Reaper (12 page)

“Sure, no problem.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

June 20
th

Max and Steve were sitting at one of those round banquet tables right smack dab in the center of an otherwise big, empty Police Union Hall.  Steve was leaning back in his chair, with one foot propped on the table edge.  Both were drinking coffee.  Two empty, hard-bottomed folding chairs were across from them.

They had arrived early and got the agreement of Fred Lopes, the Police Union President, to only admit the DHS officers if they came as a pair.  Otherwise, they would be refused entry and asked to leave.

At 10:05 AM, the door from the reception area opened and Tattoo and Shorty stepped through.  Behind them stood Fred Lopes, who gave Max and Steve a thumbs-up, indicating they had come alone.

“You’re late,” Max said before they even sat down.

“Wudda been on time if your asshole friend out there hadn’t of made us wait while he finished a phone call,” Shorty said.

As soon as they were seated, Max said, “Okay, now I’m going to read you your Constitutional rights before we go any further here.  You have the right to remain silent.  ….”

“What are you talking about?” Tattoo said.  “We’re here to interview
you
.”

“So Godfrey didn’t tell you?  We asked you here to question you regarding a pending case for possession of narcotics, which is a felony by the way, attempting to make a false police report, plus about a half dozen other crimes.  So I need to read you your constitutional rights first.  You know what the Constitution is, don’t you?  It’s the thing you and the rest of the federal government are violating just about every minute of every day.”

“First of all, wise guy, you got no case on us,” Tattoo said.  “Secondly, we’re here to question you about conspiracy to damage federal property and …”

It was all Max could do to keep from laughing.  They’d turned the table on the DHS guys and threw them off their game plan.

“Steve dropped all four legs of his chair down on the carpet, leaned forward and said, “Oh, we have a case on you, dumb shit.  Remember the photos the guy you stopped was taking?”

“You don’t have any photos, and we know that for a fact,” Tattoo said.

“And how exactly do you know that?” Max asked.  Gotcha.  Only one way these idiots could know we didn’t have the photos Blogger took, Max thought, and that was if they had Blogger in their custody along with his phone.

“Because ….”  Shorty said, but was cut off by Tattoo.

“We just do, is all,” Tattoo finished.

“You have him, don’t you?  You have that kid and his phone.  Perfect.  That’s another charge, witness intimidation.  You two are just racking them up, aren’t you?  How about we have one of our Superior Court judges serve the U.S. Attorney with an order to produce our witness?”  Max didn’t know if he could really do this, but it sounded impressive.

“I know what you’re trying to do, and it ain’t gonna work, smartass,” Tattoo said.  “We’re here to question … “

Max held up his hand because his phone, sitting on the table, rang.  “I have to get this.  It’s an important call.”

“This is bullshit,” Tattoo said.

Walt Briggs was on the other end of the line.

“You got a welcoming party waiting for you down the block and around the corner.  They’re all swatted-up, carbines, K9’s, the works.  Six of ‘em in two cars.  Want me to do what we discussed?”

Max looked at his watch.  “Yeah, at exactly 10:15, okay?”

“Gonna love it!  I’ll take pictures.”

Max nodded at Steve and in unison they stood up, drew their pistols, circled the table, and said, “Don’t move.”

Shorty started to stand, so Steve used the butt of his pistol to cold-cock him, knocking him onto the floor.  He quickly applied a twist lock, holstered his weapon, zip-tied him, and searched him for his phone and gun.

Tattoo, who was still seated, was in a positional disadvantage to Max standing over him.  “So, you going down too?” Max said.

“You can’t do this.  We’re federal officers.”

“Yeah and we’re San Jose cops.  You were supposed to show up alone.  You didn’t.  You have people waiting down the street to make an illegal arrest.  That’s a crime and it ain’t gonna happen.  Unfortunately, given the situation, we can’t transport you to our jail.  So we’re going to have to submit a report to our D.A. and get an arrest warrant.  The way I got it figured, though, is you two are going to be too embarrassed to admit you were this stupid …
again
, and will probably not say anything to anybody.  Either way, we’re good with what happens.  Now, put your hands behind your back without getting up out of the chair.”

“You know, we’ll get even with you for this,” Tattoo said.

Max zipped-tied his wrists and relieved him of his pistol as he replied, “I know you’ll try to get even with us.”

He had Tattoo sit on the floor with his back to Shorty and used another zip-tie to secure their wrists together.  He took Tattoo’s phone as well.

To Steve he said, “We’ve got about three minutes.  Check the phone for the photos.”

After just a few seconds, Steve said, “Got ‘em.  I can’t believe it.”  He looked at Tattoo and Shorty, shook his head and said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Tattoo slammed his back into Shorty and said, “Stupid!”

