“So I lit candles, I prayed. Dios mio, the acquittal almost killed me. Can you believe that? I thought maybe, just maybe, the acquittal was a test for me. Maybe there was no way to escape my destiny. But then he shoots himself!” Miguel Salvador shook his head, tears misting his eyes. He crossed himself. “There is a God. I mean that. Christ is king.”
I already knew from the murder book that Salvador claimed he’d been in San Francisco for a friend’s wedding the night T.D. died, and he showed us photos from the reception in his digital camera. Everyone in the photos was grinning as if they’d already heard the news.
Miguel Salvador seemed like one happy man, but his eyes told me how much pain churned underneath. He was half out of his mind. His joy would never be as real as his brother’s death, no matter how hard he tried.
Dad and I had driven an hour for an interview that lasted ten minutes.
“Some folks…got no…sense,” Dad said, shaking his head once we were back in the car.
“Do we take a closer look at him?” I felt like a real cop, and Dad was my C.O. “If it wasn’t him, maybe a relative? Or he hired someone?”
“What’s your…gut?”
I glanced back at the restaurant window, where Miguel was watching us leave. He waved a white dish towel, still grinning. He’d seemed sorry to lose his chance to revel.
“Nah,” I said. “Happy isn’t a crime.”
“Half the country…would be in jail,” Dad said, agreeing. “Let’s go…to Ojai.”
As I jumped on the 210 to begin the drive northwest, I suddenly realized that if Dad was going to accompany me on interviews, he needed to know what I knew. Everything.
“I haven’t told you some things about the case, Dad…” I began.
Dad chuckled. “’Course not. You like…secrets.”
That stung, whether or not Dad was trying. I’d been keeping secrets from him since I was thirteen, probably before then. I’d blamed Dad for our shortcomings—he was so busy, so demanding, so inflexible—but how could he get to know someone who wouldn’t talk to him?
I finally told him about my visit to T.D. Jackson’s house—and the bullet hole hidden in the study. I kept my eyes on the road, as nervous about checking Dad’s facial expression as I had been when I was a kid.
“That wasn’t…smart,” Dad said.
“No, sir.”
“There’s…rules. Procedures. We’re not through…with this.”
Shit. I wished I had kept my mouth shut. Just because Dad had asked to spend the day with me didn’t mean he had changed into someone who could let that slide.
Dad sighed. “You shoulda…stayed in…the academy.”
I might have graduated from the police academy after I dropped out of college, if I ever finished anything I started. How many ways would my life have been different? I’d put off getting to know myself until I was almost forty. That was why April was in South Africa; she was eleven years younger and already knew who she was.
I wasn’t a part of that future. Where she was going.
“I know,” I said dully.
“But…that was…solid work.”
I glanced at him, but Dad was staring straight ahead, at the windshield.
That means a lot coming from you, Dad. I almost said it. I have no idea why I couldn’t.
You never know when you won’t have another chance.
The drive between Pomona and Ojai is two hours, but its virtues outweigh its drawbacks. The route is dotted with quaint towns and tourist-oriented shops, and one stretch of the 101 gave us such a perfect peek at the Pacific that I nudged Dad to wake him. On two-lane Casitas Vista Road, rocky cliffs bordered one side of the road, and since there isn’t much north of Ojai except the Los Padres National Forest, it felt a little like driving toward a preserve. Or driving back in time. With the landscape glistening from rainfall we’d just missed, we passed fruit groves and sprawling ranches with split-rail fences. We passed Lake Casitas, a tranquil lakefront park that seems to spread for miles. Postcard photos everywhere.
Ojai has a population of less than ten thousand, and it feels much smaller. In Frank Capra’s Lost Horizon, Ojai stood in for Shangri La. Downtown is nestled in the bowl of the Topa Topa and Sulphur Mountain Ranges, and sunset in Ojai is a filmmaker’s paradise. The setting sun turns the Topa Topa Bluff bright pink. On Signal Street, mom-and-pop shops neighbor a post office built to look like a grand white Spanish mission church, an homage to the region’s past. Galleries and artists abound. Ojai has long been a favorite refuge of actors trying to escape Hollywood; or for people who want to escape, period.
