Night Watchman

He ran across busy Broad Street together with a cluster of women and little children all evidently headed to the fortress-like gates of Orleans Parish Prison for visiting day. Separating from his crowd he made his way through a concrete plaza, baking hot and filled with memorials to slain officers, to police headquarters and presented himself inside at the information desk.

There he was informed that the office he was looking for was called the Records and Identification Division, first floor to your right. Through wide glass doors there was a long tin-topped counter. It was staffed by a receptionist who sat behind a computer with a cash register immediately beside her. She peered at him, her only victim, over her reading glasses.

“I’m looking for some old police records,” Tubby said. “Am I in the right place?”

“Yes, sir,” the receptionist said tonelessly. “You might want to review this brochure first, and then I’ll be happy to explain the process further.”

She plucked a blue and silver pamphlet from a stack and handed it to her customer with a tight smile. It took Tubby only a few seconds to figure out that he had to put in a “public records request,” that it would take some unspecified period of time before the Custodian of Records determined which of the records he sought were public and which were protected by a Constitutional right of individual privacy, or were “police work product,” and most importantly, what the appropriate fee was. Helpfully, there was a comprehensive and not inexpensive schedule of fees for procuring copies of everything.

“I guess you don’t give out much for free,” he said.

“I’m sorry? What did you say?”

Tubby pocketed the brochure. “I meant to say, is Officer Rick Sandoval here?”

“Yes, he is,” she said, with misgivings she wanted him to know about. “Your name, sir?”

He told her and stared absently at the walls of file cabinets while she made a call.

A few minutes passed before a brown-haired policeman with straight shoulders, the chest of a weight lifter, and a crisp blue uniform, came out of the stacks. He took his sweet time walking up to the desk.

“How can I help you?” he asked, as if he didn’t think he could. He was erect and good-looking, but not young.

“I got your name from Ireanous…”

Sandoval coughed loudly. “Come on, over here.” He moved further down the counter out of the receptionist’s earshot. “Let’s not block Missus Mogilles’ desk.”

They shifted fifteen feet away. Sandoval leaned in with his elbows on the dented counter-top.

“Let’s try that again,” he said.

Tubby also bent over, a co-conspirator. Their foreheads almost touched.

“Ireanous Babineaux. I asked him how I could locate some old police records, and he gave me your name.”

“What’s he to you?”

“I’m a lawyer. He might or might not end up being a client of mine. But this has nothing to do with his situation. This inquiry is personal.”

“By situation, you mean him busting up that crud Alonzo’s pretty smile?” Sandoval’s voice came out of lips that were barely parted and a whiskery square jaw that didn’t move.

Tubby shrugged.

“How old is the case? I mean, if it’s historical a lot of those records are online at the Public Library.”

“Nineteen seventies.”

“That ain’t old. That’s when I was a kid.”

Tubby gave him a smile. “I’m about the same age as you, and it’s still a long time ago to me. I saw a kid get shot. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t. I’ve always wanted to know what really happened.”

“What was it? Some kind of a robbery?”

“An anti-war protest.”

Sandoval grunted. “I did my part in Grenada on Operation Urgent Fury.”

“I was in the Army. Military Police,” Tubby said.

Sandoval thought it over. “Tell you what. Give me what you’ve got on the incident, and I’ll see what I can find. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

“Thanks. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

That got a laugh.

“They already got me working in in a file room where nobody gets any files. I get to take the bus to work. I’ll be passed over for promotion this year. What more can they do to me?”

* * *

After leaving Sandoval, Tubby hung out in the reception area of the police building where it was air-conditioned. He checked his phone. Nothing from Jane Smith, the quality of life officer, so he called her one more time. This time she answered. Her voice was clipped and official. He explained that he represented Janie Caragliano, the owner of the Monkey Business Club.

“You’re an attorney?”

He admitted that he was.

“We don’t usually talk to attorneys.”

“Well, I’m really just a concerned citizen, and Janie is an old friend of mine. I’m only trying to find out what the problem is. We want to get it corrected.”

“She’s only gotten about five notices of violations.”

“Really? She didn’t give any of them to me.”

“They were all properly mailed and posted.”

“I’m sure they were,” Tubby hastily agreed, “but something must have happened to them. Could I come to your office to pick up copies and see what this is all about?”

“Not unless you get here in the next thirty minutes. I have a community meeting to go to at two o’clock.”

“Sure. Fifth District headquarters is where?”

“Thirty-nine hundred North Claiborne.”

“No problem.” Back to the same neighborhood where his day had begun. He checked in with Cherryly

“What’s the nature of the representation?” she asked.

“Put down police brutality.”

“Oh, good. We haven’t had one of those for a while.”

“Are you in class tomorrow?”

“No, not till Thursday afternoon,” she said.

“Good. I’d like you to go online, or go over to the New Orleans public library if you have to and look at their microfilm. See what you can find out about a death-by-gunshot that occurred on or about…” He had to check a note in his pocket for the date.

“What’s the name.”

“I never actually knew his full name. He went by ‘Parker.’ ”

She was doubtful of success but agreed to try. Tubby was sure she would succeed. He had great faith in Cherryly

The Fifth District precinct station was a lot easier to locate than the morning’s coffee shop, and any doubts you were in the right place were washed away by the twenty-or-so blue and white cruisers parked outside a functional concrete orange and cream-colored building with windows too small to jump out of.

Jane Smith did in fact have an office, but it was a tiny one with a tiny desk and no windows. There was a blue plastic chair in front of the desk, and the officer waved him into it.

“Here’s the copies you wanted.” She pushed a few papers across the desk along with a brown envelope he could use to carry them in.

“I appreciate your speedy service,” he said. “What’s the gist?”

“Two gists, actually,” she replied drily. “The neighbors have complained about the noise level and have even sent me some of the decibel readings they took. The other gist is that the property isn’t allowed to have live music at all under the new Comprehensive Zoning Ordinance.”

“Wait a second. I thought the whole question about how loud music clubs could be was still being debated. And isn’t the new zoning ordinance still pending final approval?”

“Yes, but no matter which decibel level applies— and you are correct, everybody seems to have an opinion about which level is best— this bar is exceeding it.”

“If you believe the neighbors’ readings. Have you done your own?”

“Our equipment has been broken for a month, but I was out there last Saturday morning at six a.m. and the music drowned out the garbage trucks coming down the street.”