The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  Holman held Juarez’s wife in front of him and cracked open the door. The room was dim. He made out a small figure napping in an adult’s bed, a little girl who was maybe three or four. Holman stood listening again, knowing that Juarez might be hiding under the bed or in the closet, but not wanting to wake the little girl. He heard the buzz of a child’s gentle snore. Something in the child’s innocent pose made Holman think of Richie at that age. Holman tried to remember if he had ever seen Richie asleep, but couldn’t. The memories didn’t come because they didn’t exist. He was never around long enough to see his baby sleeping.

  Holman closed the door and brought Maria into the living room.

  She said, “You weren’t here with the policemen—I want to know who you are.”

  “My name is Holman. You know that name?”

  “Get out of this house. I don’t know where he is. I already tol’ them. Who are you? You don’t show me your badge.”

  Holman forced her down onto the couch. He leaned over her, nose to nose, and pointed at his face.

  “Look at this face. Did you see this face on the news?”

  She was crying. She didn’t understand what he was saying, and she was scared. Holman realized this but was unable to stop himself. His voice never rose above a whisper. Just like when he was robbing the banks.

  “My name is Holman. One of the officers, his name was Holman, too. Your fucking husband murdered my son. Do you understand that?”

  “No!”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he go to Mexico? I heard he went under the fence.”

  “He did not do this. I showed them. He was with us.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me who’s hiding him.”

  “I don’t know. I told them. I showed them. He was with us.”

  Holman hadn’t thought through his actions and now he felt trapped. The prison counselors had harped on that—criminals were people who were unable or unwilling to anticipate the consequences of their actions. No impulse control, they called it. Holman suddenly grabbed her throat. His hand encircled her from ear to ear as if acting with a will of its own. He grabbed her with no sense of what he was doing or why—

  —but then she made a choking gurgle and Holman saw himself in the moment. He released her and stepped back, his face burning with shame.

  The little girl said, “Mommy?”

  She stood in the hall outside the old lady’s room, so small she looked like a miniature person. Holman wanted to run, sick with himself and humiliated that the child might have seen him.

  Maria said, “It’s okay, my love. Go back to bed. I’ll be in with you soon. Go on, now.”

  The little girl returned to her room.

  Richie, turning away as Donna cursed him for being a loser.

  Holman said, “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  Maria stared at him, soundless. She touched her throat where he had gripped her. She touched a curl gelled to her cheek.

  Holman said, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m upset. He killed my son.”

  She gathered herself and shook her head.

  “It was her birthday, the day before yesterday. He was with us for her birthday. He wasn’t killing no policemen.”

  “Her birthday? The little girl?”

  “I can prove it. I showed them the tape. Warren was with us.”

  Holman shook his head, fighting away the depressing memories of loss as he tried to understand what she was saying.

  “I don’t know what you’re telling me. You had a party for the little girl? You had guests?”

  Holman wouldn’t believe any witness she could produce and neither would the cops, but she waved toward the television.

  “Warren brought us one of these video cameras. It’s at my house. We took videos of her blowing out the candles and playing with us, the day before yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You don’t understand. That show was on, that one with the comedian? Warren put her on his back so she could ride him like a donkey and he was going around the living room in front of the TV. You could see the show when Warren was here. That proves he was with us.”

  Holman had no idea what show she was talking about.

  “Those officers were murdered at one-thirty in the morning.”

  “Yes! The show starts at one. It was on the TV when Warren was giving her rides. You can see on the tape.”

  “You were having a party for your kid in the middle of the night? C’mon.”

  “He has the warrants, you know? He has to be careful when he comes by. My father, he saw the tape I took. He told me the show proved Warren was home with us.”

  She seemed to believe what she was saying, and it would be easy enough to check. If her videotape showed a television show on the tube, all you had to do was call the TV station and ask what time the show had aired.

  “Okay. Lemme see it. Show me.”

  “The police took it. They said it was evidence.”

  Holman worked through what she was telling him. The police took the tape, but clearly hadn’t believed it cleared Warren of the crime—they had issued the warrant. Still, Holman thought she was being sincere, so he figured she was probably telling the truth about not knowing her husband’s whereabouts.

  The little girl said, “Mama.”

  The little girl was back in the hall.

  Holman said, “How old are you?”

  The little girl stared at the floor.

  Maria said, “Answer him, Alicia. Where are your manners?”

  The little girl held up a hand, showing three fingers.

  Maria said, “I’m sorry your son was killed, but it was not Warren. I know what is in your heart now. If you kill him, that will be in your heart, too.”

  Holman pulled his eyes from the little girl.

  “I’m sorry about what I did.”

  He went out the front door. The sun was blinding after being in the dim house. He walked back to Perry’s car, feeling like a boat without a rudder, trapped in a current. He had no place to go and no idea what to do. He thought he should probably just go back to work and start earning money. He couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  Holman was still trying to decide when he reached Perry’s car. He put the key in the lock, then was suddenly hit from behind so hard that he lost his breath. He smashed into the side of the car as his feet were kicked from beneath him, and they rode him down hard onto the street, proning him out with the grace of true professionals.

