Enemy in Blue (6 page)

“
This is one of those trust-building moments, Max. Don't fail me now.”

“
But I didn't make a copy. Martinez took the drive right when we got back to the station.”

“
Why did you have to go back to the station then?” Shaver asked. “Why didn't you just give Martinez the drive at the old man's house?”

“
The drive is password protected! That's the truth!”

“
That's weak Maxie. Pretty weak story. I don't feel the trust so I'm gonna have to think of how to deal with you.”

“
Listen! Fuck you Sergeant,” Max screamed but the line had gone dead before Max finished his sentence. The woman looked over the cubicle wall again.

“
You fine?”

Max just stared back at her, the color in his face drained away.

T E N

__________________________________________________

C
ruz and Sandra stood outside of a fifties-style bungalow, pressed to the yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off the front of the house. A mob of journalists and neighbors jockeyed for a similar position. Cruz met Sandra after she called him to tell him there was another shooting. Maybe there wouldn't have been so much commotion except that this shooting involved two cops. The word was that these were some of the same cops involved in the Livan Rodriguez incident.

Cruz followed Sandra around as she interviewed people that looked like neighbors. She was talking to an older woman, who was speaking in an earnest, but hushed voice.

“
That's Officer Williams' house. He and his wife bought it about a year ago. A nice young couple.”

“
Did you see anything unusual around his house today?” Sandra asked.

“
Well, yes I did. A car pulled up outside of the house just a bit ago. Two men got out of the car. They stood at the front door for a minute or so, may have been longer. I don't remember exactly. Then one went around the back of the house.”

“
What did the person at the front door look like?”

“
I knew you'd ask that, honey,” the old woman answered. “But I can't tell you much. I'm certain he was a white man, with dark blond hair, close cut. I didn't see his face at all, but he was a stocky fellow, dressed all in black.”

“
Did you see the driver of the car?”

“
No, dear. The windows were so dark you couldn't see in.”

“
Do you remember what kind of car it was? Was it big or small?”

“
It was a navy blue car. “'Bout all I could tell, hon. Ain't much good with cars.”

“
And did...” Sandra's cell phone cut her off. “Just one moment please.” Cruz saw Sandra's eyes widen as she listened intently.

“
Now?” she asked. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.” Sandra turned to the woman and said, “Thank you so much for your help. If you think of anything else, please call the number on this card.”

Sandra turned to Cruz. “Guess who?”

“
Who.”

“
The cameraman.”

“
No way...must be feeling the pressure. Gotta say, this is melting down quickly. I'll stay here and get the scoop,” Cruz said.

“
Okay, I'll see what the cameraman has to say. I get the feeling that this is about to get even more serious, Cruz.”

“
You just be careful,” he said.

As Cruz stood amongst the throng waiting for some word of what happened, he looked around at the over-eager journalists drooling for a news bit. Their drive to turn misery into money reminded him of a conversation with his father when he was a child:

“
Mira hijo
. They say that the United Sates is the crown jewel of capitalism and it is. They say that capitalism is the most efficient path to prosperity—and so far as we know it is. But at what cost,
hijo
? Americans are defined by the constant drive to consume. And where does this leave them? It makes them the soulless handmaids of money. They work one, two and three jobs so they can go and splurge on trinkets. Every thought and every action is driven by how they will consume—whether it be food, or goods or services. They endlessly want more and run their souls dry in that pursuit. For when you aspire to something which is transitory and empty, how can you ever develop your soul?”

“
Surely all Americans aren't this way
Papa
?”

“
No,
mi hijo
. Not all. But, this is the symptom of capitalism—and capitalism is this country.”

His dad was a professor at a local community college, and a person who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps to that position. For years, a job at a local factory served as his study, his mouth as his pen, and the streets as his paper. Finally, when the streets rebelled against his knowledge, when they became hard and insensitive to the fight that had gotten them there, he became a more formal educator.

“
What's the answer then,
Papa
?”

“
A better balance first. Americans can't pay for greater intellect, self-knowledge or
cultura
. Consider this example for starters. You know when we go to
el D.F.
and it's bustling, dangerous and full of rich flavors, smells and people?”

“
Yeah.”

“
What would you call it?”

“
Alive
Papa
.”

“
Right,
mi hijo
! It's alive because the soul of the people has not been prostituted to some economic ideal.
Los Mexicanos
don't trade one more hour in the office for a boisterous dinner
con sus familias
. They don't spend their golden years trapped in some cubicle making another person rich. They realize that their golden years are their
early
years, not their late years as these Americans would have you believe.”

As this entrenched memory played before his eyes, a figure in the house caught his attention. Someone was coming to the front door. Cruz looked around at everyone else standing there. Pavlov's bell had rung. Their pens and pencils hung over small pads of paper, itching to shorthand something juicy.

He watched as a tremendously wide man strode down the path in front of Officer Williams' house. Wide in the built—not fat—sense. The man reached the crowd and stood there waiting for silence. Everyone obliged.

“
As I'm sure you've all heard, we had a very unfortunate shooting here today. One officer of this city was killed in what may have been an unprovoked attack by an African-American police officer against a Caucasian officer.”

Cruz heard a collective gasp from the contingency of neighbors. The speaker went on, “We can disclose no further information at this time.” Cruz heard the words coming out of the speaker's mouth but was focusing more on his face. He seemed faintly familiar.

