White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  Maluga rules.

  I thought about that for a while as I wondered how far a trustee might go to please a rich thug and rap mogul like Louis Maluga. I suspected fifty thousand in cash or a promised rap contract would buy a lot of cooperation. Could he corrupt a trustee with money or a promise of fame or glory? Probably.

  Fire.

  How did that make any sense? This was a concrete and steel facility. Hard to find much that would burn. I wrestled with this and then found myself thinking back to the buses in the parking area and that African-American trustee who had the key to the drive-in cage. It suddenly occurred to me that there was gasoline in those buses. How hard would it be for a trustee to slip underneath and siphon some out? How hard to smuggle a book of matches in here?

  I sat up and pulled the mattress off the bed and studied it. It was thin, but with a hard, red plastic cover. It might make a good shield. I put it on the floor beside the bed and lay back down on the cold metal shelf. How long I waited, I don't know. There were no clocks. The sound of men snoring punctuated the silence. I gripped the edge of the mattress and thought about the next morning and how long it would take me to get bailed out, if I could even arrange it. I wondered where Chooch was and if I should get the sergeant to take me back to the shower so I could call him. I couldn't bear to tell him I was in jail for murder. After struggling with this for a while, I decided to wait until I knew more. He had enough to deal with just looking out for Alexa, and since he hadn't called the jail, I could only hope he'd been asleep when I was arrested and hadn't seen anything about it on TV yet.

  Finally, I drifted off. My mind was looking for comfort somewhere else. But this time I didn't find it in a dream. I slept fitfully. I thrashed and rolled, fighting demons that came at me in shadowy forms. In most cases I was running, trying to get away from faceless enemies I could sense but couldn't quite see.

  Then I heard someone outside the bars of my cell and my eyes snapped open. I couldn't see who it was, but I caught a glimpse of purple.

  Trustee.

  Something wet splashed on my arm. I smelled gasoline. I snatched up the mattress and held it out in front of me as more gasoline from a plastic water bottle sprayed into the cell. Most of it hit the hard mattress, then splattered onto the floor. A lighted match followed and the room exploded.

  "Fire!" I yelled, and danced back into the far corner of the small cell shielding myself with the mattress. I could barely get away from the heat and spreading flames. I was trapped and starting to catch fire.

  My sleeve was burning as well as some of my hair. I slammed my burning arm against the wall in an attempt to extinguish it, then clawed at my head to put out the fire. I don't know how long I was inside fighting to stay alive. I was choking on smoke and fire was beginning to get on my clothing. The gasoline-soaked floor was ablaze and spreading quickly. The billowing smoke triggered a fire alarm and the sprinkler system in A-block turned on. Water rained down. Suddenly, three custodial officers flung open my cell door and began spraying me with fire extinguishers. I dropped the mattress and dove through the door, rolling on my shoulder in the hallway to extinguish the fire that was now burning my shirt. They shot the fire out with C02 cannisters.

  For the next few minutes the custodial officers beat down the flames in my cell as the sprinklers in A-block continued to drench us. The entire floor was thick with smoke. Prisoners were coughing and screaming in fear all around the block.

  It took twenty or thirty minutes until most of the prisoners were moved out of the dorm cells on two and taken down to the staging cells on the first floor. I was led to the jail medical ward for treatment.

  Sergeant Collins was shaken as he sat to fill out an incident report. I had seen nothing. A purple uniform. I couldn't identify my attacker. Collins promised that all of the trustees would be interviewed by detectives and polygraphed. Wishful thinking. Nobody was going to agree to a plea bargain or make a voluntary statement on a polygraph.

  My burns were mostly superficial. Some of my hair and eyebrows had been singed off and there was one bad place on my left arm. The MT greased and wrapped it, then gave me pills for the pain.

  Two arson detectives from upstairs pulled me into an I-room. I knew this would go on for the rest of the night.

  "You think we should send him back to the thirteenth floor?" one of the arson dicks asked the young doctor working the jail ward. Like everybody else, he was in a big hurry to hot-potato me off to somebody else.

