Justice at Risk (14 page)

“And television is just about all that matters these days, isn’t it?” Our eyes met very directly. “It’s kind of like that piece of videotape Tommy Callahan stole. lf it’s never found, never shown to the public, what happened that night fifteen years ago is pretty much a dead issue. So far, I’ve heard nothing from the police to indicate it’s turned up, or even exists.”

I noticed the muscles of her graceful neck and jawline tense.

“You’ve been in touch with the police?”

“Melissa Zeigler and I had a chat with Sergeant Montego.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Mostly, I asked questions. When I brought up the issue of the stolen videotape, he told me Jacob Kosterman denied any knowledge of it. My guess is that whoever did a search and destroy through Callahan’s motel room has it in his possession.”

She smiled, but the lines below her mouth remained taut.

“Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Of course.”

“Only what I heard from Miss Zeigler the other day when she was here. Frankly, she seemed a bit unhinged. I’m not sure how much faith we can place in her account of things.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Cecile.”

“I’d hate to see you get sidetracked with Miss Zeigler’s problems when you have a script to finish. Which brings us back to the point of our meeting.” She swiveled in her chair and picked up a three-quarter inch-videocassette from her credenza. “We’ve finished cutting the fund-raising video, and I wanted to show you the off-line version, to give you a sense of how a video is put together, pictures and words. When it’s ready, you can see the on-line edit, with the final technical touches in place.”

I settled back into my chair.

“You seem to have lots of time for me today.”

“With the piece finished, things have loosened up a bit, thank goodness.”

She slipped the cassette into a tape deck at one end of her credenza, next to the framed photograph of Tiger Palumbo, hit the appropriate buttons, and rose to draw the curtains across the window. By the time she was seated again, tugging her skirt down over her knees, the video was beginning. It opened with an establishing shot of the building we were in now, cut to a close-up of the New Image Productions sign and logo, then dissolved to footage of the lobby, where Harold, the receptionist, sat behind his desk trying to look busy. The camera slowly panned the posters and awards decorating the walls, while Chang was heard in voice-over, telling viewers succinctly about the purpose, vision, and accomplishments of her company. She invited viewers to join her on a journey through “a day in the life of a documentary production company,” and another dissolve took us to the research department, where Chang was seen walking past her workers, busy at their desks, with the background clock at ten fifteen. It was the same footage I’d glimpsed Tuesday morning in the editing bay upstairs, before Chang closed the door in my face. She hit the pause button, freezing the video, as the camera captured her in full face.

“Do you think I overdressed for the taping, Ben? I’m always so critical of myself, once I see what the camera saw.”

“The suit’s tasteful, Cecile, but conservative. The scarf adds a nice touch of color. It looks fine to me.”

She glanced at me, then back to the monitor.

“I was thinking more about the jewelry. The jade and gold bracelet and the matching earrings. I hope they’re not too much.”

I studied the pair of earrings, then Chang herself, who waited for my response with her chin raised.

“You’re a lovely woman, Cecile, you certainly don’t need any help in that department. But I think the jewelry works fine. Especially the earrings, with your hair pulled back like that.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Ben—Tiger plies me with it all the time.” We both smiled. “Shall I go on?”

“By all means.”

She hit the pause button again, and the presentation continued. A number of fades and dissolves took Chang from the research department into the production offices, upstairs into the business and administrative areas, then on a tour of the video library and editing bays, all the while speaking on-camera about the commitment of New Image to quality production and state-of-the-art equipment. There was a cutaway shot from the rooftop of the sun setting over the San Fernando Valley, then an interior of various employees leaving the building, bidding the camera good night. Finally, Chang was seen alone, back in the empty research room, wrapping up the presentation as she faced the camera directly, before the fade to black. Behind her, the hands of the wall clock indicated eight forty-five; someone had left a television set on as well, tuned to an evening segment of the CNN news.

She hit the stop button, rewound the tape to her final moment, and froze on it.

“You’re sure the jewelry isn’t too much? I may be a lipstick lesbian, but I don’t want to come off as too showy.”

Again, I studied the two earrings. They were both there, right where they’d been earlier in the day, though something else about the picture wasn’t right. Something my untrained eye was missing.

