Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  The Sunnydale Projects were built during the Second World War as military housing—a square mile of sturdy new cinder-block buildings sandwiched between the McLaren Park golf course and the Cow Palace, home to the Grand National Rodeo.

  The place was turned into low-income housing in the 1970s, but the buildings were never renovated. By the time Max was born, what was left were several blocks full of decrepit, tumbledown hovels with peeling paint, bad plumbing, worse electricity, and enough rats and roaches to keep a fleet of exterminators busy for a dozen years.

  Now, despite promises by government officials to clean the place up, the Dale was considered one of the top ten areas to avoid in the city, where murders were frequent and muggings were an everyday occurrence. Over sixteen hundred people were crammed into these neighborhoods, many of them for generations. And most of them wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

  By day the place was pretty much a typical ghetto, with mothers or grandparents watching young children who amused themselves with whatever was handy, younger teens hanging out against cars or on stoops after school; by night it was hell on earth. Bus drivers and cabbies routinely avoided it, and even the cops were scarce.

  Jack suddenly understood why.

  The moment they made the turn he felt tension in the air—a lot of it coming from Max herself, whose body seemed to have stiffened as she gripped the wheel.

  He knew her mind was flooding with bad memories.

  “I must be outta my head,” she muttered, her tone different now. The reality of the place weighed her down.

  Jack looked out at the rows of dilapidated buildings, the graffiti, the bars on the windows, the laundry hanging in the yards, the sidewalks and streets eerily empty.

  No kids. No couples out for an evening stroll. Even the dogs had stayed inside.

  The only sign of life was a handful of teens clustered around a muscle car in a distant parking lot, their gazes on the street, as if keeping watch over their territory. This was a neighborhood under siege.

  “You’re right,” Jack said. “I never should’ve asked you to come along. If you want to turn around I won’t hold it against you.”

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  “I mean it, Max. Turn the car around. I’ll do this alone.”

  “You really are on crack. You go in by yourself, you might not walk out.”

  “It’s gotta be done,” he said.

  “Why? Is talking to this kid really that important?”

  “I told you, I need to know exactly what he saw.” He gestured. “If I can’t get you to turn around, at least pull over and I’ll walk from here. And if I’m not back in twenty minutes, or you run into any trouble, get to safer ground and call the cavalry.”

  “You’re assuming they’d come,” Max said.

  She pulled to the curb across from the Little Village Market and let the engine idle, glancing at that cluster of gangbangers, who were now less than a block away.

  “I can’t let you do this, Jack. It’s not worth it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I brought protection.”

  Lifting his shirt, he reached to the holster resting against his right hip and pulled out a Smith & Wesson Magnum .357 AirLite. Because he was a celebrity who was known to have fielded a substantial number of death threats, he’d long ago been granted a conceal and carry permit by the Marin County sheriff.

  The AirLite was compact yet deadly.

  Max’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it. “Just because you spend time at a shooting range, doesn’t mean you’re a badass. You pull that thing, you better be ready to use it or you’re likely to get five more stuck in your face. These boys don’t fool around.”

  “Neither do I,” Jack said, then tucked the gun back into its holster and popped open his door.

  * * *

  Jamal Thomas lived with his mother and brother in a small apartment on Sawyer Street.

  Jack consulted the GPS map on his cell phone and saw that he had two blocks to travel from where Max had parked her car. Unfortunately, the only way to get there was to go straight past the kids in the parking lot, and he had a feeling that the moment Max pulled to the curb they’d noted the intrusion on their turf.

  Max is right. You are on crack, he thought.

  But Tom Drabinksy’s face kept drifting through his mind, and Jack knew the only way he’d make any headway with this story was to talk to Jamal. He might come away from the encounter with nothing to show for it, but at least he had to try.

  He walked up the street, heading straight for the parking lot. He decided to try the open and friendly approach. It probably wouldn’t work, but neither would ignoring them or coming in hot.