“What do you got?” Max asked.

“The whole thing.  All of it.”

“Okay, now, as quickly as you can, send them to my phone.  Two minutes to go.”

Steve punched away at buttons, Max heard a satisfying beep on his cell, checked it, and saw it was an email message from Shorty’s phone with an attachment.  It was the cell phone video Blogger had taken plus other photos from a previous encounter.

“Okay, the plan has changed, gentlemen,” Max said.  “This is how we’re gonna do this.  Two minutes after we leave here, this video will be sent to three different email addresses and then saved to three thumb drives, so you guys can’t pull any of that NSA, cell phone bullshit.  Two of the thumb drives will be hidden in places you’ll never find.  The third will be given to the Chief of Police.  If you deliver the kid to me within twenty-four hours, through that idiot Godfrey, then the video stays hidden. But if I don’t have the kid by this time tomorrow, the video becomes evidence, and you and anyone who helped you will be prosecuted.  If you somehow block that prosecution, I’ll wait two weeks, a month, six months, however long it takes until this shit we’re going through is over with, and send it to every news organization I can think of.  Think congressional hearings, terminations, prosecutions, federal civil rights lawsuits ….”

“America’s Funniest Home Videos,” Steve added.

“Got it?” Max continued.  “Remember, twenty-four hours, Godfrey to me.”

They threw the phones belonging to the two DHS cops on the floor, placed their pistols on the table and walked out the side door of the union hall to their car.  Max looked at his watch, “It should be going down right about now.”  At that exact moment he heard sirens and smiled.  “Amateurs.”

Walt Briggs and his team, five cars total, hit their sirens and screamed down the street toward the DHS officers who were still waiting for the bust signal from Tattoo and Shorty.

One block away, the DHS cops turned, saw the cars coming with red lights and sirens, and froze, confused as to what was going on.  Nobody said anything about the San Jose Police being involved in the arrest. 

One of them started for his car.  Another one mumbled, “What the fuck?” and looked at his partner.  The rest of them just stood there and faced the blue and whites heading right for them.

The first marked unit actually went past them, but then hit the brakes, made a hard right, and stopped in front of their lead car.  The second unit stopped directly behind the last DHS car.  The third and fourth blue and whites stopped next to them on the left.  The final car actually went up onto the sidewalk, blocking them in on the right.  By then, Sgt. Walt Briggs was already out of his car, his hat squarely on his head, announcing, “Everyone just relax.  We’re here to keep you from making the biggest mistake of your careers and doing something very, very illegal.  In a way, you can think of us as your friends.  You’ll be free to go as soon as we get word.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Jeff sat on a folding camp stool just inside the U-shaped rock wall, with a carbine propped barrel-up next to him.  Louis Espinosa, the husband of the department’s Press Information Officer and veteran of the Iraq war, stood nearby, sipping a cup of coffee and staring out at the street.  It was their turn on the security detail.

“So now why him?” Louis casually asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.  “Can you trust him not to screw it up?”

Max glanced at his watch.  He should be here by now, he thought.  “Under the circumstances, he was the best choice.  I didn’t want to pick the kid up myself because once I was there they may not have let me go.  And I sure didn’t want those guys showing up here.  Since Godfrey seems to be able to get along with them, well, I guess you can see my point.”

“Is that them?” Jessica asked, pointing.

“That’s them,” Steve replied.

Jeff stood, Louis stepped up next to him, and the rest; Max, Steve, Jessica, Myra and Walt, formed a loose reception line along the drive, inside the gate.

Godfrey waited for Max to roll the gate open before driving through and stopping just on the other side.  The top of a head could be seen above the rear window frame, through the smoked glass.

Godfrey stepped out, hitched up his uniformed pants, walked around the front of his car and said, “Now you’re letting criminals stay here?  Real smart, Calloway.”

Nobody answered him. Instead, Steve stepped to the right rear door, opened it, said, “Son of a bitch,” and turned his head, looking at Godfrey.  “What the fuck, Lieutenant?”

In response, Godfrey said, “Hey, that’s how I got him.  They said he resisted arrest.”  The hint of a smile appeared and vanished a second later.

Steve helped Blogger out of the vehicle, holding on to him to keep him from falling.  Both his eyes were black and one was almost completely swollen shut.  The other eye showed blood in the white part, his hair was pushed up in the back, he was favoring one leg, his clothes looked like he’d slept in them since his disappearance, and he smelled like he’d just run a marathon in ninety degree heat.  When he looked at the people around him, he appeared confused.

