by April Smith
Across the street the man, about thirty years old, wearing baggy pants and an undershirt, was peering at us nervously from the other side of the Dodge, shifting on the balls of his feet.
“Sergeant Pickett, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, special team. Agent Grey, you are under investigation for attempted murder. We have a warrant for your arrest. Please keep your hands in plain sight. Are you armed?” “What the fuck?” Jason wanted to know.
“Put your hands out the window.”
“We’re working a kidnap case,” I said. “The Santa Monica kidnapping, did they inform you of that? We are looking at a rape suspect—”
“Ana?” Jason asked, drumming the roof, twisting toward the suspect. “What is going on? I thought this guy was—”
“She’s under arrest for trying to kill her boyfriend,” said Sergeant Pickett, adding venomously, “He’s a cop.”
“You guys are nuts,” Jason was insisting. “This is Special Agent Ana Grey! She’s one of the top … the top … agents that we have.”
“We are cooperating with the FBI, so just put your little prick back in your pants. Believe me, your supervisor knows all about it.”
“There goes Brennan!”
And the kid took off, sprinting across the street to where the man had leapt a fence and disappeared.
There were more units now, doors opening, a pair of officers running after Jason.
“Tell them he’s FBI!” I shouted.
The sergeant wet his meaty lips. He had shoulders. Flat up the back of the head. You would not mistake him for a ballet dancer.
“I’m still waiting for you to put those hands out that window.”
He had a job to do.
I could not, up to that point, unclench my fingers from around the steering wheel. I could not offer up my wrists. But he would not tell those bozos they were chasing a federal agent until I did.
“Let’s not make this harder on ourselves.”
“Okay, just don’t mess up my manicure.”
I thrust both fists out the window and immediately the handcuffs ratcheted shut.
“Thomas?” he said into the radio. “This is Pickett. The suspect is secure over here, but her partner is pursuing a rape suspect—”
“—Special Agent Jason Ripley.”
“Special Agent Jason Ripley,” he repeated. “No, that’s the guy from the FBI, genius, help him out.”
An acid ball was rising up from the depths of my gut and expanding until my throat went numb.
Pickett holstered the radio. “Please get out of the car.”
The door opened and I stumbled out. The Santos family was lined up on the curb looking on with glazed expressions as if watching the greatest TV episode of all time. People in the stucco minarets had come out on their balconies. There was intermittent laughter and jeering shouts at the police action in the street.
The sergeant took the weapon from my belt and patted me down.
“We are working a case,” I repeated. “That female adolescent over there may have information—”
“I got to cuff you in the back, turn around.”
I hesitated.
He didn’t.
A sudden jerk on the upper arm twisted my back so it went into a spasm like lightning from hell. The legs went out from under me and I collapsed.
I was proned out, facedown in the gutter. My head turned to rest on a cheek and I caught sight of Jason, now running the other way, gesturing to the sheriff’s officers, who seemed to have finally gotten the picture, jacket open and tie flying as he turned in a disbelieving circle of frustration. His bewildered eyes met mine and I moaned and tried to scrabble to my knees to beg his forgiveness, I don’t know what, but the sergeant flattened me with one hard cut and my nose rebounded off the asphalt as he recuffed the hands behind my back.
A low-rider had gotten past the perimeter and I could feel the vibration in the ground of its hammering bass. Pickett leaned in close, whispering a stream of filthy brutal threats. A nova was exploding in my kidneys and I didn’t care.
Seventeen
Pickett took a corner fast. Hands cuffed, I slid helplessly along the vinyl bench seat, which stank with an animal stink like fur. We had left the helicopters behind, but the radio still bubbled with confused dispatches from scattered posses chasing the slipstream of Ray Brennan.
“Nice going on the takedown, guys.”
Neither he nor his partner would reply. After a little while I said, “My cop boyfriend came after me. Did you know that before you tried to break my arm?”
“I know that if I were you, I would not make any further statements until I saw my people,” Pickett said in a monotone.
After that we hit the freeway and there was no more talk. I watched as factories and dwellings, streetlights, cranes and billboards, roofs, palm trees and riverines of cars slipped by, passing the window of the sheriff’s car in a smear of black-and-white, a movie shot you’ve seen a thousand times, gaining momentum like a train; leaving behind ten years of work and service to an ideal, until all the constructions that had lined the road blurred into a single run-on image.
The world was lost to me.
When I saw Galloway’s and Rick’s cars parked outside the Sheriff’s Department substation, I knew the past few days of anguish in suspended animation were over — and immediately longed for them to return. We entered by a side door that opened directly into the jail.
There were no windows, of course, and when the doors shut they remained shut, leaving no airflow, so you had the sense of walking into a large overlit supply closet. It was a cramped area dominated by a sprawling desk buried beneath logbooks, printouts, overflowing wire baskets and several TV monitors rotating surveillance shots of empty corridors. The cinder-block walls were painted lemon, trimmed with industrial turquoise.
