Crown's Law (2 page)

As the throng converged on Sam with their
mikes and cameras, he went straight to Chandra and whispered in her
ear.

“Meet me at
Sonny’s
at 6 o’clock.”

Then he pushed through the mass of people and
made it to his car and drove away without even saying “No comment.”
He headed toward the San Clemente substation to file his
report.

***

Sonny’s
is an
Italian restaurant on PCH in San Clemente frequented by not only
the locals, but by people from miles around. The restaurant has
both inside and outside patio dining, and Sam found Chandra waiting
for him on the patio at a round table—covered with a red-checkered
table cloth—with four chairs. She was sipping from a glass of red
wine and munching on hot garlic bread. She wore a dark green pant
suit with a cream-colored, low-cut blouse, and Sam thought she
looked especially sexy this evening—maybe because her suit coat was
hanging on a chair and her ample breasts were stretching her blouse
to its limits.

He plopped down in a chair next to her and
said, “Thanks for coming, Chandra. It’s good seeing you again! It’s
been awhile.”

She smiled, flashing straight white teeth.
“I’ve been working up in North County. I was just lucky to catch
this hostage thing. I got some good film—long range, of course, but
our optics are exceptional. The boss even let me go live with
‘breaking news’ when you went into the house, so I got you coming
out with the kid. You’re a hero! Are you going to tell me what it’s
all about? I need a wrap-up for the eleven o’clock and morning
news. The little piece the viewers saw live just whetted their
appetites—they’ll want the details of what went on inside the
house. And what was that shit with Jastro?”

Sam poured himself a glass of wine and took a
sip as he watched the cars zip along PCH. He pondered his options
with Chandra. She had always been fair to him, but she was, after
all, a reporter in search of a story. How she presented the story
was important to Sam.

“Let’s go off the record for now, Chandra.
OK?” he finally said.

“Sure, Sam. But give me something I can use
before I leave?”

“Something. I don’t know what. Look, I’m
having a hard time keeping my hands off you here in public. Why
don’t I buy us some dinner, then move this discussion to the beach
house. My parents are in Hawaii so we’ll be alone there,” Sam
said.

She laughed, pushed a strand of hair out of
her face, then replied, “A sudden hankering for black poontang,
eh?”

“Chandra! You know I don’t think that
way! I have a hankering for you though! For Christ’s sake, you’re
an octoroon! You’re seven-eighths New Orleans French! I’d call
that
French
poontang if I had
to choose between the two! Why stress the black?”

“I don’t make the rules, sweetie. One drop of
black blood makes you black in this country. Why do you think I’m
stuck in this dead-end job chasing ambulances? I should have had an
anchor slot long ago!”

“And you blame that on your African-American
blood? I think it’s just that there are so few openings for
anchors. Some of them never leave,” said Sam.

“Bullshit! They owe me! It’s not my fault
that some slave owner screwed one of his slaves years ago!”

“Calm down, Chandra! Your day will come,”
replied Sam.

“OK, OK. Enough of that. I’d love to go to
the beach house with you, but let’s eat first.”

The two of them split a pizza and finished
off the bottle of wine, then Chandra followed Sam home to
Capistrano Beach—through the guard gate and down Beach Road, which
paralleled the Pacific Ocean. They went directly to Sam’s bedroom
and he took her into his arms and kissed her.

“It’s been too long, Chandra!” he whispered
in her ear as he nibbled on it.

“Yes, it has, Sam! And we make such good
music together!” she replied—emphasizing her southern drawl—as she
began undressing. “Undo my bra, sweetie, and turn these hush
puppies loose for a breather.”

***

Afterwards, Sam fixed a couple of cognacs and
they went out on the large deck and watched the waves roll in.
Chandra lit a filtered cigarette and blew smoke into the dark,
star-speckled sky. She was still naked under one of Sam’s terry
cloth robes, as was he. She raised her snifter of brandy and
touched it to his.

“Here’s to us, Sam. I use you, you use me.
The perfect formula for a perfect relationship!” she laughed.

“And the sex is good, too!” he chortled.

