The New Centurions Read online

  Harris looked at no one but Roy. “Go ahead, Fehler,” he said.

  “I don’t think the officers had the right to order them out of the cab. And when were they arrested, after they found the narcotics? What if they would have got out of the cab and just walked away? Would the officers have the right to stop them?”

  “How about that, Isenberg?” asked Harris, lighting a fresh cigarette with a battered silver lighter. “Could the officers stop them from walking away, before the contraband was found?”

  “Uh, yes, I think so,” said Isenberg looking at Roy, who interrupted him.

  “Were they under arrest then?” asked Roy. “They must have been under arrest if the officers could stop them from walking away. And if they were under arrest what was their crime? The marijuana wasn’t found for several seconds after they had them already under arrest.”

  Roy smiled indulgently to show Isenberg and Harris there were no hard feelings at having proved Isenberg wrong.

  “The point is, they were not under arrest, Fehler,” said Isenberg, addressing Roy directly for the first time. “We have the right to stop and interrogate. The person is obliged to identify himself and explain what’s going on. And we can resort to any means to make him submit. Yet we haven’t arrested him for any crime. If he explains what’s going on and it’s reasonable, we release him. I think that’s what Giske v. Sanders meant. So in this case, the officers stopped, interrogated, and recovered the marijuana during their investigation. Then and only then were the suspects placed under arrest.”

  Roy knew from Harris’ pleased expression that Isenberg was correct.

  “How could you prove someone else hadn’t dumped the marijuana behind the seat?” asked Roy, unable to dull the sharp edge on his voice.

  “I should’ve mentioned that the cabbie testified to cleaning out the back of the cab earlier in the evening because of a sick passenger who threw up back there,” said Harris. “And no one had been in the back seat until the woman and the defendant got in.”

  “That certainly makes a difference,” said Roy, appealing to Harris for some concession to his interpretation.

  “Well, that wasn’t the issue I was concerned with,” said Harris. “It was the question of searching prior to an actual arrest that I wanted someone to bring out of this case, and Isenberg did it beautifully. You all understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir,” said Roy, “but the case would certainly have been reversed if the cabbie hadn’t testified to cleaning out the back that same evening. That was certainly an important point, sir.”

  “Yes, Fehler,” Sergeant Harris sighed. “You were partly right. I should’ve mentioned that, Fehler.”

  AUGUST 1960

  4

  HUERO

  SERGE GAVE HIS SHOES a quick buff, threw the shoe brush in his locker, and slammed the metal door. He was late for roll call. It was two minutes after four o’clock. Damn the traffic, he thought. How can I put up with this traffic and smog for twenty years? He paused before the full-length mirror, alone in the locker room. His brass buttons and Sam Browne needed polish. His blue woolen uniform was so lint covered it looked hairy. He cursed as he realized there might be an inspection tonight.

  Serge picked up his notebook, the packet of traffic citations and a map book of city streets. He shoved his shiny new five-cell flashlight into the deep pocket of his uniform pants, grabbed his baton, and put his hat on, since his hands were too full to carry it. The other night watch officers were talking noisily as he entered the roll call room. The watch commander’s desk was unoccupied. Serge was relieved to see that he too was late and by the time he arrived five minutes later, Serge had dabbed most of the lint from his uniform with a piece of two-inch-wide masking tape which he carried in his notebook for such emergencies.

  “After those new uniforms are cleaned a few times you won’t have so much trouble with lint,” said Perkins, the desk officer, a nineteen-year policeman now on light duty while recovering from a serious heart attack.

  “Oh, yeah,” Serge nodded, self-conscious of his brand-new, never cleaned blue uniform, announcing that he was one of the rookies just graduated last week from the academy. He and two members of his class had been assigned to Hollenbeck. It wasn’t hard to see how they had been selected, he thought. The other officers were Chacon and Medina. He had heard in the academy that most officers with Spanish surnames ended up in Hollenbeck Division but he had hoped he might be an exception. Not everyone recognized Duran as a Spanish name. He had been mistaken for German and even Irish, especially by people who couldn’t believe a Mexican could be fair, freckled, and speak without a trace of a Spanish accent. The Negro officers were not all assigned to the Negro areas; he was irked that the Chicanos were all stuck here in Hollenbeck. He could see the need for Spanish-speaking officers here, but nobody had even bothered to see if he could speak Spanish. It was just “Duran to Hollenbeck,” another victim of a system.