“Ma’am!” called Pickett. “We have a house guest.”
It took a moment to locate the custody assistant in the forest of rules and reminders that were curling off the walls, but there she was, a small head of dark hair parted neatly down the middle, hidden behind the desk. She looked up and smiled, a young Persian woman in a dark olive civilian uniform.
“Yes sir!” she answered, echoing the tease in the sergeant’s voice, which had implied just the opposite of what he said: Not a house. Not a guest.
We stood aside as the custody assistant used an enormous old-fashioned brass key to unlock the booking cell, an empty ten-foot square rimmed all the way around by a smooth metal bench. Pickett walked me in and removed the handcuffs.
“Want a drink of water?”
“Sure.”
There was a plastic pitcher on a ledge outside the booking cell. The custody assistant poured a cup, then I was shown to an interrogation room the size of a pea, where Galloway and Rick were waiting. The ASAC sat on the other side of a brown-grained typing table while Rick stood against the wall. On the table was a yellow pad.
It was 12:35 a.m., still early enough for the faces of my bosses to hold the contours of the day. Rick wore a windbreaker and jeans. I imagined him getting the call, strapping on the gun, leaving his wife and two young girls and driving in from Thousand Oaks at ninety. Galloway looked like he had never taken off his work clothes, dressed in a white turtleneck and houndstooth sport coat, fingering a dead cigar. Both were tense and alert.
“Hi, guys,” I mumbled, sitting down.
Pickett closed the door and the three of us were locked into the most uncomfortable space I have ever known.
“I don’t know what to say. Sorry to bring you down here.” My voice left me. “This time of night.”
“Whatever happened,” said Rick, “we know the stress you’ve been under. We’ve all been there.”
“I’m really sorry about Brennan. He got away? Clean away?”
“We’ll find him. How are you?” Galloway asked.
“Not too good. We had a fight and Andrew kneed me in the groin. I think I have a really bad bladder infection,
” and winced as I finally allowed the pain to roll up.
“We’ll make sure you see a doctor.”
“Okay.”
“Have you made any statements to anybody?”
“Not really, no.”
“There will be an OPR investigation,” said Galloway. “We want you to talk to the shooting team.”
I looked up. “Will that be you, Rick?”
C-1 usually investigated agent-involved shootings.
“I don’t know. It’s a bizarre situation. Since you — since we work together.”
“We’ll get a directive from headquarters,” Galloway said smoothly.
“I’m sorry, my mind is still going a mile a minute about Brennan. We had the takedown, it wasn’t Jason’s fault, it was the situation of two agencies going in opposite directions. The Sheriff’s Department showed up and everything went bad …” Rick’s hands were behind his back and pressed against the wall at rest position. His mustache and squared-up bulk made him look like a fireman, ready to rescue you.
“Ana,” he said, “stop. You’re out of it now. We’ll follow up.”
“All right,” I said reluctantly and took a sip of water. It was cold, with ice. “What do they have?”
“Your fingerprints on the gun. The fact it was fired recently. Matching bullet wounds in Detective Berringer’s body.”
It was like being buried under truckloads of heavy dirt. First one truckload. Then another and another.
“Despite what Andrew said?”
Galloway stirred. “The armed robbery bit? Well, he was out of it at the time, he was on morphine, then he slips into a goddamn coma.”
“You sound like a prosecutor,” I said, half joking.
“That’s what you’re going to face.” Galloway inclined his head and caught me in a penetrating stare. “I wish you’d come to me first.”
I didn’t answer. Then, “How long have you known?”
Galloway looked down at the cigar. You could smell the bitter wetness, like a puddle of dead leaves.
“There have been telephone calls across the top.”
Now I stared at him, deadpan.
“Santa Monica Police Department didn’t want to embarrass us, because we could turn around someday and embarrass them, so a political decision was made. When the arrows started lining up, a discussion took place above the investigator level. Their commander called me and explained the way it was starting to look to them, how they wanted this to stay confidential, but still keep the Bureau in the loop. At that point we were all stepping pretty lightly.” “Until?”
“Well, until forensic evidence from the gun.”
“How did you know it was mine?”
Galloway looked impassive. “As I say, your name had come up.”
“From Andrew?”
“We don’t need to get into that.”
“I’d like to know.”
Galloway and Rick exchanged a look.
“Your attorney will be able to tell you,” said Rick.
I folded my arms. We had hit a wall. Now I understood why they were ready and alert. A bulletin was out for my arrest and they had been waiting for the call that my car had been located.
Galloway said, “How did you think you would get away with it?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were reacting?”
“Look, guys, I would never say this to anyone else … This is really hard … but, okay, I just thought … It sounds pretty dumb now … I thought we had a lovers’ quarrel, I mean, a big lovers’ quarrel, but that at the end of the day, Andrew wasn’t going to give me up,” and sat there, slumped and miserable.
Rick’s body flinched against the wall.
“He didn’t give you up, Ana.”
“He didn’t?”
