After the trio had moved along, Monk crossed the tracks and tried to enter the main abandoned building. The door wouldn’t budge. He walked around the corner and found a paneless window that had its security grill pried back. He went inside.
Monk found miscellaneous trash, old tires, and stove parts strewn about the spacious room. Incongruously, along one wall hung several engraved plaques that for whatever reason hadn’t been removed.
One of the awards was from Mayor Sam Yorty to the Rancho Tajuata Tenants’ Association for outstanding work, 1968. Two of the other plaques were from heads of city departments praising the Randolph Center’s staff. A fourth was from something called Ingot Ltd. thanking Yorty and the job training center staff for service well done.
The last award was to the training center’s executive director, a man named Olin Salter. It was from the then chief of the LAPD, Bill Parker. It read, “In these times of travail, you have stood tall against the hordes.”
Monk lingered over that one, finding it interesting that Parker would have issued a plaque to this Salter. Possibly they’d been friends over a period of time. Parker, the mentor of his redoubtable heir, Daryl Gates, had been a stiffnecked, law-and-order and fundamentalist-values type who recruited white cops from southern cities so as to better keep the negroes down deep in the jungle.
For the chief to acknowledge this Salter, then, the latter must have been a genuine son-of-a-bitch. Despite the honorable name, Parker’s plaque cast doubt on the worthiness of the A. Philip Randolph Advancement and Placement Center.
Off in one cleared corner were two filthy sheet-covered mattresses and some used condoms laying about. In another room, the walls had first been spray painted with the Scalp Hunters insignia, then sprayed over by Los Domingos placas.
The doors to other parts of the two-story building were locked, and Monk didn’t try to force them open. Moving back to the paneless window, he noted it was only this wall that had windows at mid-height. The rest of the room had high, rectangular windows running parallel to the line of the ceiling. Possibly the good directors of the facility had deemed that windows at a normal height would provide the center’s apprentices a chance to stare at the outside world, and wish they were somewhere else.
He started back toward the tracks and saw a familiar car drive up from the south, along the gravel swath beyond the cluster of buildings. He stood still as the Crown Victoria parked close. Seguin got out slowly, his face a blank.
“Homey, don’t you know me,” the lieutenant said.
“Young blood.” The two shook hands, Monk squinting at Seguin as the sun beat down behind the cop’s head. “I hear you’re riding herd on this one.”
Seguin put a hand in his trousers pocket, and looked off toward downtown then back at him. “I’ve had some experience with the Domingos.” He took his hand out, seemingly unsure of what to do with it. “The brass wants this to be their show, Ivan.”
“So much for the social hour.” They both let minutes hang. “So Parker Center needs a winner bad,” Monk observed acidly.
“This ain’t for play, man,” Seguin went on. “The Rancho murders have to be solved efficiently and by the police. The mayor and the chief want to show this department has rebuilt itself from the days of disarray and low morale under the previous chief. Captain Reno wants reports every other goddamn day, and he don’t mean late, and he don’t mean skimpy.”
“That and the mayor is still hot to add more officers to the department,” Monk added. “A check mark on a case like this goes a long way in giving him political cachet to push the council to take money from other parts of the budget to hire more officers.”
Seguin didn’t speak.
“But why the heavy bit with me, Marasco?” Monk said peevishly. “The department can’t stop me from wandering around the Rancho or talking to whomever I feel like.”
“But you can be compelled to tell Reno information or he could press interference with an ongoing investigation if he tells the command you’re stumbling after us.”
“Or pointing out your errors,” Monk chided.
Seguin said sheepishly, “Reno has made it clear I’m not to share any information with you either.”
Both men were aware of the trio of Domingos leaning on a nearby fence, pretending not to be listening to the two men.
“How the hell did Reno find out I’d been hired so fast?” Monk could hear the testiness in his voice.
“I told you, downtown is on this like a sissy on a pogo stick,” Seguin said tersely.
“They been on shit before, Marasco. Why is this time sweatin’ you so hard?”
