The Disposables (7 page)

His smile faded, making him look older. He didn't buy my weak excuse, again patted my shoulder. “Ah—sure, sure. I was going to look you up anyway. Wait around, this won't take long. Let me test-a-lie and we'll grab a bite to eat.” Test-a-lie, one of the words used by the BMFs.

He'd caught me off guard. I hadn't expected to see him in Compton court, especially on this sort of case. “You're on this?” I said. “Really? Ah, yeah, I mean, lunch sounds good.” So he wasn't on the prowl, ready to make an arrest after all.

He smiled, figuring this was a scam and I was in court for an entirely different reason, like a pending case under an aka—also known as. That's what I would have thought.

He walked up, raised his right hand, and was sworn in.

The Deputy DA, a Ms. Hosseni, a Middle Eastern gal, dark complexion, with black hair pulled back from her face, held by two abalone barrettes, stood at the podium. “Lieutenant Wicks, by whom are you employed?”

“Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.”

“How long have you been a peace officer?”

“Twenty-eight and a half years.”

“What is your current assignment?”

“I'm temporarily assigned to a task force attached to Homicide.”

“Were you working as a peace officer on September fifteenth of this year, in the county of Los Angeles, state of California?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

This was a prelim with no jury, a prelim that had been put over again and again for one reason or another mostly because there was really no reason to rush it. And from the looks of him, until recently, the defendant hadn't been up to it physically. The judge was going to determine if there was probable cause to bind the defendant, Johnny Wayne Bascombe, over for trial.

Wicks looked to the judge. “At the time I was working in my regular assignment out of narcotics assisting in a search warrant service on Nord Avenue in the county area of Los Angeles. As a supervisor, I was only there to observe. My guys deployed on a house while I watched from my unit in the street. That's when a Rocky Mountain Spring water guy came
up to me and said that he had just delivered some bottled water to a house five doors down and across the street. He said he went in the back door because there was a pit bull chained up out front. On a daybed at the back of the house he saw a child hog-tied. That's the way he put it, ‘hog-tied'.”

The blood started to pound behind my eyes. I looked over at Johnny Wayne. His chin was up as if proud of all the attention he now received, as if he were some sort of Al Capone who derived respect from his criminality.

“His hands and feet were bound together behind his back. He was facedown on a dirty sheet that was bloody. The Rocky Mountain Water guy said it was real hot inside, and he didn't know if the kid was even breathing.

“Because there was a dire threat to a human life, I immediately advised dispatch, asked for a patrol unit to assist code-three, and went to the house.”

“Lieutenant, did you go by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you alert some of your men?”

I knew why. Robby also carried the BMF tattoo and he knew it was going to get ugly. He knew he wasn't going to want witnesses.

“There wasn't time to alert my men. From the description the bottle water guy gave me, the child was in imminent danger. Besides, my men were still securing the house for the high-risk dope search warrant. To pull even one of them away would have jeopardized the operation and their safety.”

“What did you do next?”

“I went to the location. And because there was a threat to
the safety of a child, I didn't knock. I drew my service weapon and went in the back door.”

“And what did you find?”

“A six-year-old boy hog-tied facedown in a stifling room. It was at least a hundred and twenty inside the house. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose. It looked like his arm was broken, and he was in shock.”

“What happened next?”

“The defendant,” Robby pointed to Johnny Wayne, “without provocation charged me. I was forced to defend myself.”

“He's a liar!” Two pews back a sketchy speed-freak woman in a dingy-white tank top and greasy jeans, stood up. I knew her as Dora Bascombe. “He's a liar. He attacked my Johnny and beat the livin' shit out of him. Pistol-whipped his ass until he was a bloody pulp. Look at his face, Judge. Christ, look at his face.”

The judge banged his gavel. The bailiff moved into the audience, took the screaming woman by the arm, and tugged and pulled her out of the courtroom.

I looked back at Johnny Wayne. He smiled, happy that his woman had stood up for him. Her misplaced loyalty meant a lot in his world. Johnny didn't have any front teeth, courtesy of Robby Wicks, which gave his smile a sunken look, as if the vacant space where his brain should have been sucked and puckered his lips and skin into an empty vortex.

When the courtroom was again under control, the deputy DA turned back to Robby, “Please, Lieutenant, continue.”

“Like I said, before I could render aid to the child, the defendant attacked me. I had no alternative but to use the force necessary to subdue and take the suspect into custody.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Now, I would like to show you some photos of—”

“Your Honor,” the public defender stood and spoke for the
first time, a diminutive man dressed in a worn JCPenney's suit. “For the purposes of this hearing we will stipulate to the injuries of the child.” He sat back down.

The judge looked at the Deputy DA. “Do you have anything further?”

“Prosecution rests.”

“Mr. Howard.”

The public defender again stood and moved to the podium. “Your Honor, the State has not proved that my client was the one who committed these crimes. The mere fact that he was present does not prove he was involved.”

The public defender knew the whole story. The woman hauled out of the room had broken the little guy's arm, but Johnny Wayne was just as culpable. He was the one who'd tied the child up, slugged him in the mouth, gave him fifteen sutures in his lips, and had broken his nose. My Marie had gotten the whole story out of the child when they brought him into Killer King to be treated.

“Further, the felonious assault on a peace officer charge should be dropped because the officer did—”

The judge interrupted him. “Counselor, are you going to cross examine the witness or go right into your closing argument?”

Howard paused, turned back to Robby, “Officer, did you have a warrant to enter the residence?”

“No.”

“Did you … no, strike that. What were you wearing?”

“A suit and tie.”

“At any time did you announce that you were a police officer?”

“Yes, as Mr. Bascombe was charging me I yelled, ‘Stop, police.'”

