A hawk glided by and George sighted in on it with the AR-15 and followed its flight but did not fire. He lowered the gun, laid it down on the case, and took out a Zippo lighter. Trick I learned in the army, he told the boy who was standing by watching. He flicked a flame and held it just below the iron sight at the end of the barrel and slowly moved it back and forth. Blackens the sight to give it some contrast, he said.
Why are you doing that? Billy Delgado asked, moving a bit closer. He didn’t know shit about guns, had never owned one himself. Coming from one of the worst barrios in Orange County, a seventeen-year-old kid like Billy didn’t have much money for anything, let alone a rifle. Only the drug dealers and gang members in Crow Village had guns, and Billy wasn’t either of those.
Zeroing out the sights, George said. Adjusting them for accuracy. He lifted the gun up to his shoulder and looked down the barrel, then lay the gun down again. You okay, Billy? he said without looking at the teenager. How are those vitamins I gave you working out?
Billy stretched out his arms. I’m all right, he said, even though it wasn’t really true. Billy was always in pain, diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis one doctor told him would rob him of his ability to walk by age twenty-five. George had gone to the library, done some research, and put Billy on a vitamin regimen that was supposed to help.
Billy had known George since his older brother Manny got his landscaping job at Cypress Parks Department, when Billy was twelve. Even though George was ten years older, he always took the time to talk to Billy, asking how he was feeling, what the latest doctor had said, what medications he was on. In addition to the vitamin program, George also put together an herbal regimen for the psoriasis that caused dry, blotchy rashes all over Billy’s face, arms, and hands. Billy hated the skin disease more than the arthritis. Together they kept him from sports, girls, and anything requiring physical exertion.
That’s good, said George, taking a forty-round magazine of .223-caliber ammunition from the trunk of Chris’s Z/28.
There was the sound of gunfire from somewhere down the canyon, a single, uninterrupted burst of at least twenty rounds, the reports echoing back and forth off the canyon walls. Billy looked across the wash, as wide as a football field and strewn with boulders, to the granite outcroppings soaring hundreds of feet off the canyon floor.
Sounds like somebody up here’s got an automatic, Chris called from a few dozen feet away. Harven lifted a rifle and cracked off five quick rounds down into the wash, the rounds pinging off metal. The Heckler’s good, he said.
Billy watched as George snapped the magazine into the bottom of the AR with a solid clicking noise, took a small backpack, and walked to the edge of the turnout where the hill sloped down into the wash. You nervous?
Not really, Billy lied. George turned and gave the kid a doubtful look. Well, maybe a little, Billy conceded.
George nodded. Yeah, me too. He tossed the backpack on the ground and then lay down prone with the rifle barrel resting on the pack. He steadied the gun, sighted through the back and front sights, let out a long breath of air, and slowly pulled the trigger. There was a sharp crack and Billy could feel the concussion deep in his chest. George repeated the process, firing another round. He took a set of binoculars and looked down into the wash. Come here, he said. I’ll show you what I’m doing. Billy walked over and knelt beside George. I was aiming right at the middle of the door on that washing machine, he said, holding the binoculars up to Billy. Look at where they hit.
High, Billy said.
Yeah, George said. He took an unspent round and used the lead tip to click an adjustment on the iron sight at the end of the barrel. This direction to bring the sight down, he said. He lay back down in the prone position, steadied the gun again, and slowly squeezed off a shot. He adjusted the sights again until the bullets were hitting in tight groupings directly in the middle of the washer door. There, he said, getting back to his feet and dusting the dirt off his shirt and pants. He handed the gun to Billy. This is the one you’re going to have.
Billy hesitated, staring at the black steel and composite weapon.
Just keep it on the seat beside you in case you need it.
Billy nodded, positioned himself, and lifted the gun exactly the way he had seen George do it. He swallowed, aimed down at the washing machine, and fired off three quick shots.
Not bad, George said. He left Billy and walked up the hill to where the others were shooting.
