My call found Walker at his desk. His voice seemed friendly enough until I identified myself as a reporter with the Times. Then it went cold. That happened often. I had spent seven years on the beat and had many cops in many departments that I counted as sources and even friends. In a jam, I could reach out. But sometimes you don’t get to pick who you have to reach out to. The bottom line is you can never get them all in your corner. The media and the police have never been on comfortable terms. The media views itself as the public watchdog. And nobody, the police included, likes having somebody looking over their shoulder. There was a chasm between the two institutions into which trust had fallen long before I was ever around. Consequently, it made things tough for the lowly beat reporter who just needs a few facts to fill out a story.
“What can I do for you?” Walker said in a clipped tone.
“I’m trying to reach Alonzo Winslow’s mother and I was wondering if you might be able to help.”
“And who is Alonzo Winslow?”
I was about to say, Come on, Detective, when I realized I wasn’t supposed to know the suspect’s name. There were laws about releasing the names of juveniles charged with crimes.
“Your suspect in the Babbit case.”
“How do you know that name? I’m not confirming that name.”
“I understand that, Detective. I’m not asking you to confirm the name. I know the name. His mother called me on Friday and gave me the name. Trouble is, she didn’t give me her phone number and I’m just trying to get back in-”
“Have a nice day,” Walker said, interrupting and then hanging up the phone.
I leaned back in my desk chair, noting to myself that I needed to tell Angela Cook that the nobility I mentioned earlier did not reside in all cops.
“Asshole,” I said out loud.
I drummed my fingers on the desk until I came up with a new plan-the one I should have employed in the first place.
I opened a line and called a detective who was a source in the South Bureau of the Los Angeles Police Department and who I knew had been involved in the Winslow arrest. The case had originated in the city of Santa Monica because the victim had been found in the trunk of her car in a parking lot near the pier. But the LAPD became involved when evidence from the murder scene led to Alonzo Winslow, a resident of South L.A.
Following established protocol, Santa Monica contacted Los Angeles, and a team of South Bureau detectives intimately familiar with the turf were used to locate Winslow, take him into custody and then turn him over to Santa Monica. Napoleon Braselton was one of those South Bureau guys. I called him now and was flat-out honest with him. Well, almost.
“Remember the bust two weeks ago for the girl in the trunk?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s Santa Monica,” he said. “We just helped out.”
“Yeah, I know. You guys took Winslow down for them. That’s what I’m calling about.”
“It’s still their case, man.”
“I know but I can’t get a hold of Walker over there and I don’t know anybody else in that department. But I know you. And I want to ask about the arrest, not the case.”
“What, is there a beef? We didn’t touch that kid.”
“No, Detective, no beef. Far as I know, it was a righteous bust. I’m just trying to find the kid’s house. I want to go see where he was living, maybe talk to his mother.”
“That’s fine but he was living with his grandmother.”
“You sure?”
“The information we got in the briefing was that he was with the grandmother. We were the big bad wolves hitting grandma’s house. There was no father in the picture and the mother was in and out, living on the street. Drugs.”
“Okay, then I’ll talk to the grandmother. Where’s the place?”
“You’re just cruising on down to say hello?”
He said it in a disbelieving tone and I knew that was because I was white and would likely be unwelcome in Alonzo Winslow’s neighborhood.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take somebody with me. Strength in numbers.”
“Good luck. Don’t get your ass shot until after I go off watch at four.”
“I’ll do my best. What’s the address, do you remember?”
“It’s in Rodia Gardens. Hold on.”
He put the phone down while he looked up the exact address. Rodia Gardens was a huge public housing complex in Watts that was like a city unto itself. A dangerous city. It was named after Simon Rodia, the artist who had created one of the wonders of the city. The Watts Towers. But there wasn’t anything wonderful about Rodia Gardens. It was the kind of place where poverty, drugs and crime had cycled for decades. Multiple generations of families living there and unable to get out and break free. Many of them had grown up having never been to the beach or on an airplane or even to a movie in a theater.
Braselton came back on and gave me the full address but said he had no phone number. I then asked if he had a name for the grandmother and he gave me the name I already had, Wanda Sessums.
Bingo. My caller. She had either lied about being the young suspect’s mother or the police had their information wrong. Either way, I now had an address and would hopefully soon put a face with the voice that had berated me the Friday before.
After ending the call with Braselton I got up from my cubicle and wandered back into the photo department. I saw a photo editor named Bobby Azmitia at the assignment desk and asked if he had any floaters currently out and about. He looked down at his personnel log and named two photographers who were out in their cars looking for wild art-photographs unconnected to news events that could be used to splash color on a section front. I knew both of the floaters and one of them was black. I asked Azmitia if Sonny Lester could break free to take a ride with me down the 110 Freeway and he agreed to offer the photographer up. We made arrangements for me to be picked up outside the globe lobby in fifteen minutes.
Back in the newsroom I checked with Angela on the Open-Unsolved Unit story and then went over to the raft to talk to my ace. Prendergast was busy typing up the day’s first story budget. Before I could say anything he said, “I already got a slug from Angela.”
A slug and budget line were a one-word title for a story and a line of description that was put on the overall story budget so when editors gathered around the table in the daily news meeting they would know what was being produced for the web and print editions and could discuss what was an important story, what wasn’t, and how it should all be played.
“Yeah, she’s got a handle on that,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know I’m going to take a ride down south with a photographer.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing yet. But I may have something to tell you later on.”
“Okay.”
Prendo was always cool about giving me rope. Now it didn’t matter anymore. But even before I got the Reduction in Force form, he had always exercised a hands-off approach to reporter management. We got along pretty well. He wasn’t a pushover. I would have to account for my time and what I was pursuing. But he always gave me the chance to put it together before I had to bring him into the loop.
I headed away from the raft and over to the elevator alcove.
“Got dimes?” Prendergast called after me.
I waved a hand over my head without looking back. Prendergast always called that out to me when I left the city room to chase a story. It was a line from Chinatown. I didn’t use pay phones anymore-no reporter did-but the sentiment was clear. Stay in touch.
The globe lobby was the formal entrance to the newspaper building at the corner of First and Spring. A brass globe the size of a Volkswagen rotated on a steel axis at the center of the room. The many international bureaus and outposts of the Times were permanently notched on the raised continents, despite the fact that many had been shuttered to save money. The marble walls were adorned with photos and plaques denoting the many milestones in the history of the paper, the Pulitzer Prizes won and the staffs that won them, and the correspondents killed in the line of duty. It was a proud museum, just as the whole paper would be before too long. The word was that the building was up for sale.