The Bad Shepherd Page 11

  Mitch knew he was done in the Rockstars now, probably done in Narcotics, but he had other options. Dave Ellison from Southwest CRASH was recruiting him heavily. Said his shooting a Crip might even be an asset working with some of their rival Blood gangs.

  Hilliard furiously shook his head. “This is inexcusable. He’s a narcotics detective, for Christ’s sake. It’s a good thing we’re stringing him up.”

  “Maybe there’s a better way,” Mitch said. “Fochs is acting like a cornered animal, a cornered animal with a reporter’s ear. If he sees a way out, maybe we can stop this before it gets worse. I know him better than anyone. I think, if it just comes down to Bo versus the department, he will not go quietly.”

  “What are you suggesting, Detective?”

  “Give him a way out, sir. It doesn’t mean saving his job. I know Fochs. If he thinks he has nothing to lose, you can believe he’ll act like it. If you want this to go away quietly, give him a better option.”

  Hunter held his gaze for a long time in the silence.

  “Well then,” Hilliard said awkwardly. He stood and walked around his desk, offering his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mitchell, and your candor.”

  Mitch accepted the handshake.

  Hilliard motioned for the door.

  Mitch stood and walked out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bo offered a lazy wave and a smile he didn’t believe in to the hostess at the Rainbow.

  “Hey, Bo,” she said and looked disappointed that he didn’t flirt with her on the way in like he usually did. “Get a table outside?”

  “Sure thing.”

  She led him out to a table along the Strip so he could watch the tourists mix with the hookers and the addicts. She left a pair of menus on the table and disappeared back inside. A waitress popped over and asked him what he wanted. He told her, and she showed back up with a longneck Coors a minute later. He drank deeply, finishing half the bottle in his first go.

  The Rainbow Bar and Grill opened nine years ago in what used to be the old Villa Nova restaurant and was already a legendary nightclub. The place was known for its come-as-you-are-fuck-’em-if-they-can’t-take-a-joke attitude and was a popular hangout for local musicians, famous and infamous alike. David Lee Roth was a common fixture here, as was Jagger. The Rainbow was a common spot for headliners to end up after a show downtown. It was also notorious for its party scene, and it was almost impossible to make a phone call because someone was usually standup screwing in the phone booth. The Rainbow embodied everything the LA rock scene had become, good and bad.

  Bo’s table faced the street next to the waist-high white iron fence that wrapped around the outdoor seating area. There was a man seated at the table next to him, alone, with a pitcher of Coke and a bottle of half-empty Jack Daniels. He wore black leather biker pants, a denim vest that had once been a jacket, boots, and a snakeskin cowboy hat. He sported a monstrous Fu Manchu that was more furry handlebars as it was mustache. The man leaned back in his chair and lipped the pitcher, taking the casual chug. An enormous wart poked out of his cheek. He looked over at Bo, nodded once in recognition.

  “Little early, isn’t it?” Bo asked.

  “I ain’t fuckin’ gone to bed yet, mate.” His voice was a jovial, but guttural growl of heavily accented British. He added a little more Jack to the pitcher. “Just about got the percentages right.”

  Bo couldn’t see because of the black aviators the man wore, but he knew there was a wink behind them.

  Bo finished his beer and flagged the waitress for the other he knew he’d need before the lieutenant got there. Hunter hadn’t been in the squad room all day but called Bo in the afternoon and asked him to meet at the Rainbow after work. Said they needed to talk a few things out.

  There wouldn’t be much to say.

  In the sober light of day calling that TV reporter hadn’t been such a wise move. All Bo had wanted to do was prove that there was more to this case, that Lorenzo Fremont wasn’t the end. He was the beginning, the link to a much larger operation. The department politicians were throwing away months of hard work to trade for a short-term public opinion boost, throwing away what could have been a body blow to the river of drugs flowing in this town. Bo thought that by shining a light on that maybe he’d force the Sixth Floor to alter their course, reopen the investigation. He had hoped for the same kind of outcry that started when his partner killed Lorenzo Fremont.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely it. Bo admitted to himself, when he sobered up, that he wanted get back. He wanted to salt the earth at his partner’s feet. Mitchell killed a man. He panicked at the moment of truth and killed an unarmed man. Then he covered it up and tried to make Bo a party to it.

