The Innocents Read online

  Of course, he was right. I wasn’t thinking. I looked down at my ruined clothes; the sight of them reaffirmed what happened the night before. My stomach churned. I needed something to eat.

  He must’ve read the heavy emotion in my expression and patted my leg. “I understand; you can tell me when you’re ready. Why don’t you tell me about this beautiful child? You didn’t have the time yesterday. Where’s her mother? Where did you meet her? What’s going on?”

  Another topic I didn’t want to discuss, but I’d pulled him into it and he deserved the explanation. “I screwed up, Dad. Plain and simple, I screwed up.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Son. I know you. You didn’t set out to do something wrong. You’ll feel better if you talk it out.”

  I turned my head and looked at him for the first time since I woke. “You know, I don’t know if I’ve ever said it before, but I did all right in the dad department.”

  He smiled.

  I sat back and closed my eyes and started talking. I didn’t want to see his reaction to the truth.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I MET SONJA at work. She came to Lynwood Station as a trainee. I trained her to work the street—to survive on the street.” The words sounded inappropriate even to me.

  “Dad, she has the whitest skin, with these wonderful freckles. And her eyes, she has these green eyes that are so beautiful and at the same time mischievous. I was smitten right off. Don’t get me wrong, I did try to resist. I knew the dangers of having a liaison with someone I worked with on the street. But I couldn’t help it. We fell in love. She loved me as much as I loved her, even more.”

  Least I thought she did.

  The entire situation was wrong from the beginning. Not just the trainer and trainee part, but much worse, the white and black issue. I waited for him to comment on it. When he didn’t, I continued.

  “But then I started making mistakes on the street. I was distracted, and if you do that while working patrol, the street is an unforgiving mistress. She’ll reach up and drag you down. She’ll eat you whole. So I made the decision to transfer out of the station. I can’t tell you how much it hurt to think I wouldn’t be working with her anymore, that I’d only be seeing her at the end of our shifts. That is, if our shifts didn’t conflict altogether.

  “That last night she was angry at my decision. She said she should be the one to transfer, that I would ruin my career. I told her it needed to be me and it needed to be right away because if the brass at the station found out, both of our careers would be ruined.”

  I hesitated, afraid to tell the rest of it.

  Dad said, “It doesn’t sound like you did anything wrong.”

  I nodded. “Dad, I should’ve told you all of this back seven, eight months ago when it happened. That was a mistake and I’m sorry.”

  “You’re twenty-five years old, a grown man, and you need to go your own way. I understand why you didn’t say anything.”

  A lump rose in my throat. I wished he’d get angry and not be so understanding. I continued. “The night I told her that I was putting in for a transfer, we were working swing, two to ten on patrol, and she was really upset. She refused to talk about it until after shift. Looking back on it now, I realize that she had to be pregnant. She carried that extra information as an added burden. She had to be afraid of how I’d react, how being pregnant really complicated matters even more.”

  I leaned over and put my head in my hands. A half-black child, what a horrible predicament I left her with.

  “And then I go and tell her I was transferring to get away from her. She must’ve thought I was some sort of monster.”

  I sat next to Dad, marveling at my own stupidity.

  I needed to get it all out. “That night . . . that shift that night was one of the worst I’d ever encountered.”

  Dad lowered his tone. “That was the night those gang members firebombed the Abrams’ house, wasn’t it?”

  I’d told Dad that part when it happened, only he had the sequence wrong. “That’s right, but first we went to a domestic with this huge guy, his name was Douglas Howard. I’d dealt with him before on similar calls for service. He’d battered his wife again, broke her arm and socked her up pretty good. He was coked up and didn’t want to go to jail. We had to fight him.”

  Dad said, “Mmm.”

  He’d heard about how Douglas died. News in the ghetto spreads faster and was more reliable than the flu on a wet winter day.

