Nailed (11 page)

Now, Ron asked for a drink of water. Dredging up these memories was clearly painful for him, and the jury could see that he was not putting on an act for their benefit.

“DeWayne stayed my friend. We kept playing one on one at the park; sometimes we’d team up and play two on two against other guys. I kept waiting for him to ask to come to my house, but he never did. I figured his father must have told him something, but he wasn’t holding it against me.

“One day, toward the end of the summer, my mom told me I needed new shoes for school, and she’d take me before she went to work that day. So when I didn’t show up at the park to play basketball at the usual time, that was the day DeWayne decided he’d drop by my house to pick me up.” Ron took a pause to finish his glass of water. “The only person home when he got there was my dad. He was sleeping after working a night shift and then having a few drinks at an after-hours place with some friends. That morning, DeWayne made the mistake of ringing my doorbell.

“The next thing he knows my dad yanks the door open and starts beating him over the head with his baton. My dad is six-two and weighs over two hundred pounds. DeWayne was a foot shorter and not much more than a hundred pounds. And all of a sudden he has this madman beating the hell out of him, probably going to kill him right then and there, for the crime of coming to pick up his friend to play basketball.

“I saw all this as I was coming home with my new shoes. My father was beating DeWayne on his kidneys with his baton. I threw myself at my dad, trying to tackle him, to get him to stop. But I was no bigger than DeWayne. I bounced off. So I ran in the house and got my father’s gun.”

Ron took a deep breath and rubbed his hand over his face.

“When I got back outside, my father was still hitting DeWayne. Now, he was working over the backs of his legs. I fired a shot into the air. That finally broke the spell for my dad. He looked around, saw I had his gun and that it was pointed up, and he jumped on me. I thought he was going to start beating me, but I was wrong. He was shielding me. He yelled at me that when you fired a bullet up into the air it had to come back down, and when it did it could kill you. So he’d thrown his body over mine to take the bullet I’d fired if he had to.

“I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the man. Willing to die for his son, but lying to him about how he should think about other people. Where was the sense? With tears running down my face, I scrambled down to hold DeWayne, who was unconscious and bleeding from several places on his face and head. I demanded to know why my father had tried to kill my friend.

“I’ll never forget the look of genuine surprise, and disgust, on my father’s face. He said, ‘Your
friend?
I thought he was just some nigger casing the house so he could break in.’”

Ron turned to look directly at the jury.

“DeWayne recovered. And he didn’t even hold it against me for what my father had done to him. We went on to play basketball together for four years in high school. I’ve never addressed a black person as ‘nigger’ since the day my father nearly killed my best friend.”

Now, Ron directed his attention at Marcus Martin.

“You might remember DeWayne Michaels, Counselor. You recall that time you cheap-shotted me when our frosh-soph teams played that basketball game? You sent me to the hospital. DeWayne Michaels was the guy who said he’d take care of you if you ever tried it again.”

Martin could have objected to the personal reference as hearsay, but he knew it would be pointless. His case was lost. There was no way to attack
that
story.

Just to make sure the case was well in hand, Jack Hobart called Walter Ketchum, Ron’s father, to corroborate his son’s story. The old ex-cop dispassionately admitted he didn’t like blacks and that he thought they were responsible for most of society’s problems. He said he’d beaten DeWayne Michaels as his son had stated, and he’d honestly thought the boy had been about to burgle his house. Walter agreed that he, too, had learned his attitudes from his father, and if you went back far enough, you’d find a Ketchum who’d owned slaves in Texas, and had tried to keep them even after the Confederacy had lost the war.

Chantelle Michaels, DeWayne’s sister, also was called as a defense witness. She told of Ron’s friendship with her brother. She said that informing Ron her brother had been killed in an accident while serving in the army was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

Sergeant Oliver Gosden testified for Ron. He insisted on testifying even after Ron had told him it probably wasn’t necessary as the case looked to be won. Coming to the aid of a white officer — even one who’d saved his life — was sure to cause resentment among Gosden’s fellow black officers on the LAPD, the force was so riven by racial and gender animosities. But Oliver decided he had a moral obligation, and he fulfilled it.

In his closing statement, Jack Hobart painted Ron not just as a good man but a noble one. He was the police officer who had literally served and protected his neighbors. He was the police officer who risked his own life to save that of his fellow officer. But more than that, he was the kind of man who overcame an insidious legacy of hate which could have made him a racist like his father and grandfather and who knew how many other of his forebears before that. Make no mistake, Jack Hobart told the jury, Ron Ketchum, too, was exposed to this awful virus of hatred. It was bred into him as soon as he was first taught to say the word nigger. But he overcame those malignant lessons by hard experience and great effort. To coin a phrase, Hobart said, the man you see before you was a recovering bigot. He fought every day against the potential for hatred within him, and every day since he saw his father beat his best friend, he had won that fight.

