The vans both took off in synchronized fashion, back to the freeway. One van went northbound, and the surfer van southbound, so Jack decided to stick with the surfers. The van exited the freeway at Hollister and pulled into an EZ Storage facility. Jack pulled his car into an adjacent gas station where he could not be seen, and continued to film the suspects. He got a good shot of each of them as they unloaded the bags into storage unit 331-C.
Wait a minute, thought Jack. There’s only three of them. I wonder where…
Suddenly Jack looked up from his camera and was face to face with the gun-wielding Hispanic guy from the house, whom Jack already knew had no sense of humor. He waved the gun at Jack.
“Gimme the camera, cavron,” the man demanded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
There was no time to think, only to react. Jack thrust the camera at the man though the car window, and the man instinctively grabbed it. Jack threw open the door, knocking him and the camera down. He looked like a huge turtle that had been knocked on its shell. In that same split second, Jack jumped on him like a wild animal, disarmed him, kicked his gun away and quickly withdrew his stun gun, stuck it against the big man’s neck and hit him with over 3 million volts.
The big man’s head dropped like a cow being stunned in a slaughterhouse. As his body was still convulsing, Jack took some twist-ties from his utility pack and bound his hands. He whipped off his shirt and gagged the man with it. Jack patted down the man’s body for weapons and emptied his pockets; wallet, cell phone, keys, loose change. He pocketed the cell phone.
As the man was coming to, Jack ushered him into the back seat of his car at gunpoint, and directed him to bind his own ankles with twist ties. He picked up and reactivated his camera, which, miraculously, was still working, so he could see that the suspects were still busy, and used his cell phone to call 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My name is Jack Ruder. I’m a private investigator and ex-FBI agent. I’ve just been attacked at gunpoint, have subdued my attacker and have him incapacitated. There are three others – all armed. Please send help immediately!”
That was a mouthful for the emergency operator to take at once, so she clarified the details with Jack and assured him that there was help on the way. Jack next called Brent.
“Hey Buddy.”
“Hey Jack, how’s it goin’?”
“I just got you a boatload of reasonable doubt, but I’m kind of busy right now, could I please speak to Angie?”
“Sure, she’s right here.”
Brent handed the phone to Angela, who immediately went into crisis mode, noting down the information.
“I’ll call everyone, Jack, we will be there,” she said and hung up the phone.
Jack turned now to his attacker.
“Nod your head for yes and shake for no. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“Do they know I’m here?” The man shook his head.
“Were you sent out to be lookout?” He nodded.
“Do you have anything to communicate with besides your phone?” He shook his head.
“Okay. There are police and FBI on the way. I’m going to ungag you and I want you to call them and ask them how much longer. When they ask you if everything is okay, you say yes, do you understand?” He nodded.
Jack removed the gag and put the cell phone on speaker. He put his gun to the man’s temple.
“Incentive to tell them exactly what I told you. What’s the number?”
“555-2396.”
Jack held the phone to the man’s mouth.
* * *
“What’s going on?” Brent asked Angela, as she strapped on her flak jacket, gun and holster and pulled her jacket on over it.
“Jack’s got a situation and I’ve called in a team to help him.”
“You’re going too?”
“I have to help him.”
“Then, I’m going with you.”
“No way, you stay here. I’ll be in numbers, don’t worry.”
“That’s what you said the last time, and you agreed to take a desk job after that.”
“Desk or not, Brent, this is my job.”
With that, Angela was out the door.
* * *
Angela fired up her government issued Crown Victoria and sped off.
“Agent Wollard, requesting status on possible 10-31 at Goleta EZ Storage,” she called into the government frequency radio.
“Roger, Agent Wollard, Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Department reports officers and SWAT are 10-76, responding.”
“Thank you dispatch, what is their 10-77?”
“About fifteen minutes. Agent Wollard, you are advised to wait for SWAT. Do not engage suspects unless you are in danger.”
“10-4.”
The stranger’s phone rang in Jack’s pocket.
“Tell them everything is fine,” Jack instructed.
Jack knew that his time was running out. He would stick it out as long as possible, but, if he was facing down three guns, the best thing to do would be to abort and leave as soon as possible. He put the man’s phone to his cheek.
“Yo, man, what the fuck! Where are you?” crackled the voice over the speakerphone.
“Outside, Homes, jus’ like you told me,” said the man.
“Well get your ass back here, Bro. We gotta go!”
“Okay, gimme a couple of minutes.”
Jack muted the phone. “Tell them you’re taking a dump and you’ll be there in five minutes.”
“What?” said the voice.
“Man, look, I’m takin’ a shit. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”
“Man, that’s gross! Couldn’t you wait? Well, get your nasty ass back here. Is everything okay out there?”
“Yeah, yeah Bro, fine. Everything’s cool.”
Jack’s forehead broke into a sweat as he watched the crew packing the rest of the bags into the shed and close it up.
Where was Angela and the cavalry? Jack looked around and made his escape plan. He had only minutes to spare.
