Southland (35 page)
* * *
1994
When Paxton had finished, the room was silent. Jackie couldn’t bring herself to look at Lanier. And Lanier, for his part, could not move or speak. Then Paxton started talking again. “It was only my second year out of the Academy, and I was scared to death of Bob. He was so angry all the time, he took everything so personally, and no one saw it except for me and the people he beat. There were some complaints against him, but, well, that only made our bosses like him better.” He picked a glass up and set it down again. “I didn’t stop him. I thought he was just scaring them, pulling a stupid stunt. And when I found out they were dead, I couldn’t do anything. Bob never mentioned it again—it was like it never happened. I should have reported it, I know, but I just couldn’t. I was scared of him, and I didn’t want to rat on him, and I was just a damned coward. The only thing I could do was leave the job, and that’s exactly what I did.”
“And escaped to the north,” said Jackie.
“And escaped to the north.”
Lanier, throughout this, had not said a word, and when Jackie glanced over at him, he looked like he was going to be sick. Now, he stood abruptly, and said, “Thank you, Officer Paxton.” Then he headed toward the door without looking back.
Jackie thanked Paxton, who didn’t seem to notice they were leaving, and followed Lanier out to the car. For the entire drive back up to San Francisco, neither of them said anything. Jackie stared at the lights and felt as if her heart had been removed. Lanier didn’t know whether to cry or scream or drive his car into the bay. All those years he thought he knew who’d been responsible for killing his cousin. And while he’d realized that something was wrong about Thomas, he couldn’t fathom that this man—that any black man—would commit such an act against children. He felt his knowledge of the world had been wrong and naïve; he felt impotent, enraged, and betrayed. The murders were even worse, somehow, because Thomas had committed them. It was as if Curtis had died all over again. He parked the car in the motel lot and they both stared straight ahead. Then, finally, his voice:
“I can’t believe this shit. I can’t…”
And he felt the world heave up from under him and toss him like a toy, and he put his head in his arms to try and stop the motion. The sobs came then—jagged, uncontrollable. Twenty-nine years worth of grief. Jackie sat beside him, not sure of what to do. But then she reached across the seat and touched Lanier’s neck. He had his hands over his face, and she watched the huge shoulders heave and shake. She reached across with both hands now, unbuckling her seatbelt, then his, and pulled him gently toward her. She brought his head to her chest and stroked it, touching the shockingly warm skin of his cheek, his thick, curled hair. She felt his breath against her skin and the heavy strength of him; he smelled of aftershave and something deeply male. He cried for what seemed like forever and they clung to each other, spinning, holding on as if for their lives. Finally, his sobs died down and he pressed his cheek against her. She felt his soft lips on her collarbone, on her shoulders, on her neck, and then his face was right in front of hers, his great head between her hands. They kissed, softly at first and then harder, hands grasping and caressing, trying desperately to leave themselves behind. She felt the hard, shifting muscles of his shoulders and back. She touched the rough scar on his face, and he felt her body rise against him. But then they opened their eyes and looked at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Lanier said, voice raw with emotion. He pulled away, back into his seat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
Something was wrong here, they both knew it, but it wasn’t simply that Lanier was a man; that Jackie desired women. She knew that she’d never be in this situation, feel so open and connected, with any man but Lanier, but it was also the fact that it
was
Lanier that kept it from going further. And he knew he
didn’t
want this as much as he did. Not because of the limits and idiosyncrasies of desire, but because, they both realized, with a clarity that shocked them, they were, at least in some sense, family.
“Listen,” he said. “I lost control of myself. I’m just upset, and I—”
“Stop,” Jackie cut him off. “I was here, too.”
They sat there for a moment, silently noting the steamed-up windows, and then they got out of the car and walked to their rooms. At their separate doorways, awkwardly, they said goodnight. Jackie sat down on her bed and stared at the wall, too tired to miss the dinner she now remembered she hadn’t eaten, too spent even to turn on the television. She felt the injustice of not desiring the person she connected with, and loved. Then there was a knock on the door. When she opened it, Lanier was standing there, looking as miserable as she.
“I won’t touch you,” he said.
“I know.”
He stepped inside, she shut the door behind him, and they lay down on the bed. She pulled the covers up and put her arms around him, and they drifted off to sleep.
