“She gave you permission to videotape that picture.” He pointed to the graduation photo. “Please do so and then go.”
“Val wasn’t in a gang.” Mrs. Boyle’s voice was small compared to Reverend Phillips’s, but it got the whole room’s attention. “Everyone is thinking that. I know they are.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I told the police and I know they don’t believe me.”
A woman on the other side of the room shook her head. “We all know the truth.”
“Yes, we do,” a man added. “I’m always saying I wish my boys were more like Val.”
The room jumped to life as everyone quickly agreed, then almost as quickly fell back into silence.
“Mrs. Boyle,” I began.
“Call me Diana. Mr. Boyle has been gone a long time.”
I nodded. “Diana, we have so many viewers. You can tell all of them about Val. Not what the police think, but what you know.”
“He had a good job and was saving for college. That’s all I wanted, my whole life.”
“It would only take a few minutes.”
She nodded her head. “I don’t want people thinking he was in a gang.”
I knelt down again and placed a hand on her arm. I knew I had her. “You can tell them.”
“I don’t think—” Reverend Phillips started, but was interrupted by the doorbell.
“Maybe Reverend Phillips can get that for you?” I said in what I considered a brilliant strategic move.
Her teary brown eyes looked up at him. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not.” He frowned at me and left.
“Should I go ahead and set up my equipment?”
She nodded and I went to work. I moved slowly so I wouldn’t frighten her. The rest of the room fell into clusters of whispered conversation.
“You want to interview me too?” The young man had released his hold on the girl and was sitting forward on the couch. His eyes focused on my camera, and he appeared unaware of the disdainful looks coming from some of the other mourners.
I locked down the tripod and attached the camera. “What’s your name?”
“Gideon. Val was my cousin, but really he was like my big brother.” He gestured to the wall of photos. “That’s us together before I went back to live with my mom. I have great stories. You definitely should interview me.”
The girl suddenly stopped crying and sat up. “Me too. Val was the love of my life and now I’m all alone.”
Gideon rubbed her back. “You’re not alone.”
“Let me get Mrs. Boyle on tape first and then we’ll see.” I didn’t see their reactions, but I heard the girl resume her sobbing.
I checked the camera settings and made sure the battery was good. I rolled off forty seconds of the graduation photo and some insurance shots of the other pictures. “When was the graduation portrait taken?”
“It will be two years next June,” Diana answered. “I was so proud of him.”
I uncoiled the mic and clipped it on her sweater. “He couldn’t have been very old. How long had Val been driving a truck?”
A ripple of dissent flowed through the room. Diana shook her head. “Never.”
I stopped what I was doing. “Maybe I confused some of the details. Your son was the one killed last night in an orchard in Weedpatch?”
“Yes. He said he had to stay late at the winery where he works.” Her face compressed as she tried to squeeze her eyes shut. “I don’t understand how this happened. It makes no sense.”
I went back to setting up the camera, more confused than ever. “Do the police know what happened to his car? Did he leave it at work?”
“He didn’t have a car. We were saving for college.” She started to cry. “But he said he had a ride home. He said not to wait up.”
The women sitting next to Diana moved closer and murmured comforting words. After a few moments I asked, “What’s the name of the winery?”
When she didn’t answer, a man across the room said, “Dewey Ridge. It’s south of Arvin.”
“That’s right.” Diana raised her head. “His high school counselor referred him for an internship. We used to get up at four every morning so I could drive him, then in the evening he took the bus home.” The grief that had covered Diana’s face was giving way to maternal pride. “He wouldn’t get back till nine at night sometimes, but he never complained. When he graduated from high school, he was offered a full-time position. We decided he could put college on hold for a year or two because it was such a good opportunity.”
I nodded. “What did he do at the winery?”
“He was an executive assistant, but recently he’s been filling in on special projects. The man he worked for left the company several weeks ago and he’s been waiting to be reassigned.” She smiled. “In Val’s last performance review he was called ‘indispensable.’”
“He was always a smart boy,” a woman across the room said. “And he got it from you, Diana.” Several people murmured their agreement.
I quickly asked something to keep Diana talking. “I didn’t know there was a winery in Arvin.”
“It’s not like the tourist places over in Santa Barbara,” she explained. “They don’t invite people in. That part of their business is in Napa. Val said they do all the real work of growing the grapes and making the wine here, so he was learning all the important things. He was learning the nuts and bolts of the business.”
“They make the wine here and sell it in Napa?”
She nodded. “Val said it was part of the marketing plan.”
I smiled. “I take it Dewey Ridge doesn’t like to talk about where the wine actually comes from.”
“Val was always very careful. He said that everyone who worked there was expected to be discreet.”
Instead of looking at her I focused on taking a mic level. This was delicate and I had no idea how to say it right. “Val sounds like a successful young professional man. Why do the police believe he was in a gang?”
