Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

“Speaking of decorators, anything from the landscaper?”

“She’s in England at a big show, obviously I’m not going to leave a message. But the gardeners confirm they never went into the forest. White Glove is scheduled to clean today, I was careful to finish last night, kept it neat. Unless they count the guns, they’ll never know I was there.”

“Have you worked out the cuff thing with Homeland yet?”

“Still under review,” he said. “You know the feds. They’re all into process.”

The “process” was established after much interdepartmental head-scratching and formalized in a two-page, single-spaced Document of Intent.

Officers from U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP), working in concert with Los Angeles World Airport Authority (LAWA) at the Tom Bradley International Terminal’s customs clearance area, would carry out a “strategic focused capture and custodial operation” with approved representatives from LAPD and the district attorney’s office “in observance” along with a single approved prosecution consultant (APC) authorized by LAPD and the D.A. Once the security status of the arrestees had been ascertained to the satisfaction of CBP, formal custody would transfer from CBP to LAPD at an approved location, yet to be determined.

Alitalia Flight 62, nonstop from Rome to Los Angeles, scheduled to arrive at one twenty-eight p.m., was delayed an hour and a half. At two p.m., Milo, John Nguyen, and I — honored to be the APC — drove to LAX in Milo’s unmarked trailed by three black-and-whites from the West L.A. station.

The cop cars drove into the parking lot across the street from Bradley and remained there. The three of us entered the terminal expecting to be met by an airport police sergeant named MacArthur Davis but encountering only harried-looking incoming and outgoing travelers.

Several calls finally produced an officer named Fred Barefoot who told us Davis had taken a sick day and led us downstairs to a suite of Homeland Security offices where a cadre of armed, blue-uniformed CBP agents waited.

In charge was a five-foot-tall sergeant named Mary Dobbs who outlined the plan on a whiteboard.

Milo said, “Sounds good.”

Dobbs said, “I should hope so. We worked on it.”

At two thirty-two p.m., a phone in the customs office rang informing the assembled that the plane had pulled up to the gate early.

At two thirty-eight p.m. the border uniforms and their privileged guests entered the vast customs clearance hall. A billion or so dollars had been spent renovating the building but that didn’t extend to manpower. Fewer than half the stations were operating and the hall was clogged with coiling queues of the recently deplaned doing a collective impression of Wretched Refuse.

The exception were passengers who’d qualified for and paid to participate in the Global Entry Trusted Traveler Program (GETTP), allowing them to breeze past the lines to one of the Automated Passport Control (APC) kiosks at a special Federal Inspection Station developed in concert with the Tom Bradley International Equipment Company (TBITEC). There, they offered their passports and a thumbprint for machine-scanning and, once approved, were directed to the baggage carousel. Upon procurement of luggage, they’d continue to designated GETTP customs officers, usually to be waved through without inspection.

“Nice,” said Milo.

Mary Dobbs said, “It is if people behave themselves. If they don’t, they’re off the bus forever.”

“That happen a lot?”

“Last week we had a joker trying to sneak in a guitar with ivory all over it, clear CITES violation.” She waved jazz hands. “Bye-bye, Music Boy.”

At two fifty-three p.m., Enid DePauw, in a black vicuña shawl, black silk blouse, and gray herringbone slacks, was first off the plane, race-walking and carrying a small black clutch with a gold clasp. Right behind her, J. Yarmuth Loach in a double-breasted navy blazer, cream linen pants, and white silk shirt carried a crocodile-hide Louis Vuitton hard-case and wheeled a matching carry-on bag.

Loach was a tall man but his long legs had to strain to keep up with DePauw. She put all four limbs into it; get too close and he’d feel the impact of her elbows.

Milo said, “That’s them.”

Sergeant Dobbs said, “Last time they’ll get to jump the line.”

The six border cops moved ahead of the couple, now being processed at side-by-side kiosks. Milo, Nguyen, and I were ordered to stand to the right of the kiosks but that exposed us visually and when Milo pointed out that Suspect DePauw had met us and could recognize us, Dobbs said, “Shit,” and hurried us forward.

“Over there, somewhere they can’t see you.”

We found a vantage point behind the carousel bordering the one serving the Rome flight. Loach, still trailing Enid DePauw, wheeled a luggage cart near the chute. She stood a few feet away, powdering her nose.

For the first few seconds, they were the only people at the carousel. Then a few other first-class passengers joined them. The first piece dumped down the chute was an unobtrusive black bag that Loach hefted onto the cart. DePauw paid no notice until, seconds later, a large crocodile suitcase matching the hard-case and the wheelie tumbled forth and she said something sharp to Loach that caused him to spring for it. After he’d loaded it in the cart, she inspected it, turned her back on him, and headed for the customs desk.

Nguyen said, “Croc. That stuff costs a fortune.”

Milo said, “Killer lizard giving up its life. There’s a lesson there, somewhere.”

The customs officer designated to participate in the production was a thickset, mustachioed man who’d have flunked Acting 101. His eyes kept darting around and he avoided looking at Loach and DePauw.

“Nervous Nellie,” said Nguyen. “C’mon, dude, this is more than confiscating guitars.”

Enid tapped a foot and smoothed her hair as Mustache took a long time reviewing the couple’s documents. He pointed to the cart and said something that made her scowl.

J. Yarmuth Loach remained silent. The submissive one. That made him the preferable target for interrogation. I’d say something later.

Now he lifted the hard-case to the customs desk and the officer took it and shook it. Enid DePauw’s foot tapped faster. She looked furious.

Not used to being kept waiting.

Finally, Mustache returned the case to Loach and she began to edge forward. Before Loach got the case back on the cart, Dobbs and her officers had swarmed the couple on all sides.

Sergeant Dobbs walked up to Enid and said something to her. Received a hard slap across the face for her troubles.

J. Yarmuth Loach’s mouth had dropped open. He accepted the handcuffs passively. Not so, DePauw. She’d tightened her hand into a fist and took another swing at Dobbs, using her height to bear down and aim at the top of Dobbs’s head.

Dobbs, with one hand still flat against her smarting cheek, used the other to haul off and deliver a gut-punch that lowered DePauw to the floor.

Both suspects were propelled out of the hall.

As we left, I heard someone say, “Old people like that? Why don’t they go after some real terrorists?”

One cop car drove Loach to the Men’s Central Jail in East L.A. The second transported Enid DePauw to the Women’s Central Jail in Lynwood.

The third, driven by an officer who said, “Lucky me,” took the luggage.

Within hours of booking, both suspects had high-powered lawyers stonewalling on their behalf.

“Big surprise, big deal,” said John Nguyen. “We’ve got bodies.”

The luggage revealed nothing. Milo’s search of Loach’s office was another story.