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He had a backup plan. If they failed to put Quinn in the ground, and if the judge didn’t dismiss the case, he would simply speak to the government lawyers. He had plenty of information to exchange for his freedom. It wasn’t his first option, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.
Reggie, his driver, pulled into the parking garage closest to the courthouse. There was no available parking except on the top floor. Reggie backed in, got out, looked around, then opened David’s door.
They took the elevator to the bottom floor and exited on North Broadway. The courthouse was on the other side of the park. It was a pleasant day, though David would have preferred to be working. His business needed more of his time and attention since the raid in February.
His phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. Duncan. He almost didn’t answer, but Duncan might have important information—he’d supplied valuable information in the past.
“David Chen,” he answered.
“David, we’ve been in business together for several years now. We’ve made each other a lot of money. We’ve protected you. And yet...you would betray us.”
“Fool,” David said. “Why are you talking like this?”
“I have more friends than you.”
David ended the call and looked around.
“We need to leave,” he said to Reggie.
He turned to go back to the car and faced a man wearing a mask.
He had no gun because he was going into court.
Reggie pulled his gun too late.
Without hesitating, the gunman shot Reggie twice, then David three times.
David staggered back, fell to his knees, heard the screams of bystanders. Nearby he saw a girl, tall, skinny. She wasn’t looking at him; she was staring at the man who shot him. He reached out to her for help, tried to speak. No words came out. Through his darkening vision, he saw her run, as if through a tunnel.
He couldn’t breathe.
By the time he hit the cement, he was dead.
May
Five Months Ago
8
Traffic from Burbank to downtown Los Angeles wasn’t much better on Saturdays than during the work week, but at least it was (mostly) moving.
The first Saturday of the month, Will and his First Contact volunteers cleaned up a homeless camp. He brought in the supplies, worked with the city as best he could to provide extra trash receptacles. There were two goals of the monthly program: First was of course to pick up the garbage and drug paraphernalia. The second was to work one-on-one with each homeless person to get them into the right program. Will always picked a location where he’d already spent many months getting to know the individuals, so they would be more apt to listen to him.
The city should be running programs like Will’s, but they had their own way of doing things—and most of their programs failed. It made me angry, but I could do nothing except vent to Will, and he’d heard it all before. I wanted something to change; Will said he was making change and it had to be good enough. I looked at the billions of wasted dollars—yes, billions—and Will looked at the people he could save, and not who he couldn’t.
As Will always told me, the person needed to say yes. Some were homeless by circumstance; they were the easiest to assist. Some were homeless by choice. Some had tried to get clean before only to fail. Some had tried to get help, only to have hurdle after hurdle placed in front of them. Some had given up all hope and were just waiting to die.
Will was already there when I arrived at eight in the morning. He’d helped set up a table for juice and coffee, doughnuts and fruit—for both the volunteers and for the homeless. Will’s strategy was to enlist the help of the homeless community, and most were happy to have something productive to do. It enabled Will to continue building relationships, to listen to their stories.
Will was my height—five foot nine inches—with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He wore an army green T-shirt, the USMC tattoo on his bicep partly showing. He was talking to a small group of people, including Gina. I didn’t see her partner, Fletch.
“I don’t know what time the city will be here to replace the porta-potties,” Will was saying as I walked up, “but they assured me it would be this morning. Hi, Violet. Glad you could make it.”
I almost hadn’t come, and Will would have understood if I’d bailed. I’d seen my mother only a few times in the last two months. She recognized me, but she was still angry about our last conversation and refused to speak to me. For a drug addict who had killed half her brain cells, she could hold a grudge.
Toby was watching from his spot, his shopping cart still tied to his waist. I picked up a chocolate-glazed doughnut and a bottle of water and walked over to him, squatted in front of him so we were eye to eye. “Hi, Toby, it’s Violet. Remember me?”
He stared at me blankly.
