The System, page 21
Peeper says, “Yessir, boss.”
We wait for the door to pop, then we go in 4700 like a bunch of mice on the sneak. Vatos going a bit slower. Mayates going that little bit faster.
That’s how we separate.
By the time the deputies figure out what’s going down, the walkway in front of the cells is blocked up. They can only see us from observation behind that glass in the middle that dudes are about to square off.
And they can’t do shit. They just have to watch till they can get a team in to fuck us all up.
The full siren goes.
And that shit feels like it’s blowing my eardrums out my ears.
I touch my face, expecting to find blood.
There’s nothing.
And that’s okay. Cuz right now I’m feeling free.
I’m pushing right up to the edge of the crowd where this big fucker is blocking the walkway.
I’m going where I’m not supposed to.
Doing what I’m not allowed to.
And that’s good. That feels good.
When Pretty Boy swings first and catches Barrel Roll behind the ear, everybody roars like we at the fights.
47
Supervisory is in the control room shouting at us over the speakers to stop. That shit ain’t happening tho. Hell, no.
Tim’s smart, hanging back as Barrel Roll recovers. He goes into Pretty Boy hard, bullying his ass with the weight advantage.
They go right into the bars beside one of the cell doors.
And that’s it for Pretty. He comes back off the bars, a flap of skin hanging off his head. And blood going down his back.
The metal opened his head right up.
Damn.
He tries holding the skin closed on his skull. It’s not helping tho.
His blues go purple in a hurry.
He’s slumping down the bars. Almost sitting on the floor.
And that’s when Barrel turns. And Tim steps to him.
He comes in too quick tho, too rushed. He doesn’t know to judge the distance to get shots off.
And my blood’s all the way up now.
In my throat, my ears, my face.
I know I got this.
I know I could take them both.
Especially as these two fuckers scuffle around.
And can’t punch for shit.
And accidentally punch the railing.
And head-butt.
And spit.
And that’s when it happens.
Tim gets up under Barrel Roll’s arms. Gets into his chest.
And he’s in there, just jamming fists up into Barrel’s armpits …
Getting leverage under him.
Like what he’d do at football practice when he’s blocking.
Like what he’s prolly been coached to do forever.
Get them off their balance.
And he does.
Oh man, he fucking does.
Cuz Barrel’s off the ground and they’re turning,
And Barrel goes up over the railing
And down one tier,
Twenty fucking feet down,
And that fool goes smack on the concrete below us.
Fucking splat.
And when that happens,
Everybody stops for like a second.
Maybe two seconds.
Siren still going.
Nobody moving.
And then it’s like the whole roof comes off.
Peeper’s jumping up next to me. Waving his hand in the air like it’s a concert.
Moving his mouth like, Holy shit, fool!
Like, You seen that shit, fool?
Fuckers are freaking out. Looking over the side and everything.
I don’t tho.
I got my aims.
I’m seeing Tim.
Tim’s the new king.
And everybody else is figuring that shit out too.
You can see how it’s washing over people. How they’re getting used to it thru the shock of seeing Barrel go over.
That’s when I walk.
I feel a tap on my hip from Wizard. Like, Yeah!
Like, Get that motherfucker, homes!
There’s only one thing between Tim and me.
The fat dude holding everybody back from the main fights so King of the Mountain can happen.
He’s not facing me.
And that gives me time to line my shot up on him.
It’s like slow motion how it goes down.
And I just have this thought like …
I’m balling every bad thing up that I got inside me.
Fucking being locked in here. Fucking being told where to go. And when. Fucking having to sleep where somebody shits a few feet away from my face, where there’s no getting away from it. Fucking Wizard using me to protect his own ass.
And I get my feet under me good and bring that rage up thru me like some type of hurricane
Down my arm as
I put it in my swing
Where I’m bringing that weight in
With every pound I got,
With some perfect-ass aim,
Cuz I lined it all up,
And when that shit lands …
When my fist hits him like a sledgehammer coming down …
His ass fucking drops.
One pop. Right kidney.
Done with.
I hit him so hard he screams like he’s shot.
And he goes down wobbling, grabbing at his back.
Swear to god I split that shit inside him.
That poor motherfucker never had a chance.
Now he’s gonna be wearing his fucking hospital browns for weeks.
And I don’t even feel bad about it.
Fuck this dude, that’s how I feel.
I’m hitting him like I wish I could hit Wizard.
Cuz fuck Wizard. Fuck everybody.
You got to protect your own back in here! Don’t show it to nobody.
And this poor fool left himself wide open.
I swing a quick look behind me to check I’m not going in alone. I’m not.
My back’s good. Wizard’s right behind me, smiling like a motherfucker. Enjoying this shit.
Peeper behind him with a paisa-made shank in his hand just as I’m wondering where the hell it even came from.
Behind Peep is some East Los cousins I met yesterday, thuggish motherfuckers running interference on some deputies, about to get fucking sprayed. They step up.
