Cross Examination
Page 5
"402," Marko said. "I'll report a 'pass' to The Brass. Pull down that target and throw it away. We're done here."
"I owe you, Marko," Jerrod said.
"You don't owe me anything."
"You saved my life. I'd be dead and Mendoza would be long gone if you hadn't shown me that in-battery and out-of-battery thing with the Beretta."
"No problem, brother. He's dead and you're not. Nothing else matters."
* * *
Jerrod spun the last prescription pain pill inside the child-proof bottle before pouring it into his hand. White. 300 mg. It was gone with a swig of beer. "Heineken and Vicodin work better together..."
October 1985
Jerrod woke up screaming. His heart beat like he had just run a four-minute mile. His sheets and pillow soaked with sweat. His hand ached. Armando Mendoza's face was all he could see in the darkness. The face was that of a man who knew he was about to die looking straight into the eyes of the man who was going to kill him.
As he calmed himself, his thoughts drifted: Maybe I could have wrestled the Colt away. Maybe I could have taken Mendoza into custody once Marko arrived. Maybe I didn't have to stick the muzzle of the pistol under the chin of the man who killed Hector, ordered the death of Val and the shotgunning of his home, had shot Craig, and had just tried to kill him. Maybe I didn't have to press his finger against the trigger. Maybe. But I fucking did it anyway.
The pain pills had helped him sleep without dreaming. The dreams would come back to visit every night.
November 1985
"Craig's going to be off for another month, at least," Sergeant Pete Hanson announced to Jerrod and Willie. "We're going to bring in one of the patrol guys who used to be a detective to pick up some of these cases."
* * *
"You look like shit," Craig Wallace said to Jerrod from his La-Z-Boy recliner.
"Thanks. Your knee looks like something from a mummy's tomb," he said as he sat on the sofa and looked at Craig's swollen, gauze-wrapped right leg.
"A little infection. No big deal."
"Hanson's pulling a guy in from Patrol to cover your desk while you're out."
"He called me. I know."
"I'm so sorry this happened."
"I've told you before. It's not your fault."
* * *
Fat-Burners -- Colonel Horvat's gin and grapefruit cocktail concoction -- worked much better than aspirin. His hand didn't hurt at all and he didn't dream as he lay passed out on the sofa with an alcohol level in his system three times the legal limit to drive a car.
* * *
"Willie," Pete Hanson said. "Go get a cup at The Corner. I need to talk to Jerrod in private for a few minutes."
"This isn't going to be good," Jerrod said as Willie closed the Detective Bureau door behind him.
"There are two items," the sergeant said. "First, and this isn't a surprise, the DA's Office finished their investigation into your shooting of Armando Mendoza and you've been cleared. Justifiable. No issues."
"Okay."
Secondly, they're dropping all of the local charges on Oso and Efrain Hernandez. They said they were going to let the Feds take over prosecution on all the drug, money laundering, and tax fraud charges. Those cases are easier to prove under federal laws... duplicate efforts... waste of local resources... blah, blah... basically the DA wanted out from under the case. We'll probably never see anyone from that crew in Valle Verde again."
"That's fine. Thanks, Sarge."
"I thought you'd be a little more upset."
"Nope."
* * *
The man next to him at the bar asked Jerrod how he got the scar on the back of his hand.
"Kind of a personal question. Don't you think?" Jerrod said as he first looked at his own right hand and then studied the man's face for a moment. "It's kind of like me asking you why one of your eyes is lower on your face than the other one."
The man started to speak, then paused as he looked at the reflection of his own face in the back bar mirror. "Sorry, I was just curious."
"Well, Mister Curious. Short story shorter: A man stepped on my hand, so I shot him in the fucking head."
"No way."
"Ask the bartender... she knows."
He looked at the bartender. "Did he shoot a guy for--?"
She nodded her head.
* * *
Jerrod got home from the bar and flopped onto the sofa. He looked around the room and realized for the first time that, besides him, there wasn't another living thing in the house.
No girlfriend. No wife. No kids. No roommate. No dog. No cat.
Not even a live plant.
December 1985
"Craig's not coming back," Pete Hanson announced. "His knee's too messed up. It looks like the city's going to recommend a medical retirement."
* * *
A bottle of Tangueray gin lasted Jerrod just two days instead of five. He switched to a cheaper brand to save money.
* * *
The girl Jerrod had met at the bar the night before was still asleep in his bed, naked, when he left for work. He was pretty sure she said her name was Stephanie.
* * *
"Hello," Laura Renaud answered the phone.
"Hi, Mom,"
"Jerrod, glad you called. Christmas dinner's going to be at six."
"Mom, I think I'm getting the flu and I'm just going to stay home tonight. Sorry."
"Okay, son. I hope you feel better."
There was no flu. He ate scrambled eggs and six chocolate Jell-O pudding cups while watching the movie Apocalypse Now for the twenty-first time in two months.