“Honestly, Cecile, you’re worrying over nothing. It’s fine. All of it.”

She smiled modestly, and left the image on the screen.

“You can see, Ben, how much you can say with very few words. Let the images tell as much of the story as possible. As they say, it’s always better to show than to tell.”

We were standing, then walking to the door.

“As soon as we finish on-lining tonight, I’ll have the editor make a dub. We’ll get a copy to you over the weekend so you can see exactly what we accomplish in the on-line process.”

“It’s already been very instructive, Cecile.”

“I’d hoped it would be. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

I stepped out, and the door was closed behind me. I was nearly to the end of the hall when I heard Denise’s voice. I turned to see her closing the gap between us in her wheelchair.

“There was a message for you, Mr. Justice.” She handed me a pink slip of paper. “Jacob Kosterman called, from the Documentary Channel. He was hoping you could meet him for lunch, if it’s not too inconvenient.”

I smiled as I studied the message.

“I think I can find the time for Mr. Kosterman.”

Jacob Kosterman had business in the Valley after lunch, or so he said, and suggested that we meet at Teru Sushi, a popular sushi bar where the theatrical preparation of the food was nearly as good as the menu of raw fish and seaweed-wrapped rice rolls. The restaurant also happened to be close to New Image Productions, almost across the street, which suggested that Kosterman was suddenly bending over backward to be accommodating.

He was sitting at a table in the back when I walked in, pretending to study a menu while I studied a good-looking chef behind the counter as he carved up fresh ahi with flashing knives of razor-sharp steel. Kosterman stood as I approached, and I was surprised by how diminutive he was; his cover photo on
Broadcast Monthly
had caused me to expect a man of considerably more height and heft.

“Mr. Justice.”

He extended a small, well-manicured hand, which I shook.

With a sweep of the same hand, he indicated the other chair.

“Please.”

I sat.

“You enjoy sushi?”

“When I’m not paying for it.”

He smiled broadly.

“Then enjoy, Mr. Justice. Order whatever you wish.”

For all his charm and civility, as well as his surprisingly small stature, he was still an imposing man, with a surplus of what’s frequently called charisma, which I’ve never trusted. His luxuriant gray mustache, shaped and waxed into curling handlebars, gave him a distinguished if slightly comical look, as did the smooth dome of his head. He wore no tie, but his open-collared shirt looked to be cut from good silk, his dark blazer and gray slacks were probably tailor-made and fit his slender frame nicely. His jewelry was all gold: the wedding band, the fine-mesh neck chain, the single stud in his left ear that had replaced the gold ring I’d seen in the
Broadcast Monthly
cover photo.

“Why are we here, Mr. Kosterman?”

“You’re not one to waste time, are you?”

“Like you, I’m a busy man, seeking after the truth.” I smiled as pleasantly as the situation allowed. “Just not as rich, or as powerful.”

“I’ve worked hard for what I have.”

“I’m sure you have. You still haven’t told me why we’re here.”

He looked up as a waiter arrived.

“Why don’t we put our order in? Teru Sushi gets awfully busy at lunch, and always on Fridays.”

He ordered a mixed platter of sushi and sashimi that included raw mackerel, tuna, and eel, and a small bottle of saki. I asked the waiter to bring me the same, but with hot tea in place of the warm wine.

When he was gone, I tried to kick-start the conversation again.

“I assume you’ve been in touch with Sergeant Montego, that he’s filled you in on the background of the Callahan and Mittelman murders.”

“He’s spoken to me, of course. As part of his investigation. Terrible, what’s happened.”

“Has he spoken to you today?”

Kosterman hesitated.

“As a matter of fact, he has.”

“So you know what I know, and you’ve decided maybe you’d better talk to me after all.”

“First, Justice, let me apologize for the way you were treated the other afternoon when you dropped by my corporate headquarters. My security people are instructed to screen out anyone who doesn’t have an appointment. When you work in the documentary field as I do, you sometimes make an enemy or two along the way. When it comes to security, we prefer the preventive approach.”

“You’ve been producing
On Patrol
for fifteen years. I imagine some of those arrested aren’t too happy about having their faces shown on national television.”