  The part I didn’t tell him was that I thought I could talk Douglas down and told Sonja as much. She didn’t listen to me, flanked him, and inadvertently started the fight with her needless tactical move. She’d forced Douglas into a fight.

  “Sonja used a blackjack on him. She . . . hit him too hard. Douglas died later at the hospital from a depressed skull fracture. Right after that we were also in that crazy officer-involved shooting and . . . anyway, at the end of shift she just sort of disappeared. The watch commander told me she turned in her badge and gun and resigned. I looked all over for her, Dad. I did. I loved her like nothing else in this world. I guess I still love her now, maybe more than ever, and she won’t have anything to do with me. She won’t even tell me where she’s living. I swear I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  “And she just showed up at your doorstep yesterday?”

  “That’s right. She dropped the baby off and wouldn’t listen to reason. She just left.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes women go through this kind of episode right after they have a child. The natural chemicals in their bodies are all mixed up. She’ll calm down. She’ll come back and talk it out with you.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do.”

  An uncomfortable silence sat between us like an unwanted guest with serious body odor.

  Dad reached over to the end table and picked up a folded paper. “Found this in the diaper bag. It’s the county paper for the birth certificate. You have two more weeks to give this child a name. Have you given it any thought?”

  “Ah, jeez, Dad, I really haven’t. What do you think?”

  “She’s your daughter. You need to give her a name.”

  “It’s been crazy the last couple of days. Let me think on it, okay?”

  “Of course, take your time. We can just call her Baby Girl Johnson. It’s kind of a cute little name.”

  Dad never did sarcasm unless he wanted to make his point or wanted to move me closer to his way of thinking. No way could my daughter keep the name Baby Girl Johnson.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Give me until Sunday, okay? Please?”

  “I don’t want to name her because if you don’t like it, you’ll always hold it against me.”

  “I’d never do that. Give me some ideas. That’ll help me decide what I like and don’t like.”

  “Nope, not going to do it. Now, when do you have to work next?”

  “I have to take a shower and get ready right now.”

  I wanted to go, and at the same time I wanted to stay. After a few hours’ sleep and with a clear head I felt I owed Lieutenant Wicks for what he did, the way he went the extra mile to make the incident with Pedro Armendez justified. He’d cleared my name.

  Baby Girl Johnson started to fuss. Dad held her gently to his shoulder and patted her back. A simple action that reminded me I knew absolutely nothing about raising a child.

  Dad said, “Sure, we can watch this sweet little girl until her mother snaps out of it. Though, with your job and mine, we’ll have to hire Mrs. Espinoza full-time to take care of her.”

  “Thanks, Dad, you don’t know what a relief this is. Thanks for supporting me.”

  “You going to tell me why you have all that dried blood on you? You’ll feel better once you air out what happened. I won’t judge you, Son.”

  “If it’s okay with you, maybe another time.”

  “I understand. Why don’t you go on and get ready for work?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I SA
T AT the long table amongst all the other detectives waiting for the briefing to begin. The noise rose as everyone talked and joked and laughed.

  I wore Levi’s, a button-down long-sleeve shirt, and heavy work boots. Even though I loved working the street in a patrol car, I took pride in the fact I now wore the plain clothes of a detective. The sheriff’s star hung on a chain around my neck.

  I’d returned to the work assignment I’d just left, Lynwood Station, the downstairs briefing room. I felt comfortable in the place where I’d spent the last . . . almost three years. I had not yet cleaned out my locker. I figured I’d wait until the training sergeant called to say my replacement had arrived at the station. Lynwood would always be home to me, my first patrol assignment, the first place I truly fell in love.

  And now the place where I’d conceived my daughter.

  Wicks was conspicuous in his absence.

  I knew most everyone around the table, the station detectives and my new team. I sat next to Jack Hendricks and wrote him a check for the tires and rims damaged on my truck the night before. I handed it to him. He handed me an X-Acto knife new in the package. “Here, I heard you lost yours.”

  Everyone at the briefing table busted up laughing. My face glowed warm.

