by Tom Pitts
The sparring drained him though, and he sought refuge in the tech room. He sat alone in there, waiting. He was waiting for the other two witnesses to be brought in to ID Ramon. He was waiting for the door to open and the bright office light to spill in and give him an instant headache. Soon, someone would pull him out for some task that they could easily figure out on their own. He wanted just a few more minutes in the dark, listening, trying to decode the long and steady rhythm of Ria Flores’ sobs.
• • •
“You know the drill, bud.”
Bud. It pissed Alvarez off. He hated being called bud. It was almost as bad as being called guy. Vince stood behind the glass beside Terry Schmitz, DA Harris, and two of the DA’s henchmen. One shy tech sat behind them with his headphones on. The room was dim and silent. On the other side of the glass the platform was empty. They all looked blankly at the blue horizontal stripes indicating height. 4’, 5’, 6’. Their anticipation made the platform seem like a stage.
“Tell ‘em we’re ready,” Terry said to the tech.
A door opened and an antiseptic white light filled the platform. Six young men walked slowly up onto the platform. They stood there, facing straight ahead, waiting for instructions.
“Turn toward the window,” the tech said into the mike.
The six men turned together and Alvarez saw that they all wore Giants shirts. The same design, the one with the word Giants splayed across a baseball. The logo seemed familiar and friendly to Vince. Out of place.
“What do you think?” Terry asked. “You want me to have ‘em turn around? Say anything?”
“I dunno.”
But Alvarez did know. He looked at those six faces, each of them barely distinguishable from the next. He wanted this to be over more than anything. He missed his partner, but he wanted his life back. He looked at those six faces, trying to take his time.
He knew who Ramon Flores was; it was his beat. He’d seen him and his brother around the neighborhood. It was his job. Maybe reporters couldn’t find out who the boy-wonder was, but cops loved to gossip. Word was all over the Mission Station about who the young witness was. Vince got three phone calls before Schmitz even called him in for the line-up. Vince Alvarez knew exactly who Ramon Flores was.
He looks just like him, thought Vince. He looks just like the guy Bobby Reese described. Shit, they all did, but Ramon really fit the bill. Vince looked hard at him. An assessment. A judgment. Could this kid have done it? Could that really be the cold-hearted piece of shit that shot my partner? His gut was talking, but he only listened to his head.
“Well, what do you think?” Terry asked again.
“Number four.”
“Number four, step forward,” repeated the tech.
Ramon stepped forward. There was fear in his eyes. Nothing else. No sign of any deep buried guilt. He didn’t know why he was there, had no idea what possible piece of evidence could drag him into such a nightmare. He only felt fear. Cold, tactile, instinctual fear.
Terry held his breath and waited for Alvarez to make his decision. The boy had been easy, going through the motions, identifying his own brother. Strike one. Bobby Reese took a little longer, but not much. Bobby thought for a minute that it could have been number two. But then Bobby smartened up and came around and picked Ramon. Strike two. Now it was up to Alvarez, the cop. Irreproachable evidence. Identification by one of San Francisco’s finest would be the last nail he needed.
Vince decided. It was enough. He wanted this to be over more than anyone.
“Number four.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Terry rubbed his hands together and turned toward DA Harris. He tried not to grin. “You heard him.”
DA Harris pursed her lips together and nodded.
Terry let it out, a thin shallow smile.
Strike three.
EXTRA INNINGS
Oscar was a hero. The city had their killer. Three eyewitnesses. Three strikes. Oscar couldn’t explain why it fell into place like that. He could only guess that things were the way they were supposed to be. It was God working in his life. Hard to believe, though. Why would God look out for Oscar? He’d never been there to save him before. Even when Ramon was on him and he prayed for God’s help. Maybe it was Hugh Patterson, stepping in from the heavens for one last good deed.
Oscar’s identity was kept a secret. He overheard people in the Mission talking about the boy-witness in exalted terms. The accolades made him feel good, a part of something bigger. But back on his block, where people knew both him and Ramon, the feeling was not so pleasant. Oscar’s face seemed to bring up a subject the neighborhood wanted to forget. He was a living reminder of the crime, an unavoidable connection by blood. The community would never be able to sever him from his brother’s guilt. There was judgment, confusion, and very little empathy. How could they understand? Oscar told himself, they didn’t know.
Days turned to weeks and Oscar watched the baseball season crawl by. The Giants leapfrogged all over the National League West. Oscar tried to stay focused on the team, but baseball was slowly eclipsed by the upcoming trial. The summer had thrust him forward toward adulthood long before he was ready.
Their home was quiet now that his brother was gone. The dark door to Ramon’s room remained closed and Oscar did his best not to look at it. He moved about the apartment normally now, like he lived there, like he belonged. And at night, he slept the deep sleep that children sleep. When he woke in the morning, his mother had usually gone to work. It was just Oscar and his thoughts, alone in the house. He felt calm, independent, grown-up. Oscar liked the feeling. He felt no guilt.
