Bad Night Is Falling (6 page)

Kodama didn't slow down, her head not turning to look to the left nor to the right. It was too much to hope for.

“Good day, Judge Kodama,” Jamboni said in his stentorious baritone as she moved past him.

“It would seem, Mr. Jamboni.” She resisted the temptation to add, “you slick-headed cocksucker.”

The assistant D.A. moved on, a hyena's grin stretching his lower face.

Nearing the door to her chambers, she wasn't too surprised to see a few bodies clustered in front of the unmarked entrance.

Glowering looks were aimed at her as Kodama, not breaking stride, closed in on the door and the relative privacy mat lay beyond it.

“Judge, we'd like to speak with you if we may,” a matronly type in red stretch slacks and a sweater smelling of Woolite said.

Tersely she replied, “To what purpose?”

“Your decision to let a murderer off,” a stocky man in work shoes piped in.

“Mr. Wright was convicted, and he will be incarcerated for his act.” Her hand was on the knob, and she almost had the keys out of her purse with the other one.

“You know damn well he should have received twenty-five to life for shooting that clerk,” the woman added. “Good citizens like us voted for the three strikes law so trash like Wright would be taken care of properly.”

She unlocked the door, but couldn't make herself go in without responding. “No, good citizens like you voted for mandatory minimums with the same rationale as you voted years ago to cap property taxes so you wouldn't be putting your precious public dollars into the upkeep of inner city schools. Places your kids weren't going to anyway.”

“A radical,” the woman said and sniffed disdainfully, as if talking about devil worship.

“I'm not on the bench only to punish, but also to make an attempt at justice when I can.”

“I don't believe you understand what justice is,” the woman shouted. “Maybe you shouldn't be on the bench.”

Kodama shut the door in the woman's uncomprehending face. She crossed to her small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of seltzer, twisting the top off with more force man necessary. She plopped down behind her desk, swigging down the carbonated water like a drunk on a binge.

Off to the side of her desk was a recent stack of letters she'd received in response to her sentencing of thirty-three-year-old O'Shay Wright, a two-time prior felon—armed robbery and grand theft—with a discolored eye and the ability to read on a fourth-grade level. He was black, stood over six feet, and his last real job had been four years ago working as a pizza delivery man. He'd have kept the job except for the fact his homies were always dropping by the business, trying to beg free slices of pizza or hitting on his woman boss.

His latest attempt at upward mobility had been to stick up a 7-Eleven, a stop-and-rob as the cops called them, on Alondra in the Athens Park section of the city. But the clerk, a burly Samoan by the name of William Atupo, began to beat the luckless Mr. Wright about his protruding ears with a bat signed by Hank Aaron. Naturally the gun went off, and Atupo was hit in the leg.

At his trial, there was some discrepancy as to whether Wright had intended to shoot Atupo, or the piece had gone off as a matter of reflex. Whatever, Assistant D.A. Jamboni was out to send a message to all would-be master thieves like Mr. Wright. And of course since he'd already made noise about running for the head D.A. slot next year, he could send a message about how tough he was to the voters.

Naturally Mr. Wright's attorney was an overworked public defender. So Kodama, on her own initiative, exercised her prerogative and reviewed Mr. Wright's past record. Seems the grand theft was a wobbler. The car had belonged to a girlfriend upset that Mr. Wright was also playing the humpty with a former Raiderette and current auto drape model. The conviction was such that the law allowed Kodama discretion to reconsider it as a misde-meanor, and not a felony. This she did. Thus the present case would count, she informed a puckered-lipped Jamboni, as a second strike.

Of course the assistant D.A. protested, and filed for a further review of the case and her sentencing procedure. Subsequently the item leapt from page three in a legal paper, the little-read
Daily Journal
, to a prominent position over the top fold in the
LA. Times's
Metro section. Thus Kodama became the object of microscopic scrutiny by the legal system and the public.

