Before they reached the parking lot, the ATF ASAC, Brady Cagel, pushed through the crowd and blocked the path. 'You people are way out of order,' he said.
'Get these assholes out of here,' Darren said. 'And you go with 'em. I won't have you guys at Emo's funeral.'
Two more sheriffs grabbed Brady Cagel. Then they half-pushed, half-dragged the entire SRT unit, plus their ASAC, down the steps and pinned them against some parked cars across from the church.
'Get out,' Darren Zook repeated. His voice thick with rage.
'I'm going to write this up,' Cagel said.
'Get out or get thrown out!'
'Let's go.' Cagel motioned his team to follow. Then he and his brother agents walked down the road to their cars, while almost two thousand pairs of eyes glared holes in their backs.
Emilio Rojas Jr.'s funeral started late. It was two thirty before the organ in the big church began to play. There were more than a thousand people who couldn't squeeze inside and were watching the service on two big- screen TVs. Alexa and Chooch had managed to get in and save me a seat near the back.
The LASD Chorus sang 'Ave Maria.' Emo's brother Miguel spoke about his brother as a boy, mentioned his sense of humor and how he always had a smile for everybody. His widow, Elana, sat quietly and listened, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Emo's six-year-old son, Alfredo, was beside her, ramrod straight, eyes brimming with tears, but somehow he kept them from running.
The service was a Catholic mass that seemed endless to me. After the coffin was blessed and sprinkled with holy water, ten Iron Pigs from the local chapter carried the box out of the church and slid it into the hearse for the short trip up the hill.
We followed the winding road to the grave site. Then the crowd gathered on the hillside while the family sat under sun tents for the political speeches. The governor, who hadn't known Emo, told us what an exceptional officer he had been, how bright and friendly. He said Emo was the gold standard by which all others would be judged.
Supervisor Salazar, who never knew Emo, talked about his courage on the job and how he represented the Mexican-American dream, how he had made a difference to his family and to his people, and how he would always be remembered.
Next came the command structure. Sheriff Bill Messenger, the diminutive head of LASD, spoke of valor under fire. Next to him stood Tony Filosiani. He was wearing his dress-blue LAPD chief's uniform. Four command stars gleamed on each of his wide shoulders. At five foot seven, two-hundred plus pounds, the chief of the LAPD was shaped like a blue lunchbox with medals. Because this was a sheriff's deputy's funeral, Tony had elected not to speak. The undersheriff spoke next. Then Captain Matthews offered a personal apology, because he had been in charge the day Emo died. His voice was choked with emotion. One by one they all came to the mike, standing erect in starched uniforms, their rank emblems glittering. They said Emo represented the brightest and best. Some of them searched for poetic metaphors. One commander from Ad Vice actually said that Emo reminded her of a California cactus: tough and dangerous on the surface, but sweet inside.
It was hot, and sweat started running down the back of my shirt. I couldn't help but think that Emo was up there shitting bricks over some of this. The cactus simile was priceless. Most of these testimonials were from people who wouldn't have taken the time to have coffee with him when he was alive.
Six officers on black-and-white police Electra Glides came over the hill in the Missing Man motorcycle formation, a V with an empty space in the corner. They rode across the grass slowly. Somebody released six white doves. A man I didn't know walked over to Elana and handed her the seventh. She kissed the dove on its back, then released it into the sky. We all watched as it flew away.
Next, the LASD Helicopter Air Unit did a flyby. Four Bell Jet Rangers passed low over the grave, then peeled off and climbed away in separate directions.
After Elana was handed the folded American flag, it was supposed to be over. People were starting to leave when Emo's last backup, Dave Brill, decided he had something to say. He had not been asked to speak, but stepped up and took the mike anyway. He looked frayed and empty, like a man whose soul had been leaking slowly out of him. He cleared his throat and the sound system barked loudly.
'I just wanted to say…'
He stopped and looked around at the politicians, who had turned back to face him but were stealing impatient looks at their watches-meetings to take, flights to make.
'Emo… Emo was…' Then Brill broke down and started crying. He sucked it up and tried again. 'Emo… I… I'm sorry. I… Y'see, we… At the academy, we…'
He couldn't continue. He faced the grave, his face contorted in pain. As he turned toward the speakers, the microphone squealed feedback. Dave Brill looked at the coffin, unsure now of how to get off or how to say what he felt. What he really wanted to tell Emo was how sorry he was that he hadn't been able to protect him. That he'd been sitting in the D-car doing paperwork, with his gun in his holster, when his friend died.
Overcome with grief and emotion, and using Emo's police call sign, he finally said the only thing he could think of: 'Godspeed, Thirty-Mary-Four.'
Then Brill laid the microphone on the coffin and walked away from the grave. The governor and most of the brass were already ten steps ahead of him.
God, I hate cop funerals.
Chapter 7
There were seven of us wedged in a back booth at the Pew and Cue on Barham Boulevard, four blocks north of Forest Lawn Drive. It was an hour after the service. We were supposed to be Emo's 'tights'-the guys who loved him most. Two were fellow motorcycle officers, Darren Zook and Dave Brill. Next to them, were Gary and Mike Nightingale from SEB. The Nightingale brothers were on the sheriff's Special Weapons Team that had been at Hidden Ranch Road. Their expressions were grave, carved from granite. I remembered the mission board I'd seen on the side of the truck. Gary was a long gun, Mike his spotter. In the corner was a deputy named Christine Bell and, across from her, Sonny Lopez. I sat at the end.
The Pew and Cue was small, dark, and crowded. Wooden tables and straight-backed wood pews lined the room. The barroom adjoined a pool hall, but none of our little group of mourners was shooting eight ball. We were there to drink and brood. Alexa had driven Chooch home. I was going to catch a ride back to Venice with Gary Nightingale who, it turned out, lived less than a mile from me.
Emo's last backup, Dave Brill, was pounding down scotch shooters, leading choir practice, telling an Emo war story. 'There was this time in the hills,' he was saying, 'him and me, up there cruising the twisties on Angeles Crest. We'd been riding for hours and were both getting sorta iron-assed, so we decide to go ten-ninety and crib for a while. So Emo turns and rides down this dirt road. We round a corner and, lo and behold, here's this fucking meth lab and fifteen armed shitheads with Harleys doing a drug deal outside a beat-up motor home. And I think, That's it, we're dust.' Y'know? But Emo just looks at these stringy haired SOBs, gets off his bike, walks up, smiles, and starts pitching them tickets to the Sheriff's Inner City Fundraiser, the kid's concert thing. Acting like that's the only reason we rode down there in the first place. These guys don't know if they're busted or not. But it's only ten bucks a ticket, so they figure it's cheaper than the grief they're gonna get shooting two deputies. Sold 'em two hundred dollars worth. Then Emo, he turns to this one ink-strewn asshole with an eye patch and he says, 'Hey, partner, this concert is gonna be Barry Manilow and elevator music. You guys are probably into bands like Tool or Rage Against the Machine, and won't go. But ya want, you can donate your ticket back. That way, we can send extra kids to the concert.' Then one by one, all of these guys are giving their tickets back. We ride out of there with two hundred dollars cash and we still got all the fucking concert tickets. Come back with twenty cops an hour later, hook 'em all up. The guy was amazing.'
The stories went on like that. Little by little, they were working the ache of Emo's passing out of their souls.
Gary and Mike Nightingale started talking about the shootout. 'That guy, Vincent Smiley,' Gary said, 'it really
