Crown's Law (15 page)

Sam felt like a shit, and was at the same
time very proud—and touched.

“I’ll be there, Beck! In fact, I’ll come on
down to the beach house tonight. I’ll be honored to be there with
you! You can brief me tonight, so I won’t make an ass of
myself.”

***

The next day, Friday, Sam arrived at UCI 20
minutes before two and found the classroom Becky had briefed him
on. He wandered in and took a seat in the back of the room at 1:55
P.M. It had been years since he had been in a college classroom.
The students began arriving a minute later. Sam knew from his
earlier discussion with Becky that these students were all
seniors—all in their early twenties. The class was called
Mathematical Representation of Physical Phenomena. Sam still
couldn’t believe that Becky understood this stuff—much less be able
to teach it.

The assembled class consisted of 15 people—3
women and 12 men. The dress code varied from one guy in a suit and
tie to a bearded one in torn blue jeans, sandals, and an earring.
Becky had assured him that they were all very bright or they
wouldn’t be in this class. She had only met two of the women and
one of the men personally—but knew their abilities from how they
did on tests and homework. Becky kept posted conference hours so
students could come and ask questions about assignments, get help
if needed, or argue about homework or test grades. Only those three
had availed themselves of that service, so they, of course, knew
that their TA was the 16-year-old genius that all physics students
had heard rumors about. Becky wasn’t sure whether the rest of the
class knew about her being the TA or not. Sam knew from his own
college days that it was not unusual for classmates to not know
each other well. Close friendships tended to be made in other, more
social venues than the classroom.

Sam had butterflies in his stomach, but he
wasn’t sure why. Becky had made it quite clear last night that he
was not to embarrass her in any way. She wanted him there for moral
support, yes, but mainly she wanted him to share this important
milestone in her life: taking charge of a class. Still, Sam was
certain that if anyone gave Becky any problems, he would have a
hard time not punching the guy hard enough to drop his IQ by 30
points. Becky should have realized that when she asked him to be
here. Oh, well. He squirmed in his seat.

The door in the front of the classroom opened
and Becky made her entrance. Sam was amazed! She had left the beach
house before he had awakened, so he had no idea how she had dressed
that morning. She wore a long dress that reached her ankles, her
blonde hair was pulled into a bun on the back of her head, and she
wore her glasses instead of her contacts. Her attempt to look more
mature worked to some extent—she could have passed for 20 or 21, in
a nerdish sort of way.

The students were talking in small groups and
only a couple of them looked up when Becky walked in. The room
continued to hum with inane babble. Becky went to the lectern and
put a stack of papers on it and looked out at the class, waiting
for their attention. The noise continued. Sam balled his hands into
fists as he started a slow burn. The two women who knew Becky
started trying to quiet the people and a few of them took notice of
Becky.

“Hey, who’s the chick?”

“Where’s Professor Danforth?”

“Put a sock in it, O’Reilly! Quiet down!”

Becky said, “Please, class, give me your
attention. I . . .”

The babble continued, some of it now focused
on Becky. Sam was furious! He had promised Becky that he would
remain calm and let her handle things, but he was about to blow!
When Sam began to stand, Becky saw that look in his eye that she
knew was the danger look—a simmering Etna about to blow! Sam was
about to hurt somebody. She had to do something quickly or things
would get ugly!

***

Becky flashed back to the first time she had
seen that fiery look in Sam’s eyes—it had scared her then, and it
was scaring her now. It was a little over a year ago—when she was
15 and was finally starting to fill out her blouses and
T-shirts—and the two of them were leaving the Mickey Malone office
at dusk, intending to walk the block to where Sam garaged his red
Camaro.

A low-rider Chevy—sub-woofers blasting—pulled
up to the curb and two tough-looking Mexicans jumped out. A third
remained behind the wheel. Becky was a little antsy, but she knew
that Sam had his gun on his left hip—under his Aloha shirt—so she
figured if trouble ensued that he only had to show the gun and the
creeps would leave. It didn’t quite happen that way.

