The Little Brother (17 page)

The lieutenant, a small man with a beefy, muscular form, who reminded me of a French bulldog, coughed, as if to say, Don't act too chummy. Remember why we're here.

“What do you want?” Dad asked.

At first, Jimenez was officious. They were acting, Jimenez said, as “representatives from the Sheriff's Department to protect the department's interests.”

“Okay,” Dad said skeptically.

“We're on your side,” Jimenez said, reaching out a hand and placing it on Dad's forearm.

The lieutenant shook his head and said in a stiff voice: “This isn't about teams or sides or loyalty or any of that”—a disapproving nod at Jimenez's comforting hand.

Jimenez placed it back by his side.

“We're representing,” the lieutenant continued, “the interests of the Orange County Sheriff's Department. That's all. Nothing else. Because you're a major supporter of Sheriff Krone and a well-known public figure in the department and community”—he nodded at Dad—“we're here to ensure that the interests of the department are maintained, and that's it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I'm more than a major supporter,” Dad corrected him.

“Be that as it may,” the lieutenant said, “we're here in the capacity of ensuring the department's interests and reputation.”

“What does that even mean?” asked Dad impatiently.

No one seemed to know how to answer.

We stood in the entryway for a few awkward moments until Dad invited them inside, and we sat across from each other in the living room.

“Listen,” Dad said, lighting up a cigarette, “I want to talk to Krone and I want to talk to him now.”

Jimenez looked down and didn't say anything.

“That's not possible,” said the lieutenant.

“We need,” Jimenez said in a whisper, looking up and directing his statement at Dad, “above all, to keep up an appearance of objectivity.”

Dad's face paled. He nodded, and then he offered his packet of Newports to Jimenez.

Jimenez declined while looking at the lieutenant.

“I'll tell you one thing,” my dad said, sucking in his smoke, “no son of mine is spending even one day in jail.”

Jimenez and the lieutenant stared blankly at him and said nothing.

Dad suggested that he and Jimenez talk in private in the kitchen, but the idea was promptly squelched by the lieutenant—“No way, nu-unh, not okay.”

“The detectives are from the Cucamonga Police Department,” Jimenez confided. “Gabe's main custodian is Gina, so they went after him in Cucamonga. They're on their way here now.”

Although Dad already knew this, he groaned.

“That'll change,” Jimenez said, his voice soothing, “since the alleged crime took place here.”

“In the garage?” Dad asked.

Jimenez nodded.

“Do I have time,” Dad asked, “to clean up some things?”

Jimenez stiffened, and the lieutenant said, “Not a chance. You didn't just say that. That's a serious crime. No one, and I mean no one, just heard that.” He stared at each of us, and we all confirmed with nods. As if it was afterthought, he added, “Besides, the detectives will be here any second.”

We stared at each other, and then I focused my gaze near the floor, concentrating on a corner of the lieutenant's pant leg, black sock, and shiny black shoe.

By the time the Cucamonga detectives arrived with Gabe, stoop-shouldered and puffy-eyed, in baggy jeans and a purple T-shirt, Dad had a better idea of what to do, thanks to Jimenez.

Jimenez had also given him a slip of paper with the name and phone number of a lawyer. “This man,” he claimed, “is a wolf.”

No one seemed to notice that Gabe was high, probably on medication. I could tell by the way that he rubbed his hands together. He sat next to me on the couch, and at one point he leaned against me without seeming to notice.

He didn't smell of alcohol or pot or act inappropriate. But there was a particular flatness to his speech and demeanor, and his eyes had an almost imperceptible sheen, as if they were coated in clear plastic wrap.

Both Cucamonga detectives had sandy brown hair. The greatest distinction between them was that one had acne-scarred cheeks.

The lieutenant gave the detectives the same spiel he'd given my dad and me earlier about why he and Jimenez needed to be here.

They shared a few shrewd stares during the lieutenant's explanation but otherwise didn't seem upset.

Yet much later, in statements, both detectives claimed that Jimenez's actions at our house were “extremely inappropriate” and “the beginning of a long chain of preferential treatment,” saying that Jimenez gave Dad “legal and criminal advice for a horrific crime.”

On the advice of Jimenez, who happened also to be a lawyer, I learned that afternoon before the detectives arrived, Dad didn't allow Gabe to be interviewed or questioned, except concerning the identity of the victim, whose welfare, they all agreed, was of paramount concern. The detectives were eager to check on her.

It surprised me that they let me stay in the room and listen, but everyone seemed to forget my presence, and I didn't say anything to remind them.

Gabe, who'd earlier admitted to the Cucamonga detectives to being in the video, claimed that he didn't know the victim. “Nope,”
he said, shaking his head, “no idea,” he said, all of them exchanging glances.

But then he gave them the Ks' names, phone numbers, and addresses.

After Jimenez pointed out that the video in question had been shot at Dad's house, the detectives admitted that the investigation would soon be turned over to the Newport Beach Police Department.

Dad—with an approving nod from Jimenez—consented to a search of the garage, to be done the following morning.

Shortly after the Cucamonga detectives left, the lieutenant and Jimenez left also, and Gabe said, “Oh, my god. Can this really be happening?” and began to cry.

For a moment, we were all too shocked to say anything, and then Gabe burst out in a half sob: “Oh, god! I'm so sorry!”

Dad came to the couch and sat between us, putting his arms around Gabe—in a way that we hadn't seen or experienced since our childhoods, and even then very rarely—and let Gabe burrow into his shoulder. The only noise for a long time was Gabe's sniffling and sucking in the air as he wept.

