A Deadly Legacy

by Julie Vail

  Come la sua testa è, Giannino? Meglio? How is your head, Johnny? Better? Si, nonno. Meglio. Yes, grandfather. Better.

  Buon natale, Gianni! Merry Christmas, Johnny.

  Hey, give me this guy! says his father. Buon natale, bello! Merry Christmas, handsome, Oh, there he is! Buon Natale, Johnny! Buon Natale! Feeling better, bambino? asks his mother.

  Yes, mama.

  Good, baby, because we are going to eat now. Are you hungry?

  The boy looks at the dining room table and it is covered with food. Assorted antipasto, spread out on a huge platter: marinated artichoke hearts, pepperoni, salami, olives, sweet roasted peppers, boccicio. Then he sees the platter of crab legs and jumbo shrimp, the pan of flounder stuffed with spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, the dish of baccalá; the bowls of lobster ravioli in vodka sauce, linguini in red sauce and Pasta chi Sardi, and the large bowl of capunatina. He knows that cannoli and other assorted pastries and cookies will be brought out much later for dessert.

  After everyone is seated around the tables and the wine is poured, even for the children, John Vincent Testarossa’s father stands and raises his glass:

  Per amare, alla vita, alla famiglia! Buon Natale! Salute! To love, to life, to family! Merry Christmas!

  Salute.

  Walking through the doors of Pacific station the day after Mark died was an exercise in guts and strength that outsiders simply don’t understand. The city still needed protection, see? And we have to do it even though we are dying inside, even though we want to take our anger and our hurt and our outrage out on the first fuck who looks at us wrong. Because, see, we are hurting. And then . . . and then you walk in through the front doors and you discover something your self-centered hurt won’t allow you to see, and that is that the community hurts and mourns as well. Maybe not the same way you do, but it mourns nevertheless. Candles burn, letters sit folded and unread, teddy bears look out over Culver Blvd. with their unseeing, unblinking eyes. And it is that kind of shit that takes you away from yourself, for just a moment.

  I walked in and wondered where our angel was, the one who would get us through this, get us through until Friday when we would lay Gonzo to rest. What could possibly be more important than mourning his death right now? But, you see, life goes on. It does. Proof of that was the man standing at the reception desk talking to an officer about what rights he might have to cut down his neighbors Jacaranda tree, because, well, come springtime the sap sprays all over his new Jag, and well, he is just so DAMN unreasonable, this neighbor of his. What rights do I have? I mean, can I cut the damn thing down without asking him? I look at this guy and suddenly I’m clear. Now I’m clear, I think to myself as I accept a hug from Ginger. I’m clear as mud now. It’s this shit that’s important. Jacaranda trees and sap and Jags. I see now.

  Got it.

  I walked in through the back. The station was quiet. Alex, Mike, other detectives, all sat on desks and chairs just . . . staring. No one is quite sure if getting on with the day is respectful to Mark or to themselves. Dale sat, too.

  “A moment?” I asked him.

  He got up and silently walked down the hall and into his office. I entered after him and closed the door.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening with the investigation into Gonzo’s death, Dale? I want to . . .”

  “The shooting is being investigated, John.”

  “I think Laborteaux . . .”

  He held up a hand, stopping me. “You need to step away, detective. You’re too close.”

  “Laborteaux and Gonz got into it about a . . .”

  “I know all about it, detective. And I’m telling you now to take a step back. You’re not helping Gonzo here.”

  “I heard four shots, Dale. Two high-pitched, and two, more deep . . . hollow . . .”

  He sighed. “Two slugs from a .45—the shooter’s gun—were found in Gonz, and two slugs from Laborteaux’s .357 were in the shooter. John, Laborteaux is looking clean right now, but we’re taking their fight at the bar into account, and we’re still investigating. This is a tough day for all of us. But let’s get through it, huh?”

  “That prick Laborteaux is not clean, Dale.”

  “Step away from this, detective. And that’s an order.”

  I turned without a word and left his office. This was not over for me. Not by a long shot. Laborteaux stunk for this. And I would figure it out. Maybe not today, but I would figure it out.