Oscar sat at the kitchen table, the sports page spread out before him. A portable TV on the kitchen counter blasted cartoons that Oscar ignored. He spooned heaping wet lumps of cereal into his mouth, not worrying about the milk dribbling down his chin. This is how Oscar forgot about Ramon, by losing himself in the simple pleasures of being fifteen.
“Hello, Oscar? You here?”
Ria had arrived home early. The salon’s manager had been sympathetic to Ria ever since the story broke. She’d have sent Ria home everyday if she didn’t believe her work at the salon was helping hold the poor woman together. At some point, though, the tears became too much, bad for business, and she had to ask Ria to head out early.
Oscar heard the door shut, the familiar creak of the footsteps, and waited for his mother to appear at the top of the stairs. He didn’t wipe his chin or reach for the volume on the TV.
Ria appeared at the top of the stairs looking completely disconnected from the bright voice Oscar had heard moments before. The woman at the top of the stairs looked tired, beaten. Oscar knew that what he’d done had aged his mother. He clung to the hope that the reward money would change all that. He would buy his mother makeovers, days at the spa. She would go to the big salons and sit as a customer instead of sweeping up the hair clippings of those that could afford it. He thought of that reward money as the greatest Christmas gift he could ever give his mother and he guarded the hope like a secret surprise.
“Oscar, sweetie, we need to talk.”
He could tell by her eyes that she’d been crying again. Puffy and red and ringed with darkness. They’d been through this before. She’d ask him why, and he’d say that she wouldn’t understand. Then the tears would really flow. Oscar would squeeze her hand. His mother would squeeze back, hard. He would feel her fingernails biting into his palm.
If they could just get through this pain, clamp their eyes together so tight that they could squeeze the pain out, then they would be okay, be normal, like everyone else.
“Make me understand.”
“Mama …” He already heard sobs choking in the back of her throat.
“Just tell me why. Why you did this. How did this happen? Why wasn’t he upstairs? I thought he was upstairs. I know he was upstairs.”
“Mama, we’ve been through this. He wasn’t upstairs. He wasn
’t who you think he was, I promise. I didn’t do anything—you didn’t do anything. It’s not our fault—none of it.”
It was hard for Oscar to watch the confusion in his mother’s eyes as they darted back and forth searching him for some new information. She wanted answers, but she only wanted the answers she wanted to hear.
He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell the whole truth. About why Ramon faltered when they pressed him for what he was doing the moment the shots were fired. Ramon looked scared and guilty because he was. About why he hated Ramon and why Ramon’s crimes were just as bad as murder.
“If he was upstairs, then how could this thing happen? Why did you say this thing happened?”
Here it came.
“Why didn’t you say he was upstairs?”
Oscar looked right at her. She was lost. The tears in her eyes welled up and spilled down her cheeks. His mother thought this thing could be undone. Maybe Oscar would apologize, think maybe it wasn’t Ramon. What was the word? Recant. She believed her son was innocent. It made no sense to her. Ramon was not capable of this kind of destruction.
Oscar knew otherwise. Oscar knew Ramon was a sadistic son-of-a-bitch. His mother, though, would never accept that such a sick, twisted pervert had sprung from her loins, was somehow a part of her. Oscar wanted to tell his mother that what he did made it right. He had found a way to make sense out of it. It was a gift. He used the gift to make things right. Ramon ended up where he belonged and, now, he and his mother were going to be able to have a life.
Oscar sat, lips pinched tight. They’d been over this ground again and again for the last several weeks. There was nothing he was going to say that she wanted to hear.
“Mama …” was all he could say. He let it hang there. It was left open-ended, like a promise, ambiguous and unfulfilled. He couldn’t say another word. He wanted to. Maybe after the reward. Reminding himself about the reward strengthened him. It gave him stamina for her pain. He pushed the cereal bowl aside and reached across the table to offer his hand. She took it and squeezed.
That night Oscar dreamed he was pitching for the Giants. He stood on the mound far away from home plate. The crowd was there. He could feel them. He couldn’t see any of them—not one—but he could feel them. They were expecting a pitch. Home plate seemed impossibly far away. He’d never thrown a ball that kind of distance before. He looked up at the scoreboard and saw Ramon’s junior year school photo stretched across the screen. Oscar looked away. The catcher was signaling but he was too far away. Oscar couldn’t make out the catcher’s hand signs. He stood there, trying to look like he was winding up. He kept the ball tucked away in his glove and waited, terrified.
Finally the catcher began the long walk out to the mound. Oscar waited for him. He noticed for the first time the light and heat of the midday sun. The closer the catcher got, the more Oscar became aware of his uniform. It was real Giants gear. It was an affirmation of the dream. It was really happening. He saw the thick official seams disappearing beneath the professional leather catcher pads. He heard the creak of the equipment as the player stepped up onto the mound. The catcher looked right at Oscar and lifted his mask. It was Hugh Patterson, smiling the same smile from the photograph. He looked happy and relaxed, like baseball itself. The pressure wasn’t bothering him at all.
“Kid, just throw the ball. Everything’ll be fine. Just throw that thing right over the plate.”
• • •
It was about two months after the trial. Vince Alvarez was back on duty with his new partner, David Cho. Cho was about as tired of hearing about Patterson as Alvarez was, so he never brought up the subject. And that was just fine by Vince Alvarez. The sooner the city got back to business-as-usual the better.
