by Nick Keller
Council for the Prosecution Eyvers stood and said, “Your Honor, I’m advising the witness not to answer that question.”
“Witness will answer the question,” the judge said.
Eyvers bit his lip and sat down.
“I walked in,” Bernie said, his defenses growing.
“But how did you walk in, Mr. Dobbs?”
“Your Honor, I’m advising my witness not to answer,” Eyvers yelled.
The judge looked at him impatiently and said, “Councilor, are there any questions you’ll allow your witness to answer?”
Eyvers huffed, beaten, and sat down.
Amanda Treadwell was insistent. “It’s a simple question. How. Did you. Walk in? Was it like this?” She strutted across the space in front of the bench, hips swinging. “Maybe it was like this.” Now she power strolled back to her original position.
Bernie sneered, squeezing his hat all out of whack on his lap. He knew when he was being toyed with. “No,” he said.
“Then tell us. How’d you walk in?”
Eyvers said, “Your Honor, this is ridiculous. The witness is not on trial!”
Treadwell thrust herself at the witness stand taking Bernie’s attention, eyes locked. “You know how to walk, don’t you? You did learn, didn’t you?”
Bernie flushed with anger. “I had the goddamn warrant.”
The gavel smashed. “Mr. Dobbs!”
“Then answer the question. How did you walk in?” Treadwell insisted.
Bernie shot a look at Eyvers for instruction
“Don’t look at him, Detective. Look at me!” Treadwell said.
He looked at her. He felt trapped, helpless, slapping the fedora on his knee.
“Tell us, how did you walk in?” she asked.
“I just did,” he said, trying to breathe—goddamn necktie was too tight.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He tugged on it, loosening it.
“You do too. You’re avoiding the question.”
“What question?”
“Specifically, how did you walk in? It’s a simple question. It’s not complex. It requires only the mind of a child. A child could answer, Dobbs. How did you walk in?”
“I kicked the fucking door open!” He roared like a cornered animal.
The gavel pounded. Eyvers dropped his head into his hands, exasperated.
The courtroom fell silent. Amanda Treadwell stepped away from the stand grinning with enormous satisfaction and directing her gaze to the jury. “What right did this officer have to forcibly enter a privately-owned residence with a warrant that hadn’t so much as been fully processed, issued nor presented?”
Bernie sat there fuming, temperature spiking, face turning fireplug red, tie restricting his throat like a noose. “We had… the warrant.”
“In fact, you didn’t! It was at the police station going through this little thing we in the judicial system like to call due process. So, how do we know you didn’t plant said evidence just so you could…”
Her words faded out. She bleated on about his guilt, but the world went mute inside his ears. His hands wrapped themselves around the stand rail, fingers squeezing until knuckles went white. The wood grains wrung together, creaking under pressure.
Breathe, Dobbs. Don’t jump across the stand, don’t tackle her down, and for God’s sake, don’t strangle her long narrow throat. Don’t.
His eyes snaked across the courtroom to see his captain standing in the back, regarding him with a look of impending doom on his face. Bernie was about to pop. He had to force a breath, sit back, relax. That’s when Treadwell’s words rose back up in his ears as she finished her statement.
“… and you, Detective Dobbs, with a history of scurrilous procedure and police cruelty are a sad example of L.A.’s finest!”
Within minutes, Eyvers requested a mistrial. The judge was quick to grant one.
Out in the hall, Bernie stormed around the corner leaving Eyvers and the Prosecution in his dust. The courtroom was emptying. People flooded out moving toward the exit. Bernie’s tie swung loose around his neck, the knot hanging down to his belly. His eyes were a raging storm, mad as hell, hawking over the crowd.
He didn’t know who he wanted to get ahold of first. Rothwell, the child rapist. Or Treadwell, the devil’s little succubus. In truth, he didn’t care. He smelled blood.
And there they were, surrounded by a whirlwind of photographers and journalists, all taking pictures and yelling questions. There was even a police escort. Rothwell’s hands were up in a patient gesture and he bore the look of a man who’d just navigated some horrible gauntlet, Amanda Treadwell at his side, everyone hustling him toward the exit.
