Stephen Cannell - Vertical Coffin

As far as anybody knew, Smiley didn't have any family that was still alive, so he was to be held in the morgue for the required two weeks. In another eight days, if his body wasn't claimed, he would be dumped in a pauper's grave, courtesy of the county, destined to spend eternity in a ten-foot hole full of the very homeless miscreants he had once hoped to police.

The crisis had lurched along for almost a week, like a cartoon cowboy with a slew of arrows in his back. On Friday, the L. A. County Board of Supervisors, headed by a broken steam valve named Enrique Salazar, got into the act. Salazar had picked up the sheriff's fallen shield and was charging the hill at Justice. He repeated the charge that ATF had not shared all the pertinent details of the arrest before sending Emo out to serve the warrant, speculating that this probably happened because Emo was a Mexican. Of course, nobody at ATF could have possibly known that a Mexican-American sheriff would serve the warrant, so that was just Enrique playing to his Hispanic base. But he also reasoned that ATF had not told the sheriffs about the illegal weapons cache, because, had the sheriffs known, they would have said, "Serve your own damn warrant." The Salazar piece was this morning's front-page ticking bomb.

Far more troubling than that was the fact that the temperature between these two law enforcement groups was at slow boil. Only the LAPD had managed to stay neutral.

Alexa came out, sat on the metal chair beside me, and took my hand. I showed her the front-page article in the Times.

"Saw it," she said. "Two thousand of Emo's friends and coworkers gathering this afternoon to cry over his body, and Salazar picks today to say ATF thought he was just another dumb Mexican. Guy needs a new public affairs consultant."

"This isn't going to go away," I said. "Salazar is going to make it an election issue. He'll go to the governor."

"In that case, he won't have to go far. The governor is going to be at the funeral. My office was notified that his security detail was going to need special parking at Forest Lawn."

"Great," I said.

She turned and looked at me carefully. "Shane, we need to talk about this."

I thought we had been talking about it, but apparently Alexa had something else on her mind.

"This whole thing with Emo-it's been eating at you. Even Chooch asked if you were okay."

"Yeah, I'm okay, it's just…" I stopped and let it hang there, not sure how to phrase what I was feeling.

"Just what?"

"I just wish I hadn't been up there. I wish I hadn't seen it. I can't get the memory of his blood off my skin."

"And?"

"And I hate cop funerals. I'm dreading this thing this afternoon. Bring in a TV camera and every publicity-seeking asshole in the state shows up. The governor comes, the city council, all the chiefs, sheriffs, and undersheriffs-even you and Tony. No offense intended."

"None taken." She cocked her head, thinking for a moment, then smiled. "I think."

"You saw what happened when we buried Tremaine. It'll be just like that. All the department ass-kissers who didn't even know Emo swarming like flies on garbage. All telling the brass what a great guy Emo was, how they were in the same foxholes with him, all spinning their dumb war stories. Most of the people making speeches this afternoon will be strangers. The ones who really loved him will get pushed to the back. We'll all be listening to guys like Salazar turn Emo's funeral into a campaign issue. Once they're done, down Emo goes into the hole, awash in crocodile tears and bullshit. Then everybody leaves, hoping the governor will remember they were there."

"Then why are you going?"

"I don't want to go, but I have to. How do you not go to a good friend's funeral?"

"Why is Chooch going?" she said, hitting me with a blind shot that I hadn't seen coming. I looked away to buy time, gather my defenses.

"Huh?" Not much of a response, I admit, but I'm not too good at dodging her.

"He's in there finishing his homework so he'll be able to go."

"Oh. I guess that could maybe be because I sorta told him he could go."

"He didn't even know Emo."

"Yes he did." I heaved a sigh. Once again I was going to have to bust myself. I took a deep breath. "He knew him because he went on an Iron Pigs ride with us two months ago."

"Right. Sure he did. He doesn't even know how to ride a Harley."

"Last July-the week you were in Chicago, I borrowed two bikes. We practiced every night for five days. Got him licensed Friday afternoon. I swore him to secrecy because I knew you wouldn't want him riding a hawg."

"You're damn right I wouldn't." She fell silent and let go of my hand. "And he sure doesn't need to go to this funeral."

"Let him go. He wants to. It's part of growing up. People you know and care about die. It's a bitch, but it happens. He liked Emo. They're both quarterbacks."

"When cops die, you know he puts you in the coffin, Shane. Emotionally, he sees you in the box."

"I suppose."

"No suppose about it. It's true." She was mad about the Harley ride but had the good sense not to bang me around about it now. Instead, her anger was coming out over Chooch and the funeral.

"Look, I'll talk to him, okay? I'll make him understand," I said.

"Make me understand," she challenged.

"You already do, sweetheart. It's why I love you." I gave her a hopeful smile.

She looked at me and her eyes softened. "Damn you, Shane. I'm really pissed off here. Acting goofy and sweet is no fair." Then she got up and went in to get Chooch.

Delfina would be at rehearsal until six. Chooch went to the funeral on crutches, because he had a broken foot.

Here's how that happened. About a week after the Iron Pigs ride in mid-July, during the first week of two-a-day football drills, he tried to escape a blitz, spun right, and rolled over on his right foot, cracking one of the small bones on the outside. Chooch was being recruited heavily by half a dozen big Division 1 universities and was afraid that the tiny bone break in his foot was going to cost him his entire multimillion-dollar pro-football career.

I gave him my "Life Is a Journey" speech. Net effect, zero. I gave him my "You Only Grow from Adversity" speech. Nothing. Finally, Alexa convinced him that his football career wasn't as important right now as his academic career, and he'd better make sure he kept his grades up; because, if he didn't get the athletic scholarship he'd need to get into college on pure academics. She reminded him he could always walk on if he didn't get the ride. This made sense to Chooch, and he had a 3.8 going into midterms. All of this is noteworthy only when you realize that, as usual, Alexa's pragmatic approach had carried the day.

It was a bright, cloudless Saturday afternoon as we drove to Forest Lawn. The San Gabriel Mountains were almost purple against the cobalt sky. A light Santa Ana wind had cleared the basin of smog for Emo's funeral. As we neared the off-ramp to Forest Lawn Drive, I could see this was going to be a mob scene. Traffic was already piling up on the 210 Freeway before we reached the L. A. River. You could tell it was for Emo, because even the people who weren't in squad cars were wearing uniforms with black ribbons pinned diagonally across their badges.

I wanted to drop Chooch off as close as possible. I've spent my share of time walking with birch under my arms, and I know that handling crutches on grass is a bitch. I managed to sneak up next to the chapel where the hearse and limos were parked. When I dropped Chooch and Alexa off there were already more than a thousand people milling in front of the church, most in tan deputies' uniforms. A smattering of LAPD blue punctuated the crowd. A sound system and some video screens had been set up for the overflow crowd that couldn't squeeze inside the church.