Earth Angels

by Gerald Petievich

  "Just hang in," Stepanovich said. "I'm sure we'll get some word from Harger very soon on how this is going to be fixed."

  Black lit another cigarette and blew out the match. He smiled broadly. Arredondo turned to him. "What the hell are you smiling about?"

  Black positioned his hands to hold an imaginary shotgun. "I was just thinking about wasting all those homeboys. Boom! Boom! Boom!" He laughed.

  "You're nuts," Arredondo said. "One hundred percent certifiably insane Okie."

  Black laughed even louder and, perhaps out of nervous tension, Stepanovich found himself laughing too.

  Soon the three of them were in a frenzy of laughter and Stepanovich found himself wiping away tears.

  Brenda, dressed only in bra and panties because the air conditioner was on the blink, finished washing the dishes in the kitchen and set them in the drainer on the cracked Formica sink counter. She wished she had enough money to have the sink fixed. As a matter of fact, the kitchen linoleum, most of the major appliances, and the tile in the bathroom of the two-bedroom tract home needed repair. Hell, for all intents and purposes, the entire house, like the rest of the cheapie tract homes in the neighborhood, was failing apart. Wiping her chapped hands on a dishtowel, she resolved that the first thing she would do when she got her next paycheck from the Arroyo Grande Cardboard Box and Container Company, where she worked as a box inspector, was to have whining ex husband's junked car towed off the front lawn. She told herself she would have taken care of this earlier, but it was more fun to hang out at the Rumor Control Bar rather than to try fixing up a house that was, God knows, completely shot.

  There was a knock on the door. She hurried into the bedroom and threw on a robe.

  At the front door, she opened the peephole.

  "Yes?"

  "Lieutenant Houlihan, Los Angeles Police Department," said a man fitting the description given her by Stepanovich. He held up a police identification card. "I'd like to ask you some questions."

  "I'm not properly dressed."

  "I can wait for you to change."

  "What's this about?"

  "Would you mind opening the door?"

  She complied.

  "May I come in?"

  "I'd rather talk right here."

  Houlihan bit his lip. "OK, then. I'm here about the apartment you rented on Ortega Street."

  "I heard the TV news about the shooting. Awful."

  "How is it that the officers came to use your apartment?"

  "They asked me and I said yes. I believe in supporting my local police. You know, you shouldn't bite your lip like that."

  Houlihan took out a note pad and pen. "Which officer spoke with you?"

  "He had a Russian sounding name."

  "Stepanovich?"

  "That's it."

  "Had you ever met him before?"

  "I'd seen him at the Rumor Control Bar."

  "What do you mean you've seen him?"

  "We're both customers of the place. I've seen him sitting at the bar. Haven't you ever just seen somebody somewhere?"

  Houlihan bit his lip. "Did he ask you to rent that apartment?"

  "No."

  "Why did you want to live on Ortega Street?"

  "I just decided to sell my house and move into an apartment. I was driving by and saw a "FOR RENT" sign."

  "Is this house for sale?"

  "No. I was going to list the house with a realtor, but after I saw the TV about what happened the shooting and all I decided to stay right here."

  "Are you aware you could be prosecuted for lying to a police officer when he is in the performance of his official duties?"

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "I'm kinda busy today. Is there anything else?"

  "May I step inside for a moment? I need to get down what you told me in writing and have you sign it."

  "I think you better stay where you are," Brenda said.

  "I'm sure you have no objection to signing a statement, right?"

  "Can you arrest me if I don't sign the statement?"

  "No."

  "Then I'm not signing it."

  "You can be subpoenaed into court."

  "You got a subpoena?"

  He shook his head.

  "Then, if you don't mind, I'm busy," she said, closing the door in his face. Having set the chain lock, she hurried to the front window. With her heart pounding, she watched Houlihan walk past Gary's junk, climb in his police car, and drive off.

