OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I want to know if I can count on you, Deputy Kearns.” The undersheriff’s eyes bored into Kearns. “I’ve got no use for a deputy I can’t count on.”

  “I’ll do the right thing,” Kearns said. “You can bet on it.”

  Chapter 15

  “It’s an ultimatum, all right,” Farrell said. “No doubt about it.”

  “I agree,” Judge Callen said.

  “An ultimatum for what?” Kearns asked.

  Farrell was driving Kearns and the Judge back to Callen’s home in Alameda from downtown Oakland in his Oldsmobile. The traffic was light as they entered the Webster Tube, one of the two underwater tunnels connecting Oakland and the Island of Alameda beneath the estuary. The fog had burned off, revealing a bright, mid-July day.

  “Tell me what else the undersheriff said to you,” Callen instructed Kearns.

  Kearns described the meeting with Undersheriff Fresco and the others in the conference room as best he could. He finished by announcing that his watch commander had scheduled him an appointment with a psychological counselor in Pleasanton later that afternoon.

  “I’m glad you didn’t punch out Derlinger,” Farrell said. “As much as he needs it, and I would have loved to see it, that wouldn’t have done you any good.”

  “That’s pretty comical coming from you,” Kearns said. “As if calling the undersheriff an asshole helped me?”

  “It certainly didn’t advance your cause,” the Judge admonished.

  “It seemed like the thing to say at the time,” Farrell said.

  “That deputy D.A. has a hard-on for me,” Kearns said.

  “It would appear he does,” Farrell agreed. “Makes a guy wonder,” he said. “Denny Conley say anything?”

  “He waited until I walked out of the undersheriff’s office and told me to tell you he’d call you later,” Kearns said.

  “He’ll keep his word.”

  “They’re not wasting much time,” the Judge said.

  “It would seem not,” Farrell agreed.

  “Would somebody please tell me what’s going on? Why was I called in to see the undersheriff today?” He turned in his seat to face the Judge. “What the hell was all the drama between you and Fresco about?”

  “Fresco and Sheriff Strummer are not the best of friends,” Callen said.

  “Fresco hates his guts, would be a better way of putting it,” Farrell said.

  “How do you know?” Kearns asked.

  “Fresco was a career deputy with Alameda County,” Callen said. “Strummer was the former Berkeley police chief, and the sitting chief of police in Hayward, when he ran for sheriff against Captain Fresco, the Alameda County Sheriff Office’s inside man. The loss didn’t sit well with Fresco or his cronies.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Farrell said.

  “Sheriff Strummer ran on a reformist platform,” Callen went on, “and since winning election has been largely successful in implementing major personnel and structural changes within the sheriff’s office. The most significant of those changes were the advent of strict new rules governing police misconduct, and the introduction of improved training along with rigid performance standards.”

  “Sound like he did good things for the department,” Kearns said.

  “He did indeed,” Judge Callen said. “It’s why I was not only one of his earliest supporters, but can proudly state I was one of the original chorus of voices which convinced Charlie Strummer to run for sheriff in the first place.”

  “I get the picture now,” Kearns said. “Fresco knows you’re in Strummer’s camp. Since you’re representing me, he assumes I am as well.”

  “Correct,” Callen said. “As one of Sheriff Strummer’s campaign and financial consultants, he would naturally consider me an enemy. I’m afraid having him aware I’m representing you may potentially cause you more harm than good. I’m sorry for that, Kevin.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” Kearns said. “I’m the one who imposed on you and dragged you into this mess. I’m grateful for your help.”

  “Glad to be of service,” Callen said. “I only hope it won’t be a hindrance.”

  “You’d think Fresco would be pleased that the department he spent his entire career working for was becoming a more professional organization,” Kearns said, “whether he was in charge or not.”

