Where to Choose Page 7

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and blew on them, achieving momentary warmth, and continued the task of entering almost forty years of information she’d collected into the laptop computer that was as much her companion these days as her tiny cellular phone.

  She had been gratified to confirm that Arthur Jennings had not in any way defrauded Enrique Jamilla. Half a dozen sources of infor­mation were required for that confirmation, but Carole Ann even­tually was able to piece together the facts that supported her knowledge of the history of Jacaranda Estates.

  Jennings and Jamilla had met in the early 1950s while working on the same construction site and had become friends. Both also had been isolated and ostracized by the other workers—the Blacks be­rated Jennings, a carpenter and painter, for hanging around with a wetback; the Mexicans berated Jamilla, a bricklayer and paper- hanger, for fraternizing with a nigger.

  Both bore the ridicule in stoic silence until, one day while eating lunch together, Jamilla demanded of his friend, Jennings, to state the difference between a wetback and a nigger. According to the newspaper clipping in the archives, Jennings looked from the con­tents of his lunch box to the contents of Jamilla’s lunch box, and replied, “It is the difference, my friend, between red beans and rice and tortillas for lunch and black-eyed peas and rice and cornbread for lunch.”

  The friendship between the two men solidified in that moment, and grew into a partnership. They formed their own construction company—J and J Contracting—and, riding the tide of wild growth and development that characterized Los Angeles during that time, became wealthy. They pooled their savings and, over the objections of both their wives, bought eleven acres of land in an undeveloped section of the western part of Los Angeles. That was in 1955. They began building houses a year later—houses with a mission, houses with a purpose. They built only duplexes and triplexes, which neces­sarily required an unavoidable physical proximity between and among neighbors. All of the units had two, three, or four bedrooms, two or two and a half bathrooms, and a den or family room, both to accommodate the large families preferred by Blacks and Mexicans, and to offer their own people the basic luxuries usually denied them by other home builders.

  Cobblestone walkways linked the clusters of houses and led to covered carports. There were no fences at Jacaranda Estates in those early years, and the wide and welcoming expanses of grass were natural playgrounds for children and gathering places for adults. Jamilla and Jennings would sell the units only to Blacks and Mexicans, at a reasonable and affordable rate. But with a caveat: Blacks and Mexicans would be required to live next door to each other and to learn about each other. And only those persons agree­ing, in writing, to those terms were allowed to buy into Jacaranda Estates.

  Carole Ann had succeeded in locating the original bill of sale for the eleven acres of land to J and J Contracting, the original land­scape and architectural plans, photo static copies of the transfer of many of the original titles and deeds, including those of her par­ents, Mitchell and Grayce Asher Gibson; of Charles and Roberta Williams Lawson; of Angelique Arroyo de la Cruz; and all of the signed agreements by the original inhabitants to adhere, in spirit and action, to the principles of friendship and understanding, and the codicil requiring that all subsequent residents adhere to those principles. She found no documentation of any kind relating to Hector and Luisa Nunez.

  J and J Contracting grew and thrived until 1986, when, at the age of sixty, Enrique Jamilla suffered a massive stroke and died. Arthur Jennings sold J and J Contracting to a construction conglomerate for several million dollars and retired. And that is when the contro­versy commenced. The altruism of Jennings and Jamilla did not cloud their business sense; they sold the individual housing units in Jacaranda Estates, but they retained ownership of the land itself. Upon his death, it was discovered that Jamilla had bequeathed his interest in the Jacaranda Estates land and in J and J Contracting to his partner, Arthur Jennings. His family received other investments and funds worth several million dollars, but they wanted Jacaranda and they wanted J and J Contracting. They sued for it. They lost. And that is how it happened that a Black man owned the land upon which Jacaranda Estates existed, on the current market worth tens of millions of dollars. And the bad feeling had existed within the Mexican community ever since.