A tug on Cruz's shirt pulled him out of his thoughts. It was the old lady that Sandra had been talking to. He looked down at her and she said, “Officer Williams never would have done that.”

E L E V E N

__________________________________________________

T
omko winced as the doctor finished stitching the bullet hole in his arm. This wasn't a kosher, health care doctor. “Doc K,” as Tomko and the rest of his patients knew him, was a fallback doctor. When circumstances such as legality didn't allow you to see a legitimate doctor, you went to him. He treated them like an old-school barber. You came in, exchanged a few words, sat down, and Doc K did his job. No questions asked, no explanations given.

As Doc K gathered his medical equipment he asked Tomko, “So how does it feel?”

“
Decent now. But it's gonna hurt like hell soon enough,” Tomko answered.

“
Oh yes, it's going to be a rough one. How'd it happen?”

Tomko froze in the face of this breach of etiquette.

“
Sorry Doctor?”

“
Oh, nothing. Hopefully I don't see you again for some time.”

Tomko relaxed, “Yeah.”

His cell phone rang and he instinctively went to reach for it with his right arm but the pain reminded him that wasn't going to happen.

“
Doc, I'll see you around,” Tomko said as he walked out of the office which Doc K ran out of his home. Tomko flipped open his phone, “Hello?”

“
What the fuck happened, Tomko? This is a royal mess.” It was Shaver.

“
Yeah, everything went to hell.”

“
Lindsey is fucking dead, Tomko—that's beyond hell.”

“
I was there Sarge,” Tomko growled. “Williams is dead too.”

“
I know, Tomko. I saw the aftermath.”

“
Oh yeah? Was Martinez there?”

“
Hell no he wasn't. I have no idea where he or Williams' wife are. I had to weave a fine tale for the media.”

“
What was that?” Tomko asked.

“
That Williams attacked unprovoked. I'm going to leak some of Williams' Black Panther bullshit to the media and turn it into a race-related thing.”

“
Sarge, this is getting out of control. We've still got a drive floating around that has you shooting that old Mexican.”

“
Tomko, if I didn't know any better I'd say that's fear in your voice. Is that what I hear?”

“
Not fear, Sarge, caution.”

“
They come from the same place Tomko.” Shaver paused. “Listen, you get a day's rest and then we'll find out what hole that back-stabbing wetback Martinez is hiding in. With you down, I'm going to take some of this into my own hands and go scope out Martinez's house.”

“
All right, we'll talk in a day.”

* * * *

Sandra stood outside of the cameraman's apartment. She peeked into a small window next to the front door. Two black eyes were peering back at her.

“
Shit!” Sandra exclaimed as she stepped back. “Max, is that you?” A man came forward out of the darkness. “It's Sandra from News 9.”

“
Show me some identification.”

“
Sure.” Sandra pulled her driver's license out and held it to the window. The man came closer to the window and scanned the driver's license. After he looked back and forth at Sandra and her license a couple of times, he popped the front door open.

“
Get in here, quick,” he uttered.

“
Max?”

“
Yeah, of course. Get the hell in here would you?”

Sandra stepped over the worn threshold into Max's apartment. There wasn't a single light on. The only illumination came from the power button on Max's computer monitor which blinked every few seconds. As Sandra's eyes adjusted to the darkness she could start to make out some furniture. The computer was on her right next to a sliding glass door leading to a second floor patio. On her left, a wall halfway covered with cardboard boxes. Max had disappeared into the recesses of the apartment, beyond Sandra's adjusting view.

“
Max?” Sandra called out.

“
Just one second. I'll be right back,” he answered. Sandra started to feel nervous and she backed toward the front door. She put her hand behind her back and grabbed the doorknob. A figure came back out of the impenetrable darkness at Sandra.

“
Hey, sit down,” Max said while gesturing to a futon on Sandra's right side. Sandra exhaled. “Listen, you don't have to be scared of me. Be afraid of the people that are chasing me. Well, person really.” Sandra fumbled over to the futon and sat down.

“
Who's that? And why is this person chasing you?”

“
His name is Colin Shaver. He's a sergeant with the police department.”

“
Okay, and he was at Mr. Rodriguez's house when he was killed?”

“
He wasn't just there, Sandra. He did it.” Max paused and sat down on a chair across from Sandra. Sandra finally got a decent look at him. He was of average height, extremely pale with contrasting, jet black curly hair. Sandra noticed dark, black bags under Max's eyes. A string of smoke danced up from his hand.

“
And this wasn't the sergeant’s first incident.”

“
You mean…he's killed other people like this before?”

“
No, no. I've never seen him do anything like this before.
But
, it was all of the other, small things. The looks, the harassment, the threats and the use of excessive but not deadly force. I've been around the sergeant for three years now and it was coming.”

“
Then why don't you report anything?” Sandra asked.

“
Shit—who are you to judge?” Sandra could feel Max pull back. “Believe me that in retrospect I wish I had done something. It's been eating me alive. I feel like a goddamn accomplice. But, it's hard when even his fellow officers weren't doing anything. That made it feel… well… kind of normal.”

Sandra sat listening to Max. Judging him wasn't going to help create trust. Plus, she could kind of understand where he was coming from. Society had developed this sentiment that someone else would take care of its problems.