Chapter Thirty-Seven

The morning downpour had stopped hours earlier, but the intensity of it all was still reflected in the never-ending puddles and wet streets that could be seen just about everywhere in Downtown LA, and that included the parking lot to Freedom Plaza, in Watts.

Once the hooded man exited the front doors to Smart Final, triggering its tag-alarms, he turned right and made a run for it. As he did, his high-tops smashed against a number of rainwater puddles that had formed just as the parking lot met the curb. Water splashed up like a kids' game, but that didn't slow the hooded man's pace. In fact, he seemed to be picking up speed – Aquaman style.

The two Smart Final security guards were completely out of it even before the man had reached the end of the block, but Emiliano Esqueda was still pretty much in the game. And so were Hunter and Garcia. Despite their late start, all three of them had overtaken the two security guards within a dozen steps, but they still had some ground to make to get to their target.

The man cleared the last shop on the mall fa?ade and veered hard right, taking East 99th Place, heading north.

More puddles.

More water splashing everywhere.

It was a short run to the end of E. 99th Place, which the man reached in no time. Once he got there, he took the next street along – East 97th – and quickly crossed it to the other side to reach an alleyway sandwiched between two shops.

Emiliano was a fast runner, there was no doubt about that, but with shoulder comms, a fully loaded police belt and officer shoes, he was making no significant gain on the hooded man. Hunter and Garcia on the other hand, despite the boots, were eating ground like two dragsters. They had just caught up with Emiliano when the man entered the alleyway.

‘I'll try to cut him off,' Emiliano called out, swerving left and gesturing for Hunter and Garcia to carry on after the subject.

The two detectives crossed East 97th Street and proceeded into the alleyway. They were definitely gaining on the man.

‘Stop,' Garcia shouted. ‘LAPD.'

Instead of stopping, the man increased his pace.

‘LAPD,' Garcia shouted again. ‘Stop or I'll shoot.'

Hunter, who was just a couple of steps behind Garcia, knew that his partner wasn't about to shoot the man ahead of them, but those words tended to have the desired effect on most people. The man, however, didn't seem to care. Ahead of them, he splashed through another couple of puddles before swinging left, following the alleyway.

Hunter and Garcia were right on his tail.

The man finally emerged out of the alleyway and onto a residential road – Kalmia Street. Directly across the road from the alleyway exit was a communal basketball court and, since they were in LA, the home of the Lakers, no matter what time of day or night, someone would always be bouncing a ball and shooting hoops at a public blacktop court. That lunchtime, there were at least ten people on and around that court – four of them playing two-on-two, and the rest watching from the sidelines.

The man lost no time, quickly crossing the road to reach the gateless basketball court.

Using his right arm to point behind him, he shouted at the players and at everyone watching the game. ‘Cops, cops.'

It was as if someone had pulled out a gun and fired a couple of rounds. The four kids in the two-on-two game took a quick peek in the direction that the hooded man had indicated. As they saw Hunter and Garcia emerge from the alleyway, they simply dropped the ball and ran.

The people on the sidelines also turned to look in the direction of the alleyway.

‘Motherfucker!' one of them shouted, throwing the can of soda that he had in his hand Hunter and Garcia's way, before taking off like a rocket.

His move was immediately followed by a chorus of ‘fuck' and ‘shit'. Everyone scattered each-and-every way.

Despite the mad, ten-way split, Hunter and Garcia never lost sight of their target. They entered the court and crossed over to the other end in less than four seconds.

Ahead of them, the hooded man took a quick look behind him before getting to a small grassy park. He clearly saw that the two detectives were gaining on him fast because Hunter saw him practically spit out the word ‘fuck'.

‘LAPD,' Garcia tried again. ‘Stop.'

The man, who showed no signs of slowing down, got to the end of the park and veered right, aiming for the entrance to another alleyway just ahead of him. Garcia, who was still a couple of paces in front of Hunter, was just about to catch up with the man when – BOOM.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Officer Emiliano Esqueda appeared on the man's left, flying through the air to tackle him down like a defensive guard smashing down on a quarterback. The man never saw Emiliano coming… he never stood a chance.

Emiliano wasn't exactly a powerhouse when it came to his physique, but he sure as hell had enough strength and momentum to send him and the man crashing to the ground.

