by Dianne Emley
The twenty-three-square-mile city of about 150,000 residents shared its western border with Los Angeles. The Southland’s car culture guaranteed that there was no immunity from that megalopolis’s problems. The Pasadena Police Department’s 240 sworn officers worked in the shadow of two behemoth law-enforcement agencies: the LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department.
Elected officials worked to preserve the uniqueness of Pasadena, its small-town feel with big city features. The PPD borrowed the best tactics from the big guys, and scuttled the worst— the corruption, secrecy, and adversarial relationships with citizens. The PPD operated under the “Pasadena Way,” a philosophy of proactiveness, transparency, community involvement, and being fair but firm.
After many years of relative calm, incidents of gang-related violence had skyrocketed over the past twelve months, showing that the giant was merely sleeping. The dozen or so active gangs in Pasadena were either African-American or Hispanic. Other race-based gangs had never taken hold. Historically, gang violence had been black-on-black or brown-on-brown. This new incarnation was race versus race. Evidence suggested that former rival gangs were joining forces along racial lines.
An increase in graffiti and new and unusual graffiti characteristics supported this. The PPD didn’t have a handle on why the gangs were shifting. Could be a turf war over narcotics trafficking ordered by “shot callers” in prison. Maybe the mayhem had been kicked off because a gangbanger thought a banger from another neighborhood had disrespected him. Or the increased violence might be a symptom of a deeper issue based in the changing demographics of Northwest Pasadena, which thirty years ago was predominantly African-American and now had a Latino majority.
This new street battle started with a flurry of attacks on older Latino immigrants. The men had been assaulted by groups of young African-Americans when walking alone late at night, going home from work. The police learned this was a gang initiation ritual called SOM, for “Sock on Mexicans.” The victims, fearing retribution against their families, had been reluctant to report the incidents to the police.
One night, an assault turned deadly. A young Latino immigrant tried to intervene in an attack against an older man and had been shot in the face and killed. Retribution followed. Two black gang members were shot dead in a liquor-store parking lot in the neighboring city of Altadena.
A month later, a group of Latinos standing on the front lawn at a house in Northwest Pasadena during a party were sprayed with bullets from a passing car, hitting six people from the same family. Four escaped with minor injuries. One boy was paralyzed; another died in his father’s arms.
Within a week, Titus Clifford, a long-retired member of the Crooked Lane Crips, was shot in the head while leaving a convenience store on East Colorado Boulevard after buying a gallon of milk and a wild cherry Slurpee. Witnesses saw a Latino man shooting from the passenger window of a black Toyota Camry. Darkly tinted windows prevented witnesses from seeing the driver. The shooter and driver were later arrested. The shooter said he and his homey had been driving around looking for a black gang member, any gang member, to kill in retribution for the shooting at the front-lawn party.
And so it went.
The PPD implemented Operation Safe Streets, focusing resources and maintaining a highly visible police presence with black-and-whites and uniforms on the street in Northwest Pasadena. The chief’s goal was simple: Keep the streets safe so that citizens can go to the store or to work without the threat of violence. The message was clear: This kind of violent activity will not be tolerated in Pasadena. The community rallied to support the police.
Arrests came swiftly. The shootings abated. Tense weeks passed without incident. The PPD did not release its iron grip on the streets and the gangs. The citizens of Northwest Pasadena did not exhale. They avoided the streets at night, kept their children inside, and kept their eyes averted when they saw a crime, lest they become targets.
The majority of Pasadena’s residents, especially in the affluent neighborhoods in the southwest and western sections, were not affected by the violence beyond uttering a disheartened “tsk-tsk” when reading about the latest gang-related shooting in the Pasadena Star News.
They could keep their distance no longer. Gang violence had landed smack in Old Pasadena, at a construction site where condominiums that would sell for over a million dollars were being built.