“The tip came from a female employee of the Santa Monica Police Department.”
“What’s her name?”
Before Galloway could intervene, Rick said, “Margaret Forrester.”
I laughed. I just laughed.
“She have a hard-on for you?”
I shrugged. How do you describe someone who gets herself banned from a dry cleaner?
“She’s very pretty and very crazy.”
“That could work to your advantage.”
It was hard to listen. Hard to think.
“How is Andrew doing?”
“He’s awake and talking.”
“Really? That’s fantastic!”
“Well,” said Rick, scratching his cheek, “maybe.”
“Oh come on, you think he’s going to flip? Tell me you don’t believe in true love.”
Rick just chuckled. “My impression of him was that he had a major chip … But I can see what you saw in the guy.”
“Thank you.”
After a moment Galloway said, “There are always two sides, Ana. We want to hear yours.”
“With respect, I think I need an attorney.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What attorney,” I said, “would you recommend?”
“Devon County.”
County was a former cop turned lawyer who represented law enforcement personnel, all the big high-profile cases. Police corruption. Murder.
“You must think I’m in big trouble.”
They were waiting.
“I’ll give Mr. County a call.”
“We’ll do our best to cooperate with him.”
“Thank you.”
“And get you out of here ASAP.”
“Thank you.”
“Get you a doctor.”
“Great.”
Now Galloway paused. “You know you can’t come back to work until this is resolved?”
I nodded.
“We have to take your weapon and credentials.”
“I understand.”
Galloway drew the pad closer. “Are you ready to make your statement? Want to take a break?”
I hung my head.
“I just want to apologize for whatever disgrace I have caused the Bureau.”
Galloway smiled gently. “Don’t give away the store.”
Over here,” said Pickett, when they had left. We stood before an old wooden cabinet. He pulled a slip from a drawer.
“Special handling,” he told the custody assistant. “The lady is an FBI agent.”
Her eyebrows went up.
“Special handling,” I said. “Is that good, or bad?”
Pickett didn’t answer, concentrating on the form. The pen paused.
“Any ‘observable physical oddities’?”
“Me,” I asked, “or you?”
He snorted.
“Not usually this much fun around here, is it?” I quipped.
They took my fake lizard belt, scuba watch accurate to fifty feet, amethyst ring and gold loop earrings, the leather purse and contents, minus my credentials, which had been plucked out for Galloway and Rick. They might as well have removed my spleen. I signed for my possessions, then we moved to a computer/scanner to enter my fingerprints into the files of the Department of Justice, Sacramento and county.
“You guys are high-tech. All we get are ink pads.”
The custody assistant was spraying a screen in the control panel with window cleaner.
“She can roll a perfect set,” said Pickett.
The young woman smiled shyly. I was staring at the machine as if it were a huge hypodermic syringe. When I was a kid I once ran out of the doctor’s office before he could give me a tetanus shot.
“Ana.” Pickett shrugged with that big-eyed cop look I knew so well. “We got to do this.”
Afterward, we went back into the booking cell so I could call Devon County.
“Make as many calls as you want,” he said. “It only works collect.”
There was one battle-scarred phone with an unduly short cord, to prevent death by hanging.
They put me in a four-bunk cell. There were no other arrestees, but even if there had been, they would have kept me isola
ted. That’s what they meant by “special handling.” They did not mean the seatless stainless steel toilet or the mattresses made of fire-resistant polymer, or the ham and cheese sandwich and warm apple juice. Those were standard. Knowing the price of wounded pride, they had also put me on suicide watch.
I could not bear to touch the mattresses so I sat on the edge of a lower bunk. The ceiling was very far away. They put it high up to make you feel helpless and small. I thought of Juliana, holding on to the stuffed leopard.
I knew nothing. How long I would be here. If I would go to prison. If the famous attorney would get the message and be paged and take the case and show up. I didn’t even know the time.
I sat in the badness. There was no other place to go. I sat and rocked and whinnied and pleaded with God to make the terrible feelings go away, but they gripped me in the windpipe with caustic despair. There was nothing else. No voices to distract, just a deep infant panic for which I do not believe we have yet devised a comfort, one that could possibly equal that annihilation. I had no religious words so I stared at my socks.
I stared at my socks against the ugly turquoise floor and imagined, for diversion, the powers of the colposcope, that with my sight I could penetrate the creamy cotton weave, see through to the spaces. Suddenly I ached for Juliana and the closeness of our morning conversations. Why had I not reached out more? Called her, sometimes. Tried to help.
Juliana, of everyone, would know me, right now.
Eighteen
By ten in the morning the temperature in the Valley had risen to ninety degrees and swimming in Mike Donnato’s unheated pool was like swimming through razor blades — the dead cold chill of the water and the hot sun slashing.
I glided back and forth — four strokes, flip … four strokes, flip — across the tiny oval. This was what my world had shrunk to: fifteen feet of icy chlorination. In the current freak show that was my life, I had been turned into a seal, whooshing and snorting empty circles in a tank.