Bernie started climbing through the crowd. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, goddamn you!” Everyone’s attention was caught, heads yanking around to see him fighting through like a raging bull. Two court guards cut him off, their hands all over him.
“How does it feel, Rothwell, huh? Pimping kids out on the internet—is that what you like?”
“Bernie!” Heller yelled charging up from behind.
Rothwell waved at him, still smiling, and began moving away. The crowd surged.
Bernie manhandled one of the guards off him. The guy struggled back, yanking him off course. Bernie met eyes with Treadwell, looking charged. “And you, you blood sucker!” He pointed at her angrily making her flinch back. But she was implacable, stoic as a stone. “It’s people like you—Gah!”
A taser weapon hit Bernie with an electric crackle making him take a knee. He jerked the electrode pins out with a snarl and threw them down as the guards dropped their weight on him, tackling him, each pinning an arm, the crowd going into a frenzy and vacating as quickly as possible, cuffs sounding off as they slapped around his wrist, that damn necktie rubbing the polished floor.
12
Reamed
The clinker. Jail. Small time suckers. He’d been here before. It had been a long time. Back then it was for stupid kid stuff. Criminal mischief. Loitering. Once, he’d gotten a public intox, but it had gotten thrown out. That was before he was a cop. Before he’d tasted the world for all its bitterness. Back when he was a stupid kid and his biggest concern was which quarterback he would face in Saturday’s game. Now, he looked at the gray walls and the cold bars through knowing eyes. The judge had issued him thirty days for disturbance—thirty fucking days. What an asshole.
Bernie sat on the bench leaned over, watching that stupid, yellow tie hang down and swing between his knees. Footsteps approached, then the sound of somebody dropping their suit jacket over the back of a chair, dropping a briefcase to the metal floor. Bernie didn’t even bother to look up. He recognized the voice when it started talking. It was District Attorney Eyvers.
“You dumb son of a bitch. You dumb, stupid son of a bitch.”
Bernie said, “Watch it, man.”
Eyvers yelled, “Shut the fuck up, Dobbs! All you had to do was keep your goddamn mouth shut. Plead the fifth. Refuse to respond. Something. But no, you couldn’t even do that, could you? Goddamn it. I spent months putting this case together. Hell, even you did. And you just blew it. And for what, because you couldn’t just shut your mouth, not for two goddamn minutes? Goddamn it!”
As much as Bernie wanted to argue, he knew he couldn’t. He said, “They had us.”
“It was a fucking technicality, moron. So what! The judge threw the whole goddamn case out! And now this? Oh my God.”
“We couldn’t win!”
Eyvers flinched ridiculously. “Couldn’t win? Yes, you fucking idiot, we could’ve won. Do you think there was one person on that jury that wanted to see that motherfucker walk? One person! Do you think the Defense’s little technicality would have held any water at all? Hell no. They would have convicted him in a minute. He’d be on his way to prison, right now! Until of course, you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut. Jesus! I kicked the goddamn door open. Are you kidding me? What did yo
u think the judge was going to do? Did you really think he wouldn’t throw the whole case out after that? Oh, then—here’s the coup de grace—you go after the Counsel for the Defense! A woman! Holy shit. That’s just fucking brilliant.” He spun around on his feet and snickered without humor, “And the way she played you. Goddamn. You let that bitch pick you to pieces in there. You let her play you like a piano. You were a little toy-thing in her hands—putty, a big wad of putty. I mean, Christ, if it wasn't so tragic it would’ve been beautiful. Watching her unravel you like a knit—I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.”
Bernie got to his feet stabbing knives at him with his eyes. “Back off, man.”
Eyvers gave an unbelieving look with wide eyes, face red. “Back off? Did you just tell me to back off? Fuck you, Detective! You’re no better than the grade-A scumbags we try to put in here, you stupid, stupid motherfucker. You dumb, stupid cunt!”
