But thanks to all the good press I’ve generated for our little group, things have changed. The other sections and units have grudgingly come to admire, if not our work, then at least the way that the general public has come to know and respect us. I’m considered the media wizard, because I’ve vigorously lobbied the newspapers and electronic media, cultivated reporters and editors and producers, gotten them on our side, shown them what we do. And they’ve responded. CAY has been featured on the covers of Westways and Los Angeles magazines, and the California Law Enforcement Bulletin. (Of the actual CAY players, only Frances has been pictured because we do a lot of undercover stuff. Our media poster boy is actually Jordan Ishmael, who speaks as our supervising lieutenant but has no say in our day-to-day work.) We’ve gotten lots of positive airtime on the network and local news. Sixty Minutes has made some inquiring calls to me and Jim Wade. The Times and The Register and OC Weekly have all covered us favorably. We are proud of that coverage, and the department is proud of us. Other departments in the region have begun to create their versions of our little unit.
Mixed in with the early prejudice against us was something even uglier to me: people secretly believed that kid crime was small time. That, somehow, real cops fight real crime and real crime is crime that matters. Kid porn, so what? Child abuse, so what? Prostitution of minors, hey, it’s rare. I have a response to that, but it’s long and I might get worked up. I might think of guys like Chet, or The Horridus. The Irish in me again. But that prejudice is changing, thanks to CAY and the number of creeps we’ve collared, and the media smile we’ve gotten. I’ve already proposed a CAY budget twice as big as last year’s. If I’m reading the signals from Sheriff Wade correctly, it might even get approved.
Last, I’m not even sober, really. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I stopped waking up in places and not knowing how I got there. It wasn’t until then that I could go a day without consuming almost a fifth of tequila, plus a few beers (four, max). That was my life before I found a way to love this world after Matthew. But who knows — it might happen again, tonight.
So what gives? I don’t know and I don’t ask. But I do know that Jim Wade and the people closest to him are looking at me warmly, a warmth subtle and invigorating as the sunshine between storms. And I know this too: not one ray of it is lost on Ishmael.
The morning briefing began as usuaclass="underline" Sheriff Wade, Undersheriffs Woolton and Vega, Captain Burns, Lieutenant Ishmael, the three section leaders and five unit heads.
We commence at eight sharp. Jim Wade presides from the head of a long, cup-stained, wood-veneer table, but he usually lets Vega handle the group. The coffee machine is always going. There are narrow vertical windows in this conference room, and they look out over the parking lot and downtown Santa Ana, the county seat Except on clear winter days, there isn’t much to see. But the mood is usually brisk and optimistic. The purpose of the brief is to get everyone up to speed on the breaking cases, so that each section knows what its neighbor is up to. That, and to float ideas or beefs that can’t wait until the weekly meeting of section heads.
Four of the twelve others came over to shake my hand and offer good words on the Chet bust. Most of them had seen the CNB report and had to mention the comic way that exterminator Louis and dapper Johnny had stood there yapping to each other on camera behind Donna Mason, not realizing they were on.
“You’re gonna have to get those guys some media grooming, if you’re going to put them on the air so often,” said Burns, one of Sheriff Wade’s insiders.
“Least they weren’t drooling on Donna Mason,” said Undersheriff Vega.
“Probably dry by then,” said Undersheriff Woolton.
“Naughton takes care of media drool off-screen,” said Ishmael. “With Mason, anyway.”
“Just part of the job,” I said.
“You’re a hard worker,” he said.
“And look what I get for it,” I said, turning my blue-black, bandaged cheek toward him.
“You see Van Exel bump that ref last night?” said Rafter, head of Melinda’s unit.
“They’ll cook him for that,” said Woolton.
“Ten-hut,” said Vega. “Ish, why don’t you start us off with the CAP news.”
“You got it,” said Ishmael. “Congrats to Terry’s unit for the bust up in Orange. They’ll arraign Sharpe and the mommy later this morning over in court three, and I’ve got Reynolds asking for no bail on either. The Sharpes got Kleo Debelius for counsel — they’d obviously been saving up their money — and he’ll knock it down to half a mil or so. Higher the bail the better — we’re figuring the happy couple as a flight risk and hopefully Honorable Ogden will see it our way. Reynolds and I listened to the tapes last night, the ones we got out of Sharpe’s house, and they’re golden. Between Terry’s testimony and the tapes, Reynolds hopes to throw a large net — child abuse, child endangerment, sexual exploitation, pimping and pandering, enticement of minor, keeping or admitting to a house of prostitution — there’s plenty of sentence enhancements for under the age of fourteen, so they’ll heave the whole book at the Sharpes. We figure Debelius will plea down everything he can, but Reynolds says we’ll hold tight. Honorable would probably like to get some mileage out of this one — just like we would — he’s on the election block next year. Next, we just got the FBI profile of The Horridus, so—”
“—Excuse me, Jordan,” I said, “but what about the girl? Is Reynolds talking charges in juvenile court, or testimony?”
“Both. They’ll plead her, then slap her wrist and let her help send Mommy and Daddy up the river.”
“We’ve got some say in that, you know.”
Ishmael nodded impatiently. “Well, say it then, Naughton.”
“I don’t think we should prosecute her: Her parents made her what she was. She’s only ten, for Chrissakes.”
“Noble sentiment,” said Ishmael, “and I’m sure it would sound real good on CNB, but Reynolds needs some leverage. We can’t let her go, then expect her to sink her parents.”
“She’s not going anywhere but the hall, Jordan. That’s enough motivation for her to cooperate, I’d say. You been there lately?”
“She’s a prostitute,” said Ishmael, “juvenile or not.”
“Ish has a point,” said Woolton.
“She’s also a kid,” I said.
“Amen,” said Rafter. “Ought to be out playing girls’ hoops, but she’s cooped up turning tricks for her dad. Give her a break.”
“Well,” said Sheriff Wade, “is she a cooperative kid or not?”
“I’ll know this afternoon,” I said.
“Table it until then,” he said. “Ishmael, ask for a continuance over at Juvenile while we sort this out. See how the girl’s going to act. Terry, see me after the interview. Okay. Onward to the wholesome world of The Horridus. Naughton, what do we have?”
I passed out copies of the profile. It was a stripped-down version, without Mike Strickley’s opening or closing remarks. The room was quiet, with an occasional sigh or “mmm.”