OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  When the Alameda police arrived, Kearns held up his badge and I.D. card and let things unfold. He was, unfortunately, all-too-familiar with the routine. He gave the responding officers a description of the fleeing shooter and of the suspect’s vehicle. Then he requested his watch commander at the sheriff’s office be notified, and invoked his Miranda and Peace Officer’s rights and refused to speak any further.

  He surrendered his gun and was placed in the back of a police car for the second time in two days. A short while later a young patrol officer was assigned to drive him to the hospital to have his blood drawn.

  Unlike the overweight, morose sheriff’s detective who’d been assigned that duty yesterday, his chauffeur tonight was a fit-looking Alameda cop about his age with a reddish, military haircut. He had one hash mark on his sleeve, and like Kearns, carried himself with military bearing.

  “You okay?” the cop asked.

  “Yeah,” Kearns said, “but you can forget about asking me any questions. I already invoked.”

  “I ain’t going to ask you any questions,” the cop said. “Far as I’m concerned, you haven’t said a word. That’s what I’m going to tell the sergeant when he asks, anyway. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’ve been where you are myself. More than once.”

  “You’ve been in officer-involved shootings?”

  “Three,” the cop said. “I know the score.”

  “This is my second on-duty shoot,” Kearns said.

  “How long ago was the first one?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Holy shit,” the cop paused. “You were involved in that big A.C.S.O. gunfight in San Lorenzo, weren’t you? Where those two deputies got killed?”

  Kearns saw no point in denying it. His identity would get out soon enough. “That’s me,” he said.

  “Rough couple of days,” the cop said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  The cop handed an unopened bottle of water to Kearns through a port in the patrol car’s cage. “You been drinking?”

  “Like I said, I’m not going to answer-”

  “I’m only asking because you’re wearing a fancy suit,” the cop said. “Figured you might have been out on a date or something. If you have some booze on board, I can fake like I have a flat tire and buy some time for your body to metabolize the alcohol.”

  “Thanks,” Kearns said, “but I’m good. I had a swallow of beer more than an hour ago, otherwise nothing alcoholic all day. I should be okay.”

  “Drink the whole bottle of water anyway,” the cop said, “just in case.” Kearns did, and found he was quite thirsty. He knew his dry throat was a symptom of the adrenaline surge he’d experienced during the shootout.

  They drove to the Alameda hospital, where a nurse extracted a couple of vials of blood from Kearns’ arm for the second time in two days. The cop marked the blood vials as evidence, pocketed them, and escorted Kearns back to the car. This time he let Kearns ride up front.

  A few minutes later they arrived at the Alameda Police Department. Kearns remembered he had once before been an involuntary guest at the City of Alameda’s jail, not long before becoming an Alameda County deputy sheriff.

  “Good luck, Deputy Kearns,” the cop said as he walked him up to the third floor where the Investigations Division was housed. He offered his hand. “I know what it’s like to be judged by admin pukes and I.A. rats who never had the balls to pull a trigger themselves. Office pogues always assume since they never had to shoot anybody, you must have fucked up if you did. Don’t let them rattle you. You did good. You’re alive.”

  “I appreciate it,” Kearns said, shaking his hand.

  Kearns was deposited alone in an interrogation room, and sat down to what he knew would be a long wait. A half hour later a detective entered the room, offered him a bathroom break and a cup of coffee, which he declined, and let him make some phone calls. He phoned Farrell’s pager number, punched in his sheriff’s star number, and then the number of the phone he was calling from. He finished by dialing in 9-1-1.

  Farrell called back less than five minutes later, from what sounded in the background like a crowded restaurant. Kearns briefly told him what happened, and Farrell promised to round up Judge Callen and be in Alameda within the hour. Kearns settled in to wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes after he hung up with Farrell the door opened and four men walked in, filling the room.

  “I should have guessed you’d be the first to arrive,” Kearns said to the first man who entered. “Hello, Myron.” The men behind him were Sergeant Conley, Lieutenant Pickrell, and a tall man Kearns didn’t recognize who he assumed was an Alameda police detective.