  When Holman looked up, a red-haired guy in sunglasses and plainclothes held up a badge.

  “Los Angeles Police Department. You’re under arrest.”

  Holman closed his eyes as their handcuffs shut on his wrists.

  10

  IT WAS FOUR plainclothes officers who hooked him up, but only two of them brought him to Parker Center, the red-haired officer whose name was Vukovich and a Latino officer named Fuentes. Holman had been arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department on twelve separate occasions, and in every case except his last (when he was arrested by an FBI agent named Katherine Pollard) he had been processed through one of LAPD’s nineteen divisional police stations. He had been in the Men’s Central Jail twice and the Federal Men’s Detention Center three times, but he had never been to Parker Center. When they brought him to Parker, Holman knew he was in deep shit.

  Parker was the Los Angeles Police Department’s main office: A white-and-glass building that housed the Chief of Police, the Internal Affairs Group, various civilian administrators and administration agencies, and LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division, which was a command division overseeing Homicide Special, Robbery Special, and Rape Special. Each of the nineteen divisions had homicide, robbery, and sex crimes detectives, but those detectives worked only in their respective divisions; Robbery-Homicide detectives worked on cases that spanned the city.

&n
bsp; Vukovich and Fuentes walked Holman into an interview room on the third floor and questioned him for more than an hour, after which another set of detectives took over. Holman knew the drill. The cops always asked the same questions over and over, looking to see if your answers changed. If your answers changed they knew you were lying, so Holman told them the truth about everything except Chee. When the red-haired guy, Vukovich, asked how he knew Maria Juarez was with her cousins, Holman told them he heard it in a bar, some Frogtown paco bragging he screwed Maria in junior high, him and sixty-two other guys, the girl was such a slut, the paco spouting the cops Warren killed had probably been bagging the little slut, too. Covering for Chee was something he had done before and now it was the only lie Holman told. One lie, it was easy to remember even though telling it frightened him.

  Eight-forty that night, Holman was still in the room, having been questioned on and off for more than six hours without being offered an attorney or being booked. Eight forty-one, the door opened again and Vukovich entered with someone new.

  The new man studied Holman for a moment, then put out his hand. Holman thought he looked familiar.

  “Mr. Holman, I’m John Random. I’m sorry about your son.”

  Random was the first of the detectives to offer his hand. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tie without a jacket. A gold detective’s shield was clipped to his belt. Random took a seat opposite Holman as Vukovich leaned against the wall.

  Holman said, “Am I being charged with anything?”

  “Has Detective Vukovich explained why we pulled you in?”

  “No.”

  Holman suddenly realized why Random was familiar. Random had been part of the press conference that Holman had seen in the bar. He hadn’t known Random’s name, but he recognized him.

  Random said, “When the officers ran your vehicle they found thirty-two unpaid parking violations and another nine outstanding traffic violations.”

  Holman said, “Jesus.”

  Vukovich smiled.

  “Yeah, and you didn’t match the DMV description we got of the vehicle’s owner, you not being a seventy-four-year-old black male. We thought you had a hot car, bud.”

  Random said, “We spoke with Mr. Wilkes. You’re in the clear so far as the car, even though you’ve been driving it without a license. So forget the car and let’s get back to Ms. Juarez. Why did you go see her?”

  The same question he had been asked three dozen times. Holman gave them the same answer.

  “I was looking for her husband.”

  “What do you know about her husband?”

  “I saw you on TV. You’re looking for him.”

  “But why were you looking for him?”

  “He killed my son.”

  “How’d you find your way to Ms. Juarez?”

  “Their address was in the phone book. I went to their house but the place was crawling with people. I started hitting the bars in their neighborhood and found some people who knew them, and pretty soon I ended up in Silver Lake and met this guy said he knew her. He told me she was staying with her cousins, and I guess he was telling the truth—that’s where I found her.”

  Random nodded.

  “He knew her address?”

  “Information operator gave me the address. The guy I met, he just told me who she was staying with. It wasn’t any big deal. Most folks don’t have unlisted numbers.”

  Random smiled, still staring at him.

  “Which bar was this?”

  Holman met Random’s eye, then casually glanced at Vukovich.

  “I don’t know the name of the place, but it’s on Sunset a couple of blocks west of Silver Lake Boulevard. On the north side. I’m pretty sure it had a Mexican name.”

  Holman had driven past earlier. Sunset was lined with Mexican places.

  “Uh-huh, so you could take us there?”

  “Oh, yeah, absolutely. I told Detective Vukovich three or four hours ago I could take you there.”

  “And this man you spoke with, if you saw him again, could you point him out?”

  Holman met Random’s stare again, but relaxed, not making a point of it.

  “Absolutely. Without a doubt. If he’s still there after all this time.”

  Vukovich, smiling again, said, “Hey, you busting my balls or what?”

