Crown's Law (5 page)

“You killed that girl, you son-of-a-bitch!”
snarled Sam as he kicked him in the ribs, wanting to inflict as
much pain as possible.

“Ow! Hey! Police brutality! I’m gonna sue
your ass!” yelled the punk.

“Go ahead, asshole! Sue away! I’m not a cop!
I should blow your damned head off!”

He kicked him again, harder.

“I want a lawyer!” moaned the thug this time.
“And an ambulance!”

“A lawyer won’t do you any good this time,
you prick! I saw you kill that child and I’ll testify to it. You’ll
get the needle this time! Murder during a robbery. You two will
love Death Row!”

***

An Irvine Police cruiser was there in three
minutes, the paramedics four minutes later. Sam knew one of the
cops who was first on the scene.

“Well, Sam Crown! Long time no see! What do
we have here?” said Officer Charlie Simpson as he shook Sam’s
hand.

Sam told him, leaving out any mention of the
youngster in the car. Why he did that he wasn’t sure.

“The homicide dicks will need you to explain
how that perp got shot in the ass,” laughed Simpson. “And how he
broke his ribs!”

“Simple enough explanation. Remember, I had
two assholes to control, and no cuffs with me. The one who killed
the girl started running and I couldn’t very well chase him. I drew
my weapon and yelled ‘stop’ and shit like that. I got all excited
and my gun went off, then he fell down. That must’ve been when he
broke his ribs.”

Simpson was roaring. “Works for me!”

“I can’t wait for the homicide guys right
now. I’m in the middle of something important.”

“OK, Sam. You’re testimony should fry these
two punks! I’ve arrested them several times before, but they show
up right back on the street. We’ll need a formal, concise statement
from you,” said Simpson.

“Will do, Charlie. I want them to get the
needle! As I said, I was in the middle of something important when
this happened. Could I swing by later?”

“I guess. Don’t make me come looking for
you,” laughed Simpson.

“No problem. I don’t want these assholes to
walk! Let me go move my van now. Give CSI some room.”

Sam walked out of the alley and sauntered
over to the white Toyota. It was empty. He glanced around, but
didn’t see the blonde girl among the gathering crowd. He went to
his van, secured his equipment, and started cruising around,
looking for her.

Twenty minutes later, he was about to give up
when he spotted her sitting at a picnic table in a small local park
about five blocks from the crime scene. He parked his van and
retrieved a can of Sprite and a Diet Pepsi from his cooler.

He strolled over to her and sat down opposite
her. She looked up from the book she was reading and peered at him
over her cheap reading glasses. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back
in a pony tail that was shoulder length—and in need of washing. She
was pretty, with bright blue eyes, but was thin and appeared to be
undernourished. Her glasses detracted from her otherwise
finely-shaped face—they were too large and had ugly, black frames.
Definitely off-the-shelf KMart. Her clothes were early Salvation
Army—faded blue T-shirt and tan pedal pushers. She wore well-worn
black sneakers on her feet with white socks.

“Soda?” he asked. “Take your pick.”

Her blue eyes bore into his as she took the
can of Sprite and popped the top. She took a long swig.

“Thanks. I was thirsty. Don’t think I’m
stupid—talking to a stranger. I saw you follow my sister into that
alley. You a cop?” she said after she rubbed her mouth on the back
of her arm.

Sam didn’t answer her question, figuring she
might talk to him more openly if she thought he was a cop.

“That was your sister? What’s her name?”
queried Sam, wanting to put the child at ease before telling her
that her sister was dead.

“Yes. Her name’s Rachel Rogers. She’s 18, I’m
13. I’m Rebecca Rogers. People call me Becky.”

“I’m Sam Crown. People call me Sam. What was
your sister doing with those men in the alley?”

“Well, Sam, you don’t look that stupid! She
was going to give them BJs. A quick $20. We need the money,” said
the pitiful-looking girl. “I heard a shot. Is my sister OK?”

Sam squirmed on the hard bench and popped the
top on the Diet Pepsi, searching for the right words.

Becky continued, “She’s not going to meet me
here, is she?”

“She was supposed to meet you here?” Sam
asked, welcoming the delay.

