“At the aero club at McClellan Air Force Base,” Toni answered. “It’s the best aero club in the Air Force. Too bad they’re closing the base next year.” She came alert. “There. That’s her.” Toni walked quickly toward a disheveled-looking young woman dragging a recalcitrant two-year-old boy down the concourse. “Mrs. Habib,” she called. The woman stopped and looked at her. “I’m Special Agent Moreno with the OSI,” she said, showing her identification, “and this is Agent Mather from the FBI. We would like to talk to you.”
The woman shook her head. “I haven’t got time to talk to you. I’ve got to catch a flight.”
“This will only take a few moments, Mrs. Habib,” Toni soothed. “You’ve got plenty of time, and we’ll escort you to the head of the line. You won’t miss your airplane.”
“I don’t have to talk to you. I ain’t done nothin’.” She grabbed the boy and walked past them.
“Let her go,” Mather cautioned. “We haven’t got any reason to hold her.”
“She’s a material witness,” Toni said.
“A material witness to what?”
Toni chewed her lip. The FBI agent was right. But some instinct warned her that Diana Habib was deeply involved. In exactly what way, she didn’t know. She made a decision, wishing Harry was there. “I can’t arrest her. You can.”
“Give me a reason.”
“As a co-conspirator.”
“To her husband’s murder?”
“No. To espionage.”
Mather handed her his handcuffs. “We’re probably going to need these. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
12:08
P.M.
, Friday, July 16,
Los Angeles
The chartered Piper Saratoga crossed the Santa Monica Pier at twelve thousand feet and spiraled down over the airport. Marcy Bangor sat in the right seat next to the pilot, not believing her eyes. Columns of smoke rose high into the air over the center of Los Angeles, splitting the gut of the city from groin to sternum. It stretched from the harbor area in the south and ran north, past the WattsWillowbrook area, through South Central L.A., and into Hollywood. At the base of the smoke curtain, a stage of fire sparkled in the morning sun.
Behind her in the cabin, the other three reporters from the
Sacramento Union
sat in stunned silence. “Can we fly over there?” Marcy asked.
“No way,” the pilot answered. He increased his rate of descent as he passed through five thousand feet and SOCAL Approach cleared him to contact the tower at Santa Monica airport.
“Good luck,” the controller said.
“Encouraging bastard,” the pilot grumbled as he switched frequencies.
Marcy spoke into her microcassette recorder. “Landed Friday, July sixteen, at twelve-fourteen A.M. after uneventful flight from Sacramento. Spiraling down above Santa Monica airport to land. I can see fires in South Central L.A. All appears calm below us.”
But the pilot was of a different opinion and swore at himself for accepting the charter and leaving the friendly skies of Sacramento. The
Union
’s publisher had kept increasing the money and he had weakened. He dropped the gear and flaps and touched down at midfield. He taxied clear of the runway and parked by the Museum of Flying. Marcy climbed out of the door and scrambled down the right wing. She caught her breath when she saw the hole punched in the flap. “Gunfire?”
The pilot examined the damage with his forefinger. “Shit-fuck-hate! I should have never taken this flight.” The bullet had missed the main fuselage by less than eight inches.
Two very nervous young men, both African-American, were waiting inside the flight operations office. “Miss Bangor?” the older asked. She nodded. “I’m Jason, your escort. Richard is our driver.” Matey followed them out to a waiting van, leaving the three other reporters behind to fend for themselves.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The Wilton Country Club,” Richard answered. “Sunset Boulevard is probably the safest way to get there.”
At first, Marcy was struck by how normal everything seemed. Then she realized there were very few cars on the road. They made good time as they headed east on Sunset, past UCLA and Beverly Hills. At Doheney Drive, they hit their first roadblock. Two clean-cut young white men in short-sleeved white shirts and conservative neckties waved them to a stop. Marcy checked the reserve deputy sheriff badges pinned to their pockets as she flashed her press card. Within seconds, they were cleared through. “Be careful,” one said. “We’ve reports of looting.”