  The server in the tight skirt floated by and offered another beer. He nodded and asked for a shot of Jack to go with it, padding for whatever the lieutenant was going to hit him with. The drinks arrived. Bo held the shot glass in his hand for a time, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, watching the sun dance off the whiskey.

  Bo thought of his father. Whatever the reason his mother had abandoned him, Bo didn’t miss her. But his old man he missed every day even though he’d been absent so much of Bo’s youth working just trying to provide. His father didn’t have any grand dreams for his son; men like Tom Fochs didn’t dream and didn’t have dreams that got fulfilled. He just wanted his son to do right. How many times on stakeouts had he and Mitch talked about the dualities of the conflicted relationships they had with their fathers?

  He wondered how he’d tell him about the last month. Would his father be proud of the choices his son had made? Would he have understood? Bo considered the untaken shot in his hand. His father, most certainly, would not.

  A fresh beer was sitting in front of Bo when Hunter arrived, the shot glass cleared. The lieutenant was in shirtsleeves, having lost the tie and jacket Bo assumed he’d had earlier. The lieutenant pulled the chair out and sat without introduction, ordering a Walker and rocks. Hunter’s face showed both traces of red and ash. It looked like a just dead fire.

  “You’re drinking like a man with a guilty conscience.”

  Bo offered a half-smile that looked more like he was just pushing his lips into his cheeks. He didn’t answer the lieutenant’s comment. Hunter sighed hard and leaned back into his chair. The waitress came by with a Walker rocks on her tray, set it on the table, and vanished. “That right?” Bo asked absently.

  “I’ve been sitting across the street watching you for the last half-hour.”

  Bo shrugged it off and drank from his beer. “Watching to see if I went all the way off the rails?” He immediately regretted saying it. Bo could almost see the words floating in the air, wished he could pull them back. The lieutenant deserved better than this. “I’m sorry,” he said, though they both knew it was too late for that.

  Hunter waved a hand flat above the table surface, the way you’d tell a blackjack dealer you decided to stay. Bo wasn’t quite sure what the lieutenant meant by it but assumed he was to forget it.

  Hunter said nothing and took a pull of whiskey. His eyes went to the street, but still he said nothing. Hunter took another drink, downing half of it. “Bo, they’re going to charge you with Conduct Unbecoming tomorrow.” Hunter set the glass down and put his hands on the table on either side of it, forming a protective ring. He looked at the glass as he spoke. “You’re going to meet a Board of Rights, and they will most certainly find you guilty.”

  “Well, at least I’ve got due process going for me.”

  Hunter held up his hands in mock exasperation. “You went to the press. You gave them confidential information about an ongoing investigation. You gave them accusations that you cannot substantiate and passed them off as fact.”

  “I know what I saw,” he said angrily. “Mitch—” He shook his head. “But I also know I wrong to go the press.”

  “I’m sure that reporter feels the same way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The d
epartment put the damage control machine into overdrive. Media Relations called the station manager and told him the accusations were the work of a cop who was facing charges and would say anything he could to draw attention away from his pending trial.” Hunter shrugged and gave him the “What do you expect?” look. “They even sent a copy of your charge sheet by telecopier to prove it.” Hunter took another sip and set his glass back down.

  Bo knew the talk would last as long as the whiskey did and not a drop more.

  “I understand your reporter friend got into a lot of trouble for pushing the story. Way I hear it KNBC’s news director may have told the network there was national potential. They had to backtrack with the network, and he looked a bit foolish. Guess they came down on that Everett girl pretty hard.” Hunter paused. “Bad judgment and all that.”

