Hollywood Nights

By Jerry Minton

L.A.P.D. Hollywood division officer has just successfully managed to attain her goal... to graduate from the very tough Los Angeles Police Academy. She has now realized her second goal I.E; making it through her one-year probationary period as a rookie cop, but nothing has prepared her for the wild ride that she was about to embank on as a Hollywood beat cop.

Morally, inherently Ashley knew she must do the right thing especially in light of the recent world-wide department embarrassing incidents, I.E.; the Rodney King incident, and the O.J. Simpson affair. Ashley knew that she had to disclose the evidence she'd stumbled onto. Now she grapples with the agonizing decision that would certainly incriminate her partner if true, and which at the same time would restore public confidence in a department that had unwittingly characterized itself as the poster-boy for the "Code of Silence" foundation.

In the rough-and-tumble world of a L.A. street cop, a young officer can get chewed up by the system and spat out in a heartbeat if he or she has bad timing or just plain old bad luck... many a young officer's tombstone will attest to that! Now meet... "One tough Cop" one that got chewed up by the system, but instead of being spat out she fought back and made the system choke on it instead. She steadfastly refused to be just another victim of that system, or just another dead cop... in doing so she became a department legend and hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483567525

Book preview

XVII

CHAPTER I

Officer Tommy Adams sat at his desk inside of LAPD’s Hollywood Division’s Detective Bureau, listening to his name being loudly disseminated over the station’s public address system. Officer Adams, you have a call holding on line three. Why didn’t they just route his call through to the detective’s front desk, like they there supposed to? he wondered. Then he remembered the captain had recently implemented a new harebrained program, where as part of their training, a rookie cop would temporarily be assigned to the front desk—what stupidity! Realizing with certainty it was likely one of the rookie’s pudden-head screw-ups for the day tempered his anger slightly. It was a wretched place to send a rookie cop for some remedial training; even for seasoned officers, some days were a trial by fire. Learning to work at the front desk of one of the nation’s busiest police stations with any kind of proficiency was a real bitch.

Officer Adams, Hollywood detectives, can I help you?

You bet you can help.

Dave, where you at?

In the field, driving in circles, bored out of my goddamned mind—where’d you think I was? We’ve got to meet at the office this evening…it’s important.

Weird, I was just now calling to ask you the same thing. You beat me to it.

Getting fuckin’ jittery, partner, Dave said nervously.

Just calm down. I’ll see you there at five, okay? Chill, big guy.

Okay, but I’m not going to stop worrying anytime soon, big shot.

You know as well as I do that we can’t talk on city lines; they’re all recorded! Adams reminded him.

I know, I know.

Got to go; see you this afternoon.

Adams wondered if he’d made a mistake by inviting Dave to join in his private enterprise. He was like a brother to him, maybe even closer than most brothers. They had met in the US Marine Corps, and had even gone through boot camp together; basic training at Parris Island, South Carolina. That’s where the similarity stopped; in fact, they were exact opposites. Dave was a disorganized creature, living each day as if it were his last. but they did have another thing uniquely in common: Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. It had been brought on by the war in Vietnam. Both had witnessed inhumane atrocities, and had participated in nightmarish hand-to-hand jungle combat. As a result, they were both being treated for this stress-related syndrome as outpatients at the huge West Los Angeles Veterans Administrations Hospital, better known as the Westwood V.A. Hospital.

Dave’s syndrome had manifested itself in different ways than had Adams’, according to the doctors that were treating them. He’d been through three marriages since returning home and joining the LAPD His heavy consumption of alcohol was another ailment that plagued him, and most certainly contributed to his failed marriages. It had contributed to his drunk-driving arrests, which in turn had resulted in his departmentally imposed participation at the local Alcoholics Anonymous fellowship. In the eighteen years of seniority that he’d accumulated, he’d been constantly in and out of trouble with the department brass. Internal Affairs Division knew him well. He was a sergeant’s nightmare, to put it bluntly—the major league stuff: excessive force to effect arrests, falsifying police reports, planting evidence, beating the hell out of people he’d arrested, just to name a few…all under the color of authority.. It didn’t take much to provoke him. Dave had a hair-trigger; the slightest thing would set him off. Like the time he smacked around his common-law girlfriend. It resulted in the dispatch of authorities to his residence, which led to his arrest for misdemeanor spousal battery.

Then the small stuff, minor league capers: cursing traffic violators, failing to attend court, failing to qualify at the pistol range. Two years ago, a divisional captain had ordered him to attend weekly counseling sessions with a department psychologist. They were trying to help him instead of terminating him; it was a last-ditch effort on their part.

On separate occasions, Dave’s captain, in conjunction with the department’s psychologist, recommended and ordered him to the rubber-gun squad. During these non-gun-carrying periods, he was assigned to the front desk, of all places, where he’d answer phones and complete citizens’ walk-in crime reports, all while he attempted to stay out of trouble.