  What Carole Ann could not do was isolate the source of this feel­ing. It seemed not to emanate from the Jamilla family; indeed, she’d found no mention of the man’s widow or of his two sons and two daughters since they failed in their court action. They appeared to have accepted the judgment and moved on with their lives. There were several brief clippings from community newspapers about a group called Dame Que Es Mio—“Give Me What’s Mine”—that seemed to have formed in the wake of the Jamilla lawsuit, and then fizzled when its organizers failed to garner support either from the Jamilla family or from the Mexican power structure in L.A. State­ments from the spokespersons of a couple of Hispanic pride groups alluded to an unwillingness to coalesce with other racial groups, but Carole Ann could find no indication that any of those groups had embarked on a mission to reclaim land belonging to the original na­tives of California.

  She also could find no trace of Arthur Jennings and his family since the settlement of the lawsuit. The last mention of him was a quote from The Los Angeles Times in which he expressed sadness and regret that his friendship with Enrique Jamilla should have resulted in litigation, and his belief that Enrique would be as hurt by the sit­uation as he was himself, followed by a statement issued through his attorney that Jennings was relieved that the proceeding had ended, and that he would have been satisfied with the judge’s ruling, no matter what. And not another mention of the man.

  Carole Ann did locate information that in early 1990, manage­ment of Jacaranda Estates had been assigned to a professional property management company, but she could find no current listing for that company. She made notes to herself to track it down; to check birth, death, and marriage records for the Jamilla and the Jennings names; to check property transfer lists; to check the tax assessor’s records; to check the various agencies of the criminal justice system. And she made a note to determine why there existed no record of Hector and Luisa Nunez’s residency at Jacaranda Estates.

  Then, as had become her habit, she compiled a detailed report of her activities for Jake Graham. She included every fact and every detail, and her every thought and reaction to those facts and details. She also made a copy of every document, and sent Jake the originals. The entire process had consumed a week since her return from Sacramento, and she was relieved when it was completed. She en­joyed a feeling of lightness as she exited the Federal Express office, knowing that tomorrow Jake would know as much as she knew— and didn’t know—about why three murders could have occurred within a tiny oasis of civility in a violent city.

  She had developed a dependence on the gnarly detective. She trusted him. She felt safe knowing that she had a support system, and was instantly surprised and gratified by that understanding: She no longer was a lawyer without the safety net of a high-powered law firm to support her; she was a lawyer backed by an international in­vestigation and security company. Muscle. She had muscle and she liked the feeling.

  Imagining Jake’s and Tommy’s reaction to being considered her “muscle” sustained Carole Ann on the stress-producing diagonal drive across Los Angeles. Tommy would grin and flex his pectorals and instantly claim the sobriquet. Jake would frown, growl, mumble something about it being undignified, and be as secretly pleased as Tommy was outwardly pleased. She ungrudgingly shared the good feeling with the unease that came with not having solutions to what should not be problems: The whereabouts of Arthur Jennings and his family, the name of the entity that paid taxes for the land beneath Jacaranda Estates, the proof that Luisa and her family al­ways had lived there—dammit! Carole Ann chastised herself. She need only check Luisa’s address against the tax rolls to ascertain that she paid annual taxes on the place. A first
-year law student pos­sessed such basic common sense.

  Carol Ann still was marveling at her own stupidity when she turned into Harriet Tubman Drive and punched the automatic garage door opener, and she spent a long three or four seconds won­dering why the million-watt spotlight her mother had installed on the garage roof didn’t illuminate the entire yard when the garage door lifted. Then she saw the figures in her headlights as they fran­tically sought the cover of darkness, and messages and signals jumbled in her brain and she drove the car over the curb and across the grass, directly toward them. It was still in motion when she jumped out.

