LINK TO READ THE MAGAZINE & HEAR AUDIO: http://BUREAUofARTSandCULTURE.com
"THEY CALL IT THE CITY OF ANGELS"
Editor and Publisher of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE Magazine
Announces a New Experimental Serial Novel about Los Angeles.
Mr Triliegi wrote a chapter a day for several few weeks and posted
the results immediately in various languages at the three blog spots
that regularly showcase Art, Music & Cultural Community events.
" I thought it would be a good writing exercise to simply write about
what I see and hear everyday on the streets of the city. To simply
create a chapter a day based on the people and things going on
in Los Angeles. Since we all come from so many backgrounds,
styles, cultures and languages, I decided to structure the multi
character novel to represent all of Los Angeles. I simply write a
chapter a day by allowing the characters to unfold & the story to
reveal itself based directly on the things I see and hear."
" Its pure fiction based on generalities. For instance, Chapter Three,
which was inspired by a girl I saw on the bus earlier in the day, she
had a sketch book with some nice artworks and I thought about her."
Or Chapter One, based on a conversation I had with a guy who was
entering back into society from a long stretch in the penitentiary.
I thought about what other people in his life may have been thinking."
" Its a challenge to simply introduce a character and follow the creative
line as it flows into something structured and complete. I usually know
the beginning and the end of each Chapter, and simply let the middle
fill itself out. I like the daily discipline as well as the audience being in
on the process. In this particular case, I don't really take notes. I just
start with an idea and let it flow. This is not a normal novel by any
means, but it is a new and interesting challenge for both the writer and
the readers. We are publishing it in three cities and a wide variety of
languages, English, Italian, French, Chinese, Armenian, Chinese, Hebrew,
Japanese & Korean so far. Its been a lot of fun I hope the people of Los
Angeles and the world will follow it out as it reveals itself. As the writer,
in this particular case, I am just as curious as the reader as to what will
happen and how things will go. The cool thing about this project is how
quickly the characters began to take on a life of their own. "
" Its an interesting way to work. I am putting together several other writing
projects and decided that this would be a good warmer upper. We get
anywhere from a 50 to 400+ views a day on our website for our Articles,
Reviews and especially our Audio Interviews, so this particular literature
project should be good exercise and at the same time, allow people to
see how a novel is actually created day by day."
"They Call It The City of Angels"
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Listen to INTERVIEWS & The Narrated Audio on the Website
CHAPTER 1 : LOUIS Written & Published Aug 25TH 2013
CHAPTER 2 : MICKEY Written & Published Aug 26TH 2013
CHAPTER 3 : JOSIE Written & Published Aug 27TH 2013
CHAPTER 4 : JORDAN Written & Published Aug 28TH 2013
CHAPTER 5 : CLIFF Written & Published Aug 29TH 2013
CHAPTER 6 : CHUCK Written & Published Aug 30TH 2013
CHAPTER 7 : CHARLES Written & Published Sept 2ND 2013
CHAPTER 8 : RYAN Written & Published Sept 3RD 2013
CHAPTER 9 : WANDA Written & Published Sept 4TH 2013
CHAPTER 10 : STAN Written & Published Sept 5TH 2013
Chapter One: Louis
Los Angeles is a funny place to live, but those laughing
were usually from out of town. Louis was a busboy down
at Old Ma Fritters Cafe & Saloon, the longest running
truck stop in the Harbor. He had been a busboy for almost
twenty six years, before that, he washed dishes, before that,
he attended the parking lot. Directing the truck drivers
where to park, making sure the working mom's could get
in and out without missing a beat, knowing the difference
between regulars who ate at the counter and the new comers
who were most likely in town to visit the Queen Mary or take
a cruise to Catalina Island for the day. All in all, Louis was a
quiet, hard working man with a simple view on life. He was
happy to have a job, never missed a day of work, except the
day his son was sentenced to seventeen years in the penitentiary
for manslaughter. That was over fifteen years ago and today
was the day that Louis Junior would come home, this made
him nervous.
Since that time, his wife had a stroke, his daughter had
married a local cop and he had three beautiful grandkids.
So much had changed since louis junior had gone away.
In 1976, it was a old world, now it was nineteen-ninety-one.
The Dodgers entire team had been replaced, there were new
presidents, everything was different. But still, he showed up
to work on time and already the word had gotten out that
Louis Junior was back in town and heading this way. He
had reservations. He knew that Junior was a good kid,
got caught up with the wrong friends early on, had been
picked on and turned tough gut mostly for his own survival.
The accident had been complicated, it had involved a rival
member of another group of kids as well as one of Junior's
ex- girlfriends and to top it off the first cop on the scene
was Louis' s new son-in-law, Chuck, who happened to be
white. They all lived in a big victorian style house just
above the port, which had a guest house where Louis
senior lived and in the big house, his daughter, Celia,
Chuck and the three girls, Cindy, Donna and Francine.
It was a good life, most of the time. Louis wondered
exactly what he would say, where junior would sleep
and how all of this would play out. He figured junior
could stay on the couch in the guest house and later
he could break the news that after all was said and
done: Chuck had met Celia after that day in court and
one thing led to another, as things like this often do &
well, here we are, a family.
He couldn't know exactly what Junior would think, say
or do, but he knew it wouldn't be a smooth transition.
Junior had been saved in the joint and had found god.
He belonged to an outreach program that was ready to
offer him a chance to work and go back to school, but
housing was not provided. So, Louis said, " Yes son, of
course you can stay with us while you get back on your
feet. " And so the day started, as these days often do
down in the port. Up at 5 AM, to work by five thirty,
he'd have an early lunch and since everyone knew junior
was coming home, had the choice to go home early, but
had already decide to stay the duration. Work was his
way of dealing with the troubles of life. It steadied his
resolve, gave him roots, kept him calm, kept him centered,
even if deep down inside, he knew that this was not an
ordinary day and that things could go bad.
No one was more aware of the impending problems than
Chuck, who worked at the front desk office directly across
from the loading docks at the longshore pick up and delivery.
He hadn't seen Junior since that day in court and before
that the terrible rainy night on the street with bodies mangled,
wind swept asphalt, palm trees bending to the ground and a
fierce full moon reflecting anguish, pain and death, in his eyes.
