Southland (36 page)
Thomas looked at him, not speaking, not moving. Behind him, someone stirred at the window.
“He was with you in ’65, Bob. At Frank Sakai’s store. And this here is Frank’s granddaughter, Jackie.”
Lanier was staring at him, hard and hateful, and Jackie watched Thomas’s face. Over the last few days she’d wondered what he would do when he was confronted with the fact that his partner had finally spoken. She’d turned over in her mind the possibilities—would he deny it angrily? Get threatening and mean? Try somehow, self-righteously, to justify himself? But now, on the driveway, Thomas did none of these things. His shoulders dropped and loosened, and, amazingly, he started to laugh. “You’ve got some nerve, Lanier,” he said. “Coming to my house.”
Lanier fought to keep still. “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” he shot back. “We’ve got witnesses, and
they
don’t think it’s funny.”
“You
couldn’t
,” Thomas said. “There was nothing to see. Their word’s no better than mine, Lanier. Now please get off my property.”
“You’re going to stand there and tell me you had nothing to do with it?”
“I’m not telling you anything. There’s nothing to tell. Now please leave before I have to
make
you leave.” He turned and started walking toward the house.
“You’re
caught
, Bob,” Lanier called after him, voice drifting out of control. “You’re a
murderer
, Bob. How does it feel to have blood on your hands?”
Thomas turned around, slowly, and stepped back down the driveway. He looked as angry as Lanier now, and Jackie was scared—the age difference between the men had totally vanished. “Listen, you know-it-all fuck,” Thomas said. “You have no idea what it’s like to have people’s lives in your hands every day. You have no idea what it’s like to find an old lady whose guts are splattered all over her kitchen, or a man who’s been stabbed to death because he wouldn’t give up six bucks, or a little girl with a knife sticking out of her cunt. I know what it’s like, and even so, I don’t take it lightly when my job requires me to hurt someone. There’s a lot of animal punks out there who I’d like to see drawn and quartered. But to take them down personally is no small thing. No cop likes to hurt people, no decent one anyway. What happened to your friends, if a cop
did
do it, I’m sure it didn’t happen on purpose.” He stopped here and smiled again, an expression that chilled Jackie to the bone. “Not that it breaks my heart. At least it got them off the streets. Probably saved everyone a lot of trouble in the long run.”
Lanier moved before Jackie could stop him. He hit Thomas in the face with a hard right hook, and Thomas dropped to the ground with a thud. “You fucking
bastard
,” spat Lanier. “You murdering racist bastard.”
The front door opened now, and a middle-aged woman in a business suit came out and stood on the doorstep.
“James,” Jackie said, stepping closer, afraid to get in his way. Lanier floated up to the older man, and away again, trying to regain his control. “James, come on,” Jackie urged. “It’s not going to help us.” She grabbed his arm, which was rock-hard, veins bulging with blood. “Come on, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
Lanier let himself be dragged backwards down the driveway, but he kept his eyes on Thomas. “We’re going to get you, Thomas. No matter what you say. Your ass is going to jail.”
Thomas lay on the ground, hand on his jaw, blood trickling out of his mouth. “You’ve got no case, Lanier. I’m a thirty-five-year veteran. Whatever you’ve got will never stand up in court.”
Lanier drove blindly on the way back to Jackie’s. His earlier sadness and ambivalence had been supplanted by fury; he cursed and hit the dashboard several times. They both feared that what Thomas said was true—it
was
, essentially, his word against Paxton’s—and now they didn’t know what to do with themselves. And Lanier felt what he’d been feeling more and more these last few days—that he was somehow letting Curtis down again, which he’d done over and over up until the last moment he ever saw him. At the apartment, Jackie invited him in, but Lanier declined the offer. And so they separated, each left to fend for themselves with their anger, their dissatisfaction.