Vining nudged the Crown Vic through the crowd, the light bar inside flashing. She drove past the officer who was directing traffic away from the area and parked near Kissick’s pickup truck, close to the ribbon of yellow barrier tape. On the other side was the black Chevy Tahoe where the command post was set up. Lieutenant Karen Garner was the incident commander and was working out of the back of the Tahoe, which opened to create a desk.
Vining grabbed her flashlight and a pair of latex gloves and pressed through the crowd. She eyeballed the bystanders as she made her way, wondering if T B. Mann would show up, guessing that she would be here. She walked with purpose, head high, movements sharp. If he was here, she wanted him to know that she was out in the open, not cowering at home.
A young man in the crowd shouted, “Detective Vining, show us your tits!”
She didn’t turn, but out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a couple of guys laughing and high-fiving. She recognized one as a particularly belligerent witness she’d interviewed in relation to the Titus Clifford shooting.
Two uniformed officers, young guys whom Vining knew only by sight, were maintaining the perimeter. They didn’t openly smile, but both gave in to a break in the façade, a tiny twitch at the corners of their mouths combined with a quick exchange of glances as Vining ducked beneath the tape.
Vining was not amused, nor was she surprised that her fellow officers were condoning her humiliation. She’d made enemies at the PPD. Many on the force thought she was aloof and ambitious. She had climbed the ladder, but only because she’d focused on doing a good job. When an opportunity presented itself, she took it. Promotions meant more money in her and Em’s pockets. Working as a detective gave her more autonomy. Sure, she was distant. She didn’t hang out with a clique or join the gang at happy hour to gossip. She was a single mom. When she wasn’t working, she had other responsibilities. Still, seeing her subordinates smirk at her didn’t give her a warm feeling. If they didn’t like her, would they be less likely to go through a door with her?
Out of nowhere, Kissick sprinted down the street, plunged under the yellow barrier tape, and dodged into the crowd. Still wearing the latex gloves he’d donned to examine the crime scene, he grabbed by the collar the guy who had insulted Vining.
“What the fuck, asshole?” the stellar citizen complained.
Kissick clinched the guy’s collar tighter and got close to his face. “You talk to your mother that way?”
“You can’t put your hands on me like that.”
Kissick released the guy with a shove, sending him colliding into his friends. “I just did.”
Vining slowed as she continued toward the command post. Beyond it, floodlights run by generators illuminated the street and interior of the hollowed-out building.
Behind her she heard Kissick reprimand the two officers who had smirked. “You find that funny, Brewer? What about you, Kling?”
Chastened, they both muttered, “No, Corporal.”
Kissick caught up with Vining.
Out of the corner of her mouth, she chided him. “My knight in shining armor.”
“You can’t let that stand, Nan.”
She felt the hair at the back of her neck bristle. She stopped and peered into his face. The yearning she’d felt a few hours ago for his strong, comforting presence had dissipated as quickly as the last spasms of their sexual encounter. She chafed at him trying to manage her affairs. She’d given up control once before when she’d married Wes, her high school sweetheart, and that had turned out miserably, except for having had Emily, of course.
“I appreciate your effort
and the sentiment behind it, Jim, but I’ll pick my battles.”
He reared his head back as if he’d been slapped. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind in the future.”
“Not to mention the rumors we’re confirming for everyone with you running out there like that. Your little show of force. Not exactly subtle.”
“One, my actions were not inappropriate. Two, I don’t care.”
The officer who was acting as the scribe, maintaining the log sheet of who entered and left the crime scene, moved toward them. He thought better of it and returned to where the incident commander was using an oil pen to update the status on “the board,” a glass-topped counter on the open rear of the Tahoe.
Vining and Kissick walked a few feet away. She lowered her voice further. “Well, I care. I told you, relationships between cops on the force always make the woman look like she’s sleeping around. Like she has bad character and judgment.” She responded to his eye-rolling. “That Victorian crap still exists, whether you believe it or not. What if we’re found out or we go public, do you think Sarge will let us continue to be partners?”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with our job performance—”
“Bull. One of us will be transferred out and I can tell you right now, it won’t be you. I’m the damaged one, remember?”