He couldn't sleep all that morning. For a cop, he was, not a
total square, his own brother had been a pot dealer back in
the nineteen sixties and since then, he himself had imbibed
more than a few glasses of whiskey a night. He was hip to
jazz music, loved the various cultures in Los Angeles and
more than anything, adored his wife and three girls. His
family was his everything. He was thinking about junior
as he pulled into the cafe to get breakfast to go, and three
cups of joe for the boys at the office, who secretly hated
the coffee served in the back room. Ma Fritters Coffee was
made with a pinch of cinnamon and was generally strong
compared to the instant regulation joe that the knuckle
heads made. Know one said anything as Chuck pulled into
the cafe, but everyone knew what was on their minds as
Louis and Chuck exchanged words in the parking lot.
The waitresses and line cooks stopped what they were
doing and saying for just a second or two and sure enough
a hush drifted through the place. Those who didn't know
the score figured it out pretty quick. The cop and the bus-
boy, who was actually a fully grown man with grandkids,
chatted quietly about the day. Neither had figured out
what was the best way to deal with it, nor did they fully
understand how junior would take it: both understood it
wouldn't be easy. Life in the L.A. Harbor never was.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Two: Mickey
"Look left, then right, then left again." What the hell is so
difficult about that ? Mickey muttered out loud to some
mindless quack as he skidded around the car and cranked
his wrist an eighth of an inch, which meant he was now
riding from a basic twenty-five miles per hour to the
preferred forty-five along the coast of Malibu and on
into Venice beach where he kept a shop that tended
strictly to Harleys. Mickey was a third generation biker,
his Dad had known some pretty serious guys back in the
day. His grandfather had driven a Harley from Washington
State clear down to Southern California back in the nineteen
forties before going off to war, with the rest of his generation.
Back when Mickey was a kid, bikers were hated and or feared
by the general populist. Now, everybody and their grandma
wants to claim some piece of this heritage. His old man fixed
bikes for some of the well known biker gangs throughout
California, but he never actually signed up, if you know
what I mean. What they call a civilian.
When his old man left town for a month, which turned into
a decade, Mickey finally took a crow bar to the lock on the
old man's wood shed, found his tools and started a business
of his own. It wasn't one of those places with a big neon sign
or anything like that, he just fixed bikes for guys in the
neighborhood and eventually had a couple dozen regulars
and that was it. He had been offered partnerships before
by local shops, investors, squares with enough money to set
him up well, but simply didn't want the hassle. " As soon as
you take their money, they own you." That was his usual
reply, but lately he'd gotten tired of the bullshit. Guys not
paying what they owed, insurance companies not releasing
the funds on time, just cause they knew he was an unofficial
Harley repairman, as opposed to the guys with the big signs
out front. Part of him rejected the whole idea of middle
America embracing the Harley phenomenon. The other part
of him knew it was good for business and just might bring
the company back into a thriving system, where bikers could
get some respect again. So, when a local rich kid offered him
10,000 dollars to expand the shop, he took it. Reluctantly,
accepted a chance to buy some new tools, get bonded, insured,
even had the business officially certified with a doing business
as 'Mickey's Motorcycles' license.
Some people said Mickey's old man had gone to Mexico,
others figured he got caught up in some kind of deal gone
awry. There was talk that he was overseas, Amsterdam
maybe. No one knew for sure. He had stopped thinking
about it a few years back. Mickey made the house payments,
took care of his grandmother and tolerated his Mothers
new boyfriends as best he could. So much had changed
since they were kids, growing up in Venice beach. Back
then it was mostly poor folks, now the place was turning
into something else: well known actors, architects, airline
pilots. It was a good thing his old man bought the place
otherwise Mickey and his girlfriend, Moon, would have
been out of that neighborhood years ago. They lived a
block and a half away from Dennis Hopper's house &
when Hopper bought a Harley, Mickey was the guy he
brought it to. Who didn't want to hang out with Dennis
Hopper? Mickey had creds on the street and in the hills,
which was kind of rare. He had clients up and down the
coast and didn't mind much making house calls, even if
it took a couple days. He'd crash out on the couch or
garage or guest house until the job was done. Most guys
liked his company and liked to hear him wax poetic about
the early days of Rock and Roll, his mom had been the
manager of several bands up in the bay area and he knew
just about everyone from Jerry Garcia's to The Moby
Grape's. People would say that Mickey was made from a
kind of American counter culture royalty. But, he shunned
all that talk.One of those quiet throw backs, except when
it came to Moon, his only truly admittedly obsessive
relationship. Whatever she wanted, she got. Moon was
his first and only love. Once they had broken up for a
day and a half during high school graduation. A Friday
night and all of Saturday,by Sunday morning, they were
back together and never looked back.
As he pulled into the driveway, he glanced over to find his
mother's new boyfriend's red convertible, the passenger
side windshield was riddled with what looked like bullet
holes, upon closer inspection, he realized the holes were
made with stiletto heels kicked from the inside out. "Here
we go." he thought, as he turned off the bike and figured,
o.k. this generator is fixed. He knew there was something
brewing, so he quietly strolled past the front house and
headed straight for Pop's shed. Always a safe refuge.
But there in the back yard was the boyfriend wearing
nothing more than a pair of Ray-Bans and in a see through
nighty, his Mom attending the barbecue. " For christ sake
Mag, what if Calley walks back here ?" who momentarily
turns in his direction, " Oh Mick, grow up will ya ? " She
had been telling him that since the time he was ten years
old : "Your not a kid anymore mick, your ten years old
now, grow up." He did. Got back on the bike, which he
hadn't planned on returning to his client till tomorrow,
ripped up Pacific Coast Highway and on into Zuma
Beach, collected his fee and instead of getting a ride
from Jay, simply hopped on the Bus and called it a day.
That's when he noticed a beach comber who sure looked
a lot like his dad. "That's impossible. Must be going nuts.
I gotta get out of here." He did.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Three: Josie
Josie was an artist. They had noticed that right away.
By the time she was three, she could sing a tune. By
the time she was nine, she could mimic any dance
movement. By the time she was twelve she could draw
realistic pictures that were up to scratch with any adult.
Today is Josie's birthday. Her room is covered in teen
beat posters. Packs of Bubble-Yum chewing gum on
the dresser. Photographs of her girlfriend's at school,
at the beach, at the park, award ribbons from art,
dance and singing contests, a letter of recommendation
from an art teacher at the local university, a pair of
tennis shoes in the corner and of course her dozens of
sketchbooks filled with classic portraits of friends,
people she observed, objects, places.
Her parents had immigrated in the early nineteen sixties,
they gave her an American name, things were going to be
hard enough for her as it was, they figured, she was born
here, she's the first American in our family, lets go with
the flow. Her Dad worked at a local factory, her Mom was
a homemaker of the old world style, she sewed, cooked,
gardened and kept the books. Josie was wide open when
it came to discussing friends, school, dreams and the future,
but when it came to her boyfriends, she never ever told a soul.
