security forces on duty. A private elevator, guarded
on the first floor by an armed security officer and
controlled by the chief of security from the second
floor, took the steel cash bins upstairs to the cash i
room. Other security officers monitored cameras
mounted throughout the complex, keeping watch
over the area around the private elevator while the
cash bins were in motion. Watchmen armed only
with radios and flashlights patrolled inside and outside
until all the regular employees had left the
building and the cash was secure. The lone off-duty
police officer was stationed with the chief of the
private security company on the second floor during
the receipts transfer; the radio he carried was a
standard-issue police radio, linked to Central Dis-
patch. The private security officers and watchmen
were connected to each other via radio, as well as to
the chief of security'on the second floor.
The elevator could only take three cash bins and
their escorts at a time, so five boxes were left waiting
on the first floor as the first group of three went
upstairs; and three boxes had yet to come out of
their respective, clubs. The first three boxes had already
made it to the second floor when the main
lights dimmed, then flickered out. The batterypowered
emergency lights immediately snapped on.
"Power failure procedures, power failure procedures
," the chief security officer announced over
the emergency public address system. One guard
blew a whistle, and the cleanup crews on the first
floor instantly stopped what they were doing and
headed to the front door, escorted by an armed security
guard. He had the easy job. The other guards
groaned, because the alarm meant that the elevator
was shut down-and that meant they would have to
lug the heavy cash bins up the stairs to be secured
in the cash room until the main power was restored.
"First floor, all secure?" the chief of security
radioed.
"Secure," came the reply from one of the guards,
signaling that the cleanup crews had been escorted
outside and the doors were closed, locked and
checked. The chief of security opened the stairwell
door on the second floor, which locked behind him,
and walked downstairs. The door to the first floor
was locked on the other side, so that occupants of
the second floor could use the stairwell as a fire
escape, but no one on the first floor could walk UPI
stairs unless it was opened by security. The chief
security officer knocked on the door three times,
received two knocks in response, then gave one
more knock before pushing it open. Carlson, one of
the newer security officers, was on the other side of
the door. "Okay, boys, the sooner we get -these
boxes upstairs, the sooner we . . ."
A man in a dark outfit, a military-style helmet,
and a dark face mask appeared out of nowhere. The
chief of security had just enough time to register his
shock before the intruder raised a gun with a thick
suppressor fitted to the muzzle to his forehead.
There was a bright flash of light, then nothing.
Security One-Seven."
The off-duty Sacramento Police Department
officer at the desk on the second floor of the complex
retrieved his radio from the desk and keyed the
mike: "Security One-Seven, go."
"Are you 908 yet?"
"Negative," the officer replied. It was common
for off-duty officers to forget to report in to Dispatch
when they completed an off-duty assignment, and
since it was thirty minutes past his scheduled off
time, Dispatch was checking up on him. "They
have a power failure here. It'll be another thirty
minutes."
"Check. You got a call from your sitter. No problems
, just a status check. Let us know when you're
908."
"Roger."
"KMA 907 clear."
The exasperated officer tossed the radio on the
desk with a thud. His life was heading down the
shitter pretty fast these days. As if the holidays
weren't bad enough, his old lady had decided she
didn't want to be married to a cop anymore-or be a
mom, or be a housewife-so she took off for L.A.
with her new poke, leaving him with their fiveyear-old
daughter and a mountain of bills. He had
already burned out one baby-sitter with all the overtime
and off-duty jobs he had signed up for, and he
guessed he was going to burn out another one before
his folks could come from Montana to help him
out. Before she left, his old lady had cleaned out the
checking account too, so it looked like the only
presents his little girl got this year would be charity
stuffed toys normally reserved for the city's homeless
kids, or presents from his folks. Merry fucking
Christmas.
There were three knocks at the locked stairwell
door. The cop circled the security desk and knocked
twice in response. There were two knocks in response
, the correct reply. He pushed open the
door . . . and was dead before he hit the ground.
SACRAMENTO COUNTY MAIN JAIL,
651 1 STREET, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
THE SAME TIME
n all the years Paul McLanahan had lived in Sacramento
, he never even knew exactly where the
new county jail was downtown. Now, on his first
night on the job, he had been inside it twice. It was
said that the new jail looked like a luxury hotel and
the Hyatt Regency downtown looked like a jail, but
to Paul the place just looked bleak, sterile, and miserable
.
