when we showered Frankie. Jim
squeezed a few drops of water from his shirt. "I'm already pretty fucking wet as it is," he said. He took another Teamster-sized gulp of his coffee. "Oh, yeah," I said. "She also said, Make sure you tell your father not to drink so much coffee." "I'm only having half a cup," he said. "I want to be able to sleep with one eye open tonight." We said good night and parted with mutual reminders to keep pagers and cell phones charged and at the ready. Jim said he'd let me know when and if Frankie said anything coherent. I climbed into my Acura with my travel mug filled to the top and was dialing my cell phone before I made the first turn out of the driveway. I had a date with a hooker and I was already an hour late.
-- no --
CHAPTER 20
Coral C. Jones is a beautiful, big-assed, chocolate-brown woman in her mid-thirties. She is a product of the streets of Los Angeles, and the streets are where she learned to ply her trade. I have friends in Vice who have had official police business with Coral C. over the years. Although she has numerous frequent flyer points with LAPD, they say she plays the game well and is usually cooperative with the cops. But she can be a tough negotiator when the stakes are high.
I never worked Vice. I met Coral C. two years ago in my capacity as a homicide detective. Her eighteen-year-old brother Tyrell had a starring role in a Seven-Eleven security tape. It opened with a run-of-the-mill, late-night stickup, and ended with a dead cashier--an unlucky Pakistani named Noor. He was a recent immigrant who obviously never studied Convenience Store 101, where the first rule they teach you is "Give Them The Fucking Money, Stupid!"
It seemed to be an open-and-shut case. Despite the fact that we were working with badly lit black-and-white security footage, we were able to read the name "Ty" sewn on the front
I
of the perp's jacket. Within hours we had tracked down Tyrell Jones and booked him for murder.
Coral C. swore Ty was at home with her that night. It just happened to be a night she wasn't working, she said. Some people will swear to anything to protect someone they love, and since Coral C. had helped raise her younger brother, she was as much a mother to him as a sibling. What was different about Coral C. was that she swore on a Bible that she pulled out of her purse. But the Seven-Eleven tape showed Tyrell pulling the trigger.
Tyrell insisted it wasn't him. "Some dude stole my jacket to fuck me up," was his defense. "You think I'd be dumb enough to rob a store wearing a jacket with my name on it?" This got a big laugh around the squad room. We'd seen a lot dumber.
The D.A. assured us that the jury would convict Tyrell in fifteen minutes, start-to-finish, and still have plenty of time for a coffee break. They probably would have.
Except for Coral C. She knew that Tyrell was innocent, and she knew how to work the system. She called a lieutenant in Narcotics who owed her a favor for some insider information she had coughed up that had led to a Page One drug bust. The Narc Loo called Kilcullen, who in turn asked me to invest another twenty-four to see if Tyrell's bullshit impostor story held any water.
I gave it my best shot, something no cop would have done if Coral C. hadn't been able to cash in that chit from Narcotics. And guess what? It turns out it wasn't Tyrell in the video. It was a same-sized, same-color, same-age punk named Willie Wash burn who not only wanted to fuck Tyrell up, but also wanted to fuck Tyrell's girlfriend.
Washbum had stolen Tyrell's jacket. He then pulled a cap down over his face, copied Tyrell's walk and his mannerisms, and held up the Seven-Eleven. When the robbery went sour and Tyrell was arrested for murder, Washburn felt like he'd hit a grand slam. He'd be banging Ty's girlfriend for the next fifteen to twenty. He would have gotten away with it, if he had worn different shoes.
The killer's feet were only on camera for a split second as he
squeezed a few drops of water from his shirt. "I'm already pretty fucking wet as it is," he said. He took another Teamster-sized gulp of his coffee. "Oh, yeah," I said. "She also said, Make sure you tell your father not to drink so much coffee." "I'm only having half a cup," he said. "I want to be able to sleep with one eye open tonight." We said good night and parted with mutual reminders to keep pagers and cell phones charged and at the ready. Jim said he'd let me know when and if Frankie said anything coherent. I climbed into my Acura with my travel mug filled to the top and was dialing my cell phone before I made the first turn out of the driveway. I had a date with a hooker and I was already an hour late.
-- no --
CHAPTER 20
Coral C. Jones is a beautiful, big-assed, chocolate-brown woman in her mid-thirties. She is a product of the streets of Los Angeles, and the streets are where she learned to ply her trade. I have friends in Vice who have had official police business with Coral C. over the years. Although she has numerous frequent flyer points with LAPD, they say she plays the game well and is usually cooperative with the cops. But she can be a tough negotiator when the stakes are high.
I never worked Vice. I met Coral C. two years ago in my capacity as a homicide detective. Her eighteen-year-old brother Tyrell had a starring role in a Seven-Eleven security tape. It opened with a run-of-the-mill, late-night stickup, and ended with a dead cashier--an unlucky Pakistani named Noor. He was a recent immigrant who obviously never studied Convenience Store 101, where the first rule they teach you is "Give Them The Fucking Money, Stupid!"
It seemed to be an open-and-shut case. Despite the fact that we were working with badly lit black-and-white security footage, we were able to read the name "Ty" sewn on the front
I
of the perp's jacket. Within hours we had tracked down Tyrell Jones and booked him for murder.
Coral C. swore Ty was at home with her that night. It just happened to be a night she wasn't working, she said. Some people will swear to anything to protect someone they love, and since Coral C. had helped raise her younger brother, she was as much a mother to him as a sibling. What was different about Coral C. was that she swore on a Bible that she pulled out of her purse. But the Seven-Eleven tape showed Tyrell pulling the trigger.
Tyrell insisted it wasn't him. "Some dude stole my jacket to fuck me up," was his defense. "You think I'd be dumb enough to rob a store wearing a jacket with my name on it?" This got a big laugh around the squad room. We'd seen a lot dumber.
The D.A. assured us that the jury would convict Tyrell in fifteen minutes, start-to-finish, and still have plenty of time for a coffee break. They probably would have.
Except for Coral C. She knew that Tyrell was innocent, and she knew how to work the system. She called a lieutenant in Narcotics who owed her a favor for some insider information she had coughed up that had led to a Page One drug bust. The Narc Loo called Kilcullen, who in turn asked me to invest another twenty-four to see if Tyrell's bullshit impostor story held any water.
I gave it my best shot, something no cop would have done if Coral C. hadn't been able to cash in that chit from Narcotics. And guess what? It turns out it wasn't Tyrell in the video. It was a same-sized, same-color, same-age punk named Willie Wash burn who not only wanted to fuck Tyrell up, but also wanted to fuck Tyrell's girlfriend.
Washbum had stolen Tyrell's jacket. He then pulled a cap down over his face, copied Tyrell's walk and his mannerisms, and held up the Seven-Eleven. When the robbery went sour and Tyrell was arrested for murder, Washburn felt like he'd hit a grand slam. He'd be banging Ty's girlfriend for the next fifteen to twenty. He would have gotten away with it, if he had worn different shoes.
The killer's feet were only on camera for a split second as he
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