  ††††

  Kevin Meyers was due to be sentenced this week sometime. I didn’t know when. I walked into the pit. Alex looked at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “Johnny, you should have come home with me last night. You shouldn’t have been alone. We were worried.” I assured him that I was fine, that I’d learned a lot about myself in the last 24 hours. I shifted gears then, because otherwise I was going to have to go home, or to the nearest bar.

  “When’s the sentencing hearing for Meyers?”

  “Uh . . . might have been yesterday.”

  I nodded. I . . . we wanted to be there for the Cranes.

  “She did her best, Johnny. Jesus, what a position for her to be in.” He was talking about Karen.

  “I know. It was a hell of a thing. And I wasn’t very kind to her.”

  “I heard.” He got up and came over to me. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  I nodded and we walked to the front together. As we passed the reception desk a small voice said, “Detectives?” I turned toward the voice and looked into the pained eyes of Madeline Crane.

  “Mrs. Crane. I . . . we . . . we heard you were able to finally take David’s remains home . . .” Remains. What . . . remained. “We missed the sentencing. We’re so sorry.”

  “Detective Testarossa, Detective Ortiz . . .” She searched our eyes. “We heard about the loss of your partner. I cannot express to you how sorry James and I are to hear that you lost a colleague and friend.” After the loss she suffered, she actually took the time to think of us. I was overwhelmed and fought back tears as I took her hand in mine.

  “Thank you, ma’am. We appreciate your kind words. Did everything go okay?”

  She sighed. “Yes. I didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly didn’t come close to . . . well, to what it was.”

  “Yes . . . I . . . that’s why we wanted to be there, with you. We just . . .”

  “Detective, please. It’s alright. We are having David cremated and we’ll take his remains back in a few days.” She walked over to the corner of the reception area and sat in a chair. “We have some closure now. Now we’ll start over.” She looked at me for a moment then said, “Do you believe in the death penalty, John?”

  I sat down in the chair next to her and I looked thoughtfully into her eyes. She deserved my honest answer, but it wasn’t a popular one. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  She nodded her head. “I suppose in your line of work, with the things you see . . . well, it’s the only way you get closure, isn’t it?”

  “Something like that,” I answered.

  “Well, I don’t, and I was worried that Kevin Meyers would be . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’ve seen enough death for one lifetime.”

  “I understand. He still may spend the rest of his life in prison. You understand that? ADA Dan Rios explained it all to you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. A good man.”

  “A very good man. I know him personally.”

  She nodded knowingly. “I believe that Kevin Meyers will suffer more in prison. At least I’ll be able to live with myself believing that much.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Revenge only brings closure to hearts that are hard, Johnny, my dad said once. She looked at me then with such compassion, and I felt like I had known her for years.

  “John,” she said to me. “Make peace.” She saw my confusion, and so she took my hand in hers. “Make peace with it. Your survival depends on it.” She gave my hand a final squeeze and then she was gone.

  I stood and
stared after her for a long time, wondering if she would ever know the profound affect she had on me, and knowing I would never meet a finer lady.

  ††††

  The sun finally came out the day of Mark’s funeral. The past three were dark and dreary, and I slept through most of it. I understood myself more now than I did even three days ago. Losing someone you love will do that to you.

  It was going to be a long, hard day. I borrowed a blue uniform from another cop because I was never on patrol here in L.A. But everyone wore their blues to a funeral. Everyone. I dressed completely in front of a mirror, something I had never done before. How odd that I had never dressed in front of a mirror before. A police funeral was as classy and as big and as grand as anything you’d ever attend in your life, right up there with the mob-daughter wedding. I wanted to look right.

  I stood at the front door, and I suddenly couldn’t move. I was overwhelmed with loss. I would never again share a scotch with him on my patio. I needed her here. I needed her to take my hand, hold it, stop it from shaking. I needed her in my life, but what did I have to offer her that was nearly as good? I did not know, but I was getting closer to realizing that maybe she needed to decide that for herself.

