“I think he’s on the run, Parren. Whoever told him about that meeting on Trinity must also be the one who hipped Big Loco.” Both Monk and Teague were well aware the cells were monitored by camera and sound. Their conversation served partly to bolster Monk’s credibility with the detectives.
“Why?”
Monk remembered the van belonging to Maladrone’s men cruising the funeral, and Maladrone’s talk about instilling discipline and order. He’d intimated in their meeting that Big Loco was getting out of hand. After all, the iron lung gangster had taken shots at members of the Domingos. Presumably for committing the shoot-out.
“Damned if I know, Parren. Have they charged me formally with anything yet?”
Teague rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. “Zaneski has officially requested that your license be suspended.”
“Don’t they have to give me a hearing?”
“They can suspend pending a hearing to revoke. I’m supposed to hear from them by tomorrow.”
“And it looks like they will.” Monk made a helpless gesture. “What else?”
“Your permit will more than likely be lifted by the time I bail you out of here. And speaking of bail, do you plan to put the judge’s house up for collateral?”
Teague had only intended it as a factual question. But a continual irritant to Monk was the disparity in what Jill made and what he netted in a year. He didn’t make half of her base salary, and she pulled in extra income from speaking engagements. “No. I’m hoping the donut shop will do.”
“Yes, I forgot about that,” Teague said sheepishly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to endure another session or two with the Gold Dust Twins before they decide what to charge you with. Until then, the amount of bail can’t be determined.”
“You’re telling me I may not get out of here for another day or two. Or three.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What about the license number?”
“They’re not telling, but I’ve got a bright intern from Loyola Law School hunting it down.”
“I appreciate your help, Parren.”
“Anything for one of my favorite sometimes investigators.”
Monk lightly knocked the other man’s knuckles on the bars with his own. “Peace out, black man.”
A bemused look shadowed Teague’s perpetually dour face. “I’ll be back.”
Monk stretched out again, ruminating on the complexities of the case. What if there were some connection between Maladrone and Isaiah Booker? Cash makes no enemies. But is there that much money in hot cars? But maybe not just cars. Drugs? Why not? Pedestrian, but the struggle for cocaine or marijuana profits gets people canceled every day.
Hell, maybe Maladrone and Absalla are the hookup. An Aztec/Muslim combine. That had possibilities. He got up to see what time it was. “Damn,” he intoned, “missing my girl.”
“Don’t you see, Stan, this is the problem we’re faced with now at the end of the century. Liberals have taken a beating, and they should get the message. But like termites they’ve burrowed deep in public offices and still try to impose their values on the majority.”
Showing his very white teeth, Kenny Young, black neocon radio talk show host, swung a hand toward Kodama on the other side of the console. “What do you think about what Sally from Rosemead has to say, Judge Jill? You liberals are on the ropes and just don’t have enough sense to lie down.”
Kodama had lost count of how many times this selfcentered asshole had called her “Judge Jill.” “I hate to be the one to tell you, Kenny—No, wait, I do want to be the one to tell you, Ken. Liberalism isn’t dead, and there’s plenty of evidence that supports that proposition. Fairminded people up and down this state have recently passed bonds for education and have condemned the police for beating striking immigrants. And don’t forget, the people of this city in a recent poll said overwhelmingly they felt the county’s welfare-to-workfare rules were too restrictive.”
“The will of the people was also expressed in passing three strikes,” Jamboni mentioned. “And certainly that was my intention in prosecuting the case the judge saw fit to impose her beliefs on.” He was sitting at the apex of the console, while Kodama and Young sat opposite. Each had on headphones.
“And a lot of those same people have also said they didn’t vote for three strikes to put people in prison for twenty-five years for stealing a slice of pizza or a case of beer. They did it to rid the street of violent felons, not petty criminals as Mr. Wright’s history attests to.”
“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, Jill.” Young punched another light on the twinkling array of lights on the phone. “Jolie from Lomita.”
