'You are under arrest for failure to appear as a material witness in a murder investigation.'
We cuffed him and Mirandized him while the pack of teenagers and paparazzi looked on.
'Leave my mate be!' the Aussie girl I recognized from his Christmas party yelled.
We ignored her and shoved Brooks into the back of the car as the photographers circled, gunning off shots with the Cottonwood Club in the background. The tabloid headline over these photos would undoubtedly be something cute like 'Heir Abhorrent Errs.'
Our detective car had the desired effect.
'Am I being arrested?' Brooks said, suddenly aware of his predicament. 'Whatta you doin'? I don't like this. I wanna leave.' He was protesting loudly as we drove away.
Men's Central Jail is no damn fun at all. Especially if you're a pudgy white guy wearing a T-shirt that says EAT SHIT AND DIE MOTHERFUCKER.
Despite his drug history, according to his yellow sheet Brooks Dunbar had never actually landed there before, having successfully used money and privilege to beat two possession beefs and one indecent exposure where he'd mooned sorority row at USC from the passenger seat of his dad's Ferrari.
Fifteen minutes later we were in the booking cage at the City Jail.
'For now he's being booked as a material witness on a seventy-two-hour hold,' I told the sergeant in charge as I filled out the paperwork. 'Put this guy in a dorm on the second floor.'
The sergeant ran the night shift at MCJ and started processing my paperwork. I wanted Brooks in a group cell so he could experience the full ambience of our facility.
'You cant do this!' he shrieked, standing in the center of an outlined box painted on the floor while his picture was snapped. He looked terrible. His hair was mussed and his eyes bleary. I thought if it were ever published, this shot would live in perpetuity on the Internet.
'I can t stay here!' Brooks wailed.
I didn't blame him. The jail was a foreboding place with sliding metal doors, chipped yellow paint, and the faint smell of vomit mixed with desperation.
'I warned you, Brooks. You should ve come to my office when you had the chance. Now we do it this way.'
After he was processed Hitch and I left him with the booking sergeant and went to a restaurant across the street to get a cup of coffee. As we walked, I could feel the Santa Anas growing in strength. The trees on Bauchet Street were beginning to rustle in the desert wind. We went into the coffee shop and took a booth. After the waitress poured, we sat back and pondered our options.
'How long you want to keep him up there?' Hitch asked.
'He's not very tough. An hour ought to do it. We also need to get an ADA to chase us down a broad search warrant for both the house and yard at Skyline Drive. We need somebody who won't give us up if the pressure builds.'
'I got just the one.' Hitch smiled. 'Frieda Wilson. She's been on the DA's staff for a year and she's got a huge case on the Hitchmeister.'
An arrogant remark, but somehow Sumner Hitchens had the charm to get away with it. He dialed a number, then turned away and had a quiet conversation on his phone with someone, which included some whispered nuances before he finally disconnected.
'Frieda has a judge who will write it blind if she promises not to release the warrant without signed authorization from the primary property owner, which would be our man, Brooks. She said she'd be here in an hour.'
'That works.'
After three quarters of an hour had passed I said, 'Lets see if Brooks feels any better about cooperating with our investigation now.'
We went back over to the PAB and checked in with the booking sergeant, who told us he'd put Brooks into 2 -15, an Erne gang car on the second floor.
I wanted him in a group cell but I wasn't sure he should be put into a cell with a bunch of Mexican Mafia. We followed the sergeant quickly into the elevator and rode up. As soon as I stepped out into the cell block, I could hear Brooks whining or whimpering. When we rounded the corner on our way to 2-15, we heard a slap followed by a squeal.
'Leave me alone. Please!' Brooks pleaded. 'I can pay you money. My dad's a billionaire.' Something you probably don't want to confide to a cell full of extortionists.
We stepped in front of the barred door and saw Brooks against the wall, surrounded by three Hispanic bangers, each with a large '18' tattooed on the back of his neck, indicating they were from the Mexican Mafia's hardened 18th Street gang.
'Hey ese, ease up. Don't go committing no assault on my arrestee,' Hitch said sharply.
The gangbangers turned away from Brooks as the sergeant from the booking cage pulled out his keys and let the terrified Heir Abhorrent out.
Once he was in the corridor I saw he had a puffed lip from getting smacked around. Tears were wet on his cheeks.
Hitch and I led him into one of the I-rooms off the jail corridor and closed the door behind us. I took out my cuffs, and for effect, locked him to the ring on the table.
'What are you doing? What re you doing?' he squealed hysterically, pulling back. But once chained up, he wasn't going anywhere.
'How come you didn't come to my office?' I began. 'You need to give me a good reason.'
'Be… be… because,' he stammered.
Hitch leaned forward. 'Because is not a reason. We're looking for an action word here, Brooks. 'Because' is a conjunction.'
'I had things to do.'
'So, for no stated reason, you hampered and delayed our triple homicide investigation, keeping us from doing our job?' I said. 'Don't you want us to solve this? You aren't somehow involved, are you?'
'No! Of course not. How could I be involved? I have an alibi. I was at my Christmas party. You already know that. And of course I want you to do your job.' Brooks sniffled. 'I'm very pro-police.'
'Doesn't seem that way,' Hitch said.
'I am, I really am!' he pleaded.
'How are you getting along with Stender Sheedy Senior?' I asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Now real anger flared. 'I hate that fucker. He works for my father. Asshole made me fly all the way back from Amsterdam once 'cause he needed my signature on some stupid document that needed to be notarized.'
'How 'bout Junior?'
'Sten is okay. He's a tight-ass, but he gets me stuff.'
'Those two haven't exactly been helping me and my partner either,' I said.
'Nope,' Hitch agreed. 'Makes us want to take it out on somebody.
Since you're handy I'm thinking we should park you in this jail 'til like, say, Easter. How's that sound?'
'No! No, please! Please don't!' he wailed. 'Whatever the problem is, I can fix it, but you've got to let me outta here tonight. Those guys in that cell scare the shit outta me.'
'Maybe you should stop wearing T-shirts that insult people,' Hitch suggested.
'I'm not so sure we can just fix this,' I said. 'This isn't the Bel Air Country Club. You're not in here for throwing up in the pool. This is a triple homicide. Took place on your property. Until you convince us otherwise, we gotta assume you're part of it.'
'I'm not! I promise you. What do you need? I'll do anything. Please!'
He was leaning forward. Tears again began to well in his eyes.
'I don't know.' I looked over at Hitch. 'What do you want to do?'
'I don't know,' he said in deep theatrical thought. 'I'm torn.'
'Me too.'
'Please! Just tell me what you want. I'll do anything. Just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll make sure it's done,' Brooks whimpered.
'Okay,' I said, rubbing my chin. 'So here's the problem. In order for us to clear you, we need to make sure