  "I think he's okay," the doctor answered.

  "Lucky you had that mattress handy," the arson detective said.

  I had a jail breakfast at six o'clock and as I was finishing, Sergeant Collins came over, holding a sheet of paper.

  "The list just came over from Division Thirty and your guy worked a miracle. You're on it."

  I thanked him and watched as he walked back to his desk.

  Through it all, I couldn't shake one question.

  Why had Insane Wayne Watkins saved my life?

  Chapter 50.

  DIVISION THIRTY IS in a massive, no frills, stone building, with linoleum floors and security checks at every door. The place smells of sweat, and, for some reason I can never fathom, tobacco. The arraignment court is on the second floor and occupies most of the north side of the building. The courtroom itself is a huge, square space that has a closed-off glass area where next-in-line arrestees wait. It's a criminal conveyor belt. Prisoners are walked in, their charges are read, they're asked how they plead, then bail is determined and a date for the preliminary hearing is set. Bing-bang-boom-next. When it's over, you're either taken to the bond clerk downstairs, or transported over to the big Twin Towers jail where you are held over until trial.

  Handcuffed, I followed an LAPD court cop to the second floor and into a small attorney's room. When the door opened, I saw Gunner Gustafson. He was a fifty-year-old lunchbox-shaped guy with wide shoulders and longer-than-normal arms, all of which contributed to a slightly ape-like appearance. His curly brown hair was cut close and he had the fighting chin of a Nordic thug. His suit was wrinkled and nondescript.

  He stood when I entered, but on his feet or in the chair, he was about the same height, his lower torso being abnormally compact. Still, there was nothing even remotely funny about him. He was small, but on home turf. In this arena, he was dangerous.

  "Get those restraints off. I won't have my client paraded in front of the judge wearing chains," he snapped at the police guard.

  "I'm sorry," the cop said. "Can't do it."

  "Make this an issue, Sonny, and I'll find a way to give you some grief. Scully ain't going nowhere. Put a guy outside this door, or walk with us to court if you're so worried, but for the love of God, stop arguing 'cause you're gonna lose."

  The officer knew Gustafson, and since he didn't want trouble, he reluctantly unchained me.

  "Now get the hell out. This is an attorney-client conference," my gunslinger snapped. The uniform backed out of the room and shut the door. Then, Gunner Gustafson put out his hand. "Shake it like you mean it," he smiled. It was a little like shaking hands with a stone carving.

  "I called a guy I know who's in Venice real estate to zip over and give me a legal appraisal of your digs," Gunner said. "Got him out of bed at four a. M. Since he couldn't walk the inside and doesn't know what condition it's in, he'll only guarantee me an appraised value of six hundred thou. That's probably about twenty-five percent under what it's really worth. But once the bondsman accepts his appraisal, if it turns out to be too high, he could get sued for the difference if you skip. Traditionally, bail appraisals are low. It's a bad deal, but it's the best I can do on such short notice."

  "How'll I get out?" I asked.

  "Okay. You've got equity of around one hundred K. Discount that by twenty percent, which is a bond standard, and that leaves you with around seventy-five thou. You said you have ten grand in cash at the bank?"

  I nodded.

  "To get you out by ten we gotta get bail low
ered to around seven hundred and fifty thousand. On Murder One, that's gonna be tough."

  I told him about the attempt on my life in jail and he snatched up his phone and started making calls. He wanted a copy of the attempted homicide report sent over right away by messenger. He wanted a list of custodial officers who were on duty last night called and set up to testify if necessary. He wanted all the arson and IO reports. The guy was impressive shouting orders to subordinates and jail employees. When he was finished, he hung up and looked over at me.