In his continuing law enforcement career, Dave had logged almost a complete year of suspension days—a dubious record that no other cop was rushing forward to claim. For the uninitiated, suspension was basically the same as being laid off: no pay or benefits, no badge, no police identification card, no gun, and a large black mark on your personnel package that would follow you for the rest of your entire career.

In his heart, Adams knew it had been a bad idea to include Dave, but he had to, plain and simple. They’d walked through hell together in Vietnam while carrying buckets of gasoline in each hand; this time would be no different. He could be counted on when the brown stuff got deep, as it had in ‘Nam on many occasions, in the process saving his life more than once in jungle firefights with the Vietcong. It was a daily struggle to stay alive while in combat—the stress was enormous. He was indebted to Dave for that. It was different—big-time different—now that they were Los Angeles Police Officers and they were committing felonies, ones that would get them serious prison time, if caught. He thought maybe Dave wasn’t the one overreacting and being too worried; was he just reacting normally? Adams wondered if he was the one who should be worried. He was beginning to question his own sanity. State prison really didn’t sound that good. Come to think of it, how would his wife, Karen, and his kids handle the humiliation that certainly would be dropped into their laps?

He knew Dave was policing the streets like the old dinosaur cops had some twenty-odd years before: hook, book and kick ass. The department had made great strides since then in the area of human relations and understanding, although it couldn’t take the police against the rest of the world intellect out of the equation. It had been there since the very beginning of the concept of the police department. There were two groups—the police, and everyone else. Every day the two groups went to war in urban areas and rural farmlands across America.

All you had to do was deal with people in a cordial fashion; it really doesn’t take any more time, and if a street cop talked to them in a decent manner, maybe—just maybe—they’d harmonize, and the contact would be one of a positive nature. Although if you disrespected them and treated them like an idiot just for the sake of treating them like an idiot, you were ensured belligerence—Dave never learned that lesson.

With this in mind, Adams realized now he had to be more vigilant, keeping a closer watch on Dave, and that he needed to monitor the operation more guardedly or they’d both be apprehended before they even had a chance to get started.

From Adams’ point of view, he conceptualized that he was certainly one of the most accepted officers in the whole division, and rightly so. That’s probably how he got away with most of the things that he did in the first place. He just assumed everyone in Hollywood Division loved him, each and every one of them. He was the bagman for the division, meaning he procured everything for the officers—every division had one. He could get anything they wanted, and if he couldn’t, at least he knew where it was attainable. It didn’t matter what it was—a new suit, a laptop computer, Lakers tickets—he would always come through. This service was rendered for the blue-suiters, as well the divisional brass. All of the cops would go straight to him first. He could always be counted on, of course. They’d all look the other way, keeping their mouths shut; the less you knew, the better. Most of them had no idea that he was just skirting the bounds of legality on most of the things he was procuring for them. Ignorance was bliss; most just thought it was Mickey Mouse stuff and looked the other way. It seemed lately, though, that the more he had gotten involved in, the more it grew exponentially in criminality. That concerned him. It was definitely getting out of control. He'd set up the pool service over a year ago as a front covering his illegal business ventures: prostitution, insurance fraud, and residential burglaries, all operating literally out of the rear door of the pool service. The pool service was a legitimate operation with ninety customers sprinkled in an around the Hollywood Hills area.

Carey Ryan had completed two tours of duty in Vietnam—the first he was sent by Uncle Sam, the second he volunteered for. Like Adams, he’d seen heavy action in the war, most of it on the front line with a muddy AR-15 in his hands. Now he was in the same out-patient encounter group as Adams and Dave, receiving treatment for the same syndrome. The group met twice a week at the Westwood V.A. Hospital. It didn’t take long for Adams to befriend him, and soon after he’d dropped the enterprise on him, but not before feeling him out prior to giving him any information. After some of the meetings ended, the two would hang out at the Frog Pond, a local watering hole that was around the corner from the V.A., and they’d down a few Budweisers. After six or seven beers, Carey’s lips would routinely get loose, and he’d let the beer start talking. He’d end up bullshitting about his shady past. Adams sensed that he at least seemed receptive to the idea of making some easy money, and decided to take a chance and recruit him by just flat-out telling him about all the money he’d make. No surprise to Adams, Carey jumped at the opportunity to work for a cop on the wrong side of the law, mainly due to the simple fact that his family needed the money, and a chance to get ahead of the game. It would give his wife and kids a fresh start; then he’d get back on the right side of the law for good.