January 1986
"We're moving to Nevada," Craig said on the telephone. "Nice little town near Carson City. All four seasons... and no fog."
"Sounds great," Jerrod said. "I'll come for a visit once you get settled."
* * *
The young uniformed late-night security guard at the strip mall where the bar was located offered Jerrod a ride home at closing time. Jerrod accepted and, instead of getting into the passenger seat, jumped into the open bed of the guard's pick-up.
The security guard didn't quite know what to do when looked in his rearview mirror and saw Jerrod performing a drunken Michael Jackson "moonwalk" as he drove down the boulevard at 35 mph.
February 1986
Jerrod was propped upright in bed with pillows, passed-out, after drinking four Fat-Burners. The TV was on with the volume set low. He had found that if he sat up in bed and focused on the TV, the room didn't spin near as much when he just laid down flat in bed.
March 1986
"Hey there... Jerrod. What's happening?" one of the two startled senior dayshift officers said as their conversation stopped abruptly as he walked into the squad room.
* * *
Willie asked, "Are you trying to grow a mustache, or did you just forget to shave for a couple days?"
"You're one to speak... Cantinflas." He said as he referred to the popular Latino comedy character with a trademark thin mustache with a wide gap in the middle. "Natalie liked me better without one."
"Have you talked to her lately?"
"Yeah, last weekend. It's over, dude. She's found another guy and ain't coming back."
April 1986
"Anything good come out of 'staff'," Jerrod asked Pete Hanson.
The sergeant sat down at his desk at the otherwise unoccupied detective bureau and paused before he spoke. "The only thing affecting you is you'll be rotating back to Patrol at the July shift change."
"Back to Patrol? Why?"
"You've been in here nearly three years and it was decided to let someone else get off 'the street.'"
* * *
Jerrod stood in front of a car waiting to jaywalk across a busy street. A large delivery truck barreled towards him from the left. He inched closer to the street and it occurred to him, for a split second, to just make one more final step into the roadway.
He made eye contact with the tr
uck driver and heard the truck brakes being applied. Jerrod stepped closer to the roadway, closed his eyes, and felt the breeze of the truck side-mirror as it passed six-inches from his face.
* * *
"This may be my last autopsy," Jerrod said to Mesa County Sheriff-Coroner Deputy Ted Lindsey at the county morgue as they waited for Dr. Robert Torosian to arrive. They sat together in "Doc's" office.
"Why's that?" Ted Lindsey asked.
"I'm rotating back to Patrol in July. That's all we have at the PD -- Patrol or Detectives."
"That's too bad. You don't seem too happy about it."
"Not much choice in the matter. The bureau isn't the same without Craig there anyway."
"Why don't you come work for us."
"I don't think so."
"I'm serious. We just got some type of federal grant and are adding six more deputy positions. Patrol works four ten-hour shifts a week. Three and four day weekends. Lot's of assignments besides Patrol. We have Investigations, Coroner, Narcotics, Court Security, Training, SWAT, Tactical Team, and I have some ideas about creating a new Crime Scene Investigation Unit.
"Sounds interesting."
"We just got a nice pay-bump in our last contract and we moved into a brand-new office next to the County Jail a year ago."
Jerrod nodded.
"They're testing in a few weeks. I'm sure they'd love to have some experienced 'laterals' like you apply. When we're done here, at least stop by the Governmental Center to pickup an application and check it out."
* * *
Jerrod drove the half hour from the Governmental Center to the VVPD with a Sheriff's Deputy application packet on the seat beside him. He had never before considered being a cop anywhere except with the Valle Verde PD.
* * *
Jerrod had just two Fat-Burners before going to bed. The room didn't spin and he left the bedroom TV off.
* * *
The letter from the County of Mesa read he had passed the application screening for the position of Sheriff's Deputy. It invited him to the physical agility and written portion of the testing on a Saturday... two weeks away.
* * *
Jerrod hadn't jogged since September. He ran two blocks and walked home. The next day he ran four blocks. And then seven blocks on the third.
* * *
Before his turn, Jerrod watched the other deputy candidates as they attempted the physical agility test -- sixty-two men and three women of all shapes and sizes -- running around orange cones, balancing on a beam, climbing a six-foot wall, and dragging a 125-pound dummy.
He was later invited with the others who successfully passed the physical test to take the State of California Standardized Peace Officer written test. He was the first to complete the test and leave the testing area.
May 1986
The letter from the County of Mesa invited him to a competitive interview a week later.
The three Sheriff's lieutenants on the interview board went far beyond the scope of the structured questions to determine what, if anything, Jerrod couldn't answer.
* * *
Another letter from the County of Mesa announced he had placed "first" on the ranking for Sheriff's Deputy and the list would be submitted to the Sheriff for hiring selection.