W
HAT HAUNTED Jimmy the most later was not his cousin’s death itself, but what happened a few hours before it. It was early on Saturday morning, the fourth day of the uprising, and the action was still a few miles away— although they could see dark smoke in the sky to the southeast and faintly hear the relentless sirens. Jimmy was over at the Martindales’ house, playing with Curtis and Cory. The springer spaniel from next door was outside with them and the boys took turns throwing a baseball, for the pleasure of watching the young dog fly, her ears riding the air like wings. But Curtis’s demeanor was serious, without its usual ease or delight. He knew that while the fires were mostly in Watts, people had started to loot all over; he knew their neighborhood might be swept along with the tide. For the younger boys, though, the air of disorder, the smashing down of rules, was more thrilling than genuinely frightening. Curtis stayed very alert, lifting his nose every few minutes to read what he could from the winds. He tried to take the ball from the dog’s mouth, but she shook her head no and growled playfully. He finally managed to get it back from her and then launched it down the street, and Jimmy was amazed, as always, at the power in his cousin’s thin body. The younger boys’ throws were shorter, but the dog didn’t care; she kept barking at them and jumping up, oblivious to the watchful atmosphere.
It was a little before ten when Curtis handed the baseball over to his brother. “I’m going to the store now,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you all tonight.”
Jimmy, who was sorry to see him go, ran to keep up with him as he headed down the street. Behind them, Cory continued to play with the dog. “Tonight?” Jimmy said. “That’s a long way away. We’ll just come down to the store after lunch.”
Curtis kept walking, not looking at him. “I don’t want to see you in there today. Go on home now. And stay off the street.”
Jimmy moved faster, three strides to each one of his cousin’s. He felt panic rise and spread in his chest. “You don’t want to see us? Why you don’t want to see us?”
“I do,” Curtis replied. “Just at your house, or my house. I don’t know what’s going to happen today, so you all should just go home and sit tight.”
Jimmy didn’t hear the sense in this, only the rejection, and now he burst into hot, bitter tears. “I’ll do whatever I
want
to. You big scared pussy.”
Curtis turned to him, and although his voice was stern, his face looked more tired than angry. “Don’t you talk to me like that, Jimmy. ’Else I’m not gonna come see you at all.”
“I can talk like I
want
to.
You
ain’t my daddy. And I don’t wanna see you, anyway.” He stopped and crossed his arms.
“All right, then. Suit yourself.” Curtis resumed walking, ignoring him, and Jimmy couldn’t stand the sight of his older cousin’s narrow back moving away, or the voice of his younger cousin, which was calling from behind, telling him not to be such a baby.
“You big pussy!” Jimmy yelled again. “I hate you!”
Cory wanted to keep on playing after Curtis disappeared, but Jimmy wasn’t in the mood anymore; he sniffled a couple of times and walked back home. There, to his surprise, he found his aunt Florence, who’d come over with his other cousin, Daphne. They were sitting in the living room, in front of the TV, his sister running back and forth in excitement.
“Mommy can’t get home! Mommy can’t get home!” she announced. And Florence then told him the rest—her employers would not let her leave their house until they knew that the riot had ended.
They stayed in the living room all day, watching the images of burning and shooting on TV, faintly hearing the commotion on the boulevard. Florence fed all the children snacks every couple of hours, cooked catfish and rice for dinner. Jimmy’s mother called a few times, apologetic, worried; she told Jimmy and Alice she’d get home just as soon as she could. And Jimmy—bored with the television, uninterested in his toys—kept wondering what his cousins were up to. He was still furious at Curtis, and glad he’d cursed him out; he wouldn’t speak to him, he decided, for a week. But he had been too hasty in leaving Cory behind—if he was with Cory, he wouldn’t feel so imprisoned now. They might even sneak over to Crenshaw to watch the action.
Jimmy stayed up late—Florence didn’t put them to bed—and he eventually fell asleep on the couch. So he was barely awake when his mother came in at six the next morning and smothered him and his sister in kisses. And he was still half-asleep three hours later when he looked out the window and saw Mr. Sakai mounting the steps. And when Mr. Sakai told him what he’d come there to say, Jimmy wouldn’t believe it at first, thought he was in a bad dream, but the man’s drawn face and tear-stained cheeks convinced him it was true. And Jimmy struck out, crying
No!,
punching and kicking at the news, his fists and feet landing on the man’s body—until Frank, while fending Jimmy off, also somehow gathered him in and held him, until the boy’s anger and regret and denial and grief were finally exhausted.
