Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (49 page)

Malik did remember. He and Ishmael had grown up on the same block in West Oakland. Ishmael was the one who always got in trouble. Petty theft, in and out of juvie. Malik had been the good boy, dragged to church on Sunday by his schoolteacher mom, studied hard, tried to keep out of trouble. Which meant keeping away from Ishmael. But the cops didn't see the difference between the two of them. All they saw was black. And black was trouble.

One day, when he was sixteen, Ishmael and his gang ran into a convenience store, threatened the owner, grabbed some malt, and took what was in the cash register. But the owner had pressed an alarm button. The cops came. They escaped. As it happened Malik was walking past the place, heading home after school, just as the cops arrived. They beat him. Arrested him. His mother was pissed. Didn't believe him. Something snapped inside Malik that day. A bitterness transformed him into … Ishmael?

No, not quite, not yet.

Malik went to Laney College at nights. Began to hang out with the Black Panther crowd, and reconnected with Ishmael. Malik was bright, but knowledge didn't seem to matter. All that counted was street smarts and there Ishmael had it over him. Ishmael, who he once had tried to help with his schoolwork, was now his teacher, his mentor.

“None of them Panther leaders have any balls,” Ishmael said, “'cept maybe Huey. Not that gang of hangers-on. It's war out here in the streets. And all those dudes do is spout. This damn town would be a lot better off if them Panthers spent more time pumping buckshot into pigs than servin' breakfasts to kids.”

“Right on.” Malik pressed harder on the gas pedal.

John Yamamoto had found that he could keep awake if he kept thinking. But what about?
Nancy?
No, that didn't work. Only reminded him of why he didn't like the graveyard shift. He was new to the force or at least he hoped that was the reason he was stuck with it. Could it be because he was a Japanese-American, the first hired by the Berkeley Police Department? Was he being held to a special standard? Resented by both blacks and whites? The blacks thought they had it hard in Berkeley. They should try being Japanese.

He started to think about his job, his past, his future. So much had changed for him this past year, so many opportunities lay ahead for the two of them. John loved his job. He had security, a future, someday a pension—and his mission. His wife Nancy kept telling him it was only a job, but she wasn't born in an internment camp. When you're born in a barracks inside a concentration camp in your own country, you don't really have roots.

His father once had roots, had his farm in the Central Valley near Stockton where he grew prunes. Sixty acres, his mother had told him. His father refused to talk about it. Nice spread, hard work, over 105 degrees in the summer. His mother had shown him an old black and white photo of a small ranch home surrounded by eucalyptus trees, white lawn chairs, rose bushes.

That picture means nothing to me.
Could've been anybody's place.

His father's roots were torn up when he was forced to move to barracks at Tule Lake. And then they stole his land. His father wouldn't talk about Tule Lake. Again, his mother had filled him in. It was called a “segregation camp” for “disloyals.” Dad was one of the stubborn ones who refused to sign a loyalty oath to a government that had taken his land and denied him citizenship. The three of them lived in two small rooms in a converted unpainted army barracks with a leaky tarpaper roof, in a muddy compound surrounded by barbed wire.

At Tule Lake, Dad had worked as a warder helping to distribute food to the detainees. He discovered that the Caucasians were stealing the detainees' food. He complained and they beat him. Then a riot broke out over the incident. The military rolled in with tanks, machine guns and tear gas. All Dad had wanted was a little justice in an unjust place.

His father's heart had left him at Tule Lake. He became a quiet man who rarely spoke. He had nothing left inside for his son. John was like his mother, outgoing, friendly, not interested in fighting anybody over anything.
I just want to fit in.
Tule Lake was his father's past. All John took with him from Tule Lake was a vague memory of playing with other kids in a muddy stream that ran through the camp. A happy memory, actually.

John didn't even have uprooted roots, but he had Berkeley. He started planting his roots the day he entered Berkeley High. He excelled in all his classes. He had friends, white, black, Asian. That's where he met Nancy, a white girl from the hills. He loved all of Berkeley, the campus with the anti-war demos, People's Park, the Telegraph Avenue hippies, the middle class in the hills, the blacks in the flatlands.