  Johnny Gibbs came into the briefing room and handed an operation plan to each detective. When he came to me, instead of handing over the stapled papers, he dropped the packet on the table in front of me. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Tonight, it’s my turn. I’m running the team for this op. Check out where I have you positioned.”

  He moved on. Hendricks, beside me, leaned over and said, “Wicks is on five days’ mandatory leave. You know anything about that? He never said anything about it yesterday. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s ever going to join us. It’s really crazy. The team’s just starting out and he’s not here for the second op. You think he’s in the grease over something?”

  Had Hendricks not seen the news? Had he seen the news and not put it together?

  Now wasn’t the time to get into it. I’d tell him what I knew after the briefing.

  Two more detectives came in whom I didn’t recognize, one shorter Hispanic, the other a tall, rawboned white guy with jet-black hair and a white tuft in the front. The abrupt shift in colors kind of made him look like a skunk. He had deep acne scars in his cheeks. His piercing blue-gray eyes took in everyone in the room like those of a predator.

  Each of them wore his sheriff’s star from a chain around his neck. They looked like narcs, with their hair shaggier than the rest of us and by the way they moved. You could always tell a narc, no matter what environment they tried to blend into. Some did it naturally, some looked stupid at the attempt. These two just looked dangerous.

  I pulled my gaze off them and thumbed through the op plan looking for my assignment and found it. Gibbs put me in X-Ray One, in uniform and in a marked patrol unit. I’d be working with a guy named C. Thibodeaux. I looked around the room. I didn’t know Thibodeaux. Out of everyone involved, we were the only two working in uniform. I didn’t want it to bother me, but it did. I’d left uniforms just a few days ago and now I was back.

  Jackson Kohl, the station detective sergeant, came into the briefing room at a fast walk and went to the head of the briefing table. “Good evening, gentlemen. Let’s get started; we’re running a little late. As you know, this is a robbery surveillance. We have been tasked with abating the armed robberies occurring on Imperial Highway in our geographical policing area. Please turn to the back page of your briefing material.”

  Everyone followed his direction.

  “The pin map, here, depicts the locations of these robberies, the vast majority of which have occurred at the gas station at Mona Boulevard.”

  I knew all about these armed robberies. I’d taken the reports on a few of them while working a black-and-white.

  Sergeant Kohl caught my eye and said, “Hey, Bruno, good to have you back.”

  I nodded, my face again burning hot for being singled out.

  Kohl smiled and addressed the group again. “Guys, tonight we’re using issued handguns and shotguns; knives are not authorized.”

  The group at the table chuckled at my expense. I didn’t look around and instead just smiled, playing along.

  Kohl let the group calm down then started again. “Patrons getting gas at this station have been hit fifty-six times in the last three months. It’s turning into an embarrassment and we—”

  A switchblade thumped into the wood table; the blade stuck inches from my hand. The room went quiet. The tall narc pulled his left arm back from the throw. He said nothing and only smiled.

  Kohl said, “Not funny, Thibodeaux. See me after briefing.”

  Thibodeaux didn’t take his eyes off me and leaned over, his hand extended, expecting me to pull the knife free and hand it to him. Only I’d had enough and needed to send a message. I pulled the knife loose, pushed the release, and closed the blade. I stuck it in my pocket with everyone watching. They looked at me then back at Thibodeaux.

  When nothing more happened, Kohl went back to the briefing. “The suspects are three unknown black males who live in the Imperial Courts housing projects, half a block to the west. They wait by a hole in the back fence of the gas station, scoping out the victims pulling in to gas up. When they like what they see, they put on their ski masks and take their guns out from under some bushes.

  “They have lookouts who whistle when any cop car comes down Imperial from either direction. We can probably take them down on a gun charge, but they won’t be in the can long for a misdemeanor. We’re going to wait and take them down in progress. Questions?”