Seguin probed his tongue on the inside of his lower jaw. “I’m bringing this up because we’re friends, Ivan. I’m trying to tell you I have no room to move on this. I’m trying to tell you the operating idea here is the Scalp Hunters did it, and that’s the nature of things.”
“If you’re so sure, then you must have a witness,” Monk speculated.
Seguin didn’t respond again.
“All right,” Monk said, “but I’ll still earn a little of that fabulous federal salary I’m going to pull down on this if y’all don’t mind. And even if you and your boy Reno do.”
“I realize that.”
No words lingered between them for a time, each man alternately looking at one another then somewhere else. “What is it, Marasco? What is it about the Rancho you got such a hard-on for?” Monk finally prodded.
“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do.”
“Sure,” Monk said unconvincingly. He tried a new tact. “Everything cool at home?”
Seguin’s brows descended sharply. “Wrong direction, bloodhound. But let me ask you a question. What do you think about working for a dude like Absalla?”
Monk’s shoulders lifted and fell. “He ain’t no Father Flanagan, but he does some good.”
“For black folks,” Seguin remarked quickly. “I’ve seen him on a TV news show where he said just ’cause California was once Mexican, that don’t give them any right to come across illegally.”
“He’s not the first asshole I’ve taken a paycheck from,” Monk answered defensively.
“You wouldn’t work for a Christian Right nut or Pat Buchanan.”
“Absalla’s ignorant, not a hatemonger, Marasco.”
Seguin got his keys out of his pocket, but didn’t head toward his car. “You know, Ivan, sometimes I get the impression you think you’re above all this. That somehow you move in and out of these”—his hand did a circle in the air as he searched for the words he wanted—“outposts of our city with each one having its own set of village chiefs who have no interest in trying to bring the people together. The eternal seeker, Diogenes with a pistol. A shape-shifter among the company he keeps. But none of us remain unstained, swimming in this muck.”
Monk was hot and embarrassed simultaneously, like a stage magician whose tricks had just been uncovered by some audacious interloper. To recover he said, “If I find that it’s members of the Scalp Hunters who did this, I’ll be the first one to point the finger. Absalla can’t make me hide the truth because I’m black.”
“I’m not questioning your integrity, Ivan.”
“Then what are you questioning?”
“Where does all this take us?”
“You mean you and me, or black and brown folks in general?” Monk felt he was maneuvering on rocky ground with a sliver of a map. “I’m not joining Absalla’s mosque or whatever the hell he’s selling, Marasco. I took the gig because I found it of interest and, unlike you, I don’t pull down a steady income. You know the damn donut shop pretty much covers the overhead. But that also doesn’t mean I spread my cheeks for just anybody who flashes me rent money.”
Seguin jingled the keys in his cupped hand and opened the cruiser’s door. “You’re helping pay a mortgage these days.” He cranked the engine, slamming the Crown Vic into reverse. “Keep your head down, man.” The car righted itself and a chalky plume followed it as Se
guin drove away over the gravel.
Monk rubbed the back of his neck and walked back into the Rancho Tajuata. The downtown skyscrapers stood mute and colorless behind him.
Four
“Recall criminal judges. Recall criminal judges,” the woman chanted loudly as she marched in front of the Superior Courts on Temple in the afternoon haze.
“Hey, hey, ho, ho, Kodama’s got to go,” a man wearing tan loafers and an ostentatious NRA button on his suede sport coat joined in with gusto.
At least twenty protestors were spending their lunch hour marching in front of the courthouse. The group consisted mostly of middle-aged and older men and women but there were a few younger ones too. A smattering wore suits, and all of them were white.
Eight stories up, and looking out a hallway window, the judge the placards and enmity were intended for watched the gathered dispassionately. Superior Court Judge Jill Kodama turned from the window, absently gnawing on a triangle of tuna fish sandwich.
