"Buy a cell phone," he said impulsively, "a new one. Leave the number on my home machine. You have mine. Since these cells aren't secure, don't use my name if you call me."
"Okay," she said. Then she reached up to kiss him, and he found his lips brushing against hers. He started to put an arm around her but then pulled away and quickly left her house without looking back.
Samansky was right. They should be ashamed, but a hard-on was stuffed sideways in his Jockey shorts. He reached down and adjusted it. Another work of art, The Pagan Love God; hang it with the others. The Shane Scully Gallery was filling fast.
He got to his car and knelt down to survey the bashed front fender. It was hard to tell whether he or his poor black Acura had been taking more hits recently. He reached over and tugged the fender slightly off the new radial front tire. Then he got behind the wheel, and with the front fender rubbing badly, he turned the car around and drove back to his house on the East Canal in Venice.
Two hours after he got home, another uniformed patrolman showed up. He hand-delivered the PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL envelope Shane had been dreading. Inside was an LAPD Letter of Transmittal.
Chapter 12
POLICE DEPARTMENT
LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL APRIL 21, 2000
ADJUDICATION
Complaint filed by Robbery/Homicide and IAD. Place of Complaint: 2387 Shell Avenue, Venice, CA. Complaint Investigation CF no. 20-4567-56. This complaint form contains allegations of misconduct against Department employee:
SERGEANT I. SHANE SCULLY
SOUTHWEST DIVISION
Serial No. 8934867RHD
Allegations are listed below with recommendations for classification and supporting rationales.
ALLEGATION ONE: That on April 16, at approximately 2:30 A. M., Sergeant Scully inappropriately involved himself in an incident of domestic violence.
ALLEGATION TWO: Sergeant Scully drove to the house of his expartner, Lieutenant Raymond Molar. He did not use his police radio to call uniformed police, instead electing to inject himself into a potentially dangerous incident where uniformed personnel would have been in a better position to contain the situation.
ALLEGATION THREE: Sergeant Scully arrived on the scene and used inappropriate and out-of-policy escalating force. (Force may not be resorted to unless other reasonable alternatives have been thoroughly exhausted.)
ALLEGATION FOUR: After engaging in an inappropriate escalation of force, Sergeant Scully fired his police weapon, which resulted in the death of Lieutenant Raymond Molar.
ALLEGATION FIVE: Sergeant Scully removed from the Molar residence certain related case items that he believed would reflect badly on him in the subsequent investigation. (Note: The confidential nature of these materials prohibits notification and description of same in this letter of transmittal, but such notification will be made available to the accused upon discovery.)
CLASSIFICATION
It is recommended that all allegations be classified as sustained. RATIONALE
It has been determined by investigating officers that Sergeant Scully had a prior relationship with the wife of the deceased. As a result, Sergeant Scully should have known that his involvement in this domestic dispute would not produce a favorable outcome. His reckless attempt to intervene in a family dispute where he had an emotional history, and his refusal to call for uniformed assistance, produced a situation that resulted in an undue escalation of force and the death of Lieutenant Molar. Further at issue is Sergeant Scully's prior relationships with both the deceased, Lieutenent Molar (ex-partner), and Molar's wife (former girlfriend). This throws doubt on his use of force and gives rise to questions of personal motive. It is also noted that on February 12, 1984, then-Patrolman Scully was involved in a physical altercation with the deceased in the underground parking structure at Southwest Division. This altercation resulted in the breakup of their partnership and Scully's transfer to West Valley Division.
COMPLAINT HISTORY ANALYSIS
Sergeant Scully's use-of-force history has been examined, and it has been determined that this officer has had six complaint investigations in ten years (none sustained). However, he has received one departmental admonishment due to a nonsustained Board of Rights involving the severe beating of a nineteen-year-old Hispanic gang member in Southwest Division. (It was determined by the board that some eyewitness accounts of the beating were perjurious, and this perjury resulted in the subsequent not-guilty verdict. However, in the estimation of Sergeant Scully's commander, some undue force had taken place.) In reviewing his complaint history, it has been decided that this officer has shown a pattern of failure to exercise good judgment. Additionally, he has received admonishments for two separate (preventable) traffic accidents. There are no negative-comment-card entries from his current commanding officer.