“Kenny, I guess as a black man you’ve never been stopped by the cops for driving in the wrong neighborhood. I guess they just knew by the suit you say you always wear and the nice car you didn’t fit the profile.”
“This isn’t about police abuse, Jolie.”
Kodama snarled inwardly. Every time he said a woman’s name, he made it sound like Big Daddy talking to Maggie.
“You see, it is, Kenny. It’s about do we continue to pump money and resources into the prisons and jails or do we make a decision to put the money into job training and schoolbooks.”
“What’s your status, Jolie?” Young asked, not bothering to mask his hubris.
“My what?” the electronic voice crackled.
“You know, are you here legally or did you come across the hills in San Diego?”
“Your mama.” The line went off.
“I thought so,” Young said smugly.
“I think it’s evident from the reaction to Judge Kodama’s ruling that she’s out-of-step with what the public wants, Kenny,” Jamboni theorized. “People want safe streets and the ability to walk into a convenience store and not have to worry that a quart of milk won’t be the last thing they ever buy.”
“So you feel confident, D.A. Jamboni, that Judge Jill will be recalled in the special election that’s been set?”
“Well,” he stammered effectively, “it’s not for me to comment on that situation, Kenny. I wanted to come on your show to make it clear the D.A.’s office are not a bunch of vindictive, uncaring individuals. We are a concerned, humane group of dedicated prosecutors who represent the interests of law-abiding, hard-working citizens of the city and county.”
Young looked at Kodama. “What do judges represent, Jill?”
“Reason and balance, Kenny. Our system of justice, far from perfect, nonetheless has been constructed so that defendants not only have a right to a jury of their peers but an arbiter as well. The jury decides the facts, the judge applies the law. And the law was never meant to be a cudgel, but a method by which the rights of the individual are considered with regard to the desire of the people. Edmund Burke talked about the cold neutrality of an impartial judge.”
“Those are powerful words,” she continued. “For it implies that the judge must walk between the sometimes heated passions of a populace that calls for retribution and the fate of the individual brought before the docket.”
Agitated, Jamboni said, “The law is the law.”
“It is in the application of the law, it is in the intent of the law that the judge has some say. Three strikes seeks to straitjacket the ability of experienced jurists from being able to apply those factors that determine a convicted person’s sentence. Is twenty-five years for a stupid robbery going to stop others with the same background as Mr. Wright from committing similar acts? I doubt it, as long as there’s few alternatives we can offer such men and women.”
“Further,” Kodama added, taking a swift gulp of water, “according to a RAND study, three strikes may result in a $5.5 billion annual price tag for the taxpayers. More prisons would have to be built and maintained if this madness isn’t curtailed. Drug interdiction programs, conflict resolution services, literacy programs for ex-felons—that’s crime prevention.”
“UIp, there you go again,” You
ng jibed. “Sam, from Indian Wells.”
“Jeez, Kenny, it tries my nerves to sit here and listen to this supposed upholder of the law go on about how it’s all society’s fault for making the criminal.”
“That’s not what I said.” She knew this voice.
“Why don’t you just hang out your shingle and cut out the middleman. If you want to hold these thieves’ hands, why not go all the way and become an ambulance chaser?”
“Well, Mr. Yorty,” Kodama said triumphantly. “When you first came to office as mayor of Los Angeles you had promised the black constituents of the Democratic Party you would do something to curb the police under Chief Parker. A man who openly recruited crackers from the Deep South.”
“Wha-what’s that got to do with this subject?” the former mayor sputtered.
“It has to do with priorities, Mr. Yorty. Elected office is about how sometimes the needs of the minority, needs that may have not been met, have to at times outweigh the desires of the majority. The law is the law, but that doesn’t always make it fair and just. What wasn’t done then to set things right have a consequence now. The past has a way of determining the future.”