J
ACKIE AND Lanier were both suspicious by nature, and neither of them wanted to believe what Paxton had told them. He could have been lying, just as he claimed his colleagues had done—he could have been protecting Lawson, or even himself. They came to this, slowly, on their drive back down to L.A., and over the next couple of days at home. On Wednesday night, they met again at Jackie’s apartment, after she remembered that they’d never gotten in touch with Akira Matsumoto. But
she
wasn’t about to make the call to some Tokyo newspaper office, and so she’d had no choice but to bring in Rebecca, who’d been dying to get involved anyway. Lanier wanted to be there when Rebecca called, of course, and Jackie was glad she didn’t have to be alone with him, so she invited them both over for dinner. She hadn’t told Rebecca the rest of what had happened on her trip—the steamed car windows, the night in the hotel—and she wondered if her friend could sense the awkwardness between her and Lanier, the new and strange formality. Jackie made a big pot of pasta and fresh, messy sauce, scattering oregano and basil all over the kitchen. They ate at the table, Rebecca covering the pauses in conversation with funny stories about her victory with Jackie during the moot court trials, and with updates on her work with Legal Aid. And this time, she didn’t seem to be playing for Lanier’s attention at all; her audience was obviously Jackie.
“Hey, where’s Laura?” she asked, as she mopped up her extra sauce with a piece of bread. “You should call her. We could have a little party.”
“At home, I suppose,” Jackie said. “I’m not really sure.” She frowned. Rebecca knew damned well that Laura wasn’t privy to what was happening. And this exclusion was applying to more subjects than just Frank and Lanier. Jackie hadn’t been in any mood to call Laura when she’d returned on Sunday, and on Monday, when she finally did go over to Sierra Bonita, their interchange had been so strained and tense that they both gave up and Jackie walked home. She hadn’t spoken to Laura since. Something serious was afoot and she knew this, but couldn’t bring herself to move one way or another. At any rate, now, she couldn’t look at Lanier. And try as he might to talk of work, to engage with Rebecca, to make suggestions about the call, he didn’t feel comfortable, either. They were both a bit ashamed—they’d opened up too much, let the other too close, and now they were trying desperately to draw the curtains shut, to pull back into themselves.
“Did Jackie tell you about the waitress she met?” Lanier asked Rebecca.
“What?” Rebecca said. “No, she did not.” And she was smiling, but there was an edge to it, which Jackie was too rattled to notice.
“Oh, it was nothing,” Jackie said. “Just a girl who was desperate for someone to flirt with.” She didn’t know why Lanier was doing this—as accusation, or deflection?—and she tried to catch his eye, but he looked away.
Jackie gathered up the dishes and began to wash them off, and Rebecca came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” But Jackie felt shaky, uneven—devastated by what they had heard about Thomas, confused about the strangeness between her and Lanier, twisted and uncertain about what to do in her crumbling relationship with Laura.
Rebecca seemed to sense that something was wrong, and so she took care of everything. She made Jackie and Lanier sit down while she brewed a pot of coffee, and then kept talking so they didn’t have to face each other. Finally, at nine p.m.—one p.m. in Tokyo—she slapped her knees and looked at them. “Let’s do it,” she said. She could hardly contain herself. For the last two days she’d been driving Jackie crazy with stories of her childhood in Tokyo; of the year she spent there between college and law school. “Where’s the number?”
Jackie handed her the sheet of paper she’d been carrying since the bookstore, and Rebecca picked up the receiver. Lanier and Jackie watched silently as she dialed a long string of numbers, and they all waited half a minute. Then Rebecca perked up and took a sharp, quick breath. She spoke in fast, flawless Japanese, which escaped Jackie completely. There was a pause, Rebecca spoke again, and then bowed with the phone in her hand—a move that Jackie had seen her great-grandmother make, and which would have amused her at any other time. Another pause, and then Rebecca spoke in English. “Is this Akira Matsumoto who grew up in L.A.? Hi. You don’t know me, but there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”
She handed the phone to Jackie, who received it with shaking hands. Lanier scrambled into the bedroom to pick up the extension. Jackie introduced herself, quickly informing Matsumoto that she was Frank Sakai’s granddaughter.