RELIEF FROM DUTY CONSIDERATION
It is recommended that this officer be relieved from his duty in Southwest Robbery/Homicide and that he be suspended without pay until further notice. Note: The complaint copy and Relief from Duty Suspension Form (1.61) issued by Internal Affairs Division and signed by Deputy Chief II Thomas Mayweather is being faxed to Sergeant Scully's CO, Captain Bud Halley, in accordance with departmental regulations. Upon receipt of same, Sergeant Scully shall surrender his gun, badge, and identification card to Captain Halley for safekeeping.
RECOMMENDATIONS
The chief of police has directed this case to a full Board of Rights, said board to commence ten days from the date of this letter.
COMMANDING OFFICER'S RESPONSE None.
Respectfully submitted, Alexa Hamilton Internal Affairs Division
Chapter 13
PANEL
A LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL is always delivered to an accused officer and is, in essence, a summons and complaint. It gives the preliminary results of the IAD investigation and the determination by the department of the appropriate form of adjudication.
Shane had received the letter just before going out the door to pick up Chooch from school. He ripped open the brown envelope with trembling fingers. He had figured it would be bad, but this was even worse than he had expected. He shook with rage as he read the allegations. Then he stuffed the document into his side pocket and headed out the back door. Fuck 'em, he thought, I'm not gonna plead this out. I'm gonna fight it.
He pried the crushed front fender farther away from the tire, using the Acura's tire jack. Then as he took the 405 over the hill to Coldwater, he turned on his cell phone to call his new defense rep, Rags Whitman. He had talked with him once yesterday, but Rags was in the middle of defending another BOR, so they had agreed to meet at six that evening.
He punched the number into his cell phone.
Rags Whitman was on a break outside hearing room three when he answered the phone. Internal Affairs had rented the top three floors of the Bradbury Building in downtown L. A. It was a beautiful turn-of-the-century structure with a glassed-in courtyard and black wrought-iron banisters. Because Parker Center had become so overcrowded, the entire Advocate Section of IAD, as well as its four main hearing rooms, had been moved to this architectural treasure at the corner of Broadway and Third.
"Yeah," Rags answered in his surprising soprano voice.
"It's Shane. I just got the Letter of Transmittal."
"Bad?" Rags asked.
"They suspended me without pay. They're alleging I shot Ray because I used to date Barbara. It's total bullshit!"
"You'll probably do much better with DeMarco, if that's the way they're going. He fights gladiator-style."
"DeMarco won't take the case."
"He changed his mind. Your machine was turned off. He's been trying to reach you all afternoon. He didn't have your mobile number, so I gave it to him. The way this is going, you better start leaving your cell phone on."
"Oh," Shane said. He'd turned his answering machine and cell phone off because he was afraid that Barbara would call. He'd been having second thoughts about seeing her and wanted to put som
e distance between them for the time being. "You got his number handy? I don't have it with me."
Rags Whitman gave it to him, and Shane dialed.
"Go," DeMarco said when he answered. Shane could hear a mellower brand of rap being played in the room behind the conversation. This time he thought it was L. L. Cool J.
"It's Shane."
"Where've you been? I changed my mind. I gotta get one more swing at that bitch advocate Alexa Hamilton. I've been trying to reach you all day."
"I had my cell off by mistake. I'm glad you reconsidered. I got this fucking Letter of Transmittal. It's a complete load a' shit. They're fuckin' me over, Dee."
"Meet me at the beach as soon as you can."
"I've gotta go pick up a friend's kid at school. I promised his mother. Okay if I bring him?"
"Sure, I'll meet you at the Silver Surfer. It's a bar-restaurant on the Strand, about six doors up from my place. How 'bout an hour?"
"How 'bout an hour and a half?"
"See ya then."
"Hey, Dee . . . thanks. I feel better with you on this. I wanna go to war. I don't wanna plead out this bullshit. I wanna fight it."
"We'll talk in an hour."
When he arrived at Harvard Westlake, Brad Thackery was waiting for him. Thackery followed Chooch to the car and immediately came around to the driver's side.
"We still haven't heard from Chooch's mother," he said angrily, shoving his thin, pinched features and wiry hair down into Shane's face.
Chooch got in the passenger side and pretended to pay no attention, looking out the side window at the football field.