  Everett’s initial instinct had been not to trust Bo, but he’d been able to win her over to his side though charm, guile, and the promise that this story would make her a household name. She’d trusted him, and for that she was paying a price. He looked away from his CO to the street. It was late afternoon and starting to fill with people, the tourists and the freaks of Hollywood.

  “I handed the department one of the biggest drug dealers in the city,” he said, still looking at the street. He took an absent sip of his beer. “And they turned it into a goddamn circus.”

  “You gave them the show. You filled the seats.”

  “And why did that happen?” Bo looked back at Hunter. “Because Mitch panicked, and he shot our suspect.” Bo killed his beer and signaled for another. Why the hell not, right? Behind the last swallow, he said, “All that shit about me hitting Rik, Daphne, all of it. It’s just fucking background noise. The real story is that this one time the people of this city were right about its police force.” Bo pounded his index finger on the table. “But instead of holding the right person accountable, they’re going to skewer me because the appearance of what I did is worse than what my partner actually did. They hang me in public, and Mitchell gets a medal.”

  “We both know it’s not that simple.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Enough,” Hunter’s voice was cold, heavy, and final, the command voice every boot officer learned to put fear into a suspect with. It drew looks from people at a nearby table, which he quickly diverted with an equally hard stare. “You talked to the press. You ratted out your partner. Trust is the only sacred thing we have. It’s what allows us to go out there each and every night and know that no matter what happens, no matter where we are, another cop has our back.”

  Blue Öyster Cult’s “E.T.I.” faded into AC/DC’s “Night Prowler” on the house speakers.

  “You violated the one commandment we have, and that has consequences.”

  “I tried to come to you, Gordon, but you didn’t give me a chance. You didn’t want to hear it.”

  The waitress breezed past and set Bo’s beer on the table. She quickly looked at the lieutenant’s exhausted Johnny Walker and water. He shook his head. When she left, he continued, “You’re right, Bo. I didn’t want to hear it.” Hunter’s voice was suddenly laden with regret. “You wouldn’t let it go. Now, there’s this shit with the press.”

  “So you know I’m right?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Hunter’s eyes fell to the table. “All I’ll say is this. Whatever happened in that room is between you, Mitch, and Lorenzo Fremont, and Fremont is dead. For good or ill that’s where it will stay.” Hunter leaned back in his chair and looked up at the fiery sky. He exhaled long and slow and then looked back at Bo. “You go to the board, and they will find you guilty of CUBO, sure as you’re born. Mitch is going to testify that he witnessed behavior consistent with cocaine use following the Rik Ellis bust and that you have admitted to removing marijuana from the evidence locker for personal use. That becomes a part of the official record, your official record. Your career in the police department will be over, as will most any other job you could get.” Hunter held it a beat. He locked eyes with Bo. There was pain in them. “If you quit, this all goes away.”

  “He said I’m using cocaine?” Bo said in hushed but furious tones.

  “He said ‘behavior consistent with cocaine use’. You ask me, Mitch is making sure that you don’t get in his way. I know how close you too are, were, I guess, but I think we both know what his career means to him.”

  “If I quit, the department has nothing to hold over me anymore. What’s to say I don’t just go to the Times and tell them everything once I’m a civilian?”

  “If you do that, Bo, the department will counter with the evidence they have against you.” Hunter hung strong emphasis on the latter. “And ruin you in public. They’ll talk about allegations of drug use, stealing evidence, excessive force. Try finding a job then.” Hunter pushed his chair out. “For what it’s worth, IA doesn’t know about the drugs yet. Which means the chief doesn’t know. You know how he feels about them. If he finds out, he will make it his mission in life to watch you burn.” Hunter stood. “Please, Bo, for your own good, and for ours, go quietly.”

  “Gordon, I’ve never touched coke. I need you to believe that. I would never touch that shit.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, Bo. But I think if we’ve learned anything recently its that the truth doesn’t matter so much as what people perceive it to be.”

  Hunter left.

  Bo sank into his chair while his world burned to the ground around him.

  The next day, he took the deal.