Dad was sleeping again by the time I pulled into the school parking lot. I woke him without a word, and he prepared to get out of the car. This time, he left his black satchel in the trunk—no guns allowed on school property.
The high school looked large enough for a thousand students. Inside, posters celebrated the school’s music program and the football team, almost with equal fervor. OJAI #1!!!!!, a hand-painted banner screamed. An eight-by-ten staff photograph of Dwyer, the same one I’d seen on the school website, hung in a display cabinet alongside football trophies heralding division championships.
The halls were nearly deserted. The one student in sight, a girl in jeans and a school sweatshirt, headed straight for us with a helpful smile.
“Are you looking for the main office?” The girl was probably Chela’s age, but she looked years younger. Her dark eyes still held on to a childlike brightness. “Straight down on the right.” After I thanked her, she walked away with confidence and purpose, on her way somewhere.
The female assistant principal was stout and ruddy-faced, with short-cropped hair that reminded me of Jeanine’s, in a blouse that paid homage to 1960s tie-dye. I hadn’t called before we arrived, but Ms. Renault was polite and efficient as she talked us through the bureaucracy of a school visit in the age of Columbine and Virginia Tech. Names, identification, signatures.
Still, she seemed to assume we knew Coach Dwyer, maybe because Dad looked like he must be an aging relative. Rather than asking us to wait thirty minutes for the next bell, she said we should go straight to the practice field, where Dwyer was teaching a P.E. class.
“I don’t know where the office aide ran off to,” she said, “but I can take you myself.”
The school was gorgeous out back, with an arresting view of the mountains. It looked more like a retreat than a school. Not a bad place to spend the high school years. I wondered if maybe Chela needed to be raised in a place more like Ojai.
“There he is,” Ms. Renault said, pointing out Randolph Dwyer in the lush field about forty yards from where we stood behind the school. Male and female students were scrimmaging in a game of flag football. Some of those girls looked husky enough to play for varsity.
Things had changed since I was in high school.
Dwyer was easy to spot, since he stood a head over everyone near him, and he was one of only three people with brown skin anywhere in sight. His stomach had a slight paunch, and he was a big man who had let his shoulders slouch over time. Dwyer blew his whistle and called out to a student. The play stopped dead, and half the students groaned before lining up for a new snap. The quarterback flung her blond ponytail in a circle while she barked out signals to her line, changing the play.
Yep, things had definitely changed.
“Might be a little tough moving the wheelchair across the grass,” Ms. Renault said. The walk seemed to have winded her. “I could go grab Coach Dwyer and bring him over…”
“Thanks,” Dad said. “We’ll be fine.”
After a half second’s consideration, she left us alone at the edge of the field.
I knew it wouldn’t be Dwyer’s best time for an interview, but I didn’t have a choice. If I waited until after Dwyer’s classes, I wouldn’t get home in time to pick up Chela after school—and I needed to, just in case our troubles with Carlyle weren’t over. I had to talk to Dwyer, and the telephone wouldn’t be goo
d enough. I wanted to watch his face.
We were meeting him cold, so he wasn’t expecting us.
Dad’s wheelchair was hell to push on the grass, but I hunkered down. We made a trail in the slightly overgrown stalks as we walked closer to Dwyer and his students. Luckily, he saw us coming. He signaled to one of his students and walked toward us. The kids played on.
Dwyer wore a white school shirt and blue shorts that looked exactly like the ones my high school P.E. teacher had worn. He was a bit heavy but had a remarkably youthful face for his age. Reaching us, he shielded his face from the sun with a clipboard.
“Help you?” he said.
“Coach, I’m sorry to surprise you at work. I’m Tennyson Hardwick, and this is my father—retired LAPD police captain Richard Hardwick.”
Dad once told me there are two kinds of people, when it comes to the word police: those who grin, roll up their sleeves and say “How can I help you, Officer?” and those who don’t. Dwyer was one of the latter. He stood like a statue in the hazy sunlight, waiting for the rest.
“You’ve heard about the death of T.D. Jackson…” I went on.