* * *
"Jerrod Gold, please," the pleasant female voice on the telephone asked.
"This is Jerrod,"
"My name as Sharron Marcotte. I'm Sheriff Osborn's secretary.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you still interested in one of the Sheriff's Deputy positions."
"Yes, ma'am. I am."
"Great. We need to schedule you for a psychological examination. Is there any day next week that would work for you?"
* * *
"I have a few questions for you," the psychologist said. She adjusted her reading glasses on her nose as she reviewed the computerized results from Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory Jerrod had spent three hours completing that morning.
"When was the last time you had four, or more, alcoholic beverages in one day?"
"Four or more? Does beer count?"
"Yes. Beer counts."
"A few years ago, I guess. A houseboat trip to Lake Shasta with the guys."
The psychologist took some notes. "You answered a question that got flagged."
"What's the question?"
"It asked 'if you were capable of violence'. You marked 'yes'. Why is that?"
"Well, I was in an on-duty fight for my life last year and I killed a man. I think that qualifies me as 'capable of violence.'"
"I didn't know that," she said while removing her glasses. "How do you feel about that incident now?"
"How do I feel now?" Jerrod said as he rubbed the back of his right hand and stalled while choosing his words carefully. "I'm very sorry he's dead. But he was trying to kill me and I'm glad he didn't."
June 1986
"Jerrod Gold, this is Sharron at the Sheriff's Office," she said on the phone.
"Hello, Sharron."
"You passed your background investigation and physical examination, so the Sheriff would like to offer you one of the open deputy positions. When would you like to start?"
"The first of July would be perfect. I have some cases to clear up here and would like to give plenty of notice."
"July first it is. Welcome to the Sheriff's Office.
"Thank you very much."
* * *
"Why are you leaving the police department, Jerrod?" the City of Valle Verde Personnel Manager asked at his exit interview.
"I'd rather not say."
"I understood that from your resignation letter." She shuffled some papers on her desk and picked up a copy of his letter. "You said your 'reasons were many,' but you'd 'rather keep them to myself.' Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Whatever you tell me here is confidential. I hope you understand that?"
"I appreciate that, but I have nothing to say. I'm just moving on."
* * *
Jerrod ran the five mile course through his neighborhood in a personal record time.
* * *
"I can't believe you're leaving for the SO," Craig Wallace said to Jerrod at the barbecue the Saturday after his last shift with the PD.
"Just looking for a change of view. It's not the same at the PD anymore. Way too many memories."
"I hope you remember who trained you."
"I'll never forget who trained me. Thank you."
"Let me get you a beer."
"I'm okay. Thanks. I had one earlier."
* * *
"The Army called it 'Shell Shock' after World War One," Colonel Charles Horvat said. They sat together in the colonel's living room.
The colonel sipped a beer. Jerrod had a Coke.
"After World War Two and into Korea, they called it 'Battle Fatigue'. I was just getting out of the service when Vietnam was escalating, but I remember some of those boys coming home with a certain gaze in their eyes -- we called it 'the thousand-yard stare'. I'm not sure what they call it now."
The colonel scratched his beard.
"You held everything from that crazy week in September inside you and it came back out in a very bad way. I did the exact same thing when I got back from war -- twice. I just didn't want to talk about it. I didn't think anyone who hadn't been over there would ever understand what I saw and heard and smelled... and did. I didn't want to look weak and, probably more to the point, I didn't want to stir up all the memories."
He sipped his beer.
"None of us are that tough, Jerrod. That's all a bunch of macho bullshit."
CHAPTER 14
July 1986 -- Mesa County Sheriff's Office Squad Room
"Hey Roger. Who's the F-N-G?" asked the veteran day-shift deputy -- with a gray walrus mustache and flat-brimmed campaign hat -- to FTO Roger Collins.
"F-N-G" was a term borrowed from the military and it stood for: "Fucking New Guy."
"Jerrod Gold." Roge
r said. "This is his first day on the job. He'll be with me for a few weeks."
"Nice to meet you," Jerrod said as he reached his right hand toward the senior deputy. "I'm new here -- but I'm not new. You must be the 'F-O-G.'"
Roger snickered.
The deputy pushed up the brim of his "Smokey" hat with his index finger and smiled before reaching to shake his hand. "You're going to do fine here. Welcome to the Mesa County Sheriff's Office."
"We'll be working in the mid-county – the Three Beat -- while you're with me," Roger said once they had checked out their green-and-white and he drove out of the SO parking lot onto Beach Boulevard.
"We have five beats," Roger continued. The One Beat in farthest north and covers from the north coast to the little towns up in the hills and to the county line.
"Okay," Jerrod said.
"The Two Beat is the area around the Mesa city limits and down the coast and around the City of Willowmere. It borders at the PCH."
"Where will we be? The Three Beat?" Jerrod asked.