by Lou Reiter
Taylor waited until he got back to his hotel to call the officers. Eventually he reached both. Both said they lost their ID cards in early 2011, reported it, and were given new ones. They told Taylor that other than dropping small narcotic finds in the evidence bins outside the Evidence Room, they had no other involvement with narcotics and had not been to the Evidence Room to pick up any packages left there.
*****
Taylor could see why Ranger Sergio had picked the Buckeye Grill. It was elegantly furnished with tooled leather chairs. Western art and massive Remington and Russell reproductions were spaced throughout the dining room. Sounds of Willie Nelson crooned in the background. Sergio made the right call when he said the League could afford it. Taylor might have balked since steaks started at $45 and everything else was extra, a lot extra. This was definitely Sierra Vista’s answer to Ruth’s Chris Steak House.
Taylor picked up the conversation after a couple drinks. “I think Sierra Vista is something for you guys. It really seems like it’s going to be a nest of criminal activity.”
“I figured that after talking with Spence. What you got?”
“SNU is a disaster. No procedure for informants, if there are even any on board. This guy Pedro Fuentes is as dirty as they come. Skimming money and drugs. What I got today was the real potential chance he’s been stealing large quantities of narcotics from the Evidence Room, mainly drugs slated to be burned. You know, though, I don’t like Chief Garcia, but I’m not sure he’s involved other than turning a blind eye to how the SNU gets results.”
Taylor laid out his investigation. His real concern was about the potentially missing evidence.
“We’re scheduled to ride into Sierra Vista tomorrow,” Sergio offered. “Reps from the Attorney General’s Office and a contingent from DPS will be with us to give more boots on the ground. The AG is planning on laying a “cease and desist” order on the chief and the department. With your info, we’ll seal the Evidence Room and SNU office. What do you think about Pepy, Bull, and Clap?”
Taylor thought about each of the officers Sergio identified. “I initially had concerns about Bull and Clap. They knew they were skimming dollars and drugs and using them illegally. I guess I feel for them about the shooting. They got sucked in. They had a right to survive. But on the other hand, they engaged in an illegal search. That renegade quartet trashed the Constitution. Bull may not even give any explicit testimony, thinking he’s snitching. He’s a typical, but strange animal, so common in law enforcement. You know, ‘Got to protect the blue wall or code of silence’ bullshit.”
“What about Pepy?”
“He’s a criminal, flat out. You shouldn’t consider any form of mitigation for him. I think you can turn him. Don’t know whether it will be by using his prostitute girlfriend, the chief, or his own skin. Guys like him usually are the first to cop out. Just got to give them a reason. Something they can use to justify turning on someone they care for. I’m not sure you can make him for the Evidence Room thefts unless he cops out. He’s been in and out of there for legitimate reasons.”
“What about Chief Garcia?”
“Not sure you’ve got anything on him. Maybe malfeasance as a public official, but you got to show some knowledge of misconduct. Being a buffoon isn’t enough. He loved the fruits of the malignant SNU operations, but I’m not sure that’s enough.”
“I’m not sure either, Taylor. We also got to figure that the local DA might have some shit going on his office. There’s too much going on for the DA not to catch a whiff of the bad smell. Too many search warrants flew outta there, and then the Emma Mae Jones grand jury. That’s going to be crashing down on him.”
Sergio and Taylor had a good time and a great meal together. Taylor decided he would postpone his departure for a day so he could be there when the cavalry showed up in full force. Maybe his observations could be helpful in focusing the take down efforts.
*****
Taylor waited until noon to show up at the police station. The second floor chief’s anteroom was crowded and spilling into the hallway. An Assistant Attorney General, two investigators, Sergio, and four DPS troopers were receiving a briefing about how things would be going down.
