by Michael Nava
“Get me out of the lawsuits and make sure I don’t get charged with anything.”
“You don’t think you have any responsibility here?”
“Not for doing my job. Not for following orders,” he insisted. “Scold me all you want, but that’s the way it was.”
He was shrewd. If the city was trying to cut him loose by arguing he had exceeded the scope of his duty, his only defense was to claim he had followed the orders of a superior in a good faith belief they were legitimate orders reflecting official policy. Then, it wouldn’t matter if the orders were invalid or even illegal— that was on his superiors, not him.
Of course, there was the problem of persuading a judge or a jury that any reasonable cop who was directed to blow up a church would have believed that activity fell within the scope of police work. But the defense might at least cancel out Freddy’s personal, civil liability for the bombings. As for criminal charges— well, Theo had died with all the original capital charges pending against him. Though he hadn’t been found guilty, he hadn’t been acquitted either. The cops and the DA could argue he was the perpetrator and, letting political dogs lie, decline to reopen the case based on allegations in a civil suit where there was a lesser burden of proof.
Freddy said, “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a liar. You knew damn well when Moore and Metzger brought you in on the scheme to blow up the church, it was a private vendetta, not official police business. You went along with it anyway. Why? I don’t know for sure, but the fact you’d wreck Theo Latour’s life without a second thought and try to implicate QUEER tells me you’re not as okay with gay people as you claim. I don’t know if you’re a bigot or a psychopath, but I’m damn sure you’re not an innocent victim of circumstances.”
He threw me a long, hard stare and then he shrugged. “Whatever, dude. Can I get away with it?”
“There’s a decent chance,” I said, “with the right lawyer. I’m not that person.”
He stood up, grabbed his coat. “Too bad. I wanted to see that asshole Unger’s face when I walked into court with Theo’s lawyer. Thanks for the chat, Henry. Now you can go cornhole Josh or whatever it is you guys do.” He smiled. “I really don’t hate gays. I didn’t even mind the sex. No bitch ever gave me head as good as Theo, and his asshole was tighter than a pussy. I guess that proves I’m not a bigot.”
As the front door closed behind him, I thought, Which leaves psychopath.
••••
In the weeks that followed, the wrongful death actions moved at the glacial pace of most civil suits and got even more complicated when Alfredo Sumaya filed a separate suit against the city and the police department. In it he sought a ruling from the court that the city was required to defend him because all his actions had been at the direction of the department. We filed a massive discovery request. The defendants responded with the first round of motions to dismiss, called demurrers. And then, except when something required my immediate attention, the action slipped into the back of my mind, buried beneath the daily demands of my practice and the happy challenge of merging my life with Josh’s.
One morning, I sat down to breakfast and unfolded the Times. There, beneath the fold, next to a photograph of Alfredo Sumaya was a headline:
FORMER LAPD OFFICER SOUGHT IN CHURCH BOMBING
Police have issued an arrest warrant for Alfredo Sumaya, 34, a former member of the Los Angeles Police Department’s Anti-Terrorism Unit, in connection with the bombing of Ekklesia church last spring. Daniel Herron, the church pastor, was killed in the bombing. Police sources state that Sumaya conspired with Theo Latour to commit the bombing. Latour was charged with first-degree murder, but committed suicide in his jail cell before he could be brought to trial. A wrongful death action filed by Herron’s widow and his son allege that Sumaya was operating as an undercover officer at the time of the bombing under the direction of his supervisors at the police department. The complaint alleges that the purpose of the bombing was to discredit a gay activist organization that Sumaya had infiltrated and that Latour belonged to. The city has denied those allegations on behalf of the department. Sumaya had filed his own lawsuit alleging all his actions were within the scope of his duties and was seeking a declaration of immunity from any liability, civil or criminal. Both lawsuits are currently pending, and it is unclear whether this latest development is related to them . . .
Maybe the Times was unclear about the connection between the civil suits and this bombshell, but I had my suspicions.
••••
Marc chose another restaurant-bar for our meeting, this one not far from his office on Main Street, but with the same noirish, torch song feel as the New York Company. Apparently when he was drinking Marc liked to imagine himself as a character in a Raymond Chandler novel. This place was called The Twilight Club. Outside, it was a squat, windowless square that could have been a warehouse. Inside, twinkle lights cast a faux-romantic glow over booths padded with red leather, and cocktail waitresses in evening gowns delivered drinks and bar food to equally well-padded men in suits. Although it wasn’t a gay bar, its clientele was almost exclusively male. Marc was comfortably settled in a booth with a martini in front of him. A candle burned in a squat orange candle holder on the table, the light flickering across his face.
“Henry, baby,” he said when I slid in across from him. So, not his first drink. “You’re looking good.”
“Thanks, Marc.”
The cocktail waitress laid a little napkin in front of me and asked for my order. I said mineral water.
Marc rolled his eyes and told her, “Bring me another one of these, darling. So,” he continued as she disappeared into the gloom, “what’s on your mind?”
“Why is Alfredo Sumaya being charged now in the church bombing?”