Adams told Dave everything…well, almost everything, except one small detail: he had another covert partner in the enterprise, and that’s just how the secret partner wanted it—secret. The unnamed third partner was in a position of power, and had pull. He knew people in high places, and could get things done. He ran cover for Adams, and he was his silent ace in the hole…added insurance. And he didn’t come free, either.

It was hard to believe that it had been less than six months since he’d started working for Adams. He could hardly fathom the amount of money he was making, especially considering the fact that his family had been on welfare when he started. His wife, Janet, had kept the questions about his new job to a minimum; she knew he was helping someone run girls. She rationalized it, knowing that it was only a misdemeanor, and a victimless crime at that, just as long as the money kept rolling in. She really didn’t want to be the one blamed for stopping its flow and putting the family back on welfare. The kids were wearing new clothes, and they had just moved into a leased townhouse in Burbank. It was a safe place to raise her kids—clean, too. Her dreams were coming true.

Now that the enterprise’s machinery was in place, it was a time of action. As incredible as it sounded, half of their pool service clientele were cops; the other half were mostly lawyers and judges. It wasn’t exactly difficult work signing them up, either; all he had to do was just show ‘em the badge, and underbid the other pool company, if there even was one to underbid. Usually they just flat-out chose him—a slam-dunk, no selling required, instant trust. In the beginning, it didn’t take long for Adams’ criminality to show through. He wanted money and lots of it, so it started legit, and slowly grew into a full- blown criminal enterprise. There was the first burglary, which led to the next one and the next one. Each one got easier and easier. Most all of their victims were trusting pool clients, mostly their fellow officers. A few of the lawyers trusted him so much that they would just call him and report the burglary to him directly, not even bothering to make an official police report. Little did they realize that he was the one stealing them blind. The burglaries are what really emboldened the Adams and Dave, and gave them the confidence to work up to the big capers. He realized that if they could rip-off other cops this easily, they could rip off anyone. The money was flowing in. He had thousands of dollars safely tucked away in his attic. Getting the money wasn’t the real problem; it was trying to spend it without looking conspicuous. Cops aren’t paid that kind of money—only in their dreams.

Eddie Garcia owned the largest pawnshop in Hollywood, A-1 Pawn, Inc. Adams fenced all the stolen items to him. Adams had the upper hand on him, with evidence of past crimes that would put him away for life. In return, Eddie now had the goods on him. It would certainly be based on honor among thieves from here on out. Everything that was fenced to him was for cash. Eddie was making big bucks off of the deal; besides, he liked the fact that he had two of L.A.’s finest in his pocket—that could be a valuable resource if and when he got into an inevitable scrape with the law down the road. So working with these cops wasn’t a bad thing. Besides, selling to Eddie, the enterprise would get even bigger balls, and just sell some of the electronic items back to some of their other cop buddies. Of course, they weren’t aware that it was stolen, and they certainly wouldn’t be alerted to that fact as long as the price was reasonably high enough.

After work, Adams changed out of his uniform and walked to the parking lot, where he’d parked his new Cadillac El Dorado. He’d just purchased it the day before. He wanted an S-500 series Mercedes Benz, but knew that would bring unwanted attention his way—considering the fact that it cost nearly one hundred thousand dollars, far beyond what a Los Angeles police officer’s salary could afford. Now a Caddie; that was a different story. It was certainly attainable on a cop’s income, though practically no cops owned one.

Slowly driving eastbound on Sunset, he relished the feel of the new luxury car in his hands. But even the new car couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting to the call-girl business, and how successful it had become in such a short period of time. Shit, the business absolutely ran itself—that is, with the help of Carey. He cleaned pools in the daytime in Hollywood, and at night he kept track of the girls. Carey had it made, Adams thought. His prior job, a truck mechanic, was back-breaking work—greasy, too. Carey couldn’t complain now; his hands never got dirty hustling girls. It was ideal for him, and Adams felt proud of himself for providing him with such a great job, not to mention with the amount of money he was taking home. It was certainly a justifiable business. One might make the argument that it was merely a service-oriented business, supply and demand between two consenting adults, no big deal. The money was great, and he was busy.

Inside of Hollywood’s Detective Unit, Adams sat at his desk and reflected back on what Lisa, a trusted friend, had told him at her apartment two nights ago. She’d been seeking advice for a doctor who was actually a friend of her daughter’s. Lisa was more than just a friend to him; he was actually having a full-blown affair with her. Adams thought of himself as a real ladies’ man, and had to feed this illusion on a regular basis with any willing female. He’d met Lisa while he was conducting a neighborhood watch meeting that he’d organized a couple of years ago. He was a golden-tongued devil, a smooth talker, and he could talk everybody out of anything and anybody into anything, especially women. It was certainly a God-given talent. He’d meet them at the local pick-up bar after work, and have them back at their place before they realized what was happening. He’d bed them before most guys could get to first base. They knew they were being used, but couldn't help themselves. He was charismatic. They loved him, and wanted more. He was the consummate hustler, and in all likelihood, it had to be considered the catalyst for his foray into crime. It was easy for him; he hustled everyone, all while violating his public trust. Every day was a hustle; like shopping at the mall, the world was his oyster, there for the taking. His philosophy was the same as P. T. Barnum's: There’s a sucker born every minute.