Dad petted Gabe's hair—something I'd not seen him do before to Gabe, only to me—murmuring, “It's okay; it's gonna be okay.”

Then finally Gabe pulled away, wiping his face with his hands, and said, “I'm so sorry, Dad. I'm really, really, really sorry. I messed up. I messed up so bad. Do you hate me? I'm so sorry. You hate me!”

Dad steadied Gabe's head with his hands, directing him to look into his eyes. “You're my firstborn,” he said, his voice breaking
with emotion. “I could never hate you. Don't you ever say that again, ever, do you understand?”

When Gabe didn't respond, he pulled Gabe's face closer, so that their foreheads almost touched.

His tone conveyed severity and concern. “Don't you ever, ever say that I don't love you,” he continued. “You're my life. I haven't been there for you. I know it's been hard. This is my fault. Mine. But I'm going to make it up to you. But don't you ever say that I don't love you, ever again. I can't take that. I can't. It's not true; it's not right. Do you understand?”

He shook Gabe's head a little, and finally Gabe nodded, the tears spilling out.

“Listen to me,” Dad said, releasing Gabe, “the both of you. We're going to fight this, and everything's going to be okay. I give you my word.”

We both nodded. We'd not seen our dad cry before like he was now, his eyes shining.

My vision swam with the tears pooling in my lower eyelids, and I swiped them with my forearm, feeling a whirlpool of emotions: guilt, grief, anger, and a surprising relief at the connection between Dad and Gabe, so long in coming. But why had it taken this to make it happen?

And then, overpowering all my feelings, a sense of the disappointment my dad and brother would feel toward me once they knew what I'd done. I hated letting them down more than anything.

“Oh, god,” I mumbled, unable to contain my emotions any longer, wanting to tell them about my bringing Gabe's video camera
to the police station, to get it over with. “Oh, god, oh, god, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!”

But Dad hooked me into his arms before I confessed, and I, like Gabe before me, released my tears into his shoulder, the material of his shirt still wet from Gabe.

B
EFORE
D
AD HOLED
up in his office to call his lawyers, he had a couple of stiff drinks and made a phone call to Nancy at her Newport Bluffs apartment. Reclined in his chair, his third drink on the table beside him next to his cigarette propped in an ashtray, he said, “That's right, honey. I like the yellow one.” A little tipsy, eyes and cheeks bright. “The blue one is okay, but the yellow is better. I don't know about the black. Doesn't seem right. Yes, yes. I'd go with the yellow.”

Gabe and I sat on the couch and listened. We didn't know what else to do.

More murmurings of approval, and then he said, “Okay, honey, that's right. Smooches to you, too.”

After he hung up, he said, “Didn't have the heart to tell her. She's upset. She wants to know which dress to wear to her charity event.” His head went down, a smile spreading. “To be honest”—he shook his head in pleased incredulity—“I don't even remember what the dresses look like.”

W
E ORDERED A
pizza to be delivered. I made a quick phone call to Mike and explained what had happened, and why I couldn't make it to Emily's birthday dinner.

He put Emily on the phone, and she asked me to sing “Happy Birthday” to her, so I did.

When Mike got back on the phone, he said, “If you need anything, I'm here.”

Gabe and I were eating slices in the living room when we heard a thumping noise from Dad's office, and then Dad shouting, “Son of a bitch!”

Red-faced, he came into the living room, searching frantically for the remote. “Where is it?” he said. “Where, where? Hurry!”

Gabe found it wedged between the couch cushions and handed it to him.

He flicked between the stations, landing on the local news, muttering, “Son of a bitch.”

To my horror, I saw Tom L. on the screen, talking to an over-animated female newscaster, who wore bright red lipstick and had her hair slicked back in a ponytail. But what horrified me the most was that as they spoke, boxed in the corner of the television screen and titled “
MYSTERY VIGILANTE
,” a black-and-white image replayed, over and over: grainy security camera footage of someone hunched beneath a towel, setting a box down in the police station doorway. Shot from above, with the time and date spooling beneath the image, and then blacking out.

Replaying—toweled figure setting the box down, blackness, replay. Toweled figure setting the box down, blackness, replay.

Because I knew that I was under the towel, it seemed that everyone must know. My hunch, my bare feet, the visible trim of my jeans. The hand-trembling passing off of the box.

“If anyone has information,” said Tom L., in his soothing voice, “please contact us at the phone number that we listed. We would really like to speak with the person who brought us this video camera. If you know who it is, or if that person happens to be watching right now, we need your help. A serious crime was committed. We need as much information as possible.”

“Can you tell us,” the smiling newscaster said, seemingly aroused by the possibilities, “what crime took place on the tape?”

Tom L. shook his head. “I'm afraid not.”

The newscaster—I swear it—gave a lower-lip-jutting pout.

“I will say,” said Tom L., “that in my entire forty-three years of law enforcement, I've never seen anything quite this disturbing.”

This perked up the newscaster. She said, “You heard it, folks! Please call the information line if you can help. Thank you, Lieutenant Lawrence, for taking the time to talk with me, and for your incredible career of service.”

“Thank you,” said Tom L., reaching to shake her hand. The newscast went back to the regularly featured co-anchors.

Dad flicked the TV off, and we all sat silent for a moment. Then he said, “That son of a bitch hiding beneath a towel”—he paused, sucking in his breath, overcome with his emotions; once composed, he continued in a far more controlled and steely voice—“I'm going to find out who it is, and then I'm going to destroy the bastard.”

Even though I was sitting, I had a vertiginous sensation, and I could feel the sweat from my armpits trickling down my rib cage. Dad seemed to be waiting for one of us to respond, and I knew that Gabe wouldn't.