One of the guys was about 5' 10" and the
other a little shorter—neither of them as big as Sam—but what they
lacked in size they made up for in bravado.

The tallest one snickered and said, “Hey,
man! We’re takin’ up collections for charity. How about you makin’
a donation?”

Sam turned to face them, putting himself
between the two and Becky. Sam smiled and said, “Sorry, amigo, I
gave at the office. Why don’t you guys just move along?”

The bigger guy looked at his buddy and
laughed. Then he looked back at Sam and said, “You hear that,
Pancho? This turd thinks he’s a comedian. Hey, old man, why’nt you
just give us your wallet and watch? Save a lot a trouble.”

This was when Becky thought Sam would end
things by flashing his gun. That might have been Sam’s intention,
but she would never know, because Pancho spoke up at that point,
before Sam could respond to the first guy’s question.

“Hey, old man, what chu doin’ hangin’ with
such a young chica? Look, Chuey, why’nt we take this chica for a
ride—show her a good fuckin’ time?” laughed the one called
Pancho.

Chuey cackled, “Good idea, Pancho! Fuck her
brains out!”

Sam had glanced at Becky during that exchange
and that’s when she saw his eyes change. Their filthy language
hadn’t bothered her—she had heard worse when she lived on the
streets—but she could tell that it blew Sam’s mind. Becky had heard
stories from Nana—Sam’s mother—about how Sam had occasionally got
into trouble when he was a cop because of his intense abhorrence of
men who beat women, or any adults who abused children. Becky was
afraid at that moment—afraid that Sam might shoot them and get in
trouble.

So Becky said, “It’s OK, Sam. Let’s just
go.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam replied as he spun
quickly and delivered a whirling karate kick to Pancho’s face.
Pancho fell to the ground and didn’t move.

Chuey spat, “You motherfucker!”

A switch blade appeared in Chuey’s hand and
Becky was sure the blade was at least a foot long.

Sam was unfazed. He knew he could put an end
to this by drawing his gun, but he wanted to punish them first. A
quick karate chop broke Chuey’s nose—blood everywhere—and a swift
kick to the crotch put him on the ground. The driver of the car
started to get out, but when Sam moved toward him, he jumped back
in the car and sped away, burning rubber. Becky memorized the
license plate without even realizing it. Sam retrieved his cell
phone and dialed 911.

***

So Becky knew that look. She had to cool Sam
down quickly, before he hurt someone in her class. She had to prove
to him—and herself—that she could handle this.

All of a sudden Becky picked up a book on the
lectern and slammed it down, creating a noise like a gunshot. The
students all looked at her.

She said distinctly and slowly, “Shut . . .
the . . . fuck . . . up!” Then more quietly, “Please.”

She had their attention now. Sam eased back
down into his chair. Becky smiled.

“Thank you. Professor Danforth is ill today,
so he asked me to fill in for him. My name is Becky Rogers, and I
am your TA for this class. I recognize a few of you, but most of
you have not availed yourself of my services, so we’re not
acquainted. That’s a pity. I would like to get to know all of you
better so I could help you more clearly understand the course
material. This is a very important course for those of you who
intend to go on to graduate school.”

She paused and made eye contact with several
of the ones who had been the rowdiest before. Sam began to relax a
bit.

“As your TA, I grade your homework and your
tests. You didn’t think a full professor took time to do that, did
you? So you see, I have a great deal to say about what grade you’ll
get in this class. Do I have your attention now?”

The class was silent now and all were staring
intently at Becky.

“Before we continue, let me answer the
question that I see in some of your faces. Yes, I am the
16-year-old nerd you have heard rumors about, and I will get my
PhDs in both math and physics in mid-June. If you think that I am
too young and immature to be giving you instruction, just think
back to which of us portrayed adolescent behavior when I entered
the room a few minutes ago,” said Becky with a crooked smile.

The students looked around sheepishly, some
of them blushing slightly.