They take that pepper shit full in their faces like some fucking Gs and stay standing, stay wrestling with clear shields and billy clubs and the helmets behind them.
I turn back to see Tim. And that’s when Tim’s seeing me.
He’s got this look on his face like he knows it’s about to go down.
There’s something different there tho.
His heart’s gone.
You can see how it’s gone.
How it went over that railing with fucking Barrel Roll.
And that’s when I learn that Tim Muhammad ain’t no kind of hardcore motherfucker.
I look into his eyes. And all I’m seeing is a scared-ass little kid.
And I’m not even to him yet when I’m thinking,
I’m king now.
Tim sees that shit in my eyes too.
How I’m punking his ass with a look.
And he don’t even really put his hands up to me when I swing.
He just gives me that free shot.
And I’d aim for the jaw. The neck is free tho, so I swing for that.
For the throat.
I go right thru his lazy-ass guard.
Right down the fucking middle.
And prolly the only thing that saves him is how he’s turning away from me.
Catching it in the side of the neck and not full-on.
That’s cool tho. Cuz it’s enough to send him falling backwards.
And I’m already stepping forward with the stomps.
On his chest.
On his skull.
On his ribs.
Wherever I can get that shit in.
Cuz I’m the fucking King of the Mountain now.
And everybody knows it.
And Wizard’s grinning this evil-ass grin.
And I see pride shining out in his eyes. Like, That’s my fucking homeboy right there!
And even I know he’s happy cuz this is good for him,
Me doing what he said,
His orders getting followed,
And I watch how he’s getting shots in on Tim.
And one in on Pretty too while he’s at it.
And Peeper’s stabbing that fool Pretty Boy when I see Wizard’s eyes go cold cuz the mission’s done.
And a soldado knows when to stop. He’s got fucking discipline.
And Wizard gives me this hand motion like, Get down.
And for a second, I don’t.
Just to show him I can stand on my own.
And he’s getting flat on the concrete floor, putting hands on his head, nodding for me to do the same.
And I stare down at him.
Just for a second …
Before I do it too.
Just so he knows I know how he did me. And I’m doing what I got to do.
And it still don’t mean I like it.
Right before the air turns white around us and I can’t breathe for shit.
Right before the clubs come down.
And I’m sure I’m fucking dying …
Nick Park, Esq.
December 14, 1993 • 11:01 a.m.
48
Jacob Safulu no longer looks sixteen. Faint redness rings his eyes. His cheeks have retained a hint of puffiness from being sprayed with pepper spray. An abrasion on his left temple looks as if it came from the sole of a boot. Worst of all, he sports a long rectangular bruise on the lower half of his face that extends from his jaw to the left corner of his mouth; it is as thick as—and almost perfectly shaped like—a baton. It’s rare to see bruises so solid that you immediately know what caused them. Knuckles on his left hand, the one cuffed to the table, are split raw from punching. The narrative of what happened to Jacob Safulu is practically written on him. What he dealt, and also what he paid for doing so.
I’m no doctor, but I’d imagine that he should probably be in the jail medical ward. The fact that he’s not tells me he was one of the aggressors, which is certainly not good. He is now locked down twenty-three hours a day in the disciplinary unit. He got walked in here cuffed, and with an escort. That’s a pretty quick transition from the kid I saw before. He has slid so fast and so far down the slippery slope that he might as well have been on a bobsled. What I see before me now is precisely what I was afraid of; if a jury saw him like this, it would not matter where he was on the night in question.
“I came yesterday,” I say. “Did they tell you?”
“No. When?”
“After lunch. Forty-seven hundred was locked down. I came back two hours later, and forty-seven hundred was not locked down, but you were no longer there.”
He gives me a look that tells me he knows I’m going somewhere with this and he’ll just wait it out.
“All of which”—I wave my hand at his face and knuckles, so that he knows these things are included too—“begs the question, and pardon me for saying it so crassly, but what are you fucking doing in AdSeg?”
He blinks. The curse word had its impact.
“Didn’t really have a choice, boss,” he says.
The way he says this infuriates me.
“Here’s the thing.” There is no point to biting my tongue anymore. “You will never refer to me as ‘boss’ again. In fact, don’t ever call me by anything you’d use for a CO or a deputy. It’s a terrible habit to get into, and harder to break. It gets inside you, that kind of thing, and if and when you get out, you carry it with you on the outside. Do you understand me?”
He blinks. He gets it. He says, “Yes.”
“Good. When you get out of AdSeg, you’ll be rehoused. You might go to the high-powered side, or within the gang unit. Is there anything about this that helps your case, do you think?”
He looks down. Finally, I’ve landed something.
“No,” he says.
“No,” I echo him. “It hurts it a great deal, actually. Your behavior in this facility is something Miss Mirkovich can bring up and use against you; it will be evidence of gang ties, of your essential character, and especially your willingness, and capacity, to inflict violence.”
“Shooting and punching aren’t the same thing.”
