by David Chill
I arrived home just as Gail and Marcus were sitting down to what looked like a hearty dinner of spaghetti and meat sauce. A place-setting was there for me, but the empty plate told me they were hungry, and had not been optimistic about my arrival. They were, in fact, going to start eating with or without me.
“Daddy!” Marcus yelled. He put his fork down and ran over and gave me a hug. This was my favorite part of the day. Gail followed and did the same.
“I didn’t know if you were going to make it,” Gail said.
“Oh, ye of little faith. I arrived in the nick of time,” I responded, then sat down and began helping myself to dinner. “How was everyone’s day?”
“I did a slam dunk today!” Marcus exclaimed.
“Oh?” I exclaimed, pretending wonder for a brief moment. “That’s exciting. But it also sounds like a bit of a tall tale to me, Marcus.”
“They were playing on a three-foot hoop,” Gail pointed out as she twirled some pasta onto her fork, using her spoon as a base, a trick I taught her years ago.
“Daddy, where am I going to school next year?” he asked.
I glanced over at Gail, but she continued to focus on twirling her pasta. I turned back to Marcus.
“That’s an interesting question. Why do you ask that?”
”Brendan said he’s going to … the Cross school?”
“Crossroads,” Gail added, looking up. “Brendan’s older brother is going there, that means he should get accepted because he’s a sibling.”
“What’s a sibling, Mommy?”
“It’s when you have a brother or sister,” she said.
“Am I going to have a brother or sister?”
Gail looked at me and then looked down again. “We don’t know, sweetie. Sometimes you get them. Not always.”
“Daddy, did you have sib … what was that again?”
“Siblings,” I said. “And no, I didn’t. I was like you, Marcus. I was an only child.”
“Did you like that?”
I stopped for a moment. I hadn’t told Marcus much about my formative years; they were difficult years, ones I didn’t enjoy reliving. My father died in a car accident before I was born, and my mother raised me as a single mom. I never recalled her dating anyone. It was just the two of us. She said she liked it that way. I missed out on having a dad, and she sometimes struggled with money, but my mother made sure I didn’t lack for attention. And I found a number of male role models along the way; some were terrific, some were not.
“Being an only child?” I told him. “It came with some challenges. I had a lot of friends in my neighborhood, but no, I didn’t have a brother or sister. Might have been nice, but then I’d have had to share my mom with someone. I wouldn’t have minded. It just would have been different.”
Marcus took this in and then changed the subject to when we would be going to Disneyland. Fortunately, he didn’t bring up the issue of schools again. It was a topic Gail and I needed to discuss, frequently put off, and was not the type of conversation we wanted to have in front of our five-year-old. After dinner, Marcus went off to play a video game, and we did the dishes together.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“All right,” she said. “I have a new case. A ring of car thieves. They’ve discovered a low-tech way to steal cars that doesn’t require any tools or weapons.”
“Sounds intriguing. How do they do it?”
“They walk around a neighborhood at night, preferably a nice one, an area that has newer cars around. They try the door handles, and inevitably they find a few that are unlocked. What’s interesting is that some people leave a spare key inside their car. Or their bedroom window is close to the driveway where their car is, so the fob keys are nearby. Most new cars have fobs, so all the thief has to do is push the starter button. If it starts, they simply drive away, no muss, no fuss. If the car doesn’t start, they simply ransack the interior, pop the trunk and take whatever they can.”
“Ingenious in its simplicity,” I said. “How’d they get caught?”
“A neighbor was just getting home from a night of working late. He saw it happen and followed the car, called it in to 9-1-1 and the LAPD nabbed them.”
“And the thieves aren’t copping a plea?”
“They claim they’re doing a public service by alerting everyone to this issue. They say it’s all for the greater good. And this was their first offense.”
“We live in strange times,” I observed.
“And how was your day?” she asked.
“Not the best,” I answered. “Did you hear about Anthony Machado?”
“No. Wasn’t that one of the guys you went to high school with? That friend of Phil Zellis?”
“If you can call them friends. Anyway, Machado was the one Phil hired to protect his daughter. They found his body in the garage of her building. Gunshot wounds to the head.”
“Oh my,” she said. “No, I hadn’t heard that. If it happens outside the city limits, we usually hear about it the same way everyone else does. Lead story on the ten o’clock news.”
“Yeah. So Machado is dead, and the daughter is missing. No idea where she is. Phil asked me to find her. I’ve been talking with her family and with her boyfriend, but so far I’ve got nothing. Nada.”
“I’m sure you’ll get an idea of where to look.”
“Maybe. Anything else going on?”
“Well, I got some surprising news. Shane Karp is running for City Attorney. It was announced today by his campaign committee.”
“He has a campaign committee already?” I asked.
“It’s part of the process. Mostly for fundraising and P.R.”
I thought about this. While we had nibbled around the edges of the topic, Gail and I had not discussed the nuts and bolts, the gnarly specifics of her running for public office. We’d have to explain to Marcus what it would mean if his mother ran for an important, demanding, and highly visible position. The City Attorney of Los Angeles was a big job, and it would take some money to get there. Campaign contributions would need to be sought, and there were donors who would need to be wooed. And it was not uncommon for candidates to take out personal loans or use their home equity when borrowing money. It was often why a lot of those who run for public office already enjoy a significant level of wealth.
