Hard-Boiled- Box Set
Page 91
Soon, the courtroom became restless and the judge asked the prosecutor to continue, and he did. Nelson walked the court through the actions of the night leading up to the pedestrian stop of Deputy Johnson’s killer, Juan Hector Machado, known as “Apache” in his neighborhood. Deputy Nelson testified that he and his training officer, Deputy Johnson, knew Apache from previous contacts, and they knew him to be affiliated with a local street gang whose members were known to control drug sales in the area. The gang controlled their turf through violence and intimidation. Deputy Nelson and his partner had made numerous arrests of the various members of this gang, and based on their training and experience, coupled with the defendant’s furtive movement upon their arrival, they believed him to be involved in criminal activity. They stopped and exited their patrol vehicle in order to detain Machado, who turned and fired his weapon at them both. His partner was struck by gunfire and went down quickly. Nelson returned fire as Machado ran into the night.
The prosecutor used the remainder of the morning session to fill in details with Deputy Nelson. After the noon break, the defense had its first crack at the young deputy. A black attorney leaned on the podium and smiled when he greeted Deputy Nelson, who smiled and greeted him likewise.
The defense attorney began, “Deputy Roger Nelson, huh?”
Both of them smiled as if there were an inside joke of which I—and most others in the courtroom—was unaware. Nelson replied. “Yes sir.”
“Not the Roger Nelson, I presume.”
Still smiling: “No, sir.”
“Just to be clear,” the attorney said, “and for the record, you’re not Prince, right? The popstar icon whose real name is Roger Nelson?”
“His name is actually Rogers Nelson,” Deputy Nelson replied, emphasizing the S. “But to answer your question, Counselor, no, I am not Prince.”
Nelson’s eyes met mine as I stood in the back of the courtroom. I suddenly realized who he was, and gratitude washed over me. I understood now why his eyes and smile had seemed familiar to me, and why he had assured me we had previously met. He had made it out. He had survived living in the various foster homes scattered throughout rough neighborhoods and mean streets, and he had become a man, courtesy of the United States Marine Corps. I was proud of him, and elated for him, and thankful that there had been at least one happy ending to an otherwise tragic story of life on the streets in South Los Angeles.
I thought about his testimony, how after the suspect had fled and the shooting had ended, how Deputy Nelson—Prince—had sat cradling his dead partner as he waited for help. I pictured the scene as I had seen it that night, dark and eerie, deep in unfriendly territory. I thought about the tears in his eyes as he spoke of his bloody uniform, and I imagined him taking steps to preserve that blood, instructing the cleaners to never remove it from his shirt. He probably hadn’t worn it since that night, and he would probably never wear it again. Maybe for the trial, or when he watched from the audience as Machado would be walked into the chamber decades later for his execution. And as all of these thoughts rattled around in my head, profound sadness grew inside me, and I asked myself, had he really made it out?
Then I thought about why we were here this morning. I dwelled on the thought, repeating it silently, and, without realizing it, allowed the words to cross my lips in a whisper: “Why the hell are we even here?” A reporter who stood nearby stared at me for a long moment before returning to his pad of paper. I shook myself, mentally. After pondering it for several moments, I reasoned that we are here for a good goddamn reason. That we do the job for the Princes of the world, those for whom there is hope, those who can be saved. Saving a life or seeing someone make it out was the only reward, the only prize received for doing a tough, dangerous, and otherwise thankless job.
Of course Deputy Nelson had made it out. Even though he chose to work in the same dangerous streets he had survived as a child, and in doing so, he would face the same challenges, traumas, and heartbreaks as each of us who choose the badge, he had made it out. He had defeated the odds and for whatever reason, he was back. Probably to make things better.
This was only the natural order of things, and I had to accept it. I was no longer a street cop, but having been one for a lot of years had shaped me into the man I now was. It had educated me, hardened me, and at times it had left me with a broken heart. The young deputies will learn from the old bulls, and they will carry on the traditions and the memories of their predecessors with great reverence. It was now their responsibility, their job. Prince was part of it, and I was proud that he was.
My job was to arrive at times like this and do everything I could to send murderous sons of bitches like Apache to Death Row.
Nelson was stepping down, and the judge announced we would resume testimony at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. The spectators began shuffling toward the doors, crowding past me. I made eye contact with Prince from across the courtroom again, and I knew. He had made it. We had both made it.
