his post by the door.
“That’s a pretty crappy name for a tomcat,” Hitch said in amusement. Then he motioned me over. I stood and walked to where he was standing.
He leaned in and whispered, “Back bedroom. Two bags fully packed. I think these two will be in Mexico if we don’t delay their trip.”
“We’re gonna ask you to leave now,” Julio said from the door. “The interview is over.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” I said, and stepped away from Hitch to give him a better field of fire in case this got iffy.
Then my partner pulled his Glock 9 as I took my handcuffs off my belt.
“I knew this was coming,” Julio sneered.
“You’re under arrest. Let’s all stay cool,” I said.
“ Pendejos, ” Julio muttered.
“We’re only arresting you as material witnesses,” I explained. “Be nice and maybe you’re home by lunch. Turn and face the wall, Mr. Sanchez. Lace your fingers behind your head.”
He turned and assumed the position while I shook him down and cuffed him. Hitch covered both of them from across the room. Then Hitch and I helped Carla to her feet and attempted to cuff her, but Hitch’s cuffs wouldn’t fit around her gargantuan wrists. I’d seen cuffs not fit a man before but never had that happen on a woman.
“You want to give A-Fifty-Six a piece of this?” I said to my partner.
Hitch reached into his hip pocket and squawked his radio two times.
A few minutes later the officers from A-56 were standing in the doorway. They turned out to be a Hollenbeck dog and cat patrol team. The man, Gately, was a redhead with a buzz cut. One of those standard wide-armed weight-lifting types, tough as hickory. His partner, George, was a medium-sized, compact woman with blond hair pulled back in a bun.
We led Carla and Julio out of the apartment and locked the door for them. The four guys Julio had called as backup were standing in the hall.
“Beat it,” the giant red-haired patrol officer snapped.
“You got six seconds; then you’re all under arrest,” his partner threatened.
After a moment, they reluctantly dispersed. We led the Sanchezes down the hall. As we passed the other apartments I could hear doors opening behind us and turned once to see half a dozen Chicanos staring daggers at our backs.
We got Carla and Julio downstairs and into the patrol car, where we Mirandized them without incident.
“Transport them to Hollenbeck Station for booking as material wits,” I told the uniforms.
As the patrol car pulled away, Hitch said, “I hope that’s your good side.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“We’re being photographed.” He pointed up the block at the white Econoline van with the V-TV emblem on the side, parked at the curb. Nix Nash stood near the back of the van, mike in hand, cameras rolling. He had us framed over his shoulder as he did a stand-up right in the middle of Lorena Street.
CHAPTER
9
A few years ago, the Hollenbeck Station was the worst rat hole in the department. Times had changed. The new station house was now located two blocks from the old one at 2111 East First Street. Our local politicians called the Hollenbeck Station, along with our new Police Administration Building downtown, shining testaments to the cutting-edge police work being practiced in Los Angeles. Hollenbeck Station was smaller than the new PAB but no less impressive. It was a steel-sculptured monument with curved mirrored sides and private balconies.
The building housed 282 police officers in four thousand state-of-the-art feet of fast track, movable walls; terrazzo floors; and vinyl-upholstered offices.
Hitch and I pulled into the high-fenced guarded parking lot and got out of the Acura. We walked inside and told the booking sergeant that we wanted the Sanchezes placed in separate holding cells in the isolation section of the jail so they couldn’t pass messages to other White Fence bangers incarcerated there.
I got on the phone and talked to Ray Tsu at the
“That’s a pretty crappy name for a tomcat,” Hitch said in amusement. Then he motioned me over. I stood and walked to where he was standing.
He leaned in and whispered, “Back bedroom. Two bags fully packed. I think these two will be in Mexico if we don’t delay their trip.”
“We’re gonna ask you to leave now,” Julio said from the door. “The interview is over.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” I said, and stepped away from Hitch to give him a better field of fire in case this got iffy.
Then my partner pulled his Glock 9 as I took my handcuffs off my belt.
“I knew this was coming,” Julio sneered.
“You’re under arrest. Let’s all stay cool,” I said.
“ Pendejos, ” Julio muttered.
“We’re only arresting you as material witnesses,” I explained. “Be nice and maybe you’re home by lunch. Turn and face the wall, Mr. Sanchez. Lace your fingers behind your head.”
He turned and assumed the position while I shook him down and cuffed him. Hitch covered both of them from across the room. Then Hitch and I helped Carla to her feet and attempted to cuff her, but Hitch’s cuffs wouldn’t fit around her gargantuan wrists. I’d seen cuffs not fit a man before but never had that happen on a woman.
“You want to give A-Fifty-Six a piece of this?” I said to my partner.
Hitch reached into his hip pocket and squawked his radio two times.
A few minutes later the officers from A-56 were standing in the doorway. They turned out to be a Hollenbeck dog and cat patrol team. The man, Gately, was a redhead with a buzz cut. One of those standard wide-armed weight-lifting types, tough as hickory. His partner, George, was a medium-sized, compact woman with blond hair pulled back in a bun.
We led Carla and Julio out of the apartment and locked the door for them. The four guys Julio had called as backup were standing in the hall.
“Beat it,” the giant red-haired patrol officer snapped.
“You got six seconds; then you’re all under arrest,” his partner threatened.
After a moment, they reluctantly dispersed. We led the Sanchezes down the hall. As we passed the other apartments I could hear doors opening behind us and turned once to see half a dozen Chicanos staring daggers at our backs.
We got Carla and Julio downstairs and into the patrol car, where we Mirandized them without incident.
“Transport them to Hollenbeck Station for booking as material wits,” I told the uniforms.
As the patrol car pulled away, Hitch said, “I hope that’s your good side.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“We’re being photographed.” He pointed up the block at the white Econoline van with the V-TV emblem on the side, parked at the curb. Nix Nash stood near the back of the van, mike in hand, cameras rolling. He had us framed over his shoulder as he did a stand-up right in the middle of Lorena Street.
CHAPTER
9
A few years ago, the Hollenbeck Station was the worst rat hole in the department. Times had changed. The new station house was now located two blocks from the old one at 2111 East First Street. Our local politicians called the Hollenbeck Station, along with our new Police Administration Building downtown, shining testaments to the cutting-edge police work being practiced in Los Angeles. Hollenbeck Station was smaller than the new PAB but no less impressive. It was a steel-sculptured monument with curved mirrored sides and private balconies.
The building housed 282 police officers in four thousand state-of-the-art feet of fast track, movable walls; terrazzo floors; and vinyl-upholstered offices.
Hitch and I pulled into the high-fenced guarded parking lot and got out of the Acura. We walked inside and told the booking sergeant that we wanted the Sanchezes placed in separate holding cells in the isolation section of the jail so they couldn’t pass messages to other White Fence bangers incarcerated there.
I got on the phone and talked to Ray Tsu at the
Similar Books
