Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  Josie quietly said, “Works for me.”

  When I returned home with a full belly and heavy eyelids, I was greeted by two shopping bags blocking my front door, one of which had an envelope protruding from the top. I recognized the writing on it as Katherine’s. The bags would no doubt contain the few items left at her home over the last few months: casual attire, workout clothes and running shoes, a toiletry bag, a few paperback novels—Connelly, Block, and Leonard—and a couple of ball caps with various insignia including the Homicide Bureau logo and bulldog mascot on at least two. There might have even been returned gifts: a gold sheriff’s star necklace, a ladies Homicide Bureau sweater, a pair of silver hoop earrings from Tiffany’s. I didn’t know.

  I stepped around the clutter and let myself into my apartment, closing the door resolutely behind me.

  34

  “We put the ‘fun’ in funeral.”

  It was how Lupita Rosas described her duties as the primary funeral planner for the department, assigned to Sheriff’s Personnel. It wasn’t that Deputy Rosas was uncaring or cold-hearted; she, like all cops, had learned to remove the emotion from a horrible job in order to survive. After eight years of working the streets, first as a patrol deputy and then undercover in the Narcotics Bureau, she’d seen her share of death and destruction and had attended more than her share of cop funerals. Some of those funerals had been for deputies whom she had personally known. There had never been any ‘fun’ in those, and there never would be. But after a few brushes with death herself, and now a baby on the way, Lupe had sought a position on the department that better fit the life of a young mother. At least for now.

  She hated it. How do you console a grieving mother while peeling her away from the casket in order to adhere to a schedule? She had practiced saying to the parents that she felt their pain, but she didn’t. She knew it and so did they. How could anyone who hasn’t endured such pain know what it’s like to lose a child? Soon, she knew, her belly would reveal that she was expecting a child. She would no longer be able to hide it, or her glow, while trying in vain to console a grieving mother.

  But Lupe embraced the assignment for its schedule, and each day she arrived determined to make the best of it. Few people knew of the work that went into planning and coordinating department funerals. It was behind-the-scenes type of work, a production of sorts. She was an event planner with a gun.

  “The guy was killed in a motorcycle accident in Malibu,” she snapped into the phone. “No, look, he was off duty. This is a simple Wedding Package C, rice for the birds and a flower bouquet type of funeral. Church to dirt in thirty. I’m getting my nails done at four and my baby shower starts at five. Believe me, I’m going to keep it on a tight schedule.”

  She hung up and looked at her partner, Tracy, a civilian who handled much of the clerical duties associated with the assignment. “These deputies and their fucking Harleys, Trace, are driving our stats through the ceiling. Someone needs to invent training wheels for the goddamn machines so that these middle-aged men stop tipping over in the canyons.”

  Tracy shook her head without so much as a grin. Lupe hardly noticed. “Now Forest Lawn wants to push our services to Monday, saying Saturday is too busy with visitors for them to shut everything down for a cop funeral. You heard me tell him, it ain’t a cop funeral, for the love of Christ, it’s a funeral for a cop. I swear these people take the fun out of this job.”

  “What’s wrong with Monday?” Tracy asked, her words slow like her movement.

  Lupe stopped what she was doing and looked at Tracy for a long moment. “You know I don’t like working Mondays.”

  “But if—”

  Lupe hated Mondays and took most of them off. From her years working Narcotics, she had built up a large bank of “comp” time on the books. Her husband worked Gangs and had Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday off, and Lupe enjoyed the lazy Mondays while the rest of the world revved up for the week.

  “We’re not rearranging a funeral that’s a week out. Everything else is set.”

  There were different arrangements depending on the circumstances of the death. A variety of packages, something for everyone. No group rates, Lupe would joke.