  In the bedroom she struggled into a pair of tennis shorts and her abalone shell halter and fixed her hair into a ponytail on top of her head that C.R. Black called "his love handle."

  In the bedroom, she used an atomizer to spray some Obsession perfume on her neck and wrists, then headed out the door.

  Stepanovich was sitting on a bar stool working on his third drink when Brenda walked in the front door. She looked ill at ease.

  "That guy Houlihan came over to my house," she said, crawling onto the stool between him and Black. She placed her cheap leather purse on the bar and took out a plastic cigarette case. "He wanted to know why I rented the apartment on Ortega Street." She picked a cigarette from the case and Black lit it for her. She puffed, waved a hand through smoke. "I told him I rented the place on my own and you guys asked me to use it. But I don't think he believed a word I said."

  "You did good, woman," Black said, putting his arm around her. She smiled demurely.

  "Brenda always does good," Arredondo said.

  Black glared at him and Brenda looked pleased.

  "He'll be back to talk to you again," Stepanovich said "He'll have more questions."

  "What should I say?"

  "Stick by your story. If he presses, just cut him off. Tell him you don't want to get involved."

  There was an uneasy silence as Sullivan brought Brenda her usual and retreated to the other end of the bar.

  "He won't accept that," Brenda said.

  Stepanovich sipped his drink. It tasted bitter. "Just tell him you don't want to get involved and if he wants more information he'll have to get a subpoena."

  "I can I get in trouble for lying to him, can't I?"

  "If you're subpoenaed to the trial board, you repeat your story and that's that."

  "But I can get in trouble, can't I?"

  "Only if you change your story."

  As the evening wore on, the conversation dwindled, as if somehow everything, for once and for all, had been said. Stepanovich, matching the others drink for drink, grew numb from the alcohol and long before closing time he had the feeling that he was trapped inside the bar; the doors were locked and he would be staying here in the darkness and the smell of booze-soaked floors and red leather and stale cigarette ashes.

  The next morning, Stepanovich awoke on the floor of his living room. There were beer cans strewn about and Arredondo was asleep on the sofa with his mouth hanging open.

  He staggered to his feet and walked into the bedroom. Brenda and Black were lying on the mattress naked with arms around each other.

  In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He recalled purchasing six packs of Coors from Sullivan and then climbing into Black's car outside in the parking lot. The rest was a blank. He opened the bathroom door and stared at Brenda and Black as they slept. What was Gloria doing? he wondered. He picked up the phone and dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.

  "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

  "A little."

  "May I come over?"

  "Joe, I've got to get away for a while. I'm flying down to Albuquerque to stay with my older sister for a week or so."

  "We need to talk."

  "My head is spinning."

  "I love you," he said.

  "I love you too."

  "Can we get together before you leave?"

  "I'd rather wait until I get back ... until I've thought things out. I'll see you when I
get back."

  "Sure."

  ****

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Two weeks later, the board of rights hearing for Stepanovich, Black, and Arredondo was scheduled to convene in the eighth floor hearing room at Parker Center. Because of the extraordinary interest shown by the Los Angeles press corps, a number of folding chairs had been set up in the corner of the room as a makeshift press pen. In addition, the police public affairs representative had set up an elaborate display board with framed photographs of the department's current chain of command officer. The color eight by-tens of the neat, trim commanders, all in uniform and wearing gold braided police hats, were arranged around a larger photograph of Chief of Police Levester C. Burrel. A distinguished, soft spoken black, he was popular not only with the officers and detectives who'd worked for him as he climbed the ladder from the Wilshire vice squad to the eighth floor at police headquarters, but also with the real estate developers, powerful lawyers, and their city council pawns who secretly controlled the city.

  A nervous Stepanovich, dressed in a suit and sporting a fresh haircut, sat at the defense table with Black and Arredondo, who were similarly dressed. Howard Goldberg had obtained special permission from the district attorney to act as volunteer defense counsel for the three accused while on unpaid leave from his regular duties. He was leaning over the table, thumbing quickly through a thick stack of notes.