  The kids—some of them no older than sixteen—had been laughing and chattering until Jack stepped into the lot.

  The oldest of the kids came forward. Jack recognized him.

  “You and your girlfriend make a wrong turn, homey?” He laughed. It was more of a statement than a question. The kid was trying to see into Maxine’s car as he approached but the dark window showed only a vague silhouette.

  Jack slowly reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a set of credentials. His old GNT identification card, which had expired two years ago. He didn’t expect these kids to recognize him, but they’d surely recognize the network he once worked for.

  “I’m with GNT News,” he said.

  The kid gave the card a cursory glance, then looked back down the block toward Maxine’s car. “I don’t see no camera truck. How you gonna put me on Tee Vee?”

  “The cameras come later,” Jack said. “I’m what they call an advance man. I’m here to set up an interview with a kid named Jamal Thomas, lives on Sawyer Street. You know him?”

  The kid stiffened. “Nah.”

  That was it? Jack thought. No negotiation, no shakedown?

  “You sure?” Jack pressed.

  That seemed to trigger something in the kid.

  “Man, why don’t you jus’ turn ’round and go back to where you from?”

  “Why?” Jack asked. He spoke in a voice that was loud enough for the others to hear. “What are you scared of, Leon?”

  The kid snapped forward like he was a shooting guard for the Warriors. He was in Jack’s face almost as fast as Jack’s hand was on the .357. The move did not escape the kid’s notice. If he had a piece he wouldn’t be able to get it in time, and it was too dark here for the rest of the gang to see.

  “How do you know me?” Leon asked.

  “I saw you in the car the day of the explosion,” Jack said. “I was the guy talking to Officer Beckman.”

  Leon nodded, drew back. “I ain’t scared,” he said defiantly.

  “Not of me, no,” Jack said, offering him a bone. His hand moved from under his shirt. “What happened? Did someone do something to Jamal?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “I don’t,” Jack said. “Jesus, man, I’m trying to help him.”

  “Right.”

  “What else would I be doing here with just my associate in the middle of the goddamn night?”

  Leon considered this.

  “Tell me what happened. Please.”

  The kid spat to the side to show the others that he was okay, that he was in charge and unafraid. “What happened? Jamal was outta the hospital for what, not even half an hour, when they came to see him.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know who,” he said. “They come off Bay Shore in a big black Escalade, poundin’ on the door and—”

  He was cut off by the shriek of a siren as an ambulance blasted up the avenue and streaked past them, making a left turn on Sawyer. The kids whipped their heads in its direction then started piling into the muscle car.

  One of them shouted, “Come on, man, let’s check this out.”

  Leon glanced in the direction of the ambulance. The glow of a distant streetlight, one that wasn’t broken, showed he was wearing a funny expression, something between a
nger and concern. He ran to the car and jumped inside, its tires squealing as it tore out of the parking lot.

  Jack waited until it was around the corner, then started out after it.

  11

  “My baby! They killed my baby!”

  By the time Jack reached the muscle car it was parked out in front of one of the tenement houses. The ambulance sat in the middle of the street, its red strobe flickering, curious neighbors spilling from their homes to see what the commotion was.

  The paramedics were already rolling a gurney out a doorway, the small body on it covered with a sheet.

  Jack checked the address. It was Jamal Thomas’s apartment.

  An emaciated but not unattractive woman in her early forties stood on the sidewalk, her arms stretched toward the gurney, her face twisted in agony as Leon held her back.

  “My baby!” she cried, her high, shrill voice full of raw emotion. “Why did they kill my baby?”

  She tried to wriggle away but Leon held tight, his own face slack with shock and grief as he stared at the gurney, tears running down his cheeks. The other kids stood around him, open-mouthed, looking much more like children than gangstas, their bravado overwhelmed by the tragedy of the moment.

  Jack quickly assessed the scene, and as the paramedics reached the rear of the ambulance he approached the one nearest the doors and showed him his GNT credentials. “What happened here?”

