by Lynch, Sean
“What evidence?” Pickrell challenged.
“Sergeant Avery has a good memory, and he apparently kept good records. He told the Feds it was because he never trusted any of you.”
“That’s just Avery’s word,” Pickrell said. “That’s not evidence.”
“Oh yeah? What about that custom boat you keep stashed at your father-in-law’s, and the fancy truck you pull it with? That’s evidence, and it was paid for in cash you got from Avery.” He turned to Fresco. “What about all those B-girls you’ve been banging over the years? Bet you didn’t know the no-tell motel on Hegenberger Road you boink them in is bugged. Avery liked to hedge his bets. Federal agents are viewing those tapes right now. Some of those girls look a lot younger than eighteen, Undersheriff. And how about you, Myron? All those junkets to the Oaks Card Room in Emeryville weren’t financed by your wife’s Christmas Club account, were they? Avery’s got records of every one of those payouts.”
Kearns scratched his head. “Sergeant Avery was in a very talkative mood last night. He kept a lot of bureaucrats awake. The search warrants on your homes are being served as we speak.”
“You’re a clever little prick,” Fresco said, “but I don’t buy it. Even if all that crap you said is true, which it ain’t, I know Vince Avery. He’d never crack. That fucker is tough-as-nails.”
“Maybe once,” Kearns said, “but not today. After his crew gunned down four deputies, and most of them got killed trying to kill me, the dope sales shut down. That pissed the Nuestra Familia off. Then he really fucked up and got caught popping a couple of caps into one of his own vatos himself. He was the most-wanted cop-killer Avery was harboring all along. That made him further persona-non-grata with the Familia. Now they’re really pissed at him; lethally pissed. Avery’s got no choice. Give it up to the Feds, or go to jail and take what he’s got coming from the Familia. They’d kill him for what he did to Arturo Cervantes the same as if he turned rat, so why not turn rat?”
“How do you know all this?” Derlinger said.
“Bob Farrell figured it out. Then he wrapped it around Avery’s neck and strangled him with it. I don’t know if Sergeant Avery is tough-as-nails, like you say, but he’s certainly not quiet-as-a-church mouse. He’s gossiping like a pre-teen girl at summer camp and cutting himself a sweet deal with the Feds to save his own skin. Which means you three chumps are being hung out to dry.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” Pickrell said, but Kearns could see the fear behind his eyes. Derlinger walked over to Fresco’s desk, picked up the phone, and began dialing.
Kearns grinned from ear-to-ear. “Avery’s giving you all up. How does it feel to be thrown under a bus?”
“You’ve got an overdeveloped imagination,” Fresco said. “Do you really think you can buffalo me with that fairy tale about Avery turning rat?”
“It isn’t a fairy tale,” Kearns said. “It’s going to be the headline on tomorrow morning’s edition of the San Francisco Chronicle.”
Derlinger spoke into the receiver a moment and then hung up. His face had gone gray.
“Was that Avery?” Fresco asked.
“No,” Derlinger said, his voice cracking. “It was my wife. There’re federal agents at my house right now. They have a warrant.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Pickrell said. He grabbed the phone and dialed. After a moment he replaced the receiver.
“Nobody answered,” he said. Panic was beginning to show in his features. “It just rings and rings. It’s Sunday fucking morning. My wife and kids are at home. Why wouldn’t they pick up?”
“You know the answer to that,” Kearns said. “Unlike the Feds in Myron’s kitchen, the agents in your house probably won’t let your family use the phone until they’re done serving the warrant.”
Fresco stood up, his significant bulk looming over Kearns. “What the fuck is this?” he said.
“The end of the line,” Farrell announced, bursting through the door and into the office. Judge Callen, Special Agent Steve Scanlon, and a mob of men in suits entered behind them. Bringing up the rear were several reporters and their cameramen. The last person to come in was Sheriff Charlie Strummer, with Sergeant Denny Conley at his elbow.
