T Parker - L. A. Outlaws

“I’m starved. Hit the Jack on Lincoln, will ya? I’ll spring for all you miserable cops, don’t worry.”

Hood saw through this as a stall for Suzanne’s lawyer, but he did it anyway.

The late-night line for the drive-through window was long, but Suzanne didn’t say a word. She leaned over and glared at him and ordered four kid’s meals and one adult combo. Then she sat back, dug into her bag and tossed a twenty onto Hood’s lap.

“Thank you.”

“Fuck off, Charlie.”

As soon as they walked into the safe house, Suzanne brushed past Marlon and the two deputies and locked herself in the bathroom. Hood remembered that the window in it was high and small.

He set the food on the dinette table. He heard the bathroom fan go on.

Marlon and the deputies sat at the table. Hood stood beside it, utterly at a loss.

Suzanne came out looking at her watch. “Eat up, children.”

She didn’t look at Hood as she took the adult bag to the couch, dropped it on the coffee table before her and sat.

“You can ask your questions while I eat.”

“I take it Charlie has filled you in,” said Marlon. He gave Hood a sharp look.

“Get to the point if you have one,” said Suzanne.

“I just have a couple of simple questions. One is, have you ever met this Allison Murrieta?”

“No comment.”

“Seen her on TV?”

“Of course.”

Suzanne shook her head and bit a French fry in half and leveled her gaze on Hood. He was surprised at the voltage of her anger.

Marlon waited with a hopeful look on his face. “You might not know this, but to some people, Allison Murrieta looks like you. You with a wig. Maybe it’s ridiculous to think that you’re her . But when a really unusual idea like that gets under my skin, it’s like a splinter I can’t get out. It bothers me.”

Suzanne took a bite of a sandwich, looked at Marlon. “I’m so glad you’re bothered.”

“Ms. Jones, what do you make of that resemblance?”

“Not one thing.”

“But you do see it?”

“Don’t try to lead me. You can’t.”

“If you can tell me where you were last night, we’re pretty much done here.”

“It’s none of your business. Where were you?”

Marlon opened his kid’s-meal bag and looked in. “Home. The truth is usually simple.”

Hood heard something outside and the doorbell rang. He opened the door and a small, stout woman held his look as she walked past him into the room. She wore yellow sweats and a yellow ball cap. He recognized her. Behind her came a large young man in a sharp black suit.

The men stood. She looked at them, and at Suzanne, then once more at Hood. The young man closed the door softly, then stood with his back to it and his hands folded like a deacon waiting for the plate.

The small woman stepped forward and handed a card to Marlon.

“My name is Ruth Mayer. I am an attorney representing Suzanne Jones. Is she under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, she isn’t,” said Marlon. “We just had some simple questions for her and we were trying to get some simple answers. As a courtesy, we didn’t want to bring her downtown.”

“Suzanne will not speak to you now. I can be reached twenty-four hours a day at the number on that card and I will answer any and all questions on her behalf. If you choose to arrest her, we would appreciate a call twelve hours in advance. Suzanne promises not to leave the state of California for the next thirty days, except in the case of a family emergency. My client is an award-winning primary school teacher, and school starts next week-correct, Suzanne?”

“Yep.”

“You should know that my client is an excellent teacher. My niece had her for eighth-grade history.”

The young man held open the door.

“Good night, gentlemen,” said Mayer. “Suzie, come with me. Jason, the door.”

But Marlon stepped ahead of them and asked Jason to move his hands away from the door. When he let go, Marlon kicked it shut with a slam and turned back to the room.

“Okay, we’ll do it your way. Ms. Jones is under arrest for grand theft auto unless she can explain that STS downstairs. The valet at the Ivy surrendered the keys to it at gunpoint this afternoon. To Allison Murrieta.”

“Don’t say anything, Suzie,” snapped the lawyer. “Not one word.”

Marlon Mirandized her, and one of the uniforms cuffed her wrists behind her back.

Suzanne looked through Hood.

The lawyer told her she’d be free by late Monday morning.

At nine Monday morning Ernest delivers ten grand cash to a bondsman for a hundred-thousand-dollar bail bond. The judge accepts Ruth’s argument that as a mother and a teacher with no criminal record I pose little flight risk, but she points out that allegedly there was a gun involved. I’ve been in jail fifty-six hours and my clothes are wrinkled, my hair smells of weak shampoo and my attitude is bad. But the hole in the top of my scalp itches, healing up nicely.

At eleven-fifteen Ruth and Jason the hunk and I walk out of the jail into the hot Los Angeles morning. There are more cameras and reporters than I’ve seen since O.J. Ruth’s office has called every reporter she knows, and many that she doesn’t. I’m beginning to understand how celebrities feel and I like it.

Bradley and Jordan walk beside me, Ernest trails, and I carry baby Kenny, who smiles and bubbles and grunts.

Ruth has given Fox News the privilege of hosting me in return for their airing her full statement, so we make our way through the booms and mikes and the cables and the cameras and the shouted questions bouncing off us like hailstones. There’s a Fox uplink van with a podium and microphone set up directly in front of the Fox News logo.

Ruth steps onto the plastic milk case that Jason has set behind the podium. Ruth is five feet tall, in shoes. She angles the mike and waits for the reporters to quiet down.

“When I first visited the Franklin middle school classroom of Suzanne Jones two years ago, I didn’t imagine that I’d be defending her from the most egregious, false criminal charges that I, in thirty years of practicing law in this city, have ever seen. Now I have that dubious honor. Last night L.A. Sheriff’s deputies arrested Suzanne on suspicion of stealing, at gunpoint yesterday evening, a car from Ivy restaurant. There were two witnesses to this theft. Both witnesses recognized and identified the armed robber as Allison Murrieta. Allison Murrieta, as you know, is a colorful local criminal to whom Suzanne bears little resemblance. In the Sheriff’s Department’s haste to arrest Allison Murrieta, they’ve spun their wheel of fortune and the needle has landed on Suzanne Jones-mother of three, award-winning schoolteacher in L.A. Unified, a former teacher of the year. I’ve seen bad arrests, but this is the first-place winner. I’m sure the district attorney won’t file on this, but if he does, we look very forward to our day in court. But why should you believe me? Use your own eyes and explain to me why the L.A. Sheriff’s can’t tell a brunette from a blonde, or a dangerous felon from a fine and decent citizen. Suzanne, come up here.”

I step over to the mike still holding Kenny. My arms are getting tired and I realize I’m out of shape for holding him, and what a poor mother I’ve been the last few weeks. I’ve always loved lugging around my children.

I keep my head high and look out at the crowd. “This is all a big misunderstanding but thanks for being interested and coming out. Jail is a rotten place, so don’t get falsely arrested on a Friday night ’cause they won’t let you out until Monday. I can’t talk about the case because Ruth will kill me but I’m sure they’ll just drop it when they learn the facts. I’m so relieved that I can go back to my family and my job. I don’t have to run anymore. These last few weeks have been a nightmare for me and my family. I never knew how richly blessed my life was until it was almost taken away.”