“What else is included in this process?” I asked.
“Mostly gathering signatures to be on the ballot, to start. Then filing, then campaigning. For positions that are lower-profile than mayor, a lot of the push comes right before the vote. Mailers mostly. TV advertising isn’t normally done for City Attorney campaigns, it’s too expensive. But even mailers cost a lot of money, especially in a city this big.”
“Sounds like that requires quite a large bit of money.”
“It does. But it often gets raised through holding fundraisers, and calling big donors for contributions. I wouldn’t use any of our money, we’re not rich. I’d have to work something out. And if this became a problem for you or me or us, I would just stop.”
“Okay,” I said. “When you say right before the vote, I assume that means right before the primary.”
“Yes. L.A. is a deep-blue city. Whoever wins the Democratic primary in June is typically going to win the general election in November.”
“Good thing you’re a Democrat.”
Gail stifled a grin and leaned against me. “I know you’re not.”
“Yup. My independent streak crosses over into politics. Although if you run, I might consider giving up my values and joining a party.”
“That’s so romantic.”
“Thank you.”
“So sweetie, you’re aware I never ask you who you vote for. Lord knows, couples have enough things to fight about. But I’m curious about something. When you were doing work a few years ago for Rex Palmer, did you vote for him for governor? He’s a Republican, as I’m sure you recall.”
“I have no idea.”
“Excuse me?” she
asked, eyes wide. “You don’t know who you voted for?”
“Nope.”
“You mean you don’t remember who you voted for,” she said, clarifying.
“No. I honestly didn’t know who I voted for. Still don’t.”
“Take me through all that, would you?”
“Look,” I said, “I didn’t really see the difference between Rex Palmer and Justin Woo. The ballots are just a punch card with a lot of numbers on them. You use a pen to fill in the circles of the candidates you want. Kind of like taking the SATs. You know. You pick number five if you want Palmer, number six if you want Woo. Maybe it was the other way around. I don’t know.”
“So you didn’t bother looking into who you voted for? You might as well have not voted at all, then. For you, it was the equivalent of a coin toss.”
“Yup. And that’s how I feel about most elections. The lesser of two evils, normally.”
“Then why bother even voting?”
“It’s my civic duty,” I smiled.
“Okay, enough of this. Listen. I have a lot of things to think about. Shane Karp is a good man and a good prosecutor, but I don’t think he’s the best choice to lead our office. And he’s not great with people.”
“If you think you’ll be better, you should run.”
“Okay. But you have to be all in on this,” she said.
“I’ll support you in anything you want to do. My concern is that my past may come up and hurt your chances. And not everything I do in my job is real savory. I don’t want you to get affected.”
“I’m a big girl. And if I worry about people criticizing me for my personal life, then I shouldn’t get into politics. But are you okay with me being under public scrutiny?”
I stopped for a moment and considered this. I recognized I would be able to handle seeing myself under the microscope; it was something I had gone through before and could go through again. I had become somewhat anesthetized to other people’s opinions of me. But I also knew it would be far easier for me to deal with a harsh public spotlight than it would be to see Gail put under that lens. It is one thing to endure hardships yourself; it is quite another to sit by and watch someone you love have to go through that same torturous process.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I said.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth and turning to give me a big hug.
“Would you like me to do some opposition research on Shane Karp?” I whispered.
She laughed. “No. At least not yet.”
“Should I do some oppo research on you?”
Gail stepped back and gave me a long look. “You know, that is a very good idea.”
“I was kidding,” I said.
“I’m not,” she countered. “If there’s anything in my past that I’ve forgotten about, be it some silly photo I may have been in during high school, or some paper I wrote in college, yes, I’d like to see if you can find it. Because I’d rather have you find it and have a response ready, than to get caught flat-footed.”
“Okay,” I said and made a mental note to do some opposition research on the beautiful Gail Pepper. And I made another note to do some on Shane Karp.
Chapter 6
Xavier Bishop called me back just as I was crawling under the covers to go to sleep, so I suggested we talk in the morning. He told me to swing by his house in Baldwin Hills when I got up. I asked how early I could come, and he told me whenever I felt like it. He said he was an early riser.
Baldwin Hills is populated by, among others, a variety of athletes and former athletes, successful doctors and lawyers, and a sprinkling of movie stars. Mayor Tom Bradley used to live there, as did Ray Charles and Tina Turner. The homes were nice, the views amazing, and many streets boasted teardowns-in-progress, where perfectly livable homes were purchased, leveled, and rebuilt to two or three times their former size. It was no different than other upscale communities in L.A., except that for many decades residents here had been primarily African-American.
Xavier’s home was off of Don Felipe Drive, not far from La Brea. I needed to navigate up a narrow hill, one that seemed to go on and on. I wondered if I would motor through a cloud. The properties on the street were nice, but when I reached Xavier’s, I knew I had arrived at someplace truly special. His home was hidden behind an ivy-covered stone wall that had sprigs of red bougainvillea crowning the top. I had to double-check the address with Google maps to make sure I was at the right place, since there were no street numbers on the property.