Not her parents, not her girlfriends, no one. So when she
started dating Louis, who was a few years older, no one
had anything to worry about, because no one knew. He had
that protective quality that some guys have, she felt safe
around him. He was knocked out by her talents, even had
her design tattoos for him and his friends. It was a taboo
sort of love, the kind that couldn't last longer than a summer
and it didn't. Louis eventually started dating girls his age
and Josie rebounded with a kid from her own school and
neighborhood. But deep down inside, she still had a love
for Louis and even though he didn't know it, he too was
still in love with her.
By the time winter came along, they found themselves in
the awkward situation of having to see one another, some-
times in the company of each others new playmates. At
first this seemed easy, smile, wave, a simple hello or how
ya doing ? But after these moments, Louis found himself
troubled, confused, sometimes even angry. He didn't know
who he was angry with, Josie, the new boyfriend or himself,
he just knew that something wasn't exactly settled and it
really confused him to the point where sometimes he couldn't
sleep. So, he started to call her up just to say hi, then Josie's
new boyfriend got word of this and reacted accordingly.
One thing led to another and now the boys were talking
about a showdown. The kind that spreads quickly, the
word got out, after a dance at school, they were going
to meet and settled this thing. Josie freaked when she
found out, felt guilty, felt responsible and had no one to
tell because this was a part of her life she had always
kept to herself. So the pressure mounted until the night
of the dance. At first Josie said she wasn't going, then
she changed her mind and told Ryan, her new boyfriend,
that she was going with friends and they could talk after
the dance, hoping this would diffuse the pressure and by
then she could help avoid an actual fight. Though, the
way things went only worsened the situation. Instead of
avoiding a fist fight the entire event became a drag race
through the boulevards of Los Angeles and by the end of
the night a car flipped in mid air, up an over the railroad
tracks.
Josie's Dad knocked on her bedroom door, no one answered.
He called her girlfriend's parents, no one knew what happened.
Eventually they got a call from officer Chuck of the county
police department explaining that there had a been a terrible
accident and could they please come down to the Harbor
hospital to help sort something out. They were unsure about
the identity of a person and needed verification. When Josie's
parents arrived, Chuck was standing in the hallway, clipboard
in hand, this was the most difficult part of his job. He could
handle the tough guys, the smart aleck public, the other cops
on the squad, but he couldn't hold his water when it came to
telling parents that we think your child is dead. Josies' s parents
were led into a well lit room, two bodies were laying on aluminum
stretchers with sheets covering each. The bodies had been washed
of all blood, but there was nothing that could be done about all
the torn and mangled flesh. Josie was under one of the sheets,
Ryan was under the other. It was the first time their parents
would ever meet. Eventually they would meet again in court
and again at the arraignments and again upon Louis's release
from prison. Today is Josie's birthday and if she hadn't died
back in nineteen seventy-six, she would have been thirty years
old. Her dad closed the bedroom door, which he kept exactly
as it had been the day she died, wiped his eyes and promised
himself that someone was gonna pay for this pain. By then,
he'd lost his wife and by now he began to lose is mind.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Four: Jordan
Jordan is a bus driver, it didn't define him, he's also a
bass man, a basketball coach, a bit of a poet too. He is
the youngest bus driver in all of Los Angeles County.
Came out here to get away from a seriously tragic
family history. Born in Detroit, the week of the famous
riots, his dad was a serious player and took the fall for
being a member of an elite crew of dudes who actually
helped to start it. His Mom was in and out of town so
much, he hardly knew her. Came out here alone on a
one time musical scholarship. Recently, he ended up
hocking his bass, a red fender given to him by his uncle,
still had the pawn ticket in his wallet, been meaning to
get over there to extend the loan voucher another ninety
days so he could get it back after paying up in full.
Wanted to buy his girl a pair of earrings and figured
he could always get the bass back, but with his car
payment, rent and all the rest, he just let it drift.
He was two weeks away from getting off probation from
the transit authority. Six weeks of training and almost a
year driving and finally he would be able to exhale. His
first route started near LAX Airport, up La Brea, over
to Crenshaw, past Leimert Park & around Rodeo, down
Martin Luther King to The Sports Arena and back around
again. He liked it. reminded him of his parents, his heritage,
his people. But now, they had him driving from Venice
Boulevard onto the 405 freeway, up through Santa Monica
onto Pacific Coast Highway, past Pepperdine University
and all the way up to Malibu Pier and back again. Most
people would have loved that route, but Jordan always
said the drivers were snobs, the kids crossed the street
without looking, carrying surfboards, lawn chairs, tourists
from all corners of the world, asking directions to places
he never heard of, in languages he never knew. He was
hoping to get his old route back, but as the odd man at
transit authority, the chances were mighty slim. Most
of the drivers, managers, supervisors and radio dispatch
persons were steeped in the Jesus thing: Baptist, Christian,
Catholic, Protestant, you name it. Jordan was a third
generation Muslim. His Daddy, his Granddad, his Uncles,
some of his Aunts and him.
He had already made his four rotations by seven o'clock that
evening, grabbed a cup of coffee and was looking forward
to seeing his lady for a late dinner at her place. Just past
the Malibu Pier, an area where he was always extra careful,
he slowed down a bit and coasted around the curve through
to the next straight away stretch, the sun was setting a
golden, peach - like glow, palm trees silhouetted in an all
black design that looked like a postcard. It wasn't Crenshaw,
but it could of been worse. Some routes were very tough on
a driver, others were easy street. Looking down the highway,
he noticed a small dark circle along the horizon line, couldn't
figure out what it was. A trash-bag? A backpack ? As he got
closer, the object came into view, it was a turtle, a rather
large sized turtle crawling from left to right, he swerved to
the right avoiding the turtle, as he did so, a camper van
parked on the right pulled out in front of him, and as it did,
that is when he noticed the beachcomber standing directly
in his path, hit the brakes, skidding several yards and
slamming into the beachcombers several bags and
eventually knocking him to the asphalt, he turned to
ask the lone passenger if he had seen what just happened,
but not a soul was on the bus. " Could have sworn that cat
was still on."
The first thing you are supposed to do is call it in.
But Jordan, just on reflex jumped off the bus to see
what happened. He looked down and splayed across
the highway were several small packages wrapped in
brown paper and masking tape. He looked closer at
the corner of one of the small bundles and noticed it
was full of currency, unmistakably dollar bills. All day
long he had to watch people putting bills into the slot
on his bus, the corners always bending, creating a problem.