Bernie was trapped. He was behind bars, unable to respond. Otherwise, he would’ve taken that numbskull around the throat and fed his heart to him. But he couldn’t. So, he just heaved while Eyvers walked another circle rubbing his head like drying his hair with a towel. He calmed and stepped back toward Bernie. “You joined this department to do a job, right? It was a decision, the decision to make this your career, right?” Painfully, he said, “But you never committed yourself to the rules. The rules, man, the goddamn rules.” He took a breath and continued, “I hate to say it, but until you do, you’ll always just be another dangerous pile of shit calling himself a cop, because look what you did today. We had him. Jesus, we had him. He was right here. Right in the palm of our hands, man. And now… poof. He’s gone.” He made a gesture like releasing an invisible bird into the air. “And do you want to know what the irony is? Now that he’s out there in the world free to do whatever, you get to sit right there in your little cell and wonder how the fuck did it come to this?”
Eyvers collected his jacket and threw one arm on, then the next, cooling down. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go home. I’m going to ask my kids how their day was. Then I’m going to wonder how many predators eyeballed them today. Then I’m going to send them off to bed and not think about it anymore. You know why? So I can sip on some cheap whiskey and screw my wife in peace without thinking I’m the asshole that put the one witness on the stand that just let the worst pedophile crap heap of them all off on a technicality because he couldn’t just shut up! Jesus!”
He snatched his brief case, stormed to the exit, and turned around. “Sleep well, asshole.” Then he was gone.
Bernie huffed like a bull. It was suddenly harder to breathe than before. Everything felt choked—his chest, his heart, his throat. He sat down, ripped the goddamn tie off his neck and heaved it to the floor.
A moment later, there were more footsteps. Again, Bernie didn’t bother to look up. He recognized the voice. Captain Heller.
“Prosecutors, huh. And I thought only cops got in a bad mood. You did deserve it, though, you know. I mean, all things being what they are, you did. Admit it.”
Bernie looked up at him with the discomforts of humility turning him red. He said, “I did what I had to do to bring that piece of shit in. I did what I had to do.”
Heller nodded, “Well, if it was only that simple. Come on, let’s get out of here.” He yanked the door open. Bernie just looked at him. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to leave. Heller grinned. “The judge doesn’t want you sitting in his jail, Bernie. He may not like you—well, right now, no one likes you except maybe the Defense—but at least he knows which side you’re on. That much is clear. So, let’s go.” Bernie still didn’t get up. Heller became impatient. “Jesus, I’ll buy you a drink.”
Bernie got up to his feet but Heller stopped him, pointing to the silk, yellow necktie on the floor. “Hey, you better get that. Someone might hang themselves with it.”
Bernie leaned over and swiped it up off the floor, “Heh—not a bad idea.”
13
Shooters & Shit
Murphy’s Shift House was a cop’s bar. That’s why it was called Murphy’s—because everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. The long blackwood bar was to the right of the entry and there were off duty cops winding down at the tables. TVs mounted up high quietly showed the news although the L.A. Dodgers were playing on one.
They strolled up to the bar, Bernie calling, “J.D. Black, Morris.” The bartender, a rotund, bald seventy-something, knew the boys well. He had a bottle of J.D. Black already in hand, chinking ice cubes into twin tumblers. It would be Wellers for Captain Heller—easy to remember, that. He’d learned long ago not to ask how his clientele were doing. Half of them came into the bar because of how bad their day was, specifically. He just kept his mouth shut, poured the drinks, and spoke when he was spoken to. It made his job easy, anyway.
Bernie downed his first drink crunching ice in his teeth and tapped the tumbler for another. He noticed Heller look at him cross. “You on a tear, Bernie?”
“Blame me if I was?” The big man snatched his second drink and sipped. He puckered his lips looking into the glass, observing the rich golden color of his liquor, perhaps searching for his soul in there.
Heller sipped his Weller’s and clunked it on the bar. They didn’t say a word for a long time and Heller knew Bernie would never drink enough to rid him of his frustration. At least not tonight.
Bernie was content not saying anything, so Heller took it upon himself to begin the conversation. “You still don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”
Bernie huffed, “I wasn’t the one twittering eight-year-old girls and pervin’ them out on the Internet. Motherfucker ought to be shot. All I did was kick his door down. You tell me, Captain.” He sipped again.
