He has a concert tonight at Disney Hall, which I’m attending. Bartok’s Second Piano Concerto, with a hot young Russian pianist, and Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony—a meaty program. Salonen is conducting, which makes it extra special; he spins gold from his orchestra. I didn’t know squat about classical music before I met Jeremy, but now I’m pretty knowledgeable for a newcomer, enough so that I can hang out with him and his friends and not embarrass either of us. I go to about half a dozen concerts a season, when Jeremy can get me a good ticket.
The Music Center is two blocks from my office, so I could walk there; but since I have three hours to kill, I’m going to work out at the gym in Jeremy’s loft-apartment building on Figueroa, near Sixth Street. He’ll be gone already, having an early snack and warming up for the performance, but I can shower and change at his loft after I exercise. I’ll run on the treadmill, and lift weights. You have to be aerobically fit to run a marathon, but it helps if you’re strong as well, because all that pounding wears your body down.
I park in a public lot across the street from Jeremy’s building and stand on the corner, waiting for the light to change. My purse is slung over one shoulder, my gym bag across the other. Already, at five-thirty in the afternoon, downtown Los Angeles is emptying out. The loft scene has exploded over the past decade, but that is only relative to the black hole that was here before. Although a few thousand yuppie professionals now make downtown their home, it is still pretty much a wasteland after dark. People do come here, from Beverly Hills, Studio City, Cheviot Hills, hundreds of outlying neighborhoods. They go to the Water Grill, Ruth’s Chris, Staples Center and the Music Center and the Mark Taper and the Pacific Dining Car and Philippe’s French Dip and the Original Pantry and Chinatown and all the other attractions. They park as close to their destination as they can (valet park, if possible), go inside, eat, drink, watch a game or a concert or a play, get back into their cars, and go home. Once the workday is over, downtown Los Angeles, despite all the hype, is still a place for tourists who don’t know any better, adventuresome young hipsters, and the downtrodden—especially the dregs. L.A. has the largest skid row in the country, a statistic the city doesn’t include in its promotional brochures.
“Got any spare change?”
I tighten my grip on my bags as I turn and look at a woman who is standing a few steps away, not so far that I can ignore her presence, nor too close to break through my personal space, which she has learned the hard way to respect; that’s how you get your teeth knocked in, if you have any left. My beseecher is of indeterminate age; she looks as if she’s sixty, but she could be forty, or as young as twenty-five. Living on the street is comparable to dog years—you age seven years for every actual one. What a sad, poor creature she is, her hair a beehive of snarls, her face caked with street grime. She looks as if she hasn’t washed or changed her clothes in days, if not weeks. They’re all poor creatures worthy of our compassion, even if they smell like piss, shit, and puke, and they include psychotics, alcoholics, junkies, and combinations of those diseases and others. Her tribe, thousands of them, a much larger population than the new loft and chic apartment dwellers, lives right around the corner from here, centered on Fifth Street, between Alameda and Main.
Most of my clients are petty criminals with no money, no prospects, no hope. My world, like that of the cops and prosecutors and other members of the criminal justice system, revolves around and is dependent on them. If there weren’t any crooks, a lot of people would be out of work.
All day long I’m surrounded by sad creatures like this woman. Maybe not as down and out as she is, but they’re all in a level of hell that regular people can’t conceive of. In that world, I have no fear of them, because I’m in control. I don’t even think about it.
Out here, though, in the real world, I am not in control. If some of her friends suddenly materialized and wanted to mug me, or worse, they could easily do it and I would be powerless to stop them. Although that rarely happens; most fights around here are among themselves. People kill each other over a six-foot-square area of sidewalk, a pint of cheap wine, or an imagined insult.
Jeremy loves it down here—the newness, the rawness, the urban vibe—and he’s tried to get me to move in with him, but I could never live here. I can run through the streets where I live at midnight and feel safe, despite these recent murders. I could never do that around here. I would no sooner take a walk by myself on these streets after dark than try to swim to Catalina Island.
Despite myself, I can’t help but look at this woman again. Where does she sleep, I wonder, how many blow jobs will she have to perform to buy a cheap pint of booze or a few rocks of crack? That’s if she can wangle any customers. It’s terrible how far a person can fall, right here in one of the richest cities in the world.
Tomorrow, she could be a client, and if she is, I will treat her with dignity and respect. But now, I turn away from her. If you let them engage you, you’re a fly in their spider’s web.
