Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

“You’re right,” Jack said. “I never should’ve asked you to come along. If you want to turn around I won’t hold it against you.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“I mean it, Max. Turn the car around. I’ll do this alone.”

“You really are on crack. You go in by yourself, you might not walk out.”

“It’s gotta be done,” he said.

“Why? Is talking to this kid really that important?”

“I told you, I need to know exactly what he saw.” He gestured. “If I can’t get you to turn around, at least pull over and I’ll walk from here. And if I’m not back in twenty minutes, or you run into any trouble, get to safer ground and call the cavalry.”

“You’re assuming they’d come,” Max said.

She pulled to the curb across from the Little Village Market and let the engine idle, glancing at that cluster of gangbangers, who were now less than a block away.

“I can’t let you do this, Jack. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I brought protection.”

Lifting his shirt, he reached to the holster resting against his right hip and pulled out a Smith amp; Wesson Magnum. 357 AirLite. Because he was a celebrity who was known to have fielded a substantial number of death threats, he’d long ago been granted a conceal and carry permit by the Marin County sheriff.

The AirLite was compact yet deadly.

Max’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it. “Just because you spend time at a shooting range, doesn’t mean you’re a badass. You pull that thing, you better be ready to use it or you’re likely to get five more stuck in your face. These boys don’t fool around.”

“Neither do I,” Jack said, then tucked the gun back into its holster and popped open his door.

Jamal Thomas lived with his mother and brother in a small apartment on Sawyer Street.

Jack consulted the GPS map on his cell phone and saw that he had two blocks to travel from where Max had parked her car. Unfortunately, the only way to get there was to go straight past the kids in the parking lot, and he had a feeling that the moment Max pulled to the curb they’d noted the intrusion on their turf.

Max is right. You are on crack, he thought.

But Tom Drabinksy’s face kept drifting through his mind, and Jack knew the only way he’d make any headway with this story was to talk to Jamal. He might come away from the encounter with nothing to show for it, but at least he had to try.

He walked up the street, heading straight for the parking lot. He decided to try the open and friendly approach. It probably wouldn’t work, but neither would ignoring them or coming in hot.

The kids-some of them no older than sixteen-had been laughing and chattering until Jack stepped into the lot.

The oldest of the kids came forward. Jack recognized him.

“You and your girlfriend make a wrong turn, homey?” He laughed. It was more of a statement than a question. The kid was trying to see into Maxine’s car as he approached but the dark window showed only a vague silhouette.

Jack slowly reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a set of credentials. His old GNT identification card, which had expired two years ago. He didn’t expect these kids to recognize him, but they’d surely recognize the network he once worked for.

“I’m with GNT News,” he said.

The kid gave the card a cursory glance, then looked back down the block toward Maxine’s car. “I don’t see no camera truck. How you gonna put me on Tee Vee?”

“The cameras come later,” Jack said. “I’m what they call an advance man. I’m here to set up an interview with a kid named Jamal Thomas, lives on Sawyer Street. You know him?”

The kid stiffened. “Nah.”

That was it? Jack thought. No negotiation, no shakedown?

“You sure?” Jack pressed.

That seemed to trigger something in the kid.

“Man, why don’t you jus’ turn ’round and go back to where you from?”

“Why?” Jack asked. He spoke in a voice that was loud enough for the others to hear. “What are you scared of, Leon?”

The kid snapped forward like he was a shooting guard for the Warriors. He was in Jack’s face almost as fast as Jack’s hand was on the. 357. The move did not escape the kid’s notice. If he had a piece he wouldn’t be able to get it in time, and it was too dark here for the rest of the gang to see.

“How do you know me?” Leon asked.

“I saw you in the car the day of the explosion,” Jack said. “I was the guy talking to Officer Beckman.”

Leon nodded, drew back. “I ain’t scared,” he said defiantly.

“Not of me, no,” Jack said, offering him a bone. His hand moved from under his shirt. “What happened? Did someone do something to Jamal?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Jack said. “Jesus, man, I’m trying to help him.”

“Right.”

“What else would I be doing here with just my associate in the middle of the goddamn night?”

Leon considered this.

“Tell me what happened. Please.”

The kid spat to the side to show the others that he was okay, that he was in charge and unafraid. “What happened? Jamal was outta the hospital for what, not even half an hour, when they came to see him.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know who, ” he said. “They come off Bay Shore in a big black Escalade, poundin’ on the door and-”

He was cut off by the shriek of a siren as an ambulance blasted up the avenue and streaked past them, making a left turn on Sawyer. The kids whipped their heads in its direction then started piling into the muscle car.

One of them shouted, “Come on, man, let’s check this out.”

Leon glanced in the direction of the ambulance. The glow of a distant streetlight, one that wasn’t broken, showed he was wearing a funny expression, something between anger and concern. He ran to the car and jumped inside, its tires squealing as it tore out of the parking lot.

Jack waited until it was around the corner, then started out after it.

“My baby! They killed my baby!”

By the time Jack reached the muscle car it was parked out in front of one of the tenement houses. The ambulance sat in the middle of the street, its red strobe flickering, curious neighbors spilling from their homes to see what the commotion was.

The paramedics were already rolling a gurney out a doorway, the small body on it covered with a sheet.

Jack checked the address. It was Jamal Thomas’s apartment.

An emaciated but not unattractive woman in her early forties stood on the sidewalk, her arms stretched toward the gurney, her face twisted in agony as Leon held her back.

“My baby!” she cried, her high, shrill voice full of raw emotion. “Why did they kill my baby?”

She tried to wriggle away but Leon held tight, his own face slack with shock and grief as he stared at the gurney, tears running down his cheeks. The other kids stood around him, open-mouthed, looking much more like children than gangstas, their bravado overwhelmed by the tragedy of the moment.

Jack quickly assessed the scene, and as the paramedics reached the rear of the ambulance he approached the one nearest the doors and showed him his GNT credentials. “What happened here?”

The paramedic waved him away. “Stay clear.”

“Have the police been notified?”

“Soon as we got the call.”

“What’s the C-O-D? Was he shot?”

The guy hesitated, as though sizing Jack up; he seemed to decide it might not be a bad idea to keep a potential ally on hand.

The EMT shook his head. “Overdose.”

“Like hell!” Leon shouted, gently passing the crying woman into the arms of one of his friends. “I already told you, Jamal wasn’t no junkie!”