O
N CERTAIN evenings, the young man stayed in the store after the older man had left for the night. He told the older man that he had some work to do; he had to check accounts or the inventory. It wasn’t hard to convince him there was reason to stay. The place was busy, shelves emptying as fast as they could stock them, new money in the neighborhood, from homeowners and companies, finding its way in through their doors. The young man was trustworthy—a devoted son, a veteran—and he knew the older man intended for him to take over the store one day.
A little after nine, there’d be a light rapping on the back door. He would always walk to the door slowly, delaying his pleasure. When he opened it, she would be standing in the shadows, smiling, and he would offer his hand and then wordlessly pull her inside. After he shut the door, they’d embrace, still silent. Then, she’d tell him what excuse she’d given her parents that night: she was at the movies with Constance, or working, or bowling with her girlfriends from school. He’d tease her—
Would you like some popcorn, miss? I hear the feature is very good.
And they’d look at each other, eyes ravenous for what was denied to them in daylight. He, to her, smelled of fresh earth and sun—and cardboard, and soap from the store. She smelled to him of wide-open plains, clean laundry, and a touch of perfume.
He was twenty-two then, and she was eighteen. They both still lived with their parents, and he took care of his mother, who’d been knocked flat by the loss of her husband and daughter. Her parents, so strict and religious, would never understand what she saw in this man; they’d borne down on her harder since her sister had fled up north the year before. But once, twice a week, they escaped them all and met in the closed, quiet store.
They walked, hand in hand, to the little office behind the counter where the older man kept all his records. There was a couch against the wall—the older man napped here regularly, and sometimes, during the rougher patches of his marriage, would stay here overnight. But now he was gone and the store was closed. The young woman sat down on the couch, and the young man in a chair, and they talked, caught up on their days. The young man smiled—he hadn’t noticed her when she lived here before; she’d been the pigtailed younger sister of a classmate. Now, she was the axis on which his entire existence spun. He couldn’t wait anymore and moved next to her, and they kissed each other long and deep. He lifted his hand to brush her cheek with his thumb, then smoothed her hair back with his fingers. She curved her hand around his neck and pulled him closer. He loved the feel of her body—the small breasts pushed up against him, her soft-but-hard shoulders, her hands that touched him everywhere at once. She unbuttoned his shirt and placed her hands on his chest, touched him through his pants. He moved under her blouse and then down to her skirt, unhooked, unzipped, unbuttoned. They worked between, through, and beneath each other’s clothes, never quite removing them all. He curled his body over hers, and she touched his black hair, ran her fingers down his now-moist back. He placed her hand between his legs and then said, “This is yours.”
She pulled him into her and said, “This is yours.”
They ran into each other on the street sometimes, when they were with their friends or parents, and it thrilled them both to pretend they hardly knew one another, and were only saying hello to be polite. On those occasions, he would have to look away from her, lest his smile or heightened color betray his love. They told no one—her girlfriends, she knew, would never approve, and he had no friends there in the Mesa anymore. He wondered if, given the chance, he’d tell his old friend Victor, but Victor was living in Watts now, and they hadn’t really talked in several years. He didn’t know if Victor would understand, anyway—he wasn’t sure that
he
even did. What he did know was that each night was like a generous gift; each sunset and sunrise so gorgeous and fresh it seemed the world was reinventing itself just for him. As he walked down the street he felt lighter, stronger, as if nothing could ever worry or defeat him. And she felt, for the first time, like she was no longer alone; like she’d finally found a home in the world. Instead of her daily routines growing tedious, interfering, she went about her tasks almost cheerfully. She polished silverware so hard and efficiently it was almost too bright to look at. He took a greater pride, all of a sudden, at setting up precise rows of soup cans and cereal boxes. Sometimes, to get him through the day, he went back to his locker in the office to look at the picture she’d given him of herself and a group of her friends at a bowling tournament the summer before. Then he went back out into the store and worked even harder. It was a wonderful and heady thing, now, to simply be alive; they both took joy in every moment. And the better and faster they completed their work, the sooner they could be with each other.
