Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

Then in a quiet voice, while Bix kept the husband busy by getting names, phone number, and other information, Ronnie said, “Is there something wrong with your husband?” Ronnie pointed to her head and said, “Here?”

The young woman glanced back at the house and said, “No.”

“What is your name?” Ronnie asked.

“Safia,” the young woman said.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth, Safia,” Ronnie said. “Has he hurt you in any way? If he has, we can take you to a shelter, where you’ll be safe.”

“No, I am fine,” Safia said.

“And your husband,” Ronnie said. “Is he fine? Up here?” And she pointed to her head again.

“He is fine,” Safia said, eyes downcast.

“Does he have a job?” Ronnie asked.

“No, not now,” Safia said. “He look for job. I look for job also. I clean houses.”

“How old are you?” Ronnie asked.

“Twenty-one,” she said. “I think.”

“Do you really want to stay with your husband?” Ronnie asked. “Is he kind to you?”

“I stay,” the young woman said, looking at Ronnie now. “My father give me to Omar. I stay.”

Bix left the Somalian on the porch and approached Ronnie and Safia then, saying quietly, “You do not have to stay with him.”

Speaking slowly and articulating carefully, Ronnie said, “This is America and you are a free woman. Would you like to get your clothes and leave with us? There are people who can help you.”

“No, no!” the young woman said emphatically. “I stay.”

Ronnie pressed a business card into the young woman’s hand and said, “Call if you need help. Okay?”

The young woman hid the card in her sleeve and nodded.

Bix Ramstead went back to see Mrs. Farnsworth and gave her one of his business cards, writing his personal cell-phone number on the back of it. “If you suspect anything really bad is going on over there, I want you to call me. I can be reached at this number anytime.”

And that’s how it was left. Bix and Ronnie stopped by the market two blocks away and notified the kid who picked up shopping carts abandoned in the neighborhood that there was a jackpot in Omar’s yard. They went about their business, hoping it was the last they’d hear of Omar Hasan Benawi.

Half an hour later, while driving to Hollywood South, Bix Ramstead said, “I have a very bad feeling about that Somali couple.”

“So do I,” Ronnie said.

Los Angeles experienced a rare summertime thunderstorm at twilight. The rain came down hard for twenty minutes and then it stopped, and a gigantic rainbow appeared over the Hollywood Hills. It was a magic moment, residents said. And the rain led to an incredible moment that would be remembered in LAPD folklore for years to come. It occurred moments after the midwatch hit the streets, and the surfer cops were there to see it.

The Gang Impact Team, called GIT, had made arrangements with the watch commander to use two of the midwatch cars and two from the night watch on a surprise sweep of the 18th Street gang. GIT had the highest felony filing rate at Hollywood Detectives and loved to jam the street gangsters, but morale had been suffering ever since the U.S. district judge overseeing the federal consent decree wanted all six hundred LAPD officers assigned to gang and narcotics units to disclose their personal financial records as part of the anti-corruption crusade. However, since that information could be subpoenaed, a cop’s bank account information, Social Security number, and much else could end up in the hands of lawyers for street gangsters. Cops were threatening to quit their present assignments rather than let that happen, and their union, the L.A. Police Protective League, was waging a battle on their behalf. It was another of many oppressive, paper-intensive skirmishes during the dreary years of the federal consent decree.

The information that GIT had was that the 18th Street crew were going to cruise south in their lowriders into Southeast L.A. to help other Hispanic gang members mete out street justice to some black gangsters who were suspected of shooting a Latino. More than half of the Los Angeles homicides in the prior calendar year were gang related. The informant indicated that the 18th Street homeboys would be waiting by a chain-link fence next to an apartment house in Southeast Hollywood, where most of them lived. When the cops arrived, eleven of the cruisers were perched on the top of the fence or leaning on the portion that was pulled from the posts and rolled in a tangle of steel wire. At a prearranged signal on the police tactical frequency, the patrol units swooped in, led by two teams of Hollywood gang cops.

None of the homies had seemed particularly disturbed and nobody ran. Several who were smoking cigarettes continued smoking. Nobody tried to toss any crystal or crack. They kept chatting among themselves as though the cops were putting on a good show for their benefit. The crew were not proned out on the ground due to the deep rain puddles that had formed under and around the fence, so the usual commands were modified:

“Turn and face the fence!”

“Interlock your fingers behind your head!”

“Do not move or talk!”

Then the cops began patting down each homie and pulling them aside to write FI cards. The gang cops took various members of the crew to their cars for more private conversations, but all in all it was a disappointment. The consensus was that the information had somehow leaked and the crew were expecting to be jacked up. The gang cops were mad and embarrassed.

During the first twenty minutes of the episode, when a few of the crew were copping attitudes, a cruiser dressed homie-hip in a baggy tee and khakis-with the usual face tatts consisting of spiderwebs and teardrops-turned to his crew and grinned, proudly displaying two gold caps. Like several of the others, he wore a red-and-white bandana around his shaved head.

He said, “Yo, this ain’t right,” to one of the Hispanic gang cops who’d arrested him in the past.

“What ain’t right, ese? ” the gang cop said.

“We’re just hangin’, man. Ain’t no law being broke around here.”

“Homes, I would never accuse you of law breaking,” the gang cop said.

The cruisers were all grinning at one another, and the gang cops became more certain that somehow they had anticipated this sweep.

Flotsam wasn’t the least bit surprised and said to Jetsam, “Dude, have you ever heard of a cop keeping a secret?”

“Might as well give it to Access Hollywood, ” Jetsam agreed. “You want it out there? Telephone, telegram, tell-a-cop.”

The surfer cops were waiting for the gang unit to give them the okay to clear, when a motor cop pulled up. He wasn’t just any motor cop. He was Officer Francis Xavier Mulroney, a hulking, craggy, old-school veteran who still wore reflector aviator sunglasses and black leather gloves. He had thirty-seven years on the LAPD, thirty of it riding a motorcycle. He was usually assigned to the Hollywood beat, where his nickname “F.X.” seemed wildly appropriate. He stepped off his bike and walked through the standing puddles, boots splashing any cops who didn’t get out of his way.

With his helmet and those boots and his paunch and those glasses, he looked to Jetsam like the guy that played General Patton in that old World War II movie. In fact, he even sounded like the guy, kind of gravelly.

What’s this cluster fuck all about?” he said to the nearest of the two Hispanic gang cops.

The gang cop shrugged and said, “Nothin’ much, looks like.”

Then the motor cop said, “Why ain’t these vatos facedown in the fucking water instead of standing around giggling like girls? What, you don’t prone out these hanky heads when it’s rained?”