Free Fall (9 page)

I went past them to the officer writing in the little black notebook and said, “Elvis Cole to see Sergeant Malone.”

“He expecting you?”

“Yes.”

“Have a seat.”

She left the counter and went back through a door into the bowels of the station house. There was another door on the customer side of the counter. It was heavy and dense and if no one buzzed you through it’d probably take a rocket launcher to get past it. I sat opposite the door and waited. In a couple of minutes the female officer reappeared behind the counter and said, “He’s finishing up a couple of things. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Sure.”

I waited some more.

A well-dressed black woman came in and asked the people behind the counter if Officer Hobbs was in. The same officer who had gone to see Malone said something into a phone, and a couple of minutes later a tall muscular black officer came through the heavy door. He smiled when he saw the woman and she smiled when she saw him. He offered his hand and she took it and they went out through the glass door to hold hands in the privacy of the sidewalk. Love at the station house. Two Pakistani men came in past the lovers. One of them was maybe in his fifties and the other was maybe in his forties. The older one looked nervous and the younger one wore a loud pink shirt and leather sandals. The younger one went to the counter and said, “We would like to speak with the chief of police.” He said it so loud the Hispanic man stopped rocking. The two desk officers
glanced at each other and smiled. The desk officer on the phone kept talking like it was nothing. Guess you work the desk at Hollywood, nothing surprises you. The male desk officer leaned back on his stool and looked through the doorway behind the counter and yelled, “We got a citizen out here wants to see the chief.” A uniformed lieutenant with silver hair came out and stared at the Pakistanis, then frowned at the desk officer. “Knock off the shit and take care of these people.”

The younger Pakistani said, “Are you the chief?”

The lieutenant said, “The chief’s busy with the city council. How can I help you?”

Just as he said it the heavy door opened and a hard-shouldered uniformed sergeant looked out at me. “You Cole?”

“Yeah.” He had sandy hair and thick, blocky hands and a deep tan because most of his time would be spent on the street. He wore a little red and green and gold Vietnam service ribbon beneath the badge on his left breast and a marksmanship pin beside the ribbon.

“Andy Malone,” he said. “We can talk back here.” He put out his hand and I stood and took it, and then I followed him through the door.

We went down a long hall past three candy machines and a soft-drink machine and a couple of rest rooms for people who weren’t cops to use. At the far end of the hall there was a booking desk where a couple of cops were processing a tall skinny black kid. The kid’s hands were cuffed. One of the cops was white and the other was black, and they both were thick across the chest and back and arms, like they spent a lot of time in the gym. Guess you work in a war zone, you want to be as threatening as possible. The white cop was trying to unlock the cuffs and the black cop was shaking his finger about two inches from the kid’s nose, saying, “Are you listening to me?” The kid was giving with
attitude and you knew he wasn’t listening and wasn’t going to. Your bad guys are often like that.

There were a couple of varnished wood benches in the hall opposite a door that said
SERGEANT’S OFFICE
. We went into the office and Malone closed the door. “You want coffee?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Malone filled a couple of paper cups, handed one to me, then went behind a cluttered desk and sat. He didn’t offer cream or sugar. Maybe they didn’t have any.

I sat across from him in a hard chair, and we looked at each other and sipped our coffee. He said, “My buddy Lou Poitras says you want to know about Charles Lewis Washington.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re a private investigator.”

“That’s it.” The coffee was hot and bitter and had probably been made early this morning.

“Make any money at it?”

“No one’s getting rich.”

He took more of the coffee and made a little smile. “The wife’s been after me to leave the force since the riots. All this time, she’s still after me.” He made a shrugging move with his head, then set the cup on his desk. “So tell me why you’re digging around Charles Lewis.”

“His name came up in something I’m working on and I want to run it down.”

Malone nodded and had more of his coffee. He didn’t seem to mind the taste, but then, he was used to it. “How do you know Poitras?”

“Met on the job. Got to know each other.”

He nodded again and leaned back. When he did, the old swivel squealed. “Lou says you pulled time in Vietnam.”

“Yep.”