* * *
Angela exited the freeway on Storke Road and took a right on Hollister. She had no way of communicating with Jack, so she had no idea what was going on. As she sped down Hollister, she noticed two black and white units with lights blazing, fall into place behind her.
“Dispatch, this is Agent Wollard, I’ve got two black and whites in formation. 10-77 – five minutes.”
“10-4 Agent Wollard. SWAT is reporting ten minutes. Hold for SWAT.”
“Roger that.”
* * *
Another Hispanic man came walking out of the EZ Storage lot, this one with a shotgun. He looked to the right and left of the main entrance, and called out.
“Yo, Felipe, where you at Bro?” he said. Then, he noticed Jack and started running toward Jack’s car. Jack jammed the car into reverse and backed out onto the street. The windshield exploded and rained pebbles of glass that bounced against the dashboard as Jack ducked and spun the car around. Jack hit the gas and the rear wheels spewed a rubbery cloud of smoke as Jack heard the shotgun go off again and the momentum of the car taking off bounced his passenger around in the back seat.
“You’re dead, man!” said Jack’s occupant, as the van took chase.
* * *
When Angela pulled up to EZ Storage with two Sheriff’s Dept. patrol cars in tow, everything was quiet like nothing had ever happened there. Just piles of scattered rounded shards of safety glass was all she could find.
Jack rang Angela on her cell phone.
“Angie, you were a little late coming to the party. I’ve got a situation now.”
“Talk to me, Jack.”
“I’m being pursued by a beige VW van, California personalized license plates, “Sierra-Uniform-Romeo-Foxtrot-Zulu-Uniform-Papa.” They are armed and have already taken one shot at me.”
“I’ll have the Sheriff’s Dept. put out an APB. What’s your 20?”
&nb
sp; “Southbound Hollister approaching Coromar Drive. Wait Angie!”
Jack glanced in the rear view and saw the van turn off.
“They just turned off.”
“Do you still have the suspect in custody?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll find the van. Come on back to the scene and let’s get him turned over to the Sheriff.”
The SWAT team pulled up in their armored vehicle and a dozen heavily armed men in military fatigues and helmets descended. After being briefed by Angela, they stormed the storage unit. It was as empty as Al Capone’s vault.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The big man sat like a caged animal in the interrogation room as Brent, Angela, Jack, and Agent Samuel Nesta from the DEA looked on through a two-way mirror. He was fidgeting and wiggling his lardy body in the chair, and rubbing his hands through his greasy long hair and playing with his thick handle bar moustache.
“He needs a fix,” said Nesta. Nesta was a no-nonsense agent, who had seen it all and could size up a junkie quicker than it would take for most people to decide whether to have cheese on their hamburger.
“Still, I don’t think you’re going to get anything out of this one,” said Jack. “I’ve yet to break him.”
“We’ll see,” said Nesta. “Ready?” he asked Angela.
“A confession a day keeps the doctor away,” she retorted.
Angela and Nesta walked into the interrogation room, shut the door, and took a seat in the two metal chairs across the table from the big man, who was cuffed to a chair fixed to the floor.
“Felipe Corral,” said Nesta, staring down the man with his steel grey eyes. Nesta never lost a stare down, because he never blinked.
“That’s my name Chupas,” he chuckled and added, “Don’t wear it out!”
“My name is Special Agent Nesta from the Drug Enforcement Agency, and this is Angela Wollard from the FBI.”
“Oh yeah?” He looked up and smirked. “Which one of you is the bad cop? The chick?”
“The ‘chick’ is Agent Wollard,” said Nesta, firmly.
“Oh, so the Guera is the good cop and you must be the bad cop, huh Chupas?”
“We didn’t come here to play games with you, Mr. Corral,” said Angela, leaning forward across the table to look him straight in the eye.
“Then what did you come here for?” Corral laughed louder than his attitude. “So, you’re both bad cops, huh Guera?” he asked, looking at Angela.
“Mr. Corral, we have you on assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder…”
“Murder? What? I didn’t touch that Guero! He attacked me!” Felipe pounded the table with his handcuffed fists, clenching his teeth.
“We’re not talking about him,” said Angela.
“The only way you’re staying out of prison is to cooperate with us,” said Nesta.
“Yo, you want me to rat on my brothers to you? A narc? You don’t understand – they’ll fuckin’ kill me! You ain’t got nothing anyways.”
“We have video,” said Angela.
“We were surfing. So you got a surfing video.”
“What about the boats?”
“What about ‘em?”
“We know what you were unloading.”
“So what you need me for, Guera? You ain’t got shit. That’s why you’re talking to me.”
Angela left the room and came back with Jack, who took Angela’s empty seat at the table.
“What’s he doing here?” asked Felipe. “I thought you said he was dead.”
“He needs to identify you,” said Angela.
“Bullshit.” Corral looked at the ceiling and crossed his arms.
“Mr. Corral, what do you know about Barbara Densmore?” asked Jack.
Corral looked at Jack with eyes and mouth wide open. “Who?”
“The president of the Orange Grove Homeowners Association.”