Spokespersons for a homeowners group in the northern end of the San Fernando Valley began to send in letters. Interestingly enough, Jamboni also lived in that portion of the Kmart-strewn basin. The Lydia Homeowners Association stepped up the campaign from letters to the personal touch.

Over the past week, they'd been holding pickets in front of the courthouse demanding she rescind her decision. Jamboni had been barking on several local radio talk shows, and even his chief, a reasonable enough fellow, had to bend with the prevailing sombrous winds. The head district attorney had been quoted in the paper as saying that even though he'd been opposed to three strikes, he understood what the voters wanted when they'd passed the initiative during the Republican sweep a few years back.

Politics and posturing, Kodama thought, and grimaced inwardly as she perused a few of the scathing missives. There was a knock from the court side door and she said, “It's open.”

Mitchell stuck his head in and asked, “Are you okay, Your Honor?”

“Fine. My friends still downstairs?”

“They were breaking up the road show when I got back.” He came into the room, fumbling with the hasp on his gunbelt's cartridge case. “I realize you know what you're doing, but there's nothing in the law preventing you from going after Jamboni on one of those Sunday TV shows, is there?” He looked purposeful and awkward all at the same time.

“I couldn't until the review panel was through with its work, Mitchell.” That wasn't true, but she wanted an out.

“I see.”

“But I appreciate the thought.”

“Sure.” He went back out, slowly pulling the door shut.

*   *   *

“Is Mrs. Limón in?” Monk said in the most pleasant voice he could manage.

“I'm sorry, who did you say is calling?” the teenaged voice on the other end asked politely.

She knew who it was. He'd been calling since yesterday afternoon and his little chat with Seguin. He'd made nine attempts, five of which had been answered by the young woman now on the other end of the line. “Ivan Monk. I'm a private detective looking into the murder of members of the Cruzado family.”

With false innocence, the voice responded, “Oh yes, haven't you called before?”

Kid's gonna make a fine bureaucrat. “Yes, I have,” he drawled. “I would still like to talk with your mother about this incident if I could.”

“She's very busy, sir. I did give her your last message though.”

“Shall I leave my office and home number again?”

“No-o-o.” The young woman dragged the word out for a good three seconds. “I gave that information to my mother already.”

“Okay.” He was going to try a new direction. “Let her know I'll be meeting with Mr. Cady and Mrs. Hughes, and they've told me they have some ideas on this thing.”

“Ideas?” a suddenly interested voice responded.

“Yes, something to do with Los Domingos Trece that I'll be sharing with my friend on the LAPD, Lieutenant Marasco Seguin. He's the man in charge of the investigation.” He measured out a few clicks before speaking again. “Do you have all that?”

“Ah, yes, yes I do,” the young woman said flatly.

“Thank you.” He hung up satisfied. Monk hedged that Mrs. Limón would want to put her spin on things if she believed he was only talking to the black tenants, especially if he was also going to see a pal on the force. It nagged at him to play the race card, no matter how subtly, but if it benefitted his investigation, so be it.

Delilah Carnes, the woman Friday he shared with the architect/rehab firm of Ross and Hendricks, came into his office. She'd been on a diet, and her naturally large frame had tapered in at the waist so that her full hips and healthy bosom were even more accentuated in the black skirt and light blouse she wore.

“Elrod was on the horn a minute ago and he wants to know if you've made a decision about the blueberry and banana nut muffins.” She managed to say it seriously.

Monk stroked his goatee, twisting his mouth to one side. “Being the owner of a donut shop has more complexities than one might think, D.”

“Has it occurred to you, you're a seller of vice who preys on the weakness of people like me.”

“Donuts are nature's quick breakfast. I'm contributing to the efficiency of the modern world.” He leaned back in his ancient swivel. “See, Elrod wants to expand our menu and add muffins and gradually phase in speciality coffees like cafè mocha and cappuccino.”

Delilah knew the six-foot-eight, galvanized mahogany Goliath of an ex-con that was Elrod. And Monk could tell from her expression she was having a hard time reconciling that image with what he'd just told her. “Elrod's idea?”