  She kicked the first one on the run, with the side of her foot, per­fectly placed at the end of a perfectly executed turn. The blow landed on the right side of his face and he went down hard and fast. She didn’t have to change direction for the second one. She grabbed his arm with her right hand, twisted, turned, and dropped him to his knees. She stood over him and in some part of her consciousness was wondering what to do when he punched her in the stomach. All rea­son fled and, propelled totally by instinct, she hit him three times—twice in the neck and once in the chest and when he dropped, she knew he was dead. That’s what Robbie had said was the sole pur­pose of the maneuver. To kill. She stood quickly and looked around, looking for another one. There had been three of them, she thought. Three forms captured in the glare of her headlights. Unless the third figure had been her mother....

  And then she heard the sound that threatened to destroy her spirit: The moan and cry that was her mother in pain.

  She ran to the garage and knelt beside Grayce and gathered her in her arms and wept when her mother cried out in agony. Carole Ann was lifting her when Angie careened around the side of the building waving a bat in one hand and a wide-beam flashlight in the other. She dropped both when she spied the tableau, and rushed to help Carole Ann carry Grayce into the house and to the living room sofa. Then Angie placed a hurried call to Roberta providing sketchy but pertinent details, and returned to assist Carole Ann in caring for Grayce.

  What she found was mother caring for daughter. Angie was mo­mentarily confused by the sight of Carole Ann out of control—a cry­ing, screaming, shaking, cursing Carole Ann. Angie had known and observed this woman since her infancy and had never, even when Carole Ann was badly injured as a child, seen her on the verge of hysteria. She was further confused by the sight of Grayce badly damaged, and struggled against losing control herself.

  Roberta’s almost immediate arrival served to restore rationality. Carole Ann obeyed Roberta’s order to get a grip on herself and to get the first aid supplies from the bathroom. Angie obeyed Rob­erta’s order to boil water and to make ice packs. Grayce obeyed Roberta’s order to let it all out and wept tears of fear and anger and pain and gratitude.

  Roberta supervised the cleansing of Grayce’s wounds and the placement of ice packs where bruises and swelling were manifest­ing, cursing under her breath all the while. She cursed every social, cultural, and technological novelty of the past generation, and the role it played in leading to the attack on Grayce. And as she was making a pot of herbal tea, she finally cursed Luisa, which halt­ed all other activity and momentarily even superseded Grayce’s pain.

  “I am sick and tired of her foolishness! She’s been acting like a pure jackass for the last two weeks and I am sick of it! Where the hell is she! I called her as I was walking out and told her to get over here now because something bad had happened to Grayce. How long could it take, even for Luisa!” Roberta ran out of words and breath at the same time, and slammed the cup on the counter so hard it shattered. “Goddammit!” Ceramic splinters and shards flew up and then quickly down to the floor, as if in a hurry to be out of the way of such fury.

  Grayce struggled to her feet. “Bert! Bert!”

  Roberta looked up in time to see Grayce sway and slump. By the time they revived her, Roberta had calmed down and regained con­trol of herself and of the situation, and Luisa had arrived, breathless and frightened.

  “Luisa, help Carole Ann with the ice packs and the bandages— Grayce, you might need a stitch or two over your left eye—and Angie, you come with me.” She was down the hall and out the door before Angie registered the command and caught up.

  “Bert, wait! Roberta Lawson, do you hear me!” Ire and a raised voice from Angie was an attention getter and Roberta stepped off the cobbled path into the grass and waited for her to catch up.

  “Where are you going?” Angie hissed.

  “To see if she killed ‘em,” Roberta hissed back, and swung around the side of the house. Angie quick-stepped behind her, caught up, and grabbed her arm.

  “What are you talking about? Stand still and make sense.”

  “Carole Ann kept screaming that they were dead, that she’d killed them. Didn’t you hear her? And they sure as hell were laying out there when I first got here. And C.A.’s car was open and the mo­tor was running and the garage door is standing wide open. Now, will you come on?”