The jury took less than two hours to return a verdict in Ron’s favor. But the media knew a sound bite when they heard one. They seized upon Jack Hobart’s description of Ron and affixed it to him forever in the public consciousness: Ron Ketchum, recovering bigot. The label would be his epitaph.

Especially since he never publicly disputed it.

There were those, of course, who would have liked to see him stripped of the fig leaf that the adjective
recovering
provided. Marcus Martin was the foremost among them, suffering not only the injury of losing his case against Ron but also the insult of being ordered to pay Ron’s legal fees.

Leilani Ketchum’s last act of solidarity with her husband was rewarded when a TV producer who’d attended each session of the trial was struck by her exotic beauty and cast her in a highly-rated police drama,
Plainclothes,
giving her, at long last, her big break.

Walter Ketchum suffered a stroke four days after testifying, and after his hospitalization had his home care provided by Esther Gadwell, an AfricanAmerican LPN, the only person who would put up with him.

And Ron Ketchum pulled the pin on his badge and retired from the LAPD.

That was where most of the media coverage had left off with Ron. Now that he was being run through the news cycle again, he was sure there would be an update added. The press was nothing if not complete in its invasions of a person’s privacy.

After his retirement and divorce, alone in a home he’d once hoped to fill with his children, still vital at 45, he tried to figure out what the hell he was going to do with himself. He hadn’t the slightest idea. But he suspected whatever it was would have to be done elsewhere. He was too controversial to stay in L.A.

For three months, he divided his time between fishing and fixing up his house for the day when he’d eventually put it on the market. Then one Monday morning the phone rang and a woman with a high-tone British accent asked him if he might be free that day to take lunch with Mr. Clay Steadman. Yes, he was told,
that
Mr. Clay Steadman. Ron thought this was all part of a joke Leilani was playing on him, and since he’d missed her badly, he agreed.

Much to his surprise when he showed up at the appointed place and time, he met Clay Steadman. Far more shocking, Mayor Steadman of the town of Goldstrike, had a job offer for him: He wanted Ron to be his new chief of police. The movie star mayor admitted that he’d had Ron thoroughly checked out, and he liked what he’d heard. He said the chief’s job came with a good salary and benefits, and the town would provide a fully modern six room cabin for his use. What did Ron think?

Ron asked if the mayor really wanted a recovering bigot to head his police department. Clay asked if Ron would have a problem working for a recovering drug addict. The two men suited each other. Once Ron made certain he could run the department with a large degree of autonomy, he accepted, packed his bags, turned his house over to a broker and headed north.

He’d been happy in Goldstrike, high up in his mountain retreat, the past three years. But now he knew you could keep the world and its troubles at bay only so long.

Then some shit-head would come along and nail a minister to a tree.

Chapter 12

Annie Stratton had tired of hosting the ever growing media mob, and kicked them out of the Muni Complex so she could go have a quick dinner. The newsies didn’t go far, however. They set up camp on the grassy area near the wishing fountain just outside police headquarters. They called in or emailed their stories about the victim’s identity, the conflict between the victim’s father and the chief of police, and the chief’s history. It was a warm, pleasant evening; the press was happy with their pickings so far; they were content to chat amongst themselves in the Muni’s genial environs and await further developments.

The senior people would leave when darkness fell and retire to dinner, drinks and their hotel rooms. The junior staffers would remain all night lest anyone in authority try to sneak something past the people’s watchful messengers.

Shortly before dusk, the head of the public works department appeared and started taking a census of the media. Unused to
answering
questions, the reporters demanded to know why the man wanted their names and those of their employers. Was this some form of harassment? The man from public works said with a smile that he just wanted to know whom he should bill to have the Muni’s lawn resodded, and whom he should hold responsible if there were any other damage to public property.

The media were in such a huff over this affront to the First Amendment that they almost missed the arrival of the victim’s family. But Charmaine, Japhet, and Mahalia Cardwell looked too much like the three tired, grief stricken out of towners they were to go unnoticed. Their race, their obvious emotional distress and their stiffly formal dark clothing led the newsies to the unerring conclusion that these people had to be the victim’s family.

Only the timely arrival of Annie Stratton, returning from her brief evening meal, kept the media from descending on the Cardwells like ravenous scavengers. The press secretary lashed the mob back with threats that they would be expelled from the Muni Complex entirely if they didn’t behave civilly. Such unreasonable demands brought loud cries of complaint. But Annie held her ground while a police officer responding to the uproar escorted the Cardwells into the mayor’s office.