He could have gone on to Cal, become a doctor or engineer, but he needed money to help his family. His parents barely survived on his father's part-time gardening and his mother's city clerk paycheck. He wanted a career that dealt with people, where he could see the practical effects of what he did. Then there was Nancy.
Why do my thoughts always return to Nancy?
He needed bucks for an apartment so they could get married. So he became a cop, a cop with a mission. And that mission wasn't busting whores or making pot arrests. He wanted to pay back Berkeley, his community.

Something has gone sour in my town.
The college kids were becoming increasingly violent, the university administration increasingly repressive. The police chief had gone public with charges against Tom Hayden and other SDS leaders for fomenting violence against cops. And those crazy Black Panthers were toting guns, screaming about pigs.

People's Park was the turning point. It happened a year ago, before he joined the force. Stupid really, on both sides. The university tore down apartments where hippies lived and created a vacant lot. The hippies moved onto the lot, cleaned it up, planted flowers, organic gardens. They sat around, girls in those flowery granny dresses, boys in beards with red bandannas wrapped around their foreheads, playing their guitars, smoking pot.
No harm done.

Then the university fenced the place off, bulldozed everything the kids had built. The hippies and the campus lefties went wild. They battled the cops along Telegraph Avenue throwing metal rods and rocks. The National Guard was sent in and ended up blinding one person and killing another. The world of love, peace and pipe dreams was transformed into open warfare. Berkeley had lost its civility.

Despite everything that had happened, he had clung to his dream and joined the police department. Why? Perhaps it was hope that in time it would all change. The tolerant Berkeley of his childhood would reemerge. But at the moment the city seemed to be on the road to self-destruction. Maybe Nancy was right, there was nothing one cop by the name of John Yamamoto could do about it. He was not ready to accept that. Not yet.

I need this town. It's my home.

Ron Bradley checked addresses again. Totally out of sequence. Maybe the blond was just leading him on. Couldn't trust those hippie-dippies. Spooky neighborhood.
Fuck it.
He'd head home.

He swung a left, made a u-turn. That's when he heard the siren, saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. His night was ending as his day had begun
—fucked.

Such a quiet evening, John thought. Sliver of a moon. A stray sheet of newspaper drifted by. He spotted a motorcycle heading down University. The bike crossed a meridian clearly marked with a no u-turn sign and started heading up his side of the street. A young guy with a guitar case strapped to his back, afro, black. He turned on his flashing lights, sounded his siren and tailed the Harley. The bike slowed. John came alongside and said, “Pull over to the curb.”

The rider did as instructed. John stepped out of his patrol car, and with one hand on his holster, walked forward to the motorcyclist.

“Could I see your license?” The young man complied.

Fuck,
Ron Bradley thought.
Is this cop hassling me because I'm black?
That inscrutable look on his face. You can never figure out what these Orientals are thinking.

“What did I do wrong, officer?” Ron asked.

“Illegal u-turn.”

“There was no one around.”

“You're wrong there” John said. “I was around. The law is the law whether or not anyone else is present.”

Ron shrugged, “I'd appreciate it if you didn't give me a ticket. Had a hell of a day. Got my induction notice this morning.”

“What's your hurry? In another block you could've made that turn legally.”

“This damn hippie chick gave me a wrong address.”

John looked the fellow over. Young kid. Bet he had gone to Berkeley High. And now he was being sent to Vietnam. And to what purpose? Everyone knew the war was lost. All that remained was the killing of more Vietnamese and GIs. John had lucked out with the lottery. So far. He couldn't do anything about the war, but he could give this kid a break.

“Take my advice,” John said, “keep away from the hippie girls. They're nothing but trouble.”

“Sounds like you know.”

John smiled. Yes, he knew. But that was ages ago.
Before Nancy.
He hoped she would be awake when he got home. “Consider this a warning.”

“Thanks, officer”
I finally got a break on this fucked-up day.
The one nice cop in all of Berkeley. “Quiet night.”