Her posture immediately sagged. “They wouldn’t tell me anything. Just kept asking the same questions over and over. Didn’t even ask if Val was in a gang. They asked when he’d joined. Not if.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I told them over and over. He stayed away from all that violence. He wanted more for himself than that kind of life.” She looked at me. “He was talking about going to Stanford and majoring in business. What would a boy like that need from a gang?”
The door opened and Reverend Phillips entered. “The police are here again. They wanted to go over some of the arrangements for Val. His remains won’t be released for some time, but his personal effects will be available this afternoon.”
The contrast between the life Diane had been describing and the cold reality of Val’s remains lying in the morgue broke her self-control. She bent her head and muffled a sob with a tissue. Her friends whispered more comforting words, and after a moment she looked up at Reverend Phillips.
“Thank you.” She wiped away some fresh tears. “It’s really his watch I care about. It belonged to my father, and Gideon should have it now.”
She looked at Gideon, who nodded and managed to look truly upset for the first time.
Reverend Phillips took Diana’s hand. “I made an appointment to pick his things up. You don’t have to worry. I’ll handle it.” He paused and looked at me. “The officer would also like to speak with you. He’s waiting in the living room.”
Clearly Reverend Phillips hoped that in my absence he could convince Diana to kick me out. “I’m happy to speak with the police. Send them back here.”
His lips spread into a wide smile. “He wants to see you privately. He was very specific.”
I exited, making sure to leave the door open in case Skinny and Belly had caught up with me. Halfway down the hall, I heard it shut. I hesitated, fearful of a trap, but then Handsome stepped into view.
“You needed to see me?” I quickly walked the rest of the hallway and met him in the living r
oom.
“Lucero is waiting so I have to make this fast, and I know you’re working too.”
“I’m about to interview the grieving mother.” I realized how that sounded and rushed to add, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. After a certain number of stories people start to fit into categories.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve worked a lot of cases too. People become very predictable. You know what they say; it’s a cliché because it’s true.”
I smiled with relief. “What can I do for you?”
“I couldn’t help noticing, your station didn’t use any of that video you shot last night.”
“Oh, that.” I nodded, unsure of what to say. “Right.”
“Of course I’ll have to put it in the final report, that you snuck in, but I can spin it my own way. Do some damage control. So …I wanted to thank you, in person.”
Any qualms I had about accepting unearned thanks, heightened by the oil painting of Jesus looking down on us, were quickly overcome by hormones. “No problem. I’m glad things worked out for you.”
His usually stoic face broke into a smile, and my insides melted.
Unfortunately his smile was short-lived. “There’s something else. If you’re not comfortable discussing this, I understand.”
“What’s on your mind?”
He paused. “How did you get that black eye?”
My hand shot up and felt the puffy fold of skin. “It’s black?”
“It will be, in about half an hour.”
“Really?”
My skin tingled as he brushed back a strand of hair that covered the edge of the tender spot. He leaned in and looked closely at my face. “Maybe an hour.”
“I’ll have to cover it up with makeup.”
He straightened. “If you’re in trouble, I can help.”
And I wanted to let him help, but a rush of paranoia overpowered me.
What did I really know about him? He made my insides melt. He was Handsome. That’s not much. It wasn’t as if people called him Honest Homicide or Really Trustworthy Guy Homicide. And Skinny and Belly were cops. Law enforcement was involved in this, one way or another.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Trent, my news director, is going to handle it.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded. “There is something you could clarify for me, though, off-the-record.”
He pulled back. “What kind of something?”
“Mrs. Boyle says her son didn’t drive trucks. If he wasn’t the driver of the semi, then who was?”
Handsome glanced behind him and down the hall. “Val Boyle got his license to drive a truck last summer. He didn’t tell his mother.”
“So what’s the deal? He had a second job?”
He shook his head. “Not that we know of.”
“Then what?”
He hesitated.
I glanced down the hallway to make sure we were alone. “His mom says you think he was in a gang.”
“Statistically, a black kid that age from this neighborhood dies violently, it’s almost always gang-related.”
“But do you have more of a reason than that?”
He shook his head. “I’ve already said too much.”
“Please. I’m a damsel in distress, remember?”
He glanced at my black eye. “This stays off-the-record?”
I nodded.
“The 911 call came from a pay phone near an Eastside Crew hangout.”
I recognized the name of one of Bakersfield’s most notorious gangs, and the one whose territory we were now in. “You think the Eastside Crew hijacked that truck and stole the cargo?”
“I’m not saying anything for sure, and this is completely off-the-record.”
Out the window, I saw Lucero getting out of the cruiser and knew my time was running short. “Of course.”
“The truck found with the body was untraceable. Its serial numbers and registration were all bogus.” Handsome must have recognized my confusion because he added, “It’s the kind of vehicle you’d use to transport stolen merchandise.”
“And you think Val was driving it?”
“The only fingerprints on the steering wheel belonged to him.”
