by Lynch, Sean
“I’ll have to take this up with the district attorney before we can proceed with your participation,” Derlinger said loftily. Behind him, Sergeant Conley shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“How long have you been a deputy district attorney here in Alameda County?” Farrell asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Derlinger said.
“He’s been here about four years,” Conley answered for him. “Doesn’t even have one hash-mark on his sleeve yet.” Derlinger shot Conley a hostile glance, which the sergeant ignored. “You’d think he’d know better.”
“Feel free to contact the district attorney,” Callen said. “Would you like his home telephone number?”
Derlinger looked quizzically at Conley. “Judge Callen is the director and financial manager of the D.A.’s re-election campaign,” he said. “The sheriff’s, too.”
“I see,” Derlinger said. “I guess that eliminates the possibility of an impartial investigation into today’s shootings,” he snorted.
“Fuck you,” Kearns spoke up. “There wasn’t going to be any impartial investigation. This was a witch hunt from the get-go. You don’t even know the facts, yet you already made up your mind about me after reading that file.”
Callen put a finger to his lips and placed a hand on Kearns’ shoulder. “We all want the same thing, Deputy District Attorney Derlinger,” he said, “a fair and impartial examination of the facts. If you are unable to maintain impartiality, which my client believes, then perhaps another deputy district attorney might be better suited to preside over the legal review of this officer-involved shooting investigation?”
“Are you implying you can get me kicked off this case?”
“Are you naïve enough to think he can’t?” Sergeant Conley asked.
Derlinger looked around the cramped room. Eventually he exhaled in resignation and sat down. “It seems I have little choice,” he said.
“We all want the same thing,” Callen said. “To get to the truth. Shall we begin?”
“It’s about time,” Conley said. “The undersheriff is screaming for answers I don’t have.”
Sergeant Conley turned on his tape recorder and verbally identified everyone in the room. He also gave the date; July 11, 1990, and the location of the interview. He then read Kearns his Miranda rights.
At Judge Callen’s insistence, Kearns did not waive his rights. Conley then ordered him, as a sworn deputy, to answer his questions, which he was required to do as a condition of employment. By refusing to waive his protection under Miranda, yet cooperating in the administrative investigation, Kearns could prevent his statement from being used against him in a criminal proceeding should one result from the investigation, and at the same time preserve his job.
“Tell us what happened, Deputy,” Conley said.
Kearns narrated the shooting to the best of his remembrance. Conley and Derlinger took notes as he related the details of the gunfight. Farrell sat back in his chair with an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. When Kearns finished, Conley began asking more specific questions.
“How long have you been employed as a deputy with the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department?”
“Since last November,” Kearns said.
“And you attended the sheriff’s academy?”
“I graduated in March.”
“It wasn’t your first police academy, was it?”
“No. I completed the Iowa Law Enforcement Academy in Fort Dodge, Iowa in nineteen-eighty-seven,” Kearns said.
“How did you happen to come to California?” Derlinger asked.
“My client will answer only questions related to the officer-involved shooting today, or his law enforcement training and experience,” Callen interceded. “Please restrict your queries to those topics, or I will instruct my client to refuse to answer.”
“We have a right to-”
“You have a right investigate the shooting today,” Judge Callen cut him off. “Not to conduct another background investigation on my client. How he arrived in California is immaterial to what transpired today. We will concede my client, Deputy Kearns, was a duly sworn, fully-qualified and lawfully serving Alameda County deputy sheriff at the time of the incident today.”
“This is a sheriff’s office investigation,” Conley reminded Derlinger. “I’ll ask the questions.”
Derlinger fumed, but said nothing. Conley continued.
“After completing the academy, where were you assigned?”
“I completed the Jail Training Program and was assigned to work intake at the Santa Rita Jail. I got assigned to the Field Training Program a couple of weeks ago.”
“Who was your primary field training officer?”
“Senior Deputy Bernard Trask.”
“And where were you assigned to patrol?
“Eden Township Station. Deputy Trask and I worked in Castro Valley.”
“How was it that you happened to be at the projects in San Lorenzo today, if you were assigned to Castro Valley?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Derlinger asked.
Conley shot the D.D.A. another annoyed look before turning back to Kearns. “Why don’t you know?” he asked.
“After we ate lunch, Bernie...I mean, Deputy Trask...told me he had an appointment. He said he had to meet up with a pal. He told me to drive to San Lorenzo, so I did.”
“He didn’t tell you why?”
“No,” Kearns said, “and I didn’t ask. I’m a rookie in the F.T.O. program, remember? That means I’m lower than whale shit. Trask would tell me to drive somewhere, and I’d drive there. You remember what it’s like to be a rook, don’t you Sergeant?”
“I do,” Conley said.
“So now Deputy Kearns is asking the questions?” Derlinger scoffed.
“We’re going off the record,” Conley announced. He glanced at his watch, read the time aloud, and switched off the recorder. Then he turned to Derlinger.