Becky continued, “Professor Danforth gave me
free reign on what material to cover today, so I thought we could
review subjects most likely to appear on the final. Miss Cranwood,
would you pass out these papers, please? Thanks. I’ve prepared a
list of problem areas for you to concentrate on. Even I can’t be
sure what exactly will be on the final because Professor Danforth
prepares it, but if you know the areas listed, you should do just
fine.”

Miss Cranwood gave a set of stapled papers to
each student as Becky talked.

Becky asked for questions, and as students
queried her about certain areas that needed clarification, Becky
went to the whiteboard and started scribbling equations as she
talked, and Sam saw the students nodding as they seemed to get
Becky’s explanation.

Sam didn’t understand any of it, of course,
but he felt very proud. He couldn’t take credit for any of the
mutant genes that formed Becky’s unusual mind, but he felt at least
partially responsible for saving her from the streets and putting
her on a path which made this moment possible. Perhaps that was why
she had wanted him here—to let him see firsthand what the results
of his act of kindness three years ago had wrought. Sam felt as if
he were watching his own daughter up there, and in a way he was. He
was glad he hadn’t embarrassed her by busting heads—she had handled
things just fine.

As the hour drew to a close, it was obvious
that Becky had gained the respect of every student in the class.
She had patiently answered all of their questions, and had pointed
out that they should take advantage of her office hours if they had
more questions.

She looked at her watch, and seeing that time
was up, she went to the lectern and addressed the class.

“This hour is up. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.
I hope I’ve helped you a bit. I’ll leave you with this: physicists
must be able to describe their theories mathematically, then test
the derived equations against observed data. Science has progressed
so much in the last decade that observations now available allow us
to test established theories in ways that weren’t possible before.
The new generation of physicists—that’s you and me—will be called
upon to do these tasks. This class is not about learning a bunch of
equations, but rather is about techniques and methods that can be
applied to observed data. Do not let the past shackle your
horizons. Do not let the boundaries set by Einsteinian theories
constrict your thinking. Even Einstein would tell you that if he
could. Innovate! Question everything! Make your math fit the
observed facts, then extrapolate into unexplored areas! Are the
equations wrong? The observations suspect? Both? Neither? Real
physicists will ask these questions. The rest are doomed to teach
history to the next wave of pretenders. Thank you for your
attention. Have a nice day!”

As she turned and walked toward the door, the
class stood and started clapping. Sam rose and joined them.

Friday, May 11, 2001

San Juan Capistrano, CA

Jose Martinez, a homeless man, discovered the
body at first light. It was behind a dumpster in an alley in the
“barrio” section west of Camino Capistrano in San Juan Capistrano.
The bells at Mission San Juan Capistrano had just pealed six times.
The corpse was well-dressed and there was no visible blood, so
Martinez thought at first that the man might be a passed-out drunk.
When he gingerly touched the man’s neck, he realized he was dead.
Martinez looked around furtively to see if he was being watched.
Since he saw no one, he decided that he would see what treasures he
could glean—wallet, rings, watch, and especially the expensive
leather coat on the stiff. He pulled the body out from behind the
dumpster so he could better search it; however, this was not to be
his lucky day.

Back in 1961, the City of San Juan Capistrano
contracted for police services with the Orange County Sheriff’s
Department, so even though the black-and-whites had San Juan
Capistrano stenciled on their sides, they were in fact operated by
deputies of the Sheriff’s Department. It was unfortunate for Jose
Martinez that morning that one of the black-and-whites was
patrolling the very area in which he was about to commit a
felony.

Deputy Diego Torres was patrolling the
neighborhood with his partner Julie Cameron and just happened to
pull into the alley as Martinez leaned over the body.

Julie Cameron, riding shotgun, said, “Look at
that, Diego! Hit the siren and the lights! I’ll go check it out.
Watch my back.”

Diego did as he was asked and turned his
headlights onto high beam so his partner would have plenty of light
in the dark, shadowy alley. When Martinez heard the siren burp, he
looked up and saw the flashing light bar and headlights. His first
impulse was to run, but he was like a deer caught in the
headlights, and the woman cop was only a few feet away. Since he
hadn’t had a chance to steal anything yet, he decided the best
approach was to bluff it out.