Enemy in Blue (2 page)

“
It is,” Max lied.

“
All right old man, you wanna fuck with me?  Watch what I do to this beautiful broad you got over here.”

“
Sergeant, I’m not gonna let you do this to these people.  They haven’t done a damn thing wrong and you know it!”

The Sergeant looked at Martinez calmly.  “You know what they’ve done wrong.” Shaver sneered. His cheeks bunched up into a clown-like mask. “What you gonna do anyway, big bad Martinez?  What you think Tomko and Lindsey will say?  These are
my
boys.  You think this scrub Jew with the camera has the balls to stand up to me?”  Shaver knelt down and pressed up to the young girl’s face.  He grabbed her long black hair and pulled back slightly.  Her chest heaved. 

“
No, por favor, no lo dejas hacer esto
!
  Por favor
!
  Este hombre me va a hacer da
ñ
o
!
  Papa
!
  Papa
!
Ayudame
!”

The old man stirred in his bed.  The Sergeant was entirely focused on the young woman.  “Ohh, speak that language to me, you filthy spic.”

Shaver tilted her head back more and licked the underside of her chin.  The young woman screamed.

“
That’s it,” Martinez said while lunging at Shaver.  As Shaver dodged him, the old man stirred and started to bring his hands out from under the blanket.  Shaver pivoted and swung his submachine gun toward the old man. Tomko jabbed the butt of his gun at Martinez's face and landed a heavy blow. Williams came to his defense and locked into a grasp with Tomko.

Max watched like a figure inside of a shaken snow globe as bullets from Shaver's machine gun tore through plaster, then bed covers, and finally the old man’s chest.  In all of his time filming cops, Max had never seen someone shot.  The bullet holes in the old man’s chest immediately ran dark with blood.  The old man gasped and then sprayed his life force out of his mouth.  His eyes moved and locked on Max.  Then he shuddered and his eyes lost focus.  Two cold marbles. 

Max stood frozen.  In front of him was a chaotic picture, frozen as well.  The young woman tore at Shaver’s left calf with her hands.  He stared down at her, emotionless.  Martinez lay prone on the floor.  Max felt himself gasp for air. Shaver came to life and shook the young woman off his leg.  He turned towards Max and said something which was indecipherable.  He stepped closer and Max could make something out.  “Give me the tape.”  Max didn't, couldn't respond.

“
Okay, how about I do this.”  Sergeant Shaver fired some shots into Max’s camera.  “All right, let’s get out of here.”

“
What about her?”  Tomko asked.

“
Screw her.  She ain’t even legal.”

“
What about him?” Tomko asked pointing to Martinez.

“
Forget him too.  He caused this.  Let’s go.”  With that Sergeant Shaver turned and walked to the front door of the house.  Tomko and Lindsey followed him out.  Max slouched down to the floor and looked at the old man.  Williams swore at the other officers as they left the house.

The old man’s body had started to slip off the couch.  Max crawled over and used his shoulder to push the old man back up.  The young woman’s sobs rose and fell like the lapping of waves on a beach.  She intermittently let out agonizing groans, as if her soul was being wrenched from her body.  Black hair matted her face.  Max moved closer.

“
Hey…hey there,” he said while reaching out with his hand.

“
No me tocas
!”  she screamed as she yanked her head back.  “
Mira que hiciste a mi papa
! 
Pinche culo Americano
! 
Salgate de aquí
!”  She stood up, staggered over to her father’s broken body, and then wailed and threw herself on him.  Max caught Martinez twitching on the ground.  He rolled over onto his back and slowly opened his eyes.

“
What the…”

“
Martinez, we gotta do something.”  Martinez let his head fall towards Max.  His right eye was cut badly and his forehead was already swelling.

“
Who the hell are you?”

“
Martinez...what the shit...it’s Max.  Shaver just shot this guy.  The woman doesn’t speak English.  We gotta get them outta here.” 

Martinez groaned as he sat up.  He turned around and looked at the woman laying on her father’s body.  “There’s nothing we can do.”

“
What the hell are you talking about?” This caught Martinez's full attention—and made a knot grow in Max's chest. “Look, we gotta do something.”

“
Like what, Max?  Call the cops?  Get out of here.” Martinez stood up with another groan.

“
I filmed everything!” he blurted out.

Martinez looked down at Max’s camera.  “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, right?  Your camera looks like it turned inside out.”

“
Look at this.”  Max pulled a USB drive out of the wreck that was his camera and held it up to Martinez.

T W O

__________________________________________________

Q
ue paso?
” Cruz said, answering his phone.  He sat reclined at his desk with a white Bic pen in his hand.  His desk was in the back of his office, the room a shade of brown. That 1970s type of dirty.  The ceiling was low, probably not to code, and peppered with water-stained tiles. This was what he chose six years ago.

He had graduated in the top ten of his law school class, either ninth or tenth depending on who told the story. Wilmer Lopez was ninth, if you asked him. A final class, Juvenile Law, had been the equalizing factor between the two. Cruz got an “A” in the class, raising his cumulative grade point average to three-six-four. Wilmer got an A- in the class, the product of a biased teacher according to Wilmer, which lowered his average to three-six-four. Cruz argued that he had gotten the last, highest grade, and was therefore ninth in the class. Wilmer forwarded the simple argument that he was the champion, who had to be defeated and not tied. The registrar grew so sick of the beef that she finally forbade them from coming into her office.