There were times they each felt bad about their secrecy. Her parents would come into the store to buy vegetables or milk, and he’d be overly solicitous—not out of guilt, exactly, but instead a kind of awkwardness. He was so close to them, so intimate, and they didn’t even know it. And she felt strange when her parents discussed her sister’s husband, of whom they didn’t approve, and who they felt had taken advantage of their hospitality. His mother started pressing him to find a suitable wife—she had candidates and it was time, she said, and it was hard for him to find reasons to put her off. She couldn’t understand why, suddenly, his spirits were so good. He cooked for her with no complaint, and mowed the lawn, whistling, and she was worried; she’d never seen him so light-hearted. Once, he saw the girl’s sister, his former classmate, when she was down for the holidays, and that was the only time he really thought about their difference in age—she was younger, in eighth grade when he’d been taken away to the camps. But her youth—her serious, burdened, but still undeniable youth—was part of what drew him to her. For four years, since the start of the war, he’d seen nothing but carnage, blood, and sorrow. And now he knew, and discovered in himself, something fresh and untouched, still capable of wonder.
They talked about taking a trip together to the mountains or up to the country, some place where the long and lazy days could luxuriously unfold and not be broken up into endless stretches where they didn’t see each other, and short stolen moments when they did. But he didn’t really want this—every place outside of the city, whether country, marsh, desert, or mountain, was, in his mind, the landscape of war—and neither of them could take time off anyway, let alone explain their absence to their families. So they contented themselves with their time in the store, windows open to the cool, quiet night. The anticipation they both felt on those days they’d arranged to meet—him bustling around the store, she walking quickly down the sidewalk at dusk—was more intoxicating and real than anything either of them ever felt before or after.
They met like this for nine, ten months, going on a year. And then one night in midsummer, lying, spent, on the couch, the young woman told the young man that a friend of hers had gotten engaged. She leaned against him lovingly, kissed him on the neck, and said she envied her friend—she wondered if
they’d
ever get married. The young man didn’t utter a word, but she felt his whole body stiffen, and she pulled away and looked at him, confused. Wouldn’t you marry me? she asked, and though she thought she meant in theory, she realized she wanted to know. Yes, he said. Yes, of course I would.
“But then why did it take so long to answer?” she asked, buttoning her shirt. “You got so nervous just then. I felt you.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, sitting up. “Of course I’d marry you. I
want
to marry you.”
“You bastard.”
“What do you mean?”
“You hesitated. You had to think about it. I can’t
believe
you. I’m not good enough to marry?”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You know I love you.”
“Do you?” She glared at him. “Is it?”
They argued—or rather, she yelled at him and he tried to explain himself. Eventually she stormed out of the office. He didn’t see her for one week, then two, and pride and confusion kept him from tracking her down. But those weeks were worse than anything, worse than fearing for his life in Europe, and her absence weighed on him so heavily he could hardly draw breath. He did not know how to fix this, how to take back or make disappear the two seconds before he’d said yes. Because she was right. If it was true that he wanted to bring their love into the daylight, to be with her forever, it was also true that, at least for a moment, the thought of it had scared him. He needed to make her understand that she was his life, as vital as water or air. And so finally, hat in hand, he walked over to the young woman’s house for the first time since he’d known her. And the sour-faced man who answered the door informed him she was gone.
O
N MONDAY morning, Jackie drove downtown again, this time with Lanier at her side. They were both wearing suits, and Lanier kept teasing Jackie; he’d never seen her so dressed up.
“So what happens after this?” she asked as they drove past Crenshaw. She looked right, off the freeway, down the boulevard she saw as a timeline now, a measuring-stick of her history.
“Just what you said. The D.A.’s office takes the information and decides whether or not to press charges, and then, hopefully, we all go to court.”
“I know
that
,” Jackie said. “I mean…” What
did
she mean? She meant, what was going to happen with them? Without even giving it a second thought, she’d assumed that she and Lanier would still see each other a couple of times a week, and talk on the phone every day. But now it occurred to her that their work was done and she had no reason to see him again until the trial—provided there was one. “I mean, what are we going to do with ourselves now? We don’t have any more people to chase around.”
