How do you know about their connection?”
“Bob once invited him to speak to the Overseers about his efforts to evangelize the department.”
“Evangelize the department?”
“He talked about setting up Bible studies, furnishing literature, and creating prayer groups.”
“While the cops were on the job?”
“The first amendment entitles everyone to practice his faith.”
“It also requires the separation of church and state. Cops are public officials. They can practice what they want, off-duty.”
“Do you want to argue about the first amendment, or may I finish what I was saying about Raymond Moore?”
“Please do. What else do you know about this assistant chief?”
“I believe,” Cowell said, “he’s in charge of the anti-terrorism unit.”
••••
Susanna was less excited about Cowell’s revelation than I’d thought she’d be when I called her and recounted the conversation.
“It’s only evidence of connection, not conspiracy,” she said.
“Isn’t it enough to at least amend the complaint to include Metzger and Moore by name as defendants?”
“We need more, if we’re going to get past the inevitable motion to dismiss, than the word of a disgruntled church member who doesn’t actually have proof the two men conspired.”
I knew she was right. At this point, calling out Metzger and Moore would be little more than a bluff. Still, it was frustrating. “If this were a criminal case, it would be enough to at least haul them in for questioning and rattle their cages.”
“We have to jump through a lot more hoops in civil before we get to rattle anyone’s cage.”
But after I talked to her, I thought there might be one person whose cage I could rattle even with what little I had.
••••
“Thanks for meeting me, Marc.”
Marc Unger looked hungover and wary and in need of a drink. Unfortunately for him we weren’t at a bar, but at a sandwich shop in the courtyard level of City Hall East where he had his office. The lunchtime crowd of city workers swirled around the little green metal table where we sat with our half-eaten lunches, tuna on wheat for me, pastrami on rye for him. Sparrows clustered near our feet, hoping for a crust of bread or shred of potato chip. I tore off a corner of my sandwich, crumbled it, and tossed it to them.
“Are you fucking Saint Francis now?” he grumbled.
I looked into his bloodshot eyes and saw the dark patches of hair he’d missed while shaving with an unsteady morning-after hand.
“The sushi place sells beer.”
He glared at me. “I’m fine, Henry. This is your meeting. What do you want?”
He’d made it clear when I’d called him that he was pissed at me because the plea bargain he’d offered me before Theo’s death had made its way into Theo’s wrongful death complaint. I’d reminded him that he’d initiated the conversation, had made the offer freely, and hadn’t told me it was off the record. He wasn’t mollified.
“I want to talk to you about the Herron wrongful death action.”
“You’re not the attorney of record. Vane is,” he said, adding sourly, “the bitch.”
“I’ll se
nd her your regards,” I replied. “She’s of record but I’m helping with the investigation. We’ve turned up some stuff you might want to know about.”
He rubbed his eyes. “You’re going to give me an advance preview of your case? Why?”
“Because I want the city to settle and let us concentrate on the church.”
“What about the Latour complaint?” he said. “You named the city and the department in that one, too.”
“A deal on Herron might include dismissal of the city and LAPD from the Latour suit, and we’d go after the sheriffs and the county. It’s their jail, after all.”
“Hang on.” He got up, lumbered across the plaza, and disappeared into the sushi place. A moment later he reappeared with a tall can of Sapporo and sat down. He popped the tab, took a long, grateful drink, wiped his mouth and said, “I’m listening.”
“We have evidence that a high-ranking officer in the department and a high-ranking leader at the church conspired to blow up the church.”
“What evidence?”
“A witness who can lay out the motive behind the conspiracy and connect the two men.”
He blew a raspberry at me, something no one had done since I was in third grade.
“Motive? Connection? Where’s your overt act of conspiracy? You got nothing.”
“I’m not going to give you our case on a fucking silver platter,” I said. “But I will tell you that Raymond Moore is in our crosshairs.”
The mention of Moore’s name jerked him upright in his chair to full attention “What do you know about Chief Moore?”
“I know he’s a fanatical fundamentalist Christian who pushes his religious views on his subordinates in violation of department regulations, not to mention separation of church and state. I know he’s not only a member of Ekklesia but, after Herron’s death, was appointed to its board of directors. I know he’s best friends with a church leader who wanted Herron out. I know he’s Alfredo Sumaya’s commanding officer. I assume discovery will reveal that he directed Sumaya to infiltrate QUEER and incite them to violence. I can also connect Sumaya to Moore’s friend in the church. That’s just what I know now before we’ve filed our first discovery motions or set up our first depositions.”