He and LaFortier drove into the underground
parking garage of the jail under a large steel roll-up
door. After securing their weapons in the trunk of
their car, they escorted their prisoner to the thick
steel-and-glass door of the jail, which was guarded
by a sheriffis deputy sitting behind bulletproof glass.
Because this prisoner was suspected of carrying
drugs, they donned latex gloves, escorted him to a
secure bathroom, and conducted a strip search-including
the unappealing process of ordering the pnsoner
to drop his pants, bend over, spread his cheeks,
and cough several times so they could look up his
anus for any sign of hidden drugs. One look at this
guy's ass made Paul want to take a steaming hot
shower, and he considered double-gloving if the guy
decided to fight. But the ten-block chase they did to
catch him-he had started running as soon as he
saw LaFortier and McLanahan slow down as they
passed him on the street-had obviously taken the
fight out of him.
"That law practice is looking better and better all
the time, isn't it, rook?" LaFortier asked Paul with a
grin. Paul went on shaking out clothes and sneaker
inserts.
For
Craig LaFortier, booking a prisoner was a
chance to meet up with buddies and swap stories,
which was what he did while he helped Paul fill out
the reports. There were at least three other city police
officers in the booking room, along with eight
Sacramento County Sheriff's deputies, four California
Highway Patrol officers, and a smattering of
officers from other agencies that Paul couldn't identify
right off. The holding cells were full, so prisoners
were handcuffed to benches around the
perimeter of the booking room while the arresting
officers asked them questions, filled out paperwork,
and shot the shit. Since this was Paul's second trip
to the jail that night, he fell under the rookie officer's
basic on-the-job training schedule: first time,
observe; second time, do it; third time, be prepared
to teach it to somebody else. The learning curve out
here, he decided, was as steep as Mount Everest.
Paul had managed to do much of the paperwork
at the scene of the arrest and in the car on the way
over to the jail, so he finished it a few minutes later,
with the prisoner handcuffed to a nearby bench.
LaFortier checked it over. "Looks pretty good," he
said. "But only four hindles of low-grade meth, less
than a hundred dollars' worth-with the overcrowding
they've got here, he'll be released in an hour."
"But he's got priors, Cargo," McLanahan said,
waving the suspect's computer printout rap sheet.
"He's been convicted before for possession with intent
to sell
"But he wasn't caught with enough to get him on
a new intent charge this time," LaFortier said.
"Four bindles, no payo sheets, no wad of cash, not
found in a high-crime area-although he was pursued
into an area where his probation says he's not
t
allowed to go. Of course, that'll be our fault, no his.
He'll get five thousand bail on a felony possession
charge, his girlfriend or wife will put up the five
hundred bond, and he'll be free. I'll testify as an
expert
witness that his intent was to sell, but if he's
got a good lawyer, theyll plead it down to a misdemeanor
possession long before his court date and
he'll skate with a slap on the wrist, maybe a month
or two in jail for the probation violation
"Almost doesn't seem worth it," Paul said.
"Getting -a little war-weary already, rook?"
LaFortier asked, amused. "A few hours on the street
and you're already feeling frustrated? Welcome to
the world. Don't worry about the prosecutionworry
about the arrest and the evidence. Cops blow
more cases from sloppy field work than DA's blow
in court--or at least that's whatthey like to tell us. t
Let's get this guy booked and get back on the
street." Paperwork in hand, LaFortier and McLanaban
escorted their prisoner through the booking
process. The place was packed, so it was a slow
business.
First, a nurse did a quick medical examination.
Old hypodermic needle track marks were found on
the guy's arms, so he had to submit to a blood test
for HIV antibodies. After another twenty-minute
wait ' they escorted him to the booking window,
where they presented the arrest and evidence reports
to the booking sergeant. The prisoner was
booked, strip-searched once again by sheriffis deputies
, and placed in a special isolation holding cell to
await pictures, prints, and the results of his AIDS
test to determine whether he'd be placed in a cell
with other prisoners or segregated in a medical isolation
cell. With that, LaFortier and McLanahan
headed back out to the garage.