  I arrived at Parker Center downtown. The service would take place at Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral, which was right around the corner from Parker Center. It was the only place big enough in town to hold everyone who wanted to, needed to be there. I rode the elevator to the 6th floor, where the chief of police and various other dignitaries were gathered. The cathedral was about a half a mile away, and so we would walk. I entered the room and Alex was there, in his blues, and so were Mike Shin and Dale Blackburn. Mark’s brother Paul and his father Mark Sr. stood off to the side. The six of us would honor Mark by carrying his casket.

  We rode the elevator to the basement of Parker Center where the cars holding Mark’s family were waiting to roll out. The Hearse sat front and center. A large flag-draped coffin rested inside. The six of us took our places next to the Hearse, three on each side. The gates opened and we made our way slowly out onto Los Angeles Street.

  The hearse led the way as we turned and moved north-west up Los Angeles Street, followed by Mark’s family, and then a parade of police motorcycles and black and whites. The streets were blocked off, preventing traffic from coming anywhere near the pro cession, but people by the hundreds lined the streets, silently honoring the fallen officer. The only sound you could hear was the roar of the motorcycles following behind.

  The pro cession headed up Los Angeles Street then made a left onto Temple. People lined the streets and hung out of office windows. And the officers who lined the streets to keep the peace saluted the motorcade as it passed. I looked at the officers who saluted a man they did not know, and I gave silent thanks for trusting that the honor would not be in vain. Mark Gonzales was a good man and a fine policeman, and he deserved to be honored. The sky was clear and the temperature was a cool seventy degrees. Just perfect, and Mark would have said so. This isn’t a day for working, Johnny, he’d say. It’s a day for sitting on the beach with a few beers and some tunes. Let’s tell Dale B. we’re sick. HEY, DALE B! We just puked! We’re goin’ to the beach, me and Johnny. And Dale would laugh, his booming chortle filling the air, and he’d say Nice try, Gonz. And Gonz, who always got a kick out of Dale B., would chuckle affectionately. I love this job, man. I swear to God I do. I couldn’t get it down that he was gone. I couldn’t get my head wrapped around it somehow.

  When the procession arrived at Hill Street we turned and went into the underground garage of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, where we unloaded the flag draped coffin, and we proceeded into the Cathedral. As we entered the courtyard, the pink concrete structure loomed down at me, warning me that once I entered there was no going back. The white alabaster cross beckoned me inside. Bless me father for I have sinned. We entered through the bronze door created by sculptor Robert Graham and walked up an incline that circled the chapel. The chapel itself was bathed in natural light, the sun beating through white alabaster at an angle so as to give a halo effect over the alter. The chapel seated 3,000 people and the place was standing room only with an hour left until the service was to begin.

  We set the coffin on the stand then stood over him in silence. Then we slowly walked away, finding our seats. Mark’s father and brother stayed a few extra seconds, then with arms draped around each other, found their seats as well. When the service began many people got up and talked about Mark. Amelia took the podium and spoke bravely of her friend and partner. Mike Shin and Dale B. also spoke, and after Dale spoke, then came back and sat next to me, I got a feeling. I looked to my right, and standing against the wall, under the tapestry of St. Blaise, patron saint of the throat and healer of animals and children, was Karen. I tried to catch her eye, but she was lost in the service. The Cardinal was just wrapping up. A moment later I turned back to look for her, and she was gone.

  When the services ended the six of us arose, took Mark’s coffin off the stand, and proceeded out the way we came in. I looked for Karen again as we moved to the garage, but I didn’t see her.

  Our next stop would be the graveside service in Culver City. After we loaded the coffin into the hearse, Mark’s dad and brother joined the family in their car, and a third car appeared for the four of us. Lisa, Janis and Gina, Dale’s wife, would follow in their cars. The city closed Grand Avenue to Jefferson Boulevard, and then controlled traffic up Jefferson through Culver City until the procession hit Sepulveda and made the left onto Slauson Boulevard and into Holy Cross Cemetery. We could see the gravesite up ahead, with a hundred chairs lined up for people to sit.