"Whatta you want me to do about it?" Shane said sharply.
"I want you to have Mrs. Sandoval get in touch with my office."
"I told her to call you two days ago."
"Obviously, neither you nor she have any idea of the seriousness of Chooch's situation. This is about his future here at Harvard Westlake."
"I told Sandy. I can't do more than that."
"Facta non verba" Thackery said with a smirk, then added, "Actions speak louder than words."
"Gobbelus feces" Shane replied, and after a second to figure it out, Chooch burst into laughter.
Shane put the car in gear and pulled out onto Coldwater. He was smoking mad. Of course, he knew it wasn't Thackery, it was his whole damn life that was pissing him off.
"Gobbelus feces. Eat shit pretty fuckin' good," Chooch crowed.
"Calm down, will ya . . . it wasn't that funny."
Chooch looked at him carefully, then turned off his headset and put the rig back into his book bag.
"Don't worry about Thackery, okay? It doesn't matter that Sandy didn't call. They're gonna throw me out anyway. It's a done deal. I'm not even in regular classes anymore. I'm in detention. They don't care if I do my homework or not. They're just sitting on me till they can tell her I'm dust."
"Shit," Shane said. "Good goin'."
"I don't care, so don't sweat it."
"Yeah, that's right, I forgot. I'm just this month's paid jerkoff."
"That was before. You're not a paid jerkoff anymore. You've been promoted."
"To what?" Shane was barely paying attention. His mind was spinning, a kaleidoscope of horrible, career-ending problems.
"You're my doobie brother," Chooch said with a grin, "my ganja gangtsa and Rasta weed warrior."
"Listen, Chooch, you gotta forget about that. Okay? I'm having a rough time right now, I'm not thinking straight. That was a huge mistake."
"Shit, it was the first thing you did that I liked. Showed me some stones, man. No other cop I know would sit around with some kid and bogart a fatty."
"Chooch, if you tell anybody about that, I'm gonna kill ya."
"No sweat. I can keep a secret." He smiled, then put his headphones on again and cranked up the tunes. He stayed plugged in until Shane made the turn onto the Santa Monica Freeway. It was the wrong way home, so Chooch took off his headset and looked over. "Where we going?"
"I gotta go to a meeting down at the beach. It should only take an hour, maybe less. You can hang for a while, okay?"
Chooch cocked an eyebrow. "Something's going on, right? You're in the soup, just like me, aren't ya?" he said with surprising intuition.
"It's okay. I can handle it."
They shot off the end of the freeway, back onto the Coast Highway. Five minutes later Chooch and Shane were walking through the front door of an almost empty bar-restaurant with a sawdust floor and a neon sign that read SILVER SURFER.
It was 4:15 in the afternoon.
? ? ?
They found DeMarco seated at the bar. He was wearing cutoffs and a blue-jean vest with no shirt, working on his third beer. The other two empty brown glass longnecks were lined up on the bar beside him.
When Shane introduced DeMarco to Chooch, the teenager looked at the longhaired defense rep and smiled. "Cool fuckin' earring, dude."
"I like your friend, Scully. You're finally kicking." The defense rep smiled at Shane.
"Is it okay for him to be in here?" Shane asked, referring to the fact that they were in a bar that served hard liquor.
"Yeah, he can go play the video games over there. Technically, that's not in the bar area."
Shane dug into his pockets and gave Chooch some change.
The boy moved over to a small alcove in sight of the bar, sat on a stool, and began feeding coins into one of the machines.
Shane slid the Letter of Transmittal over to DeMarco, who read it carefully, then set it on the bar between them. "Mark, gimme another Lone Star," he yelled. "How 'bout you?" he asked Shane.
"Slow down on the brewskies, will ya? I'm on fire here."
"Then you're in luck. With this bladder, I can piss it out for you," DeMarco quipped. "In your telephonic absence, I went ahead and covered some pro forma ground. Tell ya this much, Alexa Hamilton doesn't let much grass grow under her magnificent gym-trained ass. She already got the rotation list for your judging panel and faxed it to me. Seven names: four sworn members of the department above the rank of captain and three civilians. If you remember how it works from before, you get to throw off two of the cops and two of the civilians, leaving you a panel of three judges: two sworn, one civilian." He reached into his blue-jean vest pocket and pulled out two slips of paper. "This ain't much of a beauty contest," he said, sliding both slips over to Shane. "In my opinion, all of these department guys are douche bags. Tell me who you like. I hate the whole bunch." DeMarco read the names aloud while Shane studied the list. "Captain Donovan McNeil, West Division; Commander Mitchell Van Sickle, Ad Vice; Deputy Chief Laurence Gadsworth he's the chief's administrative staff officer, so forget him; and Captain Bernard Cookson."