Lanier smiled. He understood what she was really saying, and he felt the same way. Jackie had been his only constant for the last three months—the person to talk to, the thing he could always do. And, as awkward as things still felt between them now, he hadn’t realized how used to her he’d gotten. “Well, we could find some other mystery to solve. Or you could come down and volunteer at Marcus Garvey.”
Jackie laughed. “But I’m not a young father. What good would I do?”
“You don’t have to volunteer in
my
programs. There’s a lot of other stuff going on—tutoring, job training, that kind of thing.”
Her first reaction was to say no, she was too busy, but after all the time she’d spent on extracurriculars that winter and spring, she knew that wasn’t the case. Her second reaction was that she wouldn’t be any good—what did
she
know about tutoring, or even teens, for that matter? But then she realized that these reactions were silly. It was a wonderful idea—a way to see Lanier regularly, and to honor her grandfather. And it was a way for her, finally, to do something useful; to get out of herself and give to somebody.
They met Lois on the steps of the Hall of Administration and Jackie made the introductions.
“This is my aunt Lois,” she said. “It’s her who started all this. And Lois, this is my friend James Lanier.”
They shook hands and looked closely at each other. “I’m trying to figure out if I remember you,” Lanier said, laughing.
“I don’t know how much I remember, either,” Lois replied. “But I feel like I know you already.”
It was a beautiful morning, the sun bright in their faces, and Jackie could see that meeting Lanier and the prospect of resolving the boys’ murders had made her aunt more bouyant than she’d been in several months. And something about meeting Frank’s daughter sent Lanier back in time, and he turned away so the women couldn’t see his moistened eyes. Lois felt this, too, the collapsing of the years, and she thought of her old neighborhood, children riding on bikes, and above all she thought of her father. Frank, who’d taught her what it meant to call a place home. Frank, who was so much a part of the neighborhood that he was never the same after the family moved away. But the memories made her feel connected to something again, and it was more a reclamation than a loss. This man, Lanier, was part of her father, too. He’d been a child with her, back in the Mesa.
Inside the D.A.’s office, they checked in with the receptionist and took seats in uncomfortable chairs. Lois and Lanier spoke of the old neighborhood, the people they knew in common. Jackie asked her aunt about the new house that she and Ted had just purchased, their plans for the move, the final packing of her grandfather’s things. Lois asked Jackie about her conversation with Matsumoto, and, watching her niece and Lanier answer together, finish each other’s sentences, she saw a closeness between them she wondered about, an intimacy she’d never seen Jackie share with anyone else.
After they’d been waiting for twenty-five minutes, a voice called out from the doorway. “Mr. Lanier? Ms. Ishida?”
They all looked up and saw a short, slim woman in her middle or early thirties. “Yes,” they all answered, standing. Lanier straightened his tie.
“I’m Pauline Richardson,” the woman said, extending a slender hand to Lanier, and then to Jackie and Lois. “I’ll be sitting in with Deputy District Attorney Silverman today. He asked me to bring you back to his office.”
She turned and walked back through the door. At the end of the hallway, Pauline stepped into an office, and Jackie saw the words “Alan Silverman, Deputy District Attorney” on the door. Inside, sitting down, was a tall, thin man whose head was rimmed with graying hair.
“Hello, Alan Silverman,” he said, reaching across the desk to take their hands. “So you’re James Lanier.” Then he turned to Jackie. “And you must be Jackie Ishida. Professor Greenberg had some very nice things to say about you. You’re starting at Turner, Blake & Weinberg in the fall?”
“Yes,” she answered, slightly embarrassed. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
“Well, it sounds like you have an interesting story, so fire away. Ms. Richardson will be sitting in, if it’s all right with you.”
“That’s fine,” Lanier replied.
“This all started about three months ago,” Jackie began.
Silverman leaned back in his chair. “When exactly?”
