Judgment Page 5

  "But you've got them."

  "We've got them."

  "Hey." Macklin's voice was unsteady for a moment. He paused, and then continued. "Thanks. I—"

  "Listen, Mack, why don't you come by tonight and have a bite with Sunny and me?"

  Dinner with them usually meant sprouts, exotic wine made in somebody's basement or something, avocado things, alfalfa stuff, and protein drinks.

  "I think I'll pass this time. The Batmobile needs some attention tonight."

  "Okay, another time, then."

  "You got it. Gimme a call. I wanna see these guys go down."

  "Sure thing, Mack."

  Shaw set down the phone gently on the cradle. Sliran came up behind him.

  "That patrol car you sent to that kid's house just called in."

  Shaw swiveled around in his chair. "Uh-huh?"

  "The kid's not there."

  "Shit." Shaw glanced at his watch. Where had the two hours gone? He felt a twinge of dread. Did Cruz double-cross him and run? Shaw ran his hands through his hair. "We've got to canvas the neighborhood. Cruz has to be found."

  "All right, all right, calm down." Sliran scratched his cheek. "Listen, we've got the other guys, we'll get him. What's the big deal?"

  "You're right." Shaw fingered a cassette on his desk. "With this, the case is tied up anyway."

  "Tied up all right." Sliran walked away. "Like a noose." He sat down at his desk and looked through the clutter for a moment. Then he reached for the phone. "This is Sliran, Homicide. Have your boys check out the alley on Morrison. That's right. Ah-huh. The alley where Macklin bought it."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Saul and Moe stood beside the ambulance, unable to see over the crush of people what all the excitement was in the alley. Moe chewed on some ice, the paper cup tilted over his face like a muzzle.

  "What's happening to our neighborhood?" Saul said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  "Open your eyes, Saul. Nothing's changed. Nothing at all," Moe said, nearly spitting a mouthful of ice on Saul's shoulder.

  "JD's gone."

  Their faces were long and tired. Two old basset hounds, sleepy eyed with age. They were falling prey to the gulling, sapping forces of the neighborhood.

  Saul and Moe were caught suddenly in the glare of headlights as a car skidded to a stop at their feet. Shaw bolted out of the car and broke through the crowd. Sliran emerged casually, pulling out a pack of Marlboros.

  "What's going on here, Officer?" Moe asked.

  Sliran lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Saul and Moe. They declined. "A kid, one of those ones we think killed Macklin, was roughed up a bit in the alley."

  "Is he dead?" Saul asked hopefully.

  "No." Sliran slipped through the crowd and walked slowly down the alley towards the huddle of uniforms at the end.

  Shaw was kneeling in the grime beside Tomas, the youth's face a smear of blood and dirt. His arms and legs were twisted at obscene angles, his T-shirt in filthy tatters.

  "Jesus . . . ," Shaw muttered. "Tomas, Tomas, can you hear me? Who did this to you?"

  Cruz was sobbing. "Get away from me," he sputtered.

  "Tomas, I want to help you. Who did this to you?"

  "G-get away from me!" he shrieked, suddenly stiffening with pain.

  Shaw felt a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, we gotta take this guy away now," the paramedic said. "Save the questions for later."

  Shaw sighed. A flash from a camera illuminated the scene, the broken body amidst the trash and dirt.

  "Sir, please."

  Shaw stepped away as they gently picked up Tomas and put him on a stretcher.

  Sliran came up behind Shaw.

  "I hope they brought a few baggies," Sliran snickered, idly tossing a bloodied finger in his hand.

  # # # # # #

  Dr. Ralph "Cheeks" Beddicker was losing. Baby after baby hit the ground with a splat.

  He hunkered down in the plastic chair, his face pressed against his wristwatch. Another baby went splat.

  There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Beddicker barked, his cheeks billowing. Splat.

  Shaw opened the lounge door. His eyes were bloodshot, his tie loose at the collar, and his hair askew. "I need to talk with you a sec."

  Splat. "Could you hang on?" He took a deep breath, angered at the break in his concentration. No matter how fast he hit the little button, his fireman never made it to the burning building on time. Another baby kissed the pavement. The game beeped at him. Splat.