  “We’re not friends,” Derlinger said. “You will address me by my appropriate title.”

  “Have it your way,” Kearns shrugged. “Hello, Douchebag.”

  Conley stifled a grin, Pickrell remained impassive, and the Alameda detective looked puzzled. Derlinger’s face darkened.

  “Get your laughs while you can,” he said to Kearns. “You’ll be laughing in jail pretty soon. You really stepped in it this time. Your days of freedom are numbered.”

  “I want it formally noted,” Kearns said to Conley and Pickrell, “for the record, that Deputy District Attorney Derlinger has clearly demonstrated prejudice. The investigation into tonight’s happenings has only begun, I haven’t answered any questions, yet he has already determined, apparently by means of his vast investigative experience, that I am not only guilty of wrongdoing, but criminal conduct warranting my arrest and incarceration as well.”

  “So noted,” Conley said, his grin fading.

  “I see Judge Callen and your shady mentor Mr. Farrell have coached you well,” Derlinger said.

  “Fuck off, Myron. I’ve already invoked. My lawyer is on the way.”

  “We’ll see who’s the one getting fucked when I’m done with you, Deputy.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” the Alameda cop demanded.

  “A witch hunt,” Kearns said. “As far as Deputy District Attorney Derlinger is concerned, I’m wearing a pointy black hat and riding a broom.”

  “There isn’t going to be any witch hunt on my watch,” the Alameda cop said. “I’m here to obtain the facts, and the truth, and that’s what my investigation is going to get.”

  “I assure you, Sergeant Tarant,” Derlinger said to the Alameda cop, “Deputy Kearns is in no position-”

  “I already heard what you said,” the Alameda detective cut him off. “Get out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” Tarant said. “Get out of this room. If you give me any more lip, I’ll kick you out of the building.”

  “Now see here, Sergeant-”

  “Don’t lecture me,” Tarant said. “This is a city investigation, not a county investigation, which means you’re nothing but an uninvited guest. I don’t give two smoking shits for whatever political bullshit you have going on in Alameda County right now. This is the City of Alameda, and I’m in charge. I’ve got two stiffs out on Bay Farm Island and a crime scene that looks like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre, and I sure as hell don’t have time for any axe you’re grinding. Whatever happened tonight, I’ll get to the bottom of it. But I ain’t going to do it with you in my way. Get out, or I’ll throw you out.”

  “The District Attorney is going to hear about this,” Derlinger said, heading out the door.

  “You’re goddamned right he is,” Tarant said. He turned to Conley and Pickrell. “You two got any problems I need to know about?”

  “We’re here to get to the truth, like you,” Conley said.

  “We appreciate being allowed to participate,” Pickrell said. “Hopefully we have some information and resources to contribute which you might find helpful in your investigation.”

  “You got any objections to them sitting in?” Sergeant Tarant asked Kearns.

  “None,” Kearns said. “But with all due respect, Sergeant, I
’d like to wait until my attorney gets here.”

  “Of course,” Tarant said. “Who’s your lawyer?”

  “Judge Eugene Callen,” Kearns said. “You know him?”

  “Hell yeah,” Tarant said. “He lives in here town. Everybody knows him. Stand-up guy. You couldn’t do better.”

  “I’m hoping I won’t have to,” Kearns sighed.

  Chapter 25

  “You’re firing me?” Kearns said.

  “No,” Lieutenant Pickrell said, “You’re not technically being fired. Your employment status as a probationary deputy sheriff is being terminated.” He handed Kearns a letter printed on Alameda County Sheriff’s Office stationary.

  “Not technically fired?” Farrell said. “Are you kidding?”

  “I am not,” Pickrell said.

  Kearns was in the chief’s conference room of the Alameda Police Department, along with Bob Farrell, Judge Callen, Sergeant Conley, Sergeant Tarant, and Lieutenant Pickrell. Tarant had concluded his investigative interview of the rookie sheriff’s deputy.

  “On whose order?” Kearns asked.

  “All I’m required to tell you is-”

  “Tell him,” Farrell interrupted. “He has a right to know.”