It was hard to reconcile what Handsome was telling me and the picture Mrs. Boyle had painted of her son. “And you think a member of the Eastside Crew killed him, came back to Bakersfield, and made the 911 call?”
He nodded.
“Where’s the gang hangout—the one near the pay phone where the call came from?”
“Oh, no.” His voice rose. “Don’t you even think about going over there and snooping around.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were. It’s written all over your face.” He shook his head. “Stay away from the Eastside Crew. There’s a new guy in charge and he’s about as dangerous as they come. He’s brazen and crosses lines most gang members wouldn’t go near.”
“Like what?”
“We think he murdered a cop’s wife in Fresno. That’s why he came to Bakersfield. Things got too hot for him up there.”
The doorbell rang. We each jumped backward and landed about five feet apart.
Handsome walked to the door. Before disappearing into the entryway, he stopped. He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “If you need help, about the eye, call me. Okay? Anytime. My private cell is on there.”
I felt my cheeks getting hot again. “Thanks.”
A knock sounded from the door and I jumped into the corner. “I’ll stand over here so Lucero doesn’t see me.”
Handsome looked embarrassed for the first time. “Thanks. He’s going to razz me enough already.”
I heard the door open and then Lucero’s voice. “Hey, Handsome, you working or making time with your honey?” The door closed with a loud slam.
SEVEN
Two very different portraits of Val Boyle were emerging. In his mother’s eyes he was a hardworking, disciplined young man with a strong sense of right and wrong. In Handsome’s, he was just another kid who got sucked into the local gang life and came to a violent end. So who was right?
Val had lied about getting a truck license, but did it follow that he was using that license to knowingly transport stolen goods? The cousin or girlfriend might know more, but I doubted either would speak honestly in front of Mrs. Boyle. I decided to finish her interview, then get each of the teenagers alone. I didn’t even need to get them on-camera. All I wanted was the truth.
I started back down the hall, but before I reached the family room, the door opened and mourners poured out. I flattened myself against the wall as each passed and offered a polite thank-you or good-bye. Reverend Phillips, the last to appear, shut the door behind him and blocked my way back in.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Mrs. Boyle has decided she needs some quiet time alone. Your interview will have to be indefinitely postponed.” He watched the last of the mourners exit out the front door, then looked at his watch. “May I help carry your equipment back out to your car?”
On a normal day my heart would have sunk. To lose the “get” interview is painful, but today wasn’t normal. I needed to get Trent’s phone number more than I needed a flashy exclusive interview. Gideon and the girlfriend would be good enough for Callum.
“I understand,” I told the reverend. “Where can I interview the two teenagers?”
He stumbled for a moment, then found his voice. “I’m asking you to have the decency to leave this family in peace.”
“They’re the ones who asked me here. They want to go on-camera. Diana even wanted to, before you beat her down.”
“I most certainly did not beat her down.”
“What’s your problem anyway? You’ve been trying to get rid of me from the moment I got here.”
He drew himself up and took on an air of importance I found far more intimidating than physical superiority. “I have a problem with people like you who come down to o
ur neighborhood and make the rest of the world think all we do is kill each other.”
“That’s not fair.”
“When else are you ever down here? I don’t see you when something good happens, but I sure see you for the bad things.”
I frantically searched my memory to come up with a positive story I’d covered on this side of town. Nothing came to mind.
“This neighborhood is full of real people trying to live good lives,” he continued, “but all you’re interested in are racial stereotypes.”
“I’ve never heard a single racist thing said by anyone who works at KJAY.”
“Well, none of you live here, and I’m guessing the only thing you know about this neighborhood is we’re black and we have crime.”
A lightbulb didn’t magically appear over my head, but instead of getting angry and yelling back at him, I paused. It wasn’t that I thought he was right. Instead, it was the nagging and unpleasant feeling that he could be right and I wouldn’t know it.
“Okay, I understand better what this is about,” I said after a moment. “I doubt we’ll even say where Val Boyle was from. The murder was in Weedpatch, not here.”
“That doesn’t seem to matter to the police. The one who just left all but said Val was running with the Eastside Crew.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t?”
“Diana raised that boy all by herself. She knew every part of him, and if she says he wasn’t in a gang, I believe her.”
I thought about Mrs. Boyle’s quiet insistence. I wanted her to be right.
He pointed to the back room. “Now kindly take your equipment and leave this house.”
I shook my head. “I’m not leaving. You don’t want Mrs. Boyle on-camera. You think I’ll exploit her. That’s fine, I promise not to ask her again, but Gideon and the girl are going to be interviewed. I could walk in there and announce I was going to exploit them and they’d shout, ‘Please, please, me first.’ They want the attention. Your best bet is to make a deal.”
His lips opened, then closed into an angry, thin line. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll interview the teenagers, but I’ll leave Mrs. Boyle out of it and I won’t say anything about the neighborhood.”
A Bad Day’s Work Page 8