  I raised my hand and didn’t wait for him to call on me. “Isn’t waiting for a robbery to go down going to put the victim in jeopardy?”

  Kohl paused for a moment. “That’s why we’re not going to move in until the robbery is over. Everyone hear that? Do not move in until the suspects try to leave the scene and the victim is out of the picture. Okay, turn to the second-to-the-last page.”

  Papers fluttered in the silent room.

  “The gas station is on the north side of Imperial, three businesses over from Mona Boulevard. When they do the robbery, they run north, pop through the hole in the fence, and run west in the alley. As soon as they cross Mona, they’re in the projects, and it’ll be impossible to root them out. So, here’s the plan. We’ll have two station detectives, Jenkins and Phillips, in a van parked in the dirt field just above the alley directly north of the gas station.” He nodded to Jenkins and Phillips. “You guys be sure you wait for all three to come through the fence before you exit the van, you understand?”

  Jenkins said, “Nice.”

  He said it because he and his partner had the takedown position, and if there was going to be any shooting, they’d be in the thick of it.

  “Ricky Blue?” Kohl said to the Hispanic narc, who’d yet to say a thing. “You and Sims will be in a plain-wrapped car down Imperial. When it goes down, you haul ass up into the parking lot of the gas station and block their escape to the south and at the same time contain the victim. Bruno, you and Thibodeaux will be parked in a marked unit on Mona, south of Imperial. When I call out the 211 in progress, you’re to come north on Mona, cross Imperial, and pull into the alley to block their escape to the west. We’ll have them trapped between you and Jenkins and Phillips.

  “Remember, all of you, this isn’t the best situation, and if it goes to guns, watch your crossfire. In fact, let’s designate shooters right now. If they don’t give up, Jenkins and Phillips, you’re the designated hitters. Bruno and Thibodeaux, you stand down, stay behind your car doors for cover. Everybody good?”

  Everyone nodded. “Okay, I’m going to be up on the roof of the building across the street with a high-speed 35mm camera, so everyone watch your ass. You understand what I’m sayin’ here? Okay, good. I’ll be calling the play from the roof.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s be suited up and ready to roll f
rom here in thirty minutes.”

  I got up and headed to the locker room to change into my uniform. Thibodeaux came up to me and said, “Hey, it’s not funny anymore. Gimme my knife.”

  “It wasn’t funny to begin with.” I turned to head for the locker room just as the narc named Ricky Blue said in a low tone to Phillips, “I’m swappin’ with you. Tell your boss. Make it right.”

  I looked back in time to hear a stunned Phillips say, “Bullshit.”

  Blue said nothing and stared Phillips down with hard brown eyes.

  Phillips kicked the wall. “Son of a bitch. All right.”

  Who did Ricky Blue think he was, changing the sergeant’s game plan like that?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FORTY MINUTES LATER, with the sun dropping below the horizon, casting the world in fading oranges and yellows, I sat in the passenger side of the black-and-white with Thibodeaux behind the wheel, on Mona just south of Imperial Highway. He’d not said a word and continued to fume about his confiscated illegal switchblade.

  The leather straps for the new shoulder holster bound up under my arms and made the simple task of sitting in the car uncomfortable. Only time would make carrying the illegal weapon easier. The department-approved green windbreaker I wore with “Sheriff” emblazoned in large yellow letters on the back covered it up.

  Thibodeaux kept his hands on the steering wheel, looking out the windshield. The tanned and smooth skin on his arms sported an anchor tattoo, the kind I’d seen on people who’d been in the Navy or Marines. He also had a crude black cross on the back of the middle finger of his right hand, the ink faded with time. He looked to be about forty years old and carried a quiet air of confidence.

  We needed to depend on each other, especially during a robbery surveillance. I took his switchblade out of my pocket and handed it to him, the weapon a violation of policy, on or off duty, and a misdemeanor if prosecuted criminally under PC 653k. He took it, pulled his pant leg up, and stuck it in his boot.