The light changes from red to green and I quick-step across the street, looking both ways to make sure no one else can ambush me.
The concert is wonderful, one of the best of the year. Afterward, Jeremy and I go to Pete’s Café on South Main, a few blocks away, for drinks and a late meal. Heads turn as we make our way through the room. I’m five-ten barefoot, and tonight I’m wearing three-inch heels. Jeremy is six-five, and his mop of hair, which he wears semi-long, is so blond it’s almost white. We’re dressed formally, he still in his orchestra attire, I in a black spaghetti-strap dress that stops just below my knees. We’re a striking couple.
I hadn’t eaten after my workout, so I polish off a plate of lamb Bolognese and a Caesar salad, with a glass of the house red to wash it down. Jeremy, who is not in training, has the house cheeseburger, shoestring fries, and a couple drafts of Sam Adams. The fries are tempting, hot and sizzling, but fried foods are a no-no until I run my race.
I tell him about my day. When I get to the telephone call from Amanda Burgess, the hand holding the french fry he was about to pop into his mouth pauses in midair.
“No shit.” His brow furrows; in surprise? I don’t know. “She was probably at the concert tonight,” he informs me. “Eighth row, orchestra. She’s had her seats since the hall opened.”
The french fry disappears into his mouth. “She’s a member of one of the circles, probably Founders’. I’ve spoken with her at a few fund-raisers. She’s quite impressive.”
“I’m sure she is. I’m interested in meeting her,” I say. “And a little nervous,” I admit. I amend that. “Curious, not nervous.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy agrees. “Rich lady coming down from the clouds to mingle with the plebeians, gotta be on your best behavior.” He pokes me in the ribs and I jerk away, almost spilling my wine. “Make sure you brush and floss.”
“I’m a professional,” I remind him. I twirl strands of spaghetti onto my fork and bite in. It’s delicious, the perfect midnight meal. I drink more wine.
It’s too late to drive home, and I had a second glass of wine, so I’ll spend the night at Jeremy’s. I sleep over about once a week, and he spends one or two nights at my place, depending on our schedules. We strip off our clothes, wash up, climb into bed, and make love. There aren’t fireworks, we’re both too tired, but it’s good, comforting. I cuddle against him for a few minutes before rolling over to my side of the bed.
In less than five minutes, he’s asleep. I’m not.
We have been a couple for almost two years now. We have an easy relationship, which is part of the problem: it’s too easy. The difference in our ages has been affecting our relationship recently, but the anxieties are one-sided—I have them; he doesn’t. It’s not the fact that he’s younger than I am—two and a half years is not a big enough gap to matter—but I’m beginning to hear the ticking of my biological clock.
We’ve talked about getting married and starting a family. Jeremy isn’t sure he’s ready for fatherhood yet, whether he can handle the restrictions or responsibilities. As far as he’s concerned, he still has time before he has to settle down. I do too, but a lot less.
Because of my own history, the idea of bringing a child into the world is a complex issue for me. I’m still not sure that given the liberty to do so, I would. But I would like to be able to have that choice, and I don’t, at least not now. And when Jeremy decides he wants to be a daddy, will it be too late for me to conceive? Women in my family go into menopause early. I may not be able to get pregnant much past forty, and there’s always the worry about birth defects. If I’m going to get pregnant, it should be sooner, not later.
There is another element to this problem I try not to think about, but I have to. I may not be able to get pregnant. I never have been, even when I, or my partner, didn’t use birth control. I don’t know whether that is because of my body chemistry, a consequence of having been shot in the gut as a kid, or just random chance. But when I think that I might not have the option, I feel incomplete.
I have to be up early, and I have to be sharp; I can’t lie awake all night, my mind thrashing about with negative thoughts. I creep out of bed, being careful not to wake Jeremy, and get a 10-mg Ambien out of my purse, which I wash down with a glass of water. I set my cell-phone alarm to six-thirty and get back into bed, sliding my body lightly against his, for emotional security.
I love him. I really want us to make it. I fall asleep to the rhythm of his deep, unworried breathing.
As an officer of the court I am sworn to uphold the law (which I do, except for smoking pot, which shouldn’t be against the law), but I can break the rules. One of the rules is that I get to work at eight-thirty. But it’s barely seven-thirty, and I’m already on the job.
On the way to my first stop, I drop a couple of quarters into a sidewalk vending machine and take out the
Los Angeles Times.
A page-one headline below the fold screams
FULL MOON KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM.