  “Ramirez,” said Lieutenant Jethro, settling his long sagging body in the desk chair and opening the time book.

  “Here.”

  “Anderson.”

  “Here.”

  “You’re working Four-A-Five.”

  “Bradbury.”

  “Here.”

  “Gonsalvez.”

  “Here.”

  “Four-A-Eleven.”

  Serge answered when his name was called along with his partner for the night, Galloway, whom he had not worked with since arriving in the division. He was scheduled off tomorrow, Sunday, after working six days, and wished he weren’t. Every night was a new adventure and he smiled as he realized he would probably be glad for days off soon enough. He tired of everything quickly. Still, this was a more interesting job than most. He couldn’t honestly think of one he’d like better. Of course, when he finished college, he might find something better. And then he had to smile again at himself. He had enrolled in two night classes at East Los Angeles Junior College. Six units. Only a hundred and eighteen to go, and here I sit dreaming about finishing college, he thought.

  “Okay, here’s the crimes,” said the lieutenant, after calling the roll. Perkins took the lineup board downstairs to the teletype machine to be forwarded to Communications, so that Communications downtown would know which cars were working in Hollenbeck. The policemen opened their notebooks to a fresh page, and got ready to write.

  Lieutenant Jethro was a loose-skinned, sallow man with a hard mouth and very cold eyes. Serge had learned however that he was the division’s best-liked supervisor. The men considered him fair.

  “Had a robbery at twenty-nine twenty-two Brooklyn Avenue,” he read mechanically. “At Big G restaurant. Today, 9:30 A.M. Suspect: male, Mexican, twenty-three to twenty-five years, five-five to five-six, hundred sixty to hundred seventy pounds, black hair, brown eyes, medium complexion, wearing a dark shirt and dark pants, carried a handgun, got eighty-five dollars from the cash register and took victim’s wallet and I.D. . . . Goddamn it, that’s a shitty description!” said Lieutenant Jethro suddenly. “This is what we were talking about last night at roll call training. What the hell good does a description like that do you?”

  “Maybe that’s all they could get out of the guy, Lieutenant,” said Milton, the burly baiter of supervisors who always took the last seat of the last table in the roll call room, and whose four service stripes, indicating twenty years service, entitled him to a constant barrage of sarcasm directed at the sergeants. He was usually pretty quiet around the lieutenant though, Serge thought.

  “Bullshit, Milt,” said Jethro. “This poor bastard Hector Lopez has been hit a half dozen times this year. I’m always seeing his name on robbery, burglary, or till tap reports. He’s become a professional victim, and he usually gives an outstanding description of the suspect. It’s just that some officer—in this case, it was a day watch officer—was in a big hurry and didn’t try to get a decent description. This is a good example of a worthless piece of paper that can’t be any use to the detecti
ves. That description could fit twenty percent of the guys on the street right now.”

  “It only takes a few minutes extra to get a decent description the dicks can work with,” Jethro continued. “How did the guy comb his hair? Did he have a moustache? Glasses? Tattoos? A distinctive walk? How about his teeth? His clothes? There’s dozens of little things about clothes that might be important. How did he talk? Did he have a gravel voice? Did he have a Spanish accent? How about that gun? This report says handgun. What the hell does that tell you? I know goddamn well Lopez knows the difference between an automatic and a revolver. And was it chrome plated or blue steel?” Jethro dropped the papers disgustedly into the folder. “We had lots of crimes last night, but none of the suspect descriptions are worth a shit so I’m not going to read them.” He closed the folders and sat back in his chair on the ten-inch platform, looking down at the policemen of the night watch. “Anything you guys want to talk about before we have an inspection?” he asked.