I looked over at Johnny who knew enough from past court
encounters where cops were involved to keep his mouth shut concerning this lie and only shook his head no.

“Officer, was there anyone else in the house that witnessed this, that heard you identify yourself?”

Robby lost his professional demeanor. “Yes, there was, the poor little defenseless kid who was damn near beat to death.”

The judge looked at him as if about to issue an admonishment and changed his mind. “Anything else, Counselor?”

Howard shook his head and sat down.

“Ms. Hosseni?”

She stood. “Yes, Your Honor, we believe there is sufficient evidence to hold the defendant, on the charges PC 273d, 236, PC69, and PC 243b.”

“Mr. Howard?”

“Your Honor, the officer entered without cause and—”

“Mr. Howard, that belongs in a 1538.5 motion. Anything else?”

“The officer did not identify himself, and the defendant believed his residence was being burglarized and defended himself.”

The judge waited for more, and when Howard didn't continue, the judge looked down at his papers, “The court finds there is sufficient evidence that a crime of 273d, 236, and PC69 did occur, and that there is probable cause to believe the defendant, if tried, would be found guilty. As for the charge of 243b, the State did not prove to this court that the officer sustained any injuries during the assault.” He rapped his gavel. “Let's set this for December fifteenth. Are there any problems with that date?” Both attorneys were busy logging the information in their files.

“No, Your Honor.”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Next case.”

I got up and hustled to the door.

Robby came down off the stand, and patted the DA on the shoulder as he passed on his way out. She stood. “Detective Wicks?”

I stopped at the door to observe.

Robby turned, went back, lowered his head. They both smiled as they spoke in low tones. Robby nodded, took hold of her shoulder, and gave it a squeeze.

Out in the hall, the elevator was too slow; Robby caught up to me.

“Hey,” Robby said, “I thought I was going to buy you some lunch.”

“Yeah, sure, that'd be great.”

“Whatta ya say, since we're so close, for old times, we run up to Stops for a hot link?”

I didn't have much choice. The entire purpose of the court appearance was to follow Dora Bascombe when she left the courthouse. Now she was nowhere to be seen. Robby had already cheesed that. I'd have to get the information I needed another way, which meant I had to tell Marie all about what I was doing. She wasn't going to be happy.

We walked in silence out to his car, the same one he'd given me a ride in to Killer King the night the Violent Crime Team killed the kid out in front of Mr. Cho's. We got in, he started up.

He put his arm over the seat to back out, his face close to mine, “What was it that you were going to talk to me about?”

I was tired and my mind felt full of sludge. “I need your help.” I never intended on telling him, but there was nothing else I could say that he would believe or at least not see right through.

“I'm here for you, man. You know that,” he said.

He steered the car over to Willowbrook Avenue and headed north in the late morning traffic.

“Well, you gonna tell me or sit there like a bump on a log?”

“Detective Mack paid me a visit.”

“Ah, shit. I thought I had that fixed. I'm sorry, man, really. You can bet your ass it won't happen again. Not after I get through with that little son of a bitch.”

“I've been thinking about it. If he came at me after you talked to him, talking to him a second time is only going to make things worse. I'd appreciate it if you'd just lay off him. Maybe he'll cool out all on his own.” I knew that wasn't going to happen, but all I had to do was dodge Mack for another week, and then it just wouldn't matter anymore.

Robby shook his head in disgust. “You know his kind. He's not working the Violent Crimes Team because he shies away from trouble.”

“I know, but I think I can duck him long enough that he'll forget about me.”

“It really pisses me off he went against my orders. I'll go along with you, but only on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“If he catches up to you on some lonely dark street, you leave enough of him for us to identify.”

I smiled. Robby still had far too much confidence in me. I was nothing more than a broken-down, wrong-side-of-forty ex-con.

Before I could say anything in response, he said. “I need your help. I'm just going to lay it out. I haven't slept in thirty-six hours and I'm dead on my feet.”

“Help you how?”

“Like the old days. I need the best of the best to shut down this asshole who's torching everyone, and you're it. He hit again last night, fried another one. He's doing it more frequently now.”

“How can I help? I'm on parole.”

“I can call in a favor, fix it with your PO. I'm calling in a lot of favors on this one. All I got.”

“I can't help you, Lieutenant, it would only get us both in trouble and you know it.”

“Like I told you, I'm so tired I can't see straight. I don't have time to stroke your ego or pat you on the head. You owe me, and I'm calling in your marker. You know I never intended to do it, but this situation is getting real shitty. You can't imagine the pressure they're putting on me.”

I did owe him. Going back a long time. He was a patrol sergeant, and I was new to the streets pushing a radio car in South Central. It was something I didn't want to ever think about, the images of that night. Just the thought of it—her name—I'd pushed her name out of my memory and wouldn't let it back in.

Robby stopped at a red signal at Compton Avenue. “Say something, Bruno. You know that if you and I team up like the old days, we'd have this son of a bitch all grappled up inside a week. That's all I want from you is one week. One week, pays you up in full.”

On second thought, I really didn't owe him, not after he shot me, though independent of his argument, I did feel the tug of morality, to do what was right.

The signal turned green. We sat at the light. Cars behind us honked. He waited.

I looked at his haggard face, his bloodshot eyes. He looked a thousand years old. Maybe I did owe him for all the times he did what was right to shut down a violent offender in the ghetto. And beyond that, he had done what was right when he went alone in the back door of the house and saved the kid from Johnny Wayne Bascombe. I hadn't known he'd been the one. Why wouldn't it be him? He had always championed the
underdog, walked the line, often venturing into the gray area of the law to throw assholes in jail. He'd taught me to do the same. For that and nothing else I knew I was going to help him. Before I could form the words, he said her name before I could stop him. “I'm calling in your marker, pal, for the little girl twenty years ago. You owe me for Jenny.”