Editor’s Note: The following column is a work of fiction inspired by the recent arrest of the disabled veteran known to many as the “Mayor of Woodland Hills.” The author has written extensively about the plight of the homeless in this neighborhood of Los Angeles.
Investigating the misdemeanor theft of a “Whole Foods” shopping cart, public defender Sally Garon squinted at the mid-morning sun and thought about her Grandma who’d visited just a day earlier. Patting Sally’s hand, she’d said: “You know, you could still apply to medical school. It’s not too late.”
“I don’t see any obvious cameras that could have captured the Mayor’s arrest,” said Rusty. Standing on the curb near St. Mark’s Church of the Holy Redeemer, Rusty was wearing standard investigator gear: new high-top Nikes, tan cargo pants with lots of pockets, a Lakers jersey, a Lakers hat, Oakley shades, and a camera which dangled loosely from a black strap around his neck.
“Me neither,” said Sally, “but let’s subpoena surrounding businesses anyway for video footage from that day—from around the time they slapped the cuffs on according to the police report. So jot down the names and addresses, please.”
Sally was dressed down, too: Black nondescript ball cap pulled over chestnut, shoulder-length hair, blue jeans, and a long-sleeve t-shirt featuring Bob Marley strumming a guitar on the front; she also wore Nikes (but low-tops for running, and scuffed).
One of the things that had appealed most to Sally about being a public defender was when almost 20 years ago during law school, she saw during an internship how the city’s public defenders never lingered long in their suits after appearing in court. (Many kept a clothing rack or had a closet in their office where — like Clarke Kent dodging into a phone booth to change into Superman — they changed for court, and then, back into normal people immediately thereafter.)
And investigating alleged crimes, a significant part of being a public defender of merit — which Sally was — meant not wearing a boring pants-suit and uncomfortable high heels, or anything like that. Because that could lead to being marked immediately for a cop, a social worker, or some other government official that no one would talk to unless they had to. Appearances count when investigating criminal cases for the defense in some neighborhoods and some situations; the last thing you wanted to project was an aura of official authority.
That had proved true two hours earlier and a few blocks away when Sally and Rusty had visited a glimmering modern-construction Whole Foods. A cold, alien-looking fortress, it was built almost entirely of black glass. They’d just left the store, dejected upon learning that “Enrique,” a former store manager and potentially critical witness for the defense in the case of People v. Gerald Freeman, aka “The Mayor of Woodland Hills,” had been fired a month ago. The new manager, an incurious and impatient white middle-aged man in his 50s with close-cropped hair said he couldn’t exactly say why Enrique got the axe, only “differences with management.”
But just as Sally and Rusty walked through the store’s automatic sliding-glass doors heading towards Rusty’s red Honda Accord, they heard a “Hey yo, yo stop!”
A tall and lanky Black teenager with braids and a fitted black Lakers hat with stitched gold lettering was half-jogging after them; he wore cargo pants like Rusty over brown suede Timberland boots with a black “Whole Foods” smock tied over an XX-large white t-shirt.
“Yo, I heard you was asking about Enrique,” the teenager said. “Y’all working for The Mayor’s attorney, ain’t ya?” Smiling at Sally and Rusty, his silver braces shimmered in the sun.
After exchanging a quizzical look with Rusty, Sally said: “Actually, I am The Mayor’s lawyer. How’d you know?”
“Cops don’t usually sport Bob Marley gear,” he said, blinding Sally — whose eyes were unprotected — with his braces. Walking closer and nodding at Rusty, he offered: “Fly jersey, Chief.”
And that was how they’d met “B.J.,” a key defense witness who corroborated everything their new misdemeanor-theft-client, the “Mayor of Woodland Hills,” had said about how, according to him: “I earned as many Whole Foods carts as I want — not to mention Starbucks coffee and pastries for life!”
While a great investigative success — especially as B.J. also seemed to think he “had Enrique’s address somewhere, or could get it” — the excitement had begun to wane now that Sally and Rusty were on Providence Street, the actual scene of the Mayor’s arrest. Canvassing, Rusty noted down names and addresses as they walked while Sally made a rough sketch of the area with its homes and businesses.
“If we could find that old woman with the gray hair today,” Sally said to Rusty, “the one the police saw pushing the shopping cart before the Mayor burst on the scene, that’ll be more than enough to call it quits for today, maybe get a quick bite to eat before that preliminary hearing we have for my other new favorite client, Mr. Alvarez. You know, the new gang case?”
Rusty nodded and said, “You want to knock on The Mayor’s door again, tell him you got his positive drug test result?”
“No,” Sally said. “The Court won’t lock him up for one positive test, not with the current overcrowding at the jail. Pretrial services and the prosecutors know it, too. And I already gave him the ‘scared-straight’ lecture when we were here earlier, before we went to Whole Foods; if he keeps using and gets locked up, there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
Suddenly, stopping their conversation — and stopping Sally and Rusty in their tracks on the sidewalk — the driver-side door to a parked, old-model red Porsche with plates that said “YOUR ESQ” opened. A chubby man in a rumpled suit with tangled dark curly hair got out, closed the door, then activated a loud and annoying alarm using a fob on his keys. A bumper sticker with an American flag on the vehicle’s trunk blared: “2024: MAGA!”
Stepping around the Porsche’s dented front-end and on to the sidewalk, the man was only a few feet from Sally and Rusty when he turned his head to look at them suspiciously. They, in turn, looked the man over, but didn’t say anything immediately; they walked toward him, however.
Then Rusty cleared his throat and said: “Hey man, you got a second? We’re out here investigating the theft of a Whole Foods shopping cart. Can you believe that!?”
Just then, on the other side of the street, there was a screeching sound like a rusty wheel — which in fact it was.
The frumpy-suited man (a part-time realtor and wannabe lawyer named Abacus Frinch), Sally, and Rusty, all looked in the noise’s direction. There they saw a man, his head down, slowly, doggedly, pulling a cart on wheels behind him. It wasn’t a Whole Foods cart. Just another metal cart, another pushcart-of-necessity for the poor — especially here in Los Angeles, but maybe in every American city — a go-to valise for the downtrodden, the down-and-out, and the dispossessed.
As Sally, Rusty, and Abacus watched, the man trudged slowly onward pulling his heavy load.
Stephen Cooper is a former D.C. public defender who worked as an assistant federal public defender in Alabama between 2012 and 2015. He has contributed to numerous magazines and newspapers in the United States and overseas. He writes full-time and lives in Woodland Hills. Follow him on “X”/Twitter @SteveCooperEsq