As Emiliano collided with the subject, he grabbed hold of him in an embrace that seemed watertight. They hit the ground awkwardly, rolling as one because Emiliano simply didn't let go.

The impact was hard enough to dislodge the man's backpack clear off his back.

‘Motherfucker,' Emiliano shouted, as they came to a halt just inside the alleyway.

Behind them, Hunter and Garcia had also stopped running. They were now bending forward, resting their hands on their knees, trying to catch their breath.

Letting go of the man, Emiliano harshly rolled him over so that his chest and face were pressed hard against the ground.

‘You're under arrest, you motherfucker,' he said before grabbing both of the man's arms, twisting them behind his back, and cuffing the man's wrists. As he did, he began reciting the Miranda warning. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…'

The man seemed to have already accepted his fate because he didn't put up a fight.

While Emiliano recited the warning, Hunter collected the man's backpack from the ground and unzipped it.

Garcia stood right next to him.

‘OK,' Emiliano said, holding the man by the arms. ‘Up… nice and slowly.'

The man obliged.

Emiliano reached for the man's hoodie and slid it back from his head, finally revealing his face.

It wasn't a man. It was a kid. Tall and skinny, but still just a kid, who couldn't have been any older than eighteen. Black hair, cut short, framing a round, childlike face where his cheeks were covered in acne. He had a gap in his front teeth that could hold a toothpick. His eyes were as dark as his hair and, right then, the only thing in them seemed to be fear and sorrow… a lot of both. But his most distinct feature, at least at that time, was a black-and-blue left eye, where blood had recolored his sclera red, and a swollen bottom lip, showing a nasty cut at its right edge.

‘I'm sorry, sir,' the kid said, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘I'm really sorry.'

‘Yeah, yeah, of course you are,' Emiliano said, reaching for his shoulder comms. ‘Dispatch, this is PO 2842 in Watts. Respond.'

‘Wait,' Hunter interrupted him. ‘Don't radio it in.'

‘What?'

‘Don't radio it in yet.'

Both Emiliano and the kid looked back at Hunter in surprise.

‘And why not?' Emiliano asked.

Hunter handed him the kid's backpack.

The radio on Emiliano's shoulder cracked once before a female voice came through.

‘PO 2842, go ahead.'

Emiliano looked inside the bag before his eyes ping-ponged between Hunter and Garcia for a second. He reached for his comms.

‘Dispatch, please stand by. I might need a 10-16 in response to a 484. Just checking now.'

‘Ten-four, 2842. Standing by.'

Emiliano checked the bag again. ‘Food?' he asked the kid. ‘You were stealing food?'

The kid looked down at the floor, shame covering him like an ill-fitting coat. He was visibly shivering… and it wasn't from cold.

‘And medicine,' Garcia said, nodding at the backpack.

Emiliano rummaged through it again. There was no alcohol, no money, no illegal drugs, no weapons… just food, water, two boxes of Band-Aids and a box of Ibuprofen. All of it from Smart Final.

Emiliano shook his head at the detectives before reaching for his shoulder comms again.

‘Dispatch, this is PO 2842 in Watts. Please disregard last comms. False alarm.'

‘Ten-four, 2842.'

He turned to address the kid again. ‘When was the last time you ate?'

The kid kept his eyes on the ground. ‘Two days ago, sir.'

‘What's your name, kid?' Garcia asked.

‘Craig, sir,' the kid replied. ‘Craig Thompson.'

Hunter picked up a slight drawl as the kid pronounced his last name.

‘Where in Texas are you from, Craig?' he asked.

‘Lubbock, sir. Northwest Texas.'

‘And when did you get to LA?'

‘Two days ago, sir.' Craig's eyes finally lifted from the ground to look at the three police officers around him. He was clearly struggling to hold back tears.

‘How old are you, Craig?' Garcia, this time.

‘I'm seventeen, sir.'

‘Do you have any ID on you?' Emiliano asked.

Craig shook his head. ‘I was robbed, sir. I'd been in this city for… an hour, maybe two, and I got jumped. They took everything I had – my bag with all my clothes, my wallet, my phone… everything.'

Garcia bobbed his head. ‘Welcome to LA.'

‘You've got nothing that can confirm that you are who you say you are?' Emiliano pushed.

Craig began shaking his head again, but paused mid-shake and nodded at his backpack. ‘Umm… on the outside pocket. My student card should still be there, sir.'

