Larry didn’t get a chance to investigate. Within a few minutes, sirens had begun approaching. Gathering his things together, he left the property via the 11th Street gate.
In exchange for a reduction of his sentence, Larry Vinson offered to testify about what he’d seen.
Lipper was skeptical. He’d see what he could do. He contacted the district attorney’s office.
No deal, they replied. They didn’t need Larry’s testimony; they had DNA, prints, a confession. The word of a man with a bad neck tattoo could cause more problems than it solved.
* * *
—
DANE JANKOWSKI PLED down to two counts of voluntary manslaughter, for the deaths of Benjamin Felton and Jalen Coombs. A lot better than Murder Two and a potential life sentence. With luck he’d be out in three years.
* * *
—
IN MAY—THREE WEEKS after Zachary Bierce’s suicide, and eighty-five miles to the southeast—Patrol Officer Annette Cho of the San Jose Police Department observed a white 1997 Infiniti exiting the parking lot of El Pollo Loco on Story Road. When the vehicle proceeded to make an illegal U-turn, Cho pulled it over. The driver of the vehicle, a twenty-four-year-old male named Sammy Nguyen, complied, slowing at the side of the road. As Cho typed the plate number into her mobile data center, the passenger door of the Infiniti kicked open, and a second young male jumped out and took off running.
Body camera footage captures the ensuing pursuit, Cho huffing and puffing as she radios for assistance. The young man cuts across a 76 station, running up a short embankment dotted with knee-high shrubbery and tossing an object, later recovered and identified as a baggie of marijuana, into the bushes. They weave through a parking lot, coming to an eight-foot cinder-block wall. For a moment it appears as though the young man is going to clear it. His sneakers lose their purchase. He slips. Cho grabs him by the shirt collar.
Under questioning, Sammy Nguyen reveals that the young man has been living with him for the past five months. The young man’s mother is Sammy’s first cousin; technically, that makes the two men first cousins, once removed. But they grew up playing together, and they’ve always been tight. For this reason, when the young man came to him—desperate for help, with nowhere else to go—Sammy took him in, no questions asked. That’s what family does. The young man’s name is Tuan Trang. Back in Oakland, he is wanted for murder.
Hi Deputy Edison this is Dylan.
What’s up, I hope everything is ok with you. I wanted to update you on whats been going on since I was able to get in contact with both of the individuals you recommended. You thought I should start with didi so that’s what i did but to tell you the truth she didn’t seem too interested in talking to me. She said some friends of theirs already held a memorial on their own, she didn’t see any point in doing another one.
Greer unger on the other hand was more open to the idea. I wanted to be up front with her about the fact that I thought we should put both names on the gravestone. That way maybe I could get my dad to feel okay with coming to visit the grave. I spoke to him a couple of times and I think he’s feeling pretty bad about how it ended between him and Kevin. I thought having both names could help him accept it in a way. I wanted to be upfront with Greer though. Based on what you told me I was expecting her to turn me down flat but she said she would think about it. So for a little while I was hopeful but then she got in touch and wrote that she would be willing to come herself but she didn’t think we could invite any of my brother’s friends because it might upset them. I got where she was coming from but it pretty much defeats the purpose and in that case maybe we should just forget about it. She agreed that was the right thing to do. I told her the name of the cemetery so she can come visit if she ever gets down to la.
I guess we’re not going to do anything, its just me and i’m not even there. I’m bummed about it but it is what it is, you can’t make everybody happy. Nobody’s happy but that’s life, ha ha. Hopefully I get back at some point and i can go pay my respects in person. Who knows though, its hard to say whats going to happen.
I think about my brother a lot and its tough because we didn’t speak that much after i joined up. Both of us had our own issues to deal with, thats why I joined up to begin with. Everyone has to take care of their own shit but it bothers me because I’m his big brother and it was my responsibility to be there for him, but I left him behind because i was looking out for number one and getting out of a fucked up home situation. Whatever i had it was worse for him. It’s hard to sleep, I lie in bed and i can feel my heart racing, when i wake up it’s still racing like it’s been doing that all night long. This place makes you nuts.
I’m sorry to ramble but theres nobody around who knew him and so i don’t know who else to talk to about it. Anyway I appreciate your help, it was cool of you.
I wasn’t the only one getting mail. A note came, addressed to the entire team, thanking us and singling out Deputy Lisa Shupfer for her kindness. It was signed Bonita Felton. Sergeant Turnbow let it stay up on the bulletin board for a few days. Then Shoops took it down and we all went back to work.
* * *
—
RHIANNON COOKE DECIDED not to sell her house. She wrote on her newly resurrected Facebook page that she’d come to this conclusion following a lot of soul-searching. Part of her had wondered if her time in West Oakland had come to an end.
I felt the flux of the universe calling me in new dimensions.
But that was before neighbors started approaching her, pleading with her to stay. They loved what she’d done to beautify the block. For her to pack up and run sent the message that this wasn’t a safe place to live—a misperception they’d been fighting for years. What would happen if the house fell back into the hands of drug dealers and addicts?