First Sergio locked down the SNU and left Evidence guarded by DPS troopers. Then he called in a property expert from the state crime lab. Taylor saw the buzz cut topping the fireplug chief suddenly charge through the crowd in his direction. Garcia’s face was flushed and he was puffing like a locomotive as he rushed forward“Well, Mr. California cop,” he shouted enunciating each syllable slowly. “You happy now? You get a hard-on fuckin’ some local police agency? Well, I’m still here and you won’t be by the end of the week. You’ll probably be ass fucking some other chief and cop shop.”
“California, Texas, wherever. Until you secede from the country, the U.S. Constitution covers your sovereign state of Texas.” Taylor enunciated each syllable of his announcement precisely.
Later, while waiting to catch his flight at the airport, Taylor caught the local news which was featuring Sierra Vista. There was Chief Garcia, big as life. “I am working diligently with the Texas Rangers on ridding Sierra Vista of these malignant cops. They have disgraced the fine reputation of every good cop in Sierra Vista. I’m glad I asked the Texas City County League to come into our city. We needed the valuable and professional support they offered after I asked them for help. City Council fully supports the League’s continued effort to make sure we deliver the best police service to Sierra Vista, with our limited budget and staff, of course.”
Taylor smiled. The Chief didn’t stumble on nary a word.
*****
Two weeks after Taylor was back in his office, he got a call from Sergio.
“Well, most of it is over. Your hunch on the burn narcotics was on the money. That big bundle was all adulterated shit. Several other bundles as well. Pepy’s piss showed coke, oxy, and pot. Pepy rolled over on the love of his life almost before we closed the door to the interview room. Then Izzi, flipped on him like a short order cook. Pepy took a plea of ten years in Huntsville, isolation, of course, to protect his sorry ass. The AG scared the shit out of him with the threat of 2nd degree murder on the Jones’ death.”
“What about Bull and Clap?”
“Suspended sentences, but both lost their cert from TCLOSE. You know, that Brady issue. Same thing for Sgt. Cooke.”
“And Chief Garcia and the DA?”
“Nothing. Politics rules. Just couldn’t get anything together on them. But you’d be pleased about the chief’s lieutenant.”
“Humor me, Sergio.”
“He’s now the OIC of the ‘newly revamped SNU.’ But now they call it the Street Crimes Unit.”
“Couldn’t happen to a better guy. Sierra Vista deserves him. The sovereign nation of Texas deserves him,” Taylor laughed.
“For your info, Sergio, I suggested to the League that they settle the open Vu lawsuit and not wait for the Jones’ family to file a lawsuit. Do the right thing up front and give her family something tangible.
Sergio, it’s been nice working with you. Hope we get another chance down the road. By the way, the League paid the dinner bill, but not without a little ragging on me.”
CHAPTER 4:
MENTAL HEALTH
Complainant: Seth Spencer
Allegation: Excessive Force
Agency: Playa Diablo
Employees: Don Edwards and Ricardo Sanchez
“Coach Spencer,” Detective Ramos began, “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.” Seth thanked him and waved for the detective to continue.
“We got a call regarding your son, Dennis, and a couple other boys hanging around at the Dairy Queen downtown. People say they were acting strange and were making customers uncomfortable. When our officer arrived on the scene, they ran. Your boy apparently jumped into a dumpster in the back of the DQ. He was talking gibberish, laughing hysterically, and not making any sense.”
Seth sat
back on the bench in the detectives’ squad room and lowered his head into his hands. “We’ve been having trouble with our son at school and home. I’m pretty sure Dennis is into drugs, but don’t know what. It’s been coming on for a couple years now. His mother and I been putting off taking him to professionals who might help him. I guess it’s time to do it now. Is Dennis going to be arrested?”
“No, not this time. We didn’t find drugs on him, but we know the crowd he’s been running with. The other two guys are meth heads. It’s bad stuff. Meth will fry your brain. You really can’t wait to take action, Coach. You got to get on it fast. I’ve seen this happen before and there’s only two possible endings: one good and the other bad, very bad.”
