SUICIDE HILL
475
“Lloyd, it’s true. I’ve also heard that Fred Gaffaney has got a file on you. Nasty stuff, some sex shit you pulled when you worked Venice Vice.”
“That was fifteen fucking years ago, and I wasn’t the only one!”
Dutch said, “Sssh, sssh. I’m just telling you. I don’t know if Gaffaney is in with Braverton and McManus on this, but I know it’s all coming down bad for you. Retire, Lloyd. With your master’s, you can teach anywhere. You can do consulting work. You can—”
Lloyd screamed. “No!” and picked up the phone, then saw the framed photograph of his family on the nightstand and put it back down. “No. No. No. If they want me out, they’ll have to fight me for it.”
“Think of Janice and the girls, Lloyd. Think of the time you’d have to spend with them.”
“You’re talking shit, Dutch. Without the Job, there’s nothing. Even Janice knows that. So fuck ’em all except six, and save them for the pallbearers. See you in L.A., Captain Peltz.”
Dutch’s voice was soft and hoarse. “Until then, Sergeant Hopkins.”
Lloyd hung up and walked into the bathroom, cursing when he saw the daintily wrapped soap bars and his disposable razor crusted with shaving cream. Muttering “Fuck it,” he soaked a washcloth in cold sink water and wiped his face, then straightened his necktie, wondering why he always wore one, even when he didn’t have to. When he looked in the mirror, the answer came to him, and he prepared to do battle with the institution that had given him all of his nightmares and most of his dreams. At a stand of pay phones in the lobby, Lloyd found a copy of the San Francisco yellow pages and leafed through the A’s until he hit “Attorneys.”
Dismissing the shysters who had full-page ads mentioning their low rates and drunk-driving experience, he got out a pencil and notepad and started jotting down names and addresses at random, filling up half a page before he noticed Brewer, Cafferty and Brown at an address on Montgomery that was probably only a half dozen blocks from where he was standing. Again muttering “Fuck it,” he smoothed his necktie and walked there, jamming his hands into his pockets to keep from running.
The waiting room of Brewer, Cafferty and Brown was furnished in the old-line California style of leather armchairs and brass floor lamps; the photographs on the walls blew the sense of tradition apart. Lloyd walked in and knew immediately that chance had directed him to either the best or the worst law firm ever to be considered by a defendant in an interdepartmental police trial. 476
L.A. NOIR
Bobby Seale, Huey P. Newton and Eldridge Cleaver glared down at him, giving the clenched-fist salute; a group photo of the United Bay Area Gay Collective beamed down. Hanging over the reception desk was a purple wall tapestry with “Power to the People!” embroidered in the center, and beside it there was a photographic blowup of dozens of Oriental men in karate stances. Lloyd examined the picture, figuring it for an outtake from a martial arts movie. He was wrong; it was the Boat People’s Political Action Army. Sitting down to wait for someone to welcome him, he felt like he had been given the D.T.s without benefit of booze. After a few minutes, a tall black woman in a tweed suit walked in and said, “Yes, may I help you?”
Lloyd stood up, noticing the woman catch sight of the .38 strapped to his belt. “I came to see an attorney,” he said. “Your office was close to my hotel, so I came here.”
“Then you don’t have an appointment?”
The woman was staring openly at his gun. Lloyd took out his I.D. holder and badge and showed it to her. “I’m a Los Angeles police officer,” he said.
“I’m looking for an attorney to represent me at a police trial board. An outof-town lawyer is probably a good idea. I’ve got forty thousand dollars in the bank, and I’ll spend every dime to keep my job.”
The woman smiled and walked back out of the room. Lloyd held eye contact with Huey Newton until she returned and said, “This way, please, Mr. Hopkins,” and led him to an inner office. A pale man was sitting behind a desk reading a newspaper. “Mr. Brewer, Mr. Hopkins,” the woman said, then exited and closed the door behind her.
Brewer looked up from his paper. “L.A.P.D., huh? Well, we know they didn’t bring you up on charges of excessive force, because they don’t recognize that concept.” He stood up and extended his hand. Lloyd shook it, measuring the man’s words, deciding his abrasiveness was a test. “I like your office,” he said as he took a chair next to the desk. “Out of the low-rent district. You do a lot of oil-leasing contracts on the side, take down the pictures of the niggers when the fat cats come to call?”
Brewer filled a pipe with tobacco and tamped it down. “So much for light conversation. I don’t have to agree with a client’s ideology in order to represent him. Why are you getting a trial board?”
Lloyd forced himself to talk slowly. “The overall charge will probably be dereliction of duty. I’m currently on a six-week suspension, with pay. The