“Indeed, they’re not, but do you want to trust a jury of people who are very much not your peers to decide that? People who do not live in the world you live in, who cannot possibly understand its pressures? Hearing these things about you will be enough for them to think you capable. Believe me.”
He chews his lower lip now.
“Are you ready for the worst surprise? That stunt you pulled, talking about Augustine and Clark streets? They heard you. You were monitored.”
Safulu makes a face like he’s eaten something bitter, and that tells me he’s already been questioned about the whole affair by jail staff.
“I need to know where you received this information,” I say. “Otherwise, I may have to recuse myself, and you will be assigned someone else, somebody a whole lot worse.”
“Wizard’s lawyer slid it to him. We talked about it after. He told me how I should try to get it out there. But this shit is between me and you. I can’t have people knowing this.”
“I understand, Mr. Safulu, but it may become impossible not to reveal how you came by this information. If the judge hasn’t heard about this incident yet, you can bet she will soon. It will swiftly become part of the evidence against you. The deputy who heard you will be called to the stand. The report he or she filed here at the jail will be used as evidence. I need you to ask yourself something right now: How does this help my case? How does using coded language to say the name of a witness against me look?”
His head drops. He’s got it.
“Not good,” he says.
“Worse than not good, it makes you look guilty!” My stomach isn’t what it once was. My lunch has decided to repeat on me. “It makes you look like you’re attempting to cover up the role you played in the attempted murder of Lucrecia Lucero. It makes it look like Angela is lying in order to protect you. This was—and I trust I am giving you the full picture here—a potentially catastrophic fuckup on your part. What you did by saying those two particular words on that phone line may very well be enough to convict you of a crime you didn’t commit.”
Tears form on his long eyelashes as I let that sink in, and just like that, Jacob Safulu looks sixteen again. It’s good to see, actually. It means I’m getting through to him, for now, and I have to keep pushing while I have the chance.
“I have gone along to this point. Against my guidance, the cases were not separated. You need to remember one thing, however: the sentences will not be the same for you both. You won’t be doing the same amount of years split between you. Your role must be weighed accordingly, and with that in mind, where did you go after Angela ended your relationship?”
He sniffles. “I went to Spider’s. Smoked a lot of chiba.”
I ask him where Spider lives. I get his address and actual name—Melvin Dominguez. I ask who else was at this party. Safulu gives me full names and addresses, the ones he knows, at least. I write it all down for my investigator. We don’t have much time before the preliminary hearing, but if he can get to them today, we can at least have interviews down on paper to present for discovery tomorrow.
“How many of these people will testify as to your whereabouts?”
“Wear a…?”
“Where you were that night.”
“Testify? Like, be up on that stand?”
“Yes, Mr. Safulu, exactly that.”
“Maybe two or three, but it was a party, you know? Drugs, drinking, all that. Not many people are gonna want to talk. They’ll be afraid it’ll be used against them.”
“We still have to try. The more reliable among them, the better.”
He has to think about that.
“We need more witnesses like Angela Alvarez,” I continue, “good student, star athlete, a young woman who works and goes to school at night. In short, we need someone trustworthy, a stand-up citizen to back up your alibi.”
This last part, the one I’ve been building to, I’ve not been certain how to say it until now. In fact until just this moment I didn’t think myself capable, but desperate times do call for corresponding measures.
“Should Augustine be found, it is crucial that nothing happens to him. I need your name as far away from him as possible. This includes anything knowingly perpetrated on his person by a member of your gang. Should that happen, if law enforcement can prove harm befell Mr. Clark as a result of what you said in that visiting room, there is no going back. However”—I let the word hang between us—“if he should happen to decide he no longer saw what he saw, that his memory has become fuzzy in the intervening time—he is a drug addict, after all—well then, that might be very good for us, indeed.”
And very bad, I think, for Kristina Mirkovich.
Safulu squints at me for a moment before opening his eyes wider. There is no shortage of surprised respect in his gaze now, and I think it safe to say that he’s looking at me as if I’m a gangster too, which feels simultaneously exciting and horrifying.
AHD Kristina Mirkovich
December 15, 1993 • 2:23 p.m.
49
Chains ring in the antechamber. It’s a Santa Claus jingle with no reindeer, and it gets louder as inmates walk into the courtroom wearing jumpsuits of varying colors. One is in leg irons, some are in cuffs only, and two are chained together. All are instructed by the bailiff to sit in the empty jury box, which is always one of my favorite moments. They pick seats. They like sitting in judgment, if only for a day.
I’m sharing a prosecution table with Janet Pettibone and Raymond Weisman, both of whom have prelims as well. Janet’s up first, then me, then Ray. Janet shuffles back and forth between witnesses, and on the defense side, lawyers chat with their respective clients in the jury box. Depending on how this goes, Ray might get rescheduled, but I’m hoping Nick Park allows my witnesses hearsay and narrative so we can all get out of here on time.