Clay Steadman personally seated the bereaved family on a sofa in his office. Ron Ketchum and Oliver Gosden, also present, offered their condolences. The mayor assured the Cardwells that the town of Goldstrike grieved with them over their loss.

Charmaine Cardwell nodded her acceptance and fought back tears. Mahalia Cardwell only glared in silence. But four year old Japhet spoke up.

“Can I see my daddy now?” the boy asked.

The question was more than his mother could bear. She took her son in her arms and began to sob. Ron nodded to Oliver. He summoned a female police officer, and she took Charmaine and Japhet from the room.

That left Mahalia Cardwell. She stood and stuck her jaw out at the three men. She looked to be in her seventies, a tall, unbowed, rawboned woman with strength in her body and fury in her eyes.

“Charmaine lost her husband,” she said, “and my great-grandson lost his daddy. But I …” She looked as if she wanted to lash out, spend her rage rending flesh and crushing bones. “I raised Isaac since he was Japhet’s age, since his mama died. I lost my baby.”

“Mrs. Cardwell,” Clay said, understanding her perfectly, “if I could hand your grandson’s killer over to you right now, to dispose of as you please, I’d do it. But all I can tell you is, this town will spare no effort to see that justice is done.”

Mahalia Cardwell nodded as if she’d expected no lesser promise.

“You catch the man who killed Isaac,” she told the municipal authorities arrayed before her. “You catch him or heaven help you.”

Just as when he’d spoken to her on the phone, Ron felt this woman knew who the killer was. And she had known that Jimmy Thunder would try to claim Isaac Cardwell’s body. He wanted to question her, but he knew he’d do better to wait until tomorrow.

The mayor said, “Mrs. Cardwell, I’ve reserved a suite at the Hyatt for you and your family at my expense. I’ve also arranged to have your grandson’s body returned to Oakland in the morning. If there’s anything else I can do for any of you, just call. My staff will put you through to me at any hour. I’ll have Chief Ketchum take you and Mrs. Cardwell and Japhet out the back way so you won’t be bothered by the reporters.”

“No!” the old lady said so fiercely she surprised all three men. “You can take Charmaine and Japhet out back, but I want to talk to those people. I have something to say. And I want the whole world to hear it.”

“As you like,” Clay conceded.

Ron took Mahalia Cardwell out the front door of police headquarters. They were hit by TV lights immediately. The old woman squinted in their glare, but her step did not falter.

Whatever it was she had to say, Ron Ketchum wanted to hear it.

Addressing the press, now packed five deep, Mahalia Cardwell said, “I want all you people to know what a good man my grandson, Isaac, was. I want you to know he was kind and gentle. He never had a mean thought or word for anybody. He loved crackheads and whores just like he loved his own wife and baby, because he believed we are all Jesus’ children.” For just a moment, the old woman’s fierce eyes softened, allowing her own deep sorrow to be revealed. “And that’s the only reason I can think the Lord took him so soon: He could no longer bear not having Isaac at his side in heaven.”

Then her rage returned, more fierce than ever.

“But the last thing I want you all to know is … God will
curse
this town, this place where my grandson was killed … He will curse it until Isaac’s killer is delivered to justice.”

Having spoken her piece, Mahalia Cardwell did not deign to take any of the questions shouted at her. Ron escorted her to a waiting police car. He opened the front passenger door for her and got her seated.

“This officer will take you to your hotel, Mrs. Cardwell. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with you at your convenience in the morning.”

She looked at Ron with a penetrating stare.

“Walter Nance told me all about you,” she said, mentioning the Oakland police captain Ron had called that morning. “I remember reading about you in the newspaper, too. What you did down there in Los Angeles. Shooting those colored boys.”

She nodded to herself. “You might be just the man I need.”

A considerably younger woman stepped out from behind the media crowd to approach Ron as he headed back to his office. The chief saw one of his men intercept her, but she said something to the officer, who nodded and let her pass. Ron kept walking, but he watched her as she drew near.

She was tall, about five nine, he thought, sizing her up instinctively. Medium build but she had broad shoulders, and the little bounce in her step indicated good muscle tone. So he put her weight at one forty, maybe one forty-five. Her hair was light brown with blonde highlights, and cut short. The practical appearance of her hairstyle made him think her color was natural rather than a salon’s attempt at being artful.

She was wearing some kind of uniform: a khaki shirt with a badge over the left breast pocket. The nametag over the right pocket said KNOX. There was a patch on her left shoulder that featured a grizzly bear. Her pants were green, and her belt and shoes were black.

“Chief Ketchum,” she said, falling into step with Ron, “I’m Cordelia Knox, California Department of Fish and Game.” She had a faint New England accent.

