by Jenna Baker
*****
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, also known as Georgie and Plex, weren’t much help. With the masks the assailants were wearing, they couldn’t really identify them at all. They spent an hour or so looking through mug shot books, and then Foxy sent them home.
“Ready to ride with the big dogs?” Foxy asked me.
“Sure.”
We had fifteen cab drivers on our to-do list. The cab company we were investigating was called Jiffy Taxi, and we arrived at their dispatch office at two o’clock –- fifteen minutes before the shift change. This particular company worked its drivers in twelve-hour shifts, so the people arriving now would be the same people who were working last night.
Foxy made nice with the dispatcher and grabbed a copy of the logs from the night before. We were able to eliminate a few drivers right off the bat because they had pick-ups across town during the time of the murder or their ethnicity didn’t match up with the witness’s accounts.
“Do you keep your extra cabs on the lot here or do the drivers take them home at night?” Foxy asked the dispatcher.
The dispatcher, like most of his employees, was Hispanic and called out over the radio almost exclusively in Spanish. There were a few guys that spoke to him in English through thick Indian accents, but Spanish was the predominant language. “No, we keep the cars here. If we let ‘em take ‘em home, these guys would work round the clock and keep all the cash.”
Foxy nodded. “Where do you keep the cars? Are they locked up somewhere?”
“They’re in the lot. They’re not locked up – but I sit right at the window. I’d see them if they took off, bro.”
Foxy nodded and handed the dispatcher a list. “These are the guys I’d like to speak with when they come in, okay?”
The dispatcher looked at the list of six names and nodded. Foxy and I positioned ourselves in the corner of the room and the dispatcher was to direct the taxi drivers over to us. Foxy wouldn’t let me videotape because he didn’t want anyone to be alarmed or think they were a suspect.
The first cabbie that came in was about five feet tall and had short, black, greased-back hair. He was Mexican and did as he was told when the dispatcher directed him to speak with us.
“Do you speak English?” Foxy asked him.
The man shook his hand in the air indicating that he knew a little.
“What’s your name?” Foxy asked.
“¿Cómo te llamas?” I asked and beamed, happy that my rudimentary Spanish could somehow come in handy. I could also ask the suspect where the toilet was and count with him to ten.
“Miguel Guerrero.”
“Were you driving your cab last night?” Foxy asked loudly. Foxy must have thought that if he spoke louder the man would somehow understand.
“Sí.”
“Do you remember what you were doing around eleven o’clock last night?”
“Onze heures,” I added. “Oh wait, that’s French.”
The man’s eyes darted back and forth between me and Foxy. I imagined that he had no idea – the whole twelve-hour shift was probably a blur.
“Uh, uh, driving cab,” he finally said. Foxy and I exchanged a glance; this was not going to be easy.
Foxy looked over at the dispatcher and snapped his fingers. “Hey, can you help translate over here?”
“I ain’t no translator!” the dispatcher fired back. “I’m working over here.”
Another cabbie walked in the office and punched in.
“Juan can help you – he’s on your list anyway,” the dispatcher said and directed Juan to come talk to us.
Juan was semi-good looking and was wearing a white tank top with an open button-down shirt over it. He walked over to us and looked at me.
“You have some questions for me?” he said in a Spanish accent.
“Yes, we are wondering where you were last night at about eleven o’clock. Can you provide an alibi?” I asked.
“An alibi for what?”
“You don’t ask the questions buddy, I do,” I said pointing a finger in his face.
“Uh, Sharpe, knock it off, okay?” Foxy said, nudging me.
“Oh.” I looked at Juan. “Talk to him.”
“I was working last night,” Juan said to Foxy.
“I know you were. Do you happen to remember where you were around eleven? There’s a gap in your logbook.”
Juan’s face suddenly turned brick red, and he turned around to make sure the dispatcher wasn’t watching. “I was at the OTB, amigo,” he whispered.
“Which one?”
“Over on Magnolia.”
Foxy nodded. “Is there anyone there that could confirm you were there?”
“I won some bets – they took my driver’s license down for that. You’re not going to report this, right?”
“Not if you help us, Juan. Your buddy Miguel over here doesn’t speak English that well – I want you to ask him the same questions and let us know what he says. Sharpe here can understand Spanish, she just can’t speak it, so we’ll know if you are lying to us, comprende?”
Juan nodded and spoke to Miguel in Spanish, and Miguel answered back.
“He’s not exactly sure on the time, but he had a pick-up in Burbank and then he grabbed something to eat,” Juan translated.
Foxy looked at me. “Is that what he said, Sharpe?”
My eyes went wide, but I tried to play it off. “No, it is not,” I said. “Juan, we asked you to be straight with us.”
“That’s what he said, chica! I’m telling you!” Juan defended.
“Don’t call me chica,” I warned, and then turned to Foxy. “Okay, he’s cool.”
Foxy checked the logbook. Miguel’s recollection fit well enough with the time frame.
Foxy nodded and thanked the men, who exited and headed to their cars.
“This is stupid, none of them are going to say that at eleven o’clock they were shooting a man,” I said.
“I know. But your boyfriend likes us to check every lead.”
“Stop with the boyfriend stuff.”
We interviewed three more cabbies who came in to report for work. The last driver, who was named Gabriel Morales, didn’t show up.
“Did Gabriel call in?” Foxy asked the dispatcher.
“No, but this happens all the time. I always overstaff because at least one guy doesn’t show up. We do the three strikes rule here.”
“How many strikes does he have?” I asked.
“Two.”