11:42 p.m.
Fletch started sobbing. Brenda mother-henned him.
We’re still pals, sweetie. I’ll still get you girls. Let’s get some coffee in you. You’ll be right as rain.
The pathos was unnerving. Parker ducked out. He elevatored downstairs. The lobby choir unnerved him. He ducked outside.
He’d parked his car off the boulevard. He brought his law texts and scrawl sheets. He jogged over and piled in.
He checked his watch. 2:00 a.m. would mark six days sober. He checked the 813 windows. Fletch boo-hoo’d. Miss Lake talked with her friends.
Parker got out his pencils and notepad. A girl walked a blind man in front of the car. He sent up a prayer for them.
Prayer gave him the idea. It densified the Bowron shakedown. Cease-and-desist was insufficient. The closed proceeding put Fletch at more risk. It upped the odds that he’d never break ranks and snitch.
The idea sidestepped The Vow. He plea-bargained God for just this one thing. Dudley’s blithe sermon convinced him to try it.
It might convince Exley and Patchett to ditch their slave-camp plans. It might instill just this much doubt in them.
Parker worked. He studied statutes. He dog-eared pages. He underlined legal points. He smoked himself hoarse. He swilled stale coffee and cogitated. He thought of Lieutenant Conville. He thought of Miss Lake.
He drove by Coulter’s yesterday. He saw a tweed skirt in the window and thought of Miss Lake. That skirt and white stockings. Miss Lake in white gloves at church.
Lieutenant Conville was taller. She wore the winter uniform now. She’d go to the khaki in springtime. It would complement her red hair.
Parker worked all night. He wrote out a series of questions and phrased them loophole tight. He drove downtown at dawn.
He cadged a cot room nap. He slept between Thad Brown and Lee Blanchard. He got up at 7:40. He cleaned up and shaved in the washroom.
Crapshoot. The county grand jury room—546.
Parker walked down. Fletch delivered. The annex was set up.
One table, five chairs. A female stenographer. The participants, plus counsel.
Bill McPherson and Preston Exley. Pierce Patchett—tall and gaunt. Counsel? Ben Siegel’s man, Sam Rummel.
The fit was tight. One small room and six people. Blasé Exley. Blasé Patchett. The DA—early-morning alert. A high-stakes shyster and early-a.m. subpoenas.
McPherson said, “We’re all here. Let’s not pretend that it’s anything other than an inconvenience, and get to it.”
The steno rigged her device. Rummel placed three sheets of paper on the table.
“The confidentiality forms. We’ll need signatures from Mr. Exley, Mr. Patchett, and Captain Parker.”
Pens came out. Exley signed. Patchett signed. Parker signed. Rummel cleared his throat.
“Are you here as a policeman, or as a specially deputized attorney and representative of the county grand jury, Captain Parker?”
“The latter, Mr. Rummel. I’ll add that I’m legally prohibited from repeating testimony sworn here this morning to any outside agency, which includes the Los Angeles Police Department.”
McPherson tapped his watch. “Let’s get this thing going. Gentlemen, raise your right hands.”
They complied. McPherson spieled the oath.
“Do the witnesses swear that their privately sworn testimony is fully true and free of all dissembling and evasion? Does counsel swear that his queries are proffered with full knowledge of California state and Federal law, and that this inquiry is undertaken to comport with the best interest of all citizens of and within Los Angeles County? Do all parties understand that upon completion of this interview, I will decide whether or not to pursue a full-scale inquiry, and that my decision will be final and conclusively binding?”
Exley said, “I so swear, and I do.”
Patchett said, “I so swear, and I do.”
Rummel said, “I so swear, and I do.”
Parker said, “I so swear, and I do.”
The steno typed it in. Rummel cleared his throat.
“Twelve questions, Captain Parker. If my clients decline to answer, please do not comment or badger them.”
Exley and Patchett sat down. Parker sat facing them.
“All questions are directed to both Mr. Exley and Mr. Patchett. Either or both of them may answer, and they may elaborate if they wish.”
Rummel shook his head. “They do not wish to, nor will they, ‘elaborate.’ ”
McPherson straddled a chair. “Let’s move this along. We’ve got three hotshot lawyers in the room. There won’t be any hanky-panky.” Rummel sat down. Parker studied Patchett. Note his pinned eyes. Odds on drugstore hop.
“Here’s my first question. Gentlemen, do you comprise a combine that has purchased, has attempted to purchase and is currently attempting to purchase Japanese-owned house properties in Highland Park, Glassell Park and South Pasadena, along with Japanese-owned farm property in the San Fernando Valley?”
Exley said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “Is it your intention to raze those house properties in order to build ramps to the Arroyo Seco Parkway and shopping centers near the Arroyo Seco Parkway?”
Patchett said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “Exley Construction has a proposal before the mayor’s office and the City Council at this moment. The proposal theoretically supplants preexisting plans currently being implemented by the Federal government. Mr. Exley wishes to construct prison work camps to house Japanese subversives for the duration of the war, in the San Fernando Valley. Mr. Exley, have you purchased Japanese-owned farm property, and are you attempting to purchase Japanese-owned farm property in order to raze said properties to create prison work camp sites?”
Exley said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “Are you employing illegal Mexican farm workers to pick your crops?”
Exley and Patchett leaned toward Rummel. Patchett’s shirt cuffs slid up. Note his Asian-symbol tattoos.
Rummel said, “Point of order, Captain. Those workers have been granted temporary visas by Captain Carlos Madrano of the Mexican State Police.”
Cluster fuck. El Capitán Carlos. El Jefe, muy fascista.
“I’ll rephrase. Gentlemen, are your workers systematically destroying crop acreage by the application of shrimp oil upon topsoil, in an attempt to provide a baseline for the cement foundations of your prison work camp structures?”
Exley said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “Have you created a dummy corporation and secretly recorded your purchases of the house and farm properties?”
Patchett said, “Yes.”
“Will you present documentation of your purchases to the Los Angeles County grand jury?”
Rummel said, “Only in the event of a full-scale grand jury inquiry, and under official subpoena only.”
Parker said, “Did you purchase the Highland Park home and the East Valley farm of Ryoshi Watanabe?”
Exley said, “Yes.”
“Did you tell Mr. Watanabe and/or members of his family to walk the acreage behind the house with shrimp oil and/or glass shards applied to their feet, in order to aerate the acreage and provide a baseline for the pouring of cement?”
Patchett said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “The property behind the houses you have purchased or have attempted to purchase is public land deeded to Los Angeles County, with first-purchase rights of refusal granted to Exley Construction, due to its proximity to the Arroyo Seco Parkway. Gentlemen, were you systematically attempting to reduce the value of those properties by your topsoil-destroying machinations, and had you realized that people walking the acreage would stand a better chance of going undetected than a mechanized application of shrimp oil would?”
Exley said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “Did you murder Ryoshi, Aya, Johnny and Nancy Watanabe on December 6, 1941?”
Patchett said, “No.”
“Do you know who killed them?”
Patchett said, “No.”
“Do you have verifiable alibis for 2:00 to 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, December 6th? I would like both of you to answer, please.”
Exley said, “Yes.”
Patchett said, “Yes.”
Parker said, “Will you present valid third-party proof of those alibis?”
Rummel cleared his throat. “In the event of a full-scale and official inquiry only, and only under direct subpoena.”
Twelve questions. Added clarifications. Thirty-four minutes, door-to-door.
Parker looked at McPherson. “As your deputy, I call for a full-scale inquiry.”
McPherson stood up. “Request denied. The Wolf’s good for those homicides. Shrimp oil, farms and parkway ramps—who gives a shit?”