  Line of Duty Deaths are what Lupe referred to as the Wedding Package A. These funerals are what most people imagine when they hear of a police funeral. But these enormous spectacles were only for deputies who were killed while performing their duties as law enforcement officers, whether they were on- or off-duty at the time. Active Sworn Deaths include natural and accidental deaths, and even suicide. This might be a B package, or it might be the C. It just depended on the circumstances, and the identity of the deceased. Active Civilian Employee Deaths would also fall under the B package, though if the deceased was a VIP, they’d bump it to a B+. Family Member Deaths were solid C packages.

  Line of Duty Deaths were the worst. Almost unbearable.

  Lupe and Tracy would together oversee the publication of a deputy’s death. They would assist the family with preparing the funeral notice and selecting a church, mortuary, and cemetery. The two would be responsible for coordinating the use of the Honor Guard, the bagpipers, and the bugler. They’d notify Aero Bureau who would assemble a team of helicopters and their pilots for the funeral flyover. If the twenty-one-gun salute didn’t get you, the flyover would. Lupe and Tracy would liaise with other agencies who planned to send representatives and executives. They would inquire with influential politicians to determine who planned to attend, and who wished to speak, and what, if any, accommodations would be required. They would touch base with Employee Support Services, the Chaplain Corps, the Financial Counseling Team, and the Family and Children’s Support Group.

  And they would do all of this With Dignity and Honor, their official unit motto.

  Her claim to fame was burying Buckwheat. Lupe would gleam as she told friends while sipping wine that indeed, she had single-handedly planted the Little Rascal. Lamont Grant was his true name, an actor who had played the role of Buckwheat as a child. He had gone on to become a minister, and he had been a reserve deputy for twenty years when he passed away from natural causes. He got the B+ package, and the undersheriff attended along with two county supervisors and a handful of mourners. Lupe arranged for the color guard and the 21-gun salute, which may have bumped it to an A- package; she wasn’t sure. But Tracy flipped when she returned from vacation. “Girl, no you did not!” Lupe would smile and put a little more energy in her work while Tracy pouted, having missed out on burying Buckwheat.

  Lupe grabbed another ringing phone, glancing at her watch as she did. “Employee Services, Deputy Rosas.” After a brief moment, she glanced at Tracy with a look that indicated bad news was on the other end of the line. “Uh-huh, yes, yes. Okay.” Lupe pulled a sheet from her drawer and started filling in the blanks.

  When she placed the phone in its cradle, she looked up to see Tracy’s eyes glued to her. She was waiting for the details; she would already know the story.

  “Line of duty,” Lupe said softly, “Compton.”

  Tracy just shook her head. Lupe had no idea how many deputies Tracy had helped bury in her many years of working at the unit, and she didn’t know what toll it took on her. But Lupe knew the toll this case would take on her, personally, as she was familiar with the name she had written on her sheet, and she couldn’t stop staring at it.

  Lupe’s husband was a gang detective who frequently worked in the City of Compton and its surrounding jurisdictions. He, and all of the other cops on those streets, would now go through the range of emotions, from anger to sorrow to guilt, and back to anger. They would renew their resolve to make the streets safer for the good citizens held hostage in their cities by the gangsters that plagued them. Lupe would watch as her husband increased his workouts, hit the bag a little harder, ran a little farther, and left the house each afternoon with darker eyes. And she would unconsciously rub a hand on her stomach while silently praying for his safety.

  Lupe wiped at a tear
forming in the corner of her eye and forced her mind to shift to the business at hand. The grim business of burying cops.

  A week later I sat on my couch watching the news, a cold beer within arm’s reach.

  I had stopped attending cop funerals after attending my first cop autopsy. Enough was enough; I could only bear so much weight. As a young cop, I went to all of the funerals of our fallen brethren. Like most cops, I kept a designated uniform for funerals and interviews. It was free of the wear and tear that my daily uniforms endured, and tailored for a sharp appearance, like a uniform one might wear for an inspection, if our department did such a thing beyond your days at the academy. Everyday uniforms, on the other hand, were tailored to allow room for a protective vest beneath the shirt, and flexibility in the pants. On the day before the funeral, I would polish and shine my badge, nameplate, and the snaps and buckle of my gun belt. Leather shoes with a high shine would replace the semi-polished boots I normally wore while working patrol. My badge would be adorned with a black band across it to signify the mourning of a brother. The small elastic band had been used more than I ever could have anticipated on the day I raised my hand and took an oath to serve with honor.

