This time Sanchez led me by my arm, watched closely by the senior officer.
I’ve been in Parker Center many times with attorneys to meet with clients, and am actually rather fond of the place. A great old African-American officer, Samuel Thomas, holds down the front desk, Wednesday through Sunday evenings, from 2:00 to 10:00. He is knowledgeable on a host of arcane topics such as spelunking, and lapidary, and always has time for a cheery greeting. This time we weren’t brought in by the front desk but were escorted through the rear entrance, where we were fingerprinted and booked. Like many private investigators, I’ve been detained a few times over the years, but it had been at least a decade since I’d been hauled in here. The desk officers at Parker are as friendly as the guards at L.A. Men’s Central are hostile.
There’s an old underworld saying that there’s no worse place on earth to spend the night than in a South Georgia jail, but L.A. Men’s Central can’t be far behind. A sprawling stone edifice, it was built back in the 60’s when confinement allegedly wasn’t as cruel as it is today, and guards and inmates apparently cooperated to a reasonable degree to keep the ship afloat. Today, Men’s Central is run by gangbangers who decide which inmates are housed together, and have carte blanche to “regulate” troublesome convicts whenever the spirit moves them.
Parker Center, on the other hand, offers reasonable overnight accommodations, that is, if you don’t mind the likelihood of sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Of course, things go wrong at any jail and it’s a good idea to keep your wits about you. Bobby and I were booked and finger-printed by Officer Trujillo, an elderly Filipino officer with a ready smile and a great head of thick, black hair. He’s been booking fresh arrivals since the mid-80s, and maintains a pleasing calm that cannot fail to soothe the inflamed mind of the newly arrested man.
“Nick, what’s going on?”
“Beats me.”
Trujillo scanned my bruised face and gave Sanchez a disgusted look. “Looks like they already did.”
“Your friend,” said Officer Sanchez, who was crowding me from behind, “brutally murdered an Armenian doctor.”
Officer Trujillo digested this bit of unexpected information with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Not that I recall.”
“I believe you have the wrong man,” said Trujillo.
I smiled and shrugged. Sanchez didn’t.
“I’ve pinched a lotta assholes, Crane, and I really want some alone time with you.”
Trujillo glanced at Sanchez and placed my thumb firmly down on his inkpad. “I’ll bet you a free trip to Santa Anita, Nick gets sprung before you get any alone time.”
“We’ll see.”
Trujillo smiled at me. “Good luck, Nick.”
“Thanks and if you don’t mind, please ask Mrs. Trujillo to burn a few candles for me.”
“Sure, my friend.”
It was Bobby’s turn and Officer Tomito shoved him up to Trujillo’s desk.
Once we’d both been processed, we were turned over to the guards, who escorted us up to a dormitory on the sixth floor. Parker Center boasts a few wings of two and four man cells, but mostly houses its detainees in dormitories. Depending on how business has been, these dorms are either half-full, full or bursting at the seams. Right at the moment ours held only six other guys, but the evening was young and Saturday night is usually rocking. There are six sets of bunk beds occupying two walls, and a stack of mattresses in one corner. Urinals, sinks and latrines painted institutional green, occupy the opposite wall. The showers are down the hall. Generally speaking, short-term residents have others things on their minds besides trying to keep clean. There are no bars, simply a steel door with a meshed steel window, through which an inmate could see out into the corridor and, of course, Parker Center’s fabled, pneumatic tube delivery system for legal documents. When a document arrives, a bell rings and an inmate walks over, slides open a curved plastic door and extracts the paperwork.
Our fellow prisoners, predominantly Latino and black, looked at us curiously as Bobby and I claimed 2 primo bunks while they were still available. He took the lower and settled in as I clambered to the upper. I stretched out and tried to relax, but there was such a cacophony, it was all but impossible.
“What’s our next move?” said Bobby, his voice weary.