“They all sign releases giving us their approval. Otherwise, we digitize their faces with a video grid to protect their privacy.”

“You could have done that with Winston Tsao-Ping, couldn’t you? Masked his face but still used the footage? To protect his privacy. Or maybe what the cops were doing that night wasn’t kosher.”

The waiter placed a small tray between us. On the tray was a tiny cup without a handle, and a slim pot of saki. When the waiter was gone, Kosterman filled the cup.

“Winston Tsao-Ping?”

“The transvestite who was beaten up fifteen years ago by two members of the LAPD. A beating caught on tape by your cameraman, Byron Mittelman. I’m sure it’s come up in your discussions with Sergeant Montego.”

Kosterman sipped the cup dry, then held it poised in his slender fingers.

“Ah yes, Mr. Tsao-Ping. I remember the name now.”

“That must have been very revealing footage, Mr. Kosterman. Cinema verité at its finest, exposing a social wrong. What every true documentarian must dream of.”

“I said I remembered the name of Mr. Tsao-Ping because Sergeant Montego brought it up. I didn’t say that any such tape exists, or ever did.”

“If we’re going to play games, Kosterman, I’ve got better things to do.”

Kosterman filled the cup again, but set it aside.

“You’re gay, aren’t you, Justice? At least according to what I read in
Gentleman’s Quarterly
.”

“It’s on the newsstands?”

“Just out. You haven’t read it yourself?”

“I’m afraid not. To answer your question, yes, my romantic inclinations tend to be homosexual.”

“Then I’ll assume you’ve never been married, with the responsibility of housing, feeding, clothing, caring for, and educating children.”

“I’ve never been blessed with children, no.”

“Fifteen years ago, the first year that
On Patrol
went on the air, I had four children. All bright and headed eventually for college. We were living in a comfortable but modest four-bedroom house here in the Valley, and I could barely keep up with the payments. Then, thank God, I got
On Patrol
on the UBN schedule.”

“You suddenly saw light at the end of the financial tunnel.”

“I had a chance at the American dream, Justice. The American dream of creating an enterprise with my own wits, my own sweat, my own hands, and making a better life for my family. Does that mean anything to a gay man, Mr. Justice?”

“No, all we think about is getting high and trading blow jobs.”

He fanned out his small, soft hands.

“Forgive me. My question was unfair and insensitive. I’m just trying to make the point that having those kinds of responsibilities changes one’s priorities.”

“Which includes burying evidence that two police officers beat the crap out of an innocent man?”

“That’s awfully blunt.”

“I get irritable when I haven’t eaten.”

He looked up, smiling as the waiter approached.

“Thankfully, we’re about to remedy that.”

The waiter slipped in, served our platters, and disappeared as quietly as he’d come. We ate for a minute or two, blending hot green mustard and fresh ginger with our raw fish and rice, before Kosterman spoke again.

“In fact, Justice, Winston Tsao-Ping resisted arrest. He became absolutely hysterical with those two officers. Yes, it was all on the tape. And if you ever quote me to that effect, I’ll deny it and call you a damn liar. I don’t have to point out that, given your reputation, I already have a considerable edge in the credibility department.”

“If he was resisting arrest, and the actions of the two cops were justified, then why not air the tape?”

“The actions of the officers might have been misconstrued. The gay activists would have been up in arms. The department asked us to delete that particular piece of footage from the show, avoid a brouhaha.”

“What was Winston Tsao-Ping being arrested for, Mr. Kosterman?”

He looked at me oddly, and poured himself more saki.

“I’m not sure. It’s been such a long time. Loitering, I suppose. Prostitution. I don’t really remember.”

“There was never any mention made in any report I could find of criminal activity on Tsao-Ping’s part. He was walking alone down an alley wearing women’s clothes. For that, he was beaten half to death. And you helped cover it up.”

I added a tiny chunk of the green mustard to a roll of tuna and rice wrapped in seaweed, and popped the whole thing into my mouth, savoring the burst of salt and fire as I chewed. Kosterman stared at his plate a long moment before looking up.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, Justice.”

“How refreshing.”

He placed his elbows on the table and pressed his hands into a teepee under his chin.