  “I don’t answer to you,” Pickrell said to Farrell.

  “The notice is signed by Undersheriff Fresco,” Kearns said, staring at the paper. “Take a look.” He handed the paper to Judge Callen.

  “Kevin’s almost been killed twice in the past two days,” Farrell said, “as a direct result of his service as a deputy sheriff. Now you want to cut him loose?” Pickrell said nothing.

  “Did you know about this?” Farrell turned to Conley.

  “I did not,” the sheriff’s detective said. He gave his superior officer a hard look. “I wouldn’t have allowed Kevin’s interview to go forward if I’d known, and I certainly would have told him beforehand.”

  “Why did you wait until after Kearns’ interview was over to spring the news on him?” Farrell asked. “If you knew you were going to toss him overboard when you arrived, why didn’t you tell him then?”

  “Because if Kevin isn’t a deputy, he’s a civilian,” Judge Callen said. “Lieutenant Pickrell would have no authority to compel him to give a statement. This way he had his cake and got to eat it.”

  “That was a lousy thing to do,” Farrell said. “I won’t forget it.”

  “I wasn’t legally required to notify Kearns at any particular time,” Pickrell said defensively. “I followed regulations. I simply happened to notify Deputy Kearns at the conclusion of his interview, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Callen said. “You may have followed your departmental regulations, but you should have notified Deputy Kearns up front.”

  “That would have been the decent thing to do,” Sergeant Tarant said, shaking his head. “What you did, Lieutenant, is one of the most fucked up things I’ve ever seen a cop do to another cop, and I’ve been on the job almost thirty years. For the record, you’re a fucking rat.”

  “You can say that again,” Kearns said.

  “You’re being insubordinate, Sergeant,” Pickrell cautioned Tarant. “I’m a lieutenant.”

  “This ain’t the army,” Tarant shot back. “I don’t work for the sheriff’s department, so I don’t take orders from you. You want to make a complaint about my conduct? I’ll give you my lieutenant’s home phone number. You can call him up and tell him I called you a rat. He’ll ask me why. I’ll tell him. Then he’ll call you a rat.”

  “It’s what you are,” Kearns said.

  “Mind your tongue,” Pickrell said.

  “Kiss my ass,” Kearns said, standing up. His fists were clenched. “I’m not in your chain-of-command any more. Which means the next time you try to give me an order I’m going to make you eat it.”

  Callen reached up and put a hand on Kearns shoulder, gently pressing him to sit down. Kearns reluctantly complied.

  “This action would appear to constitute a direct violation of the provision within the Peace Officer’s Bill of Rights which specifically prohibits retribution against a sworn officer for being involved in a shooting incident,” Callen said.

  “No it doesn’t,” Farrell said. “The good lieutenant here had it all figured out. As a probationary employee, Kearns can be discharged without cause for up to two years after being sworn in as a deputy. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Farrell,” Pickrell said. “Civil Service rules are quite clear.”

  “I’m sorry kid,” Sergeant Tarant said. “I didn’t know he was going to pull this stunt, or I wouldn’t have allowed him to stay and observe the interview.”

  “Forget it,” Kearns said. “I told you it was okay to let him sit in. I didn’t see it coming either.”

  “I’ll take your badge and I.D. card now,” Pickrell said to Kearns. “You can make arrangements with Sergeant Conley to turn in your uniforms and any other departmentally-issued equipment within the next few days. Anything you don’t turn in you’ll be billed for.”

  “Give my regards to Undersheriff Fresco,” Kearns said. He tossed his I.D. card and badge on the table.

  “C’mon, Kevin,” Farrell said. It was his turn to stand up. “We’ve got a date with a reporter.”

  “That’s right,” Judge Callen said, tilting his head and smiling at Farrell. He pushed himself to his feet with his cane. “Wouldn’t want to keep the press waiting.”

  “What are you talking about?” Pickrell said. “What reporter?”

  “I don’t answer to you,” Farrell fed Pickrell’s words back to him. He motioned the Judge and Kearns towards the door.