Myra slipped past Godfrey, took Blogger’s other arm, said, “Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” and together she and Steve walked him toward the front door of the substation.

“Where am I?” Blogger asked.

“Someplace safe.  We’ll fix you up and then you’re free to go or stay,” Steve said.  “I don’t think they’ll bother you anymore.”

“Where am I?” he asked again, almost as if he hadn’t heard Steve.

To Steve, Myra said, “Don’t worry about it.  He might have a concussion.  Sometimes they act that way.”

Jessica, who was walking behind the three, stopped, looked back at Godfrey as if she was going to say something to him, but apparently changed her mind and continued on.

“What’s going on, Calloway?  Why was I told to bring him here?”

Nobody spoke to Godfrey in reply.  Walt and Max simply turned and followed the others toward the building.

“Hey, goddamnit.  I asked you a question, mister.”

Godfrey turned on Jeff.  “Why is that man here?  He was a federal prisoner.”

Jeff looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his attention to the street.

Louis told Jeff, “I’m going to check the perimeter,” and walked away.

Godfrey stood there for a few seconds staring at the building before getting in his car and driving out the gate.

Max stopped at the entrance to the substation to ask Frank if he, Raha, and Tony needed any help.  They were hauling sacks of rice, beans, pasta, cans of veggies, and boxes of frozen meat into the kitchen.

Frank waved him off.  “Nah, we got it.”

Once inside the building, Arnie Dunn, a dispatcher, stuck his head out of the communications room, “Hey Max, can I talk to you a second?”

Max excused himself, and followed Arnie inside the room.  “What do you got?”

“Thought you should know about this.  It’s just being dispatched.  They found a body hanging in Saint James Park.  A sign labels him a traitor.  They’re thinking it’s that federal judge everyone’s looking for.”

“Ah, shit,” Max said.

As he bent over with his hands resting on the counter top supporting the computer screen, he heard a flurry of muffled gunshots, which brought him upright again.  His eyes immediately went to the monitors for the outside security cameras.

At the front gate, Jeff was down on the ground behind the rock barrier with Louis crouched over him.

For the second time in as many minutes, Max said “Ah, shit.  Call it in, Arnie,” and ran toward the front door.

When he exited, he saw Frank getting up from the pavement and running toward Jeff.  As Max followed behind, he noticed Frank snake a three inch .357 revolver from his belt, where he had apparently been keeping it concealed.  At the same time, Max heard a string of shots that could only be from a 5.56/.223 carbine.  That sound made him focus on the gate where he saw Louis aiming Jeff’s rifle toward the street and shooting one round after another.  He felt more than thought, this is all wrong.

Out in the street were two vehicles, one a white Cadillac Escalade, and the other a blue Chevy pickup.  They were stopped front to butt and people were piling in.  The last one in was a skinny, camo tee-shirt wearing, white male who stood at the near side rear door of the Escalade, firing toward Louis.  The pickup truck swung out around the Cadillac and took off, blocking Max’s view of the final shooter.  But the truck also drove right through the shots being exchanged by Louis and Camo Boy.  At that same moment, two very loud gunshots sounded from Frank’s magnum.  The truck raced down the street with Frank firing two more shots at it.

The Cadillac started rolling at that point, before the last gunman was even fully in the car.  As he got in, he thrust his pistol out the window, and Max, Frank, and Louis all fired at the same time.  The shooter disappeared from view; the vehicle lurched forward, swerved, and cut a path toward the sidewalk in front of the empty commercial building across the street.  It hopped the curb with the front two tires, rode up on the right rear, and then rolled back into the street where it came to a stop.

While both Frank and Louis reloaded, Max ran toward the gate and, with his pistol out and pointing, rolled the gate open.  As he was doing that, he saw both the far side passenger doors of the Escalade swing open and two people take off running.  He also heard people running behind him.  When he spun, he saw Walt and Steve coming at a sprint, Walt with a 12 gauge in hand.

Steve ran right to the stone barrier and dropped to the ground next to Jeff.  He looked behind him, held up his hand, and shouted, “No, no, not yet.  Wait!”

Max chanced a quick glance back and saw Myra ignoring Steve’s wave off, still coming on like an Olympic sprinter out of the blocks, shouldering her trauma bag.

Louis, Frank, and Walt moved up next to Max and together they walked, with weapons pointing, to the Escalade.

The vehicle must have had fifteen holes in the left side doors.  Both side windows were shot out and there was a bullet crease on both the hood and roof.  Inside were two dead, the driver and Camo Boy, and the floorboards were littered with shell casings and weapons.

By the time the four men stepped back inside the fence, half the residents were outside looking.  Max shouted at nobody in particular, directing them to check the trailers and RVs parked in the lot for anyone who may have been injured by a stray bullet and watched several people move off.