Corral’s hairy upper lip raised in disgust. “I don’t got to talk to you, Chupas. I’ve had enough of this shit. I want to call my lawyer.”
At that point, once Corral asked for a lawyer, the interview was over and Jack, Angela and Nesta left the room and joined Brent outside.
“He doesn’t know anything about Densmore,” Jack said.
“How do you know?” asked Nesta.
“Micro-expressions,” said Brent. “Jack’s an expert at them.”
“Not only that,” said Jack. “He really didn’t know who Barbara Densmore was.”
“That doesn’t mean that one of the others doesn’t know who killed her, or that they’re not smuggling drugs,” said Nesta. “I’ll swear out a warrant and we’ll turn their place upside down. We will, of course, share information with Agent Wollard.”
“Thank you, Agent Nesta. I’m not sure how big of a help it will be. The trial already started. But I appreciate it,” said Brent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGH T
Agents of the DEA and FBI surrounded the Orange Grove home of Keith Michel as Agent Nesta knocked on the door to serve the search warrant. Michel answered the door in his usual stupor, as if he had just gone to bed or just woken up from a long afternoon nap. Nesta served him the warrant and he looked at it, then back at Nesta with glassy eyes.
“Dude, this is harassment,” protested Michel.
“Where are the other occupants of the residence?” asked Nesta.
“I’m the only one here,” said Michel.
Nesta led the search team into the house and they immediately started trolling through everything.
“Are there any illegal drugs in the house?” Nesta asked Michel.
“Nope, only legal. I’ve got a prescription.”
“I’m sure you do.”
* * *
After two hours, the search team came up with nothing except Keith Michel’s “medical marijuana.” No guns – everything was clean.
“I’m going to sue you dude,” Michel said to Nesta as he was walking out the door.
“Have a nice day,” said Nesta. “I’ll be back with arrest warrants for you and the rest of the Pep Boys.”
* * *
The trial was underway. Nancy sat with Brent at counsel table, and her daughter Jillian sat in the front row behind her. There was nothing really for Jillian to do; just be there to support her mother.
“Mr. Chernow, you may call your first witness,” said Judge Curtis.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I would like to call Joyce Bensley.”
“Your Honor, may we approach?” asked Brent.
“Yes.”
Once at the bench, Chernow started to complain. Brent could not understand the amount of emotion he had heaved into this trial.
“Your Honor,” said Chernow, the defense is trying to derail the People’s case.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor, but isn’t that my job? I can’t sit here and let Mr. Chernow do whatever he wants. This is my client’s life on the line.”
“Okay, now knock it off, both of you,” said Curtis. “What was your reason for the bench conference, Mr. Marks?”
“I anticipate that he is calling this witness to establish identity of the victim. We will stipulate that it was Barbara Densmore.”
“Very well.”
“Your Honor! The jury won’t see the victim as a human being!”
“Alright, I will allow one question and one question only, after you have established the identity of your witness. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
When Brent got back to the bench, Nancy asked, “What was all that about?”
“He wants to get in before and after life and death photographs.” Nancy grimaced.
As expected, Chernow identified the witness as Barbara Densmore’s sister, and his one question was, “Ms. Bensley, I am showing you a photograph marked as Exhibit 1,” said Chernow, panning the jury with the photograph as he approached the witness stand. “Can you identify this as a photograph of your sister, Barbara Densmore?”
“Yes, that’s Bar
bara,” said Bensley, putting a tissue to her eye and wiping out a tear.
All eyes of the jury were on the sister, and all 28 of them looked sad.
“Move Exhibit 1 into evidence, Your Honor.”
“Objection, Your Honor, cumulative. Identity has already been established.” It was a bad objection, given the last ruling, and Chernow was visibly upset. But, before he could speak, the judge ruled.
“Overruled, Mr. Marks.”
Chernow next called the police photographer, so he could get in his dead photographs of Densmore.
“Objection, Your Honor, cumulative and prejudicial.”
“Counsel approach,” said the Judge.
“Your Honor, this is a death by poisoning case,” argued Brent. “There are no injuries that can be shown from these photographs and their only purpose is to play the heartstrings of the jury. Their prejudicial effect outweighs any probative value.”
“Mr. Chernow?”
“The photographs show the death of the victim, Your Honor.”
“We will stipulate that she is deceased, Your Honor,” said Brent.
“Your Honor, I must protest the constant petty objections of Mr. Marks. I should be able to present my case without him objecting to every question.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, it’s not every question. And the defense has the right to object to anything we feel is improper.”
“I will allow one photograph, and we’re going to pick the least gruesome one,” said Curtis, fanning them out like a deck of cards.
“This one. Agreed?” he asked, pointing to one of the photographs.
Chernow put the photographer on the stand, introduced the photograph, and it was allowed into evidence as People’s Exhibit No. 2.
“Mr. Chernow, you may call your next witness.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I call Frances Templeton.”
“Ms. Templeton, please stand in the witness box, face the clerk and be sworn,” said the Judge.