Dwyer nodded, lowering his clipboard so I could see his face more clearly. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were strikingly large, with an attentive quality that reminded me of Forest Whitaker. “Yes,” he said, nodding. His lips pinched out the word. “Tragedy.”
Like Dad, he wasn’t long-winded. He glanced back over his shoulder at the kids, and I knew we wouldn’t have his attention long. Three or four boys who weren’t playing lingered nearby, sniggering, trying not to look like they were eavesdropping. The name T.D. Jackson had stopped them in their tracks. From their size, they might be from Dwyer’s varsity team.
I chose the straightforward approach, keeping my voice low.
“I’m trying to do a favor for a friend,” I said.
“What friend?” Dwyer asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say. But I can tell you that I have nothing but the best intentions toward all the families and friends connected in this matter.”
Distantly, someone was practicing a tuba. Dwyer gazed at me, chewing at the side of his cheek…and then nodded. “Go on.”
“Unnamed sources in the police suggest suicide—but we want a few folks who knew T.D. to tell us what they think.”
Dwyer nodded. He understood; even seemed to approve. “I was surprised by that.”
I pulled my notebook out of my back pocket.
“I didn’t know T.D. well,” he said. “I was invited to a couple social gatherings—his wedding, way back…” His voice cracked. “I knew his parents better. Long ago.”
“Are you close to the Jackson family?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s a long acquaintance, but not deep. I’ll always care about Emory and Evangeline, so this news hurt my heart. Chantelle, too, of course. I can’t imagine losing one of mine—a student, much less my own child.”
As Dwyer shifted and his shirtsleeve rode higher on his arm, I saw something that made me forget my next question: He had a keloid scar almost identical to T.D. Jackson’s, but it was on his upper arm. Dwyer had branded himself, too. I remembered Carlyle’s words on Saturday: Two generations. Heat looks out for Heat. Always.
“You knew Emory Jackson from your days on the Spartans.” I said it like it was common knowledge. “The Heat.”
A long, slow shadow crept across Dwyer’s face. Beside me, my father nudged the back of my leg, in case I’d missed it.
Dwyer crossed his arms, body language for Back off. “Yes,” he said, his voice tight again. “Been a while since I’ve seen them. Ten years? Maybe longer, since T.D.’s wedding.”
“That was an amazing team,” I said. “I’m a Spartan, too. My dad saw you play at Spartans Stadium.”
“That right?” For the first time, Dwyer gave a wistful smile as he glanced at Dad. Dwyer’s arms stayed crossed, but he seemed to relax. However distant, we were family now.
“You were…magic,” Dad said. “Whole…team.”
“The Sunshine Bowl!” I said, patting Dwyer’s shoulder. “Beautiful, man.”
Dwyer’s smile grew boyish, part bashfulness and part pride. “We had a hell of a year,” he said. “Some of it was luck, but we had a hell of a year.”
“I saw that HBO thing on Blythewood,” I said. “What’s up with that? He sounded like he played the game by himself. Where were the rest of ya’ll?”
“Guess they can’t call everybody,” Dwyer said dismissively.
“Same old…same old,” Dad said. “They used to think…black folks…couldn’t…play.” Dad spoke as if he was giving a history lesson, and I guess he was. Aside from his doctors or therapists, I hadn’t heard Dad speak at such length to a stranger since his stroke. Dad was pushing himself beyond his comfort zone to do the job. “These kids today…don’t know. I ’member…they’d…bench the black players…for games…in the South. ’Member?”
Dwyer nodded, but he didn’t uncross his arms. “Everyone had to be on their best behavior in those days. Like we were all Jackie Robinson.”
“Wouldn’t give Jim Brown…the Heisman,” Dad said, and slapped his arm rest for effect. “Still burns me…to this day.” Brown had been a four-sport star in high school: Football, basketball, lacrosse, and track. I couldn’t count the number of rants I’d heard about the injustice of his fifth-place ranking in the Heismans in 1956.
Dwyer nodded, his face clouding.