“February 5th,” said Lois. “The day of my father’s funeral.” She told them about the old will and the box of money, and Jackie gave a summary of what she and Lanier had uncovered. When she reached the part about Robert Thomas, Silverman looked up from the yellow legal pad where he’d been furiously scribbling notes. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes,” Lanier responded. “His partner gave him up. And one more person saw Lawson leave and Thomas go in when the boys were still alive.”
Pauline Richardson was scribbling also, looking down at her pad. “Did the second witness actually see this Thomas kill them?”
“No,” Jackie said. “Only the partner did.”
“And you believe the partner?” Silverman asked.
“Yes, we do.” Then she and Lanier, together, told them why. They laid out the story in greater detail, including Thomas’s refusal to cooperate with Lanier; his misleading information about Paxton; his reputation in the neighborhood; his behavior when they finally confronted him. They gave Matsumoto’s account as well, including his later encounter with Lawson, withholding his name until they knew the D.A. would consider immunity. They gave them the histories of Curtis and Frank, omitting everything about Frank’s relationship with Alma. It was irrelevant, really, to the fact of the murder. But more importantly, Jackie realized, she wanted to protect Frank and Alma and their undercover love; she wanted it to remain theirs forever.
Thirty minutes later, their voices trailed off and the attorneys put down their pads. Silverman looked very serious now; his brow had crunched into deep furrows and his mouth looked small and tight. “I knew that there were a lot of unreported incidents in ’65. But this one…” He didn’t go on. There was silence for a minute or two; then Silverman looked up at them. “I’ve got to tell you. I don’t know how much of a case we have here. There’s really only one witness, and it’s Paxton’s word against Thomas’s.”
“Couldn’t we get Lawson to testify?” Pauline asked.
Silverman shook his head. “We could try. But it’s not likely he’ll admit to being there in the first place, let alone seeing Thomas come in.”
“So what do we do?” Lanier asked. His shoulders had tightened, his breath was shallow and fast. If Thomas slipped through their fingers now, he didn’t know what he would do. Even as he was trying to right things for Curtis, he couldn’t stop letting him down.
Silverman knocked twice on the surface of his desk. “We’ll tell the police.” He put his hand up when Lanier and Jackie tried to protest. “Probably Internal Affairs. They’ll send detectives out to interview all the witnesses you mentioned—just give us their names again, along with addresses and phone numbers. If they’re still telling the same story, we should be able to take this to court.” He paused. “But more than that, I can’t really promise you.”
Jackie, Lanier, and Lois were all silent. Jackie opened her bag and pulled out her datebook, then copied down the names and numbers of the people they’d talked to.
Silverman took the sheet from her and laid it in front of him. “This city, what goes on here, all the violence and racial hatred. I can’t imagine how it could get any worse.” He ran his hands over the paper, staring at the words. “You did a hell of a job, you two.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not good enough,” said Lanier.
Pauline Richardson walked them out to the lobby again, chattering, assuaging. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “If anyone can bring this Thomas down, it’s Silverman. He’ll make sure we find other witnesses, and he’ll force Thomas to make a mistake. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted on developments myself.”
They didn’t speak as they walked back toward the parking lot. When they reached Lois’s car, they all stood and looked at each other.
“Well, what do you think?” Jackie asked.
“I guess we’ll have to see,” her aunt replied. “But you did what you could do. I’m proud of you, Jackie. Thank you.”
“No problem,” Jackie said, and she didn’t say what she was thinking—that it was she, Jackie, who had really been rewarded.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Lois began, shading her eyes as she looked at Lanier. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my father’s money. It never seemed right that I should keep it, and I can live without it anyway, so I’m thinking that I could give it to your organization.”
Lanier just looked at her. “Aw, Lois, you don’t have to do that.”
“Well, you didn’t have to do all of
this
.”
“That’s very generous of you. But I mean, are you sure?”
“It’s what my father would have done, I think. It’s in keeping with him and Curtis. Why not give the money to you and keep it in the family?”
“You’re right. But shit. Thirty-eight grand. We could do a lot with that money.”