“Only good? I must be slipping! I gave us 5
stars!”

They sipped their drinks and were silent for
a moment. Then Chandra said, “OK, Sam, let’s use each other again.
You tell me what happened in that house, and I’ll give it whatever
spin you want. But I need the story!”

“OK, Chandra,” he answered, then told her as
much of the story as he wanted her to know, while he ran his hand
under her robe and absently stroked the inside of her thigh.

***

Monday morning, Sam was in Captain Charles
Reese’s office at 10 A.M. Sam brought a cup of coffee in his own
mug—one with the U.S. Marine Corps emblem on it. Reese waved him
into one of the visitor’s chairs and Sam eased into it.

“Dammit, Sam! Why do you keep doing it?”
growled Reese from his black leather executive chair.

“What, Charlie? Saving people’s lives? That
woman would have died if I hadn’t gone in there when I did. And he
might have shot the kid, too,” shrugged Sam, sipping his coffee.
“That was not only a good shooting, it was a necessary one!”

“Shit, Sam! You know what I mean! Making
Jastro look like an ass! And on TV at that! That Claudet woman took
Jastro apart on the morning news!” blurted Reese as he stood and
started pacing. Reese, Captain of the Criminal Investigations
Division (CID), was wearing a blue suit—already rumpled by 10
A.M.—and his white shirt was pushed out, his stomach hanging over
his belt. He and Sam had graduated from the academy in the same
class, and Reese’s political aspirations had allowed him to climb
the promotion ladder to his current position.

“Yeah, I caught her broadcast. Crazy Crown
saves woman and child while disobeying order given by asshole
Jastro, who would have let them both die while his head was up his
ass. Pretty accurate, I’d say. I didn’t make Jastro look like an
ass. He did that all by himself. She does have a way with words,
doesn’t she?” smiled Sam.

“Oh, yeah! ‘We were privileged to see a true
hero—one who was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for
saving his platoon in Vietnam—again risk his life’ . . . blah,
blah, blah. Jastro wants to bring charges against you, but that
bitch has things set up so even if we give you a slap on the wrist,
she’ll tear us apart again.”

“Maybe you deserve it. Why do you support
that asshole?”

“You could have had that job instead of
Jastro. But, oh no, you have to stay down in the muck. I still
can’t figure you out, Sam,” grumbled Reese, sitting back down. “Do
you know how many officer-related shootings and excessive force
complaints you’ve had? You and your version of the law—‘Crown’s
Law’ everyone calls it.”

“No, but I’m sure you do. All my shootings
have been good ones. You know that. I can’t help people while
sitting in an office. Well, I know you’re between a rock and a hard
place, Charlie. You have to do something about Jastro, or take
action against me. I don’t think you have the guts to buck the
system anymore, so I’m gonna make it easy on you. You’ve been a
good friend through the years. I have no intention of putting up
with Jastro’s shit charges. I’m tired of fighting with the idiots
around here.”

Sam stood and placed his badge and gun on
Reese’s desk. He pulled a folded paper out of his inside jacket
pocket and laid it next to his gun.

“My resignation, Charlie. All I’ve ever
wanted is to help the victims and their families, but I can’t fight
the system anymore. It takes too much effort,” said Sam, a note of
sadness in his voice.

“Oh shit, Sam! You can’t do this! You’ve got
17 years in. Just calm down and we’ll figure out a way for you to
hang in and get a pretty good pension. I can make you a lieutenant
over in narcotics. I’ll shut Jastro up somehow!” moaned Reese.

“You know my answer to that, Charlie, but
thanks for caring.”

“You’ve got a ton of enemies on the street,
Sam. What’ll happen when they find out you’re without a badge?”

“Shit, Charlie! Do you think it’s my badge
that protects me on the street? Send that asshole Jastro out into
the real world and see how long his badge keeps him alive. Besides,
I’ll still be packin’. I got my P.I. license sometime ago. Also, a
bodyguard license. I knew this moment was inevitable, and I don’t
want to be naked in the streets.”

“Hell, Sam, if you’re set on doing this, stay
off the streets! Go enjoy the good life,” said Reese.