“Then comes the Sunshine Bowl in 1967,” I said, following Dad’s lead. “So Cal State’s black players carried that game. There was Emory Jackson…”
“Hankins,” Dad said, as if reminding me. He tried to snap his fingers. “Who…else?”
We both looked at Dwyer.
“Bear,” Dwyer said. “Nobody would have done nothin’ that day without Wallace.”
“That’s right! Wallace….” I angled for the full name.
Dwyer hesitated, but only an instant. “Wallace Rubens. Number six. He kept Blythewood off his ass all day. Gave him that pocket.” I had come across that name in the list of players for the bowl-winning team. The internet had said something about Florida.
“What happened? Why’d I never hear about him?”
His face clouded. “Injury. Never really came back from it.”
There was something fluttering around the periphery there. I had the odd sense that that was the edge of a truth…and if I pushed any further, I was going to get a lie.
“Was Wallace in the Heat, too?” I said, indicating the H-shaped scar on his upper arm. “And Hankins?”
Self-conscious, Dwyer pulled his sleeve down. His face tensed again. He would have worn long sleeves if he had known we were coming.
“It was a social club,” Dwyer said with a shrug, which I guessed meant yes. “A brotherhood, you might call it. Back then there never were but a few black players on any big college team, and it was tough.”
Dad nodded. “You right…about that. Tough…everywhere.”
“We called ourselves Heat,” Dwyer said. “Heat forges iron, that kind of thing. We made each other stronger. We knew some of the people watching those games wanted us to fail because of our skin color. Not every school would play teams from a segregated division, but SoCal State did.”
“Bet…ya’ll…caught hell down there,” my father said. “In Florida. Wasn’t just…orange trees and…beaches. Huh?”
Dwyer looked at my father as if he was seeing a ghost. He stood frozen for a full two seconds before he answered. “Wasn’t so bad,” he said.
His first obvious lie, or a conveniently misplaced memory. The New York Times column had said the white Florida University fans jeered loudly, spewing racial filth from the stands. Dwyer looked back over his shoulder at his students on the field, who played with less vigor whenever his back was turned. “Julie!” Dwyer called sharply. “Do that snap again!”
When he turned back to us, he ran his hand across his close-cropped sca
lp. “Who did you say sent you here?”
“T.D.’s friends hired a lawyer,” I said. “The lawyer is a friend of mine.”
Dwyer nodded, but didn’t speak. He didn’t look satisfied. He glanced at his watch. Dwyer was about to say Sorry, can’t talk right now. His desire to get clear of us was so strong that I could feel his aura pulling away. A light drizzle had begun, promising to get stronger.
“One last thing…” I said, and Dwyer looked at me, hopeful, his eyes weary. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill T.D. Jackson?”
Dwyer sighed, looking pained. “I can’t speculate on that. Like I said, I wasn’t close…”
“Do you know of a Roland or Ronald who might have worked for Senator Hankins? A big man with a name beginning with an R?” He looked at me blankly. I realized I’d always assumed the R name was a first name, but it might be a surname. Hearing my question aloud made me think of it: “Did Wallace Rubens ever work for Donald Hankins?”
Dwyer’s eyes looked like they could sink from his face, a well of sadness. He took two steps away, walking backward. “I’m sorry if you drove a long way,” he said. “I’m really not the person you want to talk to.”
“Coach, I’m only—”
He cut me off. “I’ve lived in Ojai thirty years. I have a wife, two sons, and a quiet life. We win a few games, but I’ve never reached for those heights like Don and Emory. I coach high school football, that’s all. I haven’t kept up with my old team—just that wedding, like I said. I don’t know how to help you. I wish you wouldn’t come back here.”
“Coach,” I said gently. “What happened in 1967?”
He looked at me as if I’d just broken a promise. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and lifeless. “We won a game,” he said.
Dwyer turned and left us. His eavesdropping students trotted after him, as if they were a protection detail. The kids gave us wary glances over their shoulders; they’d seen the change in Dwyer, too, and they didn’t like it. Walking away, Dwyer never looked back. He blew his whistle to rally his kids, and they flocked around him, some of them sitting at his feet. Dwyer was beloved at his school.
In the Night of the Heat Page 24