Southland (34 page)

Lanier could not believe the man in front of him. Oliver Paxton looked just as he had in the picture in Thomas’s office— tall, fair-skinned, solid. He’d put on a few pounds since his police days, and his hair was mostly gray, but otherwise, the two images were almost identical. There were laugh lines all around Paxton’s eyes and mouth. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

Lanier cleared his throat. “Officer Paxton?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “No one’s called me ‘officer’ in almost thirty years. What can I do for you, son?”

Lanier held out his hand. “Mr. Paxton—I’m sorry—my name is James Lanier. This is Jackie Ishida. We just drove up from L.A. yesterday, and we were wondering if you could talk to us about something that happened while you worked for the LAPD.”

Paxton shook his hand, and then shook hands with Jackie, finally looking back at Lanier. “That was a long time ago. I don’t remember much. I was a teacher from ’67 until I retired last year.”

“Yes, I know,” said Lanier. “You see, we’re trying to find out about something that happened during the ’65 uprising, when four boys were locked into a freezer.”

“Are you on the job? Internal Affairs?”

“No, sir. We’re family. Jackie’s grandfather, Frank Sakai, was the man who owned the store and found the bodies. And one of the boys who was killed was my cousin Curtis.” He felt more confident now, and pushed ahead. “We have a couple of witnesses who saw Nick Lawson take the boys into the store. But none of the cops we’ve talked to seem to want to give him up. I spoke with Robert Thomas and he didn’t have much to say. Anyway, I saw a picture of you in his office.”

Just then, they heard a voice in the background. “Who is it, Ollie?” A middle-aged woman in a neat cardigan appeared at Paxton’s side. She smiled at them, but, reading her husband, seemed cautious.

Paxton, Jackie thought, was looking disturbed. His lips were pressed together and he furrowed his brow. To his wife he said, “These people are here to ask about the boys in the freezer.” And her face fell, and she put a hand on his arm protectively. To Jackie and Lanier he said, “You better come inside.”

He moved out of the way, and Lanier glanced at Jackie before stepping through the door.
We’ve got him
, his eyes seemed to say. Inside, Paxton directed them to a couch. Jackie noticed small, random things—a
Sports Illustrated
on a table, a plaque that said “District Teacher of the Year,” a recent portrait of Paxton, his wife, and two grown women who Jackie assumed were their daughters. Paxton sat in an armchair, almost knee-to-knee with Lanier. His wife pulled a chair up beside him. “Tell me what you’re trying to do here,” he said.

Lanier leaned forward. And watching this man with his wife, seeing them here in this peaceful house, he was almost sorry to have to disturb them. He couldn’t quite imagine Paxton working with Thomas—he already rather liked this man. “We’re trying to build a case against Lawson,” he explained. “We’re trying to line up witnesses so we can present the whole thing to the D.A.’s office.” He paused. “We were hoping that you could help us out, Mr. Paxton. Someone told us you drove by the store that day. Did you happen to see anything?”

Paxton looked down and was silent for so long that Lanier and Jackie started to fidget. Mrs. Paxton took her husband’s hand and they looked at each other. “I saw something, all right,” he said finally. “But I don’t think it’s what you want to hear.”

Lanier and Jackie looked at him. “What do you mean?” Lanier asked.

“Nick Lawson was a racist and a violent man, no doubt about it. But he didn’t kill those boys in the store.”

Lanier stood up and then sat down again. “But people
saw
him. We have
two witnesses
who saw him go in.”

“Oh, he went in, all right. But he came out again. And he got shot that very day, if I remember correctly.” He paused. “No, it wasn’t Lawson who did it.”

“Well then, who?” Lanier demanded, almost shouting at him.

“I’m going to tell you, son. Just listen.” Paxton put his head in his hands for a moment, and when he took them away, he looked not at Lanier and Jackie, but at the table. And the whole time he was talking, for the next twenty minutes, his wife kept her hand on his shoulder.

* * *

1965

Curtis held his breath and put his arms up as he waited for the punch. But then, so loud and sudden that both boys and cops jumped, someone banged hard on the back door. Curtis exhaled as Lawson whirled toward it.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“Nick? You OK?” the muffled voice inquired.

Lawson seemed to recognize it. He nodded toward the door, and his partner ambled down the aisle and into the back, unlocked the door and opened it. Two cops, both Negroes, stepped inside, one not much older than the boys.