“My name is Special Agent Steve Scanlon of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Organized Crime Division,” Scanlon dramatically announced, cognizant of the cameras. “I have federal warrants for the arrest of Undersheriff Wade Fresco, Lieutenant Scott Pickrell, and Deputy District Attorney Mryon Derlinger, on charges of corruption, bribery, and racketeering.” He made an elaborate gesture of setting three pieces of paper on Fresco’s desk. “More charges will follow.”
“Looks like we’re not going to be facing off in November after all,” Sheriff Strummer said to Fresco, as agents handcuffed him and removed his gun. Other agents did the same to Lieutenant Pickrell and Deputy District Attorney Derlinger, who was openly crying.
“Kiss my ass, Charlie,” Fresco said as he was led out.
“I told you I’d do the right thing,” Kearns said, as Fresco passed him on the way out.
“I want to make a deal,” Derlinger declared, sobbing uncontrollably. His legs gave out and two agents had to drag him to the door. “I don’t want to go to prison,” he wailed. “I can’t go to prison. I’m an attorney. I have a wife and children.”
“He’s going to be popular in the yard at Quentin,” Kearns remarked, as the blubbering deputy D.A. was carried out.
“Like a canker sore at a kissing booth,” Farrell said.
Pickrell walked towards the door under his own power with agents flanking him. His head was hung.
“Hey Pickrell,” Farrell called out to him.
The Internal Affairs Lieutenant looked up.
“Train’s a-comin’,” Farrell said, pumping his fist twice. “Toot toot. All aboard?”
Pickrell’s head fell as he was led away.
Sheriff Strummer stepped up to the microphones extended in his direction, put on his reading glasses, and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Wait until you hear this,” Judge Callen whispered to Farrell and Kearns.
“As the result of an ongoing investigation by my office and the office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, involving courageous undercover operatives such as Deputy Kevin Kearns, corrupt elements at the highest levels of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department have been rooted out and eliminated. The deaths of four deputies within the past week speak to the abominable levels of criminal conduct which had permeated the agency. In keeping with my promise to the good citizens of Alameda County when I took this office nearly four years ago, I have worked tirelessly to eradicate the dishonest, tainted, and crooked elements which had infiltrated and taken root before my arrival. With today’s arrests of three sworn deputies, including the undersheriff, as well as a deputy district attorney, the good folks of Alameda County can rest assured that Charlie Strummer is not afraid to do the right thing, however difficult, and I’m tirelessly dedicated to ensuring only the highest levels of integrity within the ranks of those who wear the star of deputy sheriff.”
“That speech sounds like you wrote it,” Kearns said to Callen, as the sheriff began answering the barrage of reporter’s questions.
“That’s because I did,” the Judge said.
“He called me a ‘courageous undercover operative’,” Kearns said. “Are you kidding? I felt like a clay pigeon.”
“Who cares if a little history gets re-written?” Farrell said. “Sheriff Strummer’s doing the smart thing, and he’s going to do right by you. This police corruption scandal is a political tsunami. He can either hop on a surfboard and ride the wave or get drowned under it. By allowing the sheriff to create the narrative that he was part of the solution all along, he can puff himself up and score points with the voters. More importantly, he’s in your debt.”
“This is your doing, isn’t it?”
“Both of ours,” Farrell said, pointing his thumb at Judge Callen.
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“We made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” the Judge said. “Just like Don Corleone.”
“In exchange for Jennifer dropping her lawsuit against the sheriff’s office,” Farrell said, “and your promise not to sue, as well as your agreement to go along with his story about directing a corruption investigation, Sheriff Strummer happily agreed to a few minor concessions.”
“Minor concessions?”
“You’re officially off probation, effective today,” Farrell said. “You now have full Civil Service protection. You’re also going to be awarded the departmental medal of valor.”
“You’ve got to be kidding?” Kearns said.
“He’s not,” Callen said. “There’s more.”
“You’re now a detective,” Farrell continued. “You’ll be assigned to Denny Conley, who’s being promoted to Lieutenant. He’s the new Investigations Division commander.”