  The paramedic waved him away. “Stay clear.”

  “Have the police been notified?”

  “Soon as we got the call.”

  “What’s the C-O-D? Was he shot?”

  The guy hesitated, as though sizing Jack up; he seemed to decide it might not be a bad idea to keep a potential ally on hand.

  The EMT shook his head. “Overdose.”

  “Like hell!” Leon shouted, gently passing the crying woman into the arms of one of his friends. “I already told you, Jamal wasn’t no junkie!”

  “Okay, man, take it easy,” the paramedic said.

  “Yo, man, that’s not good enough,” Leon snarled. He drew a Glock from the back of his waistband and crossed the sidewalk. “You take it back! You apologize to my mother!”

  “I’m sorry!” the young man said. “I take it back!”

  The other EMT had stopped moving the gurney. He edged behind the ambulance. Jack positioned himself between Leon and the other paramedic.

  “Leon, listen to me—put away the gun,” Jack said. “I want to find out who did this but we need to talk.”

  “The cops did this. That’s who killed my brother.”

  “How do you know? Do you have any names, descriptions? Are there any witnesses?”

  Jack couldn’t make a grab for the Glock. Leon’s finger was on the trigger, and though they were backing off, moving behind cars, there were too many people standing around to risk an accidental discharge. Instead, Jack ignored the gun. He’d had weapons pointed at him before, and they were never the threat. The man holding it was. If Jack stayed calm, chances were fifty-fifty he could talk Leon down. Or at least delay him until his mother realized what was happening.

  Jack looked into Leon’s eyes and held them. They were bloodred in the flashing light of the ambulance, still clouded with tears.

  “Talk to me, Leon,” he said calmly.

  “The cops,” he said, sobbing but still pointing the gun. “They came in our house and put Jamal down like a dyin’ dog.”

  “If we’re going to prove that, I need details,” Jack said.

  “Man, you need to go away!” one of the kids shouted.

  “Me, too?” came a voice from the middle of the street.

  They all looked over as Maxine came walking from out of the darkness. If she wasn’t exactly an angel, she was the closest thing Jack had ever seen.

  “This is my associate Maxine,” Jack said. “You saw her in the car. Remember?”

  Leon kept the gun on Jack while he looked at Max. “Yeah.”

  “Leon, if you want to show your brother respect, then let the paramedics do their job while we go inside and have a nice calm conversation,” she said. “Think you can manage that?”

  Leon looked at her. Then, choking back a sob, he wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his gun hand. He nodded.

  “Great,” she said.

  * * *

  The apartment was a cluttered, two-bedroom disaster in serious need of a handyman. Cracked ceiling. Dents and scuff marks on the walls. A battered oven in the small kitchenette with its door hanging lopsided, probably unused for months.

  From the looks of things, Juanita Thomas wasn’t much of a housekeeper, and judging by the drug paraphernalia scattered across the worn coffee table, she wasn’t much of a mother, either.

  Jack and Maxine exchanged looks the moment they entered the place. Max’s expression said, See, I warned you. Jack’s replied, Did I say I doubted you?

  But he wasn’t here to judge anyone, just to get information. It took Max a little more persuasion to get Leon to sit down with them—minus his gang—but the kid finally came around. In fact, now that his rage had given way to sadness, now that he didn’t have to put on a tough-guy show for the gang, he seemed grateful to have someone to talk to.

  As they entered, Leon escorted his mother into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Jack and Max were silent as they waited, Jack feeling the walls of this depressing dump close in on him. He caught Max flash a look at the water stain on the ceiling, the dark, mildewed rot around it.

  “You made it out,” Jack said in a voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t your life anymore.”

  “But it’s theirs,” she said sadly.