I jumped down off my bunk and sat next to him on his. “They’re trying to sweat us. That’s why we’re in here.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“They know we didn’t kill the doc, but suspect we know who did.”
“Why not just ask?”
“Because shit rolls downhill and right now, we’re at the bottom.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Karsagian didn’t make detective ‘cause he’s stupid. He knows there’s a lot more to this and, I guess, he figures I’m the key. So he’ll bide his time, leaving us in here to ripen.”
“How long can they hold us?”
“Until arraignment court on Tuesday.”
“Shit, bro, who’s gonna look after my goats?”
I lowered my voice. “We have another problem.”
“What?”
“I was supposed to drop off the package for pig boy tomorrow.”
“Why’s that a problem?”
“If he doesn’t hear from us, will he run his mouth?”
Bobby grinned and shook his head. “No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he knows that I’ll feed him to his fucking hogs if he does.”
I looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. Inmates will trade the smallest scrap of info for reduced time, or if it’s valuable enough, although this is quite rare, immunity for their own crimes.
I nodded and whispered, “If they question you, which they might not after talking to me, don’t say a word about Los Muertos, and tell ‘em the only thing we were expecting at the McDonald’s was for someone to slip the five large to the doctor.”
“What about me tailing him?”
“Negative, and leave Brad out of everything.”
He nodded and began chewing the inside of his cheek.
“If you don’t like the way the questioning is going, stonewall. Tell them you’re not saying another word until you consult with your attorney.”
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“Sure you do. Bill Boxer. I’ll take care of it.”
“Man, the shit’s getting so thick it would drown an alligator.”
“Just so it doesn’t drown us.”
Bobby glanced around the room. “I could use a beer.”
“I’m covered for Friday night, so they can’t hang Tarkanian on me. Where were you?”
He grinned. “After McDonald’s, on the way home I stopped in at Leo’s a little after 7, and we went to a pescado restaurant at Boyle and Olympic.”
“What time did you bail?”
“About 11:00. When I got home, Brad was already there and I had to shout for him to even let me in the house ‘cause he was still freaked out over the picture.”
“Okay, good.”
“These pigs are just fucking with us. Didn’t you once tell me that about 40% of arrests end up going uncharged?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Jail is usually the single most boring place in the world. If nobody’s trying to kill or extort you, there’s very little to do, and now that they don’t allow smoking, it’s a nightmare.
I stood up and surveyed the room that was filling up fast. Groups of new arrivals, mostly head-shaved, tat-covered gangbangers, and their “distant cousins”, non-gang affiliated pisas, were huddled together, claiming their little piece of concrete as a continuation of their neighborhoods. A couple of white guys that looked like cons were making their way toward us, safety in numbers. Bobby is one of the only guys I know that doesn’t play games with anyone of any race, color or creed. Like a junkyard dog, his face turned harder and his muscles steeled. The cons
got the message, gave us a curt nod, and turned away.
“I’m gonna see if they’ll let me make a call.”
“Want me to watch your back?” asked Bobby.
“Stay here and guard the bunks.”
He nodded and I made my way toward the guard. Several hard looking inmates eyeballed me, and I knew there was going to be a problem. In lockup, you’re either a warrior or a victim, and mamma didn’t raise no pussy.
“I’d like to make a call.”
A group of 5 gangbangers were watching me with great interest. The guard, a white guy with a mashed face who could easily have been one of them, glanced over at their leader, a nasty, head-shaved specimen: 5’8”, trunk like a gorilla and a brow ridge that out-Neanderthaled the Neanderthal. And, of course, the black tats. Neanderthal nodded almost imperceptibly and the guard pointed at the payphone.
“Collect only.”
“I know the drill.”
He didn’t like my reply and his eyes narrowed as he mulled over an appropriate response. I didn’t have time to wait and headed over to the phone.
I dialed Bobby’s home number.
“Hello?” It was Brad.
“I’m in jail.”
“What the fuck happened?”
