Sullivan's Law by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

heading? I know a few European cities have tried it with considerable success.”
    â€œI don’t know of anything else that will work,” Arline told her. “The death penalty isn’t that effective, at least not as a deterrent. Individuals who commit acts of violence seldom consider the consequences. When people realize their every move is being monitored, crime rates rapidly diminish.”
    It was after ten and Carolyn needed to get home. Her daughter was generally asleep by now, but she could spend some time with her son. “Where do you live?”
    â€œSkyline Estates,” Arline told her. “You’re going to follow me, right? All you have to do is get me to the gate. From there, I should be fine.”
    â€œI’ll get my car,” Carolyn told her. “I drive a white Infiniti.”
    â€œI’d like to buy you dinner,” Arline said. “Maybe one night after class. I usually have conferences during the lunch recesses.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” she answered as she walked off.
    â€œWait, Carolyn,” Arline yelled out the window. “You’re doing very well in my class. And I’m not saying this because of tonight. You’ll make an excellent attorney.”
    â€œThanks,” she said, waving as she jogged toward her car. It was nice to know that a day that had started disastrously was ending on a positive note. She couldn’t wait to recommend a prison term for Fast Eddie. Already, she was stacking the counts in her head. What she couldn’t accomplish by law, the prisoners themselves would handle. Not even hardened criminals could tolerate a man who raped a child, and their punishment would be far more fitting than anything the court could administer. Downly would be lucky if he survived.
    â€œGet used to bending over, Eddie,” Carolyn said, depressing the button on the alarm and climbing into her Infiniti. At nineteen, Fast Eddie was a slender young man. His skin was smooth and his features were slightly on the feminine side. The line would be a mile long. The inmates would love him. First, however, they would beat him and sodomize him.
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    The two-story house was located in the North Hollywood section of Los Angeles. The driver parked his black Jeep Cherokee at the curb, making certain to engage the emergency brake so the vehicle wouldn’t roll down the hill. The two passengers got out of the car and made their way up a stone walkway to the front of the house. The taller one, a dark-haired man in his late forties with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, was smacked in the head by a tree branch. “This place is a jungle, Pete,” Boyd Chandler said in annoyance, snapping the thick branch in half as if it were a twig. Chandler was dressed in a blue knit shirt and dark slacks. “You’d think the chief would at least have the trees trimmed.”
    â€œHe’s drunk out of his mind half the time,” Pete Cordova told him. A short, olive-skinned man, Cordova had graying hair and was wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt. “He probably can’t even see the damn trees.”
    â€œSo he dips into the sauce too much,” Boyd tossed back. “He’s still the deputy chief of the LAPD.”
    They stepped onto the porch and Pete rang the doorbell while Boyd removed a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and popped a piece in his mouth. “I’d die for a cigarette right now.”
    â€œI don’t remember,” Pete said. “How long has it been since you quit?”
    â€œThree years.”
    â€œThat long, and you want to smoke?”
    â€œYeah,” Boyd told him, “some urges never go away. Know what I mean?”
    Pete laughed.
    A pretty Hispanic housekeeper answered the door, lowering her eyes as she gestured for the men to enter. “You can go into the study,” she said. “Would you like coffee, water, a cold soda?”
    â€œBring us a couple