I read the opening paragraphs, then toss the paper into a trash container. The
Times
used to be a good paper. Now it’s down in the gutter with the rest of the rags.
Roberto Salazar’s cube truck is being held at the sheriff department’s impound lot located in the industrial section of downtown L.A., near the train yards. The truck is part of the evidence against him, so it’s being kept under lock and key until his case is settled.
The lot is huge, a maze of vehicles of all shapes, sizes, descriptions. Even with the help of a friendly deputy, it takes me half an hour to find the truck, which is parked in a crowded row of other confiscated vehicles alongside a chain-link fence that borders the L.A. River.
Looking at this truck, I’m beginning to figure out why Salazar didn’t hire a private lawyer. It’s a piece of junk. The tires are threadbare, there are dents and rust spots all over it, and it’s sagging on its shocks. Even if you threw a cheap Earl Scheib paint job on it, it wouldn’t fetch three hundred dollars at auction. If the rest of Salazar’s equipment is this ratty, he isn’t worth spit.
One thing is working properly, though: the tail-lights. The deputy pumps them several times, and they respond the way they are supposed to. Which means the arresting officer’s reason to check inside the truck was an improper search and seizure.
I thank the impound officer for his help, and leave. On the short drive to my office, I think about the search. Under a by-the-book application of the law that search should not have been made, which means the stolen televisions would not have been found, and Salazar would not have been arrested. Fifteen years ago, if I had been practicing law back then, I could have made that argument and the case might have been dismissed. But the rules governing the Fourth Amendment aren’t black and white anymore. There’s a lot of gray area, all to the benefit of the police. That officer’s decision to look inside the truck could be upheld, or it could be kicked out. Judge Rosen is a good judge, but like every other judge in the system, she knows which way the wind’s blowing.
There is something else I have to acknowledge, even though I don’t want to. People whose lives are wrapped up in law enforcement, including me, see the dark side of humanity every day. Upstanding citizens don’t get arrested; criminals do. No matter how you sugarcoat the justice system, those are the facts. You wind up categorizing people—us and them—and you judge them accordingly. And harshly.
Yesterday afternoon, I was repulsed and frightened by a homeless woman who was timidly begging for a quarter or fifty cents. What was I afraid of, for God’s sake? She was a bag of bones, a strong wind would have blown her away. And what would it have cost me to donate my so-called spare change to her? Nothing. Yes, I might have been besieged by a horde of her fellow travelers, the way well-meaning tourists are mobbed in Africa or India, but that’s conjecture. That woman, and what she represents, yanked me out of my comfort zone, which freaked me. So I turned my back on her.
My cowardly act, because that’s what it was, took place in broad daylight, on a populated city street. Now, in my mind, I step into another person’s shoes.
I’m a cop who is cruising the late-night streets, protecting and serving. A beat-to-shit truck comes lurching into view. A quick look-see tells me the truck is in violation of a dozen vehicle codes. The driver, who is Mexican, is not from this area. I’m a professional law enforcement officer. My instincts, honed over years of life on the streets, real life, not some fairy-tale bullshit, tell me this doesn’t add up. So I pull him over.
Do I have reasonable cause? What’s reasonable cause—not in some law book but in the world which is imperfect and mean? The tread on his tires is too low; that’s probable cause. His muffler sounds loud to me, which means it may be emitting too much exhaust; again, probable cause.
He hands over his license and registration, and I can see he’s nervous. Maybe it’s because he’s Mexican and I pulled him over. I can understand that. Cops make everyone nervous. But there could be another reason.
I call in his documents. In a minute, the results come back—he’s clean. I could write him up for the tires, and the exhaust, and the stop sign which he did run, although at two in the morning, on a deserted street, I’m not going to do that, it’s too petty.
But he seems awfully nervous. He keeps looking back at the closed part of his truck. Is he hiding something in there? Christ, what if there are a dozen illegal aliens in there that he’s smuggled into the country? They could be dying.
I need to see inside that truck. So I tell him I think he has a problem with his tail-lights. I’ve decided I’m not going to give him a ticket, although I could. I just want to make sure there’s nothing in there, and I’ll send him on his way.
He resists, which further fuels my suspicions. He gives me some song and dance about the lock being hard to open, he’s already late, yada yada yada. But finally, he reluctantly obeys. I’m a cop—you don’t say no to a cop, not under these circumstances.
And what do you know? Jackpot. Once again, my instincts have been proved right.