Heller turned to face him on the barstool. “Look, Bernie, that’s the difference between them and us, pal. They don’t have to play by the rules. They’re not supposed to. That’s what makes them wrong. But us,” he said bitterly, “we got to play by the rules. Yeah, it’s no good. It’s not fair. But, you know, that’s what makes us right.”
Bernie gave him a heavy look. “You lecturing me, Cap?”
“Fair enough.” He sipped, biding his time. “But I’m sorry to say, my friend, today’s just getting worse.”
“Ha!” Bernie said, disgruntled. “How’s that?”
Heller cleared his throat holding his drink up and said, “I’m busting you down, Bernie.” He chugged it, plopped it down and tapped the glass. Morris was waiting. He poured a nice big one. Heller swished his glass looking at it. He could feel Bernie staring at him, the way a dog would stare at its food before being given the command to eat! Heller finally said, “I don’t have a choice. That whole scene back there—do you realize what it just did to our department? I give Internal Affairs three days. No, two—two days. They’re going to be all over us.” He started counting on his fingers. “Wrongful arrest procedures. Prejudicial treatment of a suspect. Inappropriate due process. Then, what the hell was that afterwards? Some might call it assault, resisting arrest, God knows what else. Jesus, man.”
Bernie felt utterly betrayed, “You were waiting for this whole thing to go south, weren’t you?”
“Waiting, yes.” Heller matched eyes with Bernie. “Hoping, no. Come on, man, you think I like this shit?”
Bernie took a big, frustrated breath. “Busting me down to what?”
“Cold Case,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Cold Case.”
“Aw, for fuck’s sake, man. The Dead Bin?” Bernie was crushed.
“It’s either that or march you in front of I.A. for the whole world to see. You think you’ll keep your job after that, with all the ammunition they have—all the ammunition you just gave them? Not to mention, you don’t have the shiniest history with them, you know. Jesus, Bernie, you’d be lucky if they didn’t bring charges against you.”
“Fuck I.A.”
“You’re not going to get very
far with that.”
Bernie plopped his big hands down on the bar, shaking his head. He looked at Heller and said, “Can’t you do something?”
“Nothing, Bernie. I’m out of options.” He delivered this like a cold, hard truth. “I’ve pulled too many strings for you already, bent too many rules.”
“It’s Cold Case, Cap. Can’t you issue a transfer request, get me back on Narcotics or something?”
“They need an investigator. A spot opened. Timing’s right. Consider yourself lucky,” Heller said with a blithe attitude and sipped his drink.
“Captain…”
Heller spun on him, half angry. “Narcotics kicked you out anyway, remember? What makes you think they’d have you back?”
“I ain’t going to the Dead Bin. No way.”
Heller clunked his glass sharply down on the bar top and said, “Look, Bernie, it’s the Dead Bin or nothing. That’s the way it is. All you owe me is a yes or a no. And I’m starting not to give a good goddamn which one. God, you’re an ungrateful son of a bitch, you know that?”
“Fine,” Bernie said, getting to his feet. “Do what you got to do, then. Oh, and here, have my fucking drink, too.” He smacked the bar, turned, and headed for the door.
Heller watched him leave with a look of sympathy on his face. If ever there was a self-destructive asshole in the world, he was watching him storm out of Murphy’s Shift House right now. Poor guy.
His eyes drifted down to Bernie’s drink. It looked gold and wet. He shrugged muttering, “Well, it’s something.” He chugged it down.
Bernie stormed out to his Nineties model Ford Crown Vic. It was one of the last of the big American four-door sedans. After that it was all rubber bubble cars. He reached the car but didn’t get in, too hot under the collar to sit down. Instead, he punched the top and paced back and forth along the driver’s side. He stopped, just staring back at Murphy’s entrance. He could go back in there, take Captain Heller by his scruff, quit the goddamn L.A.P.D. and give him a few ‘what fors’. Yeah, that’s what he’d do, really give old Heller a good shot of terror. He clapped his hands together out of frustration. Nah—he couldn’t do that. Half the bar would come down on top of him, goddamn cops.