Chapter 5

Ironside's POV

I started to interrogate the small, slender young man. I dare say that I am quite good at grilling people. This time it was tough though. The Mexican proved stubborn. He didn't say a word. The report said that his name was Fernando Gonzalez. He seemed to be one of the fans of the basketball team. But talk he did not.

I was tired, my back hurt, and I had enough of people fighting one another because of the color of their skin. Although I felt sympathetic to them for taking their matters into their own hands I was of the opinion that the Mexicans – or the colored people in general – made it so much more difficult for themselves to get help by taking up the gauntlet and breaking the law as well... My patience started to wear thin.

Ed noticed it and went to get some coffee. He even put a mug in front of Gonzalez. When I moved my head uncomfortably, he quietly took my neck brace off. Over the years he had learned to read me and to help me without making a fuss.

Fran watched him do it. She was a very sensitive young woman, and she wasn't used to seeing me in pain. She didn't know how to react. It seemed as if the insecurity and the compassion had backed up in her, when suddenly the dam of her self-restriction broke down.

"They can't help us if you don't tell them the truth!" She shouted it in Spanish, but even Ed understood her. Surprised he stared at her, and I read on his face the question I asked myself, "Do you feel as a Mexican, Fran?"

Obviously the prisoner answered this question in the affirmative. He started a waterfall of a speech which was hard to understand even for me.

"So you say that you lost the wristband before the theft of the signatures?" I asked back in English, just to be sure.

"Yessir. Fight between me and Bruce Peterson, last week."

Bruce was Alexander Peterson's son... Now this could not be true, could it?!

Yet – I only had Peterson Senior's word. Maybe he hadn't even known of the wristband in his garden, and maybe he had lied all along.

The supposed or actual theft had already cost the MISF a lot of sympathy, and the riots even more. What if this was the idea behind it – not to keep the City council from seeing the signatures, but to discredit the MISF? And then – who actually knew how many signatures there had been? There was only Peterson's word for that as well.

"And did you lose the wristband in the Petersons' garden?"

"No, Sir. Not in garden. During fight. Not serious fight. Last week. In Golden Gate Park."

"Where were you last night?"

"In Candlestick Park. Selling ice cream."

"Do you have a witness to that?"

"A hundred, but I don't know their names. But my friend Filippo was there. He is in prison now. We were together at the ball game today."

Of course we questioned Filippo as well. His statement, that he had bought an ice cream from Fernando at the time of the burglary, sounded convincing, and he also confirmed the fight between Fernando and Bruce Peterson in Golden Gate Park the previous week. Instead of proving his guilt that wristband ultimately provided Fernando with a perfect alibi.

When we were among ourselves again I read in Fran's look the knowledge of the experienced, disillusioned cop paired with the hope of the young, idealistic one. She knew that all our previous theories were falsified, but somehow she seemed to put a lot of trust in my abilities to save the day all the same. Experience – or exhaustion - won the day, "We're at a dead end, aren't we, Chief?"

I felt that I had to cheer her up, "Not at all. We know now that Fernando hasn't burglarized the Petersons. The wristband doesn't prove a thing. There is no other clue to a burglary of that house. Where does that lead us?"

"To the conclusion that there was no burglary at all. Peterson has invented it and planted the wristband as false evidence."

"That sounds rather logical, doesn't it?"

Ed wasn't as easy to please as his young colleague. "There's no proof for that either."

Fatigue and the pain in my neck let my voice sound harsher than intended, "Then let's prove it!"

Fran flinched. Ed didn't. He knew that my bite wasn't as bad as my bark.

"Maybe it's not necessary to prove it after all," he added thoughtfully. "When we confront the Petersons with the evidence we have they may confess."

That was definitely an option, although not at three in the morning. "Whatever we do, we'll not do it tonight. Let's call it a night!"

Ed's POV

I didn't like to put the bike into the trunk of my car because of the scratches both vehicles usually get when you do that. Still I wanted the bike at home. So I decided to cycle home. Fran agreed to pick me up in the morning... meaning: rather soon.

Suddenly a Dodge overtook me and then pulled to the right, crossing my path. I had to brake heavily in order to prevent crashing into it. An Oldsmobile stopped directly behind the Dodge.

A masked man with a gun jumped out of the Olds. "Put your hands on your head, Sergeant Brown!"

So they knew who I was. They must have followed me from headquarters but I had been too tired to pay attention – an inexcusable mistake, especially after Ironside had warned me.

I weighed up my chances and the risks. They didn't like it and pulled me from the bike. A punch into my gut made me collapse like a pocket knife.

From the back window of the Dodge another gun was pointed at me. Resistance was futile. I was pushed into the Oldsmobile, my bike forgotten on the sidewalk.