“Yeah. We always pick a place to meet in case
of trouble. Tell me about Rachel. Is she arrested?”

“No, she’s not under arrest, Becky. She’s . .
. dead. Those guys killed her,” Sam finally blurted out.

“Oh, fuck! Shit!” cried Becky as tears came
to her eyes.

She put her head down on her arms on the
table and Sam let her cry. After a couple of minutes, she sat up,
eyes red, face wet.

“Do you have a tissue? Or a hanky?” she
sniffled.

Sam handed her his handkerchief. Fortunately,
it was clean.

“Thanks. I’m sorry. I told her she would get
in bad trouble if she kept hooking. We could’ve made it without her
doing that. Somehow,” moaned Becky.

“Where are your parents?” asked Sam.

“Long gone, thank God! That’s all I’m gonna
say if you’re a cop!”

“I’m not a cop, Becky. I used to be, but now
I’m a private detective. I just happened to be there on other
business. I shot and wounded one of the men who hurt your sister.
They’re both in jail by now. They’ll be properly punished—I’ll see
to that! Now, what are we going to do with you? Any relatives?
Whose car were you in?” asked Sam.

“No relatives. That’s Rachel’s car. All my
clothes and stuff are in it. We live in it. We were trying to save
money so we could get an apartment or something. That’s why Rachel
was hooking—extra money. She worked at Denny’s during the morning.
I do some tutoring. Shit! We have a job at 7 o’clock!” exclaimed
Becky.

“Job? What kind of job?” asked Sam.

“Every Saturday we go to this college guy’s
apartment. It’s over near UCI. It’s shower day. While Rachel . . .
does him, I get to take a shower and wash my hair. Then afterwards,
I tutor him in calculus for an hour. I get $20,” explained the
girl.

Sam wasn’t sure that he had heard her
correctly. While her sister screwed the guy, Becky took a shower,
then tutored him in calculus?

“Er, Becky. I think you had better explain
that to me. Does that guy . . . touch you?”

“No. Only Rachel,” she answered as she
pushed the book she had been reading across the table to Sam. He
turned it around and read its title:
Differential and Integral Calculus
by
Courant.

“You understand this?” asked Sam, amazed.

“Of course. I like to use Courant with
students because his presentation is clear and concise. Most of the
newer texts are murky.”

“You said that you’re 13, right?”

“Yes. I’m what they call a mathematical
genius. Not autistic. That’s something different. I have a
photographic memory and a penchant for logic,” replied Becky. “I
tutor four seniors at UCI. I met them through Rachel, of
course.”

“OK, Becky. Let’s back up a bit. Do you go to
school? Where are your parents?” asked Sam, wanting to dig into
this girl’s past a little more before he decided what to do with
her.

“Look, Mister Crown . . . Sam. I don’t know
you, but I need help. The police can’t find out about me. They’ll
just put me in the System . . . and I’ll die there! But with Rachel
gone, I don’t know what to do. I can’t drive, so I can’t get to my
tutoring jobs. The car was my home, so now I need a place to stay
until I can figure out what to do. I’ll tell you about me, but if
you turn me in, I’ll run away!” exclaimed Becky.

The kid sure has grit!

“OK, Becky. One step at a time. Tell me about
your problems, who you are, what happened to you.”

Sam’s heart was going out to this poor
waif—genius waif! He had one of his flashbacks to ’Nam—seeing
visions of the countless children he could not save. Could he help
this one? Save her?

Becky told her story. She was born January
12, 1985. She never knew her biological father—just someone her
slut of a mother slept with. Her sister Rachel also could not
remember her father—a different one from Becky’s. Eventually,
Becky’s alcoholic mother Clara married a loser named Jake Rogers
when Becky was 8 and Rachel was 13 and changed their last names to
his. He began screwing Rachel and her mother never interfered. When
Rachel was 16, she could take no more of it and left home. That was
two years ago. Becky was 11 at the time and was crushed not to have
her sister to protect her from the stress and the violence in the
house. When Becky turned 12, Jake Rogers started screwing her just
as he had Rachel. Six months ago, Rachel dropped by to visit Becky
and caught her stepfather on top of Becky, her mother stoned. She
hit him in the head with a lamp, knocking him cold. They packed
Becky’s meager belongings and left. Rachel had left a note for her
mother saying she was calling the police.