“I’ve had about all the mouth I’m going to take off you,” he said to Derlinger. “You ain’t a cop, you don’t know how to conduct investigations, and you’re interfering in mine. You don’t need to be here. You can read a transcript of this interview in a few days from the privacy of your office. If you don’t shut the fuck up, and keep your snotty nose out of my investigation, I’m going to toss you out on your Ivy League ass. Got it?”
Derlinger glared at the detective sergeant, his face reddening.
“There’s the door,” Conley said, pointing to it with his thumb. “Shut up or use it. What’s it going to be?”
“I will remain to monitor the proceedings,” Derlinger announced.
“Then do it with your mouth zipped,” Conley said. He switched the recorder back on and gave the correct time.
“Did you notify dispatch by radio that you and your training officer were going off your assigned beat and into another city?”
“No,” Kearns said. “He told me not to. Said it would only be a quick detour, and we’d be back before anybody missed us.”
“Did you think that was unusual?”
“Not for Trask,” Kearns said.
“What do you mean?”
“Deputy Trask was always having me go off-sector.”
“What would he have you go off-sector for?”
“Sometimes he’d want to get lunch in Oakland or San Leandro, or go into Dublin to meet up with one of his patrol buddies at that station. Going off-sector was a daily occurrence. He was also real possessive of the radio. We only shared one portable between us, which he carried, and he wouldn’t let me use the car radio unless he said it was okay first.”
“Why didn’t you go inside the apartment with your F.T.O. and Detective Mendenour?” Conley asked.
“I was expecting to, since I’m supposed to be with my field training officer at all times,” Kearns said. “But Deputy Trask wouldn’t let me come with them. He told me to wait in the car.”
“How did tha
t make you feel?”
“I was used to it,” Kearns shrugged. “I’m a rookie. Deputy Trask treated me like one.”
“What kind of deputy was Trask?”
“That’s not for me to say,” Kearns said. “He was the one who was supposed to be evaluating me, not the other way around.”
“Come on, Deputy,” Conley prodded. “I see by your record you served in the army, and you were once a deputy sheriff in Iowa. You’ve also been employed by the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office for almost eight months. You’re a smart kid. You know the score. Tell me the truth. What do you think of Trask?”
“I think it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead,” Kearns said.
Chapter 5
“You hungry?” Farrell asked. “We could get a bite to eat?”
“I haven’t got much of an appetite,” Kearns said. “If you don’t mind, I want to get back to the station, get out of this uniform, and go home.”
At the conclusion of the interview, Sergeant Conley advised Kearns that he was officially on paid administrative leave pending the outcome of the criminal and administrative investigations into his officer-involved shooting. He also ordered the rookie deputy, due to the confidential nature of the inquiries, not to discuss any aspect of the incident with anyone except his legal counsel under penalty of termination.
Sergeant Conley further explained that once the criminal and administrative investigations were concluded, but before Deputy Kearns would be allowed to return to duty, a shooting review board would be convened to determine if the shooting was within departmental policy. Finally, he admonished Kearns that he would be required to participate in a mandatory post-shooting psychological evaluation, which was standard procedure for deputies involved in critical incidents or shooting situations.
Conley explained that Kearns would be required to phone into his duty station each morning at 9:00 A.M., and he’d be notified by his watch commander when and where to report for his psychological evaluation.
Kearns thanked the detective sergeant, shook his hand, and left the interrogation room with Judge Callen and Farrell on his heels. None of the trio offered to shake Deputy District Attorney Derlinger’s hand. Conley and Farrell agreed to keep in touch, and the Judge thanked him as well. Derlinger scowled but said nothing.
Farrell drove Kearns and Judge Callen from downtown Oakland to the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office’s Eden Township Substation in San Leandro in his brand-new, burgundy-colored Oldsmobile. Kearns needed to change out of his uniform and into his civilian clothes, and to retrieve his car.
“We have to talk,” Farrell said, once they were in his Olds and on the road. He lit a Camel from the dashboard lighter. “Something about this O.I.S. stinks. It’s all wrong.”
“I agree,” Judge Callen said from the passenger seat. “I’ve known Denny Conley for a long time, since his days as a rookie bailiff. He’s a solid deputy and a shrewd investigator. I believe Sergeant Conley has also surmised things aren’t as they should be.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Kearns asked. “You think Sergeant Conley believes I did something improper?”
“Hell no, Kevin,” Farrell said.
“Of course not,” Callen agreed.
“Then what’s got your hairs up? What do you think is wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Farrell said. “Are you kidding? Your field training officer orders you to drive him to meet up with a plainclothes guy in another city other than the one you’re assigned. He doesn’t notify the dispatcher he’s going off-sector, which is a violation of regulations. Together, he and the plainclothes deputy enter a vacant, boarded-up apartment in the projects, without telling you, his rookie trainee, why. Then he and his detective pal walk straight into an ambush.”
“An ambush?” Kearns said.
“You think those three armed guys in that apartment, and their wheelman waiting outside, were there by coincidence?” Farrell asked.
“I guess I hadn’t thought of it,” Kearns said. “I’ve been a little distracted by not getting killed.”
“Quite understandable,” the Judge said. “I concur with Bob. Your training officer was keeping an appointment with someone. He and his friend went to a pre-arranged meeting, for what purpose we don’t yet know, and were instead murdered.”