  When I first promoted to station detectives, I could still wear that special uniform, and unfortunately, I still had to on several occasions. Eventually, I would attend the funerals in a suit, as the years and miles and decreased physical activity managed to shrink the uniform. When I promoted to Homicide, I immediately found myself involved in the case of a murdered deputy sheriff. I attended the autopsy, and as I stood tableside watching a colleague dissected, I made the decision then and there that I would no longer attend the funerals of fallen comrades, unless—God forbid—it was that of a close friend.

  But I couldn’t help but watch the news the evening after they buried Thomas Johnson. The camera filmed from a hillside in Los Angeles that offered a view of downtown and the city that sprawled beyond it, to the south where he had shed his lifeblood a week ago this day. The procession of hundreds of black and white cars with flashing lights of red and blue stretched as far as the cameras could film. A thousand mourners crowded the hillside and stood solemnly under a peaceful blue sky as a flag was folded, and a husband, father, and son, waited to be lowered into the earth. A formation of helicopters shattered the silence. Every wet eye behind sunglasses watched as a lone bird peeled away from the others. Seven riflemen aimed at the heavens and fired their rifles three times each on command. And as the echoes of gunfire and plumes of smoke hung in the air, a lone bugle cried the melody of taps while tough men choked back tears, or they didn’t.

  35

  Three months passed before the preliminary hearing was held for the man who had been charged with the first-degree murder of Deputy Thomas Johnson. Cameras crowded the steps of the Criminal Courts Building on Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles. A team of prosecutors, assigned to the Crimes Against Peace Officers Section of the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office, prepared for a long and arduous legal battle, one for which they would seek the death penalty against Juan Hector Machado. A long list of witnesses was expected to be put on record at this early hearing. The prosecution’s strategy was to memorialize the testimony and cross-examination of some of the witnesses who might not be available for trial several years down the road, due to the vulnerable nature of their lifestyles. Junkies, gang members, and a prostitute who carried the AIDS virus were among them. Other witnesses, such as the partner of Deputy Johnson, would be called to testify before a courtroom packed with supporters. This would be no ordinary preliminary hearing, and it would go on for several days.

  Josie and I sat sipping coffees in the living area of a hotel suite while waiting for Lynette Luna to emerge from her room. Josie had spent the night with her, sleeping lightly on the couch where we now sat. It was between the entrance door and the room where Lynette was secured. I had dropped the two of them off at the hotel after returning from the airport where Lynette had arrived on a flight from New Mexico. Las Cruces is where Lynette now lived, courtesy of Los Angeles County tax payers.

  Lynette, standing five feet, four inches tall and weighing just over a buck, emerged from her room with a smile on her face. Steam followed her from the doorway as she continued brushing her black hair that was long and straight and still wet from her shower. She wore jeans and a tight white tank top, accentuated by silver bracelets, rings, and large hoop earrings. When she finished brushing her hair, she slipped into a button-up blouse that would cover many of her tattoos and scars left from years of intravenous drug use. She was dressed up as if headed to family court.

  I stood and waited while Lynette sorted through her purse, placing her hairbrush, a mirror, a lipstick, a package of cigarettes, a lighter, two packs of gum, and a variety of cosmetic containers therein. Josie stood waiting near a window that overlooked a parking lot where four men in jeans and loose-fitting shirts that concealed firearms sat in a variety of unmarked cars, providing security.

  “Are you ready for this?” Josie asked, stepping to the witness and placing a soft hand on her shoulder.

  She smiled and picked up her purse. “I’ve never been readier for anything in my life.”