  “Not necessarily,” Farrell said. “Charlie Strummer changed the status quo. Not everyone was happy about that. Especially the bums and crooks he fired or convinced to seek employment elsewhere. There were a lot of people entrenched in the good ole’ boy system in place before Strummer took the helm. Fresco carried the banner for the old ways, and as a result thought he was the heir-apparent to the throne. Strummer’s election to sheriff proved otherwise, and the changes he brought upset the apple cart. There are still a fair number of deputies within the department who’d like to see a return to those days, and who support Fresco’s bid for sheriff.”

  “Who, by the way,” Callen said, “is actively involved in his challenge to Sheriff Strummer’s post this coming November.”

  “Fresco is running for sheriff against Strummer again?” Kearns said.

  “He is,” Judge Callen said.

  “So you see,” Farrell said to Kearns, “it’s not just about you.”

  “Then how do I fit in?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Farrell said. “If I had to guess, I’d say getting called in today was an opportunity for Undersheriff Fresco to size you up for himself.”

  “Why the hell would he want to do that? He’s the undersheriff; I’m just a rookie deputy in the Field Training Program?”

  “The shooting yesterday is an open book,” Judge Callen said, “and there’s no doubt the specter of corruption hovering over it is on everyone’s mind. The political impact the shooting and its aftermath could have on the campaign is very much up in the air. Sheriff Strummer undoubtedly knows this, and you can be sure Fresco does as well.”

  “Fresco’s worried about the fallout,” Farrell said. “He may not know what the full implications are for his political aspirations yet, and wanted to feel you out. He’s trying to get in front of whatever the investigation might reveal. It’s what I’d do in his place.”

  “You said Fresco was a captain,” Kearns said, “when he ran against Sheriff Strummer? How’d he get appointed undersheriff?”

  “Strummer extended an olive branch,” Callen said. “He tried to do what all good leaders do; get his subordinates on board. He was also being magnanimous. He knew Fresco was popular with the troops, and promoted him in an effort to demonstrate there were no hard feelings after he won the sheriff’s post. Strummer wanted to move forward, consolidate the two divided camps, and work together with Fresco for the betterment of the department.”

  “I’m not sure I entirely agree with the Judge’s assessment of why Fresco got promoted to undersheriff,” Farrell said. “Strummer’s motive in promoting Fresco may have been somewhat less noble. I think Strummer knew he didn’t have the political juice to get rid of Fresco, and if he had to keep him around decided the Sicilian adage about ‘keeping your enemies closer’ might be in his best interest. If you make the mutineer the first mate, he’s always up on deck at your elbow. He can’t be below decks fomenting an uprising.”

  “In either case,” Callen said, “there’s no love lost between Fresco and the sheriff.”

  “Anybody hungry?” Farrell said. “I’m starving.”

  “That’s something I’ve never heard you say before,” Kearns said. “Chalk up another benefit to quitting smoking.”

  “I didn’t say I quit,” Farrell corrected him. “I only said today was my first day without one.”

  “When was the last time you had a smoke?” Kearns asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Then if you don’t have one again, you’re quit, aren’t you?”

  “Logical bastard,” Farrell grunted.


  “It is about lunchtime,” Callen said.

  “I can always eat,” Kearns said.

  “How about Ole’s?”

  “Breakfast for lunch works for me,” the Judge said.

  Ole’s Waffle Shop has been smack-dab in the middle of Alameda’s historical Park Street Business District since 1927, and is known as the home of the best Belgian waffles to be found in California. Saturday night’s prime rib isn’t bad either, and on Sunday mornings the line of patrons waiting to get their after-church breakfast stretches around the block. Farrell found a rare vacant parking spot near the old Alameda Theatre.

  Once inside, the Judge wasted no time ordering a Bobbie Max special; a waffle, slice of ham, an egg, and coffee. Farrell ordered biscuits and gravy with a black coffee, and Kearns got a Denver omelet and a tall glass of grapefruit juice.

  Once the waitress had put in their orders and dropped off their drinks, Farrell discreetly withdrew his flask and generously spiced his and the Judge’s coffee.

  “I guess some things never change,” Kearns said.

