Vertical Coffin s-4

by Stephen J. Cannell

  "This whole thing with Emo-it's been eating at you. Even Chooch asked if you were okay."

  "Yeah, I'm okay, it's just…" I stopped and let it hang there, not sure how to phrase what I was feeling.

  "Just what?"

  "I just wish I hadn't been up there. I wish I hadn't seen it. I can't get the memory of his blood off my skin."

  "And?"

  "And I hate cop funerals. I'm dreading this thing this afternoon. Bring in a TV camera and every publicity-seeking asshole in the state shows up. The governor comes, the city council, all the chiefs, sheriffs, and undersheriffs-even you and Tony. No offense intended."

  "None taken." She cocked her head, thinking for a moment, then smiled. "I think."

  "You saw what happened when we buried Tremaine. It'll be just like that. All the department ass-kissers who didn't even know Emo swarming like flies on garbage. All telling the brass what a great guy Emo was, how they were in the same foxholes with him, all spinning their dumb war stories. Most of the people making speeches this afternoon will be strangers. The ones who really loved him will get pushed to the back. We'll all be listening to guys like Salazar turn Emo's funeral into a campaign issue. Once they're done, down Emo goes into the hole, awash in crocodile tears and bullshit. Then everybody leaves, hoping the governor will remember they were there."

  "Then why are you going?"

  "I don't want to go, but I have to. How do you not go to a good friend's funeral?"

  "Why is Chooch going?" she said, hitting me with a blind shot that I hadn't seen coming. I looked away to buy time, gather my defenses.

  "Huh?" Not much of a response, I admit, but I'm not too good at dodging her.

  "He's in there finishing his homework so he'll be able to go."

  "Oh. I guess that could maybe be because I sorta told him he could go."

  "He didn't even know Emo."

  "Yes he did." I heaved a sigh. Once again I was going to have to bust myself. I took a deep breath. "He knew him because he went on an Iron Pigs ride with us two months ago."

  "Right. Sure he did. He doesn't even know how to ride a Harley."

  "Last July-the week you were in Chicago, I borrowed two bikes. We practiced every night for five days. Got him licensed Friday afternoon. I swore him to secrecy because I knew you wouldn't want him riding a hawg."

  "You're damn right I wouldn't." She fell silent and let go of my hand. "And he sure doesn't need to go to this funeral."

  "Let him go. He wants to. It's part of growing up. People you know and care about die. It's a bitch, but it happens. He liked Emo. They're both quarterbacks."

  "When cops die, you know he puts you in the coffin, Shane. Emotionally, he sees you in the box."

  "I suppose."

  "No suppose about it. It's true." She was mad about the Harley ride but had the good sense not to bang me around about it now. Instead, her anger was coming out over Chooch and the funeral.

  "Look, I'll talk to him, okay? I'll make him understand," I said.

  "Make me understand," she challenged.

  "You already do, sweetheart. It's why I love you." I gave her a hopeful smile.

  She looked at me and her eyes softened. "Damn you, Shane. I'm really pissed off here. Acting goofy and sweet is no fair." Then she got up and went in to get Chooch.

  Chapter 6

  GODSPEED, THIRTY-MARY-FOUR

  Delfina would be at rehearsal until six. Chooch went to the funeral on crutches, because he had a broken foot.

  Here's how that happened. About a week after the Iron Pigs ride in mid-July, during the first week of two-a-day football drills, he tried to escape a blitz, spun right, and rolled over on his right foot, cracking one of the small bones on the outside. Chooch was being recruited heavily by half a dozen big Division 1 universities and was afraid that the tiny bone break in his foot was going to cost him his entire multimillion-dollar pro-football career.

  I gave him my "Life Is a Journey" speech. Net effect, zero. I gave him my "You Only Grow from Adversity" speech. Nothing. Finally, Alexa convinced him that his football career wasn't as important right now as his academic career, and he'd better make sure he kept his grades up; because, if he didn't get the athletic scholarship he'd need to get into college on pure academics. She reminded him he could always walk on if he didn't get the ride. This made sense to Chooch, and he had a 3.8 going into midterms. All of this is noteworthy only when you realize that, as usual, Alexa's pragmatic approach had carried the day.