There was a booming sound. Is this fucking thing even legal? Manny grinned, holding the shotgun with the short barrel and pistol grip.
Riot gun, George said flatly. If anyone fucks with us, fire it into the ceiling.
Manny held the gun low at the hip and blasted off another three shells.
You better go talk to your brother, George said.
Manny looked over at Billy firing the AR and then handed the riot gun to George.
Manny Delgado was twenty-one years old but not all that much bigger than his little brother. Both were bantamweights, barely over five feet tall and weighing in at about 120 pounds. But whereas Billy looked boyish and easy to pick on, Manny carried himself like a tough little motherfucker. But when you came from the barrio, a kid had better be tough. Manny was all that, but he never gave anyone a bad time unless they gave it first. He looked after his wife and small child, held down a job, and stayed out of trouble. Well, mostly stayed out of trouble. Manny had gotten himself into a minor scrape with the law and was doing some weekends in the county jail. Nothing he couldn’t get past, except now he had missed two weekends in a row planning for the bank job with George.
Manny had already gotten the hell out of the Crow Village neighborhood of Stanton and was living in Garden Grove with his wife, Juanita. If a kid in Crow Village had any job at all, it probably involved street drugs, stealing cars, or gang shakedowns. But Manny got a job through a work program when he was just sixteen years old, digging up irrigation pipes and planting trees at the Parks Department for the city of Cypress. He had worked there together with George for almost a half dozen years. Manny worked his ass off and the supervisor there called him an “ideal young man,” but frequently asked Manny what the hell he was doing hanging around after hours with that troublemaker George Smith.
All George had to do was suggest the bank job and Manny was in. He already had one child under age two and was expecting another with Juanita in a few months. Succeed or die, George told him. Manny was down for that, too. He quit his job at Cypress and told them he was moving to Arizona. His only hesitation was getting Billy involved, but a little bit of money could get Billy a long way out of Crow Village.
Billy lowered the gun when he saw Manny approaching. I thought I was just driving, he said. What do I need this for?
What are you so fucking worried about? Manny said in his heavy Chicano accent with its unique mix of staccato and elongated syllables. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.
It’s okay, Billy said, staring down at the gun in his hands. He knew it was too late now to back out without letting down his brother and George.
Manny took the gun from him. It’s going to be okay, Belisario, he said softly, using his brother’s given name. Nothing’s gonna happen.
CHRIS POPPED THE EMPTY MAGAZINE OUT OF THE COLT “SHORTY” AR tossed it into a cardboard box, and snapped in a new forty-round clip. This one’s all set, he said, handing the gun over to Russ. Give it a try.
Russ lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger. The rifle gave a sharp crack and kicked back against his shoulder. Russ smiled and reeled off three quick shots in the direction of the abandoned Pinto. Crack, crack, crack. The first shot hit metal, but the gun jerked and pulled up and to the left, sending the next two way high of the mark.
Try to keep it in the canyon, shithead. Chris walked over to the Z/28, reached into the open trunk, and dug around in a duffel bag. Who wants to throw a bomb? he said, walking back with one of the fragmentation grenades they had made.
&nbs
p; I’ll fuckin’ toss a grenade, Manny said with a smile.
The others gathered around as George showed them how it worked. Light the fuse, throw it, and then get the fuck down before you get your guts torn out by shrapnel. He pulled out the Zippo. Ready?
None of that shit better hit my car, Chris warned.
George flicked the lighter. Throw it way over there, he said to Manny, nodding in the direction of the Pinto down in the wash.
Manny extended his arm back, clutching the grenade. When George lit the fuse, Manny stepped forward and hurled the canister like an outfielder throwing a runner out at home plate. They all hit the dirt and lay on their bellies waiting. Three seconds later there was a sharp explosion and the sound of shrapnel striking metal, trees, granite boulders, and everything else down in the wash.
Slowly, they all pushed themselves up from the dirt and walked to the edge of the wash. For a few seconds, they stood staring down at the smoke rising up from the canyon floor. Chris Harven shook his head. Holy shit, he said.