As soon as Jake Rogers woke up, he and the
mother packed up and moved to Georgia where Jake had some relatives
to sponge off of. Becky had not seen them nor heard from them since
the day she left. She and Rachel had been living out of the car
ever since.

Rachel had dropped out of high school, but
Becky—whose IQ was off the charts—went to school everyday so the
authorities would not get wise to the fact that she was living on
the streets. Child Protective Services would have picked her up.
Faking the 8th grade was a challenge, of course, because with all
of her reading, she had already absorbed the equivalent of a
college education. She did not want her teachers to know how smart
she was, because they would want a meeting with her parents to
discuss special education programs. Then, the jig would be up.

Sam’s heart was breaking, but he didn’t know
what to do with the pitiful, lost girl. He knew he should not get
involved, but something made him press on.

“Give me your mother’s and stepfather’s names
again. I’ll track them down and have them prosecuted. The bastards
belong in jail!” exclaimed Sam, livid over what they had done to
Rachel and Becky.

“No! Please! I would have to testify, and
that would put the spotlight on me and I would end up in some
fucking foster home!” pleaded Becky.

She’s got quite a mouth for
a kid her age! Can’t blame her I guess
.

Sam made a decision. Temporarily, he would
not turn Becky in. He would talk to his mother and father before he
did anything—get their advice. He was probably breaking a bunch of
laws, but he was once again invoking Crown’s Law.

“OK, Becky. For now, I’ll not turn you in.
We’ll try and figure something out. Your 7 o’clock appointment will
have to be canceled,” said Sam, having no idea how much this
decision would impact his life later.

“But I could use the $20,” complained Becky.
“And the shower.”

“You can reschedule the tutoring after I
absorb all of this. I’ll see that you get a shower. Hungry?”

“Famished! I haven’t eaten all damned day.
That’s why I need the $20!” shrugged Becky.

Sam thought,
What a package! Foul street mouth at times, college grad at
others! Tough kid!

“OK, let’s go get something to eat and talk
some more. If I’m going to help you, I need to know everything
about your situation. My van’s right over there.”

“Oh, sure! How do I know you’re not just
another dirty old man like my stepfather? I hear perverts always
drive vans like that,” said Becky with a dead pan face.

“If you thought that, why did you tell me all
that you did? I thought you trusted me!” replied Sam.

“I do. That was supposed to be humor. I guess
I need some work in that area. Let’s go, I’m hungry!”

Sam took her to a nearby cafe and she had a
chocolate shake, two cheeseburgers, and a large platter of fries.
He had never seen such a small person eat so much before. He had a
chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, all covered with country
gravy—something he liked but never cooked for himself.

Becky wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and
said, “That’s better! Thanks! Now, we have a couple of
problems.”

“Oh? What would they be?” smiled Sam.

“One, my sister. How does she get a decent
burial? Two, all my stuff’s in Rachel’s car,” explained the scrawny
girl. “And three, I would love a shower. I’m filthy!”

Sam replied, “One thing at a time. Your
sister’s . . . er, body will be at the morgue for awhile. I’ll try
and think of something. Now, let’s go to your car and get your
things, then I’ll take you to my parents’ house where you can get
cleaned up. Then we’ll plan our next step. Sound like a plan?”

“Thank you, sir!”

“But first, we have to swing by police
headquarters so I can give them a statement about those guys who
killed Rachel. You can stay in the van out of sight. It shouldn’t
take long.”

***

It was 7:35 P.M.—nearly dark—when Sam
drove back to the crime scene area and parked behind the beat-up
Toyota. Becky stared at the entry to the alley where she had last
seen her sister alive. Yellow crime tape was strung across the
alley mouth. No one was watching as Sam and Becky got out of his
van and approached the car. Becky reached in the driver’s window
and popped the trunk open. She went to the trunk and retrieved a
shabby suitcase and a
Von’s
plastic shopping bag with some books in it. Another plastic
bag held some dirty clothes. There was similar suitcase there,
presumably Rachel’s.

“Do you want any of your sister’s stuff?”
asked Sam, a pressure tightening around his heart.