Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

Three strikes meant a mandatory life term in prison. Germando’s charges didn’t qualify, but he didn’t know that.

“She plant them,” he shouted out.

“No, she didn’t plant them,” Brill said. “You know how we know that?”

Germando didn’t speak.

“We found a witness who was with her.”

“See, I tell you she was with someone. A black man. A dealer-”

“No, he isn’t a dealer,” Brill explained, “but he is her boyfriend.”

“Her boyfriend is a dealer?”

“No, Germando, he’s not a dealer. But being as they’re close, when we get him on the witness stand, whose side do you think he’s going to be on, hmmm?”

Germando grew sullen. “I wan’ my lawyer.”

“Sure,” Brill said. “But before you make the call, I want to tell you a little story. It might help you out if you listen. Might help you out big time.”

El Paso raised his brown eyes to my face, then to Brill.

Justice said, “This story goes back maybe six months ago. A rape, amigo, and not just a rape. This is a gang rape in the men’s bathroom at MacFerren Park. And not just any gang rape, it’s the gang rape of a retarded girl who was fooling around with her retarded boyfriend. Someone beat the crap out of him, then threw him in the trash can. He was left for dead. Sound familiar?”

His eyes got wide, but he shook his head. “No. I never hurt no one.”

“Nothing like that.”

“I don’t hurt no one.”

“I’m not saying you did. Just that you might have been there.”

“Nah… I no there.”

I said, “We put you in a lineup, Germando. We bring the girl in.” I pointed to his neck. “That tiger on your throat is a pretty obvious calling card.”

“You say she’s retarded.” El Paso rubbed his watery nose. “No one will believe her.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” I told him. “I think lots of people will believe her.” I leaned across the table and poured him another glass of water. “The point is… are you sure enough to take a chance in front of twelve people who’d love to give a banger twenty to life?”

Brill said, “You want to call your lawyer now?”

Stark silence. We both waited him out.

El Paso said, “Wha’ happens when I call my lawyer?”

“Then we stop talking and you’re charged with felony drug possession,” I told him.

His eyes darted back and forth. “And if I no call him?”

“Then we keep talking,” Brill told him.

“We talk about the story Detective Brill just told you,” I added.

“I never touch that kind of girl. She no right in the head.”

“But you know who we’re talking about,” I said.

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Maybe isn’t a good answer,” Brill told him. “Maybe makes us think you’d say anything to avoid a drug conviction.”

“I hear about it,” El Paso said. “I hear that they do a re-tard. Me? I no interested in the girl. Too ugly.”

“Who did her?” Brill asked.

“Wha’ you give me if I remember good?”

“Up to our lawyers,” Brill said. “I’ve got to present the situation to them. But I can’t present the situation if I don’t know it. That means you have to tell it to me.”

“But once I tell, I have nothin’.”

“You have to trust us,” I said.

El Paso laughed.

“That hurts my feelings,” I said.

“Not as much as you’ dealer boyfrien’ hurt my back.”

“Bah humbug!” I lit a cigarette for him. He took it.

Brill said, “Start talking, Germando. I’m tired.”

“I know. You look like shit.” El Paso gave me a lecherous smile. “Now, you, mama, you look good. ”

I took his cigarette away. “Germando… if I can take you down like I did, those gorillas inside will have you touching your toes in an eye blink. Now be polite and start talking.” I stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, then sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.

Brill’s eyes went from my face to El Paso’s ugly mug.

“I don’ do nothin’ to her,” he reiterated. “I just wait at the door till they done.”

“Who did something to her?”

“Maybe Juice Fedek… Pepe Renaldes maybe. I don’ remember. Long time ago.”

I said, “The boy you beat up-”

“I don’ beat up no one,” El Paso stated.

“Someone beat him up,” I said.

“Not me. Maybe the others.”

“Was he alive when you left?”

El Paso shrugged. “I jus’ wait at the door.”

“Where’d you get the bag from?” Brill asked.

“What?”

“The bag of X,” Brill said. “Who’d you buy it from?”

Again El Paso asked for his lawyer. This time, he was adamant. The door to discussion was officially closed and dead-bolted.

Juice Fedekwas Joseph Nicholas Fedek: twenty-one years of age, a young man with a seasoned record-two breaking-and-entering charges, one assault, two misdemeanor drug possessions, two DUIs with a suspended license for a year. Eight months in county, bumped into early parole due to overcrowding. Then he was picked up on a DUI, served an additional four months, another early release, same reason. Where he parked himself was anyone’s guess and Germando claimed he hadn’t seen him since his last tour in the cellar.

Pepe Renaldes was gainfully employed by Do-Rite Construction-bonded and licensed. The company’s claim to fame was custom-built homes in Brentwood, a liberal, ritzy white area in the West Side of Los Angeles, a neighborhood I knew intimately because my mother and stepfather lived there. They had their book clubs, their wine-and-cheese parties, and their endless discussions on the state of the world. I loved my mother dearly. As my father admitted, she had not been given a fair shake in her first marriage. She was happy now, and that was good. But I could take the intellectualizing only in small doses. Their lifestyle had all the pitfalls of backbiting academia without the college credits.

Since both lads were lacking outstanding warrants, I had no choice but to wait until a game plan was formulated between El Paso’s lawyer and the DA. I had wanted to show their mugs to Sarah Sanders, see if she could pick them out of a six-pack, but I was told to hold off. With my hands figuratively bound, I went on my shift and worked a solid eight hours, getting home around twelve, exhausted and depleted.

Lots of phone messages, but none from Koby. No e-mails from him, either.

Why wasn’t I surprised?

Saturday was devoted to finding David Tyler. That meant phone calls to homeless shelters, halfway houses, and other community centers for the developmentally disabled. Then there was my “sacrosanct” lunch with Mom. As I traveled around Brentwood, I looked for houses going up and Do-Rite Construction signs, but was out of luck.

There were still no messages from Koby when I got home. That would die unless I got things going again. So on Sunday, I swallowed my pride. I went shopping and bought him an orange shirt-on sale and nonreturnable. Afterward, I wondered why in the hell I did it, because who was this guy to me.

I should have dusted him, except I was lonely. Over the past year, I couldn’t find the energy to attend parties or barhop, so where was I going to meet guys except at work and that was O-U-T -out. There had been chemistry between us and I was loath to give that up. Still, I waged an internal debate.

In the meantime, I hopped in my car and went over the canyon to visit Dad, wanting to fill him in on my search for David Tyler-or so I told myself. What I really wanted was some old-fashioned pats on the back for a job well done with Germando El Paso. As I approached my father’s house, Koby’s gift in hand, I wondered why I was carrying it.