  Part Two

  May–June 1984

  Chapter Fifteen

  “My foundation,” Marlon Rolles said calmly but loudly from his podium at the Crenshaw High School gymnasium, about to conclude his speech, “tries to show them there’s another way, and I speak as someone who knows. This can only work if we do it together, if we take control, if we cure the disease that we caused. We can do it, brothers and sisters. Believe me, we can. And I won’t tell you I can reach every kid because I can’t. The street has some of them and won’t give them up. But we’ll get one, and one will turn into two. Two turns into four because you can only play one-on-one for so long.” This drew sporadic chuckles.

  “And for the kids we do save, it’ll be worth it. We’re not here to ask for your money. Reverend Maupin, whom I see here today, and the congregation at Crenshaw Baptist are organizing some fundraisers for us. No, what I’m asking is if you spread the word. Let people know what we’re about, and if you know of some young brothers in the gangs, just tell me their names. We’ll do the rest. They don’t even need to know it was you. My people will take care of everything.”

  Rolles concluded his speech and stepped away from the podium to sporadic and tentative applause. The people were still trying to process what they’d heard. This wasn’t a community that was used to one of their own telling them they were responsible for the shape their neighborhoods were in. That was a pill Marlon Rolles had seen get stuck in a lot of throats.

  The assembly began to break up. There were maybe fifty, sixty tops in the gym, but it was a Saturday afternoon. He’d reach more when he started hitting the reunions and rallies that crowded out half of MacArthur Park on a weekend afternoon. In the crowd, Rolles saw some angry faces and plenty of skeptical ones. He expected nothing less. You didn’t convince people that they were the source of the gang problem plaguing their neighborhoods overnight. Most, you never would, but it only took a few, and the idea could take root. Once you had that, you had power.

  People assembled around him. Some wanted Marlon to solve particular problems they had. “A guy is dealing on my corner. It’s not safe for my kids to go outside. Can you talk to them?” It went on like that. Rolles wasn’t unlike a campaigning politician at times like this, pressing flesh, smiling, listening to problems that weren’t his. The distinction was that he made no promises. He wanted the broken-down widow to know he felt sympathy for her because Bloods were dealing right on her street and sometimes lounging on her front stoo
p because they knew she couldn’t stop them. He asked for their names; she didn’t know; these weren’t the kind of people she introduced herself to. Rolles assured her he would stop by and see what he could do. If nothing else, he’d try to get them off her stoop.

  In the end, that was all you could do. Sometimes, you could reach someone. You could make a meaningful connection with someone who wanted a different life. Other times, Rolles relied on his reputation; his legacy was well known in the community. Back in his gangster days, he’d been an angry, cold-hearted, and violent man. That reputation still carried weight.

  Marlon dutifully thanked each of the attendees who stopped to talk to him for their time. Personal connections were everything. If people thought you cared about them, they would do anything for you, regardless of what was under the hood. He shook hands; he smiled sadly at their plights; he said he would help if he could but was careful to make no promises. He emphasized this point with each person he spoke to. “I cannot guarantee that I will make your neighborhood a safer place. I cannot guarantee I will reach your son, your nephew or neighbor kid. I can only promise that I will try.”

  Rolles and Jamaal Shabazz made their way to one of the gym’s exits when a White man with big strides caught up with them. Rolles only sought speaking engagements from his own kind. The message was for them. But this man, who was about the same size as Rolles himself, was different. He was Marlon’s best source of information, of new leads, of young men who might need help.

  “Sergeant Ellison,” he said, offering a big hand. The policeman, in civilian clothes but looking every bit a cop, shook it.

  “Marlon.” Ellison gave a short nod to Shabazz, who said nothing in return and just looked away. “Good speech today.”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard me say before.” Rolles paused a beat before resting a big hand gingerly but firmly on Jamaal’s shoulder. “J, why don’t you get the car ready?” Shabazz, who’s given name had been “Winkler” up until ‘72 nodded and disappeared out the door to his left. Rolles waited until Jamaal left, and then he spoke.