  Seated in the twelve rows of padded seats in the room were detectives assigned to internal affairs division, deputy city attorneys concerned with potential civil litigation arising from the Ortega Street shooting, note takers from the chiefs and mayor's offices, the police commission, the American Civil Liberties Union, Hispanics rights groups, and potential witnesses, including Sparky, Brenda, Sullivan, Officer Forest, Harger, and a coroner's investigator.

  The stage where the board would sit was usually used for prisoner line-ups. The steel reinforced door at the rear of the stage opened and a hush came over the room. The members of the Board of Rights, Captain Homer L. Ratliff, Captain Dexter C. Kefauver, and Captain Chauncey K. Lively, all wearing full uniform and sporting fresh haircuts moved to their table and sat down.

  The manual said that the senior captain would chair any board of rights. That meant that Ratliff, Harger's nemesis, would be in charge. "Board of rights," Stepanovich said to himself. "It should be called the board of No rights."

  "This disciplinary trial board is called to order," said Ratliff, a tall, lanky man with deep-set eyes. Known throughout the Department not only for his uncanny ability to ace promotional examinations but his unbridled ambition and lack of common sense, he had a grayish pallor that made him look much older than his forty-nine years. In fact, other command officers called him "The Mummy" because it was said he'd wait an eternity for the Chief to retire so he could finally get his promotion to top cop.

  Enunciating carefully, Ratliff introduced the other board members, then read the allegations out loud. This completed, he read a long paragraph from the manual advising Stepanovich and the others of their rights. In so many words, a policeman had a right to hire an attorney, but, as Howard had pointed out, only if he paid for one himself. Also, there was no right against self-incrimination. "Having completed those preliminaries," Ratliff said, "I'd like to read a letter sent to this hearing by Chief Burrell."

  Howard cleared his throat. "The defendants object to any such reading on the grounds that it is prejudicial."

  Ratliff smiled condescendingly. "The objection is overruled." He thumbed a page and read: "As the head of this department, I want all parties to know that the sole purpose of any board of rights hearing is to ascertain the truth and once that is done, to return a finding and penalty commensurate with the evidence developed. In my book, Administrative Law and Police Justice, I warned that in dispensing justice, a board of rights must always be aware of the desirability of sworn officers being allowed to function without fear of reprisal, but also the danger to the citizenry if officers of the law acted under a clear cloak of administrative protection from misconduct. I wish all parties well."

  Howard leaned close to Stepanovich. "Who wrote the book for him?" he whispered.

  "His brother teaches administrative law at USC."

  Howard nodded.

  "This board wishes to thank the Chief for his thoughts," Ratliff said. He turned to Houlihan. "The Department may call its first witness."

  Houlihan, the department advocate, rose from his table and introduced himself. "The department calls Sergeant Jose Stepanovich."

  "Mr. Chairman," Howard said loudly, "the defense moves that you be replaced as chairman of this board of rights on the grounds that you are clearly prejudiced in this matter. You are a close personal friend of the investigating officer, Lieutenant Houlihan, and are, in fact, the godfather to his son. You attend the same church and have taken family vacations together." Ratliff blushed. "Police departments are very close-knit organizations, Mr. Goldbloom "

  "Goldberg."

  "Yes, Goldberg," he said to the press area. "As I was saying, the fact that officers are acquainted with one another socially is not in and of itself reason to disqualify someone from sitting on a police trial board. If that was the case, we'd never be able to discipline ourselves, and the public interest wouldn't be served. Your objection is therefore overruled. The department may call its first witness."

  Houlihan stood up. "The department calls Sergeant Jose Stepanovich."

  "The clerk will swear in the witness," Ratliff said, making a note.

  Stepanovich, his stomach fluttering, rose and approached the witness stand. He raised his hand. Rose Fujimoto, a busty young Oriental woman with a bouffant hairdo who everyone in the Department knew was the Chief s current girlfriend, administered the oath in a heavy Japanese accent.