If anyone knew what the corner of a dollar bill looked like,
it was Jordan. The beachcomber, was out like a light, but
when Jordan put his ear to the man's chest, he could hear
him breathing. He could also smell his breath, whiskey
and onions. Why a man does what he does is always a
mystery, mostly to the man himself, so when he reached
to pick up one of the bundles and put it in his inside left
pocket, it seemed pretty natural. He got back on the bus
and called it in. By now the sun was down. The highway
was closed. Ambulance, cops, transit authority, the whole
shebang. When radio reporters, traffic helicopters and
the local television stations came out, he figured that he
was not only going to be late for dinner. There was a
good chance he was going to be fired, even if it wasn't
his fault, even if the guy was drunk. To top it off, the
turtle was no where to be seen, that was his whole
defense.Wanda heard about it on the radio before he
even got home.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Five: Cliff
Cliff was psychic, not for a living or anything like that.
Just had a knack for reading people, had a way with
animals and a sort of connection with the elements that
was, let us say, out of the ordinary. Like a lot of so-called
handicapped persons, he had some hidden gifts that made
up for the fact that he couldn't speak very well, had trouble
with motor skills, would never be able to hold down a job,
keep a home or cook his own meals. He was disabled as
people like to say, remedial or worse even, retarded. Cliff's
father, Stan, was a judge, he always winced when his
colleagues used that term. His mother, Dora was a retired
lawyer who ran her own legal advisement company and
would actually correct people whenever they denigrated
her son with those types of labels. "Cliff is challenged, but
he's no dummy." or "He may need some help, but he's got
a great heart." or "He has his problems, but he's never said
a bad thing about you." She was nobodies fool. And by god
she wasn't about to let people get away with any mean
spirited conversation about her only child.
He attended a sort of day care type of school. One in which
there were daily outings in between lessons, classes, working
with sound, colors, sometimes simplified mathematics and
social sciences, to a degree. In the classroom, his teachers
were all certified practitioners, but on daily social outings,
volunteers were often on staff. Retired widows, stay at
home wives, middled aged women who were unmarried,
this kind of thing. They often took a group of kids to the
park, out to lunch or even to a museum every now and then.
One day, one of Dora's clients recognized Cliff walking with
his schoolmates and a volunteer up past the L.A County
Museum of Art. She specifically remembered Cliff because
her own daughter had some issues which led her to seek
legal advice and Cliff happened to be in the office with
mom. Some time later, the client mentioned in passing,
that she ran into Cliff at the museum and couldn't help
but notice that the kids were wearing shirts and jackets
of a wide variety with disparaging comments of all sorts.
Cliff's T-shirt, said in bold black letters : YOU STINK !
Another kid wore a hat that said, ' LOSER ' , another with
a jacket that stated, ' I never Loved You '. The client
chuckled, asking Dora where she bought it. Cliff's mom
didn't buy it. In fact she had no idea why her son was
wearing it. Well, after some looking into, it turned out
that the ' volunteer ' had recently broke up with her boy
friend who happened to be a security guard at the museum,
so she made the kids wear these hats, coats and t-shirts
unbeknownst to any of the kid's parents or the kids themselves.
Further investigation revealed that it had become a common
practice among the volunteers to do such a thing. The kids
were being used as props. When Dora found out about it in
full, she brought it up to Stan and they decided to do what
any good legal family would do. They decided to sue.
Stan was a judge in high profile cases. Through the years,
he had watched his more liberal contemporaries end up
in disparaging posts such as traffic court in Compton or
settling housing issues Downtown, the Judge Judy type
of detail. He had played his cards right, literally. He was
a kind man, patient, quiet, respected by his bailiffs and
well liked buy most of the people he worked with, not
necessarily by those he had sent to prison, but most
everyone else.Dora became a lawyer and later a legal
advisor partly because they were working in the same
circles and partly to sort out the issues they were having
with Cliff early on. They loved Cliff immensely. More than
the usual parent might love a child and definitely more
than if he was, quote-unquote-normal. They had a nice
size home in the Valley and Stan drove North to work
just a few miles away. He tried not to bring his work
home, but when your wife is a legal advisor, a top notch
lawyer really, it was almost impossible, cases concerning
children or abuse of authority or murder were always
a sticky issue, they both tended to lean pretty hard on
the accused. He was older by a few years, but Dora was
mature for her age, so it worked out pretty well. They all
vacationed together twice a year and during the holidays
often took a cabin in the snowy topped local mountains.
Considering the situation with Cliff, they handled it well.
Around the time that Cliff became four, five and six ,
they noticed he had a way of sensing what was going on ,
not only in their inner lives, but also in the lives of
people they worked with. If Stan had a high profile
case concerning an auto accident, Cliff might create
a drawing with unexplainable details. When Dora's
mother was close to death, he had drawn a picture of
her final resting place two months before they had
chosen it. He was somehow reading the inner lives of
his parents and at first it freaked Stan out. Some days,
before a big trial, Stan might peruse around cliffs room,
looking for an image that might help him with the case.
Dora put a stop to it, but hey, who could blame him?
There son was psychic and they knew it. Wether Cliff
knew it or not didn't matter. Once, when Cliff was twelve,
they woke up one early morning to find Cliff nestling with
a Deer. He had no food to give it. He was just holding the
deer, when they opened the door, it ran away. Another
time, a hummingbird flew into Cliffs room, sat on his
finger, just sat there . There were all kinds of encounters
such as these. Dora thought maybe she should mention
it to a friend of a client who had written a book on
shamanism in the modern day, but Stan said no. He
didn't want his son ending up on some television show
or story on NPR. It was their secret. When Cliff got
home that day, he took out a sketchbook and drew a
stunning and startling portrait of a man that Stan
would never forget, someone he hadn't thought about
for fifteen years.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Six: Chuck
Chuck wanted to make detective, so did half the guys
in his division. He had been working on it actively for
three and a half years now. Had a friend downtown
who advised him on what to do, how to lay the groundwork.
He started by making friends on the street. If he found
a tough guy, say, smoking pot while driving. He'd pull
him over, get his information, talk to him a bit, instead
of citing him, he'd tell him that smoking while driving
made no sense. He'd chat him up a bit, make a friend.
Later, after hours, he'd look up the kids record, run a
check on his family, find out where, when and how he
hustled and made it a point to meet him again. He did
this for the past three years and had connections all over
Los Angeles, not just in his area. He spent one day a week
doing research, talking to other guys who had made
detective, even hanging around the division. Everyone
on the force knew he was angling, if it didn't interrupt
his local quotas, his desk duty and any other assignments,
no problem.