His jaw became rigid.
She went on. “Could work to your advantage. Then you’d feel free to take the sergeant’s test. I know you’ve set that aside because of me.”
“Nan, not everything’s gloom and doom. It wouldn’t hurt you to lighten up a little.”
“Lighten up?” She gaped at him, unable to think of a rejoinder.
He placed his hand against the back of her arm and began walking. “Come on. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
She stepped out of his grasp. “Please don’t be so familiar with me in public.”
He gave her a sour look. “I’m just guiding you down the street, like I would my grandmother.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Would you put your hand on Sergeant Early like this? Think about it. I can feel eyes on us.”
He quickly looked around. Turning back, he said, “Nobody’s watching us. The ell-tee’s busy and Brewer and Kling are flirting with a couple of girls.”
“Okay, I’m paranoid. But still …”
He raised his hands and stepped away from her. “Whatever you want, Nan.”
She moved toward the command post. “Let me check in and see what’s on the board.”
She and the lieutenant greeted each other. Vining said, “I understand that Scrappy Espinoza’s ticket got punched.”
“Shot execution-style through the back of the head apparently while he was tagging a wall.” Lieutenant Garner was a trim and youthful-looking forty-five. She wore her sandy hair in a short bob favored by most of the female officers because they didn’t want the hassle of tightly pinning up their hair so that bad guys couldn’t grab ahold of it.
She continued. “There’s a security guard posted at the construction site at night, but during questioning, he confessed that he was asleep in his car parked on the street behind the building. Didn’t hear anything until we rolled up. Homeless guy by the name of Kevin found the body and called it in. Patrol officers are canvassing the Old Town clubs and restaurants with mug shots of known Crooked Lane Crips.”
Kissick added, “The Lanes Crips were bound to respond to the Titus Clifford murder. Vario Pasadena Rifa might be good for it, too. They’ve been at war with NLK for years. But this isn’t anywhere near NLK territory. Why was Scrappy tagging here? Why was a thirty-something gangbanger tagging at all, making noise on the street? Guys Scrappy’s age usually aren’t even active anymore.”
Vining examined the board. “Cameron Lam from the Gangs Unit is on-scene.”
“I called him in,” Lieutenant Garner said. “Corporal Lam has the latest intel on what’s doing on the street. Scrappy just got out of prison after a drug-sale rap. Corporal Lam says the word is that he was trying to go straight.”
Vining looked toward the brightly lit shell of the building. It was circled by yellow barrier tape, marking the interior perimeter of the crime scene. “If Scrappy was out of the life, why was he shot while tagging a wall in Old Town? What did the tag say?”
“That’s another puzzle,” Kissick replied. “Says ‘China Dog, one-eight-seven.’”
The California Penal Code number for murder is 187.
“Death to China Dog,” Vining said. “Who’s China Dog?”
“No one knows,” the lieutenant said. “Corporal Lam asked his guys on the street and no one has a clue.”
“Is it a death threat against a Chinese gangbanger?” Vining looked at Kissick. “Chinese gangs have never gotten a foothold in Pasadena.”
He returned her grim gaze. “Looks like they might be moving in.”
SIX
ACOUNTY CORONER SEDAN AND VEHICLES FROM PPD’S FORENSIC Services Unit were in the street in front of the gaping entrance to the partially demolished building. The façade, portico, and exterior walls of the original 1964 structure were intact while the guts were being scooped out. The cement portico was shaped like a large zigzag and was supported by austere square pillars. The walls were of polished cement with small, smooth pebbles pressed into them. The adult trees on the property were being preserved, encircled with wire mesh to protect them from the construction equipment.
