Holman said, “Damn, this looks real.”
“Is real, bro. That’s a legitimate Cal state driver’s license number straight up in the system. You get stopped, they run that license through DMV, it’s gonna show you at your address with a brand-new driving record as of today. The magnetic strip on back? It shows just what it’s supposed to show.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Give me the keys to that piece of shit you been driving. I’ll have a couple of boys bring it back.”
“Thanks, Chee. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention my name to that cop, Holman. You keep me out of this.”
“You’re out of it, Chee. You were never in it.”
Chee put his hands on the Highlander’s door and leaned into the window, his eyes fierce.
“I’m just sayin’, is all. Don’t trust this woman, Holman. She put you in the joint once, bro. Don’t trust her.”
“I gotta go.”
Chee stepped back, watching Holman with disgusted eyes, and Holman heard him mutter.
“Hero Bandit, my goddamned ass.”
Holman pulled out into traffic, thinking he hadn’t been called the Hero Bandit in years.
16
HOLMAN ARRIVED fifteen minutes early and seated himself at a table with a clear view of the door. He wasn’t sure he would recognize Agent Pollard, but more importantly he wanted her to have an unobstructed view of him when she entered. He wanted her to feel safe.
The Starbucks was predictably crowded, but Holman knew this was one of her reasons for choosing it as their meeting place. She would feel safer with other people around and probably believed he would be intimidated by their proximity to the Federal Building.
Holman settled in, expecting her to be late. She would arrive late to establish her authority and to make sure he understood the power in this situation was hers. Holman didn’t mind. He had trimmed his hair that morning, shaved twice to get a close shave, and polished his shoes. He had handwashed his clothes the night before and rented Perry’s iron and ironing board for two dollars so he would appear as unthreatening as possible.
Holman was watching the entrance at twelve minutes after the hour when Agent Pollard finally entered. He wasn’t sure it was Pollard at first. The agent who arrested him had been bony and angular, with a thin face and light, short-cropped hair. This woman was heavier than he remembered, with dark hair to her shoulders. The longer hair was nice. She wore a straw-colored jacket over slacks and a dark shirt and sunglasses. Her expression gave her away. The serious game-face expression screamed FED. Holman wondered if she practiced it on the way over.
Holman placed his hands palms down on the table and waited for her to notice him. When she finally saw him Holman offered a smile, but she did not return it. She stepped between the people waiting for their lattes and approached the empty chair opposite him.
She said, “Mr. Holman.”
“Hi, Agent Pollard. Okay if I stand? It’d be polite, but I don’t want you to think I’m attacking you or anything. Could I get you a cup of coffee?”
Holman kept his hands on the table, letting her see them, and smiled again. She still didn’t return the smile or offer her hand. She took her seat, brusque and all business.
“You don’t have to stand and I don’t have time for the coffee. I want to make sure you understand the ground rules here-I’m happy you completed your term and you’re set up with a job and all that-congratulations. I mean that, Holman-congratulations. But I want you to understand-even though Ms. Manelli and Mr. Figg vouched for you, I’m here out of respect for your son. If you abuse that respect in any way, I’m gone.”
“Yes, ma’am. If you want to pat me down or anything, it’s okay.”
“If I thought you would try something like that I wouldn’t have come. Again, I’m sorry about your son. That’s a terrible loss.”
Holman knew he wouldn’t have long to make his case. Pollard was already antsy, and probably not happy she had agreed to see him. Cops never had contact with the criminals they arrested. It just wasn’t done. Most criminals-even true mental defectives-knew better than to seek out the officers who had arrested them, and those few who did usually found themselves rearrested or dead. During their one and only phone conversation, Pollard had tried to reassure him that the murder scenario the police described and their conclusions regarding Warren Juarez were reasonable, but she had had only a passing familiarity with the case and hadn’t been able to answer his torrent of questions or see the evidence he had amassed. Reluctantly, she had finally agreed to familiarize herself with the news reports and let him present his case in person. Holman knew she hadn’t agreed to see him because she believed the police might be wrong; she was doing it to help a grieving father with the loss of his son. She probably felt he had earned the face time for the way he went down, but the face time would be the end of her consideration. Holman knew he only had one shot, so he had saved his best hook for last, the hook he hoped she could not resist.
He opened the envelope in which he kept his growing collection of clippings and documents, and shook out the thick sheaf of papers.
He said, “Did you have a chance to review what happened?”
“Yes, I did. I read everything that appeared in the
“That’s what I want-to get your opinion.”
She settled back and laced her fingers in her lap, her body language telling him she wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. Holman wished she would take off the sunglasses.
“All right. Let’s start with Juarez. You described your conversation with Maria Juarez and expressed your doubt that Juarez would have killed himself after the murders, correct?”
“That’s right. Here’s a guy with a wife and kid, why would he kill himself like that?”
“If I had to guess, which is all I’m doing here, I’d say Juarez was huffing, living on crank, probably smoking the rock. Guys like this always get loaded before they pull the trigger. The drugs would contribute to paranoia and possibly even a psychotic break, which would explain the suicide.”
Holman had already considered this.
“Would the autopsy report show all that?”
“Yes-”
“Could you get the autopsy report?”
Holman saw her mouth tighten. He warned himself not to interrupt her again.
“No, I can’t get the autopsy report. I’m just offering you a plausible explanation based on my experience. You were troubled by the suicide, so I’m explaining how it was possible.”
“Just so you know, I asked the police to let me talk to the coroner or somebody, but they said no.”
Her mouth remained firm, but now her laced fingers tightened.
“The police have legal issues, like the right to privacy. If they opened their files, they could be sued.”
Holman decided to move on and fingered through his papers until he found what he wanted. He turned it so she could see.
“The newspaper ran this diagram of the crime scene. See how they drew in the cars and the bodies? I went down there to see for myself-”
“You went down into the riverbed?”
“When I was stealing cars-that was before I got into banks-I spent time down in those flats. That’s what it is- flat. The bed on either side of the channel is an empty expanse of concrete like a parking lot. Only way you can get down there is by the service drive the maintenance people use.”
Pollard leaned forward to follow what he was saying on the map.
“All right. What’s your point?”
“The drive comes down the embankment right here in full view of where the officers were parked. See? The shooter had to come down this drive, but if he came down the drive, they would have been able to see him.”