"We need to cut that booking time down to less
than an hour, rook, and that includes driving time,"
LaFortier said. His radio squawked. LaFortier listened
, heard a familiar voice say something about a
power failure at the Sacramento Live! entertainment
complex, and turned his radio volume knob
down so he could talk to his partner. "I'm taking
time with you because you need to learn this stuff
and do it right and develop good habits and all that
shit. But we belong on the street, not in the jail. So
we'll be hustling from here on out to get our booking
times down." He noticed a faraway expression
on McLanahan. "You okay, rook?"
"The jail gets me down a little, I guess," McLanahan
said. "Hauling them in like bags of garbage,
strip searches, paperwork, putting them in the systern
like rats in a cage . . . it seems so dehumanizing
"Never seen the jail before, have you?" Paul
shook his head. "That should be required for every
applicant. It gets everybody'down, rook. The only
alternative to processing them and putting them in
the system is putting a bullet in their head when we
catch them, and we don't want that, do we, rook?"
"No."
The big FrO saw that Paul's somber expression
didn't change. "Why'd you join the force, McLanahan
?" LaFortier asked. "You're a damned attorney,
for chrissakes. Passed the California bar and everything
. We got lots of guys on the force going to Lincoln
Law School nights, and lots of guys who have
even graduated, but you're the only cop I know
first try too. You could be an assistant DA, make
more money, wear a decent suit, work in a ni ' ce office
or do that telecommuting thing, and never have
to look up a pezp's diseased bunghole. Is it because
of your old man? Is it a family thing? Because if it is,
you won't make it one more friggin' night on the
streets
"No, it's not," McLanahan said resolutely.
"Then why? The prestige? The uniform? The famous
badge you get to wear? The gun? Certainly
not the money. It has to be because of the old man,
some sort of responsibility you feel to put another
generation of McLanahans on the force because
your older brother's not a cop
"I did it because I want to help, Craig
"That sounds like academy brainwash propaganda
, rook."
"It's not propaganda, sir," McLanahan said
firmly. "This is my city, my home
"It's that guy's home too, rook," LaFortier interjected
. "It's all those guys' homes in that jail, even
the illegals and the transients. They all have rights,
you know. They have a right to do whatever they
want . . .
"They don't have the right to break the law in
my home," McLanahan said angrily. "We follow the
law in my home. My family follows the law. My
neighbors follow the law. We all depend on the law
to help us live in peace. It offends me, it pisses me
off, when someone breaks the law in my city!
"All right, all right, be cool, rook." LaFortier held
up his hands in mock surrender. "You're preac
hing
to the choir here. In my book, there's only one reason
for being a cop-it gives you the authority, the
responsibility, to protect your city and your neighbors
from criminals. You knew that. So I know
there's hope for you. All you need to do is remember
what you just told me. Forget about the diseased
A-holes and the rats in a cage and collecting the
garbage. You're here, now, tonight, to protect your
city. Don't lose sight of that. Got it, rook?"
"Roger that," Paul said, his energy resurging. The
jail was a necessary part of the job, Paul decided, but
it wasn't the job. Being out on the street, helping
those who needed help and nailing the predators
was his job. lie went around to the passenger side of
the car, got in, and strapped in.
"You ready to go, rook?" LaFortier asked.
"Yes, sir," Paul said, his enthusiasm genuine.
"Ready to hit the streets? Ready to nail some
more bad guys? Ready to enforce the laws of this
fair metropolis?"
Paul registered the rising sarcasm in LaFortier's
voice and realized the big FTO was still standing
outside the squad car. Then it hit him. Sheepishly,
he unstrapped, got out, and walked around to the
trunk. LaFortier tossed him the keys, and McLanaban
retrieved their weapons.
"Next time, rook, it'll cost you dinner,"
LaFortier said, strapping on his sidearm. "The first
time you forget your gun when you're on your own,
sure as shit you'll be involved in a bad situation.
Don't forget again. Now we're ready."
They drove out of the parking garage, then waited
on the ramp for the steel roll-up door to close behind
them. "We'll grab a coffee-at Starbucks, not
the shit they serve at the jail or at headquartersthen
take a swing past Sacramento Live! before
heading back to the south area," LaFortier said to
his partner as'they pulled out onto the street.
"Sacramento Live!?
"A buddy of mine is doing an off-duty gig there,
and he told Dispatch something about a power failure
. We'll just pop in on him for a minute or two.
"Did he ask for any assistance?" McLanahan
asked. "I didn't hear the call."
"No, he didn't ask for assistance, rook,"
LaFortier said. "But I'll tell you right now, and you