Emiliano checked the pocket and found the student card. The boy hadn't lied about anything. He showed the card to Hunter and Garcia – Coronado High School, Lubbock, Texas.

‘Where are you staying, Craig?' Garcia asked.

Craig's reply was to look down at the ground again.

‘Are your parents back in Lubbock?' Hunter asked.

‘My mother is, sir, with her… live-in boyfriend. My father died when I was nine, but I'm not going back to that house, sir. I'm not going back to Lubbock. I'd rather go to jail here. If you take me back, I'll just run away again.'

Hunter picked up more than just anger in Craig's words. He picked up fear as well.

‘The beating to your face,' he asked. ‘You didn't get that when you got jumped, did you?'

Craig stayed quiet.

‘Your mother's partner?' Hunter pushed.

Not a word.

‘Is that why you left Lubbock? To get away from him?'

‘I just want a new life, sir. Any life but that one. I just can't take it anymore.'

Hunter's gaze moved to Emiliano. The officer seemed to be looking back at Craig, but his stare was distant, lost in a memory somewhere.

‘Does your mother know about the beatings?' Hunter asked.

The boy nodded slowly, averting everyone's eyes. ‘She doesn't really care.' His voice croaked.

‘This isn't exactly the best way to start a new life, Craig,' Garcia said, once again nodding at the backpack. ‘Have you ever been to prison?'

‘No, sir. I've never been in trouble with the law. I'm not a thief, sir. I just…' Tears began rolling down Craig's cheeks.

Hunter and Emiliano exchanged an understanding look.

‘The detective is right,' Emiliano said, nodding at Garcia. ‘If you want to start a new life in a different city, especially one like LA, this ain't it, Craig. Just for this…' He lifted the backpack. ‘…you could get six months in jail and a thousand-dollar fine. Do you have a thousand dollars?'

Craig shook his head.

‘Do you want to spend your first six months in LA in hell? Because that's exactly how jail will seem to you, Craig – like absolute hell.'

Another headshake. ‘I am sorry, sir. I was just hungry. And my face really hurts.' Craig leaned back against the wall in the alleyway, a little out of balance. His legs looked like they were about to give up under him. Clearly the crazy dash around the streets of Watts after two days without food had taken its toll on the boy.

‘Are you all right?' Garcia asked.

‘Yes, sir.' He took a deep breath and a moment. ‘Just… a little dizzy. That's all.'

‘OK.' Hunter took over, as he reached for the notebook in his pocket and began scribbling something down. ‘So this is what we're going to do, Craig – we're going to go back to Smart Final, you're going to pay for your groceries and I'm going to give you a list of addresses, OK?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, but I can't pay for those groceries. I really don't have any money. Can I just give them back, instead? None of it's been opened. I'm sorry I took them.'

‘I'll get these for you today,' Hunter said, earning him an intrigued look from Officer Emiliano and a tearful one from Craig. ‘You do look like you could do with some food… and a shower… and some rest.' He finished scribbling down on his pad and tore off the page before giving Emiliano a nod.

The officer took a breath, nodded back and used his keys to free Craig's hands.

Hunter handed him the note. ‘The first two addresses are soup kitchens. Neither of them are too far from here, and they can both provide you with at least one hot meal a day. The third address is a shelter that caters specifically for kids who have run away from violent and abusive households. They're good people there… friendly, caring… you'll see. The last address is a counseling service. You can talk to them about anything you like, but more importantly, they can help you find a job… get you started, you know?'

Craig looked back at Hunter with glassy eyes.

‘We can drop you at the shelter on our way back,' Hunter offered. ‘You can have a shower and they'll give you a bed to sleep in at night. At least for a few days. And the in-house nurse can have a look at your face, especially that eye.'

The law in the USA stipulated that parents were legally responsible for children in their care until the age of eighteen. The law also specified that a teenager had the right to leave home, without their parents' permission, at the age of sixteen. Since Craig was seventeen years old, the LAPD wasn't obliged by law to inform his parents of his whereabouts.

Craig went speechless for a moment. ‘Thank you, sir,' he finally said back, wiping the tears from his face. ‘Thank you so very much.'

Hunter simply nodded back, hoping that Craig Thompson wouldn't one day end up at the old cold-storage facility building on 4th Street.