Dennis Spencer was born and raised in Homestead, Florida. His father, Seth, was the track coach and civics teacher at Homestead High. His mother, Mary, ran the preschool program at the United Methodist Church. Dennis was the middle child with an older sister and younger brother. The Spencer family was well known and respected in Homestead. They were regular attendees at the church where Mary worked.
Dennis’ sister, Amelia, was three years older than he was. She excelled in swimming and gymnastics, and consistently made high grades in her AP courses. Amelia was attractive and seemed to have guys always hanging around trying to grab her attention. When Amelia graduated from Homestead High, she was awarded a State Academic Excellence Scholarship and soon was a Gator at the University of Florida in Gainesville, a good eight-hour drive north of Homestead. A swimming scholarship offered additional financial aid.
Dennis’ brother, Seth Jr., or Junior as he was nicknamed, was two years younger than Dennis. He, of course, went to Homestead High. Running track was his passion, much to the delight of his father. Junior slipped through high school with Bs and Cs, but it was enough to get him into the local community college. Eventually Junior’s track accomplishments got him noticed by the University of South Florida in Tampa and the school gave him a partial athletic scholarship.
Dennis grew up playing baseball, from toddler T-ball to high school JV. He dreamed of playing varsity, but his skill level peaked during the 10th grade. Dennis was easily distracted, even during a baseball game. Lack of focus also affected his schoolwork. Guidance counselors worked to help him from elementary school on while Seth and Mary researched alternatives to help their middle son focus more effectively. Nothing seemed to be working.
The school and Dennis’ parents hoped placement in an alternative high school might be the answer. Classes were smaller and were not run on a locked step 50-minute schedule. But other students at the school had their own set of problems, both academic and behavioral. Many students enrolled in the alternative high school were into one form of drug or another.
Soon after Dennis was enrolled in his new school, Seth and Mary started to get calls from teachers and the principal. Dennis was at school first thing each day since Seth drove him every morning, but soon after attendance was taken, he would disappear. The school wasn’t sure where he was going, but the same group of students was usually missing every day—the kids who were into drugs.
It wasn’t long before Seth and Mary got the eventual and expected call about their son from Detective Ramos of the Homestead Police Department. Repeated police calls to the Spencer home became the norm. Seth knew the detective he was now facing was right. Something had to be done to save Dennis from the deadly spiral he was caught in, and it had to be done immediately.
This was a difficult decision for the entire Spencer family. For a long time they hoped Dennis would turn around on his own.
Dennis initially was sent to the Miami-Dade County Mental Health Clinic. He was quickly referred to a local psychological services group for evaluation. Dennis didn’t like going through days of testing and the seemingly endless one-on-one sessions with psychologists.
After Dennis spent weeks under a psychological microscope, the Spencer family wasn’t prepared for his final diagnosis: paranoid schizophrenia. But none were surprised that something was significantly wrong with Dennis. All in the family knew he was a broken soul.
The Spencers simply didn’t know what their family life and relationships would become with this new unexpected twist. Paranoid schizophrenia seemed so frightening, especially since each sufferer carried his own demons. Mary regularly visited the pastor of the Methodist church and one day gave Dennis a St. Christopher pendant on a chain with his name engraved on the back. Dennis wore it faithfully to honor his mother. Seth’s solution to his son’s problem was to worry; he really didn’t know what to do or think.
For nearly two years, the Spencer family endured repeated counseling, promising drug regimes, sudden outbursts, and days when Dennis would simply disappear. He always came back, or was brought back by one governmental agency or another. Dennis rebelled against the various drug protocols, which caused his hostility and frustration levels to hit the ceiling.
“Dad, these drugs make me ‘feel different.’ I’m not sure who I am when I’m taking them. I’d rather be weird than doped. I know I’m weird, but I seem to understand myself. I don’t understand who this person is when I’m taking my prescribed drugs. I don’t hate my shrink. She just doesn’t know what it’s like being in my body when I’m on her drugs.”