  "This damn watch." Beddicker cursed and finally looked up at Shaw."My son gave it to me for Christmas. It's driving me nuts." He stared silently at Shaw, concentrating on his face like he was going to paint it from memory someday. Finally, he said, "So what can I do for you?"

  "How's the boy?"

  "Huh? Oh, the mess you guys brought in a few hours ago. Cruz, right?"

  "Tomas Cruz. How is he? When can I talk to him?"

  "He's alive. He won't run any marathons, though. Both his legs are broken, a couple splintered ribs scratching up his internal organs. He's missing a piece of one finger and he's got a hairline skull fracture.

  "Any idea what happened to him?"

  Beddicker laughed, his famous cheeks enlarging like blowfish. "He was run over by a freight train." Beddicker shook his head disapprovingly. "Someone slapped the kid around with a block of cement. I dunno. You're the detective. Look around for a blunt object. Like a wall or something."

  "When can I talk to him?"

  Beddicker stretched. "As far as I'm concerned, anytime you want."

  "Thanks, Cheeks." Shaw smiled and dashed out.

  Beddicker glanced at his watch. "You're gonna ruin me."

  Shaw ran up the stairwell to the fifth floor, bolted out the door, and nearly sprinted to Tomas' room.

  "Hold it, Sergeant," a voice yelled.

  "Shit," he groaned.

  Slimy Sam Dexter, the used-car salesman of attorneys, in his lime green suit and orange tie, swung his empty briefcase cockily as he stepped up to Shaw. "You're not getting near that boy, understand, not until I talk to him." Behind Dexter was Tomas' mother, Hilda, her yellow smile filling her face.

  Shaw and Dexter had clashed many times. So far the score was even. Dexter thrived on the low-income, repeat-offender crowd, putting them in debt for life. They preferred Dexter's talons to twenty years of making big rocks into little ones.

  "Why don't you rest those gumshoes of yours while I talk to my client?" Dexter swung his briefcase in the direction of the waiting area.

  Shaw had no choice. He reluctantly went to the coffee machine and dropped in some change.

  "Mrs. Cruz, I'll take care of things now. You go home and I'll swing by later." Dexter patted her on the shoulder.

  Dexter walked spritely down the hallway, paused at Tomas' door to see Shaw sitting down with a cup of coffee, smiled, and stepped inside.

  The room was dark. Tomas lay in the bed, both legs in traction, his head wrapped tightly in gauze and padding. His eyes were swollen shut and his lips were dark, red scabs barely clinging to his bruised face.

  "Hey, Tomas!"

  Tomas moaned.

  Dexter pulled up a chair beside the bed, "It's me, Tomas, Sam Dexter. Uncle Sam." Dexter laughed. "I'm gonna get you out of this Tomas, just like before."

  "It hurts," he whispered.

  "I know it does, boy, I know. Now, we've got to talk. The cops are taking numbers outside to see you. We have to get your story straight."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Now, tell me everything."

  It took thirty minutes for Tomas to croak it out, but he did. He told Dexter about calling Shaw, about meeting him in the alley, about taping a confession so his mother and sisters wouldn't fall prey to the Man.

  "Who beat you up?" Dexter asked. He was smiling. He could see this case shaping up. Nicely.

  "The brothers. I was leaving the alley." Tomas paused, his body shaking with pain. "They were blocking the way, Primo, Bald
o, and Jesse. They hit me. They just kept hitting me . . ."

  Tomas started to cry, which only made it hurt more.

  "Tomas, Tomas, listen to me, listen." Dexter leaned closer. "Did Shaw touch you?"

  Tomas sobbed.

  Dexter nudged him. Tomas cried out.

  "Did Shaw touch you? Rough you up a bit?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "The cop didn't touch me."

  Dexter sat silently for a moment while Tomas whimpered.

  "Yes, he did."

  "What?"

  "Shaw came into the alley and beat that confession out of you."

  Tomas stopped whimpering. He turned his sightless eyes slowly, painfully towards Dexter's voice. "But my momma and sisters . . ."

  "Listen, you just listen to me, boy, and do exactly what I tell you. Do as I say and you and your momma and your sisters will be back doin' what you been doin' and Shaw won't bother anyone anymore."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Brett Macklin sat in the courtroom staring at the gang members with undisguised hatred. The judge could see it. So could the jury. His hatred was so strong you could almost touch it.