  “You are prohibited from speaking to the press,” Lieutenant Pickrell said, pointing his finger at Kearns’ back. “Details of pending officer-involved shooting investigations are highly confidential. If you-”

  “If he what?” Farrell said, turning around. “Mister Kearns isn’t a deputy any more, or did you forget already?”

  “I can talk to whoever I want,” Kearns said.

  “You have absolutely no authority to compel Mister Kearns to limit the expression of his First Amendment rights,” Judge Callen said. Like Farrell, he over-emphasized Kearns title. “He is no longer a sworn deputy, and not subject to your regulations. He may speak to whomever he wants, whenever he wants, about whatever he wants. That doesn’t exclude reporters.”

  “Especially reporters,” Kearns said.

  “Which means he’s free to talk about the shooting yesterday,” Farrell said, “his beliefs about the character of the deputies who were murdered, his personal feelings about their motive for being at the location where the shooting occurred, and of course, his opinion about corruption within the sheriff’s office and its potential connection to the afore-mentioned deaths. He may also assert his theory about how one of the same murderers from yesterday’s killings happened to be waiting to bushwhack him on his doorstep tonight. Odd how he knew where Kearns’ lived, isn’t it? I’ll bet a reporter or two will ask about that.”

  “That’s only one person’s opinion,” Lieutenant Pickrell said.

  “You’re right,” Farrell agreed. “Except that one person’s opinion happens to belong to the only surviving eyeball witness directly involved in both shootings. That lends that one person some serious credibility, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Kevin may feel like advancing the hypothesis,” Judge Callen said, “that the attempt on his life tonight was an ambush orchestrated by someone within the sheriff’s office. Especially since as a sworn deputy his address is unlisted, and nobody except personnel within the sheriff’s department would have known where he lives. I suspect a lot of voters in the region might draw the conclusion that corruption might not only exist within the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office, but could be rampant and pervasive. Three murdered deputies and two attempts on a third, in a little over twenty-four hours? That’s bound to raise a few eyebrows.”

  “Dead cops sell pape
rs,” Farrell said. “That’s a fact. I’m betting there isn’t a reporter in Northern California who wouldn’t want to interview the only deputy who lived to tell the tale of both shootouts. I’m guessing Mr. Kearns will have a sore throat by morning, with all the talking he’s going to be doing.”

  “I’m in a real talkative mood,” Kearns said.

  Pickrell’s face reddened.

  “Undersheriff Fresco didn’t think this out, did he?” Farrell said. “Apparently he never heard of the law of unintended consequences. By cutting Kearns loose he thought he was going to tie this thing off and bury it. He also thought he could throw some dirt on Sheriff Strummer in advance of the upcoming election. Instead, all he did was cut his own throat. Thanks to what you just did, this mess is about to blow up in his face.” He wagged a finger at Pickrell. “Sheriff Strummer has to get re-elected, but Undersheriff Fresco is an at-will employee. When the sheriff finds out what his undersheriff did-”

  “Rest assured I’ll be notifying him personally,” Callen said,

  “-he’s going to dump Fresco faster than you dumped Kearns.”

  “If not tonight,” the Judge said, “certainly after he sees tomorrow morning’s headlines.”

  Farrell looked at Pickrell. “Shit rolls downhill, Lieutenant. I’m betting the undersheriff’s last administrative act, before becoming a civilian like Kevin, will be to fire you.”

  “I wouldn’t take that bet,” Sergeant Conley said.

  “Me either,” Tarant said.

  “Kearns already has a questionable history and reputation,” Pickrell argued. “By talking to the press he’d be practically implicating himself in any corruption allegations he makes.” He stared after Kearns. “Is that what you want?”

  “What do I care?” Kearns said. “I’m just another unemployed civilian.”

  “Your future in law enforcement would be ruined,” Pickrell said.

  “You’ve already seen to that,” Kearns said. “Besides, I’ve been there before.” He opened the door. “Let’s go,” he said to Judge Callen and Farrell. “I’m done talking to cops.” He looked back at Pickrell.