  A groan went up at the mention of the word ‘inspection,’ and Serge rubbed the toe of each shoe on the back of his calves, irritated once more at the Los Angeles traffic which prevented him from arriving at the station early enough to shine them.

  Jethro’s colorless eyes glinted merrily around the room for a moment. “If no one can think of something to say, we might as well get started with the inspection. We’ll have more time to look a little harder.”

  “Wait a minute, Lieutenant,” said Milton, a wet stump of cigar between his little teeth. “Give me a second, I’ll think of something.”

  “Yeah, Milt, I don’t blame you for wanting to stall me,” said Jethro. “It looks like you shined those shoes with a Hershey bar.”

  The men chuckled and Milton beamed and puffed from the end seat at the last row of tables in the rear of the squad room. On his first night in Hollenbeck, Milton had informed Serge that the last row of tables belonged to los veteranos and that rookies generally sat toward the front of the room. Serge hadn’t worked with Milton yet, and was looking forward to it. He was loud and overbearing but the men told him he could learn a lot from Milton if Milton felt like teaching him.

  “One thing before inspection,” said Jethro. “Who’s working Forty-three tonight? You, Galloway?”

  Serge’s partner nodded.

  “Who’s working with you, one of the new men? Duran, right? You two check those pin maps before you go out. They’re killing us on Brooklyn Avenue about midnight. We’ve had three window smashes this week and two last week. All about the same time, and they’re grabbing quite a bit of loot.”

  Serge looked at the walls which were lined with identical street maps of Hollenbeck Division. Each map bore different colored pins, some to indicate burglaries, the multicolored pins indicating whether they occurred on morning, day, or night watch. Other maps showed where robberies were occurring. Still others showed locations of car thefts and thefts from vehicles.

  “Let’s fall in for inspection,” said Lieutenant Jethro.

  This was Serge’s first inspection since leaving the academy. He wondered where fourteen men could line up in the crowded room. He saw quickly that they formed one rank along the side wall in front of the pin maps. The tall men fell in toward the front of the room so Serge headed for the front, standing next to Bressler, who was the only officer taller than himself.

  “Okay, you’re supposed to be at attention,” said the lieutenant quietly to a policeman in the center of the rank who was muttering about something.

  “At close interval, dress right, dress!”

  The policemen, hands on right hips, elbows touching the man to the right, dressed the rank perfunctorily and Jethro didn’t bother to check the line.

  “Ready, front!”

  When Jethro inspected him, Serge stared at the top of the lieutenant’s head as he had been taught in boot camp six years ago when he was eighteen, just graduated from high school, broken-hearted that the Korean War ended before he could get in it and win several pounds of medals which he could pin to the beautiful Marine Corps dress blue uniform which they didn’t issue you and he never got around to buying because he grew up quickly under the stunning realities of Marine Corps boot camp.

  Jethro paused a few extra seconds in front of Ruben Gonsalvez, a jovial dark-skinned Mexican who, Serge guessed, was a veteran of at least ten years with the Department.

  “You’re getting rounder every day, Ruben,” said Jethro in his toneless unsmiling voice.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” answered Gonsalvez and Serge did not yet dare to look down the line.

  “You been eating at Manuel’s again, I see,” said Jethro, and with peripheral vision Serge could see the lieutenant touching Gonsalvez’s necktie.

  “Yes, sir,” said Gonsalvez. “The top stains above the tie bar are chile verde. The other ones are menudo.”

  This time Serge turned a fraction of an inch and detected no expression on Jethro or Gonsalvez.

  “How about you, Milt? When you changing the oil on your necktie?” said Jethro, moving down the line to the white-haired veteran who stood so straight he looked like a tall man but standing next to him Serge guessed he wasn’t five feet ten.

  “Right after inspection, Lieutenant,” said Milton, and Serge sneaked a glance at Jethro, who shook his head sadly and moved to the end of the rank.