3
THE RSO
May 9, 1980. Riverside, California.
THERE WAS NO WAY ANDY SHOULD HAVE ENDED UP A COP. THE ILLEGITIMATE child of a poor, fifteen-year-old Latina with drug and alcohol problems. Abandoned by his birth mother, raised by a grandmother who died a violent death, passed around among relatives who either could not afford or did not want him, placed under the jurisdiction of Child Protective Services, in and out of facilities run by the California Youth Authority. On paper, his childhood history was the familiar trajectory that led far too many young Mexican Americans into street gangs and the California correctional system.
The difference was Andy had never done anything wrong, never broken a single law in his life. Andy’s childhood had been one of abandonment, rejection, and tragedy, but it had also been one of salvation.
Andy’s birth mother was first-generation Mexican American, part of a large family of migrant workers who followed the picking seasons or any other employment opportunity throughout the Southwest. His father was Italian, a successful restaurateur in Tempe, Arizona. It might have been a great love story except that Esperanza Espinoza was the fifteen-year-old babysitter and Leonard Monti was a much older married man with three kids of his own.
Leonard Monti was not cruel or heartless, but there were all kinds of reasons why a pillar of society, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a Goldwater guy might want to cover up the fact that he had knocked up his underage Mexican babysitter. Whatever the arrangement, Esperanza quietly went on her way and had her baby in Modesto, California. Some guy named Delgado stepped in for Leonard Monti on the birth certificate, so Andy became the only Delgado in a family of Espinozas, an uncomfortable detail no one ever bothered to change.
Three days into his life, Andy was handed over to his grandmother. It was obvious that his birth mother could not care for a newborn. Alcoholism and addiction made sure she would never play that role in Andy’s life. Andy was raised by his grandmother Marcelina, a woman he would forever refer to as his mother. They were poor, a single woman with six kids to support. They rattled around the Southland, living in the migrant camps or trailer parks. But it was okay. Andy had a family, siblings to play with, a place to belong. But like most things in Andy’s young life, it did not last.
In 1963, when Andy was ten, they were living in the Warehouse District of Los Angeles. One day, his grandmother rented a trailer, loaded it up with used appliances and furniture, and, along with Andy and her three youngest children, drove to the border town of Mexicali. They spent the day delivering the goods and visiting with relatives. At the end of a long day, they headed back, swinging by the L.A. suburb of El Monte to drop a few items off at their Aunt Olga’s house.
A man named John R. Barkus was driving through El Monte that night too. He was drunk. When Marcelina Espinoza stepped between the trailer and the car to get something out of the trunk, John R. Barkus slammed into the back of the trailer at high speed. Marcelina was crushed, pulled to the pavement and plowed over by the trailer. What Andy saw that night was his grandmother, his mother really, crumpled, broken, and dead, the clothes ripped off her body by the force of being dragged across asphalt by the undercarriage of the trailer.
Of the six orphaned children, five were absorbed into the families of relatives. The three younger ones, the kids with whom Andy was closest, went together to the home of an aunt in Hacienda Heights. Andy, the youngest, was the odd kid out. He was different than the others, not one of Marcelina’s kids at all, more like an adopted child, the only one with a different last name. He was passed around among the aunts and uncles, many of whom already had large families and problems of their own and were either in no position to take on an extra kid or simply did not want to. Andy could tell. Many treated him as an outsider, or worse. With his family jerked out from under him, Andy was quickly becoming anchorless, bouncing around from school to school, neighborhood to neighborhood, house to house. That’s when an El Monte cop named Darrell Creed showed up in his life.
Creed was in his early twenties, a gangly six-foot-four transplant straight out of rural Kansas. He looked the hayseed part with ears that stuck out, arms that dangled almost to his knees, and a wide, crooked smile. But he was a smart and decent young man who could see all the warning signs in Andy, the sort of rootless and unstable existence that turned good kids into juvenile delinquents. Creed began to stop by the house on his off hours to check in on Andy, maybe take him over to the park, buy him a burger, or even drag him along for dinner at a friend’s house. The El Monte PD thought this was a very bad idea and told Creed so. He ignored them. Creed became a big-brother figure Andy could look up to.