“Not now. Later. Get me Cassady.”
“Okay, sure.”
Cassady was on the phone in a flash. “You okay? What the hell’s going on?”
“They’re holding me and Bobby here at Parker Center.”
“What’s the charge?” she asked, all business.
“Murder One.”
“Jesus.”
“They’re claiming we killed an Armenian doctor, but it’s all circumstantial and it’s totally weak. I don’t want to be here ‘til Tuesday, so tell Bill to work something out.”
“I’m on it.”
The guard came over. “Time’s up.”
“What?”
“You heard me motherfucka, time’s up.”
“Gotta go.”
“I love you,” she said quickly, worry propelling her words.
The guard reached over and snatched the phone out of my hand. I glared at him. “What the hell, bro?”
“Get the fuck back in there.”
His attitude assured me that something was about to go down. As I walked through the door, the already tense atmosphere amped up about 1000 per cent, and I could feel the heat from the gaze of the gang of five, searing into my back. I made my way over to Bobby, using every part of my peripheral vision to watch for the inevitable. He had sensed it, too, and got to his feet, scanning the crowd for any sudden movement.
I sat next to him and spoke quietly, “Cassady’s getting the lawyer.”
“Won’t be soon enough.”
“I know.”
“When it goes down, keep your back to the wall.”
I nodded and readied myself for the coming battle. The gang of five were facing us now, their eyes steely lights in a gunmetal world. Suddenly the main door opened, and a new batch of detainees shuffled in. Yep, it was Saturday night and humanity was displaying its warts. This group was mostly black and Latino with one thin, good-looking white guy with Mediterranean features. He definitely thought he was riding in the black car. He didn’t even glance at Bobby and me, instead started jawing with some black guys, his voice rising shrilly.
“Motherfucking PoPo, fuck dem bitches!”
The blacks looked dubious but made a half-hearted effort to listen.
“I was getting my grip on, feel me? And they jacked me fo’ nuttin’. Sheeit, dawg, me and my boy, we was riding on Crenshaw and the fuckers pulled us over, and planted 2 eight balls on us. Motherfuckas.”
Nobody responded; in fact, the black guys turned their backs on him. Humiliated, he stood there as inconspicuous as a rattlesnake smoking a cigarello. He turned away, grabbed a thin, plastic-covered mattress, and sat on the floor fuming and muttering. A wave of intense emotion swept over his thin, intelligent face and he looked like he was about to cry, alerting the predators who are always vigilant for a sucker. I hoped no one had noticed, but knew that he was already marked. When it happened, no one would come to his aid, just as no one was going to help us.
It was time and the five gangbangers made their way through the crowd, which parted without resistance and folded back in behind them, shielding the impending violence from prying eyes. Not that it made any difference anyway as the cameras, most likely, were already turned off. The two white cons glanced at us and melted away, so much for safety in numbers.
With our backs to the wall, we waited -- muscles coiled, adrenaline pumping. They oozed out of the crowd and fanned into a line. Everyone watched and waited for blood. Their Neanderthal leader had a ring of black skulls tattooed all the way around his neck. He gave us the once over, then settled his gaze on me.
“You remember me, Holmes?”
“No.”
“You snatched my brother in Dago.”
I shrugged. “Yeah?”
“He was almost to TJ. Now he’s doing 15 to life.” His voice shrill; odd in such a gorilla of a man.
The penny dropped. “Jose Torres.”
“Si, cabrón.”
“So what d’you want?”
“You, motherfuc--”
I didn’t wait for him to finish and stepped forward, kicking him fast and hard in the balls. He screamed and dropped to his knees. Bobby was airborne, and slammed his knees into the second dude’s chest, knocking him back, out cold. The third gangbanger cracked me hard in the face, I rolled with the punch and spun a 360, jacking him in the side of his neck with a back elbow. Bobby had the last two in headlocks, one in each of his burly arms, squeezing the life out of them. The leader was still trying to force air back into his lungs when I grabbed his throat, and punched him multiple times, as hard as I could in the face. Flesh split, blood sprayed out and he was out for the count. No one stopped the beating. No one said a word. No one looked away. Breathing hard, I looked at Bobby. The two gangbangers were fading.