Jeff had been hit on the left side of his chest about mid-level.  From what Max could see, the bullet passed all the way through because Myra was applying an Asherman chest seal to the hole in the front and taping the peal-off cover to the backside.

“Steve, take control of his head so he doesn’t move it around,” Myra said.  She moved over next to him and manipulated Jeff’s jaw so it opened his airway.  “Hold it just like that.  You can do both things at the same time.”

Myra next listened to Jeff’s breathing and felt his carotid pulse.

Max couldn’t help but think how just minutes before he was standing with Jeff and the others, waiting for Blogger to arrive.  Life changes in an instant.

Without looking up from her ministrations, Myra asked, “Max, how’s your leg?”

It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he answered, “Fine.”

She glanced back at him with a doubtful look, returned her attention to Jeff, doing a primary survey, looking for other life-threating injuries.  “Anyone else hurt?”

“The others are hurt past help.”

“Does that mean they’re dead?” she asked sharply as she readjusted Jeff’s jaw to maintain an open airway.

Max thought, okay, she doesn’t like screwing around when she’s working and wants straight, clear, precise answers.  “They’re dead.”

Frank stood there for a few seconds longer, eyes hooded, face otherwise expressionless, before saying, “I got lunch to make.  Let me know how it turns out.”  He walked off toward the building, seemingly unaffected by any of it.

Before he got too far away, Max almost said something to him about how he shouldn’t be carrying a pistol.  He thought better of it, though.  Times were changing fast.

A few days ago, an event such as this would have received a full police response; a code three supervisor, at least three beat units, fire fighters, and later, homicide and crime scene investigators.  Questions would have been asked, descriptions broadcast, an area search conducted, weapons collected for testing, crime scene drawings made, photographs taken, attorneys appointed, union reps assigned, the support of traumatic incident counselors offered, maybe even a press conference held; a complete dog and pony show.  But today, as of yet, the first police unit hadn’t even arrived.  A damn siren couldn’t even be heard.

Max knew Frank was no dummy.  He’d been around.  He knew help was no longer a minute, or two, or three, or even thirty away; he had to know it, everyone knew it.  Even the crooks knew it or they wouldn’t be pulling stuff like this.  No, Frank carrying a pistol for protection was a reasonable choice.  So instead of saying anything to Frank, Max turned to Louis and asked, “What the heck happened?”

“I don’t know, man.  Shortly after Godfrey left, they pulled up out front. One guy walks to the gate while his buddies hung back and asked Jeff what we were doing here.  Jeff gave him the standard deal, you know, disaster preparedness exercise and all that.  Then the guy kinda nods his head at me and asks, ‘What’s with Poncho over there?’  That’s when Jeff told him to leave.  The guy called him a faggot and walked back across the street.  Jeff didn’t threaten him, or swear at him, nothing.  His pistol was covered up, and the carbine was behind the barrier where they couldn’t see it.  After that, they just opened up on us.  I dropped down below the rocks.  Jeff got hit, and I pulled him in with me.  I could tell he was hurt bad and needed help.  They kept shooting, though.  So, well, I grabbed the carbine and returned fire.  I guess the rest you saw for yourself.”

“You did good,” Max told him.

Louis stared at him for a couple of seconds before saying, “I thought I was through with this bullshit after Iraq.  Why would they do that?  Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, it does and it doesn’t.  Think about it.  When people are being kidnapped, shot, blown up, poisoned with radiation, and their government responds by taking it out on everyone, there are some who think, why the hell not.  It’s kind of like those riots in L.A. or what happened after Katrina.  People who maybe are a little outlaw, go all out when they think they can get away with it.  Or in the case of some of these militias, it’s a recruiting goldmine and an opportunity to send their message to a lying, incompetent government.”

“But this isn’t some third world country, this is America.  We got cars, grocery stores, schools, McDonalds, and a Starbucks on just about every corner, free food if you need it, free money for that matter.”

“Yeah, I know, but sometimes when I go to some of the calls we get, and talk with some of the people, I think we’re all just one thing away from every man for himself.  Government is supposed to prevent that one thing from happening, but it seems like lately the only thing they care about is the agenda benefitting them first and us last.”

Louis was quiet for a second, staring off into space, before handing Max Jeff’s carbine and saying, “I better call Anna.  Working out of the chief’s office, she’s probably heard about this already and will be worried.”

As Louis walked off, another thought popped into Max’s head.  Did Shorty and Tattoo set this up?  It wouldn’t be that hard.  They had to know some militia members; a little cash, a promise of no prosecution, done deal.