  "We got one thing going for us," he said. "We didn't draw one of those numb-nut pussies from the normal judge's rotation. Apparently, because of sickness, vacations, and brain malfunctions, they're short on graybeards this morning. We were assigned a civil commissioner, just appointed, name of Andre Easton. I went before him last week. He's a cherry. Guy's so new he still thinks he's actually supposed to make decisions instead of just rubber stamp the District Attorney's charge sheet. That's the good news. The bad news is we got the D. A. himself trying this sucker. Because it's you and he likes to get his picture taken, Chase Beal is in the docket for the people. I hate that guy worse than country music. I'd purely love to kick his skinny prep-school ass."

  At ten till eight, we were being led into an empty court room. I'd been transferred by police car half an hour early because my case was being heard half an hour before court normally opened. As a result, there was no press and the only people in attendance were the cops guarding the door, the bailiff, the court reporter, and the clerk. The regular jail buses hadn't even arrived yet.

  At the prosecutor's table sat Chase Beal. Up until now, I had only seen him on the Six O3Clock News. He was smaller in stature than I'd thought. He also looked like one of those guys who spent at least an hour a day in some Beverly Hills gym running the treads and trying to put a move on the Pilates instructor. He had narrow shoulders, a trim waist and movie-star hair. His eyes had been described once in the press as being fiercely blue, but I suspected contacts. Sitting behind the bench and at the extreme other end of the fitness scale was Commissioner Andre Easton. A big, round-shouldered, flabby-looking guy in judge's robes with a shock of sandy, longish hair. We took our place behind the yellow, distressed glass and remained standing.

  "Division Thirty, State of California, is in order," the bailiff said loudly. "Commissioner Andre Easton presiding." No gavel, no nonsense. We were off and running.

  "This is case number three-four-zero-zero-six, People versus Shane Scully," the court clerk said. "Charge being filed against the defendant is one-eighty-seven, murder in the first degree."

  "Who's here on behalf of the people?" Commissioner Andre Easton droned. Because everybody in the room knew the District Attorney was trying this himself, the question was just for the court record.

  "Chase Beal for the people," the D. A. caroled in a loud tenor appropriate for church.

  "Glen Gustafson for the defense," my street fighter rasped.

  "How do you plead?" Easton asked, looking at me.

  "Not guilty," I said.

  "Okay, I have a motion before me, by the District Attorney requesting a bail deviation. Let's hear about that," the commissioner said.

  Chase Beal cleared his throat. "Commissioner Easton, this man, Shane Scully, is a suspect in the prior high-profile murder of Police Officer David Slade. He's also now being charged with the first-degree murder of Diamond Simonette. The people don't think a one-million-dollar bond is anywhere near sufficient. Further and to the point, this is an officer who has recently displayed a blatant lack of self-control. He has made two unlawful searches without warrants as well as being unlawfully involved in numerous other cases in the past. We've filed several documents in support of all this. I think you have them in your file up there along with his past Internal Affairs charge sheets." He shuffled his papers. "We'd like to . . ."

  "Hold on a minute, Mr. Beal. Let me read this stuff. I'm not from Yale, like you. Went to little old Glendale City College. Gonna take me a minute." I liked the sound of that. We had a class war going. Then Commissioner Easton looked up. "Says here the I. A. charges were all dropped in oh-two." He was frowning.

  "Your honor, the people contend those charges were dropped for dubious reasons. Detective Scully's record shows a longstanding slipshod approach to the law. We believe past behavior strikes to character, regardless of whether I. A. filed its charges. It's our contention that, when taken as a whole, this officer's record supports the people's case that he is a rogue cop and, as such, is also a flight risk." Beal took a breath, then continued. "As a police officer and notorious rule-bender, he also has access to weapons. He knows the street and could easily obtain a forged passport. Our feeling is he needs to be held with sufficient bail to guarantee incarceration."

  "And what would that figure be?" Easton asked, raising bushy eyebrows.

  "Five million dollars," Beal said.

  "Is he kidding?" I blurted. Gunner was looking down into his briefcase and failed to stop my outburst. "I can't even afford a million," I raged at the commissioner.

  "Shut up, asshole. Let me do this," Gunner growled under his breath.

  "Mr. Gustafson?" Commissioner Easton said. "Any response?"