She refused to let a few bad apples halt the march of progress.
She wasn’t a quitter, either.
She owed it to the community to give it another try.
There was a lot of work to be done. With a little help, though, they could not only restore the house to its recent glory, but make it better—banish the winter’s bad karma.
To that end, she was throwing a Summer Solstice Painting Extravaganza. Everyone was invited to pitch in. Sort of like a modern-day barn-raising. Admission was ten dollars and went toward the cost of supplies. Alternatively, bring brushes, rollers, trays, or cans of Benjamin Moore Aura Exterior in the quantities and colors listed below.
They’d start at seven and go until the job was complete. Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty. DJ Fooye spinning. Cash bar.
* * *
—
TEN WEEKS LATER I swung by Almond Street to have a look.
Sloppy blotches of cream-colored paint, ribbons and runnels and drips, covered less than half the siding. Barbs of graffiti poked out, and missing altogether was the fine trim work that had made the scheme so grand in the first place.
A FOR SALE sign was staked on the lawn.
I got out of my car. An attached plastic bin contained a sheaf of tear sheets.
MASSIVE Victorian in vibrant, diverse neighborhood…
Front and center was an exterior photo, taken prior to the vandalism. A questionable strategy. If I were a prospective buyer who showed up expecting a pristine Painted Lady and got her diseased twin? Forget it. What else are they lying about?
Evidently Sean Godwin, Licensed Realtor, took a different approach. Bait the hook with big dreams.
Close to BART…Stunning original details…Fabulous natural light…360 degree views…
Priced to sell at $2.85 million.
I put the tear sheet back in the bin.
“Not interested?”
On the opposite sidewalk, Hattie Branch stood beside a wheeled shopping cart stuffed with grocery bags.
I smiled. “Out of my price range.”
I jogged across the street. “Can I get that for you, ma’am?”
“I’m fine, thank you, sir.” The cart wasn’t much smaller than she was. It thunked against the stairs. The tread edges bore divots from previous beatings.
At the door, she paused with her key out, glancing over her shoulder at me: why was I still there?
I was out of uniform; I didn’t think she’d recognize me. But then she smiled.
“You’re that young policeman,” she said.
“Clay Edison. How are you, Mrs. Branch? How’ve you been?”
“Oh, not dead yet. Yourself?”
“Good, thanks.”
She seemed content to rest awhile and catch her breath. Warm day, but she was wearing a woolen sweater and long skirt. Her shoes looked like shiny loaves of brown bread.
“Are you in the market for a new home?” she asked.
“Not at the moment, no. I heard she had plans to fix the place up again.”
“Well,” Hattie said, motioning: See for yourself.
I nodded.
She clucked her tongue. “It’s a shame, what they did.”
Did she mean the vandals? Rhiannon Cooke & Co.? Tuan Trang and Dane Jankowski?
“You must be cooking for an army,” I said.
Hattie smiled again. “My grandson’s coming for dinner. Which reminds me: I never did express my gratitude. To you, or the lady detective.”
The leniency shown Isaiah Branch hadn’t come about because of Nwodo or me. Once his tip turned out to be useless, she had seen no reason to intercede on his behalf. As far as I know, she never mentioned to Detective Bischoff that we’d spoken to his suspect. She told me—deadpan—that she didn’t want to get a reputation for meddling.
If Hattie Branch owed thanks to anyone, it was Tuan Trang. In his statements to police, he remained consistent that Isaiah did not know about the gun when the three of them went over to talk to Rhiannon Cooke. No way. He’d known Isaiah since they were six. Boy was soft. If Tuan had told him about the gun in advance, he probably would’ve pissed his pants. They didn’t go over there to threaten, but to talk. The gun only came out because the other guy pulled his first. The racist motherfuckers were going to lynch them.
No doubt there was a self-serving aspect to Trang’s version of events. But elements of the story were confirmed by two eyewitnesses—party attendees, dug up by the Branch family lawyer, Montgomery Prince. Both described Isaiah’s demeanor throughout the initial conversation as civil; Rhiannon Cooke as voluble and drunk.
That testimony, combined with the YouTube footage showing Isaiah surrounded by a chanting mob, led to waning prosecutorial interest. They had Trang. They had Jankowski.
One Shark, one Jet.
Tie game.
I started to tell Hattie there was nothing to thank us for, but stopped myself. She wanted to believe her good deed had borne fruit. I saw no reason to rob her of that.
I looked over at the Victorian. “Think she’ll get her asking price?”
“Oh, I don’t pay any attention to that sort of thing.” Hattie put her key in the lock. “You’ll excuse me, now, please. My ice cream’s melting.”
“Enjoy dinner.”
“I will. Take care, Officer.”
“You too, Mrs. Branch.”
She turned back to grasp the shopping cart. A sly pause. “Three hundred twenty-five dollars a square foot?” she said. She hauled the cart over the threshold. “I suppose someone’ll come along.”