The driveway was blocked by a large opaque gate, with a security phone nearby. I pushed a button, and without a word, the gate swung open a few seconds later. I did note a discreetly placed camera perched on top of the wall, one that obviously captured anyone attempting to gain access. Parking next to a cherry red Ferrari, I took a long look at it before walking to the front door and knocking. The door opened a few seconds later, and I was treated to a sweaty, muscular Xavier Bishop, wearing a red, white, and blue Buffalo Bills t-shirt and dark nylon pants. He was grinning and he gave me a warm handshake.
“Not going to give you a hug right now my friend,” he smiled. “Just finished my morning workout.”
“I appreciate your consideration, X,” I said, looking around. “Nice crib you’ve got here.”
“Let me show you something,” he said, the grin on his face not going away, and he led me past a living room overloaded with too much black leather and smoked glass. We walked onto the back patio. “While I’ve still got this place.”
“Still got it? You miss some mortgage payments?”
“Nah. I’m just thinking of moving. There’s been some break-ins down the street. I want to live in a safe neighborhood.”
I understood. Break-ins could happen anywhere, and a swank neighborhood like this attracted its share. Baldwin Hills was a nice area, lined with expensive homes. The mostly well-off professionals who lived here were law-abiding citizens and they normally had good kids. But my police work many years ago taught me these good kids sometimes had friends from outside the area who weren’t so good. They drove up here to hang out, saw a lot of nice homes, residents at work during the day, and envisioned a grand opportunity for monetary gain. Many burglaries happen in the middle of the day, and a surprising number were committed by these casual friends of their neighbors’ kids. There were simply more items of value to steal here than in their own neighborhoods.
“Makes sense,” I finally said. “You’ve done all right in the NFL. You can afford to live where you want.”
“Yeah. Plus, I’m a free agent this winter, which means I’m going to be making monopoly money soon. Gonna move on up. Maybe Beverly Hills. Think I’ll fit in?”
I laughed. “If you’ve got the money, you can fit in anywhere. In L.A., the most important color is green.”
Xavier’s backyard was worth showing off. The sparkling pool and steaming Jacuzzi were ringed by a series of small date palm trees that looked as if they had just been planted. A teak fence lined the perimeter, but the crown jewel was the view, an imposing, spectacular look at the L.A. basin, one that put Ed Zellis’s vista to shame. I would imagine however, that as expensive as Ed Zellis’s house was, Xavier paid a lot more money for his place.
“I got to look at who my next team should be. I’ll make top dollar, but I got my legacy to think about now.”
“Legacy, huh?” I said, and gave him a playful poke in the ribs. His abdomen was as hard as stone. Xavier Bishop was a USC cornerback I had never coached, but I did help him out of a jam a few years ago. Falsely accused of beating his then-girlfriend, Desiree, Xavier faced suspension from the team and possible expulsion from school. And a pro football career that was hanging by a thread. I was able to find out that someone else had hit Desiree, and I convinced her not to ruin Xavier’s life because of a falling out they recently had. Xavier became a first-round draft pick for the Buffalo Bills and had excelled at the next level.
“It’s all about getting
me a ring, now,” he smiled, and invited me to sit down on one of the chaise lounge chairs surrounding the pool. The chair was comfortable and the view was nice. All I needed now was a cup of Starbucks.
“You’ll have your pick of teams,” I said. “Pro Bowl cornerbacks are in big demand. You coming back to play in L.A.? Can’t beat the weather in December.”
Xavier shook his head. “The Rams are set at corner. And the Chargers aren’t going anywhere. I’m not concerned about the city, I’ll spend six months a year here in L.A. That’s enough. Got a lot of family and friends nearby, but when it’s time to work, I want to focus. Can’t get distracted.”
“Buffalo was probably good for that.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he laughed. “You can get in trouble anywhere, but it’s true there’s less options in western New York, let me tell you. Anyways, it’s time to move on. I’m thinking Kansas City, New Orleans, maybe Dallas. Want to go to a contender. I’ve been in the league for five years now, and I’ve only been in one playoff game. You don’t play forever. Got to get what you can while you can.”
“True,” I said, impressed at how Xavier had turned out. Not every athlete takes a long view; some think they’ll play for fifteen years. A few will, but it’s mostly happenstance. Being a pro football star has a short shelf life, and players have to make their money and get paid quickly. They never know when a freak injury will end a career.
“You said something about needing my help,” Xavier said. “After you got me out of that mess with Desiree, I’ll help you do whatever.”
“Good to know,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t need any whatever. “You used to be involved with a girl named Amanda Zeal. Or so I’ve read on the internet.”
“Oh, man,” he said, throwing his head back. “Don’t remind me of that one.”
“What happened there?”
“Met her in a club last spring. Over in Hollywood. Went out a few times, but she was just a little too much. Used to getting her way, bossing guys around. That don’t work with me. Don’t work with most men.”
“So nothing came of it?”