  Angie followed Roberta around the side of the house to find her flashlight and bat lying where she’d dropped them. The silver Benz was still open and running, the interior light casting a mellow glow on the surrounding area, exposing the gaping garage and Grayce’s Chrysler, the contents of the two bags of groceries she had been car­rying, and an inert form. Angie picked up her flashlight and shone it on the body, then she swept the area with the light. There was only one body. And it was not alive. They stood looking at it, one of them filled with sorrow, the other filled with rage, and both emotions springing from the same well: The realization that Grayce might well be the corpse had Carole Ann not arrived when she did.

  Roberta slid behind the wheel of the Benz, shut the door, engaged the gear, and the luxurious beast eased itself forward into the garage. She pushed a button on the wall and hurried out as the door began its slow, rattling descent. Then she helped Angie finish gath­ering the scattered groceries, hurriedly stuffing everything into plastic bags.

  “You know we have to move him,” Roberta said quietly, no emo­tion in her voice.

  “No, I don’t know that!” Angie snapped back, equally quietly but oozing emotion. “Move him where? And why? And how? Dead people are heavy.”

  “Out there, behind the garage, so it’ll look like he came from Pancho Villa Drive and not from Grayce’s. And we’ll have to carry him, Angie, you and me.”

  “I’m not carrying a dead person anywhere! And why should we, Bert? We haven’t done anything wrong! Carole Ann saved her moth­er’s life! She doesn’t have anything to hide from and we don’t either.” Roberta moved in closer to Angie and put her face inches from her friend’s face, eyes locked in the darkness. “You’re trying to make sense, Angie, in a place where there is no sense. Nothing that’s happened here in the last six months makes any sense and you know that! Don’t you, Angie?”

  “We should call the police, Bert.”

  “And tell ‘em that Carole Ann killed the bastard that was killing her mother? And oh, by the way, Officer, I killed another one of ‘em a couple of weeks ago? Think they’ll let me and C.A. be cellmates? Think they’ll let my grandchildren visit me in the slammer? Think it’s better for my grandchildren to visit me in the slammer than out at the cemetery?”

  Roberta inhaled deeply, filled her depleted lungs, leaned over, and lifted the feet of the dead man. She raised her eyes to Angie’s face and was surprised to see tears flowing, fast and heavy. Angie heaved a heavy sigh that lifted and dropped her shoulders. She sobbed once, then leaned over, grabbed the dead man under the shoulders, and began backing up, around the garage, toward the expanse of grass that led to the adjacent street.

  Angie gestured with her head over her left shoulder. “See that rise there? There’s a culvert beneath it. We can put him there.” She was breathing heavily, and still crying.

  Roberta nodded, opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. The gentle downward sloping of the land propelled them forward and they scurried the last fe
w feet to the place where, as Angie had said, the land then rose gently before dropping off into a drainage ditch. When they reached the place, Angie immediately released the dead man and walked away, leaving Roberta to roll him down the embankment. She hurried to catch Angie, who now was run­ning. Each of them grabbed a grocery bag and Angie picked up her flashlight, pointing to the bat, which Roberta retrieved. They both were running by the time they charged into Grayce’s front door. “Where have you two been?”

  “We’ve been terrified!”

  “Angie! Why are you crying?”

  “And you’re both out of breath!”

  Angie and Roberta refused comment until they satisfied them­selves that Grayce was alive and that she would, in time, be well. She was stretched out on the sofa, her head in Carole Ann’s lap, and she struggled to sit upright. Carole Ann lifted her shoulder and Grayce cried out in pain. Roberta and Angie each took a hand and pulled her up to a sitting position. Once again she swayed, but maintained consciousness. Bruises and contusions had totally dis­colored her face, and her left jaw was swollen like she had the mumps. Blood still oozed from the laceration above her left eye, and her top lip was split. An ice pack hid the lump on top of her head. She tried to speak and could not.

  Roberta sat on the other side of her and Angie sat on the floor at her feet. They touched her gently and whispered soothing words, as if to a child. They wept together quietly and then, as if cued, simul­taneously looked up and across the room toward Luisa, who sat rigidly in one of the dining room chairs, staring at them, her lips moving silently.