When word got out that his brother-in-law was getting
out of the joint after a fifteen year stint for manslaughter,
people started talking. Chuck realized that this was actually
his chance to make detective. These days everything on the
street was controlled by a unit of men incarcerated for decades
and sometimes for life. They gave the orders. Chuck knew
that after fifteen years, his brother-in-law, Junior had
learned a few things, things that could help Chuck move in
on what they call, the ' Big Dogs '. No detective would bother
with some small time peddlers, they all wanted a big catch,
something that would get some ink, something that would
help them up the ladder a few rungs. Recently, there had
been a new crime spreading through the city of Los Angeles.
Somebody or a group of people were torching palm trees in
designated areas. At first, they thought it was a kid or
pyromaniac. As it spread throughout Southern California,
other theories popped up. The burnt palm trees were a signal
that certain local business had not contributed to a certain
individual or it was, 'a warning' sign, 'a don't shop here' sign
or a ' your on the list ' sign. Chuck was in agreement that it
was not random, he noticed when, where and how it was
playing out. Since making the goal to become a detective,
he had transformed the den into an office. His wife and the
girls knew Daddy was serious about his work, so they watched
television in the living room and shared the master bedroom
with bunk beds. While Chuck and his wife Celia had what
they commonly call a guest bed room. Celia had an entire
room to herself for dressing and basic women's stuff with
a vanity set Chuck bought when they first got married.
In his office, which he always kept locked, Chuck had a
map. He followed murders: There had been over twenty-
two in the past ninety days. Drug busts: there had been
three big ones in the past forty-five days and dozens of
small one's. Lately, he'd been following the palm tree
burnings. Even started reading up on other incidents
through history, from cross burnings to lynchings. Looking
for something that might give him one up on what was
going down. The Mayor of Los Angeles, in an official
statement, directed to law enforcement had said that,
" The Palm Tree Burnings " were a scar on the city, were
bad for business, bad for tourism and had to be stopped.
He wanted a new kind of cooperation between departments
wherever the incidents had occurred. Incentives were
given to both cops on the street, detectives on the beat
and even the local feds, since several of the incidents had
happened on federal property. One happened on a reservation
near Joshua Tree National Forest and another happened
directly in front of the Federal building downtown. Some
people said it was a scam, just another distraction from the
real crimes that were happening in L.A. : drug smuggling,
child prostitution, underground pornography. The so -
called sanctioned crimes that made money. Chuck didn't
care what it was about, he had been told to get something
important on it and he'd be given a serious opportunity to
make detective. If he could crack the case, it was a total
guarantee.
Several weeks earlier, Chuck went downtown to ask a
couple friends, one was a lieutenant detective, if they
would give him permission to tap the phones in his home.
His brother-in-law was getting out of the joint and maybe
they could find out a few things. The word would most likely
come back officially as a no. On his way home, he cranked
up John Coltrane's a Love Supreme, while flying down the
110 freeway, he realized that no one could stop him from
recording any conversations in his own home. He could drive
out to the local Circuit Station, buy some basic over the
counter devices and wire the place up. Chuck came from
the generation that actually was offered shop classes in
junior high school. He had taken both wood shop and
electric classes, so, setting up the whole thing was not
a big deal. He wired the entire guest house in three hours
and did it all for less than what it would have cost to tune
up the station wagon. He couldn't tell Louis Sr. or Celia ,
they wouldn't understand. It was his job. He knew that if
they ever wanted to take another vacation together, he'd
have to make detective. Three days later, Junior got out
of prison and Chuck drove down to Ma Fritters to get
breakfast and check in with his father-in-law Louis Senior.
They talked about how to deal with Junior's Coming Home
party. 'Are you heading back to the office ?' asked the
waitress, ' Yep.' Afterward, while driving back, he thought,
' Not for long babe. '
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Seven: Charles
When the bus hit Charles' bags, his cart had lodged underneath
the front tire and saved his life. Although it tossed him several
yards, no bones were broken, no internal bleeding, just a few
road rashes and most likely, a concussion. When he finally
came to, there he was, sleeping in an actual bed with clean
cotton sheets and two pillows, the first time in several years.
He hadn't been in a hospital since Mickey was born. His
first thought was, "I gotta get out of here." , then he realized
that none of his possessions were anywhere to be seen. Where
were his clothes , his personal belongings, his savings ? Most
likely, he was going to have to answer some questions to the
man. Another thing he hadn't done in years. If they had gone
through his things, they would have found his dog tags and
maybe even contacted his family. Another thing he hadn't
done in the past few years. Damn, what had he done in the
past few years? Drifted.
This was nothing compared to the many times he had to lay
down his Harley because of some god awful drivers not checking
their blind side, pulling out of the driveway without looking or
simply not paying attention to others on the road. He had to
lay his bike down at least a half a dozen times because of
other peoples stupidity. Being a biker in Southern California
was no easy task in the nineteen seventies. After losing a
handful of friends to total idiots, someone's wife started a
campaign to help Bikers who had been wronged on the roads
and highways. She ended up creating some kind of legislation
and took it all the way to the high courts. Charles admired her
tenacity, but that was not his style, he couldn't stand any of
that legal stuff. He was a simple man, enjoyed nature, food
and a simple bottle of wine. Those were the three things he
had been able to partake in for the past few years, come to
think of it, that was all he had done lately. He lived in the
wilds of the coastline, drank a good bottle or two of dago
red a day and ate well, for a beachcomber. No one ever
suspected that he carried thousands of dollar bills. When
he opted out of all the side dealings that went on in his
world, his partners were glad to pay him out and let him
go. Charles had been getting too old for the game and
although he had respect, it was a young man's game now.
He retired.
When Mickey picked up the phone and the voice on the
other end of the line simply stated, "This is the Venice
Beach Police department." He figured, it was either
something to do with his Mother's new boyfriend, the
serial numbers on a recent bike sale or some kids breaking
into the shop. When they said Mickey's father was in the
hospital & they needed to reach someone in the family,
his ears began to ring, his heart beat doubled and he
broke into a sweat. They explained what had happened
and asked if he could come down to the station before
visiting the hospital. They had some of his possessions
and also had a few questions to ask. Mickey said he'd be
right there. He himself had more than a few questions to
ask. Hadn't seen the old man in almost a decade. Had
thought he was dead. Now he's about to have a family
reunion in the very same hospital where he was born.
There was no way he was going to call his mother, sister
or Moon. It was something he had to do alone. When he
got to the station, two detectives sat at a table with his
Dad's four remaining bundles of cash in front of them.