"Jesus," Shane said, "except for Donovan McNeil, who I used to go fishing with occasionally, aren't these guys all in Chief Brewer's golf foursome?"
"Yep. But it gets worse. Look't the civilians: all lawyers from South Temple Street; one's a retired judge, a Crispin crony, of course. I checked the others all work at the municipal courthouse and all have strong political ties to Mayor Crispin. This guy here, Knox Pooly, actually chaired his committee to reelect."
"What's going on here, Dee? This isn't right."
"No shit. You're getting screwed without the Vaseline. If Donovan's an old friend, I'm surprised he made this list of suckfish."
"He figures. A year ago he was the chief's community affairs officer. They probably picked him not knowing he was a friend of mine."
"Okay, so we keep him on the list and hope that he'll at least have divided loyalties. Who else?"
"Not Deputy Chief Gadsworth, of course. I'll take Commander Van Sickle." Shane looked at the list of three civilians and cocked an eyebrow at DeMarco for help.
"Beats me," DeMarco said. "Throw 'em out alphabetically or just drop 'em over your shoulder and the one closest to the door stays. Good a way as any."
"I'll take Clifford Finch. At least he's a defense attorney."
"Okay, then
your panel is Captain Donovan McNeil, Commander Van Sickle he'll be the chairman, based on rank and Cliff Finch. Good fuckin' luck. This bunch would convict Santa Claus of home invasion, but I'll notify Alexa that these are our choices."
Shane sat and brooded as DeMarco was served his fourth beer, then started to gulp it down. "Go easy, will ya?" Shane murmured.
"When I'm being fucked, it feels better if I get a little loaded first," DeMarco said dourly. He picked up the Letter of Transmittal and reread the Rationale Section. "Two things here; let's take 'em in order. One: they think you took something from Ray's home."
"It's bullshit. I don't know anything about it."
"You wouldn't hold back on me again, would you, Shane? You did last time."
"I don't know what they're talking about."
"Okay, so what's with this old fistfight in the garage at Southwest Division?"
"Nothin', just frayed nerves. It was way back in '84, for God's sake. You and I were just going through the BOR. I was uptight. I boiled over, that's all."
"Shane, you gotta tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; otherwise, we're gonna get blackjacked at that board. I'm gonna ask you again. What the fuck was going on between you and Ray and Barbara? Why did you get into that fight?"
"We never talked about it, but you knew who really beat that Hispanic kid half to death."
"My guess it was Ray." "Right."
"So, not that it matters all these years later, but why don't you do me a favor and finally spit it out. Tell me what happened."
"I was in a gas station, taking a leak. I came back to where our patrol car was parked, and Ray was beating this kid with his baton. I broke it up. If I hadn't stopped it, Ray would have killed him. Then, after the complaint got filed by the boy's family, Ray begged me to take the blame. The kid's head injuries had him blank on the incident. He couldn't remember who hit him. Since I was just a probationer and had no complaints on my record, Ray convinced me I would probably get only a few weeks' suspension. He said he'd make up my lost pay out of his own pocket. I was his partner real young, impressionable. Back then I was just like some of these rookies today. I thought he was the best cop on the streets of L. A. He had a way of getting to you, making you believe in him. And he was brave. More than once he risked his life for a brother officer. His two Medals of Valor were not bullshit. So I said okay. I took the complaint for him. But later, while you and I were going through the hearing, I started having nightmares. In those dreams, Molar and I would both be beating that kid. We'd be taking turns. I'd wake up sweating, hating myself. I was under a lot of stress back then, and I guess it was the beginning of my seeing Ray for what he really was a vicious, violent son of a bitch who wasn't a cop so he could protect and serve. He was a cop so he could kick ass and hold court in the street. . . .
the Tin Collector (2000) Page 8