“We were driving up the alley,” the older one said, “and we saw your car parked out front. We just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

“We’re fine,” Lawson replied.

Curtis started shaking again. What flicker of relief he’d felt had now vanished—the Negro cops, or at least the older one, were hardly any better than Lawson. Since their first encounter at the junior high school, Curtis had feared this cop, especially since he’d started watching him from the window of his squad car, parked out in front of the store. But now he thought maybe he hadn’t feared the cop nearly enough. On this day, in this madness, there was no telling what he’d do. The cop said to Lawson, “What kind of problem you got here?”

“Oh, these boys just need a talking to.”

Thomas saw one boy doubled over and another holding his bleeding face. He laughed. “Looks like you been talking pretty good.”

Lawson smiled a mean smile. “Yeah, well I know how it is with your people,
man
. Only one kind of talking gets through.”

“We are
not
his people,” Curtis said without thinking.

“Hell,” said Akira, “he ain’t even a man.”

At that moment, they heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. All four cops looked down at their belts. Westphal, Lawson’s partner, took his walkie-talkie out, deciphered the distant fuzzy voice, and looked at Lawson. “They need us over on Crenshaw.”

“All right,” Lawson said. Then he turned to the boys. “Sorry to cut this date short. I guess I’ll have to take a rain check.” And he and his partner went out the back door and were gone.

The boys were left with the two black cops, and Thomas fixed them with a look of seething hatred. He walked toward them now, his partner a little behind, continued past them and over to the door. Thomas re-shut it and tested the lock. His back was turned. And at the precise moment that Curtis was noting the huge sweat marks around the policeman’s armpits, Akira tapped him and nodded toward the back of the store. Curtis shook his head no—the younger boys would never make it—and he watched his friend take off. Akira was lightning quick and silent, and by the time the cops turned, he was almost at the door already. Thomas whipped his gun out, but Akira was gone. Paxton moved to follow him, but Thomas grabbed his arm and held him back. “Let him go,” he said.

He faced the boys, as Lawson had done—officer-like, as though they’d just been handed over to his command. He tried to swallow his humiliation at being insulted by Lawson. He tried to swallow his humiliation at being mocked by these punks. Everyone, everywhere, had it in for him. And he was going to take the respect that was his due. “Now what were you boys doing that got Nick so mad?”

“Nothing!” insisted Tony.

Thomas looked at him and laughed. “Nothing? Nothing? You must have done
something
. Unless you were the only niggers on the street—the
only
ones—who weren’t getting themselves in trouble.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Curtis said.

Thomas considered him now and cocked his head. “Oh, really? Just like
you
were telling the truth, boy, when you said you didn’t break into Audubon?”

Curtis looked down at his feet, remembering the stuffy office where Thomas and his old partner had grilled him; the satisfaction on the policeman’s face when he admitted to the break-in; the icy stare and hard-set jaw when Alma drove him away from the school.

“What I don’t understand,” the cop continued, “is why you have to do this. Some little punk told me yesterday that this was a rebellion, but what all are you rebelling against? People can do whatever they want now—anyone, even Negroes. I mean, look at Ollie and me.”

Yeah, Curtis thought. Just look at you.

“And all you hoodlums on the street, you’re destroying your own neighborhood. I don’t see
white
people out there on Crenshaw or Central. It’s you.” He glared at them. He was not one of them, never had been, no matter what they or Lawson believed. He thought of his father, how much smarter and more refined he was than the ignorant blacks they’d had to live among. And now these punks in front of him, who were just as useless as the ones he’d grown up with. “It’s niggers like you who give the rest of us a real bad name. White people don’t treat you the way you like? Well, it’s because you do
this
kind of shit.”

He waved his arms expansively, and Curtis suddenly felt very calm. “We were
protecting
the store,” he said, looking Thomas in the eye. “You
know
that.”

It was more than Thomas could bear. This fool talking to him as if he, Curtis, were an equal. When it was fools like him that made his job so hard, made men like Lawson not see him as a peer. This riot the worst thing he’d ever experienced, and beneath his anger at the punks who were tearing up the city was a deep and gnawing shame. Shame that he was the color of the arsonists and looters. Shame that other people’s worst beliefs had been confirmed. “Protecting
this?
” he said weakly. “Why would you want to protect this?” And he raised his arms, both taking in the store and dismissing it, and Curtis saw the sweat marks again. His own T-shirt was soaked clean through, and he felt perspiration trickle down his legs. It was hot enough on the street, but even worse inside, the closed doors and windows making the old store feel like some medium circle of hell. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, a gesture which Thomas caught.