Through the years, Mickey himself had been in and out
of this particular police station. Sometimes to bail out
friends, other times to sleep one off, after a fight, but
this was the first time he had been summoned to ask
questions about anyone else and actually showed up.
He had never gotten involved in anyone else's business
nor did he want others involved in his: the biker code
of conduct. A long list of unwritten ways of living life.
This was a pedestrian Q & A. "When was the last time
you saw your Father?" , "What do you know about his
business partners ?" , "Why is your Dad carrying over
thirty thousand dollars in cash ?" Mickey didn't know
anything and wouldn't have said, even if he did. He was
simply glad to know that Charles was still alive and if
they didn't mind, he wanted to talk to him in person.
The detectives expressed their concern regarding the
release of Charles from the hospital with all this currency.
They thought it best to contact a family member. Mickey
knew better, but he played along, thanked them and said
he'd meet them at the hospital in thirty minutes time.
That gave him just enough time to call Moon, he had
tried to handle this on his own, but decided he needed
to talk to her. Called her at the bookstore from the phone
booth in the hallway and without explanation, "My Dad's
alive. I'm going to see him. I don't know what to expect.
He's in the hospital. I'll call you later. As soon as I know
what's what." Moon was in the middle of selling five old
paper back books to a couple on vacation from Europe.
There wasn't much she could say, "Wait a minute. What ?"
Mickey realized this was a mistake, "I'll call you back."
Moon was a stickler for details and in this case, he had
none to offer. When he got to the hospital room, Charles
had just finished telling a story and the two detectives
were laughing out loud. That's the way it always was.
Charles had a way with people, especially men of the
blue collar variety. "Hey Mick, How the hell are you ?"
Mickey just shook his head, as a long, slow, single teardrop
fell onto his jean jacket vest's upper pocket and sat there
before hitting the linoleum tile and splashing into a
miniature Jackson Pollack like splatter that he stared
at for a few seconds. "I'm fine Dad, just fine. How the
hell are you?"
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Eight: Ryan
Ryan was a good kid. Aced his grades in school, held down
two jobs, was an excellent athlete, always the courteous type.
A throw back who held doors open for old ladies, was always
respectful to women, looked after his little brother, everyone
liked Ryan. He had known Josie since the third grade, they
had last names that started with the same letter, so, all
through grade school they sat next to each other. Back in
the seventies, public schools used an alphabetical system
for seating and year after year, they found themselves next
to one another. Ryan's mother came from the same country
as did Josie's parents, so whenever she complained about her
parents, he knew exactly what she was talking about. The so-
called generation gap loomed large between them and their
parents. Between the sexual revolution of the nineteen sixties
& the hang loose style of the nineteen seventies, many
immigrants had no idea that their new American children
would leap forward so quickly into the modern age. Ryan
always told Josie to have more patients with her parents,
"They're coming from all whole different world." Instead,
she began to keep her inner world more and more private.
When Josie & Junior split up, within days, she attached
herself to Ryan. He had always been there as a friend,
someone she could talk to, now she began to depend on him.
Quickly, they became an item. If Ryan went surfing, then
Josie sat on the shore, either studying, reading or just
reflecting on life. When Ryan was working on his car,
Josie would hang out in the garage, playing records and
sometimes quizzing him on an upcoming test at school.
They were both, what some kids called 'squares', they didn't
attend ditching parties or smoke, but they did go to concerts
and dances and it was safe to say that most of their friends
would never have guessed that they had a serious love life.
Josie was a very passionate person. Ryan was always very
responsible, they talked about taking their time and Josie
always felt at ease. He had been saving his money for a
new wet-suit for the winter surfing season and decided
instead to by her a ring, it was getting serious. When
a group of students asked Ryan to run for class president,
he declined. It was safe to say, he was, in more ways then
one, the unofficial president of his class. Josie was glad he
turned it down. She was very much attached and although
mature, still didn't entirely understand her feelings. She
was possessive of Ryan, having someone of your own to
a girl such as Josie was everything, in her mind, he belonged
to her and they belonged together. They were one of those
couples that just about everyone figured would be together
after graduation.
When Ryan found out that Louis Junior had been calling
Josie, he freaked. Although he was a surfer, he had plenty
of friends from the other side of town, where Junior lived.
One of his pals had written in his yearbook, 'To a cool punk,
for a surfer.' The divide between surfers and low riders was
wide back then. Not for everyone though, certainly not for
Ryan, who knew about all kinds of classic cars, sports, music.
He was a bit of a crossover, culturally speaking. On several
occasions he had helped guys with their car projects: chopped
tops, pin-striping, dual carbs and manifold installations. His
old man had been big on custom cars back in the day, even
won some awards and made a few bucks reselling fix ups.
Ryan's life did not involve the kind of built-in drama that
Juniors did. Juniors Uncles and Aunts were always coming
into town with one problem or another and his Mother tended
to let them stay longer than his father would have liked. This
created an uneasiness at home and always gave Junior an
excuse to get into trouble elsewhere. His old man was a dish
washer at the local cafe back then. Junior hated to see his
dad relegated to this position. As a young man Louis Senior
had studied to be an engineer and later ran an entire ware-
house with a dozen guys working under him. This was before
Junior was born, but it still put a thorn in his side at times.
To know that his old man had been passed by, just to be an
American and have a family here, seemed like a sacrifice.
Sometimes, Junior thought they would be better off going
back to where his grandparents were from and several times
he himself had done just that. Spent time on the farm, he
loved it. This was the side of Junior that Josie fell in love
with and it was also the thing that made Ryan jealous.
He himself had come from a good family, had been given
things,was considered upper middle class, never knew hunger.
He had no real drama to speak of, before Josie, he had never
even felt much of anything. Josie made him feel things,
he was suddenly vulnerable, jealous, passionate and even
angry. When Junior began to contact Josie again, Ryan
began to swim in a new sea of emotions that he figured
had everything to do with growing up, "This is what life is
about." He could hear his Dad say, in some imaginary scene.