“On a night like this I feel like I'm robbing the city by accepting a paycheck.”

A yellow Studebaker containing two black men with large afros slowed down and pulled up behind Ron and John. The man in the passenger seat got out and walked up to them. He was tall, thin and wore a long black leather coat that reached to the ground. A strange smile formed on his face.

John turned toward the tall man. Looked like a Panther. He wondered what this fellow wanted. Maybe his car had broken down. “Can I help you?”

The man didn't answer. Instead he opened his coat, pulled out a pistol, pointed its barrel directly at John Yamamoto's head, and pulled the trigger. The explosion echoed off the buildings lining the deserted street. As blood spurted from a small hole in the police officer's forehead, he crumpled at Ron's feet.

The tall black man ran back to the Studebaker. As its engine roared and spinning wheels screeched, the car took off, spewing gravel.

Tina Perez, dyed-red hair now frizzled by the wind, red mini-skirt looking tawdry in the yellow glow of the weak streetlight, walked toward the scene. She spotted a young black kid standing and an older tall black dude running.
Maybe one of them wants a blowjob.
Tina quickened her pace. Then she saw the bloody body of a cop covered with trash lying at the kid's feet. She screamed.

Ron Bradley reached down and felt the cop's pulse. Nothing. He watched the tall man head back to the Studebaker.
No way am I going to confront this dude.
He ran to the patrol car and used its radio to call in the murder. The Studebaker sped by. It's brakes screeched as it swung a u-turn right in front of him. The streetlight illuminated the face of the driver. Young, light-skinned.
Looks a bit like me.
Terrified. The car careened down the street on the wrong side of the meridian heading back toward San Pablo.

What a fucking day. What a fucking city. What a fucking country.

A rat, aroused by the commotion, scurried from the Foster's Freeze to the safety of the drain opening. Frightened yellow eyes peered out at the corpse.

A sudden gust of wind off the Bay picked up scattered pages of the
Berkeley Barb.
They danced for a moment on the sidewalk, then were swept along with a Milky Way wrapper and covered the corpse. The wind had created a shroud for Officer John Yamamoto. Berkeley had found a cruel way to reject his embrace.

Berkeley, California, January 2006:
Carl Hargrove got up from his seat in his study. He'd heard the doorbell ring. A rare occasion these days. His desk was covered with files of cold cases. Photos and clippings were pinned to a five by eight foot corkboard on the wall behind him. His research, his life since he retired from the Berkeley Police Department. Without these cold cases, he would go mad with boredom. And he knew BPD could use the help. They were hard pressed to fully investigate current cases.

He walked through the living room of his small two-bedroom bungalow and opened the door to a familiar face. Nancy Yamamoto. In her early sixties, she was someone you noticed even in a crowd of younger people. Thin body, angular face, fair skin without even a hint of wrinkle, short pure-white hair, it was her eyes that captivated. Carl had never seen such a deep blue. His first reaction whenever he met her was to look away as if those eyes saw too much or might catch him staring back at her.

He responded as usual. He was embarrassed to admit that he had nothing for her. The murder of her husband had been his preoccupation for years. The Department had the bullet, but no gun. He dug up the prostitute, Tina Perez, the witness, but she remembered nothing of use. More recently, at Nancy's behest, he had tried to find her again, only to learn that she had died of an overdose. He had spent years trying to track down Ron Bradley, the kid who had been on the motorcycle. He had seen the whole thing. Carl, who had joined the BPD two years after the shooting, felt the detectives hadn't done a particularly good job interrogating him. A young black kid heading for 'Nam wasn't likely to tell white cops much. But maybe he would talk to a black ex-cop like Carl. If he could find him. Which he couldn't. Cold, cold, cold.

Carl looked up. He couldn't help but smile. “Wonderful to see you again, Nancy. I'm afraid I have nothing new to report.”

“I have something.”

What could she have after all these years? Would I have to let this woman down one more time? I don't know if I have the heart for it.

But he said, “Fantastic. Come on in. I was just having some coffee.”