  “One vice at a time, kid,” Farrell said. He and Callen clinked coffee mugs and drank.

  “There’s something I have to tell you, Your Honor,” Kearns began, after clearing his throat. Despite the fact that the diner was crowded, Kearns was able to keep his voice low and still be discreetly heard.

  “Paige and I broke up last night,” he said. “I thought you should know.”

  Judge Callen examined the contents of his coffee mug for a long minute. “Thank you,” he finally said. “I realize what is between you and my daughter is personal and private, but I appreciate you informing me.”

  “You have a right to know,” Kearns said.

  “If I may ask,” the Judge said, “who broke up with whom?”

  “It was a mutual decision,” Kearns said. “I don’t think I’m Paige’s kind of guy.”

  “Are you still on civil terms?”

  “Of course,” Kearns said. “There’s no animosity that I’m aware of.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t be civil to Paige,” Callen said. “I was more worried about the other way around.”

  “I have nothing bad to say about Paige,” Kearns said, “and would have trouble with anyone who did. I can only hope she feels the same about me.”

  The Judge’s demeanor had taken a visible jolt. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” he said. “You know I think a great deal of you, Kevin. After what you did for Paige, I thought...”

  “Me too,” Kearns said. “She had different ideas.” The Judge only nodded.

  “Kevin’s staying with me for a while,” Farrell said, “until he gets a place of his own. Maybe we’ll all get together for dinner this week? Three footloose, carefree bachelors out-on-the-town. What do you say?”

  “That would be nice,” Callen said, his voice far away.

  No one spoke again until the food came. Farrell ate like Kearns had never seen him eat before, but the Judge and Kearns barely touched their food. Kearns insisted on paying the tab, and Farrell drove them the few short miles to Callen’s magnificently restored home on Dayton Avenue in Alameda’s Gold Coast. All were silent during the ride.

  Farrell and Kearns walked Callen to his door. Both shook his hand, and Kearns thanked him and asked about the fees for his legal services.

  “I wouldn’t dream of charging a friend,” Judge Callen said, patting Kearns on the shoulder. “We remain friends, do we not?”

  “Of course,” Kearns said, somewhat taken aback by the question. “That’ll never change, Your Honor.”

  The Judge smiled, bid his goodbyes and entered the house.

  “I didn’t mean to ruin his lunch,” Kearns said, once he and Farrell were back on the road. “He took the news of the split hard. I feel like I kicked him in the teeth.”

  “What did you expect?” Farrell said. “Judge Callen’s past seventy and he ain’t getting any younger. He was hoping you and Paige would get hitched and pop out a few puppies.”

  “Paige won’t have trouble finding another guy,” Kearns said. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “She’s also high-maintenance as hell. That tends to ward off a lot of fellows. Besides,” he said, “Iron Gene thinks pretty highly of you. Maybe he doesn’t figure Paige could do any better?”

  “For the record,” Kearns said, “if you’re trying to make me feel like less of a heel you’re failing miserably.”

  “It’s not my fault the Judge believes you’re a nice guy,” Farrell quipped. “That simple-minded, corn-fed, Iowa charm of yours must have fooled him.”

  “But it didn’t fool you, huh?”

  “Hell no,” Farrell said. “I think you’re a fucking jerk.”

  Chapter 16

  “This is the place,” Kearns said, looking from the business card in his hand to the placard on the door. “Marks Psychiatric Services.”

  “I hope they have comfortable chairs in the lobby,” Farrell said. “As goofy in the head as you are, this could take a while.”

  Once Kearns and Farrell deposited Judge Callen at home they realized they didn’t have time to drive all the way back into San Francisco, pick up Kearns’ Jeep, and return to the East Bay in time to make his appointment. Kearns’ mandatory psychological evaluation had been set by the sheriff’s department for 2:00 P.M. in Pleasanton.