“More liberal gobbledygook,” he squawked. “You’re gonna find, young lady, that you are seriously on the fringe of where the flag and country good people of this city are at.”
“So be it,” she answered. “But I remind you of what California Supreme Court Chief Justice Ronald George, appointed by a Republican governor, has said in regard to three strikes: ‘To the extent we deny judges discretion, we lose a lot. The judge is in the best position, having heard all the evidence, to impose an appropriate punishment.‘”
“Thanks for calling, Sam.” Young clicked him off and went to another flashing line.
Another forty-five minutes of being broiled on the charcoals of public opinion and Kodama pulled off her headset at twenty-eight after two. Keyed up, she felt like she could go another hour and a half at full throttle. If the voters wanted to turn her out of office, then go down swinging, girl. Fuck that reserved jurist shit. She got up, trying hard not to smile.
“Nice going, Mr. Jamboni.” Young shook the prosecutor’s hand.
He garbled a “Thanks” while eyeballing the judge. “See you in the voting booth,” he said on his way out. He knocked his briefcase against his leg as he walked.
When Kodama went to get her purse, she was surprised to find Young lounging against the studio door.
“You were much better than I would have thought, Jill.” He’d slipped a couple of breath mints in his mouth. He smelled like a eucalyptus tree. “Women like you give liberalism a chance after all.”
He all but licked his lips. The Big Bad Right Wing Wolf. “Gee, thanks, Ken.” She came up to him. “Open the door.”
He bowed slightly and turned the knob. “You know, I hear you dig black men.”
Kodama did a movement with her hand. “Well, lookie here, Ken. I happen to find one black man of particular interest right now, and for some time to come.”
“But y’all ain’t married.” He was laying his “black” affectations on.
“We’re serious.”
“So am I.”
“You know, I’m willing to get my first strike if you don’t get out of my way.”
“Ohh. You promise to tie me up and spank me?”
“What would those matrons in Van Nuys say if they heard you now.”
“They might want to join the fun.”
Kodama yanked the knob from his grasp and opened the door all the way. “Honey, if I found myself in bed with you, the queasiness I’d feel would be anything but hilarious.” She began to walk away.
“I like hard women,” he called after her.
“With your charm, maybe you ought to try hard men.” Kodama got to the parking lot and dialed Newton Station on her cellular. After some runaround, she got the watch commander and demanded to know Monk’s status.
“Just heard you on Young’s show, Judge. You gonna come down here hollering about how we be abusing the prisoners and such?” The heavy voice was like a glacial thaw.
“Let me speak to Zaneski or Fitzhugh.”
“Who?”
Her patience was thinning. “The detectives on the case.”
“Ah, gee, Your Honor. They be nowhere around. But I’ll tell them you called.” He hung up before she could speak.
The phone glinted in the sunglasses on Kodama’s face. She punched redial and got a busy signal. Again, and still a busy signal. She wanted to speed over there and give an earful to that asswipe. But she had an appointment to be interviewed at Rafu Shimpo, the Japanese-American daily that had been publishing since the early part of the century. It was in Little Tokyo, across town.
She sighed, placing the phone back in her purse. She hated talking while driving, so the call would have to wait. After the newspaper interview, it was back west to the Crenshaw District to a meeting with the heads of the Deltas, the politically connected black sorority, at the Union Bank on Jefferson. A meeting she and Monk’s friend council-woman Tina Chalmers had set up.
“Sorry, baby.” She fired up the Saab. Driving off the lot, a peculiar tickle made her look around. Young was in an upstairs window, waving at her. She clenched her teeth and drove off, north on La Cienega. A mental picture of dragging Young and Jamboni from the Saab’s bumper made for a pleasant ride through traffic.
Eíǵhteen
Monk was buttoning his shirt when Seguin came into view outside the open cell. “Marasco.” He unbuckled his belt and tucked the tail and front into his pants.
“So they’re seeking a charge of manslaughter.” Seguin had his hands in his pockets, his angular frame only partially visible in the half-light of the hallway.