  There was no disputing that. Jack was trying to imagine where Mrs. Thomas got Leon’s bail money. Either she had the cash on hand for drugs, got it from selling drugs, or went into hock with a pusher who would have her on her back till it was paid back with interest. Or maybe Leon would knock over a 7-Eleven. Roll some tourists on Market Street. There were all kinds of opportunities for people who had nothing to lose.

  A moment later Leon came back out. “I gave her medicine to calm her down,” he said. “She needs to sleep.”

  They didn’t ask what he had given her. They didn’t have to.

  “What about you?” Max asked. “You feeling any calmer now?”

  Leon dropped into a threadbare armchair and lowered his head slightly, trying to hide the tears that were forming again.

  These guys are always different when you get them alone, away from their posse, Jack thought. The tough talk, the gestures—it was all for show, like a peacock fanning its tail feathers to seem bigger.

  “He was just a stupid runt,” Leon said. “Never hurt anybody. Not even—”

  Leon stopped himself.

  “Not even the guy he was supposed to pop on the Tenderloin?” Jack asked.

  Leon looked up sharply. “A dude gotta know how to survive,” he said. “Off this block, another thug’s turf, you choke, you dead.”

  “Did you see what happened that night?” Jack asked.

  Leon didn’t answer.

  “You stopped at a light,” Jack prompted. “That’s how it’s done, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened then?” Max asked.

  Leon took a tremulous breath. “Jamal got out and I drove ahead. I looked back an’ the Arab dude was gone and Jamal was swervin’ through traffic. I saw him hit—wham, wham—an’ I went back. But I couldn’t get him out. Next thing up, I was bein’ hustled into a cop car.”

  “You never saw the Arab again?”

  Leon shook his head.

  “What about today?” Jack asked. He moved around the coffee table and sat on the sofa. “Tell me about the cops in the Escalade.”

  Leon took another breath. “I picked Jamal up when we got the okay. He was all smilin’ even though he was in a wheelchair and me an’ a nurse had to carry him into the car.” He smiled. “Banged him up, tryin’ to fit him an’ crutches.” T
he smile faded. “Then, ’bout an hour before you guys showed up, some cops come poundin’ on the door.”

  “You saw this?”

  “I heard ’em when Mom let ’em in. I was in the bedroom with Jamal. He was talkin’ about wantin’ to go to the lot, show his badass casts, an’ I told him I’d think about it. I took off out the window.”

  “Why?” Jack asked.

  “’Cause I heard them ask where I was.”

  “Really?” Jack said. “Leon, I need to ask you something. Were you ever picked up on a gun charge?”

  “What that got to do with anything?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Yeah, sure, once, two years ago,” Leon said. “They couldn’t prove shit.”

  No, Jack thought, but it would show up on your rap sheet. If they were coming for Jamal they’d want to know where his pistol-packing brother was.

  “How do you know they were driving an Escalade?” Maxine asked.

  “Saw it parked out front, one of ’em standing next to it. I called Mom on the cell, but she said they went into the bedroom and closed the door. Tol’ her they had to ask Jamal a few questions. Jus’ like you.”

  “And you’re sure they were cops?”

  “What else?”

  “Were they in uniform?”

  “Suits, man,” Leon said. “Black. Plainclothes. I know the law and they was it.”

  “No, Leon,” Jack said. “They were bigger than cops.”

  Leon made a face. “What the hell that s’posed to mean?”

  “The EMT said they phoned in the OD. That was at least a half hour ago. The Tenderloin Station is, what, five minutes from here? You’ve got the largest concentration of parolees in the city with nonstop patrols. Don’t you think they’d be here by now?”

  “They don’t give a damn ’bout us, and Jamal was already dead—”

  “‘Officers shall investigate and complete Juvenile Disposition Report Form 8716,’ I think it is, ‘and get a statement from the parents and/or guardian in the event of a suicide or accidental death of a person or persons under the age of eighteen,’” Jack said. “They didn’t always come to bail out my ass, either, so I memorized the codes.”

  Leon and Max both looked at him.