“Good.”
“Hey, thank you,” said Lanier, placing a hand on her arm.
“No,” Lois answered, “thank
him
.”
That Friday, Albert Stevens, the one gay man in Jackie’s law school class, was having an “Air Out Your Closet” party to celebrate the end of the semester. Jackie had spent the afternoon shopping for business suits with Rebecca at the Westside Pavilion, and now they were back at Rebecca’s place, changing for the party. Both of them were looking forward to going to Albert’s; there would be students from several other departments. They’d already had an eventful day—trying on and discarding several dozen different outfits, making fun of each other, and driving all the salespeople crazy. And they were both in great moods—Jackie feeling unburdened, if not totally satisfied, after the trip to the D.A.’s office; Rebecca because a district judge had delayed the deportation of the garment workers, pending further hearings.
“What are you going to do with yourself now?” Rebecca asked that evening, as she and Jackie laid out their dresses on the bed. “You’re going to be bored after
that
big adventure, and all you have to do now is study for finals and the bar.”
“I don’t know,” Jackie shrugged. “Try to figure out what to do about Laura.”
“Did you ever tell her what was happening?”
Jackie shook her head. “No, not really.” She hadn’t told Laura much of anything the last few weeks, and she knew it was just a matter of time before one of them brought their worn-out relationship to an end. When she really stopped to think about it, she did miss Laura, but that feeling was outweighed by the relief she felt when she didn’t have to see her.
“Well, don’t despair,” Rebecca said. “I can think of a bunch of people who are waiting if you suddenly become available. A couple of them will probably be there tonight.”
“Oh, bullshit. Like anyone cares. Hey, where did you get that?” She was pointing at Rebecca’s dress, a small shimmery black thing that complemented even the bed.
“At Nordstrom’s. And I look
good
in it, I don’t mind telling you.”
“I’m sure you do, Miss Ego. Come on, it’s time to get dressed.”
Jackie expected her friend to offer the bedroom or send her into the living room. But Rebecca, facing the mirror, removed her shirt right there, and Jackie realized they were going to change together. Rebecca stood there in her bra now, a delicate blend of black lace. Then she reached around with both hands and the front of the bra came forward as she unfastened the clasps in the back. The straps slid down her arms and Jackie tried not to look, but she caught a glimpse of the firm, perfect breasts, their dark and lovely nipples. Rebecca nodded at her, as if issuing a dare. Jackie felt extremely self-conscious—but also intrigued. She pulled off her own shirt, unclasped and removed her own bra. No sound except their breathing as they stepped out of their pants, folded them, and placed them on the bed. Jackie wasn’t sure what to do with her eyes. She pretended to concentrate on putting on her dress and stole glances at her friend as she slipped into hers, seeing black hair spread against smooth olive skin, long toned arms, and delicate collarbone. Rebecca looked so much more fragile without her clothes, and Jackie realized she wanted to touch her. She felt loss for the breasts as they disappeared beneath the fabric; wanted again to see the flat stomach, the bits of curled hair that were not entirely contained by the white bikini panties. And she felt Rebecca doing the same thing to her—trying not to look, but unable to help herself. Once Jackie’s dress was on, she examined herself in the mirror. Her short blue dress worked well with the curves of her body, and she looked good, though not as glamorous as Rebecca. They both leaned over Rebecca’s vanity, inches away from the mirror, putting on make-up and doing their hair. They added stockings, necklaces, watches, and pumps. And then, completely ready, they paraded in front of the mirror, looking at themselves and at each other. They hadn’t spoken since Rebecca removed her shirt, but now she turned to Jackie, who realized how fast her heart was beating, how quick and shallow her breaths had become. They’d never stood so close—only inches apart—and Jackie felt the goosebumps, the sparks jumping off her skin, even before Rebecca leaned in and kissed her. She shivered—how long since she’d shivered!—and when they both pulled back she looked at her friend, her beautiful friend, the moist lips, the cut cheeks, the green, cat-like eyes.