  Stepanovich said, "I do," and took a seat on the witness stand. His throat felt dry and he felt the underarms of his suit jacket must already be stained with perspiration.

  Houlihan, wearing what looked like a new suit, looked composed. "Please state your name and assignment."

  Stepanovich complied.

  "For the record, the defense objects to the fact that the accused is forced to testify against himself in this hearing. "

  Ratliff thumbed through some paperwork and took out a typed page that Stepanovich guessed had been prepared for him by Houlihan or some other flunky. He read: "The proceedings of a board of rights hearing involves administrative rather than criminal law and is initiated as a fact finding body to reach a decision without undue interference from restrictive limitations. Our job here is not to become entangled in a web of technicalities. This would defeat the purpose of this tribunal. Our aim is to keep things informal and to avoid quibbling over witnesses and the admissibility of evidence. "

  "May I be heard?" Howard said.

  "Certainly, Mr. Goldbloom."

  "Thank you, sir," Howard said, glaring. "In the context of this informal atmosphere, I'd like to point out that the defendants are on trial for their careers without the benefit of the guarantees provided in the Constitution of the United States, and that this 'tribunal' as you call it, is nothing more than a tribute to injustice, bureaucratic intrigue, and the whim and caprice of the police chain of command. In short, it's an institutionalized kangaroo court and you are the head kangaroo."

  Ratliff maintained a poker face as cameras whirred from the press area. "Lieutenant Houlihan, you may continue."

  "Sergeant Stepanovich," Houlihan said confidently, "during the course of your duties while assigned to the Central Bureau CRASH gang detail, did you have occasion to seize any vehicles as evidence?"

  "Yes."

  Houlihan stepped forward and handed him a Polaroid photograph of the black Chevy belonging to the White Fence gang. "Does this appear to be a Chevrolet you caused to be towed to the police impound yard?"

  Stepanovich said yes. As his knees began shaking, he was thankful that the witness stand hid them from view.

  "Our inve
stigation has shown that you and the other defendants stole this vehicle from the impound yard and used it to fire rounds into a dwelling on Eighteenth Street "

  "Objection! Who said that?" Howard shouted. "There is no factual basis in the evidence for such a question!"

  "The objection is overruled," Ratliff said diffidently. "Per Section 140.75 of the board of rights manual, this board is empowered to develop any and all pertinent facts. The witness is directed to answer the question."

  Houlihan smiled. "Sergeant Stepanovich, did you and the others violate the penal code of the state of California by firing into an inhabited dwelling in order to incite gang warfare?"

  Stepanovich cleared his throat. "No," he said, surmising that Houlihan was bluffing because if Sparky had talked, he'd have been the first witness called to the stand.

  "Where were you and the members of your unit the night after you impounded the Chevrolet?"

  "We were at the Rumor Control Bar."

  "Do you realize you are testifying under oath?" Houlihan said.

  "I'm directing my client not to answer that non-question!" Howard interrupted. "Even though this is a star-chamber proceeding and he obviously has no legal rights, he is still a human being and has the right not to be badgered and humiliated. The question has been asked and answered."

  Ratliff and the others captains conferred in whispers, and there was the sound of cameras whirring. Finally Ratliff sat back. "Objection sustained," he said.

  Undaunted, Houlihan turned a page of his legal tablet. "Sergeant Stepanovich," he said, "on the date listed in the allegation, did you take part in a surveillance on Ortega Street in the city of Los Angeles?"

  "Yes."

  "And you were the ranking officer at this surveillance?"

  "Yes."

  "What led you to initiate the surveillance?"

  "During routine patrol we observed known White Fence gang members coming and going from the residence."

  "You staked out simply to monitor gang members you observed entering the location?"

  "That's correct," Stepanovich tied.

  "Isn't it true that you and your unit were fired on by White Fence gang members on August nineteenth and a member of your unit, Officer Timothy Fordyce, was killed."