The Big Exit

by David Carnoy

  “I hope so.”

  “Look, tell me what the limit is in terms of how much I can work. Whatever it is, I don’t have a problem giving you a little extra, you know, pro-bono.”

  “I haven’t told you how much I’m going to pay you.”

  “Can’t be worse than what I’m making now.”

  “True.” She paused briefly, looked at him and then said, “You were in sales before.”

  “Marketing,” he corrected her.

  “Close cousins.”

  “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. It just shows sometimes. You’re convincing.”

  “I was a framer, Ms. Hinojosa. A packager of concepts and ideas that others took out and sold, sometimes to lucrative effect.”

  “A framer who got framed. How paradoxical.”

  He had a flashback to a cartoon a friend had drawn for their high-school newspaper: Two docks sitting side-by-side in a watery expanse of ocean. The caption read, “A paradox.” He’d forgotten a lot of other things from high school, but for some reason that image had stayed with him.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said, smiling at the memory of the cartoon. “If it’s any consolation, I kind of laugh every time I say the name of this place.”

  “Why?”

  “The Exoneration Foundation,” he said with the touch of an English accent. “It just sounds so lofty. So highfalutin. And here we are dealing with a lot of folks who don’t even know what the word means. Some of these guys can barely write English.”

  “This isn’t about what they understand,” she said imposingly. “This is about making other people understand.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a powerful word,” she said. “It’s one thing to be released from prison for a legal technicality. But to be exonerated is another thing altogether. It’s on a different plane. We do lofty things here, Rick. We right God’s wrongs through science.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  She rolled her eyes. Not a major roll, but definitely detectable. He realized he’d made a mistake. Sure, she tolerated a certain amount a cynicism during the course of a workday—and had even exhibited a dry wit—but the brand was the brand, and no one messed with it. Someone, maybe Marty, had ingrained her with that notion, and she’d stuck to it. That was good. He could understand that. But fuck her, she didn’t really understand.

  “Look,” he said. “People assume that because you experience an injustice you want revenge. But the fact is, the thing you’re most preoccupied with is removing the tag you’ve been stuck with. You don’t know what it’s like to have a victim’s parents look at you like you’re the scum of the earth for killing their daughter. For days on end. You don’t know. It’s like a stink you just can’t wash off and no amount of cologne can mask. It doesn’t go away.”

  “It’ll diminish. You’ll see. You were part of an unfortunate incident but you’re not a monster. You keep your head up—and your heart in the right place—you’ll smell fine. You’re doing okay, Rick. Trust me.”

  “Maybe. But I watched that video of Joaquin Cruz after he got out of prison. You know, the thing Ashley’s boyfriend put together for you guys. He had the big crowd, the press conference—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I gotta admit, watching it, I got a twang of envy. For a second there I wished I was still in prison … you know, that I had a more serious charge that might have made my case more worthwhile for folks like you to pursue. I actually asked myself whether I would have traded another six years to walk out like that.”

  “What was the answer?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Prison blows. Sure, there were some interesting characters, but the thing that people sometimes forget is that the people who are locked up are the ones who got caught. The majority range from not too bright to downright dolts. That’s what makes it so tiresome.”

  “That moment you saw in the video is just a moment,” she said. “It’s something we work toward every day and it’s incredibly gratifying to achieve it. But the crowd goes away pretty quickly. And yeah, Joaquin Cruz sued and got some money for his troubles. But he still has to figure out a way to live the rest of his life and come to terms with what’s been taken away from him. And he didn’t have the wherewithal to learn to sing Sinatra like you did.”

  “I still want that moment.”

  “I know you do. And I know that’s part of the reason you’re here even though you say it isn’t. And that’s okay.”

  He looked at her, wondering how she’d come up with that. He’d never said anything to her about why he was interested in the job beyond what he’d told her in his initial interview.

  “I didn’t ask Ashley to look into my case if that’s what you’re talking about. I told her it was pointless.”

  “I never said you did.”

  He paused a moment, reflecting on their conversation. He hated that she pretended to be one step ahead of him, knew him better than he knew himself. Couldn’t she just take him at face value and leave it at that? Why was everybody trying to fucking psychoanalyze him all the time?

  “Lofty things, huh?” he said. “You correct God’s wrongs through science?”

  She smiled. “We do.”

  “That seems rather paradoxical. I thought God is never wrong.”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  PART 2

  9/ CRAPPY CONSTRUCTION

  SAN FRANCISCO IS THIRTY MILES NORTH OF MENLO PARK, AND depending on the time of the day and what freeway you choose, the trip can take anywhere from thirty minutes to twice that. This time of night there’s no traffic, and going eighty most of the way, they get up to the city in twenty-four minutes.

  Most of the officers drive sedans but Madden gets to charge around in a fancy Chevy Yukon SUV, one of the perks of being a sergeant that he doesn’t really like. For starters, he isn’t a flashy guy, and after so many years of driving a sedan he’s still not totally comfortable riding so high in a big car. But when his old boss, Pete Pastorini, was bumped up to commander, Madden was promoted to detective sergeant and they made him take the truck, which is what he and Billings are in as they head up to the city.