“Which means this isn’t about you, Kevin,” Farrell said, “and whether your shooting was legally justified and within departmental policy.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“Corruption,” Judge Callen said. “Police corruption.”
“Derlinger knows it, too,” Farrell added. “He may be a prick, but he ain’t stupid.”
“Question is,” the Judge said, “how far does it go?”
“A better question,” Farrell said, “is who can we trust?”
Chapter 6
By the time Farrell dropped Kearns off at his duty station it was nearly dark. Though it had been a warm July day, with nightfall the inversion layer had rolled in. In typical San Francisco Bay fashion the evening sky had become overcast and the temperature had sunk into the low sixties.
Kearns declined the dinner invitation, telling the older men he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to get a shower and into bed. He thanked both for coming to his aid, and they all agreed to meet at Judge Callen’s house in Alameda at ten o’clock the next morning. Callen’s spacious home in Alameda wasn’t far from Bob Farrell’s Lombard Street apartment in San Francisco, and quite close to where Kearns was staying on Bay Farm Island.
Deputy Kearns entered the locked station door with his key, and headed through the lobby to the stairs. He hoped to avoid encountering any of the other deputies, dispatchers, or civilian employees on his way to the locker room.
It was normal for a rookie in the Field Training Program to be treated warily by others, and in the past few weeks Kearns had been assigned to the Eden Station he’d certainly felt the detachment. The wash-out rate for recruit deputies was well over fifty percent, and law enforcement was a lot like the military in that nobody wanted to get too chummy with a rookie unless they were sure that deputy was going to be around. Typically rookies were treated with disdain for many months even after successfully completing the program, until they had ‘earned their bones,’ and demonstrated they could be relied upon in actual life-and-death situations.
In a profession where your life could depend on the performance and conduct of your co-workers, respect had to be earned. Rookie Deputy Kevin Kearns knew having his partner killed, even if he was his field training officer, could potentially put a big dent in what trust he’d accumulated among his fellow deputies during his short time at the Eden Station.
Kearns reached the bottom of the stairs and walked past the lunchroom to enter the locker room. He kept his head down, but was sure by the sudden onset of silence as he passed that most of the deputies and civilian personnel noticed him.
He went directly to his locker and stripped off his weaponless gun belt and tan uniform. Kearns would normally have showered before heading home, but wanted to vacate the station as quickly as possible. He hastily donned jeans, and was tying on a worn pair of jungle boots, when two deputies entered the otherwise empty locker room and approached him.
Kearns didn’t know them, since they obviously worked the evening watch and he’d been assigned to day watch along with Trask. The first deputy wasn’t more than a couple of years older than Kearns, and was wearing the boots and uniform of a motorcycle officer. The second deputy was an African-American man in his forties with a large belly and coffee stains on his tan uniform shirt.
“You’re Kearns, right?” the motor deputy said. “Kevin Kearns?”
“That’s me,” he said, without looking up from tying his boots.
“What happened in San Lorenzo today? Sounds like some seriously nasty shit went down.”
“Yeah,” the African-American deputy said. “Some nasty shit.”
“I’ve been ordered not to discuss it,”
Kearns said. “Sorry, fellas.”
Kearns finished securing his boot laces. Without looking at either of the other deputies, he began foraging in his locker. He hoped the pair would get the hint and go away. Seasoned deputies wouldn’t normally give a rookie like him the time of day, even if he had worked alongside them on the same swing shift.
“Word going around,” the motor cop went on, undeterred by what Kearns said, “is that it looked like fucking Stalingrad in that apartment.”
“Yeah,” the other deputy added, “that’s what I heard, too. Bullet holes and bodies everywhere.”
“Give me a break,” Kearns said. “I told you I’m not supposed to discuss it. I’ve got enough trouble already. I don’t need any more for disobeying a direct order.”
Kearns stretched a fresh T-shirt over his torso and removed his off-duty revolver from the top shelf of his locker. The weapon was a .38 special Smith & Wesson model 49 wearing a Tyler T-Grip. It was a gift from Bob Farrell. He checked to ensure the cylinder was fully-stocked with five cartridges and placed the gun into a Milt Sparks holster which he clipped inside his trousers over his right hip. He put a Bianchi Speed Strip, containing six fresh rounds, into the coin pocket of his jeans.
“What’s your problem?” the motorcycle deputy entreated, putting a hand on Kearns’ shoulder. “It ain’t like we’re not on the same team? You can tell us. We won’t say nothin.’ We’re all deputies, same as you.”
“Yeah,” the African-American deputy echoed, “same as you.”
Kearns gently shrugged off the hand, retrieved his coat, and shut his locker.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, locking the locker and starting past the deputies.
“I’ll tell you what,” the motorcycle cop said, stopping Kearns with a hand on his chest. “If I was a rookie and I’d let my partner get killed, I’d want to get the word out that I did all I could. We can help you with that. I’m just saying.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Kearns said. “You’ve got three seconds to get your hands off me, and two of them have expired.” He looked steadily into the deputy’s eyes. “Unless you like hospitals. I’m just saying.”