“Frank Sakai,” said the man on the other end. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” His voice was deep and cigarette-ragged. Jackie could hear other voices in the background, and she envisioned a crowded and smoke-filled room lined with rows of metal desks. She couldn’t believe how close Matsumoto sounded, as if he was working in an office down the street.
“I’ve heard that you’ve been living in Japan for years,” she said. “When exactly did you move there?”
“The fall of ’65. I didn’t mean to stay so long, but then I got a job and fell in love. You know, the typical story.”
Jackie noted the date he left, and then jumped right in, telling Matsumoto why she was calling. She and Lanier had decided beforehand not to reveal all they’d heard, figuring they could get more out of him this way. So now Jackie told him about Lanier, and related their conversations with Hirano and Conway. “And you’re the one other person we’ve heard of who might have been a witness. So I’m calling to see what you know.”
There was a long silence, and if it hadn’t been for the voices in the background, she might have thought they’d been disconnected.
“Listen,” Matsumoto said finally. “I’m glad you’re doing this, but you’re going the wrong direction. I don’t know who killed David and Curtis, but it sure as hell wasn’t Nick Lawson.”
“How do you know that?” Jackie demanded. “Two people saw him take the boys inside.”
“Well, I was there also—did your witnesses say that? He led
me
into the store, too, and he was roughing us up, and then another set of cops came in—the black ones, the partners—and Lawson and his partner disappeared.”
“You were in the store?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, I
didn’t
know that. So how did you get out of there?”
“I ran for it. The cops turned their backs and I just took off for the door. It wasn’t me they had a problem with, anyway. That older cop had some kind of grudge against Curtis—against black kids in general, I think.”
“So the boys were alive when Lawson left, and you left them with the other two cops?”
“Hey, I didn’t want to. I had no idea what was going to happen; I just thought they would get beat up. And I tried to get the others to run for it with me, but Curtis wouldn’t move.”
“So Nick Lawson didn’t kill them.”
“It must have been the others.”
“And yet it’s Lawson who got shot in revenge.”
Matsumoto laughed, a harsh, flat sound. “He didn’t get shot for what happened in the store. He got shot for years of beating the shit out of people.”
“How do you know?”
“I should know. I did it.”
“What?”
Jackie exclaimed. “
You
shot Nick Lawson?”
“I went looking for the bastard when I got out of the store. My house was a block away, and I went and got my father’s gun and found Lawson up on Crenshaw. I snuck up behind him and gave it to him, but I only hit his leg, and to this day I can’t decide if I’m happy or unhappy that I didn’t kill the racist motherfucker.”
Jackie didn’t know what to say. After a moment she asked, “Did anyone see?”
“Oh, I’m sure they did. His partner didn’t—he was talking to some kids around the corner—but I’m sure that
somebody
did. I was out in the open, not exactly in disguise. Why do you think I came running to Japan?”
“You went to avoid getting caught?”
“Damn straight. Not only that, but my brother was killed during the riots, by a cop in Culver City. I feel real bad for Curtis’s cousin; I know exactly what he went through. That weekend, I lost my brother, David, and Curtis, and a couple of friends from Dorsey. And to top it all off I almost ended up killing a cop. L.A.’s trouble, you know. It’s gotten worse since then. There was really no reason to stay.”
Rebecca, who was gathering bits and pieces of the story through Jackie’s responses, was walking back and forth, punching the air, completely beside herself. Lanier, sitting silent on the edge of Jackie’s bed, shook his head in disbelief. Jackie waved at Rebecca and tried to make her stop, and then cradled the phone in both hands.
“Would you testify?” she asked. “Would you testify that when you left the store the boys were with the two other cops?”
“What, and maybe risk standing trial for shooting Lawson?”
“We don’t have to mention that. It’s irrelevant. We’re not going after Lawson.”
“He’s going to come up, though. Even if
you
don’t use him as a witness, the other two probably will. And Lawson might stick up for them and say they all left the store together.”
“But everything I’ve heard about Lawson seems to suggest that he wouldn’t stand up for black cops.”
