by J J Miller
“Just because it seems screwed up to you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense to someone else’s twisted way of thinking. We see it just about every day: mass shootings, terrorist attacks. A lot of people seem to want to make a name for themselves by slaughtering the innocent.”
There was something that had been on my mind since meeting Demarco. If he was telling the truth about leaving the Crips, his life would be in danger if he ever went to jail.
“Jack, Demarco isn’t sick in the head. He’d started making some good decisions in life. But I’ll tell you something: if he goes to prison, it’s game over.”
“Sure, if he’s found guilty there’ll be no parole.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the Westside Pomona gang. They’re a Latino mob controlled by the Mexican mafia. Right now they are in a serious blood feud with the Sintown Crips, two members of which were shanked in San Quentin this month.”
“But if he’s left the Sintown Crips, they won’t target him, right?” said Megan.
“No. He’s an even bigger target. To the Westside gang he’s still a Crip. And they will kill him because he’ll have no protection inside.”
“Oh my God,” said Megan.
“If I don’t keep him out of jail he’s dead. That kid’s life depends on me.”
Jack shook his head.
“I hate to say it, but to me this looks like mission impossible.”
“I hear you. But I intend to find out exactly what went down at that convention center, and I need your help. Are you in?”
Jack smiled.
“Sure. But I warn you. Someone’s got to play devil’s advocate on this one—and that someone’s going to be me.”
“Well, let’s get to it.”
I looked over the arrest report I’d brought with me.
“Jack, there are a few names here. Witnesses who told the cops Demarco was the shooter. We need to speak to as many as we can find.”
“I’m on it. I’ll also check to see if any eyewitnesses spoke to the media.”
“Let me guess: Tara McClean will be your first call. She’s always happy to oblige.”
Jack smiled knowingly. Tara McClean was a television reporter who had a soft spot for Jack.
“She’s only human,” Megan scoffed light-heartedly. “Jack, are you going to keep spinning the wheels or are you at some point going to stick around long enough to have a family?”
“Kids are over-rated,” Jack said. “Besides, I’ve got plenty of nieces and nephews.”
Somehow Jack’s words didn’t ring true. He’d be a great dad, and I could tell Megan thought so too. She’d been trying to hook him up with a friend—a former Olympic downhill skier who was an absolute knock-out. Jack was particularly coy when it came to set-ups. They emasculated him slightly, as though they implied he didn’t have the gumption to get the job done himself.
“Speaking of kids, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Let’s touch base later. See where we’re at.”
My next meeting was something I was both looking forward to and dreading. I was going to check in on Bella, and I knew Claire would want to “talk”. I knew what was coming—she may have chewed a butt cheek off me when I’d dropped Bella home yesterday, but I figured she wasn’t done. She’d want another chance to sink her teeth back into my ass.
✽✽✽
I pulled into the double garage of Claire’s Venice Beach home, finding just enough room next to her silver Porsche Cayenne. She’d done extremely well in the two years since her jewelry business had taken off and we’d gotten divorced. Her $2.3 million, three-level house sat between Strongs Drive and the canals. The ground floor, which opened out to a small lawn and the waterway beyond, was an open studio. I walked down the side pathway and entered via the yard gate.
Claire was busy at a large drawing table. Her assistant Caitlin—a fashion tragic who I guessed worked for practically nothing—was carrying sketches or something over for Claire’s inspection. In the far corner I could see Bella, lounging on a white couch, headphones on, immersed in her iPad. Obviously, today had been a stay-at-home day, and for that I felt guilty.
I steeled my jaw and walked in.
Bella was the first to notice me. Instead of the usual leap-off-the-sofa-and-open-armed-dash, she didn’t move. Then, I assumed, she decided the right thing to do was come give her father a hug, or at least say hi. She shifted herself lazily off the sofa and ambled up to me. She went all floppy as she reached me, smiled gently and threw her arms around my waist before I lifted her up. I was relieved to at least have earned her partial forgiveness.
Her mother, on the other hand, was a different story.
Claire sat watching until I put Bella down.
“Looks like you’re busy, as usual,” I said, a standard compliment. Claire had been flat out for eighteen months and was delighted to be so. Every day that her jewelry business moved forward, the memory of our marriage dropped further behind and her status as an independent fashion success story grew stronger and stronger. The celebrities who’d once only known her as the name behind a brand recommended by their stylist now ranked as friends. She was happy, and I was happy for her.
“It’s hectic. I’ve got to have the fall collection locked down and shot by the end of the week,” she said.
“I’m sure it will be a huge success, as always.”
I couldn’t help but read the regular fawning of the press over Claire’s designs. She was no longer a doe-eyed ingenue who could be flattered by a positive review or a celebrity endorsement. She was now an artist, a designer who validated her powers of vision and design with each and every collection.
“Thank you, Brad. Let’s go upstairs where we can talk.”