Monk rolled the towel around the razor, toothbrush, paste, and the shirt he’d been wearing for the past three days. Teague had brought him the gear. “It’s a bullshit beef. It’s just something to fuck with me because Zaneski’s a lead dick cocksucker.”
“Big Loco didn’t fire a gun, Ivan. At least not that night.”
“That’s right, Lieutenant, he didn’t.” Monk was not in the mood for a debate. “But are you going to stand there and tell me this doesn’t seem to you like some kind of setup?”
Seguin didn’t answer.
Monk had the towel and its contents held under his arm. He held out a hand, palm up as if knowledge might be dropped on its surface. “All the time you know me you think all of a sudden I’m capable of some cold-blooded shit like this.”
“You’re always taking advantage, Ivan.”
“Of what, the law?”
Again he didn’t answer. His face a blank.
“What the hell are you talking about, Marasco?” Although he had an idea.
“I mean you step all over the rules like they were a rug in the bathroom. You think they’re for chumps like me.” He started to walk off.
Monk followed. He signed out and found me cop lingering in front of the station, dusk settling like soot over the factories the precinct was surounded by.
“I ain’t on the city’s payroll, man. And sure I hedge, but damned if I don’t put in work. I don’t exactly have all this wonderful computer-age outfitting and a department at my disposal.” He waved his hands at the old station house.
“Neither do I. You try being a brown man in this here Army.”
“This some kind of midlife crisis?” Monk said lightly, trying to break the tension.
“I’m carrying my load, Ivan,” he solemnly replied.
“You still on this kick that I’ll shortchange the investigation because it might implicate blacks in the murders of the Cruzados?”
Seguin dug a cigarette out and stuck it between tight pressed lips. He smoked when he was stressed. He didn’t light it. “No, of course not. But you will cut some slack for the brothers if you feel they’re backs are up against it.”
“If Absalla isn’t involved, he isn’t involved, Marasco.”
&nbs
p; “But he wants to impose black power over the Rancho.”
“Bullshit.” But it didn’t sound convincing even to him.
Seguin took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed with the wet end. “There’s no Latino on the Ra-Falcons. And don’t say it’s ’cause of the Muslim thing. Other cliques in the country actively recruit among la gente.”
“I can’t do everything,” he rationalized lamely.
“No one’s saying you’re supposed to, Ivan. But I’ve got commanding officers giving me a sigmoidal if they even sniff I might not have gone by the book on some barrio buster and people in the community thinking I’m one step removed from Pancho in the old Cisco Kid show.”
“And to add to my joy, I got some pardners in La Ley who think just hanging out with a black dude makes me some kinda pinche love-and-kisses faggot.”
“Alright, you got it tough, but who don’t? I’m sure there’re black officers in the Oscar Joel Bryant association who feel the same way about black cops fraternizing with Chicanos. What’s that got to do with you and me, Marasco?”
Seguin slapped his thighs with his open palms and twisted his torso back and forth in exasperation. “You ain’t getting it, man. Everything’s changing, Ivan. Latinos are the largest minority in the state now, not black folks. Even Asians outnumber you.”
Monk could almost hear the whisper of Tlaloc, his incendiary breath searing him and other African-Americans into ash on the streets and in the homes of the city. A city that had once belonged to Mexico. “But we helped found it too,” he finished his daydreaming aloud. “And Latinos come in all colors and cultures. There’s even Mexicans mixed with black blood along the coast down there, Guerro and Chiapas, right?”
“True. But this Rancho business is one more example of the wheelbarrow of bricks I got to push uphill as a Chicano cop. I want the guilty to pay and so do a lot of those folks down there. I don’t give a fuck what the brass down at Parker Center want.”
“All of a sudden they don’t want the same thing? And don’t you forget,” Monk added, pointing, “those decent people down mere include a lot of blacks.”
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