“Maybe, I don’t know.” Then Matsumoto sighed. “I need some time to think. Truth is, if one of those cops
did
do this, then I’d like to see the bastard punished. But I need to know that if Lawson comes up, I can work something out to protect myself.”
“We can try to talk to the D.A. about immunity,” Jackie said. “Please. Kenji Hirano’s not the most reliable witness, and we need all the corraboration we can get.”
Matsumoto was silent for another few moments. Then finally he said, “OK. What the hell.”
It was over, Jackie thought, or at least their part of it was through. Matsumoto’s story, his shooting of Lawson, the appearance of the partners—what the other men had seen was accurate; they just hadn’t seen it all. Paxton had told the truth—at least about Lawson’s innocence—and both she and Lanier believed the rest of it now. Lanier felt, once again, the cloudy sense of apprehension that surrounded his memories of Thomas; he knew it was Thomas, not Paxton, that his cousin had feared. He could picture the younger Thomas—huge, with billy club in hand; Oliver Paxton he couldn’t envision at all.
Neither Jackie nor Lanier slept well the night Rebecca called Japan, and first thing the next morning, Jackie put in a call to the D.A.’s office. She told them what she was calling about and arranged a meeting for the following Monday. And so they had to sit tight until then.
Except Lanier couldn’t. The answers they’d found had engendered more questions, which kept him twisting in his sheets for two nights. Robert Thomas. How
could
he? A black cop, too. And why didn’t Paxton try to stop him?
By Friday afternoon, Lanier was jumpy and exhausted—too tired to work, too tense to fall sleep. And so he left work at five and drove up to Fairfax and knocked loudly on Jackie’s door.
“What’s up?” Jackie said when she answered, mouth still full of the burrito she’d been eating.
“I’m going to go talk to Thomas,” he announced. “You wanna come with me?”
“We shouldn’t,” Jackie said calmly, noting his red eyes, the pulsing veins in his forehead and neck. “I mean, we’ve got an appointment at the D.A.’s office next week. Trying to talk to him now might scare him off. It might even be illegal.”
“I don’t give a fuck. I want to speak to him. Now.”
Jackie knew she couldn’t talk him out of it. But maybe, if she went along, she could prevent him from doing anything stupid.
Fairfax, at that time, was clogged with commuters; it took them fifteen minutes to travel the mile and a half to Hollywood Boulevard. This too was full of cars, but they drove without comment until they reached the Hollywood Station. By sheer chance, they found a parking space across from the lot. They waited there until a little after seven, when Robert Thomas emerged in street clothes and walked to his car. Jackie reached for the door, but Lanier put his hand on her arm. They both felt the new weight of this gesture, but didn’t speak of it.
“Let’s follow him home,” he said. “I’d rather get him in private.”
Thomas drove a green Explorer, which was easy to keep sight of in the traffic. They followed him to Carthay Circle, where the Explorer turned into the driveway of a tidy one-story Spanish house. Lanier parked at the curb across the street. By this time, Thomas knew he’d been tailed; he slammed his door shut and stared down the driveway as Lanier and Jackie got out of the Taurus. Lanier crossed the street quickly, while Jackie lingered behind. She saw Thomas’s eyes widen as he recognized Lanier.
“Captain Thomas,” said Lanier, and his voice was sheer ice; the cop’s hello slid smoothly over it, unheard.
Lanier came to a stop, and the two men stood sizing each other up. Thomas was big, well-built, and Lanier wouldn’t necessarily take him in a fight. Jackie saw the bitter lines around his mouth, the narrowed, suspicious eyes, the tired but defiant set of his shoulders. This man gave her a totally different feeling from Paxton, who’d seemed very much like the schoolteacher he was. Paxton she’d trust with the welfare of a baby; this man she’d cross the street to get away from.
“It’s Lanier, right?” asked Thomas. “What are you doing here?” He looked from Lanier to Jackie and back again.
“I think you know,” replied Lanier, and when Thomas just stared, he added, “I talked to Oliver Paxton last weekend.”
“Oh, really?”
“You told me he moved back east. You didn’t say East Palo Alto.”
Thomas’s expression didn’t change, but he raised an eyebrow. “I must have made a mistake. How
is
Ollie? I haven’t seen him in, what, probably thirty years.”
“Well, that was lucky for
you
. He had some interesting things to say about you.”