  Pleasanton, California was a residential community nestled at the apex of the San Ramon, Livermore, and Amador Valleys. It’s also situated at the intersection of Interstate Highways 580 and 680, which puts the city only twenty-five miles east of Oakland, thirty-three miles east of San Francisco, and twenty-seven miles north of San Jose. As a result of its geographically advantageous location for residents commuting to any of those major cities, Pleasanton was one of the most affluent mid-sized towns in America.

  Downtown Pleasanton was a beautifully-restored hub of shops, offices and restaurants featuring some of the excellent wines made from grapes grown in nearby Livermore Valley vineyards. Farrell noticed the sprinkling of eclectic bars as he parked the Oldsmobile at the downtown plaza where the psychiatrist’s office was located, and remarked about one saloon in particular which advertised Guinness on tap via a neon sign in the window.

  “I’ll know where to find you after I get my head shrunk,” Kearns said, noticing Farrell’s scrutiny of the taverns.

  “I’ll walk up with you,” Farrell said, dismounting the car along with Kearns. “I want to get a look at this witch-doctor for myself.”

  They made their way to an upper floor of the plaza and found the office they were looking for. They entered to find a warmly-furnished waiting room with a large desk in front of a closed door. A woman was seated behind the desk, and looked up as Farrell and Kearns entered.

  “May I help you,” the woman asked. She was a strikingly-handsome woman in her late forties, with short blond hair and penetrating eyes.

  “Deputy Kevin Kearns to see Dr. Marks,” he said. “I have an appointment.”

  The woman put on a pair of reading glasses hanging from her neck by a chain and scanned her desk-calendar.

  “Right on time,” she said. “And you would be...?” she asked Farrell.

  “Bob Farrell,” he said.

  “I assume you’re an employee of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office?”

  “No,” Farrell said. “I’m employed by the attorney who’s representing Deputy Kearns.”

  “I see,” she said. “You’ll have to remain outside while Deputy Kearns is consulting with the doctor.”

  “Of course,” Farrell said. “I’ll wait here if that’s all right?”

  “By all means. Please make yourself comfortable.”

  The woman rose and walked through the door, closing it behind her. In doing so she revealed an excellent figure, with full breasts, a tiny waist, and toned legs. She was dressed in an elegant business-length skirt and blouse, and wore conservative heels.

  “You shouldn’t stare and drool at the
same time,” Kearns said. “It makes you look like even more of a degenerate than you already are. Besides, she’s too classy for you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I know you.”

  “I think she digs me,” Farrell said. “I’m getting a strong Lauren Bacall vibe from her.”

  “If she tells you to ‘put your lips together and blow’ when she comes back,” Kearns said, “I’ll vomit.”

  “Did you see a ring on her finger?”

  “Why the hell are you asking me? You were the San Francisco police inspector for thirty years. You’re the one who’s supposed to have keen powers of observation.”

  “I wasn’t looking at her fingers,” Farrell said dryly.

  “I’ll bet you weren’t,” Kearns said.

  “I wonder if she’s single?” Farrell said. “Secretaries have social lives too, you know.”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Kearns said. “Once she stops pointing at you and laughing she might even give you an honest answer.”

  Before Farrell could retort, the door opened and the woman returned. “Please come in,” she said to Kearns.

  “If I were you,” Farrell whispered to Kearns as he followed the woman, “I wouldn’t tell the doctor quite yet about your sexual proclivities involving bovine animals. Save it for the next visit.”

  If the woman heard what Farrell said she didn’t show it. A red-faced Kearns extended a middle finger at Farrell once she turned her back.

  She led Kearns down a hallway into a large, thickly-carpeted room with two of its walls comprised entirely of shelves filled with textbooks. There was no desk, only a small table with a stack of folders on it, a couch, and several very comfortable-looking oversized leather chairs. There were a number of large palm plants and ferns stationed in the room, and the walls not covered in books were adorned with framed diplomas.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere you feel comfortable.” She sat down in one of the leather chairs adjacent to the table, crossed one shapely leg over a knee, and picked up the stack of folders. Kearns waited for her to sit, then took the chair opposite her.