“What about the old Investigations commander?” Kearns said. “How does he feel about being replaced?”
“He’s happy as a clam, according to Denny,” Farrell said. “He’s getting transferred to Internal Affairs to replace Pickrell.”
“Good for Sergeant...er...Lieutenant Conley,” Kearns said.
“I was also able to wangle a few goodies for us,” Farrell said.
“He most certainly did,” Callen agreed.
“Why am I not surprised?” Kearns said. “Bob could swindle Cinderella out of her glass slippers. Let’s hear it.”
“Strummer’s office is going to pay for the damage to my apartment, the Judge’s house, and cover Norm Hynds’ hefty protection fee.”
“The taxpayers are footing the bill?”
“Nope,” Farrell said. “Drug dealers. The money’s coming out of an asset-forfeiture fund.”
“Very slick,” Kearns complimented.
“On top of that,” Callen added, “Jennifer’s going to get a nice settlement to help defray her law school expenses.”
“All that’s got to be a small fortune,” Kearns said. “How’d you get Sheriff Strummer to go along?”
“It was easy,” the Judge said. “Compared to what he would have to pay out if a lawsuit went forward, it’s a pittance. He couldn’t politically survive the bad press a lawsuit would generate and he knows it. If he wants to stay the sheriff, he has to pay. Once again, Bob played his cards well.”
“He always does,” Kearns said. “Nothing for you?” he said to Farrell.
“Jen’s safe. You’re safe. As far as I’m concerned, I hit the jackpot.”
“Thanks Bob.”
“Don’t mention it. There’s someone else you should probably thank.” He motioned across the room.
Kearns walked up to Special Agent Scanlon and extended his hand. “Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me,” Scanlon said. “Thank your friend Bob Farrell.” He accepted Kearns’ offered handshake. “He’s the one who reached out to me. Because of him I’m now the F.B.I.’s West Coast golden boy. This major police corruption pinch will get me out of the doghouse and back into the game.”
“I’m happy for you,” Kearns said. “You deserve it. I appreciate what you’ve done to help us out, and I won’t forget it.”
“You know,” Scanlon said, “I had to have surgery to repair the number you and Jennifer Farrell did on my nose.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Kearns said.
“No you’re not,” Scanlon chuckled.
“You got me there.”
“Speaking of getting my nose broken,” Scanlon said to Farrell, “how is that pretty redheaded daughter of yours?”
“Funny you should ask,” Farrell said.
Chapter 50
When Farrell, Kearns and Judge Callen arrived at Callen’s home in Farrell’s Oldsmobile, there were two large construction trucks parked in front, and several workmen busily repairing the damage to the house. Norm Hynds was in blue jeans and a baseball cap, and conversing with a younger man in overalls who bore a strong resemblance to him. It was early afternoon, and the July heat was in full bloom.
“How the hell did you get a work crew to come out on a Sunday?” Farrell asked Callen as they got out of the car.
“I didn’t,” the Judge said. “Norm did.”
“This here’s my little brother Bart,” Hynds said, as the men made introductions and shook hands all around. “He’s the owner of a contracting company. He was more than happy to come out on a Sunday, especially with the hourly rate the Judge was paying.”
“Actually, the hourly rate Sheriff Strummer is paying,” Callen said. “I want my home back to normal as soon as possible.”
“It’ll be good as new by the end of the week,” Bart said.
“Where’s Jennifer?” Kearns asked.
“She’s inside with some guy who drove up in that rental,” Norm said, pointing to a shiny sedan parked across the street. “He got here about ten minutes before you guys.”
“Tall fellow, with a haircut that looks like it cost more than my car?” Farrell asked.
“That’s him,” Norm said.
“Excuse me,” Farrell said, heading for the front door.
“Excuse us,” Kearns said, following on his heels.
“This should prove interesting,” Callen said.
“We don’t want to miss out, do we?” Hynds said, taking the Judge’s elbow. “Come on.”