“Let ‘em go.”
He was enjoying himself a little too much, squeezing out whatever life these assholes had left in them. His trademark 1000 yard stare bore into me.
“Bobby!”
His eyes cleared and he let them go. They slumped to the ground.
Suddenly the emergency buzzer sounded and several guards came running in. Everyone backed away as they pushed their way through, bursting onto the five beaten bangers. The lead guard glared at me.
“Get on the ground, asshole!”
“What took you so long?”
“Shut the fuck up!” was the last thing I remembered.
I woke up in isolation. My mouth felt raw and tasted like putrid blood. More of it crusted the corners of my mouth and now the pounding in my head exploded, irritated at being ignored while I was unconscious and now determined to make up for it. I tried to stand but felt dizzy and broke out into a cold sweat, so I lay back down and closed my eyes.
At around 8:00 a.m., the steel door was yanked open and a screw stepped inside with a breakfast tray. He handed it to me and left. I sat there contemplating the cold scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, dry toast and lukewarm coffee. Still, I was hungry and tried to suck down a few bites but my mouth hurt too much, so I sipped the coffee and sat back, feening for some aspirin. About 20 minutes later, Detective Karsagian and Officer Jansen stood in the doorway.
Karsaigian looked grim, and his suit looked as tired as he did. He locked eyes with me, scratching at his five o’clock shadow, his shirt open at the collar revealing tufts of coarse gray hair.
“Crane, what happened to your face?”
“I got jumped.”
“By whom?”
I nodded. “As if you don’t know.”
“You have a habit of pissing people off,” smirked Jansen.
“Only your mother.”
Jansen gritted his teeth, balled up his fists and took a step toward me.
Karsagian almost cracked
a smile. “Back off, Detective.”
He backed off.
“Cut the crap, Nick,” said Karsagian.
“Now we’re on a first name basis?”
Jensen was busily chewing his bottom lip and from his expression, he wanted nothing better than to work me over.
“So what do you want, Detective?”
“We’ve got a witness who says you killed Dr. Tarkanian,” replied Karsagian.
“So why should I even talk to you without my lawyer here?”
“You know how this goes; cooperate and we can make it much easier for you.”
“Who’s the eyewitness?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
“‘Cause you don’t have one, do you?”
“Now listen--”
“--No, you listen; you’ve got nothing to hold me on. You know I didn’t kill anybody and you sure as hell don’t have this mystery witness ‘cause if you did, you’d have already charged me and doofus over there would be working me over.”
There was a long, pregnant pause. Karsagian nodded, took a deep breath and said, “We had to take you in. The witness says it was you.”
“Obviously she didn’t witness the murder ‘cause if she had she’d be dead too.”
“She said you were at Tarkanian’s office on Thursday morning and that you and he had an altercation.”
“But that doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“She also said you said you were a personal injury lawyer named Brian Bellamy. She gave me a business card with his name and your fingerprints.”
“So what? You ever watch the Rockford Files?”
“I don’t get you.”
“He had all kinds of business cards. It goes with the territory.”
“And?”
“Yeah, I gave his receptionist the card, but that doesn’t make her a murder witness, unless she actually saw me doing it, which she didn’t, ‘cause I didn’t do it.”
“But you know who did.”
“And that would make me an accessory, wouldn’t it?”
Karsagian nodded and sat on the other end of the bunk. “We rousted you ‘cause we figured you knew more than you were telling.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
“Okay, I’m asking now.”
“First of all, I flew to San Francisco late Thursday night with Ms. Lamont. I got back around 1:00 a.m. Saturday morning, and went straight to Bobby’s house in City Terrace.”
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