  It was a bright, cloudless Saturday afternoon as we drove to Forest Lawn. The San Gabriel Mountains were almost purple against the cobalt sky. A light Santa Ana wind had cleared the basin of smog for Emo's funeral. As we neared the off-ramp to Forest Lawn Drive, I could see this was going to be a mob scene. Traffic was already piling up on the 210 Freeway before we reached the L. A. River. You could tell it was for Emo, because even the people who weren't in squad cars were wearing uniforms with black ribbons pinned diagonally across their badges.

  I wanted to drop Chooch off as close as possible. I've spent my share of time walking with birch under my arms, and I know that handling crutches on grass is a bitch. I managed to sneak up next to the chapel where the hearse and limos were parked. When I dropped Chooch and Alexa off there were already more than a thousand people milling in front of the church, most in tan deputies' uniforms. A smattering of LAPD blue punctuated the crowd. A sound system and some video screens had been set up for the overflow crowd that couldn't squeeze inside the church.

  The LAPD white hat working traffic at this event turned me around and sent me back down toward the mortuary office. Forest Lawn was inside the city limits of Los Angeles, so, even though 80 percent of the attendees were county deputies, we were working the event. I found a parking place down by the office and wedged the Acura into a no-parking zone, putting two wheels up on the grass. I didn't think our traffic control officers would be handing out too many greenies at a cop's funeral.

  As I was locking up I heard the loud, familiar rumble of straight pipes. I turned and saw almost a hundred Iron Pigs from different chapters all over the state making their way solemnly up Forest Lawn Drive, riding two-by-two. They had their uniforms on. Green from the Highway Patrol, tan and brown from the Sacramento P. D., tan and blue from the L. A. sheriffs and Orange County, blue and white from Los Angeles, Pacoima, Newhall, and San Diego.

  The bikes were all custom Harleys, and both men and women alike wore their lightweight summer colors, most stitched on sleeveless jean or leather vests, worn over police uniforms. The club motto stitched on some of the jackets now seemed a dangerous threat: "Cut One and We All Bleed." They snaked up the drive as everyone stopped talking and turned to watch.

  Darren Zook, the local chapter's ride captain, was out front leading them. He slowed to a stop in front of the church, then turned and backed his bike against a sixty-foot stretch of curb that had been coned off in preparation for their arrival. One by one the officers dismounted, kicked their stands down, leaned their bikes, and stepped away. The lacquered yellow, orange, and candy-apple red paint jobs dappled colored sunshine against polished chrome manifolds. Then the Iron Pigs moved silently toward the church.

  I finished locking the Acura and followed. I was almost up to where Alexa and Chooch were standing when I heard a voice raised in anger. The tone made my adrenaline kick. An angry curse uttered with deadly sincerity. I moved closer.

  "You fucking people don't belong here!" I heard Darren Zook say. He was near the concrete steps of the old church glaring at six guys in dark suits. At first I didn't recognize them, but as I approached I knew who they were. Men in Black-the ATF Situation Response Team from the Hidden Ranch shootout. They were standing in a group on the church steps, unsure how to handle this.

  "We came to pay our respects," one of them said. I'd seen most of their pictures in the newspaper for a week, and I think he was the one named Billy Greenridge.

  "You paid your respects on Hidden Ranch Road. Now g
et the fuck out of here," Zook said.

  The feds started to look around for backup or support, or maybe just for a friendly face, but the Iron Pigs quickly closed ranks around them.

  "Get out or get thrown out," Darren Zook growled dangerously.

  "Look, we feel-" Greenridge began.

  But Darren cut him off. He and three other Iron Pigs grabbed Greenridge roughly by his arm, spun him around, and started to march him down the walk to the cars. Then a dozen more of the police bikers grabbed the remaining ATF agents and quickly hustled them out behind him.

  Before they reached the parking lot, the ATF ASAC, Brady Cagel, pushed through the crowd and blocked the path. "You people are way out of order," he said.

  "Get these assholes out of here," Darren said. "And you go with 'em. I won't have you guys at Emo's funeral."

  Two more sheriffs grabbed Brady Cagel. Then they half-pushed, half-dragged the entire SRT unit, plus their ASAC, down the steps and pinned them against some parked cars across from the church.

