The Two Minute Rule Part 8

Holman closed the door and brought Maria into the living room.

She said, "You weren't here with the policemen--I want to know who you are."

"My name is Holman. You know that name?"

"Get out of this house. I don't know where he is. I already tol' them. Who are you? You don't show me your badge."

Holman forced her down onto the couch. He leaned over her, nose to nose, and pointed at his face.

"Look at this face. Did you see this face on the news?"

She was crying. She didn't understand what he was saying, and she was scared. Holman realized this but was unable to stop himself. His voice never rose above a whisper. Just like when he was robbing the banks.

"My name is Holman. One of the officers, his name was Holman, too. Your f.u.c.king husband murdered my son. Do you understand that?"

"No!"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Did he go to Mexico? I heard he went under the fence."

"He did not do this. I showed them. He was with us."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me who's hiding him."

"I don't know. I told them. I showed them. He was with us."

Holman hadn't thought through his actions and now he felt trapped. The prison counselors had harped on that--criminals were people who were unable or unwilling to antic.i.p.ate the consequences of their actions. No impulse control, they called it. Holman suddenly grabbed her throat. His hand encircled her from ear to ear as if acting with a will of its own. He grabbed her with no sense of what he was doing or why-- --but then she made a choking gurgle and Holman saw himself in the moment. He released her and stepped back, his face burning with shame.

The little girl said, "Mommy?"

She stood in the hall outside the old lady's room, so small she looked like a miniature person. Holman wanted to run, sick with himself and humiliated that the child might have seen him.

Maria said, "It's okay, my love. Go back to bed. I'll be in with you soon. Go on, now."

The little girl returned to her room.

Richie, turning away as Donna cursed him for being a loser.

Holman said, "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

Maria stared at him, soundless. She touched her throat where he had gripped her. She touched a curl gelled to her cheek.

Holman said, "Listen, I'm sorry. I'm upset. He killed my son."

She gathered herself and shook her head.

"It was her birthday, the day before yesterday. He was with us for her birthday. He wasn't killing no policemen."

"Her birthday? The little girl?"

"I can prove it. I showed them the tape. Warren was with us."

Holman shook his head, fighting away the depressing memories of loss as he tried to understand what she was saying.

"I don't know what you're telling me. You had a party for the little girl? You had guests?"

Holman wouldn't believe any witness she could produce and neither would the cops, but she waved toward the television.

"Warren brought us one of these video cameras. It's at my house. We took videos of her blowing out the candles and playing with us, the day before yesterday."

"That doesn't prove anything."

"You don't understand. That show was on, that one with the comedian? Warren put her on his back so she could ride him like a donkey and he was going around the living room in front of the TV. You could see the show when Warren was here. That proves he was with us."

Holman had no idea what show she was talking about.

"Those officers were murdered at one-thirty in the morning."

"Yes! The show starts at one. It was on the TV when Warren was giving her rides. You can see on the tape."

"You were having a party for your kid in the middle of the night? C'mon."

"He has the warrants, you know? He has to be careful when he comes by. My father, he saw the tape I took. He told me the show proved Warren was home with us."

She seemed to believe what she was saying, and it would be easy enough to check. If her videotape showed a television show on the tube, all you had to do was call the TV station and ask what time the show had aired.

"Okay. Lemme see it. Show me."

"The police took it. They said it was evidence."

Holman worked through what she was telling him. The police took the tape, but clearly hadn't believed it cleared Warren of the crime--they had issued the warrant. Still, Holman thought she was being sincere, so he figured she was probably telling the truth about not knowing her husband's whereabouts.

The little girl said, "Mama."

The little girl was back in the hall.

Holman said, "How old are you?"

The little girl stared at the floor.

Maria said, "Answer him, Alicia. Where are your manners?"

The little girl held up a hand, showing three fingers.

Maria said, "I'm sorry your son was killed, but it was not Warren. I know what is in your heart now. If you kill him, that will be in your heart, too."

Holman pulled his eyes from the little girl.

"I'm sorry about what I did."

He went out the front door. The sun was blinding after being in the dim house. He walked back to Perry's car, feeling like a boat without a rudder, trapped in a current. He had no place to go and no idea what to do. He thought he should probably just go back to work and start earning money. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

Holman was still trying to decide when he reached Perry's car. He put the key in the lock, then was suddenly hit from behind so hard that he lost his breath. He smashed into the side of the car as his feet were kicked from beneath him, and they rode him down hard onto the street, p.r.o.ning him out with the grace of true professionals.

When Holman looked up, a red-haired guy in sungla.s.ses and plainclothes held up a badge.