“
Hello, hello. Who's there?”

“
Cruz,
es yo
.  It’s me man.  You ain’t gonna believe what just happened
hombre
!”

Cruz didn't know half of the people that called. He didn't know this caller either, despite the man claiming some mutual familiarity. It wasn't all that important anyway—the community knew him.

That was his marketing approach right out of law school. A lawyer for the community. Four of the biggest firms in the city initially courted him, but enough of his friends keyed him into the true life behind those big salaries. No recognition. No responsibility. A cog in a billing machine that was expected to spend the first six years of its career silent, researching. Cruz knew that wasn't for him.

He started his own law firm instead. It was terrifying at the beginning—the beginning being the first five years of practice. There were no clients, no money, and correspondingly no food, clothes, car (bus was a straight shot) or life. Then, the clients started to come. He would call his father every time he got a new client. The flow was slow at first, and it was enjoyable to get new clients. As word of his good work spread, that flow became an overwhelming torrent. He lived on the verge of malpractice as he struggled to learn the law, pretended he knew the law, and brought in more and more clients.

At this point he was comfortable enough to say, “Spill it bro.”

“
Man,
los cochinos
just murdered an old Chicano—Livan Rodriguez man.  Freakin’ Livan and I rallied together in the 60’s!  We did some militant shit together.  A good brother...”

“
What do you mean they murdered him?”

“
Murdered him, bro!  Stormed into his house on some bullshit domestic violence call and shot his ass!”

“
No way.”

“
Hell yes, man. We gotta do something c
arnal.
”

“
Hold on.  Was anyone else there?”

“
I don’t know man.  Livan was pretty old and beat up.  I know he lived with his daughter and her husband.  That
culo
was
a punk-ass-wannabe-banger, but whatever.  They might have been there.”

Now the identity of the caller mattered. This man had information he may need. “You've got my attention, but who are you and what do you want me to do?”

“
Damn man.  You kidding me?  Start
la Guerra
over this!” the voice exclaimed, sidestepping a part of the question. “Too much of this happens and
los cochinos
no se cambian.
They never change—it's time to change them.”

“
Well…”

“
You’re the lawyer
hombre!
  Bring the law down on law enforcement.  Don’t hesitate bro. Get your
chones
together and let’s bring it.”

With that, the voice stopped and the line went dead. The caller's urgency, passion and then abrupt hang-up left Cruz in limbo—his mind swirling like the wind before a heavy storm.

T H R E E

__________________________________________________

A
ll right then, give it here,” Martinez said. He flicked a look at Williams, who shrugged his shoulders.

Max responded, “You kidding me?  This tape is the story of the year.  It’s worth millions.”

Martinez's coal black eyes narrowed, focused. “This man just died, and that’s what you care about?  How 'bout this.”  Martinez pulled his gun out of its holster and held its cold barrel to Max’s temple. “How about I blow your brains out onto this wall and I just take it from you?”

Max laughed nervously.  “But, you…no you wouldn’t, couldn’t do…”

“
The hell I can’t.  You think I give a shit right now?  Give me the drive.”

“
Look, the drive is password protected anyway. I need to get to a computer to unlock it, so let’s go to my station and work it out there, okay?”

Martinez stood still in Max’s face.  He relieved the gun's pressure from Max’s temple.

“
Ain't gonna open it without the password,” Williams said softly to Martinez.

“
We can do that.  I’m just a little messed up right now,” Martinez said as he shook his head.

“
I understand,” Max said warily.

“
Get your stuff together and we’ll go back to your station.  Call one of your news trucks to pick us up.”

* * * *

Cruz stepped out of his office and felt a chill wisp around his face. He stood just outside the door to his office for a moment, enjoying the exchange of stale, musty inside air to the outside breeze. Cruz was tall for a Mexican—around five-foot eleven. A pressed, white shirt fit his slender frame, and he wore his characteristic light brown pants. It was the look of every lower to middle-class man in Mexico City, a city where every man, regardless of class or wealth, had a collared shirt and pants to wear every day.

He had a slender nose and delicate lips, which were significant traits in a culture where those of Spanish descent normally tried to separate themselves from
los indigenos
. Brown eyes and dark, coarse hair stood out from his relatively pale skin. The mix of his light-skinned father and rich, cocoa bean mother were apparent in all his physical aspects.

The moment passed, and he hopped into his car while dialing a phone number.

“
Sandra, you know what’s going on with this police shooting?  Someone just called me, and …”

“
Of course I know Cruz.  It’s going to be all over the news.  I’m about to go down there and tape a segment.”

“
What the hell happened?”

“
Cruz, I gotta go.  In a nutshell, some cops shot an old Latino in front of his daughter.”

“
How many cops were there?”

“
Just come down to 11253 East Charligsen Street and we’ll do some investigating together, okay?”

“
Yeah, see you there.”

F O U R

__________________________________________________

A
fter a while, a news van from Max's station showed up. The driver tried to get Max to stay and call a reporter for a piece, but Martinez quickly dispelled that possibility. He leaned back in his seat in the van and groaned.  “I’m watching you
.
  Don’t do any crazy shit with that drive.”

Max could faintly feel it in his shirt pocket. He had to find a way to sell its contents. After a while of silent riding, the van pulled up to the news station.