  Directly in front of them is Brian Carlyle, the sergeant in charge of the patrol officers, a former Marine with the requisite barrel chest and a crew cut. In his matching SUV, Carlyle has another veteran officer with him, Sam Wycoff. Both have spent time in Oakland as part of special drug-related task forces, so they are probably the most battle-tested cops in the department in terms of heavy action.

  One of the reasons they get there so quickly is that Richie Forman lives in the southern part of the city, right near the ballpark and the entrance to the Bay Bridge. They pull over on Third and Brannan, where a couple of SFPD cars are waiting for them. Madden knows the officer in the lead vehicle, Felix Hernandez. He’s the patrol officer in charge of the precinct, which covers a large portion of the South of Market area.

  Felix Hernandez gets out of the car and shakes Madden’s hand through the open window. As soon as Madden gets out of the truck, he’s glad he has his extra jacket in the back. A brisk breeze is blowing off the bay, and it’s a good fifteen degrees colder up here, maybe more.

  “Hey, Hank,” Hernandez says. “Thought you retired.”

  “Yeah, the joke is I’m so old I got dementia and forgot to.”

  A smile. Hernandez is approaching fifty, might be there already. “Know what you mean. So, you’ve got a person of interest in our neck of the woods. How much interest are we talking?”

  Madden gives him the background, tells him about Forman, how he’s gotten out of prison eighteen months ago, and how he may be carrying a little grudge. They already have some evidence linking him to the crime scene.

  “Forman,” Hernandez says. “Name rings a bell.”

  “He was that Bachelor Disaster guy from eight years ago. I d
on’t know if you remember. Started the night up here. Ended up in a DUI fatality down our way.”

  “No, I think he paid us a visit the other day.” He turns to a black woman officer who’s standing nearby: “Something about an assault and a couple of Tongans, right Joyce? He had a license plate and some photos.”

  “Yeah, the Sinatra dude,” Joyce says. “We traced the plate to some woman’s car in Burlingame. It had been swapped out and she didn’t even know it. The plate, not the car.”

  “He get beat up?” Madden asks.

  “No,” Joyce replies. “Just said these guys had hassled him. Didn’t know why. He said he didn’t want to report the incident but his boss made him. When he’s not being Sinatra, he said he volunteers at some nonprofit.”

  “Interesting,” Madden says, half surprised, half perturbed by the news. Assault? Tongans? Stolen license plate? None of that sounds good.

  “So you’re looking to chat or collar?” Hernandez asks.

  “We’re hoping he might take a ride with us willingly and answer some questions. Just wanted to let you know we were showing up for a visit.”

  “Well, we’re here for you if you need us.”

  Hernandez gives him a lay of the land, explaining how the Bayside Village complex is set up. There are basically three possible exit routes. He suggests they have one officer set up in the courtyard and one in the garage in case the guy decides to run. Madden and his partner should come at it from the front of the building and just buzz and see if Forman will let them in.

  They finish the briefing and split up. Madden parks a little further down on Brannan and Carlyle parks on a side street adjacent to the Brannan entrance of the building. After a few minutes, a slight, middle-aged Asian man walks out of the front door of the building, his eyes darting around, looking very concerned. Seeing Madden’s Menlo Park police vehicle, he comes over and introduces himself. He’s the building manager, who’s going to let them in the main entrance if Forman doesn’t.

  “In position, Hank,” Carlyle says. He sounds pretty amped up, probably hoping the guy will run. This isn’t exactly Iraq, but it’s a step up from Menlo Park. “We better get going. Brewster just texted me that word’s out. It’s all over Twitter. That webhole Bender got wind of it.”

  “Webholes” are what Carlyle calls dot-commers he considers assholes. Tom Bender is more of a blogger than a dot-commer, but he reports on them and has managed to develop a rather oversized ego in the process, cultivating the perception that he can make or break fledgling companies while building his own one-man media empire.

  “I forgot the guy lives like six blocks away,” Madden says.

  “Actually two,” Carlyle corrects him. “He moved last year. His mother’s in his old house now.”

  Despite their better efforts to keep the killing quiet by staying off the radios, Madden knew that it was only a matter of time before it leaked. You just needed one cop to shoot his mouth off to a couple of bystanders and the jig was up. Or perhaps the county coroner’s car had been the tip-off. It didn’t take much.

  “We’re at the front,” Madden says. “Stay on the line.”

  Billings goes up to the intercom and buzzes the number for Richie Forman’s apartment.

  No response. The manager had already pointed out Forman’s second-floor apartment from outside. The window is easily visible from the street; his apartment is dark, with the shades drawn.

  Madden buzzes again. This time, Billings walks across the street and looks up at the window. He shakes his head. No change. No light comes on. No one looks through the blinds.

  Madden asks the manager to open the door.

  “Do me a favor,” the guy says. “Don’t break his door down. I’ll let you in if you need to get in.”

  “Don’t worry,” Madden says. “We can’t go in.”

  They don’t have a warrant. Not yet, but they’re working on it.

  “You want me to stay here?” the manager asks. “Guard the entrance?”

  “Yeah,” Billings says. “Hold the fort.”