“Man has expanded his horizons, D. Man can't get nowhere in these times by doing what's ordinary.”

“He said that.”

“Yes, he did.” Monk answered. The phone rang and his face brightened, as he pointed at her. “The big man's on it, baby.” He winked and picked up me handset. “Hello.”

Delilah exited, mulling over this new information about the buffed donut shop manager.

“Is this Ivan Monk?” the caller he had anticipated asked.

“It is.” He all but gloated.

“I understand you've been trying to reach me,” said Mrs. Limón with a hint of haughtiness.

“Yes, ma'am. Antar Absalla has hired me to see what I can find out about this terrible affair.”

“You know that two days ago several black youths ganged up on a Guatemalan boy and kicked and stomped him, breaking his kneecap and causing him to have a concussion.”

“No, I didn't,” he answered truthfully.

“You see there's plenty of things going on down here that we have to deal with every day. The murder of the Cruzados has only …” Her voice trailed off, and he could hear her talking to someone. “The killings have only increased the tensions, the fear that already exist between the blacks, Chicanos, and Latinos around here.”

“But that's why it's necessary to find out who's guilty as soon as any of us can, Mrs. Limón.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled. “I didn't see who did it, and neither did Henry or that Hughes woman.”

“But you have the ear of the Latino residents,” Monk countered.

“We don't all get together down at the washing machines and, what's the word … gab.”

“I'm not suggesting you do, Mrs. Limón. But I know you're a leader among the Latino residents, and it's only natural you'd hear things that the black tenants wouldn't. Things you might not even want the cops to know.”

“Or things I would go out of my way to tell them,” she said pointedly.

“And have you?” Monk sought.

“Why should I tell you?”

“I'm not out to make imaginary villains, Mrs. Limón. Whatever you think about Absalla, and I know you voted in favor of the Ra-Falcons being brought into the Rancho, I'll let the facts decide.”

“Even if it means it's blacks who're guilty?” she asked, skepticism evident in her voice.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“If we talk, I can't have you coming over here. Already there's a rumor going around about you being some federal man who's probably an undercover narc.”

“That's interesting,” Monk said. “Where'd you hear that from?”

“You know how these things get around,” the older woman bantered.

He'd only laid that vague line about working for the feds on the three Domingos who'd tried to jam him. “What have you been hearing among some of the Latino residents, Mrs. Limón? Is there anyone you believe may have actually witnessed the crime?”

“A lot of people came out when the fire was going,” she said tersely.

“I mean someone who may have seen the bad boys setting the fire.”

“You ask a lot too damn quick,” she barked.

“It's just you, me, and the phone line, Mrs. Limón.” Monk was as soothing as a grave plot salesman trying to get a ninety-five-year-old to buy the one next to the mottled elm. “No one to know anything if you and I have a little conversation.”

“You're working for that Muslim,” she reminded him.

“You seem to mean I'm some kind of follower of his.”

“He's paying you.”

“That makes me a lousy convert, Mrs. Limón. Besides, I was looking for a job when I got this one.”

“You're
sediento
then. Always looking for the next paycheck.” Her assessment of him registered a triumphant tone in her voice.

“I get hungry enough,” Monk admitted, his sporadic Spanish translating for him. “But not like you mean. Anyway, being lean in the hip pocket doesn't equal being a yes-man to Absalla, or becoming part of some cover-up. Yes, I took his money, because this is the kind of work I do. It's the service I provide, like a mechanic or a plumber.”

“They don't look for criminals,” the woman on the other end parried. “Of course the garage that did my alternator were definitely thieves.”

“But the honest ones will tell you what's wrong, and go about dealing with the problem the best way they know how.”

Mrs. Limón made a sound somewhere in her throat. “So Absalla is just your employer for the moment, not your
patrón?
You understand the difference?”

“I do. And if I find out something that makes the boss mad, then it wouldn't be the first time I was fired.”

“Alright,” she retorted noncommittally.