36
After driving Josie and Lynette back to the hotel and securing them for the evening, I pulled out of the parking lot in my Crown Vic with a nod to two deputies who sat in a parked car watching the building. I had done their job before becoming a homicide investigator, and I didn’t envy their assignment. It would be a long night and most likely there would be no action or activity of interest. But every moment they would be prepared for the worst, and it would wear them down. Tonight, and over the years.
Hitting the freeway gave me a feeling of freedom. Until tomorrow morning, I was free of responsibility. I had been taken out of the rotation for callouts, as my partner and I were solely responsible for seeing to our witness and having her available for court until she was dismissed. The wind rushing through my open window seemed to cleanse me of the day’s memories and nudge me back to Katherine and my pile of returned property with a note I still hadn’t read. The sedan had heard my thoughts and automatically veered us toward Sierra Madre where Moby would be waiting to pour me a cold one, or two. Over drinks I’d ponder the Katherine situation but skirt around some of the harsher truths that Floyd had pointed out. I got scared. I allowed this to happen. No, I made it happen. I pulled back and away and left her with no choice but to realize what a mistake she had made getting involved with someone like me. Was it her, or was it me? It didn’t matter.
I parked at the rear of Buck’s and had just shut off the engine when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Floyd.
Excitement surrounded his words. “Hey, Dickie, are you headed back to the office?”
“No. Why?” I sensed that my cold beer would be delayed.
“We have a problem.”
“No, you have a problem. I’m out for the week on this prelim, the Johnson case. We have a witness from out of state we’re babysitting, so I am therefor unavailable.”
“Yeah, well, you might reconsider when I tell you where me and Mongo are headed.”
I stared off across the parking lot. A couple approached the door to Buck’s and went inside, the sounds of music and chatter fading as the door closed behind them. Floyd was baiting me. He knew I wouldn’t say no to anything that fit into the categories of excitement, danger, or challenge. He would make me feel needed, maybe ask my opinion on something and then say I should come have a look, lend my expertise. I wondered if they had caught a murder and he was headed to a fresh crime scene. I didn’t know. I didn’t even know which teams were currently on call, because it didn’t matter to me; I was out of the rotation. I had to have a witness in court tomorrow morning, and by God, I would, come hell or high water. Not even another bizarre, twisted, convoluted case that promised hours of Floyd entertainment and sleep deprivation could entice me away from a cold beer and a night to myself.
Unless.
Floyd, never one for patience, interrupted my contemplation: “Come on, Dickie, get crackin’. Meet up with us at the office and we’ll roll together. You don’t have anything better to do.”
He hung up. For a long moment I gazed through the open window, silently cursing him while shaking my head. Katherine’s note that had been left on my step sat next to me on the seat, beckoning. Maybe its contents would help me choose: cold beer or Floyd? I picked it up and tore open the flap.
Dear Richard,
I truly regret having to address this with you in a letter, but . . .
I dropped the letter and its envelope on the seat. There was no sense in reading on; the opening words removed any doubt I might have had.
I cranked the motor and jerked the shifter into drive. Somebody was dying to meet me.
I hope you have enjoyed this box set.
I am grateful for each of my readers, and I love to hear your feedback. It would mean a lot to me if you would take a moment to review this box set on Amazon.
Be sure to find me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. You can also sign up for my newsletter and receive bonus material, such as the action-packed short story, Harder Times.
As a newsletter subscriber, you will receive special offers, updates, book releases, and blog posts. I promise to never sell or spam your email.
Thank you!
Danny R. Smith
Dickie Floyd Novels
About the Author
Danny R. Smith is an emerging author of hard-boiled detective novels. His first novel, A GOOD BUNCH OF MEN, was an Amazon #1 Best-seller of City Life Fiction. Each of the novels in this box set have made a Top Ten Amazon Best-seller list, and ECHO KILLERS was a #1 New Release.
Danny spent 21 years with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, the last seven as a homicide detective. He now lives in Idaho where he works as a private investigator and consultant. He is blessed with a beautiful wife and two wonderful daughters. He is passionate about his dogs and horses, whom he counts among his friends.
Danny has written articles for various trade publications and he publishes a weekly blog, The Murder Memo.
He is a member of the Idaho Writers Guild and the Public Safety Writers Association.
You can email him at danny@dickiefloydnovels.com