“If I had gone after those two cops with that videotape, turned it over to the district attorney, helped prosecute them,
On Patrol
would have been finished before its first season ended. The access I needed to other police departments would have evaporated, and with it, everything I’d worked for. I’d financed the pilot out of my own pocket, and covered most of the production costs for the first thirteen episodes. What we producers call deficit financing. To lose the show at that point would have ruined me financially.”

“So you ignored the beating incident and kept on shooting.”

“Not with the LAPD. I realized by then that it wasn’t a department I wanted to ride along with. Too much of the footage we got was full of racial slurs, sexual harassment of females, antigay behavior, borderline brutality—an attitude of arrogance and machismo that was endemic, fostered from the top down. It made most of what we shot totally unusable, and continuing to shoot with the LAPD would have been cost prohibitive.

“I realized that I had to seek out police departments that were pro-active, and individual officers who treated suspects and the human race in general with respect, or we’d never have enough footage to keep our show on the air. Except for the county, which comes under the sheriff’s department, I didn’t ride along in Los Angeles again until 1995, after Daryl Gates was out as chief and the atmosphere began to change.”

“So you’ve justified in your own mind what you did with that footage.”

“What I did allowed me to continue producing
On Patrol
. The financial windfall from syndicating
On Patrol
financed the Documentary Channel, which broadcasts more fact-based programming than the three major networks combined.”

“I’ve looked at your listings, Kosterman, seen some of the shows. The programming on the Documentary Channel is safe, mainstream, strictly establishment. There’s nothing probing or provocative, nothing that remotely reflects the spirit of independence that put you behind a camera to begin with.”

“The 1960s are a long way behind us, Justice. One can’t hold on to the past. It’s unrealistic and unproductive. We were young, idealistic, filled with passion. But just as often, we were naïve, misguided, and foolish.”

He speared a California roll with his chopsticks, then a slice of fresh ginger and transferred them together into his mouth. I could see several smooth gold fillings lining each side of his jaw.

“Tell me, Kosterman, do the murders of Tommy Callahan and Byron Mittelman even bother you in the slightest?”

His eyes lost their cordial spark, and leveled on me as he chewed.

“I won’t dignify that question with a reply.”

“I’ll try another one then. How well do you know Taylor Fairchild?”

He cleared his throat with more saki before he spoke.

“Our families knew each other when we were growing up. I’m a few years older than Taylor, but we were still fairly close. We were in Scouts together, collected stamps, that kind of thing. Then, in the sixties, our politics and paths diverged. We renewed our friendship during the first year of
On Patrol
, back in the mid-eighties. He’s served as our technical advisor for the last few years.”

“A minute ago, you were telling me you wanted nothing to do with the LAPD.”

“As I said, the department changed.”

“Has Taylor Fairchild changed?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question.”

“He was one of Gates’s fair-haired boys, wasn’t he?”

“Whether you choose to believe it or not, Justice, Taylor Fairchild is a fair and decent man, and he’d make a damned good chief. He’s had a few problems along the way, had to work through some issues, but that’s true of most of us, isn’t it?”

“What kind of issues?”

“It’s not widely known, because Taylor doesn’t like to discuss it, but he lost his father when he was quite young. Fairchild Senior was a captain with the LAPD, on the fast track to the chief’s job when he was killed in the line of duty. He had a law degree, was active in civic affairs. There were some who thought he had the stuff to go all the way to the governor’s mansion, maybe even to the White House.”

“Was his wife, Rose Fairchild, one of them?”

“I’m sure Rose supported him.”

“The way she supports Taylor now?”

“Naturally, she wants the best for her son. Wants to see him do well.”

“But first he had some issues to work through. I believe that was the way you put it.”

“Taylor was twelve when Captain Fairchild was killed, a terrible time for a boy to lose his father. Especially one he worshiped, as Taylor did. He dedicated himself to following in his father’s footsteps, being a firm cop like his old man. Maybe he went too far—he went through a period after the academy when he was trying a little too hard to be one of the boys and prove himself as a man. But he got through that, and he’s developed into a solid, levelheaded leader. He’s also a good family man and a sincere Christian. That’s the Taylor Fairchild I know.”