SIRENS FROM ALL directions started to converge on our area.
I moved the flashlight around in the front driver’s compartment, which smelled of fresh hamburger grease and hot sauce and shattered tortilla. It looked like a taco bomb had gone off inside. Bits of lettuce and taco shell stuck to everything, the ceiling, the dash, the windshield, and the upright shotgun. I couldn’t find Good’s handgun. I backed out and shined the light on my already wrinkled uniform, now further soiled with ground hamburger grease and taco sauce. I went to the back door and opened it.
The back seats in all the cop cars are not secured to the bottom bulkhead like in civilian cars. Every shift, the deputies are required, by policy, to look under the backseat to ensure that no suspect left any contraband, weapons, drugs, or—many times—identification. Without identification, they can’t be identified when booked and can give a false name.
The backseat sat on top of Mr. Freeman. He must’ve really banged around when the unit went airborne and landed violently. I lifted the bench seat off and helped him struggle to get out. Good’s revolver sat on the floor underneath Mr. Freeman. I opened the carriage, kicked out the expended shells, and reloaded his gun with my speedloader. In the back of my mind, I worried about putting my fingerprints on his weapon. I handed him back his gun and grabbed my backup out of his hand.
I took the handcuffs off Mr. Freeman and helped him sit down cross-legged on the ground. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
Good stepped in close, grabbed my arm, and in a harsh whisper said, “You idiot. If he’s not hurt, you’re gonna give him the idea that he could be. He’ll sue our ass off whether he’s hurt or not.”
I jerked my arm away. I went down on one knee and said, “If you’re hurt, it’s okay, we’ll get you some medical aid.”
He rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had chafed him. “I think I’m okay, Deputy Johnson. My back aches a little, but it ain’t nothin’ a little E and J won’t take care of.”
E and J, the brandy of choice in the ghetto.
I stood. “Excellent, that’s good. I have to go over there for a few minutes. You sit here, I’ll be right back.” I needed to go check on Sonja.
He grabbed the material to my pant leg. “Don’t leave me here.” He looked up at Good.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right, that’s probably not the smartest idea.”
Good flicked his hand in the air. “I wouldn’t do nothin’ ta the puke. Don’t insult me. In fact, I’m all for letting him go.”
“What, and add an escaped prisoner to the long list of offenses?”
My words stunned him for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “Nah, we just say we never had him.”
Mr. Freeman struggled to his feet. “I’m good wit dat.”
I shook my head. “Good, you told them on the radio you were ten-fifteen with one for GTA. It’s on the log and recorded on the radio.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right.”
I took my cuffs out and handcuffed Freeman in the front instead of the back. “Come on, you can come with me.” I grabbed my posse box with all my report forms, and we headed back to the street we left when Good started his Wild West show, shooting from the window and playing cowboy and Indians with the patrol car.
Good fell in beside us and shifted his tone to gracious, which did not work for him at all. He said, “Hey, Mr. Freeman, what exactly did you see from the back? I mean, you were under the seat and all when we found you.”
“It’s Mista Freeman now? What happened ta puke?”
“Well, you don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
I stopped. “Good, go back and wait by our car. There’s at least one suspect on the loose, and we left the shotgun in the rack.”
Good looked at me and then at Mr. Freeman.
Through the trees we’d dodged while trying to run down the suspect, red and blue lights from the arriving cop cars reached out to us. Good nodded, turned, and went back. I gently took hold of Mr. Freeman’s arm and started walking.
After a few steps, I said in a quiet tone, “What exactly did you see?”
He stopped before we got any closer to the mob of cars building over on the street. “Whatever you want me to ’ave seen, Deputy Johnson.”
“No, I don’t want you to lie. I want you to say exactly what you saw.”
He hesitated. “Ahite den. Nothin’. I ain’t gonna throw my dog in ta this fight. In all dat mess back dere, bouncin’ all round, all I saw was dat metal cage and da flo and the roof and the flo.”
I nodded. “Maybe it’s better that way.”
He pointed back the way we’d come. “But dat man, back dere, he’s got an ugliness inside, an awful bad ugliness.”
“I won’t argue with you on that one.”
We made it to the street. Trainee Woods came running by. “Hey,” I said.
He stopped, looked at me, and then at the mess on my uniform. He looked up the street where the Hornet sat mashed into the wall, surrounded by uniforms. He wanted to go see and be a part of it all.
“Sorry, man,” I said. “I need you to take this ten-fifteen, put him in the back of your unit, and stand by the car. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I pulled out the booking app from my posse box. “Here’s his booking paperwork. He can’t go to Lynwood and has to go to LCMC.”
Woods’ face fell even more. He knew what that meant: hours and hours at the hospital when all he wanted to do was get into the action.
He took hold of Freeman’s arm and escorted him back the way he’d come.
Now it was my turn to be conflicted. I looked up the street at the mashed-up Hornet and Indian Joe’s unit right behind it. Bullet holes in the Hornet stood out in the bright light from all the sheriff units’ spotlights. Four hits out of six—not bad shooting with both cars moving.
Sonja had been in an officer-involved shooting. I had to see how she fared. She’d be emotional. I looked back at the departing Freeman and Deputy Woods.
Down by Fernwood Avenue, an ambulance turned up the street. Someone was hurt. Maybe Sonja.
“Hey, Woods?”
Freeman and Woods stopped and looked back. “Yeah?”
“You gotta cite book?” Of course he did, all trainees did. I hurried over to him.
“Yeah, sure.” He smiled.
“Then cite him for GTA, grand theft auto. Cite him for CVC, California Vehicle Code 10851 with a regular in-custody court date.”
His smile disappeared. “Can we cite for that? It’s a felony. I don’t think we can cite for felonies.”
“We can’t. Put my name on it.”
“You sure?”
“Mr. Freeman, I’m crawling way out on a limb for you. You better show up on that court date or I’ll be mad as hell and I’ll personally hunt you down. And you won’t like me when I’m mad.”
“No, no, I’ll be dere, I promise. Thank you, Deputy, thank you.”
I uncuffed Freeman. “You got this now, Woods?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two paramedics from the ambulance hustled by, pushing a gurney that rattled and shifted under the wheels. I quick-walked alongside them. “Who’s hurt?” I asked.
The older one with thinning brown hair said, “It’s a deputy.”
“Which one?”
“All we know is that there’s been a shooting and that a deputy’s down.”
Sonja.
I didn’t wait for them. I ran on ahead.