Jankowski had Jamal Pelletier sit in the center of the small metal table, leaving the chairs at either end for the investigators so they could triangulate on him. Sinclair had already looked at what the police databases revealed about him. Not much. A valid driver’s license showed he lived in the flatlands of East Oakland, was twenty-eight years old, and drove a four-year-old Toyota. He’d never been arrested, which was a rarity for a young black man in Oakland. His state guard card was issued three years ago, and his only police contact was for a speeding violation two years ago.
Sinclair slid his legal pad from his leather folio to take notes while Jankowski took the lead. Jankowski led him through his basic information: name, address, phone numbers, employment. Pelletier answered the questions politely. Sinclair watched his facial expressions and body language for signs of deception.
“Do you know why we asked you to come down and talk with us?” Jankowski asked.
“I imagine it’s about the murder of Shane Gibbs.”
“That’s right. Did you know Shane?”
“Sure, we were both members of the Simbas.”
“How long have you known him?” Jankowski asked.
“A few years. He joined the club just after I did.”
“Were you both full-patch members?”
Pelletier’s face tightened. “Sergeant, so you don’t get the wrong idea, I know what you probably believe. That the Simbas are a black version of the Hells Angels—a motorcycle gang that deals in drugs and runs prostitutes or something like that. We’re not. We’re a group of men who like to ride and socialize around our love of motorcycles.”
“How would you compare yourselves to the East Bay Dragons?” Jankowski asked.
“They’re an old-school club. They’ve been around for over fifty years, and most of their members are my grandfather’s age. They do more drinking and socializing than riding.”
“All your members are African American?”
“That’s the way it is. Folks have been trying to integrate the races for generations. Still, it’s human nature to want to hang with people like you. I think the only club that says they won’t allow people of another race are the Angels. I’m not a board member, but if I were and a white or Latino wanted to join the Simbas, I’d have no problem.”
Sinclair had expected a response like he’d heard too many times in this room—about how blacks needed to band together against the still blatant discrimination in the world. It was clear Pelletier wasn’t a product of the Oakland streets.
“How well did you know Animal?” Jankowski asked.
“Better than most. He tried to help the new guys stay out of trouble with the law, find employment, go back to school.”
“But he couldn’t do that himself, could he?”
Pelletier took a deep breath and exhaled. “I don’t know what happened. He must’ve just flipped. I’m sure alcohol fueled it. What happened that night was an embarrassment to the club.”
“Were you there?”
“Not when it happened. I worked until five and went to the bar afterward for about an hour. They told me it was a surprise birthday party for Animal and we should all show up. I’m more into the gym than the bar scene, so I had a beer—yes, one beer—and went home. I have a wife and a young son.”
“I have no idea. People are saying Shane did something that disrespected the club and took a swing at Animal. That’s all I know.”
“We brought a bunch of club members in that night,” Jankowski said. “Every single one said nothing—seemed like the code of the club to not talk with police.”
“They were scared shitless that night. I heard about it. Police crashed down doors and treated the brothers like they were terrorists.”
“We recovered a bunch of guns and some drugs.”
“Whoever had drugs needs to go to jail. The club doesn’t condone it. Possession of a firearm in one’s home or a private establishment like the clubhouse isn’t illegal. At least not yet in California.”
Jankowski nodded to Sinclair.
“What’s your club name, Jamal?” Sinclair asked. “The name on your vest.”
“Rock.”
Pelletier’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his short-sleeve uniform shirt, and the extralarge shirt was tight across his chest. “Because of your physique?” Sinclair asked.
“They gave me the nickname when I was a prospect. I began lifting when I was in the Air Force. Found it to be a great stress reducer.”
“How long were you in the Air Force?” Sinclair asked.
“Six years.”
“Thank you for your service,” Sinclair said. “I was Army. Actually, I guess I still am because I’m still in the reserves.”
“Any deployments?” Pelletier asked.
“A year in Iraq,” Sinclair said. “What about you?”
“The Air Force has shorter deployments than you guys. I did four months in Afghanistan and another four in Kuwait. Both on air bases, so not much risk.”
“Just being there carries a risk,” Sinclair said.
“Why’d you get out?”
“Wanted to put down roots. I was at Travis when I met my wife. We wanted to raise a family and not move our kids every few years.”
“Why Oakland?”
“It’s where we both grew up. The city’s changing—getting better.”
“How’d you come to work for Eastman?”
“A bunch of veterans work security, so I had no trouble getting hired. I worked for a few of the big companies. One day, I met Animal in the gym. He was a powerlifter and was impressed with what I could lift. We started talking motorcycles, and he invited me to take a look at the Simbas. Last year, he, Pops, and Mr. Eastman started up their own security company. He had big plans for expansion. Expecting some major corporate and government contracts after November. Animal liked my work ethic and the way I carried myself. Said he wanted me as a supervisor and later as part of the management team of the company.”
“He sounds like a dreamer,” Sinclair offered.
“I guess I am too. He said he made some great contacts with influential people in Oakland who’d hook him up.”
“Any idea who these influential people were or what contracts he was talking about?”
“He said he had to keep it top secret to prevent other companies from knowing our business plan, but once he negotiated the contracts, we needed to be ready to hit the ground running. I trusted him.”
“What about now?”
Pelletier shrugged. “I don’t know. I can always go back to my last employer.”
Sinclair changed the subject. “Do you know Bobby Richards?”
“Tiny? Sure. One of the best wrenches in the state.”
“We hear he was with Shane before he got killed.”
“I heard the same,” Pelletier said.
“Do you know where they were or what they were doing?”
Pelletier shook his head.
“Where would we find him now?” Sinclair asked.
“I haven’t been back to the club or hardly talked to anyone since this thing happened. My guess—Tiny got spooked and went into hiding.”
“Spooked over what?”
“If you believe the stuff you see on TV about motorcycle gangs, you’d think the club could be coming for you next.”
“Would they be?”
“No way. Maybe the HAs do hits on members who break a club rule, but we’re not the Angels.”
“Where was Animal planning to get guards from if he won these big contracts?” Sinclair asked.
“He’d hired people away from other companies, but he was also trying to take care of the Simbas. He was handing out state guard paperwork to members and telling them when guard training classes were scheduled.”
“Was Shane one of them?”
“I don’t know. He could’ve been.”
“What about Tiny?”
“No way. He’s a good dude, but he’s a fat slob. That’s not the image Animal wanted to present.”
“Who in the club would be likely candidates for him to recruit?”
Pelletier mentioned the names of fifteen club members who Animal might consider. Sinclair copied down the names and said, “I really appreciate your cooperation. If you hear anything, I’d appreciate a call.” He handed him his business card. “Have you ever thought about applying for OPD?”
Pelletier smiled. “I’d love the pay and benefits, but it’s not worth it. People on the streets hate you. No offense intended, but you’ve got to be crazy to be a cop in Oakland.”