They drove in silence as Marcy continued to speak into her microcassette. “The transition from the quiet residential homes into the heart of the strip is abrupt. We’re passing the cultural icons of the 1990s, the new Whiskey A-Go-Go, the House of—”
“Trouble,” Jason, her other escort, said, interrupting her note taking. He pulled over to the curb. Ahead of them a group of teenagers were blocking the street. “Sometimes I despair for my brothers,” he moaned. For some reason, the teenagers dispersed and moved on, shouting and gesturing at the van.
Richard slipped the van back in gear, drove past, and took a side street over to Melrose Boulevard. “Check the roofs,” the driver said. Marcy looked up. Armed young men, all Asians, were standing guard. “Koreans,” Jason said. “Nobody messes with their businesses, especially their new ones in this part of town.”
At first, Marcy couldn’t believe the scene in front of her. She spoke into her microcassette. “Scenes of normal life play out in front of the escalating chaos sweeping out of the heart of the city. Korean-American merchants are standing guard on the rooftops of their stores while people drink coffee at sidewalk cafés below them.” She fished her digital camera out of her bag, slipped in a fresh card, and recorded the scene. Later, she would edit the digital images and transmit the best ones over her cellular phone to the
Union
.
The pall of smoke grew heavier as they approached the Wilton Country Club. Four heavily armed guards at the entrance carefully checked their credentials before waving the van in. She was surprised to see golfers on the course. “They’re still making their tee times,” Jason explained. She shot four frames of the golfers, surprised that almost half were African-American.
Inside, she was escorted to a private dining room where approximately twenty men were gathering for lunch. The group was evenly divided between African-American, Anglo, Asian, and Hispanic men. Marcy knew most of them by reputation. They were the power brokers behind Los Angeles politics and other than the waitresses, she was the only woman in the room. Their acknowledged leader, a rumpled, portly, gray-headed African-American wearing a cleric’s collar, known simply as “the Reverend” stood to greet her. “Please, Miss Bangor,” the Reverend said, “this is off the record. Would you please join us for lunch?”
She sat down and bowed her head as the Reverend gave the blessing. She made a mental note comparing the group to a Rotary or Kiwanis meeting, not a convocation of the most powerful leaders in the city. “Miss Bangor,” the Reverend said, “your publisher at the
Union
and I are old friends and you come with the highest recommendations. That is the only reason you are here.”
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth
, Marcy thought. “Reverend, on the record, is this riot in reaction to the Jefferson court-martial?”
“The community has been antagonized beyond endurance, Miss Bangor, and this rioting is a reaction to many things: the blockading of our homes into ghettos by Meredith’s stooges, the lynching in Phoenix of an innocent mother, the stonings. Must I go on? For my brothers and sisters the court-martial of Capt. Jefferson is white man’s justice where the color of a man’s skin determines guilt or innocence.”
“But what if he is guilty?” Marcy asked.
“No, Miss Bangor, he is not guilty, even if he did sell information to the so-called enemy. He was entitled to that money as is every person of color for past injustices that have yet to be made right.”
The waiters then served the first course of the sumptuous lunch and the talk turned to golf. As the table was being cleared, eight men barged into the room, all wearing the characteristic baggy clothes of street gangs. Six of them were armed with Uzis and AK-47s. One cradled a light machine gun Rambo-style in his arms. The Reverend came to his feet with a heavy dignity. “You are not welcome here,” he said.
“Yo, bro,” the smaller of the two leaders growled, “nobody be tellin’ us who welcome.”
“Miss Bangor,” the. Reverend said, “will you please give us a few moments of privacy?” One of the Reverend’s dark-suited aides touched her shoulder and pulled her chair back as she stood. She walked past the intruders and struggled to keep her composure when she saw their headbands. Red and blue bandanas, the colors of the Bloods and Crips, were twisted together. The aide escorted her out to the lobby, well-out of earshot.
“Who’s the bitch?” the gang leader demanded.
“A reporter I want to be here,” the Reverend answered.
“The bitch make one mistake and she dead.”
“No,” the Reverend commanded. “The press is a factor we cannot ignore. For that reason, she is under my protection. Get the word out to leave her alone.” The gang leader snorted in contempt, but he would do it. “I hope you come in peace,” the Reverend continued.