Then one day Dennis was gone. He didn’t come back home after one particular disappearance. At the time Junior was in Tampa and Amelia was in grad school in Gainesville. Mary Spencer regularly met with her own counselor to cope with her son’s leaving the nest so suddenly and unexpectedly. Teaching became her lifeline to reality and she threw herself into educating her little ones with a passion. Seth seemed to be the only one in the family who brooded and worried openly after Dennis left. Painfully he waited each day to hear from his son, but was continually disappointed. It had been over a year since one word had been heard from his wayward boy. Finally, Seth drove to Miami to search for Dennis. He researched and planned to visit every help group within the city limits in an effort to grab any glimmer of hope. He wasn’t sure Dennis had headed to Miami, but it was the biggest city near Homestead where someone could get lost.
“Mr. Spencer, how might I help you?”
“I’m looking for my son, Dennis. He’s 22 now and has been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. We live in Homestead, and haven’t seen our son for over a year.” Seth handed the middle-aged black man a photograph of Dennis.
“Is he an alcoholic?”
“No, he’s never been one to drink, but he has been involved with drugs.”
“I doubt whether we’ve seen him then. You see, the Volunteers of America run this detoxification center. We take in alcoholics, and only alcoholics. Most are brought in by local police agencies. But, we also have a van that circles the skid row area where most regular alcoholics hang out in groups. We can’t accept people suffering with psychological problems. We’re simply not equipped to handle them.
“In the 1970s, local communities began focusing on societal problems caused by alcoholics. For years communities allowed public inebriates, particularly in the downtown skid row areas, to live an anonymous life. When drunks did something that alerted someone to their existence, local cops were called to handle the problem. The drunks were rounded up, often put in transport vans commonly called paddy wagons, and processed in mass through the criminal court system.
“Most of the time public nuisance offenders did their time as trustees for local police departments or the sheriff’s office. This allowed them to be placed in a controlled environment where they could sober up, dry out, and get clean until the next time.
“The cost of confinement, along with a new social consciousness, changed things. Public drunkenness was decriminalized. But now what could communities do? That’s when detoxification centers emerged. Almost immediately there was an influx of new money to support social service agencies. The service provided certainly was more humane than being carted off to jail. For some alcoholics, this program helped them get off the bottle
to hell route. This community effort spawned SROs, or Single Resident Occupancy developments, where lost souls could find a safe, clean living space and receive regular counseling.
“Not all local cops bought into the new arrangement. When it suited their purpose, cops used the new services for common drunks they dealt with on a regularly basis. If they still wanted to jail the so-called offenders, the cops would charge them with an innocuous charge like disorderly conduct, trespass, or impeding ingress/egress on the sidewalk.”
After hearing all this, Seth understood it would be harder to find Dennis than he thought it would be. But Seth Spencer thanked the VOA representative and looked for the address of his next planned stop.
Next stop—the Salvation Army’s Adult Rehab Center. Seth wasn’t sure the Center would pan out, but any port in a storm as they say. Seth thought if Dennis was together enough to seek rehabilitation, he would probably just come home.
The Center was a large complex housing an in-house residential program, counseling service center, and work site. Seth showed the representative the photograph of Dennis and detailed his particulars.
The man at the front desk looked to be in his 60s, but street life often masks any semblance of chronological age. As an introduction, the man shared he was one of the souls the Salvation Army’s ministry had saved. He was on his fifth year of sobriety. He had now given his life to the Army since it had saved his. When Seth asked the man how old he was, he didn’t hesitate and told him he was 48 and proud of it. His fingers quickly ran over the computer keys searching for one Dennis Spencer.
“Nope, Mr. Spencer. Sorry, but your boy hasn’t been here or at any of the Army’s facilities in the Miami area. What makes you think he came to Miami?”
“Just hoping, I guess. Figured he’d look for someplace bigger where he could lose himself easily. Homestead’s still small. Pretty much everybody knows you or someone you know.” With a heavy sigh, Seth dropped his head into his hands and began to sob. He was just so tired and discouraged.