“This was the good life, Charlie. Whatever I
do now won’t be as good. Who’s gonna be an advocate for all those
victims out there now? Jastro? You? All the friggin’ laws favor the
perps. The victims and their families are left blowin’ in the
wind.”

“
It’s a good day to fight;

it’s a good day to die.”

Crazy Horse (1849-1877)

A Chief of the Sioux Nation

June 1970

Capistrano Beach, CA

Samuel Crown was not listed as “Most Likely
to Succeed” in his high school year book. In fact, the only
reference to him was under the group picture of the San Clemente
High School graduating class of 1970.

There were some juicy entries handwritten by
several of the girls who had surrendered their virginity to him. He
wasn’t a bad student—he had a B average—and he was quite popular,
but he had spent only his freshman and senior years at the high
school. Much of his time had been spent elsewhere—subject to his
father’s work assignments.

His father, John Crown, was in the CIA and
was moved about quite a bit. Sometimes Sam and his mother Helena
went with him, sometimes they did not—depending on the location and
security level of the assignment. Sam had spent time in schools in
Spain, England, Italy, Holland, and Turkey—not to mention several
stateside cities. He got to spend his senior year at San Clemente
High School in San Clemente, California only because his father was
stationed somewhere they couldn’t be—Vietnam.

So Sam contented himself with being a surfer
in pursuit of easy girls and big waves, since it was not really
feasible for him to get involved in school activities or organized
sports in his senior year. Too many cliques develop over the course
of four years of high school, and he had been absent for two
critical years.

His social calendar was full, however, since
he lived in Capistrano Beach on the renowned Beach Road—right on
the beach. He was quite famous for his parties and he always had a
bevy of beautiful beach bunnies swarming around him.

Capistrano Beach is a sleepy, comfortable
community in Southern California nestled between Dana Point Harbor
on the north, and San Clemente on the south. The elite area of the
community is the Capistrano Bay District, a Community Services
District run by a Board of Directors. This district consists of two
and a quarter miles of road running along the south-facing beach,
and has a guard gate at the west end—blocking entry to all except
residents and their invited guests. The name of the street is Beach
Road and nearly everyone referred to the private community simply
as “Beach Road.” Most people assumed all who lived on Beach Road
were wealthy—given the price of beachfront property and the
numerous mansions visible from Pacific Coast Highway—but that
wasn’t actually true. Many people had bought property there in the
1930s and 1940s when a building lot could be purchased for as
little as $500. They built modest houses and still lived there on
pensions and Social Security in 1970.

Others were very wealthy, which was the case
with the Crowns—at least, Helena Crown was. Helena Crown nee
Barkley—of the Boston, Massachusetts Barkleys—came from old,
East-coast money. Her grandfather had come to Orange County in the
1930s and bought a great deal of prime real estate, including
several lots on Beach Road. Helena eventually inherited the
property, and in 1960 she built two huge, Spanish facade houses
side by side. Each house spanned three building lots with the
fourth lot for a pool and other entertainment-oriented facilities.
Each lot had 40 feet of beach frontage, which meant that each
two-story house was about 12,000 square feet in size with plenty of
party space on their large redwood decks and pool lots. Each had a
six-car garage.

The Crowns’ “home of record” was the
southernmost (actually easternmost, since it was a south-facing
beach) of the two; Helena rented out the other one—or, at least,
her business manager did. She had very little to do with it. Her
plans for Sam were that he’d become a famous lawyer or surgeon, get
married, live next door, and she could dote on her grandchildren as
she wished.

Sam, of course, being 18, only looked forward
to the next weekend. His 18th birthday—July 5, 1970—was a big beach
bash, of course. It was a fun time for Sam and his friends, but a
worry for Helena. He now had to register for the draft, and to
avoid getting drafted, he had to get into college in September. She
couldn’t get Sam to sit still long enough to discuss whether he
wanted to go to Harvard, or Yale, or even the nearby University of
California at Irvine (UCI). He needed to enroll somewhere
immediately. Her husband had to be in Vietnam, but she didn’t want
her only son there!