  Random ignored Vukovich’s comment.

  “So tell me, Mr. Holman, and I am very serious in asking you this question—did Maria Juarez tell you anything that would help us find her husband?”

  Holman suddenly found himself liking Random. He liked the man’s intensity and his desire to find Warren Juarez.

  “No, sir.”

  “She didn’t know where he was hiding?”

  “She said she didn’t.”

  “Did she tell you why he killed the officers? Or any details of the crime?”

  “She said he didn’t do it. She told me he was with her when the murders were committed. They have a little girl. She said it was the little girl’s birthday and they made a video that proved Warren was with them at the time of the murders. She said she gave it to you guys. That’s it.”

  Random said, “She admitted no knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts?”

  “She just kept saying he didn’t do it. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “What were you planning to do when you left her?”

  “Same thing I was doing before. Talk to people to see if I could pick up something else. But then I met Mr. Vukovich.”

  Vukovich laughed and changed his position against the wall.

  Holman said, “Mind if I ask a question?”

  Random shrugged.

  “You can ask. Not saying I’ll answer, but let’s see.”

  “They really have a tape?”

  “She gave us a tape, but it doesn’t show what she claims that it shows. There are questions about when that tape was made.”

  Vukovich said, “They didn’t have to make their video at oneA.M. on Tuesday morning. We had our analyst look at it. She believes they recorded the talk show, then played it back on their VCR to use it as an alibi. You watch her video, you aren’t seeing the talk show when it originally aired; you’re seeing a recording of a recording. We believe they made their tape the morning after the murders.”

  Holman frowned. He understood how such a tape could be produced, but he had also seen the fear in Maria’s eyes when he grabbed her throat. He had been eye to eye with terrified people when he was stealing cars and robbing banks, and he had left her with the sense she was telling the truth.

  “Waitaminute. You’re saying she conspired with her husband?”

  Random seemed about to answer, then thought better of it. He checked his watch, then stood as if lifting a great load.

  “Let’s leave it at what I’ve said. This is an ongoing investigation.”

  “Okay, but one more thing. Richie’s commander told me this was a personal beef between Juarez and one of the other officers, Fowler. Is that what it was?”

  Random nodded at Vukovich, letting Vukovich answer.

  “That’s right. It started a little over a year ago. Fowler and his trainee stopped a kid for a traffic violation. That was Jaime Juarez, Warren’s younger brother. Juarez grew belligerent. Fowler knew he was high, pulled him out of the car, and found a few crack rocks in his pants. Juarez, of course, claimed Fowler planted the stuff, but he still got hit for three years in the State. Second month in, a fight broke out between black and Latino prisoners, and Jaime was killed. Warren blamed Fowler. Went all over the Eastside saying he was going to do Fowler for killing the kid. He didn’t keep it a secret. We have a witness list two pages long of people who heard him making the threats.”

  Holman took it in. He could absolutely see Juarez killing the man he blamed for his brother’s death, but that wasn’t what bothered him.

  “Have you named any other suspects?”

  “There are no other suspects. Juarez acted alone.”

  “That
doesn’t make sense, Juarez doing this by himself. How did he know they were down there? How’d he find them? How does one street dick take four armed police officers and none of them even get off a shot?”

  Holman’s voice grew loud and he regretted it. Random seemed irritated. He pursed his lips, then checked his watch again as if someone or something was waiting for him. He made some kind of decision, then looked back at Holman.

  “He approached them from the east using the bridge supports for cover. That’s how he got close. He was right at thirty feet away when he started shooting. He used a Benelli combat shotgun firing twelve-gauge buckshot. You know what buckshot is, Mr. Holman?”

  Holman nodded. He felt sick.

  “Two of the officers were shot in the back, indicating they never knew it was coming. The third officer was likely seated on the hood of his car. He jumped off, turned, and took his shot head-on. The fourth officer did manage to draw his sidearm, but he was dead before he could return fire. Don’t ask me which was your son, Mr. Holman. I won’t tell you.”

  Holman felt cold. His breaths were short. Random checked his watch again.

  “We know there was one shooter and only one because all the shell casings came from the same gun. It was Juarez. This video is just a half-assed attempt he made to cover his ass. As for you, we’re going to cut you free. That wasn’t a unanimous decision, but you’re free to go. We’ll arrange for a ride back to your car.”

  Holman stood, but he still had questions and for the first time in his life he wasn’t in a hurry to leave a police station.

  “Where are you in finding the sonofabitch? You guys have a line on him or what?”

  Random glanced at Vukovich. Vukovich’s face was empty. Random looked back at Holman.

  “We already have him. At six-twenty this evening Warren Alberto Juarez was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  Vukovich touched the underside of his chin.

  “Same shotgun he used to murder your son. Straight up through here, took the top of his head off. Still had the gun in his hands.”

  Random extended his hand once more. Holman felt numb with the news, but took the hand automatically.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Holman. I’m truly sorry that four officers were lost like this. It’s a goddamned shame.”