I followed her upstairs into the main kitchen. I declined her offer of coffee or a drink. We sat at her kitchen table.
“So what is it you want to say? Are you not done with telling me what an asshole father I am?”
She shook her head.
“No, that’s not it. Even though for the life of me I cannot understand why you did what you did. I just can’t get that out of my head—that you chose to leave her alone to endure that nightmare.”
“Well, I can’t explain it to you any better than I have. The short of it is, if that had been a mass shooting, I could not have looked in Bella’s eyes again if I hadn’t tried to prevent as many deaths as humanly possible. If you’ve never watched the news and wondered why nobody did anything, or felt that someone surely must have been able to do something to end the carnage, then what can I say? You and I are fundamentally different people.”
“I don’t want this to be an argument.”
“What do you want this to be then?”
“A conversation about what’s best for our daughter.”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me what’s best for our daughter.”
She bowed her head and smiled ruefully.
“Okay. I took her to my therapist this morning, and I want to tell you what she has advised.”
“So she has talked with Bella?”
“Yes, briefly. Not a full session; more an introduction.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And, as you might expect, this was an extremely traumatic event for Bella. She is super anxious and does not want to be left alone at all. She slept in my bed last night.”
“What’s the advice?” I could tell there was news coming my way that I wasn’t going to like. I just wanted it out in the open.
“She doesn’t feel safe with you. We hope you can agree to a change of conditions regarding your access.”
I was half expecting this, but it still came as a shock. I only had Bella every second weekend, so there wasn’t a lot of fat to trim off.
“Changes? Such as?”
“Now this is proposed as a temporary arrangement.”
I was glaring at her. She looked at the bench between us.
“You get to see her as usual every second weekend but only during daylight hours. No sleepovers.”
“So she wouldn’t stay at my place?”
Claire nodded.
“Is this what Bella wants?”
“This is coming straight from Bella.”
“Via a shrink and via you.”
“You can’t expect her to tell you.”
Despite my anger I knew any kind of hot-headed reaction from me would only damage things more.
“How long do you propose we do this for?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Brad, we need to be patient. You need to be patient, for your daughter’s sake. When she’s ready she’ll let us know. I hope you can see that is not an unreasonable thing to ask.”
It took me a long time to get accustomed to only seeing Bella every second weekend, but to Claire’s credit she was not black and white about the rule. I got to take Bella skiing and hiking, and we had gone to various other events outside my allotted days. Yet, as much as I hated the prospect of an even more restrictive arrangement, I wanted to give Bella her space. If that’s what she wanted, then so be it.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay what?”
“I agree. No sleepovers until Bella decides she’s ready.”
“That can’t be something she just tells you—she has to tell the psychologist and me.”
“Of course. In triplicate. As if I could put words in her mouth.”
Claire smiled, relieved. There was something condescending about her and that irked me. Maybe I was being unfair, but when it came to our parenting, or leading by example, things always seemed to be a case of mum knows best and dad’s a bumbling fool in need of ongoing tuition. That made me think of how Bella had become enmeshed in Claire’s fashion world. Her Instagram account was essentially a fashion magazine populated by a single model, her. I thought of the girl who had fawned over Bella at VidCon.
“I meant to tell you something.”
“What?”
“Before the shooting, this girl—late teens—came up and practically drooled all over Bella.”
Claire smiled fondly. “She gets that a lot. Better get used to it.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t want to get used to it. And I don’t think it’s okay that you’re used to it.”
“It’s what she loves doing.”
“What, posting photos of herself? She just came up with that all by herself? Don’t act like you didn’t set it all up for her.”
“True, I got her started. But if she wants, she can stop any time she likes.”
“If she wants? She’s a seven-year-old girl. How could she not be enamored with all the praise and affirmation she gets. But there are probably—no, there are certainly—all manner of creeps panting over her thinking God knows what. You know what kind of sick individuals are out there.”
“Maybe. But you could say the same thing about walking down the street. How many sickos do you think we pass every day? And I don’t just mean the ones who catcall, I mean the ones who keep quiet, the ones with sleazy eyes. The completely hidden ones. How many men who come across as totally harmless are up to something perverted on their computers in the comfort of their own homes? It’s no different—there’s no telling who the creeps are or who they aren’t.”
“It just seems like asking for trouble.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Or a great way to help market your jewelry designs. That’s another way to look at it.”
She glared at me.
“This is not about me! I’ve shown you the income she makes but you barely seem to be interested. And now all of a sudden, when you’ve screwed up, you come out with this.”
“This is not a reaction to what you just told me about my access. It’s not a response to the shooting. I’m not comfortable with it. Never have been. And I’m her father, no matter how much you like to stuff around with the time I get to do that.”
“Me, stuff around? Don’t you ever forget—what’s happening here is a result of your own actions, your own decisions. How about owning up and taking responsibility for it?”
“Look, let’s just stop. I need to get going. And there’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
She stood there, arms folded, waiting.