  The night before, she had remarked that her life had been given to God, and it was His to take when He was ready. She was clean, sober, and no longer selling her body in order to support a heroin habit. The AIDS virus she carried was controlled by drugs and monitored by physicians, and she lived in a place where her background was a mystery to her neighbors and her future was as bright as it had ever been. “He saved my life,” she had said, speaking of Deputy Johnson who had been gunned down before her weary eyes.

  He hadn’t physically saved her life, but his dying had changed hers forever. Lynette knew the killer. She had known him most of his life. She was watching him before the cops arrived and knew he was up to something, and she watched in horror as he shot the deputy and fled, somehow managing to escape a hail of bullets. Lynette had also known the deputy, as he had contacted her many times. On a couple of occasions, he had arrested her for drug possession. He had always been fair, kind, and professional; she would never forget his smile or his bright blue eyes. That night, when the gunfire had stopped, she heard the wailing of Deputy Johnson’s partner. Those sounds and the image of the young black deputy cradling the dead cop had been seared into her mind. She didn’t hesitate to do what she never would have considered doing before, and what most others in her community would not do: she came forward with a name, a statement, and a promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She had said, “What do I have to lose? I’m living with a death sentence now. For once in my life, I’m going to do the right thing.”

  I held the door for them, switched off the light, and hung a sign requesting housekeeping. It would be a long week for the two ladies who would be holed up in the modest room.

  The first witness to be called for the people’s case in chief was Deputy Roger Nelson. I stood against the back wall while Josie sat with Lynette six floors up, waiting in the prosecutor’s office. I would send her a text when it was time for her to testify. Deputy Nelson took the stand in uniform. For the first time since meeting the young man, I was disappointed in him. Every cop knows that you can appear for court in uniform or a suit, but a suit is preferred for trials and all cases of importance. Though this was only the preliminary hearing, it was of the utmost importance, and it would be viewed as such by the nation, since the media would televise much of it.

  He was sworn in and seated at the witness stand. The judge watched him closely, and I couldn't help but wonder if the judge was also thinking the man should have worn a suit—or at least a long-sleeved, Class A uniform complete with a tie. The prosecutor began with the basics. State your name for the record. Please tell the court your occupation and assignment. And on the night of September 18, 2018, were you so assigned. “Yes.”

  “And on that night, were you dressed as you are t
oday, wearing a uniform with a badge and patches that clearly identify you as a deputy sheriff for the County of Los Angeles?”

  I wondered if the prosecutor had told him to wear a uniform for effect. Because the prosecution was seeking the death penalty, it would be important to establish that there was no doubt that the killer knew that the two men who confronted him that night were deputies. Still, he could have worn a long-sleeve Class A, what we’d refer to as an interview and funeral uniform, not a short-sleeve everyday uniform shirt with no tie.

  “Yes, I wore this uniform that night.”

  The prosecutor paused, and I knew why. The testimony could be construed as the deputy stating that he wore that actual uniform, not merely a uniform similar to that one. Small details matter in cases that would later be reviewed by a variety of jurors and justices in the decades to come.

  “You mean, Deputy Nelson, that you wore a uniform similar to what you are wearing here today?”

  “No sir. I mean I wore this uniform.”

  A hush fell over the courtroom; not a murmur nor rustle could be heard. The prosecutor looked to the table where one of the homicide investigators who handled the case sat as his designated investigating officer. The detective shrugged.

  “The exact uniform, Deputy Nelson?”

  “Yes sir.”

  After a moment: “How can you be sure, Deputy Nelson, that it is the same exact uniform you wore that night?” the prosecutor asked tentatively.

  Nelson looked down and picked at the front of his uniform while speaking softly into the microphone before him: “There are still stains from my partner’s blood on both the shirt and pants.” He looked up, wetness filling his eyes. The judge looked away. The prosecutor looked down at his notes. Sniffles penetrated the otherwise silent room. I blinked violently against the flood of emotion. I pictured the deputy cradling his dead partner in the manner that Lynette had described to us and would soon be testifying to.