  "Get out," Darren Zook repeated. His voice thick with rage.

  "I'm going to write this up," Cagel said.

  "Get out or get thrown out!"

  "Let's go." Cagel motioned his team to follow. Then he and his brother agents walked down the road to their cars, while almost two thousand pairs of eyes glared holes in their backs.

  Emilio Rojas Jr.'s funeral started late. It was two thirty before the organ in the big church began to play. There were more than a thousand people who couldn't squeeze inside and were watching the service on two big-screen TVs. Alexa and Chooch had managed to get in and save me a seat near the back.

  The LASD Chorus sang "Ave Maria." Emo's brother Miguel spoke about his brother as a boy, mentioned his sense of humor and how he always had a smile for everybody. His widow, Elana, sat quietly and listened, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Emo's six-year-old son, Alfredo, was beside her, ramrod straight, eyes brimming with tears, but somehow he kept them from running.

  The service was a Catholic mass that seemed endless to me. After the coffin was blessed and sprinkled with holy water, ten Iron Pigs from the local chapter carried the box out of the church and slid it into the hearse for the short trip up the hill.

  We followed the winding road to the grave site. Then the crowd gathered on the hillside while the family sat under sun tents for the political speeches. The governor, who hadn't known Emo, told us what an exceptional officer he had been, how bright and friendly. He said Emo was the gold standard by which all others would be judged.

  Supervisor Salazar, who never knew Emo, talked about his courage on the job and how he represented the Mexican-American dream, how he had made a difference to his family and to his people, and how he would always be remembered.

  Next came the command structure. Sheriff Bill Messenger, the diminutive head of LASD, spoke of valor under fire. Next to him stood Tony Filosiani. He was wearing his dress-blue LAPD chief's uniform. Four command stars gleamed on each of his wide shoulders. At five foot seven, two-hundred plus pounds, the chief of the LAPD was shaped like a blue lunchbox with medals. Because this was a sheriff's deputy's funeral, Tony had elected not to speak. The undersheriff spoke next. Then Captain Matthews offered a personal apology, because he had been in charge the day Emo died. His voice was choked with emotion. One by one they all came to the mike, standing erect in starched uniforms, their rank emblems glittering. They said Emo represented the brightest and best. Some of them searched for poetic metaphors. One commander from Ad Vice actually said that Emo reminded her of a California cactus: tough and dangerous on the surface, but sweet inside.

  It was hot, and sweat started running down the back of my shirt. I couldn't help but think that Emo was up there shitting bricks over some of this. The cactus simile was priceless. Most of these testimonials were from people who wouldn't have taken the time to have coffee with him when he was alive.

  Six officers on black-and-white police Electra Glides came over the hill in the Missing Man motorcycle formation, a V with an empty space in the corner. They rode across the grass slowly. Somebody released six white doves. A man I didn't know walked over to Elana and handed her the seventh. She kissed the dove on its back, then released it into the sky. We all watched as it flew away.

  Next, the LASD Helicopter Air Unit did a flyby. Four Bell Jet Rangers passed low over the grave, then peeled off and climbed away in separate directions.

  After Elana was handed the folded American flag, it was supposed to be over. People were starting to leave when Emo's last backup, Dave Brill, decided he had something to say. He had not been asked to speak, but stepped up and took the mike anyway. He looked frayed and empty, like a man whose soul had been leaking slowly out of him. He cleared his throat and the sound system barked loudly.

  "I just wanted to say…"

  He stopped and looked around at the politicians, who had turned back to face him but were stealing impatient looks at their watches-meetings to take, flights to make.

  "Emo… Emo was…" Then Brill broke down and started crying. He sucked it up and tried again. "Emo… I… I'm sorry. I… Y'see, we… At the academy, we…"

  He couldn't continue. He faced the grave, his face contorted in pain. As he turned toward the speakers, the microphone squealed feedback. Dave Brill looked at the coffin, unsure now of how to get off or how to say what he felt. What he really wanted to tell Emo was how sorry he was that he hadn't been able to protect him. That he'd been sitting in the D-car doing paperwork, with his gun in his holster, when his friend died.

  Overcome with grief and emotion, and using Emo's police call sign, he finally said the only thing he could think of: "Godspeed, Thirty-Mary-Four."