  Madden goes to the elevator and presses the up button. In a minute, he and Billings are upstairs, looking down a long hallway that’s painted off-white, with gray carpeting that appears to be in good condition, probably replaced in the last few years. It’s a clean, generic-looking building. Forman’s apartment is in the middle of the hallway on the right.

  Madden takes one side of the door and Billings the other. Madden knocks. No answer. He knocks louder.

  “Mr. Forman. Are you in there? Menlo Park police. Please open up. We’d like to have a few words with you.”

  Madden purposely raises his voice, hoping to wake the neighbors. He repeats the request and while they don’t get any response from Forman, a door down the hall opens a crack. A young Asian woman looks out.

  “He’s not here,” she says.

  Madden walks slowly toward the other apartment. He takes out his police badge and flashes it.

  “Hank Madden. Detective from the Menlo Park police,” he says. “How do you know he’s not here?”

  “He’s over at the View, that place on top of the downtown Marriott,” she says. “He’s singing tonight. Wait a sec.”

  She closes her door, but returns quickly enough. She hands Madden an odd-looking business card from the top of a small stack she has in her hand. It has the logo for the joint and Sinatra @ The View, along with an offer for a free beer or glass of wine. The card has a perforation in the middle. It looks like you’re supposed to tear it in two.

  “He gave me some of these the other day. Told me to pass them out to friends. He’s there on Fridays, I guess. Just started. Have you been? Great view, expensive drinks. I took my parents there when they came to town.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “A little.”

  “Did you see him tonight?”

  She shakes her head. “I went out to dinner. Just got back a little while ago.”

  Billings takes out a picture of Beth Hill.

  “You ever seen him with this woman?”

  More curious, she opens the door a little more. She takes the photo and looks at it. After a moment, she shakes her head.

  “No, but I’ve seen him with other women. I’ve heard him fucking.”

  Madden and Billings look at each other, surprised at the F-bomb. She seems rather prim and proper in her Hello Kitty T-shirt and pink velvet sweat pants.

  “Actually, I shouldn’t say I’ve heard him. But the women. I’ve heard them. These walls are paper thin. My dad says it’s pretty crappy construction.”

  “He has a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t ever really see him hanging with anybody. And you know, the voices sound different each time. Why, did he kill someone or something? Is he a serial killer?”

  Madden ignores the question.

  “You’ve spoken to him?” he asks.

  “A few times. I see him in the building gym. It’s not really much of a gym. It’s like a hotel gym. A lot of people in the building get a membership to a real gym. But he’s in there a lot. The guy’s pretty ripped. I mean serious. He offered to train me, said he would do it for half of what the building trainer was asking. He said he was looking for extra money.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “No. But I was thinking about it. I saw him working out with another woman from the building. What’d he do?”

  Madden smiles. “We’re just looking to ask him some questions about something that happened down on the Peninsula. Mind if we take your name and phone number in case we think of anything else to ask you?”

  She nods. Billings takes her number down and Madden gives her his card.

  He starts to return the card she’s given him, then asks whether they can keep it. She says that’s fine, she has more, and gives an extra one to Billings. Flashing a little smile, she says, “He did tell me to hand them out.”

  After she closes the door, they take one last look down the hallway, then go ba
ck to the elevator. As the door opens, Billings says, “Anybody for cocktails?”

  Madden looks at the perforated card, then at his watch. If the information on the card is accurate, Richie Forman is about to start his last set.

  10/ TEARS TO DRY

  MADDEN DOESN’T WANT TO MAKE A SCENE, SO WHEN THEY GET TO the Marriott he tells Carlyle and his partner, who are in uniform, to wait downstairs with the vehicles while he and Billings go upstairs.

  Rising swiftly in the elevator, Madden feels his ears pop. Next to him Billings looks ready for a night on the town, not the interrogation of a possible suspect. Madden is wearing a coat and tie; Billings has his top two shirt buttons open, exposing a little chest hair. A couple of women in their early forties are in the elevator with them, dolled up in heels and short skirts underneath long leather coats. One of them flashes Billings a smile.

  “How you ladies doing tonight?” he asks, his hands on either side of his belt buckle.

  Madden jabs him in the side.

  “What?” Billings says.

  “We’re working,” he whispers.

  “Intermezzo, man. Intermezzo.”

  Madden doesn’t know what the hell Billings is talking about. When the elevator doors open to the lounge, Billings, channeling his inner Matthew McConaughey, says, “You ladies have a good night. Y’all be safe now.”

  The Southern drawl kills Madden. Billings is from Southern California, not the South South. Lately he’s been tossing out his “be safe” sign-off so often that some of the guys have started calling him Officer Condom, which doesn’t seem to bother him. When Madden asks about it, he just shrugs. “Envy, man. It’s a bitch.”

  A tall, dark-haired hostess tucked into a formfitting blue dress greets them. The women from the elevator blow past her, seeming to know exactly where they’re going.

  “Gentlemen,” she says. “Welcome.”

  Madden doesn’t hear music or anybody singing, but he does hear someone who sounds a lot like Frank Sinatra speaking over the sound system. He’s saying something about smoking.