“Fine. Look, Mom-”
“I’ll say it once and only once. If you’re going to date a shiksa, for God’s sake, make sure she’s not an avowed enemy of Israel.”
After hearing the phone click, I looked around. I was relieved that no neighborhood gangster was close enough to my car to hear me talking to my mother.
As I looked to the north and spotted the faint outlines of the Hollywood sign, I thought about the night with Nicole again. I wondered why she hadn’t returned my call. Now it was probably too late to see her this weekend. I reached for my cell phone and checked my home answering machine. But there were no messages.
Forty-five minutes later, a Toyota pulled up in front of Fuqua’s sister’s house. A woman climbed out of the passenger seat carrying a bag of chips and a six-pack of beer.
When she walked inside, I reached for my cell phone again. As I was calling my answering machine, I saw a man driving a Ford Explorer park in front of the house. I studied him through my binoculars: it was Terrell Fuqua.
I didn’t want to take the chance of rushing the house and losing Fuqua through a back window, so I called Duffy. “We got him. He’s at his sister’s house. I want some backup before I hit the door.”
“I’ll rustle up Ortiz and Graupmann. Both their partners are on vacation. We’ll be there in a flash.”
Fifteen minutes later, Duffy, Ortiz, and Mike Graupmann pulled up. I was irritated that Graupmann was part of the bust team, but it was too late to do anything about that now.
“Ash, you and I will hit the front door,” Duffy said. “Oscar and Mike will deploy in back.”
We slipped on our vests and windbreakers and walked to the house. I rang the doorbell. To my surprise, Fuqua answered the door. His head was shaved and his tight black T-shirt showed off his jailhouse buff. I could hear the blast of rap music from a CD player.
“Terrell, I’m Detective Ash Levine with the LAPD and this is Lieutenant Duffy. We’re here to talk to you about a case.”
“What case?”
“We’ll explain it all back at the station.”
“It’s my sister’s birthday. Why don’t y’all come back tomorrow and we’ll talk,” he said, with forced bonhomie.
I feigned surprise. “Your sister’s birthday? That’s terrible timing. Sorry, Terrell. But we need to talk to you today.”
I shouldered past Fuqua and stepped inside the living room, as Duffy followed me. Several women emerged from the kitchen and glared at us.
Fuqua waved his hands in front of his chest. “If you ain’t arrestin’ me, I ain’t goin’ no where, no how, no way.”
“As a matter of fact, we are arresting you,” I said.
“For what?”
“We’ll tell you all about it back at the station,” I said. “Now we can do this nice and easy, so you’re not embarrassed in front of your family. Or we can prone you out on the living room floor and carry you out by your cuffs.”
Fuqua staggered back a few steps, stunned. “What the fuck is this about?” he shouted.
“Like I said, we’ll talk about it back at the station,” I said.
Fuqua turned around and scanned the living room, looking for an escape route. Although he was rocked up from years of prison weightlifting, Duffy, who towered over him, spun him around as easily as if he was a mannequin. I cuffed his hands behind his back. We led him down the street while several women ran from the house and stood on the sidewalk, giving us the finger and shouting, “LAPD ‘necks. Motherfucking cops. White devils.”
When the detectives reached the car, Duffy said, “Oscar and I will drive back to the station. Ash, you ride with Mike.”
Duffy hopped in his car before I could protest. This was probably Duffy’s way, I figured, to ensure that we learned to work together: stick us in a squad car with Fuqua.
For most suspects I had arrested, climbing into the backseat of a squad car with their hands cuffed behind their backs was an awkward move. I usually had to put a palm on their shoulder and guide them. But Fuqua jerked away when I reached out for him. He had been cuffed and dropped into police cruisers so many times over the years that he knew precisely how to dip his head, turn half way, and slide into the backseat in a single fluid motion, as gracefully as an Olympic figure skater whirling through a double axel.
While I drove north on Normandie, Graupmann winked at me and turned around to face Fuqua. “You strike me as the kind of guy who likes a hairy pussy.”
Fuqua ignored him, staring glumly out the window.
Graupmann winked at me, leaned over the seat, and poked Fuqua in the stomach. “Well, do you?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well I like a hairy pussy. Makes me feel like I’m in a jungle. Makes me want to attack!” Graupmann roared like a lion. “Hey, Terrell, let me ask you another question. “You like to eat pussy?” Graupmann crossed his eyes and waggled his tongue.
Fuqua stretched, wincing when the cuffs bit into his wrists. “I don’t eat nothin ’,” Fuqua said, shaking his head, “that can get up and walk away.”
I checked my rearview mirror. Fuqua was staring at Graupmann, eyebrow raised, with an expression that seemed to say: top that, dickhead.
We rode the rest of the way in silence. When we walked through the squad room, Duffy called Graupmann and me over and whispered, “Ash, you and Mike handle the interview. Mike, this is Ash’s case. You’re just there to help out.”
Graupmann punched his open palm. “I say we knock and talk this fool.”
“Just let me handle the questions,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I need your help.”
I flipped on the video recorder and we entered the small, windowless interview room. The walls, the carpeting, and the hard plastic tables and chairs were battleship gray. Fuqua sat on one side of the table and Graupmann and I sat across from him. I walked behind Fuqua and uncuffed him. Then I removed my card from my wallet and set it on the table. “We want to talk to you about the murder of an ex-LAPD officer by the name of-”
“WHAT?” he shouted, jerking his head back.
“His name is Pete Relovich.”
Fuqua’s eyes were clouded with fear. “I din’t kill no motherfuckin’ cop.”
Graupmann leaned across the table toward Fuqua, until he was just a few inches from him, and shouted, spraying spittle at his face, “You’re a fucking cop killer!”
I grabbed Graupmann’s arm, pulled him away from Fuqua, and slashed an index finger across my throat.
“Okay, okay,” Graupmann said.
A street-wise ex-con like Fuqua was savvy enough to end the interview at any point and ask for an attorney; Graupmann’s approach just heightened that risk. I wanted to keep Fuqua talking, and the best way to do that was to approach him in a low-key manner.
The DNA in the Kleenex was enough to convince a deputy DA to file charges. But I’d arrested enough killers who walked after trial to know that I should never stop buttressing my case.
“I think it’s in your interest to talk to us, give us your side of the story,” I said. “But first I’ve got to read you your rights. After that, if you want to talk, we’ll be happy to listen.”
“I can’t believe this shit,” Fuqua said with disgust.
“Believe it,” I said. “I’m going to read you your rights now, so listen up. You have the right to remain silent. You understand that?”
Fuqua, who looked dazed, mumbled, “I’m trippin’. I can’t believe y’all layin’ this on me.”
“Please answer the question. You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything you say may be used against you in court. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