“Come on, Judge, you should be back in your chambers,” her bailiff said quietly over her shoulder. “This can only be bad for your indigestion.” His name was Mitchell, and he’d been a sheriff’s deputy a little less than four years. He was a tall, dark-haired wheat stacker who must have taken the wrong bus and got stuck in the wicked city.
“I’m alright, I always like to see our democracy at work.” Her lips formed a thin line as she turned back to the window.
“Okay,” Mitchell said reluctantly. “I’m going to grab a bite myself. I’ll be back in about forty.”
“No sweat,” she replied as his fading footfalls echoed along the marble corridor. Kodama watched the scene down below for several moments and finally decided she had had enough of the Gumby and Pokey Show. She rounded a corner and into a hallway lined on both sides with waiting people. Kodama encountered Assistant D.A. Jamboni leaving a courtroom.
Kodama didn’t slow down, her head not turning to look to the left nor to the right. It was too much to hope for.
“Good day, Judge Kodama,” Jamboni said in his stentorious baritone as she moved past him.
“It would seem, Mr. Jamboni.” She resisted the temptation to add, “you slick-headed cocksucker.”
The assistant D.A. moved on, a hyena’s grin stretching his lower face.
Nearing the door to her chambers, she wasn’t too surprised to see a few bodies clustered in front of the unmarked entrance.
Glowering looks were aimed at her as Kodama, not breaking stride, closed in on the door and the relative privacy mat lay beyond it.
“Judge, we’d like to speak with you if we may,” a matronly type in red stretch slacks and a sweater smelling of Woolite said.
Tersely she replied, “To what purpose?”
“Your decision to let a murderer off,” a stocky man in work shoes piped in.
“Mr. Wright was convicted, and he will be incarcerated for his act.” Her hand was on the knob, and she almost had the keys out of her purse with the other one.
“You know damn well he should have received twenty-five to life for shooting that clerk,” the woman added. “Good citizens like us voted for the three strikes law so trash like Wright would be taken care of properly.”
She unlocked the door, but couldn’t make herself go in without responding. “No, good citizens like you voted for mandatory minimums with the same rationale as you voted years ago to cap property taxes so you wouldn’t be putting your precious public dollars into the upkeep of inner city schools. Places your kids weren’t going to anyway.”
“A radical,” the woman said and sniffed disdainfully, as if talking about devil worship.
“I’m not on the bench only to punish, but also to make an attempt at justice when I can.”
“I don’t believe you understand what justice is,” the woman shouted. “Maybe you shouldn’t be on the bench.”
Kodama shut the door in the woman’s uncomprehending face. She crossed to her small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of seltzer, twisting the top off with more force man necessary. She plopped down behind her desk, swigging down the carbonated water like a drunk on a binge.
Off to the side of her desk was a recent stack of letters she’d received in response to her sentencing of thirty-three-year-old O’Shay Wright, a two-time prior felon—armed robbery and grand theft—with a discolored eye and the ability to read on a fourth-grade level. He was black, stood over six feet, and his last real job had been four years ago working as a pizza delivery man. He’d have kept the job except for the fact his homies were always dropping by the business, trying to beg free slices of pizza or hitting on his woman boss.
His latest attempt at upward mobility had been to stick up a 7-Eleven, a stop-and-rob as the cops called them, on Alondra in the Athens Park section of the city. But the clerk, a burly Samoan by the name of William Atupo, began to beat the luckless Mr. Wright about his protruding ears with a bat signed by Hank Aaron. Naturally the gun went off, and Atupo was hit in the leg.
At his trial, there was some discrepancy as to whether Wright had intended to shoot Atupo, or the piece had gone off as a matter of reflex. Whatever, Assistant D.A. Jamboni was out to send a message to all would-be master thieves like Mr. Wright. And of course since he’d already made noise about running for the head D.A. slot next year, he could send a message about how tough he was to the voters.
