Wendy Hornsby: Bad Intent

“Police usually turn it on to find a cop killer,” I said. “So, what happened? You go overboard?”

“It was nothing like that. Wyatt Johnson wasn’t killed because he was a cop. He was killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That makes a difference?”

“Big difference. It was a routine street crime, and that’s how we handled it.”

The question I didn’t ask was how they handled routine street crime fifteen years ago. I had heard plenty of stories about brawls and wild chases and had seen the old scars on Mike’s body. I knew fists and flashlight blows came under standard operating procedure in the days before the rhetoric of kinder and gentler was enforced. I could see Mike was worried. The big question I asked was, “What can happen to you?”

“Nothing. The statute’s run out on anything actionable. All they can do is give some grief to everyone who worked the case. Won’t hurt anyone, but who needs it?” He looked down at me. “They can’t take my pension. Anything else? Who gives a fuck?”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Indeed,” he mocked. His pager beeped. “I have to get back. See you at home around five.”

“You’ll be home?” I asked. “Should we be baking a cake with a file in it?”

He backed up. “No. Jesus. I told you twice-it’s a piece-of-shit case. By tomorrow it will be a nonissue again.” Between waves of kids, we were alone for a moment, me, Mike, and the Lego robot. I took advantage of the pause in chaos to put my arms around Mike. I said, “I’m worried.”

“Trust me, baby.” He kissed the back of my neck. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I trust you, Mike. About as far as I can throw you.”

It ain’t none of my grandbaby’s fault. He’s a good, Jesus-lovin’ boy. Like I say, it ain’t his fault Kenny Jackson got hisself killed.

“Meet Miz Etta Harkness,” I said. “Age forty-five, grandmother of one, great-grandmother of two.”

“She gives good sound bite, Maggie.” Ralph Faust, from the Los Angeles bureau of Satellite Network News, reached over and shut off my video player. We were in my newly rented office, the remains of lunch bagged and stashed under an end table. “Pathos, bathos, and a bleeped obscenity to hook the viewers as we segue into a commercial. I’ll give you a thousand for that half-minute of videotape.”

I thought about the offer, low-ball, but within the standard range. Money wasn’t the issue here. As an independent filmmaker, I share film goodies all the time, now and then for no payment other than lunch or a favor I might want to redeem later. I hesitated because Ralph Faust was a shark and I had to think about the possibilities.

I let him wait without an answer while I sliced through the sealing tape on one of the cartons the movers had left in the middle of my office floor. Then I let him wait some more while I transferred the junk in the carton into the drawers of my rented desk.

The desk was a good, big, well-scarred wooden thing. I liked it very much, and wouldn’t have minded claiming it as my own.

But, under the circumstances, renting seemed like a good idea. I wasn’t at all sure Los Angeles and I were going to take to each other. The rented status of the desk bothered Mike. He had said, “Make the leap, Maggie. If nothing else, you can commit enough to buy a desk.”

If the desk was going to be an issue, I was glad it had some character, a history even. No one at the furniture rental agency had bothered to clean it out before sending it over, so it came with a full supply of someone else’s dead pens and a two-year-old appointment calendar.

Under the calendar I had found a folder of snapshots, pictures of a bunch of old guys at a Sigma Pi fraternity reunion picnic. They looked to be working hard at having fun, their expensive my-wife-bought-me-this sports togs stretched over fully ripened, middle-aged beer guts. Pretty cute, actually. I was especially fond of the moon picture, half-a-dozen round, naked white asses on display for the cameraman. One of the old boys held a card above his peachlike butt with “Moon Pi’s” written on it in bold letters. I thought I might use the picture for my Christmas cards.

“So, Maggie.” Ralph’s grin was stretched thin. “We have a deal?”

“Why do you want Etta?” I asked.

“I’m covering the Police Commission hearings and what I have is too flat. I think Miz Etta would give my coverage some power.”

“Etta wasn’t at the Commission hearings.”

“What she says pertains. You know, cops and the ghetto.”

“Uh huh,” I said, watching him closely. “It’s a big stretch, though. Muddies the line between straight news and manufactured stories. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not at all.”

“How did you know I had the tape?”

“One of my stringers was covering the demonstration downtown this morning. He saw you outside the courthouse, heard some of the interview. He told me it was good. He was right. So, you selling?”

“Sure.” I dropped the empty carton onto the pile of empty cartons behind me. “Except, Casey’s orthodontia bill is past due. Etta will cost you fifteen hundred.”

He nodded. “Sold.”

The tooth-sucking smugness that crossed Ralph’s face just then told me that he had been prepared to pay something more for Miz Etta Harkness on the courthouse steps, told me that maybe he had neglected to tell me something significant. I was bothered a hell of a lot more about missing the point than I was in missing out on a few more dollars.

As I said, Ralph was a shark. I should have been sharper. But I had things other than Etta on my mind.

I turned on the computer and loaded the standard release form off my hard drive, made a few changes to give Ralph nonexclusive, one-shot broadcast rights, typed in the dollar figure, set the printer for two copies, and ran it.

“Just one restriction,” I said, groping in the desk drawer for a pen that worked. “I’m not finished with Etta yet. I’ll be real cranky if you edit my tape to make her look less than dignified. I don’t want her to quit talking to me.”

“Trust me.” Ralph glanced at the release I handed him and signed it. “What’s your project?”

“A documentary on growing up in the federal housing projects. Bullshit variation on my usual,” I said. “Any time the subject is mothers and kids, I seem to get the job. I’m doing this one for commercial TV-the next anniversary of the L.A. riots comes during sweeps week-so the money is good for a change. But honest to God, Ralph, I’d give it up in a heartbeat for a filthy hard news story.”

“That’s the MacGowen I know.” He laughed malevolently. “The rest of us are real glad you’ve gone independent, Maggie. You made it tough on the competition.”

“Liar.”

“I miss you in the trenches.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t in the trenches, Ralph. Just different trenches from you network types.”

He passed me the signed release. “Give me some background on Etta.”

“I only met her last night. This is all I know: She took over raising her grandson when her daughter O.D.‘ed. The kid was ten when she got him. By then, he was already in a gang and running on the streets. Now he’s fifteen. This morning he was arraigned for murder. It’s a family tradition. His daddy had a hearing this morning, too-a parole hearing on a murder conviction. Poor Etta couldn’t be in both places.”

“Poor Etta, indeed. San Luis Obispo is a good four-hour drive from L.A.”

I was ready to sign the release until he said that. I put down the pen. “How’d you know his dad was in San Luis?”

“You told me.”

“No, I didn’t.”