  Tomas Cruz could feel it but dared not look over his shoulder. He sat still in his wheelchair, his head bandaged and his legs, in casts, sticking out straight in front of him. His facial swelling had gone down just enough so that he could see Dexter beside him, nervously adjusting his paisley tie and brushing imaginary dust off his red jacket.

  Primo Manriquez was like a kid at a carnival. To him, this wasn't a murder trial but a big fuckin' joke. And the biggest laugh of all was sitting in the first row trying to look bad.

  "Look at that stupid motherfucker," Primo said, playing with his thin mustache. "Hey, Esteban, look at him."

  Enrico Esteban stole a quick glance at Macklin. Suddenly he was glad there were armed officers in the room.

  Primo laughed. "Oooooh, he's scaring me. Ooooh."

  Teobaldo "Baldo" Villanueva sat stoically. The tall, balding Chicano wasn't worried. Things just happened. If things looked as though they weren't going to work out for Teobaldo Villanueva, well, he'd just have to make things work out for Teobaldo Villanueva. That's all.

  In Teobaldo Villanueva's world, Brett Macklin didn't exist. For now.

  Mario Carrera, snoring loudly, faked sleep.

  Jesse Ortega smiled at Primo. To Jesse, Primo was just about the coolest guy around. Next to himself. And Fred Williamson, of course.

  Hector Gomez, his arms crossed over his chest, hunched down low in his seat and watched Blake Yates, the prosecuting attorney, as he strolled in front of the jury box carefully reciting his opening statement.

  Yates described the gang members as animals with no conscience or remorse, who terrorized a neighborhood and then killed the one man who stood up against them.

  Yates paused, his thumb in his vest pocket. "That man was Officer James Douglas Macklin."

  Macklin sighed, impatient. Let's give these punks to the hangman already. Shaw was restless, unable to get comfortable in his seat beside Macklin.

  Yates described the gang members setting Macklin aflame, dwelling on the premeditation necessary to lay such a gruesome trap. Finally, Yates recalled Macklin's final moments, his flaming run across the bus's path and the two deaths it caused.

  The Honorable Judge Walter MacFarland watched Yates wide-eyed, seemingly expecting the young assistant district attorney to yank a live chicken from inside his gray, three-piece suit. Six cups of coffee with the morning Times and a snort of decongestant, however, always gave MacFarland that look.

  "I'd like to call my first witness, Your Honor." MacFarland nodded wearily to Yates. "Sergeant Ronald Shaw."

  Shaw groaned. Ronald Shaw . . . C'MON DOWN! It's your turn to play Cops 'n' Robbers! He hated court. He hated testifying. He hated getting up early in the morning. Shaw would have been the happiest man alive if MacFarland banged down his gavel loudly and said, "Never mind, Sergeant Shaw. Go back home to your Herald Examiner, the cold toilet seat, and your single daily cigarette."

  MacFarland looks like the kind of guy who appreciates the importance of a good shit, Shaw thought as he was sworn in. Christ, a guy can't function without a morning sit-down and a Camel straight.

  "Sergeant Shaw, describe if you will the events leading to your arrest of Tomas Cruz, Enrico Esteban, Hector Gomez, Jesse Ortega, Mario Carrera, Primo Manriquez—"

  "Ayyyy, that's me," Primo laughed.

  MacFarland banged his gavel down sharply. "Control yourself, Mr. Manriquez, or I'll have the bailiff remove you from the courtroom."

  Primo smiled.

  Yates sighed. "And Teobaldo Villanueva."

  "We began our investigation by questioning people in the area the night of Officer Macklin's murder." C'mon, Ronny, stay cool. "From these interviews we learned that Officer Macklin had several run-ins with their gang, the Bounty Hunters, and that they were in the immediate area at the time of his death.

  "Go on." Yates leaned against the witness stand, smiling at the jury.

  "So I began interviewing some of the gang members about their activities that night. One of them was Tomas Cruz. I gave him my card after I talked with him and I told him to call me if he wanted to talk some more."

  "And he did, didn't he?"

  "I got a call from him Thursday morning. He asked me to meet him in the alley where Officer Macklin was"—Shaw caught Brett Macklin's eye—"ah . . . was immolated."

  "What happened in that alley, Sergeant?"