He put down his coffee and crossed his arms. “I was there in sixty-eight.”

“Seventy-one.”

The chair squealed again. The nod. “People think the Nam they think the sixties. Lot of people forget we still had guys there till March twenty-nine, 1973.”

“Lot of people don’t care.”

He made a little smile. “Yeah. We kicked ass in Saudi. That sort of makes up for things.”

“Don’t forget Panama and Grenada.”

The smile got wider. “Kick enough ass, and pretty soon you forget the losers. Who wants to remember losers when you got so many winners running around?”

I said, “Hell, Malone, we’re not that damned old, are we?”

Malone laughed, uncrossed his arms, and said, “What do you want to know about Washington?”

I told him.

Malone went to a battered gray cabinet, took out a manila folder, and brought it back to the desk. He skimmed through it for a couple of minutes, then he closed it. He didn’t offer to let me see. “Washington worked in a pawnshop over on Broadway, down in South Central. We had information that the shop was being used as a fence drop for some of the guns looted during the riots, so REACT put eyes on the place, then went in with a sting.”

“And it went bad.”

“That’s a way to say it. Washington thinks he’s making a buy on ten thousand rounds of stolen ammo, the officers think it’s under control, but when they flash the badges he goes a little nuts and decides to resist. Washington dives behind a counter, and comes up with a piece, but our guys are thinking Rodney King, so they don’t shoot him. There’s a scuffle and Washington hits his head and that’s it.”

“I hear it was controversial.”

“They’re all controversial. This one less than most.”

“What do you have on Washington?”

Malone checked the report again. “Twenty-eight. A longtime Double-Seven Hoover Crip with multiple priors.”

“He there alone in the store?”

“Sure. The family went nuts. We had the pickets, the wrongful-death suit, all of that, but they backed off.”

“Did the city settle?”

“Nope. They dropped it. Hell, Cole, it was a righteous shooting. Even the goddamned TV people said so, and you know how those bastards are. Conflict is news, and they’ll do anything to encourage conflict.”

“Can I read the report?”

Malone stared at me for a while and you could tell he didn’t like it, then he shrugged and shoved it across the desk at me. “Here in my presence. I can’t let you copy it and I can’t let you take it.”

“Sure.”

I read the report. It told me what Malone had told me, only with more words. Lieutenant Eric Dees, the REACT team leader, had written the report. Garcia and Pinkworth and Riggens had gone in to front the sale, and Thurman and Dees were the outside men. When it was clear that the transaction would be consummated, Garcia identified himself as a police officer, told Washington that he was being placed under arrest, and Dees and Thurman entered the premises. As the cuffs were being applied, Washington broke free from Pinkworth and Riggens and lunged for a weapon. The officers attempted to subdue the suspect without the use of deadly force, and Pinkworth and Riggens received substantial injuries. Washington was struck repeatedly by all officers involved, but refused to succumb, and died when team leader Eric Dees tackled him, causing
his head to strike the corner of a metal display case. Dees assumed full responsibility. There were copies of the IAD investigation report and a letter of final disposition of the case. The letter of disposition released the officers involved from any wrongdoing. Copies of the death report, the coroner’s findings, and Charles Lewis Washington’s arrest record were appended to the finding.

“What about Riggens?”

“What can I say? Riggens has his problems, but you read the report. It was a team effort.”

I said, “Does it seem odd to you that five officers couldn’t apprehend this guy without letting him kill himself?”

“Hell, Cole, you know what it’s like out there. Shit happens. This kid was a felon gangbanger and he picked the wrong time to pull a gun. Our guys tried to do the right thing, but it went wrong. That’s all there is to it. Nobody wants another Rodney King.”

I nodded. “Mind if I copy down Washington’s address?”

“No problem.”

“Any idea why they dropped the suit?”

Malone shrugged. “People down there are tired. I spent four years in South Central. God knows I can tell you
we
are.” He made the shrug again. “Nobody ever drops a wrongful death against LAPD. Too many shysters are willing to take the case on a contingency, and the city council’s always ready to settle out, but who can tell.”