  “Night watch. One pace forward . . . No, as you were,” said Jethro, shuffling to the front of the roll call room. “I’m afraid to inspect you from the rear. Some of you’ll probably have bananas or girlie magazines hanging out of your back pockets. Dismissed!”

  So this is how it is, thought Serge, gathering up his equipment, looking for Galloway to whom he had never been introduced. He was afraid the division would be GI and he wasn’t sure how long he could take military discipline. This was okay. He could tolerate this much discipline indefinitely, he thought.

  Galloway walked up and offered his hand. “Duran?”

  “Yeah,” said Serge, shaking hands with the freckled young man.

  “What do your friends call you?” asked Galloway and Serge smiled as he recognized the hackneyed opening line that policemen use on suspects to determine street names which were usually much more valuable to know than true names.

  “Serge. How about you?”

  “Pete.”

  “Okay, Pete, what do you want to do tonight?” asked Serge, hoping that Galloway would let him drive. This was his sixth night and he hadn’t driven yet.

  “You’re just out of the last class, aren’t you?” asked Galloway.

  “Yeah,” said Serge, disappointed.

  “You familiar with the city?”

  “No, I lived in Chino before coming on the job.”

  “Guess you better keep books then. I’ll drive, okay?”

  “You’re the boss,” Serge said cheerfully.

  “No, we’re equals,” said Galloway. “Partners.”

  It was satisfying to be able to get settled in the radio car without asking a dozen inane questions or fumbling around with your equipment. Serge felt he could handle the passenger officer’s routine duties as well as possible by now. Serge put his flashlight and hat in the back seat along with his baton which was thrust under the back cushion for easy access. He was surprised to see Galloway slide the baton under the back cushion in the front seat, lancelike, right next to him.

  “I like my stick closer to me,” said Galloway. “It’s my blue blanket.”

  “Four-A-Forty-three, night watch, clear,” said Serge into the hand mike as Galloway started the engine of the Plymouth, and backed out of the parking space and onto First Street, the setting sun forcing Serge to put on his sunglasses as he wrote their names on the daily log.

  “What did you do before coming on the job?” asked Galloway.

  “Marine Corps for four years,” said Serge, writing his serial number on the log.

  “How do you like police work so far?” asked Galloway.

  “Fine,” Serge answered, writing
carefully as the car bounced over a rut in the street.

  “It’s a good job,” said Galloway. “I’m starting my fourth year next month. Can’t complain so far.”

  The sandy hair and freckles made Galloway look like a high school kid, Serge thought. With four years on the job he has to be at least twenty-five.

  “This your first Saturday night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Quite a difference on weekends. Maybe we’ll see a little action.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Done anything exciting yet?”

  “Nothing,” said Serge. “Took some burglary reports. Wrote a few tickets. Booked a couple drunks and a few traffic warrants. Haven’t even made a felony arrest yet.”

  “We’ll try to get you a felony tonight.” Galloway offered Serge a cigarette and he accepted.

  “Thanks. I was going to ask you to stop so I could get some,” said Serge, lighting Galloway’s with his Zippo that used to have a brass globe and anchor affixed to it. There was now just a naked metallic ring on the lighter where he had pried the Marine Corps emblem off in Okinawa after a salty pfc with a year and a half in the corps had kidded him about only gung-ho recruits carrying P.X. Zippos with big fat emblems on them.

  Serge smiled as he remembered how badly the young marines wanted to be salts. How they had scrubbed and bleached their new dungarees and put sea dips in the caps. He hadn’t completely gotten over it, he thought, remembering how his new blue uniform made him uneasy tonight when Perkins mentioned the lint.

  The incessant chattering on the police radio was still giving Serge trouble. He knew it would be some time before he was able to pick his car number, Four-A-Forty-three, from the jumble of voices that crowded the police frequencies. He was starting to recognize some of the voices of the Communications operators. One sounded like an old maid schoolmarm, another like a youngish Marilyn Monroe, and a third had a trace of a Southern accent.