About two hours into their shift, they got a call about an adolescent shoplifter at a liquor store at 22nd and Bryant. By the time Vince and his partner got there, the kid had bolted from the shop. Officer Cho waited by the door while Vince talked to the owner.
“You need to do something about this,” the shop owner said from behind the counter.
“Now, sir, I understand it can be frustrating—”
“These kids, they come and steal from me every day—every day—and no one does anything about it. They’re criminals—all if them. They’ll all end up dead or in jail. Where are their parents? You need to do something.”
“Me?” Vince said, trying not to sound as annoyed as he was.
“Yes, you,” the man behind the counter said. “You wear a uniform, but you’re not the police. You work for the government, but you are not the police. Police help people. You don’t help. If you don’t arrest these boys today, tomorrow they will be back with guns and knives.”
Vince wanted to say something, but he faltered. He wanted to explain to the man about priorities, about procedure, about taking personal responsibility, but it was bullshit. Vince knew it and the liquor store owner would too. Vince shrugged his shoulders at the shop owner and walked back to the patrol car, flanked by his partner.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, Alvarez saw four young men leaning on a wall across the street, three of them with 40-oz. bottles of beer partially obscured by their legs in an attempt at discretion. Vince sat in the car and looked at them from behind his pilot’s glasses. The young men knew they were being watched and pantomimed casual talk. As the minutes ticked by, they grew more relaxed, forgetting about the patrol car perched across the street.
Vince recognized Miguel Martinez right away. He wore the same smirk that he wore on the day of the murder. Vince felt a warm burn right in the middle of his chest. The pain sharpened. He couldn’t tell if it was his stomach or his heart. His partner climbed into the passenger seat and spun the car’s laptop around.
“Everything all right?” he asked Alvarez.
“Sure, let’s get rolling,” said Vince, but they both sat there.
Vince’s new partner waited for him to start the car. Vince just sat with his hands on the wheel, watching the young men across the street. That was Martinez all right. He’d recognize him anywhere. He looked exactly the same as he did that day on Capp Street. Except for one thing. It would have made Alvarez smile if the pain in his chest wasn’t already making him wince. Miguel Martinez was wearing a brand new Dodgers shirt.
His lucky shirt.
POSTGAME
They’d only gone a few blocks when Vince pulled over again.
“What’re you doing?” asked his partner.
“I thought we’d wait by a stop sign. Write up some easy ones for a change. Take a break.”
“We just took lunch thirty minutes ago. We still have to go by that spot on Guerrero, we promised the priest we’d check out the vandalism at his church.”
“It’s not a church. It’s a school.”
“Whatever.”
Vince parallel parked the prowl car on Alabama, giving them a perfect vantage point for the four-way stop at 23rd Street.
Officer Cho asked, “You mind if I smoke?”
Sounding tired and distracted, Vince said, “Yes, I mind. I mind every time you ask. I just fucking quit. Again. I’m not trying to start.”
“What’s going on with you, man?”
At first Vince didn’t answer, then, after a few moments, he said, “I lied.”
David Cho didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure where his partner was going with this.
“That day with Hugh? I lied. I left him standing in front of the taqueria. I walked away.”
“You weren’t there when the shots were fired. I know, I heard.”
“No, it’s not just that. I walked away. I should have been there. I was calling my fucking wife.”
“Look, man, sometimes these things—”
“No, you don’t understand. I lied. I didn’t want to admit I was off somewhere on the phone when my partner was being murdered, so I stretched the truth.”
The car was quiet except for the low steady crackle of the police radio. David Cho didn’t say anythin
g else. He waited for the confession to unravel.
“It got away from me. During the interviews. I acted like I was closer than I was.” Vince kept his eyes forward, staring at the intersection in front of them. Not one car had gone through. “I couldn’t explain why I didn’t see anything. I mean, I said I was on the alley when it happened, I should have seen something. They kept asking about the timing. How many seconds and how many shots and where were you by the time you heard the first shot, the second, the third. They kept asking questions and the truth just kind of slipped away. I didn’t want it to; it just did. They figured I must have seen something by the time that piece of shit stuck the gun under Hugh’s chin.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing. That’s my point. I didn’t see shit. I wasn’t there at all. I was checking up on my goddamn wife. I told them I maybe saw someone running away, but I didn’t see shit.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Until today.”
“What do you mean?”
“Over there, at the liquor store, there were some kids drinking forties, over by the wall. You see ‘em?”
“Yeah, I saw them.”
“The one with the Dodger shirt and the greasy mustache. Me and Hugh saw him right before it happened. I’d pushed it out of my mind.”
“So what?” David Cho said, but he already knew where this was going.
“He fits. The description, the time frame. Nobody looked at him after the kid came forward. The kid said his bit and everything else fell into place. I know I did.”
“They all fit the description.” As soon as Cho said it, he realized he wasn’t making his partner feel any better. He tried to change the subject. “Was your wife okay?”
“Yeah,” Alvarez said, “She was just fine.”