  We took Mark’s body out of the hearse for the final time and carried him over to the gravesite. Someone helped us load the coffin onto a hydraulic lift that would lower him into the ground when the time came. I remember from my father’s funeral that this was the most difficult thing to watch—your loved one being lowered into the dark. We sat and listened to more people speak about Mark, and then it was my turn. I don’t remember what I said, except that I spoke directly to him, forgetting everyone else who was there. A private moment in a public setting, but I imagined everyone was having their own private moments. I flinched with each firing of the three-volley salute, as seven uniformed officers stood off to the side, guns pointed over the casket toward the sky. Attentions were again turned skyward as the wumpwumpwump of helicopters in the distance grew louder, and then they were above us in formation, six of them. They hovered for a moment then one lone copter pulled out of the formation and took off, followed by the other five. In the silence that followed, bagpipes could be heard in the far-off distance.

  Then two officers walked over to the coffin and slowly removed the flag. They folded it with grace and precision. And when they were through, Dale walked the flag over to Mark’s mother and presented it to her, speaking low, offering her his condolences. Then he bent low and kissed her cheek.

  Then we watched them lower Mark into the ground.

  ††††

  I wandered around aimlessly, until I finally retuned to my home, the one Mark had admired so much. I took out two glasses and the good scotch, and went out onto the front porch. The sun was low, casting a yellow glow on the Linnie Canal. I poured two shots for me, then dropped two ice cubes into the glass. I poured Mark’s neat. I tapped my heavy crystal glass against his.

  Cheers, pal.

  THIRTY TWO

  The Buick turned left down Mott Street and the father double-parked. He came around and opened the door for the boy, and they walked down the street together. He walked slowly because every other person stopped him and shook his hand, or hugged him. Some spoke to him in Italian, and he answered in Italian. He introduced his son proudly to all who spoke to him. Many ruffled his hair or pinched his cheeks. They finally came to the doorway of Basta Deli and stepped inside. He ordered the items on his list, and as the man was wrapping everything up a lady came fro
m behind the counter.

  Eh, Giovanni! Che fronte! She pinched his cheeks and handed him three sesame cookies shaped like an “S”. He will be you one day, Vincenzo, she said to the man. He will be you one day.

  They exited the deli, hand in hand, and the boy looked up at his father as the life-blood of Bensonhurst shone in his eyes.

  Vincent Testarossa, his father, was larger than life. He was the prince of the city

  I stood at the end of Venice pier. The sun was setting. I was alone, on a night when the pier was usually crowded with old men and grandsons fishing.

  I stood along another waterfront, in another life, pole in hand, hoping to get a bite of something, anything, just for the thrill of the catch. I listened while my grandfather spoke of the old days in Napoli with the old men who played chess on the waterfront. They spoke in Italian, and one man interjected Sicilian every now and then, which my grandfather understood, but no one else seemed to. I was in the turmoil of my teens then, when grandfathers did not hold as much importance as they once did. He was a father without a son. I, a son without a father—the only son of an only son of an only son. A legacy of father-son bonds had been irrevocably broken that cold day in January, almost four years prior. My grandfather searched for answers in my eyes, and at other times, I found them in his.

  After the old men had told their tales for the hundredth time, they said their goodbyes, and then my grandfather joined me at the railing. The East River was cleaner back then, but you still tossed back whatever you hooked. It was wise.

  See that lady over there? he said, pointing across the river to the Lady herself. She was my first love. I loved her the moment I saw her, and I love her still. He paused for a moment and draped his bony arm around my shoulder. The boat I was on, the boat that carried me all the way from Napoli, Johnny . . . it passed her by like she wasn’t even there, but I saw her. She smiled at me as we passed, and I knew I would be fine here, in this city. I was alone, nipote. Fourteen—your age—alone in a new city, in a new country, and they gave me my name, a new name. He turned to me then, his eyes full. This name is a name you should be proud to wear, Johnny. Your father was proud. No-a capelli rossi, voi capisce, he laughed, grabbing a handful of my red hair. Then he took both my hands in his. This city that I love so much took my son from me. I see the revenge behind your eyes, figlio mio. Do not give them another one. Let God judge the hand that takes away. Promise me, Johnny. Promessa, por favore.