They could hear a man’s angry voice before they entered the house. Farrell and Kearns followed it to the living room, where they found Jennifer seated in a chair. She was holding a bundle of tissue and softly crying. A large man about Kearns’ age was standing over her. He was pointing his finger at her and his face was red.
He was over six feet tall, and had a husky build. He wore a dress shirt, no tie, khaki trousers and leather deck shoes with no socks. His collar-length hair was coiffed and parted in the middle, and his too-even tan didn’t come from the sun. He looked up sharply when they entered.
“This is a private conversation,” he said brusquely.
“This is my house,” Judge Callen said.
“So?” he countered. “This is my girlfriend.”
“What are you doing here?” Farrell said.
“I took a redeye from Omaha,” he said, “if you must know.”
“Mom probably called him after I phoned her,” Jennifer said. “I didn’t know he was coming. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Farrell said.
“You sure as hell do,” the man said, turning his ire towards Farrell. “I hear Jennifer was nearly killed while staying at your apartment. Hell of a father, you are. I’m taking her back to Omaha tonight.”
“Like hell you are,” Farrell said. “You hit my little girl, you son-of-a-bitch.”
“Dad,” Jennifer said, warning in her voice. “Remember your promise? You swore you wouldn’t do anything to Stephan.”
“What’s he going to do?” Stephan said to Jennifer. “Your drunk old man even thinks about taking me on and I’ll break him in half.” He leered at Farrell. “Go ahead, Daddy-O; make a move.”
“You promised,” Jennifer said again.
“That’s right,” Farrell said. “I did.”
“I didn’t,” Kearns said, taking off his coat.
“Who the fuck are you?” Stephen said.
“The guy who’s going to change your religion,” Kearns said, stepping forward.
“Buddy,” Stephan said, “I’ve got four inches and forty pounds on you, and I used to play varsity lacrosse. I will fucking dismantle you.”
“Keep Jennifer out of the way,” Kearns said to Farrell out of the side of his mouth.
“Done,” Farrell said.
“I hear you’re hell-on-wheels when it comes to slapping around hundred-and-twenty pound females,” Kearns said. “Why don’t you quit running your mouth and start working your fists on somebody a little more than half your size?”
Kearns stepped to within arm’s length of him. Farrel
l moved to a position between Jennifer and the two men squaring off.
“It’s your funeral, asshole,” Stephan said. Then he did exactly what Kearns was expecting.
Kearns knew that large men, especially ones with a history of bullying and without formal hand-to-hand combat training, often initiate the first blow in a physical confrontation with a push to their typically smaller adversary’s chest. The scene is played out in schoolyards everywhere, every day. Kearns wasn’t in a schoolyard.
Instead of bracing himself or moving forward against the violent push, Kearns clasped both his hands over Stephan’s and stepped back. This drew the larger man forward and off balance, and straightened out his arms.
Kearns explosively pivoted ninety degrees to the right. He slammed his left palm into Stephan’s right elbow, against the joint, while still trapping his right hand. He brought all the momentum he could muster from his widening stance and turning hips, and all the power he’d developed from years of regular weightlifting. The sound of Stephan’s elbow shattering filled the room.
Stephan screamed, but his shriek was cut short. Still holding Stephan’s now useless right hand in his own, Kearns pivoted back to his original position, bringing his left elbow along for the ride. The grinding crunch of breaking teeth was audible, and Jennifer gasped.
When Kearns brought his left arm back around again, it was in a fist. The left hook snapped Stephan’s head back before it had finished rebounding from the previous elbow-strike.
Stephan started to slump to his knees, but Kearns wouldn’t let him go down. He released the right arm and gave him a four-shot, ‘left, right, left, straight,’ combination which pummeled first his left eye, then his right, his left again, and ended on his nose. Stephan Ainsley stumbled backwards, crashed into an antique coffee table, and fell to the floor.
A second later Kearns was standing over him. He had Stephan’s collar in the grip of his left hand, and his right fist was poised for another punch. Stephan’s nose was shattered, both eyes were beginning to swell shut, and most of his front teeth, both upper and lower, were gone. Blood flowed freely down his face.