He lifted his drink to his mouth and sipped. Light sparked from his gold cufflink. He set the drink down and said, “Why are you asking me? I’m not the DA.”
“Cut the crap. I know who’s pulling the strings in this case.”
The waitress returned and elaborately placed our drinks before us.
“You’re a smart guy, Henry. You must have a theory.”
“I do. You told Sumaya that the church bombing was beyond the scope of his duties and that the city wouldn’t defend him in the wrongful death actions. That left him dangling out there on his own without any protection from civil or criminal liability. He found himself a lawyer who sued the city to force the city to defend him. In order to destroy the credibility of his lawsuit, the DA charges him with murder and claims he acted alone— well, not alone, but with Theo who’s dead and can’t defend himself.” Marc was grinning like the Cheshire cat, so I knew I was on the right track. I plunged on. “If the criminal case gets to trial first, and Sumaya’s convicted, his civil lawsuit goes up in smoke. If he tries to rush through his civil lawsuit, you can argue it should be postponed until after the criminal prosecution because the criminal prosecution will be dispositive of whether he was acting in the scope of his duty.” I shook my head. “In other words, you’ve got his nuts a vise.”
“Excellent analysis, counsel,” he said. He sipped his drink, and the cufflink flashed again.
“Meanwhile, with everyone focused on Sumaya, Chief Moore and Bob Metzger, who masterminded the bombing, slip into the shadows.”
He smirked. “Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence. No proof of who masterminded anything.”
“Aren’t you worried Sumaya will go to the media and lay out the whole story of how an assistant chief in the police department and a leader of Ekklesia conspired to blow up the church and kill its pastor?”
“Do you think anyone will run that story and risk a slander suit on the word of an accused murderer?” I watched him light a cigarette and sip his cocktail, a self-satisfied expression on his face. “Anyway, he won’t talk. He’s charged with capital murder. His only hope for a reduced charge is to play ball.”
“Are you going to offer him manslaughter
because he’s a cop?” I asked bitterly.
“He gets the same offer as Latour. Second-degree murder, fifteen to life. He’ll take it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said, remembering my conversation with him. Freddy didn’t strike me as a guy who would take a fall. “And if he does, you’re okay with letting a high-ranking police officer who conspired to commit murder off the hook?”
He took a drag from his cigarette and exhaling said, “Chief Moore will be announcing his retirement at the end of the year.”
“And Metzger?”
Absently, he pushed the candle away from his side of the table, casting his face into shadow, and said, “Nothing I can do about him.”
“Nothing you— wait, is that what this is all about? You working backstage to get your idea of justice?”
“The cop responsible for the bombing goes to jail. The assistant chief who planned it retires. We’re preparing a very generous offer to settle the wrongful death actions. You should be happy. Why aren’t you?”
“Because it’s all bullshit, that’s why! You’re covering up the real story, that the department and the church joined forces to try to entrap a group of gay activists in a murder to swing an election that would have put a lot of gay men, including my lover, in quarantine camps. The power of the state was used to try to crush a group of its citizens who were peaceably resisting a horrifying plot against them. In America. Is sweeping all that under the carpet your idea of justice?”
“Proposition 54 lost,” he said. “It’s over, Henry. There’s no point in picking over the bones.”
“There may not be another initiative, but the bigots will think up something else. They’re in for the long haul. There will always be a next time, Marc. That’s why it matters that people know the truth about what happened this time.”
He finished his drink, dabbed his mouth with his cocktail napkin, and said, “That’s your fight. I have other responsibilities.” His eyes were sharp and focused despite the booze. “You may think I’m a sellout, but you’re a lawyer, too.” He slapped his hand on the table, shaking his glass. “You’re as much a part of the system as I am. I’m very good at my job, and sometimes part of my job, like part of yours, is choking back the puke and making the deal.” He picked up his cigarette. “I’m planning to sit here and drink myself into a coma. Unless you want to stay and watch, I suggest you go home to your cute little twink and fuck his brains out.”
EIGHTEEN
We were watching The Maltese Falcon when the local news anchor came on at a commercial break and announced: “A series of bombings rocked Los Angeles, claiming three lives, including a high-ranking official in the Los Angeles police department, and destroying a local church. Details at ten.”
We looked at each other. Josh hopped off of the couch and returned a moment later with a transistor radio set to the twenty-four-hour news channel while I switched the TV to CNN where the anchor was interviewing some political analyst. The radio newscaster said, “Latest developments on tonight’s bombings.” I lowered the volume on CNN and Josh turned up the radio.
“Bombs exploded at three locations tonight in Los Angeles, two private residences and a church that had been the site of an earlier bombing, killing three people, including an assistant chief of the Los Angeles Police Department. The victims have been identified as Robert Metzger, 74, an attorney, and Raymond Moore, 60, an assistant chief of police, and his wife, Bridget, 57. The bombs exploded in their residences. A third bomb exploded at Ekklesia Church, which was the site of an earlier bomb attack. While no victims died in that explosion, the damage was extensive. Police have no suspects as yet, but they are treating the explosions as related and possibly the work of a terrorist although no one has claimed responsibility. We will keep you updated as we learn more . . .”