  "I met him there, like he asked. He said he wanted to confess—"

  "Objection." Dexter bolted up from his seat. "Your Honor, may I approach the bench?"

  MacFarland motioned for both counsels to step forward. Dexter stepped around his table and grinned.

  "Your Honor, I'd like to request that the jury be excused," Dexter whispered, glancing back and forth between Yates and MacFarland. "It has just come to my attention that Shaw's testimony and the evidence he wishes to introduce may be inadmissible."

  MacFarland rested his head on his hands.

  "Your Honor, Mr. Dexter can't possibly know—," Yates began.

  "I've just learned that this so-called confession was not voluntarily and freely given," Dexter interrupted, smiling at Yates. Gotcha! "I can prove that Sergeant Shaw beat my client, causing him grievous injury in order to exact this so-called confession from him."

  MacFarland frowned and then looked at the jury. "The bailiff will please escort the jury out of the courtroom."

  Macklin looked at Shaw. The detective couldn't hide his dread. Shaw didn't like Dexter's tight little smile one bit.

  The jury members stood up and filed quietly out of the courtroom. When the door closed behind them, MacFarland sighed. "All right, counselor, call your witnesses."

  Dexter bowed slightly with strained grace. "I'd like to call two witnesses, Your Honor. The first is Hilda Cruz." Shaw stepped from the witness stand and passed Cruz as he returned to his seat.

  Cruz had traded in her black miniskirt and red spandex top for a flower-print cotton dress, an outfit she probably saved for tricks who wanted a little motherly love.

  Macklin whispered into Shaw's ear. "What the hell is going on, Ronny?"

  "Dexter says I beat the confession out of Cruz."

  Just make them talk.

  Tell me, Mack, should I use a rubber hose?

  "Did you?"

  Shaw turned. "No."

  "Where were you early Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Cruz?" Dexter asked politely. It was as if he were questioning the First Lady.

  "In the alley with my son."

  Shaw drew in a deep breath.

  "Why, Mrs. Cruz?"

  "Because I don't trust that cop," she yelled, pointing at Shaw. "He has been harassing us, pushing us around as if we were garbage. Every day he's there, threatening us and asking us questions, arresting us for no reason at all except to cause us trouble. I was afraid for my boy."

  "Why did your so
n call Sergeant Shaw?" Dexter asked him.

  "To beg him to leave us alone." She turned to MacFarland. "We're law-abiding people, but it don't help no one to be hassled every day by the cops. I'm a single mother and I got to put the bread on the table. I can't have some loony cop bugging us all the time."

  "What happened in that alley, Mrs. Cruz?"

  "My son asked the cop to lay off us. But he wouldn't listen to Tomas. All he could talk about was that cop who was killed. The cop kept saying 'You did it and I'm gonna get you for it.' My son said, 'No, no, quit. I didn't do it.' That's when the cop said, 'Don't give me no lip,' and tossed this garbage can at my boy. And then he just started beating him and beating him while my boy begged him to stop. 'Confess, confess' was all that son of a bitch would say."

  Tears welled up in her eyes.

  "Why didn't you show yourself, Mrs. Cruz, or go for help?"

  Hilda Cruz began to weep. "I was scared. I thought he'd kill me." Dexter touched her hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Cruz."

  "Any questions, Mr. Yates?" MacFarland asked.

  Yates sat silent for a moment. "No questions, Your Honor."

  "You can step down, Mrs. Cruz." MacFarland motioned to the bailiff to assist her. The bailiff gently touched her elbow and guided her back to her seat.

  Dexter flipped through the papers on his table. "I'd like to call Sergeant Sliran to the stand."

  Yates leaned back and whispered to Shaw. "You want to let me in on what's going on, Sergeant?"

  "This is bullshit, Yates, absolute nonsense. I never touched the boy."

  "Could she have been in the alley?"

  Shaw glanced back at Hilda Cruz, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. "Yes, maybe, I don't know."

  Yates sighed. It fell together with sickening simplicity. "Dexter had this all along."

  "What?"

  Yates ignored him. "That's why Dexter had a jury impaneled before contesting the confession."

  Shaw grabbed Yates. "What are you talking about?"

  "It's over," Yates said flatly.

  Sliran smirked at Dexter as the attorney approached. "Where were you, Sergeant Sliran, while your partner was in the alley?"