“This ain’t about peace,” the leader said.
“Please educate me,” the Reverend replied.
“It ain’t a Crip thing or a Blood thing—it’s a black thing.”
“Is that what the bandanas represent?” The Reverend held up a hand, silencing any reply as waiters brought in the main course and rapidly left. The Reverend cut a small morsel. “We are willing to let this run its course,” he said. “But we must establish some rules.”
“No dogs, no National Guard,” the leader said.
“Then you must contain the looting,” the Reverend told them. “You must not burn churches. Stores are acceptable as long as you stay out of New Korea Town in Hollywood. You must not go beyond Hawthorne Boulevard and La Cienega on the west. You may go as far east as the Los Angeles River, but no further. Of course, this establishment must remain off limits.”
The gang leader sat down at Marcy’s place and helped himself to her lunch as they negotiated a war zone about twice the size of the smoking area Marcy had seen on landing at Santa Monica.
“How long we got?” the leader said.
“Three days,” the Reverend said. “It ends Sunday night.”
“Four days,” the gang leader answered.
“Four days and it’s out of my hands,” the Reverend said.
The leader pushed his chair back and stood. His face was cold, impassive hatred. “It’s already out of your hands.” He spun around and marched out of the dining room, his men in close trail.
“We have a deal,” the Reverend said.
“But won’t the governor call in the National Guard?” one of the civic leaders asked.
“The governor is a realist,” the Reverend replied.
Marcy was standing in the foyer near the main entrance when the two gang leaders and their bodyguards came out. She followed them out to the parking lot. “Excuse me,”she called. “Is this because of the Jefferson court-martial?”
“It’s about justice,” the leader answered.
“It’s about killing whitey,” one of his bodyguards shouted.
3:10
P.M.
, Friday, July 16,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
R. Garrison Cooper stood beside the seated Jefferson and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was only the second day of the court-martial, and Cooper needed a drink. For a moment, he reread his notes on the four men and two women remaining on the panel. It was decision time. The jury consultant he had brought in scribbled a note and passed it along. She wanted to dismiss one of the women. As Williams had promised, he was very liberal in dismissing for cause, and Cooper had barely to open his mouth to get a member excused.
It was too easy and Cooper came to the inevitable conclusion Williams knew he would reach. The system had selected the jury years before. No matter how many he removed, he was going to end up with a panel of educated, responsible, professional officers who could think. From Cooper’s perspective, it was the worst of all possible juries. Further, the body language coming from the spectators was hostile. He had antagonized them with his dismissal of Capt. Knight. It angered him how easily Blasedale had set him up, and he made a mental promise to even the score. But that would have to wait. He allowed a mental sigh; now he had to repair the damage. “Your Honor, we have no further challenges. I am aware that this has been a difficult and tedious voir dire and I wish to thank the court for its attention and patience. We are more than satisfied that this panel can, and will, render a fair verdict.”
The court-martial was formed and ready to proceed. Williams declared a recess until Monday morning. “I am satisfied,” Jefferson said in a low voice. He rose and walked unescorted to the side door where The Rock was waiting for him.
Sutherland and Blasedale heard Jefferson’s remark. “He believes in the system,” Sutherland said.
“Then he may be a fool,” Blasedale groused.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m tired.” She gathered up an armful of folders and books. Sutherland followed her into the legal offices carrying her two stuffed briefcases. Linda was being her usual superefficient self and was waiting for them. “Call Agent Moreno in New Orleans.” She handed Sutherland a message. He dialed the number from his office phone and put it on the speaker for Blasedale to hear.
Toni answered on the first ring. Her voice was strained and tired. “I had the FBI arrest Habib,” she said, “to keep her from leaving the country.”
“On what charge?” Sutherland asked.
“As a co-conspirator to espionage.”
“Toni,” Blasedale said, “there’s not a shred of evidence to support that.”
“I know.” They could hear panic in her voice. “So does the FBI. They’re going to let her go. Brent says we’re in big trouble if she claims wrongful imprisonment.”