“Yeah. Who can tell. Thanks, Malone. I appreciate it.”

I handed back the file and went to the door. He said, “Cole.”

“Yeah?”

“I know the kind of press South Central gets, but
the people down there, most of the people down there are good people. That’s why I stayed the four years.”

“Most folks everywhere are good people.”

He nodded. “I don’t know what you’re doing, or where you’re going, but watch yourself around the gangs. LAPD owns the streets, but the gangs keep trying to take’m away. You understand?”

“More than I want.”

I showed myself out, picked up my car, and took the long drive down to South Central Los Angeles.

Home of the body bag.

I
dropped down through West Hollywood and the southwest corner of Beverly Hills through La Cienega Park to the I-10 freeway, then picked up the 10 east to the Harbor, then went south on the Harbor past USC and Exposition Park, and into South Central.

Even on the freeway, the world begins to change. The cinderblock sound walls and ramp signs show more graffiti, and, if you know how to read it, you can tell that it isn’t just young Hispanic taggers out to get famous all over town, it’s gangbangers marking turf and making challenges and telling you who they’ve killed and who they’re going to kill. Just the thing you want to see when you’re looking for an exit ramp.

I left the freeway at Florence, looped under to Hoover, then turned south to Eighty-second Street. Broadway and Florence show liquor stores and neighborhood groceries and gas stations and other businesses, but Hoover and the cross streets are residential. Up by the businesses you get out-of-work men hanging around and a lot of graffiti and it looks sort of crummy, but the residential streets will surprise you. Most of the houses are stucco or clapboard bungalows, freshly painted and
well maintained, with front yards as neat and pretty as anything you’d find anywhere.

Elderly people sat on porches or worked in yards trimming roses and, here and there, small children played on tricycles. Satellite dishes sprouted from poles like black aluminum mums and clean American cars sat in the drives. There were a lot of the dishes, and they looked identical, as if a satellite-dish salesman had gone door-to-door and found many takers.

There was no graffiti on the houses and there was no litter in the streets or the yards, but every house had heavy metal bars over windows and door fronts and sometimes the bars encircled a porch. That’s how you knew there was a war on. If there wasn’t a war, you wouldn’t need the protection.

According to the police report, Charles Lewis Washington had lived with his mother in a rose-colored bungalow on Eighty-second Street, just west of Hoover. His mother, Ida Leigh Washington, still lived there. It was a nice-looking place, with a satellite dish on a tower in their backyard and a well-kept Buick LeSabre in the drive. An open-air front porch was boxed in by a redwood trellis and bright yellow vine roses. The vine roses were healthy and vibrant.

I parked at the curb in front of their home, went up the narrow walk, and onto the porch. The roses threw off a heavy scent and smelled wonderful. The front door opened before I got there, and a slender young black man looked out at me. I could hear music, but it was coming from another house, not this one. He said, “May I help you?”

I gave him the card. “My name is Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator, and I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Ida Leigh Washington.” He was wearing a plain white crewneck tee shirt and blue Navy work pants and white sneakers and an imitation gold watchband. The
band was bright against his dark skin. He read the card and then he looked back at me.

“About what?”

“Charles Lewis Washington.”

“Lewis is dead.”

“I know. That’s what I want to talk about.”

He stared at me a couple of seconds longer, like he had to make up his mind, but like he was making it up about things that had nothing to do with me. After a little of that, he stepped back out of the door and held the screen. “All right. Please come in.”

I went past him into a small, neat living room. An old man maybe three hundred years old and a young woman who couldn’t have been more than sixteen were watching TV. The girl was sitting on a burgundy velveteen couch and the old man in a hardwood rocker. He was holding a can of Scrapple. They both looked at me with a sort of curious surprise. The white man comes to call. A little boy maybe three years old pulled at the girl’s legs and she picked him up. Crocheted doilies were spread on the arms of the couch and the headrest, but you could make out the worn spots through the gaps in the doilies. The girl didn’t look a whole hell of a lot older than the baby, but there you go. Toys appropriate to a three-year-old were scattered about the floor. I smiled at them. “Hi.”