But then Andy moved on to another relative in another town, away from Darrell Creed. That situation did not work out either. Now there were no more relatives willing to take him in. One of them handed him over to Los Angeles County’s child protective services system. Whatever paperwork or hearings or judicial machinery that might have been grinding away in the background to determine his fate was invisible to Andy. All he knew was that he was getting stuffed into an overcrowded youth facility called MacLaren Hall while his brothers and sisters were tucked away with family members.
Even at age ten, Andy Delgado knew a shitty situation when he saw one. The place was creepy, sad, and mean, and he wanted out. So he left. Just walked the fuck right out of the place. At MacLaren Hall, they called that “escaping” and brought him back and put him in the lockdown area with the juvenile offenders. He left again, this time climbing onto the roof and over a perimeter fence. In all, he climbed in and out of youth facilities for the better part of a year until all the “escapes” officially made Andy a juvenile offender.
Meanwhile, the system was making some decisions about Andy Delgado’s future. They placed him in the Los Padrinos facility in Downey. Same thing, different place. A parole officer named Betty McCold took over Andy’s case and was dismayed at what she found when reviewing his records. Andy was about to be become a long-term inductee into the juvenile corrections system even though he had committed no crime beyond wanting to get the hell out of some lousy, county-run, lockdown orphanage. She asked Andy if there wasn’t someone, anyone, who would take him in? No, he said. Nobody. And then he remembered that cop in El Monte who had shown him some kindness a few years before. Darrell . . . Something. Andy did not even know the man’s last name.
It was an absurd idea. Betty McCold could have done what most overworked caseworkers would have done: shrug her shoulders and stuff the Andrew Delgado case into a filing cabinet until his upcoming date before a judge to determine his fate. But instead, Betty McCold called the El Monte PD. Did they have a cop named Darrell who used to hang out with a ten-year-old kid named Andy? They used to, but he was not on the force any longer. McCold followed the trail, but when she finally tracked down the big lanky cop from Kansas, it looked as though it might be too late.
Andy sat before the judge in the Child Protective Serv
ices disposition hearing to determine what they were going to do with him next. There was nowhere for him to go but a lockdown facility within the system; otherwise he would just run away again. Well, the judge said, is there anyone present who is willing to take responsibility for this kid? There was. Andy looked over and saw Darrell Creed for the first time in months. He was there with his new bride. Yes, they would take responsibility for Andy. Yes, they would be his foster family until he was old enough to go out on his own.
From then on, Andy had a home. However, the experience of being abandoned, locked up, bullied, and treated so unfairly was one that Andy never forgot. For the rest of his life, the injustices inflicted upon him as a child would play a huge role in how he viewed the world and interacted with the people around him.
As a father, Darrell Creed instilled in Andy the values of loyalty, honesty, and integrity. It was the loyalty part that was particularly attractive to Andy because he had seen so little of it in his life. He listened in on the conversations Creed and other cops had while drinking coffee around the kitchen table. Stories about always having each other’s back, trusting your partner with your life, and, above all, never leaving a fellow officer alone in a fight. Andy revered these values, these men, and, by extension, all policemen and the institution of law enforcement. From then on, Andy Delgado knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life.
ANDY WAS JUST COMING OFF PATROL THE EVENING OF MAY 8, 1980, WHEN HE found deputy chief Ron Bickmore waiting for him, smoking a cigarette in an area just off the dispatch center called “the pit.” The normally gruff Bickmore seemed even more annoyed than usual. “I want to see you in Sheriff Clark’s office tomorrow, oh-seven-hundred sharp.” When Andy asked what the meeting was about, Bickmore took a last drag off the cigarette and crushed it out on the floor. “It’s personal.” Shit, Andy thought. I knew it would catch up with me.
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