That night was not at all unlike a film that occasionally
played on late night television. Ryan saw himself as the
James Dean character, if he backed down to Junior's
challenge, he'd be disgraced. Maybe Josie didn't know it,
but she was the Natalie Wood character and Louis Junior
was well aware of his role in all of this. He had always
been the 'bad boy'. Had found it easier to get attention
by screwing up rather than doing good. Nobody seemed
to notice whenever he did something well, but if he ever
made a mistake, it was hell to pay. A family dynamic
that had been played out for generations and he was no
exception. If the boys had only gotten into a fist fight,
everything might have been better. Instead they settled
things with machinery, in this case, with their cars. Some
of the guys Junior hung out with used knives, bats and
even pistols. He was old school, didn't believe much in
weaponry. Plus, he was a good fighter, he didn't have
to settle things like that. The whole thing happened
spontaneously. Ryan had promised Josie that he would
avoid any altercations . But when Junior pulled up at
the stop light, only Ryan could hear what he said and
thats when it happened. The boys began to rip down the
boulevard, side by side, running red lights and stop signs
in a reckless abandon that teenagers are known to do.
By the time they got to the old bridge underpass, which
crossed the oldest rail road tracks in South Bay, just past
the skating rink, two kids in skates were crossing the street
into the trailer parks across the way. To avoid the kids,
Ryan swerved to the left, hit the curb at the curve and
flipped his car into mid air, it tumbled several times
before the final landing, which crushed the entire cab
taking both their lives. Junior looked into his rear view
mirror and saw what he thought hell might look like.
The bridge was like a giant gateway, the fire, flames
and smoke were all he could see. When he looked again,
he saw the two kids on skates and remembered the first
time he had ever seen Josie. He drove off and wasn't found
until the next day. By then, he too had been consumed by
a sort of fire. Sifting through the ashes in his mind was
the single memory of the only girl in the world who had
ever looked him directly in the eyes and simply said,
"I Love You."
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Nine: Wanda
Wanda was educated. She never suffered fools and had no
time for any man who was looking to fill her nights with
excitement only to leave her at breakfast alone, she told
Jordan the first day they met. That was fine by him, he had
learned to cook breakfast for himself early on in life. Could
make a great omelette, a mean cup of coffee and had even
learned to make french toast as good as anyone this side of
the Mississippi. He knew she was talking about much more
than food and he wanted more than a girlfriend too. Jordan
was a self confessed , 'Momma's boy without a mama' , so it
worked out fine. He had few friends in Los Angeles and no
relatives to speak of. The guys in the quartet had disbanded
a summer ago, when their main man went on tour with a
big band that had gone off to europe. He hadn't touched his
bass for a while and even stopped coaching b-ball at the park.
It was time to settle down and all the ingredients were there.
When they first started dating, it was always an all day thing.
A trip somewhere early: the beach, the museum, a ball game,
a movie, a poetry reading, a walk in the hills, then dinner.
He often cooked at her place. Three course meals with special
sauces, exotic salads and always some freaky dessert. One of
the dudes in his band had also been a chef at a creole restaurant
& after gigs, all the cats would descend upon his pad with their
girlfriends, dates and such. Jordan picked up pointers quickly.
He was a sponge for good habits, a fast learner and wanted to
better himself. They moved in together and never looked back.
She looked at the clock and knew something was up. Jordan
was never late, he was one of those bus drivers who prided
himself on being poignant. After a while, his regulars began
to appreciate that fact. They could always depend on Jordan
to keep his time spots. One out of a dozen or so stops is
considered a time spot, it lets you know that your either
ahead or behind the schedule that thousands of people
depended on to get to work, to school, to the doctor, to
church or to some event that was going to start or finish,
wether his riders got there on time or not. He tried his
best to get them there. If you were going to do something
in this world, wether it was cook a meal, play a tune, shoot
hoops or drive a bus, Jordan thought you ought to do it well.
And he did. Wanda turned on the television to kill a little
time and there on the eight o'clock news was the lead story,
all about the shutting down of Pacific Coast Highway because
of an accident between a bus, a turtle and a pedestrian.
She knew that was Jordan's route, chances were one in four
that he was the driver. News shows were always talking
about traffic in Los Angeles, then they'd actually cut over
to the man in the helicopter high above the city. Wanda
always thought that was a put on, as if they really needed
some dude in a helicopter actually talking on television.
She minored in journalism and knew very well that any
on camera announcer could handle the job, but L.A. was
full of stuff like that. Half of it didn't make any sense at
all, a quarter of it was for show, and the rest was for
entertainments sake. It didn't leave much to the imagination.
That was partly why she dug Jordan so much, he was real,
fun to be with and was dependable. She didn't care if he
was muslim, baptist or hindu, for her, it was more about
the man rather than any one group, belief system or way
of living life.
He finally walked in the door after the Ten O'Clock news
hour, he was a mess, had been questioned for several hours
and had a strange look in his eye. Wanda had never seen
that look before. They never had any secrets between them,
but it sure felt like they had one now. "You heard about it?"
He pointed to the television. "Dude standing right on the side
of the highway, nothing I could do. Some giant turtle crossing
the road ? Cops asking questions, highway patrol, local sheriffs,
radio reporters, some cats from the L.A. Times and all the
heavies from Transit Authority. They docked me for two weeks.
Two weeks while they investigate. Turns out the dude on the
road was connected to some old gangster stuff. One of my
boys in transit told me, off the record. probably gonna fire
me. I don't know what I'm gonna do." " You'll be fine. Come
here." She grabbed him and he pulled away, that was a first.
In the past, at times like this, she was Mama and he was the
little boy from Detroit with no one to look after him. Wanda
figured he was just shook up a bit. She never dared to think
that he was sitting on ten thousand dollars in hard cold cash
and it was making him sweat. If Jordan told her, she wouldn't
even come close to understanding. Now it was some gangsters
money? Why would some old bum on the highway be carrying
that kind of cash ? How could it have anything to do with mob
stuff ?
Jordan had never been an avid reader, but he had started
to buy old paperbacks from a bookstore located in Venice
Beach, not far from his break stop. He'd go in there and
the girl who worked there would suggest stuff. He had
bought and read Alex Haley's famous 'Autobiography of
Malcolm X', on her suggestion. "Did you know that he was
a writer for Playboy Magazine back in the day ?", she asked.
" No I didn't." She continued, " The Playboy magazine editors
once sent Alex Haley to interview the head of the k k k,
at his home in the South. He went right up to the front
door and interviewed the guy. That takes guts, don't you
think?" Jordan answered "Yeah, that takes some doing
don't it ?" They became friends, whenever he'd break for
lunch, she would have already pulled a few books aside.
Poetry by Maya Angelou, obscure art books and early
ephemera regarding L.A.'s edgy art scene in the sixties,
guys like Charles White. Wanda would come home and
there on the coffee table were books she had read in college.
She was proud to be with a man who had good taste in
literature. Jordan had once read a book by a dude named
Chester Himes, it was called, "Cotton Comes to Harlem"
where some homeless guy carts around a bevy of cash
with a bunch of gangsters on his trail. Now, here he was,
in the middle of a weird scene out of a detective novel.