  Now my guy went to work.

  "We City College guys probably just don't get it," he began. "As his reasons for this ungodly bail, the District Attorney documents I. A. charges that have been dropped but says we should acknowledge them anyway, while ignoring a distinguished twenty-plus-year career in law enforcement, where Detective Scully has risked his life numerous times protecting the public." Gunner shook his head in disbelief. "Further, in response to Mr. Beal's first point, the incomplete Slade murder investigation,, let me say, if the people have an actual case against my client on that, then I suggest they file it. If not, then stop talking about it, 'cause it's just not relevant. Further, let me add that my client is a double Medal of Valor winner, who currently is assigned to Homicide Special, arguably the most elite murder squad in the entire country. I would also like to point out that his wife, the acting head of the Detective Bureau, is undergoing brain surgery at UCLA Medical at ten o'clock this morning. As a loving husband, Detective Scully should be allowed to make reasonable bail so he can be there to help make decisions on her behalf. I'd further point out that since this one-eighty-seven is being filed under the Felony Homicide Rule, nobody it seems is claiming he actually killed anybody. It's pretty obvious that my client is being grossly overcharged with Murder One in a transparent attempt to keep him from making bail. At best, this is Involuntary Manslaughter, or Negligent Homicide or maybe nothing at all."

  "Except, as you know, the Arraignment Court doesn't determine the filing, Mr. Gustafson; the District Attorney does," Easton said. "Mr. Beal can charge him here with whatever he wants. A trial will eventually determine if he's been overcharged."

  "I know, but trying for unreasonable bail under a bogus Murder One indictment, is certainly something we can discuss in relation to the District Attorney's bail deviance request."

  Easton nodded. "Fair enough."

  "Third, I sent you an arson report of an incident that occurred at the Men's Central Jail at three a. M. this morning," Gunner continued. "You should have the report by now. If necessary, in less than an hour I can fill this court with witnesses to the event. In essence, somebody tried to kill Detective Scully by squirting gasoline into his isolation cell at MCJ and throwing in a match in an attempt to immolate him. You can plainly see his hair and arm are burned. Unless Mr. Beal can guarantee that the jail will do a better job of keeping this man alive, I don't think we should further risk his life by forcing his incarceration in an unsafe facility under overreaching and unfair bail requirements."

  The commissioner turned to his clerk, who was just returning from chambers and handed Easton the arson report. He quickly scanned it, and then looked up.

  "Anything to say, Mr. Beal?"

  "Commissioner, what happened in that jail or why, has no effect
on this hearing. Should we now let everybody out because one attempt was partially successful down there? That's ridiculous. The incident, such as it was, is being investigated. If a crime was committed, charges will be filed."

  "Okay. Proceed, Mr. Gustafson," the commissioner said.

  "We have also filed a bail deviance request of our own," Gunner said. "My client can't make the million-dollar bond. We want the bail lowered to five hundred thousand dollars, which is in keeping with the facts surrounding the charge. Detective Scully needs to be at his wife's side. Further, in attesting to Detective Scully's stability, the court should note that he has a son enrolled at USC and a house in Venice, California, that is almost half paid for. This man is not going to cut and run, Commissioner. He'll be here for trial."

  Commissioner Easton was in a tough place. Whatever he did, his decision was going to be second-guessed. I could see the frown stretch across his craggy face. Finally, he looked down at us and pronounced his decision.

  "Bail will be left at one million dollars," he said, playing it safe.

  "Your honor, I don't have a million dollars," I blurted.

  "Then you're remanded to custody at the county jail until trial. Preliminary hearing is on October twelfth. Clear the court," he said and the bailiff turned and waved at the COs to come get me. As this was happening, Gunner Gustafson was reaching for his vibrating cell phone.

  "Man, not even eight-thirty and this thing is already giving me a rubdown." He flipped it open and answered it. "Yeah . . . yeah . . . sure. I guess." He turned at looked at me.

  "You switching lawyers already?" he frowned. "I'm a better kisser than that, aren't I?"