“Freddy,” Josh said, clicking the radio off.
I switched off the TV. “He’s settling scores.”
I guess I was right— he wasn’t going to be anyone’s fall guy.
“Are you safe?” he asked worriedly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“He asked you to represent him and you turned him down.”
“I’m not in the same league as Moore and Metzger,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll still feel better when the police catch him.”
I nodded in agreement, but I didn’t really think this was going to end with an arrest.
••••
I turned off Franklin onto Van Ness and then climbed up the hill to home, so lost in thought about the burglary trial I’d started that day I nearly ran into a police barricade at the end of my street. I braked, shut off the engine. The street was sealed off and was swarming with cops in SWAT fatigues. A cop directed me to the curb. I got out of my car, approached him and asked, “What’s going on?”
“Police business,” he replied, unhelpfully.
“Yeah, I can see that, but I live here,” I said, pointing to my house.
“You’re at twenty-three twenty-eight?” he asked, ears almost visibly perking up like a dog’s.
“Yes.”
“Wait here.”
He headed toward an ominous-looking black tank-like vehicle marked with the LAPD’s SWAT insignia. A moment later, he reappeared with a guy in full paramilitary gear, including the black helmet and full body armor. He had his game face on— hard, cold, and assessing.
“You Henry Rios?” he barked.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Taylor,” he said, biting off the word. “You live at twenty-three twenty-eight?”
“I haven’t moved in the two minutes since I last answered that question. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
His stony expression became even stonier. “Are you a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“You know a man named Alfredo Sumaya?”
“Do you mean, Officer Alfredo Sumaya?” I replied, emphasizing Officer. “Yeah, I know him. Why?”
“Is he a client?”
I’d had it with the tough guy bullshit.
“I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me what’s happening at my house.”
Taylor’s expression said, Fine, asshole, but what he actually said was “Officers tried to serve an arrest warrant on Sumaya earlier today. There was a shoot-out, one officer down, and he got away. We tracked him to your residence where he’s barricaded himself with a hostage.”
“A hostage?” I said, heart racing. “Who is it?”
“You tell me,” he said with a tiny smirk he quickly extinguished. “Anyone else living with you?”
“My partner, Josh. Josh Mandel.”
“Partner?” he asked, perplexed. “What, like a law partner?”
“No, not a business partner. My—” and here it was, the quan-dary, what word to use with straight people when you couldn’t say husband or wife. I ran quickly through the usual euphemisms, but decided I needed to be absolutely clear. “My lover.”
A look of disgust flashed across his face.
“Is Josh in there with Sumaya?” I asked.
“If that’s who was in the house, then he’s the hostage,” Taylor replied coolly.
“What does Sumaya want?”
“He wants to talk to you,” Taylor said. “Because he says you’re his lawyer.”
“Let me talk to him.”
Taylor said, “Come with me. We’ll get him on the line.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to call him. I want to go in and talk to him. I want to get him to release Josh.”
“That ain’t going to happen,” Taylor said, sounding briefly human. “We’re not letting a civilian walk into a situation where he might be killed.”
“Yeah, the liability issue,” I said, scornfully. “Don’t worry, Officer Taylor. I don’t have any family to sue you if he kills me, and besides, I’m not a civilian. I’m his lawyer, and I demand to be allowed to see my client. You want me to sign a release from liability? W
hatever it takes but let me into my house.”
Taylor considered. “It’s your funeral.”
“Where’s the phone? I want to tell him I’m coming in.”
••••
Approaching the front door, key in hand, I was aware of birds singing above the chatter of police radios and the cooling air as evening descended when, behind me, floodlights seared the front of the house, momentarily blinding me in their reflected glare. The air pulsed loudly above me. I looked up. Two LAPD helicopters hovered nearby.
As I reached for the door, Josh cracked it open and said quietly, “Henry?”
“Yes, let me in, slowly, and don’t open the door all the way.”
I slipped inside. Freddy was standing behind him with a revolver at the back of Josh’s head. Jeans and a black T-shirt, same uniform as last time, but lines of tension were etched across the handsome face.
“Hello, Freddy,” I said, calmly. “You can put that down. It’s just me.” I smiled at Josh. “Hello, Josh.”
He worked his face into as cheerful an expression as the circumstances allowed and said, “Hi, Henry. And how was your day?”
“Screw the small talk,” Freddy growled. “Into the living room.”
He herded us into the living room where the TV was on, volume lowered, and a picture running of the cops surrounding my house. I hadn’t noticed the TV vans. From the angle of the shot it appeared they were a little down the hill on the other end of the street from where I’d driven up. It was surreal— as if we were in a movie. The living room had its usual, slightly mussed-up appearance, but near the big picture window the floodlights illuminated a little arsenal of firearms. Bad sign. Remembering Freddy’s specialty, I wondered if he’d brought a bomb or two.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked, as if it were his house, not mine. He nodded. I sat down in the same chair as the last time. “The cops said you wanted to talk to me, Freddy, so here I am. But before we begin, let Josh go. You only need one of us to keep the cops from storming the place and it should be me. Josh has nothing to do with this situation.”