Naturally Mr. Wright’s attorney was an overworked public defender. So Kodama, on her own initiative, exercised her prerogative and reviewed Mr. Wright’s past record. Seems the grand theft was a wobbler. The car had belonged to a girlfriend upset that Mr. Wright was also playing the humpty with a former Raiderette and current auto drape model. The conviction was such that the law allowed Kodama discretion to reconsider it as a misde-meanor, and not a felony. This she did. Thus the present case would count, she informed a puckered-lipped Jamboni, as a second strike.
Of course the assistant D.A. protested, and filed for a further review of the case and her sentencing procedure. Subsequently the item leapt from page three in a legal paper, the little-read Daily Journal, to a prominent position over the top fold in the LA. Times’s Metro section. Thus Kodama became the object of microscopic scrutiny by the legal system and the public.
Spokespersons for a homeowners group in the northern end of the San Fernando Valley began to send in letters. Interestingly enough, Jamboni also lived in that portion of the Kmart-strewn basin. The Lydia Homeowners Association stepped up the campaign from letters to the personal touch.
Over the past week, they’d been holding pickets in front of the courthouse demanding she rescind her decision. Jamboni had been barking on several local radio talk shows, and even his chief, a reasonable enough fellow, had to bend with the prevailing sombrous winds. The head district attorney had been quoted in the paper as saying that even though he’d been opposed to three strikes, he understood what the voters wanted when they’d passed the initiative during the Republican sweep a few years back.
Politics and posturing, Kodama thought, and grimaced inwardly as she perused a few of the scathing missives. There was a knock from the court side door and she said, “It’s open.”
Mitchell stuck his head in and asked, “Are you okay, Your Honor?”
“Fine. My friends still downstairs?”
“They were breaking up the road show when I got back.” He came into the room, fumbling with the hasp on his gunbelt’s cartridge case. “I realize you know what you’re doing, but there’s nothing in the law preventing you from going after Jamboni on one of those Sunday TV shows, is there?” He looked purposeful and awkward all at the same time.
“I couldn’t until the review panel was through with its work, Mitchell.” That wasn’t true, but she wanted an out.
“I see.”
“But I appreciate the thought.”
“Sure.” He went back out, slowly pulling the door shut.
* * *
“Is Mrs. Limón in?” Monk said in the most pleasant voic
e he could manage.
“I’m sorry, who did you say is calling?” the teenaged voice on the other end asked politely.
She knew who it was. He’d been calling since yesterday afternoon and his little chat with Seguin. He’d made nine attempts, five of which had been answered by the young woman now on the other end of the line. “Ivan Monk. I’m a private detective looking into the murder of members of the Cruzado family.”
With false innocence, the voice responded, “Oh yes, haven’t you called before?”
Kid’s gonna make a fine bureaucrat. “Yes, I have,” he drawled. “I would still like to talk with your mother about this incident if I could.”
“She’s very busy, sir. I did give her your last message though.”
“Shall I leave my office and home number again?”
“No-o-o.” The young woman dragged the word out for a good three seconds. “I gave that information to my mother already.”
“Okay.” He was going to try a new direction. “Let her know I’ll be meeting with Mr. Cady and Mrs. Hughes, and they’ve told me they have some ideas on this thing.”
“Ideas?” a suddenly interested voice responded.
“Yes, something to do with Los Domingos Trece that I’ll be sharing with my friend on the LAPD, Lieutenant Marasco Seguin. He’s the man in charge of the investigation.” He measured out a few clicks before speaking again. “Do you have all that?”
“Ah, yes, yes I do,” the young woman said flatly.
“Thank you.” He hung up satisfied. Monk hedged that Mrs. Limón would want to put her spin on things if she believed he was only talking to the black tenants, especially if he was also going to see a pal on the force. It nagged at him to play the race card, no matter how subtly, but if it benefitted his investigation, so be it.
Delilah Carnes, the woman Friday he shared with the architect/rehab firm of Ross and Hendricks, came into his office. She’d been on a diet, and her naturally large frame had tapered in at the waist so that her full hips and healthy bosom were even more accentuated in the black skirt and light blouse she wore.
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