He remembered arriving at Lisa’s apartment for one of his scheduled visits. She had begun to tell him a long and convoluted story about a doctor who owned a large, successful medical practice, where her daughter Judy was currently employed. The doctor was looking for someone to help her out of a very special problem, and her daughter wanted Adams to talk to the doctor and see if he could be of assistance to her. He sensed the help he was to provide would be of a criminal nature, and the doctor was desperate. She probably had the means to afford any service he might provide. He had nothing to lose!

Adams entered the Country Star restaurant, located inside of Universal Studios in the city of Burbank, at the pre-arranged time. In the cocktail lounge area of the establishment, even though it was dimly lit, he immediately recognized Doctor Beverly Robinson from the description she’d given him. She appeared to be around forty-five years old, a very attractive and distinguished business-woman type, wearing a gray Armani suit. He noticed her sensuous, shoulder-length black hair that flowed down her neck and lay on her shoulders. Her demeanor was professional and pleasant as he introduced himself and sat down in the booth beside her. No one was seated nearby; it had apparently been selected by her due to its seclusion. After introductory pleasantries, she opened up and began talking about her personal problems, which is what he wanted to hear.

She talked about how her marriage had fallen apart, how it had begun unraveling about a year ago. In that time, she had become the victim of spousal abuse. Her husband of two and a half years had apparently deceived her from the beginning, and had let it be known that he was after her money, not her love, plain and simple. She related how he had begun to beat her twice a month after he’d become intoxicated, and that she was now afraid for her life due to the increased severity of the beatings. He had claimed prior to their marriage that he was wealthy, that he owned condominium properties in the trendy resort cities of Aspen and Palm Springs that were worth tens of millions of dollars. He also had bragged that he had roughly four million in blue-chip stocks in his portfolio, along with a large investment in mutual funds. She said she hadn’t bothered to check him out. She had been in love with him, and was blinded by that love. He drove an S-600 series Mercedes Benz. She’d been fooled; he talked the talk and walked the walk. He was the consummate con-man.

Adams might have met his match here; hell, her husband might just be a better hustler than he. He’d obviously married her for her money. The marriage was a sham. He calculated her wealth on the hefty side, or at least it was before her husband arrived on the scene. He was bleeding her to death, every dime he could get his hands on. The guy was probably a heavy gambler and owed the Vegas bookies; and now, more than likely, they wanted their money, or his ass.

She said the worst thing was the humiliation she endured in front of her office staff—five other doctors and clerical aids. He would show up daily and become embroiled in a business dispute with her, claiming that the business was his and no one could do anything about it, especially her.

There’s a very common solution for your problem, Beverly.

Doctor Robinson’s head turned. What’s that?

It’s called a divorce!

"I’ve considered that, but I’ll lose everything in a divorce. If I’m lucky, the court might award me half—I don’t like those odds. My attorney thought that my husband stood an excellent chance of getting half of my business, due to the fact that there wasn’t a prenuptial agreement between us.

"Judy, the girl that works for me…I know you’re seeing her mother, Lisa. I don’t mean to intrude in your business. I appreciate Lisa getting us together. I guess she feels sorry for me. But I want it understood that I’m not asking for pity here, I just need your help. I got myself into this, and intend to get myself out of it, with or without anybody’s help—understand?

Judy told me that Lisa thought that you might be of some assistance to me; said you were a police officer, and you could be trusted with sensitive information, and that you knew how to work around the rules. And that you moonlight some, and might be able to use some extra cash—that is, if you can help me out of my predicament. I can pay cash; your help is my only way out—my only way. I can’t take the beatings anymore. He’s going to kill me, I know it. How much would you need to set the events in motion, if you know what I’m talking about, Mr. Adams?

Look, Doctor Robinson, I know exactly what you mean. Do you want me to say it first? You know, the ‘M’ word. Look, I certainly have the ability to take care of your problem. If I get involved in your problem, then it becomes my problem, too, right? That means if I get caught and convicted, life, the way I know it, would cease to exist. You know it’s real nasty for a former cop in the big house. To make a long story short, Doctor Robinson…is it okay if I call you Beverly?

Yes. Can I call you Tommy?

"That’s fine. Okay, I can make it look like he left—he’d had enough, and had stolen all of the money he needed. Now he’s off to the next unsuspecting female. Nice and neat, no strings attached. He’ll be nowhere to be found, car and