“You hot, boy?”

Curtis shrugged.

“Yeah, it’s hot. Well, I’m sorry you’re so uncomfortable. But I got just the thing to cool you off.” He pulled his gun out quickly, and Curtis squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact of the bullet. But when he opened them, the cop was gesturing toward the back. “Go on,” he said. “Go back there.”

The boys obeyed, wondering what he was up to, and the partner followed in silence. At the back of the store they halted, and Thomas moved past them. He went to the freezer door, and as his fingers touched the handle, Curtis felt a twist of nausea. The cop opened the door and nodded. “Get in.”

Curtis and David looked at each other, tightening their hold on the boys. None of them moved. Even Paxton looked at Thomas like he was crazy, but the older man would not be made a fool of. Thomas said again, louder, “Get in!”

They still didn’t move, so Thomas raised his gun and cocked it. “Don’t fuck with me now,” he said calmly. “I don’t have the patience today. Get in.”

They remained where they were, until the cop fired a warning shot that made them yell and duck. The bullet smashed through the window, and they heard the tinkle of falling glass. “Jesus, Bob,” the young partner said, but Thomas ignored him. He stuck the barrel of the gun between Tony’s eyes, and at that, the older boys finally obeyed and moved into the freezer. As soon as they’d all crossed the threshold, the door shut with a sucking sound.

It was pitch black, and cold. Curtis swung his hand around blindly until he found the string that was connected to the light bulb. He yanked it down and all of them blinked in the sudden light. “Let’s wait till they leave,” Curtis said. “Then we’ll get out.”

Around them hung slabs of frozen meat, like huge bizarre stalactites. On the floor were bags and blocks of ice. In one corner, stacked cartons of ice cream. At first the cold felt good against their overheated skin, but then the sheen of sweat turned chilly and the soaked shirts began to feel like veils of ice. They all started to shiver. They waited ten, twelve, fifteen minutes. Then Curtis placed his hands against the door and pushed. Nothing happened. He thought he hadn’t tried hard enough, so he put his shoulder to the door and pushed again, harder. Still nothing. He looked at David, trying not to be alarmed, and the other boy came up next to him. The two of them pushed the door together. Nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked.

“I don’t know,” Curtis said. “Maybe the suction or something. But this should open. There’s nothing holding it shut.”

David looked around and found a crow bar that someone had left in the freezer. He tried to pry the door open, to no avail. Curtis watched this, not believing that the door would not open. The younger boys hugged themselves and shivered harder. “I’m cold,” they complained, and Curtis felt his eyes water. He and David tried to open the door—with hands, shoulders, backs, feet—rested, and tried again. They stemmed their own rising panic by comforting Tony and Gerald.

“Mr. Sakai will come in and find us,” Curtis assured them. “I’m sure he won’t stay away very long.”

Gerald was the first to sit, against a wall that, for some reason, wasn’t quite as cold as the others. Soon, Tony sat beside him. The older boys decided to wait, conserve their energy, and try to keep warm, so they flanked the younger boys, David next to his brother and Curtis next to Gerald. Curtis put his arms around Gerald, feeling Tony’s shoulders against the back of his hands. David did the same with Tony. At first they felt a bit warmer, but after a few minutes, there seemed to be no heat rising off the younger boys’ skin, and they were almost as cold to the touch as the slabs of meat. Curtis wondered about his mother, if she’d come looking for him. He prayed, they all prayed, and Tony began to cry. Periodically Curtis or David would try the door, but none of them expected it to open anymore. They had no idea of how much time had passed. But eventually, Curtis stopped worrying and began to relax. Mr. Sakai would be there soon. The younger boys were quiet now, and Curtis felt, to his surprise, a gradual sensation of warmth, starting with his feet and his hands, and spreading slowly through the rest of his body. He didn’t feel cold at all anymore. It was going to be all right. He thought of Angela, and Cory, and his little cousin Jimmy—how happy he’d be to see them; how he’d describe and embellish this adventure. He was sleepy, his eyelids heavy, and he finally let them close. Feeling safe now, he floated off to sleep.