"Los Angeles Police Department. You're under arrest."

Holman closed his eyes as their handcuffs shut on his wrists.

Chapter 10.

IT WAS FOUR plainclothes officers who hooked him up, but only two of them brought him to Parker Center, the red-haired officer whose name was Vukovich and a Latino officer named Fuentes. Holman had been arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department on twelve separate occasions, and in every case except his last (when he was arrested by an FBI agent named Katherine Pollard) he had been processed through one of LAPD's nineteen divisional police stations. He had been in the Men's Central Jail twice and the Federal Men's Detention Center three times, but he had never been to Parker Center. When they brought him to Parker, Holman knew he was in deep s.h.i.+t.

Parker was the Los Angeles Police Department's main office: A white-and-gla.s.s building that housed the Chief of Police, the Internal Affairs Group, various civilian administrators and administration agencies, and LAPD's elite Robbery-Homicide Division, which was a command division overseeing Homicide Special, Robbery Special, and Rape Special. Each of the nineteen divisions had homicide, robbery, and s.e.x crimes detectives, but those detectives worked only in their respective divisions; Robbery-Homicide detectives worked on cases that spanned the city.

Vukovich and Fuentes walked Holman into an interview room on the third floor and questioned him for more than an hour, after which another set of detectives took over. Holman knew the drill. The cops always asked the same questions over and over, looking to see if your answers changed. If your answers changed they knew you were lying, so Holman told them the truth about everything except Chee. When the red-haired guy, Vukovich, asked how he knew Maria Juarez was with her cousins, Holman told them he heard it in a bar, some Frogtown paco bragging he screwed Maria in junior high, him and sixty-two other guys, the girl was such a s.l.u.t, the paco spouting the cops Warren killed had probably been bagging the little s.l.u.t, too. Covering for Chee was something he had done before and now it was the only lie Holman told. One lie, it was easy to remember even though telling it frightened him.

Eight-forty that night, Holman was still in the room, having been questioned on and off for more than six hours without being offered an attorney or being booked. Eight forty-one, the door opened again and Vukovich entered with someone new.

The new man studied Holman for a moment, then put out his hand. Holman thought he looked familiar.

"Mr. Holman, I'm John Random. I'm sorry about your son."

Random was the first of the detectives to offer his hand. He wore a long-sleeved white s.h.i.+rt and tie without a jacket. A gold detective's s.h.i.+eld was clipped to his belt. Random took a seat opposite Holman as Vukovich leaned against the wall.

Holman said, "Am I being charged with anything?"

"Has Detective Vukovich explained why we pulled you in?"

"No."

Holman suddenly realized why Random was familiar. Random had been part of the press conference that Holman had seen in the bar. He hadn't known Random's name, but he recognized him.

Random said, "When the officers ran your vehicle they found thirty-two unpaid parking violations and another nine outstanding traffic violations."

Holman said, "Jesus."

Vukovich smiled.

"Yeah, and you didn't match the DMV description we got of the vehicle's owner, you not being a seventy-four-year-old black male. We thought you had a hot car, bud."

Random said, "We spoke with Mr. Wilkes. You're in the clear so far as the car, even though you've been driving it without a license. So forget the car and let's get back to Ms. Juarez. Why did you go see her?"

The same question he had been asked three dozen times. Holman gave them the same answer.

"I was looking for her husband."

"What do you know about her husband?"

"I saw you on TV. You're looking for him."

"But why were you looking for him?"

"He killed my son."

"How'd you find your way to Ms. Juarez?"

"Their address was in the phone book. I went to their house but the place was crawling with people. I started hitting the bars in their neighborhood and found some people who knew them, and pretty soon I ended up in Silver Lake and met this guy said he knew her. He told me she was staying with her cousins, and I guess he was telling the truth--that's where I found her."

Random nodded.

"He knew her address?"

"Information operator gave me the address. The guy I met, he just told me who she was staying with. It wasn't any big deal. Most folks don't have unlisted numbers."

Random smiled, still staring at him.

"Which bar was this?"

Holman met Random's eye, then casually glanced at Vukovich.

"I don't know the name of the place, but it's on Sunset a couple of blocks west of Silver Lake Boulevard. On the north side. I'm pretty sure it had a Mexican name."

Holman had driven past earlier. Sunset was lined with Mexican places.

"Uh-huh, so you could take us there?"

"Oh, yeah, absolutely. I told Detective Vukovich three or four hours ago I could take you there."

"And this man you spoke with, if you saw him again, could you point him out?"

Holman met Random's stare again, but relaxed, not making a point of it.

"Absolutely. Without a doubt. If he's still there after all this time."