* * *
—
OSWALD SCHUMACHER’S 39-MINUTE film, Anatomy of a Shooting, was accepted into the Napa Valley Film Festival, where it took second place in the category of Best Documentary Short. Opening with shots of the trashed Summerhof Mansion, Schumacher, in voice-over, discusses the challenge of treating a subject to which he maintains such an intimate connection.
This is a story written in my very flesh…
In the spirit of goodwill, a portion of the prize money would be used to establish a foundation, the Benjamin Felton Project, whose mission was to encourage and empower aspiring young filmmakers from low-income backgrounds.
* * *
—
THE WATERMARK SCHOOL remained shuttered through fall semester. An open letter from Camille Buntley, posted to the website, stressed that the closure was temporary and would last only as long as it took to complete necessary and long-deferred renovations.
Most costly was the Quonset hut, which had to be torn down and rebuilt. It was her belief that Watermark would not be Watermark without its traditional venue for Town Hall. She had polled the students. A strong majority agreed. Rather than proceed by half measures, therefore, she preferred to suspend operations until they could once more take up the cause of educating children who embodied the core values of independence, curiosity, and responsibility.
Saturday, December 14
10:47 p.m.
A moist pressure on my shoulder, a sluice of words. I looked up from my chicken breast to find Andrea’s stepmother, Regina, leering at me through yards of golden tulle.
“Congratulations to you,” she slurred.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Can I see it. Lemme see. Give it here.”
Amy dutifully extended her hand. Regina took hold—not gently—and ogled the engagement ring. “Verrrrry pretty.”
“Thank you so much,” Amy said, extricating herself.
“When’s the date.”
“We haven’t decided,” Amy said.
“Sometime next summer,” I said.
“Well I’d better be invited or you can bet there’ll be trouble.”
With as much apathy as I could muster, I raised my wineglass to her.
Regina tittered. “You’re cute.” To Amy: “He’s a cutie.”
“I think so,” Amy said.
“It’s cute how you and your brother do everything together. Even getting married in the same astral plane.”
Before I could answer, the DJ’s voice came booming through the PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen, keep on enjoying your dinner. It’s time now for the best man to say a few words. Put your hands together for Clay Edison, brother of the groom. Clay, get on up here.”
I took my glass and started across the parquet. Regina, applauding wildly, seized the opportunity to occupy my chair.
Stepping to the microphone, I looked out at a grinning menagerie.
The remnant of Luke’s high school circle. Some of them had been my friends, too. Our extended family, in from points near and far; my uncle Gunnar and aunt Becka, who’d driven their camper down from rural Washington State, one of the rare occasions they consented to leave the confines of their farm.
To the left, a very white smile: Scott Silber, CEO of Bay Area Therapeutics, LLC.
Plenty of strange faces, too. My brother always did have a gift for making friends. I wondered how many of them had served time.
Andrea’s side: square women packed into gowns, stringy menfolk twitching for a cigarette.
Paul and Theresa Sandek.
My father, agreeably dazed.
My mother, torturing her napkin.
I said, “When Luke and I were kids—”
From the back: Can’t hear you.
“When we were little,” I said, louder, “people used to mistake the two of us for twins. At least, that’s what my mom tells me. Ask me, I never saw it. For one thing, I’m obviously a lot better-looking than he is. But enough about that, I don’t want him crying on his special day.”
Too late someone called.
I said, “First, I’d like to take this moment to publicly acknowledge that my brother’s jump shot is better than mine.”
Luke laughed and shook his head.
“It’s true,” I said. “It used to frustrate the crap out of me. Hours and hours we’re playing against each other, putting in the same amount of work, and he’s getting better results. Why? I told myself that there was nothing I could do. I’d never shoot like him. Because he was talented.
“So I focused on other aspects of my game. I became a different kind of player, a different kind of person, in response to Luke. In a literal way he shaped who I am today, and I’m grateful for that.
“But—and this is the thing I missed, and what a lot of people tend to miss about Luke, because he can be a laid-back guy. They take his talent for granted. I’m as guilty as anyone here. More so. I know what it took to make that talent flourish. I just have a hard time admitting it to myself.
“Once, I must’ve been about six or seven, I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and Luke’s bed is empty. There’s this weird stomping sound coming from the living room. Dup. Dup. Dup. So of course, I go to check it out.
“Let me see if I can describe it to you. Here’s Luke. He’s standing there in his underwear, holding”—catcalls—“a basketball. He’s got the TV on, and the VCR, and he’s watching a video that we got as a free bonus when we subscribed to Sports Illustrated. It’s a bunch of music videos, each featuring a different NBA player. Michael Jordan, ‘Take My Breath Away.’ Charles Barkley, Dr. J, Magic. Luke has on the Larry Bird video.”
“ ‘Small Town,’ ” Luke yelled.
“That’s right,” I said. “John Cougar Mellencamp. Except Luke’s not actually watching the tape. It’s paused, on a frame of Bird, at the top of his shot, right before he releases. There’s a full-length mirror propped against the couch so Luke can watch himself. And he’s starting with the ball at his waist, and jumping up, trying to copy Larry Bird and get his arms into the same position.
“He’s just doing that, again, and again, and again.
A Measure of Darkness Page 28