He had become a character in a book. His name and
photograph in the newspapers and on the radio. Damn.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Ten: Stan
Stan made decisions that effected other peoples lives.
He was well aware of his moral obligations and had
not been the only person in his family to become a
judge. There was a long history of legal professionals
who had created legislation, legal precedents, cooperation
between groups, unions, affiliates and social movements.
His first visit to the White House had included a lunch
engagement with a second Uncle, who had made it up
the legal ladder from lawyer, to cabinet member to
a supreme court justice, appointed in the nineteen sixties.
Back then, most of the people in his lineage were liberal
or at least democrats, but the tide had turned and now,
most were republican or conservatives. Though, it was
hard to find anything being conserved lately. Ever since
Cliff was born, Stan had become numb to world affairs.
Even a bit ambivalent towards party politics. He had
settled down late in the game and having a kid was
Dora's idea. She was considerably younger than him.
They had lived together for several years before marrying,
heaven forbid they make the same mistakes their parents
had. He was an extremely cautious man, not the type to
jump into anything, even as a child, his parents noticed
that he had a wisdom beyond his years, sometimes had
more common sense than many of their adult friends.
When Cliff began to lag behind the other kids in class,
they figured out rather quickly that he had disabilities.
Dora immediately began looking for reasons why this
could have happened. She handled cases where pesticides
had effected children's health, chemical companies had
been negligent in their social responsibilities, building
codes had allowed asbestos to be exposed, local energy
companies had polluted the water, electrical wires hung
to close to housing tracts and even the local government
had sprayed DDT, which had entered the blood stream
of unsuspecting residents. And of course, fluoride scandals.
She started with their diet. Where had the restaurants they
frequented prior to Cliff's birth purchased their meat ?
What kind of cultivation had the vegetable growers used
at the local grocery store? What type of soap had she used
to wash their clothes ? Everything and everyone had become
suspect for inspection. Although this never led to any final
discoveries, it did become a transformative period. From
that point on, they lived entirely different lives. Dora began
to buy her produce directly from local farmers. She wanted
to know exactly who grew it, how they grew it and where
they grew it. She became extremely aware of artificial colors,
flavors, dyes, man made fabrics, fillers, additives, and all the
rest of it. Stan sometimes felt responsible for Cliffs health.
He had been a smoker in his youth, was older than Dora,
thought maybe it was his fault. Though she never did blame
him for anything. They couldn't find anything in their family
history and eventually concluded that this was just something
that happens. But deep down inside, Dora never quite finished
her inspection, it was an ongoing situation that at any time
just might reveal itself. She began to specialize in cases where
large companies had been responsible for damaging individuals.
Dora was becoming a sort of social hero, whereas Stan was
posited in direct opposition to her newfound community post.
He was about to preside on a case that would make the Palm
Trees burning throughout the city seem like a cigarette burn.
Most people thought that a jury was mostly responsible for
the final decisions made in courtrooms. But those on the
inside, lawyers, investigators, court appointees, even bailiffs,
cops and sheriffs all knew very well that the judge had as
much to do with final outcomes as the case itself. What
information was admissible, how a witness was to be
questioned, when evidence was so-called valid and any
number of opportunities could either be allowed or objected
to, in one way or another, it often came down to the judges
decision. Time was always a factor. Another element that
often flew directly over the public's knowledge, was all of
the inner connectedness of the legal system. For instance,
Dora and Stan's connection. When they had just begun to
date, there were times when she had brought cases into
his court room. No one knew that they were involved.
In fact, he never would have fallen in love with Dora if
he hadn't witnessed what a brilliant lawyer she was. For
a man like Stan, love was much more than attraction,
beauty, sex, for him it was about a mutual respect, and
to have that, he needed to appreciate the skills involved,
Dora had it all. So when things got serious, Dora knew it
was either step down or leave yourself open to a series of
conflict of interest cases. She opened her private practice
as a consultant and they moved in together. But they were
the exception, all throughout the court system, relationships
such as theirs existed, someone's sister might be married to
a cop, who was a regular witness in another guys courtroom,
who happened to be from the same church as the sister.
Elsewhere, lawyers, secretaries, highway patrol, detectives
and others had often been connected in some precarious
situation where the fine line between justice and injustice
was difficult to decipher. No one person was to blame, it
was just a part of the system. Humans got to know the people
they worked with, they got involved & they favored their own.
But in a city as large and diverse as Los Angeles, this was a
dangerous game with lives in the balance. Your life maybe.
Stan was responsible for putting away a good number of
hardened criminals. So many, in fact, that it was difficult
to even keep track. For the protection of Judges like Stan,
the court system began to track the releases of certain
criminals, so they could avoid retaliations which had been
on the rise in the past few years. Some guy who may have
lost his entire family, his home, his self respect, his youth
and even his position and power within a larger group might
simply come out, retaliate and go right back into the system
for the rest of his life. So, on a monthly basis, judges were
now given a file to read, some read it, others didn't bother.
Although Stan seldom bothered to review his monthly file,
when he found the startling portrait of a familiar face in
Cliff's bedroom, the next day, he read the recent releases.
Sure enough, a man he had convicted in a high profile case
had been released and Cliff's portrait was spot on correct.
It was a manslaughter case in which the prosecuting lawyer
had decided to try the teenage man as an adult, that was
the first red flag. The second was proof of malicious intent
to kill. The convicted man had told a fellow worker that he
wished a certain guy would get into an accident. They were
able to prove that he not only intended to, but was actually
the cause of the accident. The third count, he fled from the
scene. This was used as a divisive way to influence the jury
that the defendant was not only guilty, but also a coward
who didn't even stop or attempt to help his victims. There
was no way in the world that the kid could have ever helped
them out of the car prior to the explosions, it all had
happened on impact. Had the boy been able to speak on
his own behalf, he might have had a fighting chance, but
the entire event had sent him into shock, he lost it, had
nothing to say in his own defense and was easily tossed
away for more years than he had even been on the planet.
Which meant that he had now spent over half of his waking
life inside the prison system. An all white jury sent the
teenage boy far and away. Stan noticed a letter in his in-
box, opened it & realized it was an official communication
from the officer and witness involved in the case, requesting
to wiretap the recently released criminal under a special
circumstances situation. Usually, this type of thing seemed
almost routine, but for some reason Stan got a terrible
feeling about all of it. He granted the request. What a life.
No comments:
Post a Comment
thanks for submitting