Vining and Kissick walked through an open gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the site. A sign on the fence announced: 60 LUXURY CONDOS AND STREET LEVEL RETAIL. DEVELOPED BY RED PEARL ENTERPRISES, LLC. There was an artist’s rendering of the finished building. It showed angular towers of steel and glass that incorporated the building’s original design elements and expanded on them in the greenest way possible. Yuppies would be able to have Midcentury Modern chic but without the icky small rooms, low ceilings, and devil-may-care attitude about the environment.
Inside the shell, standing among half-destroyed offices that had been carved away around it, was a solitary wall that was fifteen feet high. It and the surrounding area were illuminated by floodlights that made it bright as day, but that faded to shadows and darkness beyond the lights’ reach. A clutch of people were gathered at the base of the wall where the corpse lay. PPD Forensic Services specialists were searching the ruins of offices beyond the halo of light, the darkness nearly sucking up their flashlight beams, which flitted like shooting stars. The quarter moon cast scant light through the openings where large picture windows once were, from which the glass had been removed.
Floodlights lighting their path, Vining and Kissick walked past heavy machinery and huge piles of debris— broken sheets of dry wall, blocks of concrete, and splintered lumber. The flooring had been pulled out and the subfloor was marked with tire tracks from construction equipment.
From a dark room to their right, Vining and Kissick saw Detective Tony Ruiz approaching with a flashlight. Shuffling ahead of him was a thin, tall man whom Ruiz occasionally nudged to move along faster. The lanky man, who appeared to be barely in his twenties, made forty-seven-year-old Ruiz look even shorter and rounder. Kissick turned his flashlight beam on the man, revealing filthy clothes and long, matted hair. He was Caucasian and his skin was deeply tanned. He clutched a bundle wrapped inside a dirty blanket against his chest.
“Must be Kevin,” Kissick said. “The homeless guy who found the body.”
The man squinted as he stepped into the bright light, peering at Vining and Kissick with apprehension. He looked wide-eyed and skittish.
Vining had seen that feral look before and guessed that he suffered from a mental illness, as was the case with most of the full-time homeless. She had seen him around. He was among Pasadena’s steady homeless population, which hovered near one thousand in number. The city wasn’t a bad place to land on the skids, with mild climate and services offered by the many churches and shelters.
After giving the guy another shove
, Ruiz dropped back, maintaining his distance. Vining guessed why, and as they drew close, her suspicions were confirmed. The stench emanating from the young man was overpowering.
“This is Kevin Conker,” Ruiz said. “He found the body. I’m gonna get one of the uniformed guys to take him to the station. He stinks too much to get in my car.”
Ruiz directed his comments to Kissick, not bothering to acknowledge Vining’s presence, as was his habit of late. He and Vining had a lengthy history. Their more recent interactions hadn’t improved matters. When Vining had returned from her extensive Injured on Duty leave, Sergeant Early bumped Ruiz from his long-sought-after desk in Homicide to return it to Vining. Some of Ruiz’s venom was no doubt due to a falling-out he’d had years ago with Vining’s longtime mentor.
Ruiz worked assaults, under Sergeant Early’s command, and had been brought onto the task force working the spate of gang-related incidents.
“Don’t take me to jail.” Kevin more tightly squeezed the blanket-wrapped bundle. “I can stay here. I won’t bother anything.”
Ruiz’s irritation showed. He looked ragged. His fringe of hair and his face were oily and he needed a shave. “I’m not arresting you, but I will if you keep giving me crap.”
Kevin’s knuckles were turning white from where he held the bundle. Breathing through his mouth, he shuffled backward a few steps. “I want to be outside.”
“We’re going to the station to get your statement. Got it?”
Ruiz was being a bully for no reason that Vining could fathom, other than the fact that he could. He had no legal grounds to force Kevin to go to the station. He was handling Kevin all wrong. A better strategy would have been to build a rapport with him.
“I already told him everything,” Kevin appealed to Vining. In such situations, people often did, believing a female officer would be more compassionate, which was not always the case.