“I’m defending the alleged shooter.”
Her mouth dropped. “You’re what?!”
“The young man who was arrested for the VidCon shooting. I’m his defense attorney.”
She stayed silent as I began walking out.
“I can’t believe my ears,” I heard her call after me. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Just have to be the goddamn superhero. The man who shot someone in cold blood, who terrorized hundreds of people, including your own seven-year-old daughter—you’re trying to get him off.”
I stopped at the top of the stairs.
“There’s a lot more to it, but yes, that’s it in a nutshell. See you in a couple of weeks.”
“God help us. Oh, and look who’s addicted to fame,” she called out as I started down the stairs. She was alluding to the amount of press I’d gotten for previous cases. I stopped.
“That’s not it, Claire. Not by a long shot. He didn’t do it.”
7
The VidCon organizers gave me a number for Ramon X. The only problem was getting him to answer it. For three days my calls went straight to voicemail. Finally, he called back and invited me over to talk.
I don’t know what I imagined a gangster rapper’s house would look like, but a cream-colored, palm-tree shielded mansion sitting high in what appeared to be the Beverly Hills of Pomona seemed kind of fitting. The driveway led up a slope and underneath one wing of the house.
Two giant Rottweilers escorted my car to a stop, positioning themselves at the driver’s door, spit flying from their hostile jaws. I stayed put.
A young black guy wearing an NWA t-shirt and shorts came up to the car and shouted at the dogs. They shut their fang-filled traps and backed off a little. He waved at me, assuring me it was okay to get out.
“They’re all bark, these bitches,” he said. It was a friendly line, but he wasn’t smiling. Underneath his cap brim, his eyes squinted at me. Nothing to do with the sun—just plain street scrutiny. “You the lawyer?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m Trey. Follow me.”
He turned for the house, and I followed with the dogs trotting beside us. Inside we passed through the lounge area where a bunch of guys were watching a massive television screen through a haze of pot smoke. They didn’t even look at me.
“He’s in the studio,” Trey said over his shoulder. We continued across the house, through a kitchen, pool room and then a huge dining area. At the far end of the house, we followed some stairs down. The beat coming from the studio grew louder. Trey opened the door and rap music burst out, along with the scent of weed. I walked in to find Ramon X sitting behind the mixing desk nodding to the music. A guy next to him tweaked the levels. Then a rapper started in. I looked through the glass to see another guy holding cans to his ears and punching out words with commanding venom.
Ramon X motioned me to come over so I did. He extended his hand.
“Just getting this down,” he said. “You mind?”
“Not at all,” I said, somewhat taken aback by the courtesy.
From what I’d read, Ramon X never denied being a gangster. But since gaining success as a rapper, he’d proven to be an astute businessman. He first YouTube videos were freshly written raps recorded with the most basic of gear: a phone and a YouTube account. He recorded everything on his phone from the raps to the beats to the video footage. He even edited everything on his phone. In some videos he spoke of his passion for his craft and the trials and tribulations of trying to get anyone interested.
His openness, honesty and personalit
y won him more and more subscribers. After wading through the clips on his channel, his popularity was no surprise. He was tough and edgy but always civil. He displayed an easy charm and a great sense of humor. On occasion he’d speak out about the injustice of how cops treated young black men.
From what I’d seen, Ramon X was no black revolutionary calling for the overthrow of the white patriarchy. He was an engaging voice of protest, a man who humanized the lives of black people subjected to white hate. But he was also no pussy. He touted his gangster history as a badge of honor. He may not have been a man of the world, so to speak, but he was a man who knew how to thrive in his world.
After the rapper finished his lines the mixer cut the backing track.
“Yeah-ah boi!” Ramon X yelled getting up on his feet and pumping his fist in the air to salute the rapper’s effort. “That was sick. That was the freaking dope, right there.”
The rapper emerged from the booth looking totally unfazed by the compliment. He then clasped palms with Ramon X and chest bumped. “True,” he said before bursting into laughter, as did Ramon X.
My host then turned to me, smiling.
“Come on, we can talk out back. It’s nice out.”
We left the studio, climbed the stairs, then headed outside.
“You want something to drink. Soda? Beer? I can get my man Tito to make you a killer chocolate shake—what you want?”
We skirted a large pool, passing two girls enjoying the mild warmth of the winter sun.
“A Coke would be good.”
Ramon X shouted out: “Yo! Tito!”
“Yo!” came a reply from the kitchen sliding door.
“Can you get us a couple of Cokes out here?”
“You come get ’em!”
“If I have to come get ’em your ass better be gone for good by the time I reach that door!”
“Coke it is.”
We walked over to the pool and took a seat at a square glass table underneath a brick gazebo.
“So, how’s Demarco doing?”
“Not so good. He’s in a shitload of trouble.”
“The cops think he was shooting for me, right?”
“You’ve spoken to them?”