Ron reached the front door of police headquarters and held it open for her. Standing close to her now, he thought Cordelia Knox looked young enough to be a kid going to a costume party. She seemed to recognize his appraisal, but didn’t let it bother her.

“I’m a game warden and a wildlife biologist,” she said in a matter of fact tone, entering the building. Once inside, out of range of the media’s pointed ears and microphones, she added. “I’m also a tracker and a hunter. And I was told you had a mountain lion attack on a female jogger yesterday morning.”

Ron led the way to his office and offered her a guest chair. He took his own seat and considered her briefly again. He didn’t doubt that she’d told him the truth about her credentials, but she still looked like a kid to him. He knew he’d better not let any criticism of her youth carry in his voice or show in manner. People might accuse him of being ageist as well as racist.

“Thank you for coming, Warden Knox. I’m glad you’re here.” Ron opened a desk drawer, took out a file, and handed it to his visitor. “Here’s our report on the Mary Kaye Mallory attack. You can read it here or I can have a copy made for you to take with you.”

“I’ll do both, if you don’t mind,” she said with a smile.

Okay, he thought, she’s a
good looking
kid, and he was starting to feel like a dirty old man. In the light of his office, he could see that her hair color was definitely natural and she had matching amber-brown eyes.

When she looked up from her reading there was a measure of concern in those eyes that made him think for the first time Cordelia Knox was a real grown-up, and a serious one at that.

“Chief, I think I have some bad news for you.”

“What’s that?” he asked evenly.

“When I heard of the attack on Ms. Mallory, it made me think of a cat I’ve been tracking for a month now.”

“You’ve been after a mountain lion for a month, and haven’t been able to catch it? Isn’t that unusual?”

She shrugged, taking no offense.

“It can happen. A mountain lion has a pretty big range, up to a hundred square miles. But most times, when we want a big cat badly enough, we’ll contract with a houndsman and, with the help of his dogs, run down our prey pretty quickly. But this animal … this one’s different.”

Ron frowned. “How’s that?”

“Well,” she said, “when we went after it with the hounds, it crippled two of them and killed a third. Damn near got the houndsman, too. It did all that damage, and still managed to get away before I could shoot it. And I’m a crack shot. But the really bad news is, this cat, in my opinion, is already responsible for the death of another person.”

Ron didn’t have any trouble reading between the lines. “Are you saying the mountain lion you’ve been tracking is the same one that attacked Mary Kaye Mallory?”

“Well, that’s the puzzle. Because the location of the attack near Goldstrike would put it outside the normal range of the animal I’ve been hunting.”

“But?” Ron asked.

“But your Ms. Mallory, who must be one tough woman, noticed this distinguishing mark.” Cordelia Knox turned the report around for Ron and pointed out a particular notation. “This scar above the cat’s left eye. The cat I want has the same feature.”

“I have an occupational contempt for coincidence, Warden Knox,” Ron said, “but
could
it be just a coincidence?”

“Could be,” she conceded. “Mountain lions feed mainly on deer. Lots of cats get gored and gouged by antlers. It’s a
possibility
we could have two of them with similar scars.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Cordelia Knox shook her head.

“In my own way, I’m a cop, too. I hate coincidences as much as you do. But there may be something I can find that will pin it down for us.”

“Like what?” Ron wanted to know.

“If I can find the tracks of the animal that attacked Ms. Mallory, I can compare them to those on record for the animal I want.”

Ron had to laugh. “You’re going to run a mountain lion for fingerprints?”

She smiled again, once more tapping into a wellspring of lechery whose existence Ron had heretofore never suspected. He forced a cough before he blushed for the first time since … well, he couldn’t remember the last time.

“Not quite fingerprints,” she said, “but it’s the same idea. You find the animal’s tracks, then you look for distinguishing features: a short toe; a missing toe; one foot turned in. You measure the size of the tracks. Maybe you even work out a ratio of the width of the front footpads to the width of the rear footpads. Things like that.”

Ron found the calm, off-hand expertise of her explanation reassuring.

“So, you find out it’s the same animal, the way we both think now, and then you send for some more dogs?”

His reassurance disappeared when she shook her head.

“Afraid not, Chief. We’re clean out of hounds. At least the kind you use to go after mountain lions.”

“You’re kidding.” Ron couldn’t imagine a scarcity of anything in consumption obsessed California, except rain in drought years and prison space perennially.

She shook her head. “Sorry. Your basic houndsman come in two varieties these days. Traditional and commercial. The traditional guy is usually Southern or has his roots down south. His kind is getting fewer and farther between. The commercial guy will charge some two thousand to five thousand dollars to tree a lion or corner a bear for you.”

“If it’s a matter of money, don’t worry,” Ron said. “The town will make up any shortfall in your budget.”

This time the game warden’s smile was wry.