Then dodges back into the shade of the air conditioner.
The Raptor lifts off and climbs again, rising from the rooftop in a loose spiral and leaning toward Jesse and his team.
Daniela is pretty sure she gets it now.
There will be another smartphone and another.
Smartphones being even more valuable in prisons and jails than good dope, strong liquor, breakout saws, or weapons.
Phones are how inmates who haven’t seen the streets in years command them.
Such as Buendia’s Mexican Mafia royalty in Pelican Bay.
The Bloods and Crips in prisons and jails up and down the state, the nation.
The Aryan Brotherhood.
The Asian gangs in Los Angeles and Orange Counties.
Smartphones, often smuggled into correction centers by enterprising guards, crooked lawyers, crafty family and friends.
In this case, however, smuggled in by wannabe banger Jesse and his idiot friends, in the employ of Bishop Buendia.
Free phones to important gangsters.
Or for sale to anyone at two thousand a pop.
Felonies both.
Mendez smiles. It’s a bitter smile in her hard face but there’s mirth in it, too.
Over the next fifteen minutes, she watches her son pilot four more smartphones to the inmate slipping in and out of the shadows of the Men’s Central Jail roof.
“Jesse forgive me,” she whispers. “But maybe I can trade Buendia for you and your bonehead friends.”
She calls for backup, code red, no weapons on scene, tells Dispatch to run them in cold, no lights and sirens or we’ll lose them.
Flashes of botched arrests and excess force shoot through Daniela with the adrenaline. “God, he’s my son. Don’t hurt him.”
“The jail rooftop? Holy shit.”
Lulu turns in Daniela’s direction again, then she says something to Jesse, who ignores her, bringing the empty drone back from the jail.
Two minutes later, four Sheriff’s Department cruisers come up the ramp and onto the roof, running silent.
She waves them toward the Corolla even though it’s one of only three cars this high up, this late in the day.
Lulu pulls Jesse by the arm but he’s still got the Raptor in the air.
The radio cars sweep across the parking slots, spreading out and slowing as they near Jesse’s car.
Daniela strides toward Jesse with all of her considerable purpose and authority.
“Jesse! Lulu! Freeze!”
Flaco lumbers toward the stairs.
Six uniforms pile out, guns drawn.
Then two more, veering after Flaco.
Jesse faces the rushing deputies and lands the drone halfway between himself and them.
Sets down the controller and raises his hands.
As do the Dogtown boys.
Not Lulu, who raises something small and black and shiny, holding it away from her body.
Daniela sees that whether phone or gun, it really doesn’t matter, it’s enough to get her killed.
Jesse jumps and yanks the thing from Lulu’s hand, and in this moment Daniela knows he’s about to die. But Jesse stoops to backhand it across the concrete toward the closing deputies, the flat black phone skipping like a rock on a lake.
Flaco’s gigantic white Nikes plop loudly on the concrete as his right hand burrows into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Stop and down, big boy!” one yells. “Stop and get the fuck down!”
Flaco stumbles but doesn’t fall. Doesn’t stop as ordered, either. Can’t quite get his feet under him. Given his modest speed, he’s still a long way from the stairway.
“Freeze!”
He pulls the gun from his pocket and points it at the deputies, who unleash a roaring storm of bullets.
He backpedals and collapses. Butt-flops, then backslaps to the floor, arms and legs spread wide.
42
Grant Hudson sings like a mockingbird to Gale and Mendez in the interview room at Men’s Central Jail. They keep the donuts and Red Bulls coming, and Hudson will not shut up.
“Kevin tried to commission an exploratory dig years ago,” he says. “Based on some Juaneño legend of gigantic crystals underground, with magical light and powers. Some shit he read in fourth grade, studying the missions. Had no idea what it was. No dice from Tarlow Company on that nonsense, but Kevin still thought there might be something to it.”
Hudson then claims that once Elder learned what was down there — just a few weeks ago — he hired Vernon Jeffs to kill Tarlow. But he, Grant Hudson, had “absolutely nothing do with that,” except driving the car in which Elder and Jeffs negotiated the terms of a sixty-thousand-dollar hit.
Hudson says Elder hired a lawyer to write the mineral rights agreement signed by Tarlow Company’s managing partner, Hal Teller, and Elder Fund LLC, a shell company registered in Grand Cayman. Hudson is happy to give them the executed document, signed by Hal Teller and Elder.
“Anything, for my favorite detectives,” he says. “And, you know, for helping me plead down these hysterical and very untrue charges.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Mendez says, with a deadpan glance at Gale.
Hudson tells them the mineral rights agreement is in his personal safe-deposit box at Wells Fargo, and what it says is the Elder Fund will be paid 1 percent of Tarlow Company pretax revenue on the sale of lithium ore, crystals, and related materials for the remainder of Kevin Elder’s life.
“Tarlow Company agreed to a ten-million-dollar minimum per year,” says Hudson. “Once the mine is up and running. Paid quarterly. Hal Teller told us it would run a lot higher than that. Direct deposit.”
“Did Hal Teller green-light Elder to kill Bennet?” asks Gale.
“No,” says Hudson. “It was never discussed in that way. I could make something up if you want. But all Kevin and Teller talked about was that Wildcoast was Bennet’s baby, and Kevin would have to find a way to convince him that a huge lithium mine would be more profitable and less risky than a utopia for millionaires.”
“Enter Vern Jeffs and his great gray owl tale,” says Gale.
“Yeah,” says Hudson, pursing his lips. “Bennet was so smart but so naive.”
Two days later Hudson pleads not guilty on charges ranging from conspiracy to commit murder to destruction of private property — the fence around the oil pump — makes bail on Seventh District funds and returns to work just an hour later, where he is placed on paid administrative leave.
Gale and Mendez climb down the courthouse steps and into the dazzling Orange County sunlight.
“He’s dreaming,” says Mendez. “Knox won’t make a deal with him.”
“No, Knox would rather eat him alive at trial,” says Gale. “Great publicity in an election year.”
Gale walks Mendez to her car in the sheriff’s lot.
“How’s Jesse?”
“He’s talking to us about Bishop Buendia and the drones and phones.”
Gale nods, pondering this.
“Brave, but risky, fingering Buendia,” he says.
“Grand jury,” Mendez says. “Sealed testimony. No public disclosure.”
“We’re talking eMe and hundreds of street soldiers.”
“I know, I know. Big picture though, Jesse’s good, Lew. I’ve got a plan. I’ll fill you in later.”
“And how are you holding up, Daniela?”
“I’m exhausted.”
“Take a trip,” he says.
“I’ve got one planned.”
“You’ve earned it.”
“And how about you, Lew?”
“I have a trip planned, too.”
She smiles and climbs into the black Explorer SUV.
43
Jesse buries himself in his phone as Daniela heads up the freeway for Orange.