  Then Brill laid the microphone on the coffin and walked away from the grave. The governor and most of the brass were already ten steps ahead of him.

  God, I hate cop funerals.

  Chapter 7

  WAKE

  There were seven of us wedged in a back booth at the Pew and Cue on Barham Boulevard, four blocks north of Forest Lawn Drive. It was an hour after the service. We were supposed to be Emo's "tights"-the guys who loved him most. Two were fellow motorcycle officers, Darren Zook and Dave Brill. Next to them, were Gary and Mike Nightingale from SEB. The Nightingale brothers were on the sheriff's Special Weapons Team that had been at Hidden Ranch Road. Their expressions were grave, carved from granite. I remembered the mission board I'd seen on the side of the truck. Gary was a long gun, Mike his spotter. In the corner was a deputy named Christine Bell and, across from her, Sonny Lopez. I sat at the end.

  The Pew and Cue was small, dark, and crowded. Wooden tables and straight-backed wood pews lined the room. The barroom adjoined a pool hall, but none of our little group of mourners was shooting eight ball. We were there to drink and brood. Alexa had driven Chooch home. I was going to catch a ride back to Venice with Gary Nightingale who, it turned out, lived less than a mile from me.

  Emo's last backup, Dave Brill, was pounding down scotch shooters, leading choir practice, telling an Emo war story. "There was this time in the hills," he was saying, "him and me, up there cruising the twisties on Angeles Crest. We'd been riding for hours and were both getting sorta iron-assed, so we decide to go ten-ninety and crib for a while. So Emo turns and rides down this dirt road. We round a corner and, lo and behold, here's this fucking meth lab and fifteen armed shitheads with Harleys doing a drug deal outside a beat-up motor home. And I think, That's it, we're dust.' Y'know? But Emo just looks at these stringy haired SOBs, gets off his bike, walks up, smiles, and starts pitching them tickets to the Sheriff's Inner City Fundraiser, the kid's concert thing. Acting like that's the only reason we rode down there in the first place. These guys don't know if they're busted or not. But it's only ten bucks a ticket, so they figure it's cheaper than the grief they're gonna get shooting two deputies. Sold 'em two hundred dollars worth. Then Emo, he turns to this one ink-strewn asshole with an eye patch and he says, 'Hey, partner, this concert
is gonna be Barry Manilow and elevator music. You guys are probably into bands like Tool or Rage Against the Machine, and won't go. But ya want, you can donate your ticket back. That way, we can send extra kids to the concert.' Then one by one, all of these guys are giving their tickets back. We ride out of there with two hundred dollars cash and we still got all the fucking concert tickets. Come back with twenty cops an hour later, hook 'em all up. The guy was amazing."

  The stories went on like that. Little by little, they were working the ache of Emo's passing out of their souls.

  Gary and Mike Nightingale started talking about the shootout. "That guy, Vincent Smiley," Gary said, "it really sucks when these suicides ain't got the balls to just do it. Gotta get us to fire the bullet for 'em. He can't do the Dutch, so he dumps Emo to get a shoot-out going. What bullshit."

  Darren Zook got up to go to the bathroom. He wandered into the pool room, which is where the restroom arrow said the men's can was. I was drinking beers, trying to be part of this, but not finding much solace either. War stories about dead cop buddies never made me feel better. I was thinking instead of Emo at the Rock Store, leaning over the table with Chooch, both of them drawing football plays in water with their fingers.

  Then I remembered Sonny had told me that Emo coached a Pop Warner team. Pop Warner was tackle football for kids in the nine-to fifteen-year-old age brackets.

  "Who's gonna take over and coach his football team?" I asked, as a thought tickled the back of my brain.

  "My kid plays on that team," Christine Bell said. "Sonny, you helped him coach, you should do it."

  "Not me." Sonny Lopez slowly brought his head up. He'd been looking down into his beer, as if the answer to life was floating in there. "I coach blocking and tackling, that's my thing. Emo was running some kind of Veer offense. I wouldn't know a tight-end from a chorus boy. You need somebody who understands that offense."

  "Somebody'11 step up," Brill said, emotion bending his voice. "Emo had friends, man. People were always standin' in line t'carry that man's flag."