Private Dublin

Chapter 8

There were a handful of trailers, but most of the people occupying the encampment lived in tents. Portable gas stoves filled the air with the scents of coffee and hot food. A local homeless charity had set up a mobile kitchen, where volunteers were handing out bowls of noodles. A couple of uniformed cops loitered by their bicycles near the perimeter of the impromptu settlement, watching the comings and goings of the people who’d settled into their own rhythm in this place.

The first news reports on Sanctuary City had started about a month ago, but the encampment had already been going strong. No one knew quite when the first people came or why they’d chosen this place, but it had wrong-footed the authorities who didn’t know how to handle the mass clearance of people from a natural space that was surrounded by some of the most expensive homes in California. The optics, as many commentators had remarked, wouldn’t be good. So, the city had settled for litigation that would ensure everything was done by the book, and in the interim word had spread. California was a desirable destination for people without homes because of its good weather and the justified belief the West Coast was still somewhere dreams could come true.

Sal and I split up and took different routes through the camp. I stopped to talk to anyone who looked approachable and was struck by how many of the people here had stories of bad luck; three or four big calls that hadn’t gone their way, many involving medical emergencies, and they’d speedily found themselves on the wrong side of the tracks. There were some drug users and people with clear mental health issues, but I moved swiftly on from them if they weren’t responsive or coherent. For the most part, people were friendly and tried to be helpful, and I found myself wondering about Sal’s assessment of the changes he’d seen as a cop. Maybe, as the saying goes, when you’re trained to be a hammer, after enough time, you start seeing nails everywhere.

There were unexpected little signs of domesticity in the camp. A Welcome mat outside of one of the rusty trailers. A collection of plants in small pots lined up by a tent. A dog with a jaunty bandana tied around its neck. People often talk about what makes us human in terms of our intellect, emotions or spirit, but perhaps humanity is to be found in these small expressions of our souls. The sign tacked to the side of a tent that reads “Strangers are friends you haven’t met,” or the warm smile of one of the volunteers doling out food to someone in need.

I crouched beside a lady in a wheelchair who was busy sewing a patch onto a jacket.

“I wonder if I could ask you some questions,” I said.

She eyed me carefully. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, but homelessness could age a person, so it was hard to be sure. She had curly gray hair that fell to her shoulders and wore a faded Madonna T-shirt. Her face was tanned and lined, but her eyes still sparkled with vitality.

“Cop?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “I’m trying to help a friend who got hurt last night.”

She nodded. “Friend who lives here?”

I shook my head. “No. But the person who hurt my friend might have passed this way.”

“What did he look like?” she asked.

“About six feet tall. Black jacket, black pants, my build or thereabouts,” I replied.

“Face?”

“He was wearing a mask,” I said.

She frowned as she thought about this and relaxed her expression before she spoke. “We have good people here. Peaceful. You have to be decent to live in a community like this with no locks on the door.” She gestured at the nearest tent, which I could only assume was hers. “No one has much, but we like what we have and want to hold on to it, and when we’re crowded in like this, there needs to be trust. No one here hurt your friend. Least not anyone I know of.”

“Thank you,” I said, rising to my feet.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “A lot of people from outside misunderstand what this place is.”

I looked at her expectantly.

“It’s home,” she said. “A place where we can feel safe. Where we can look after ourselves and those close to us.”

“Thank you again,” I said, and she nodded.

I turned and spotted Sal some distance off in the camp. He was finishing up with a thin, gray-haired man in his early sixties. My phone rang before I reached them, and I saw Mo-bot’s name on-screen.

“Go ahead,” I said after I’d greeted her.

“Weaver says one hundred and eighty-three vehicles passed the bus stop between five-thirty and six-fifteen,” Mo-bot replied. “Just over sixty of them went up to the parking lot, but all of them left before the Academy shooting.”

My heart sank.

“So, they can’t belong to the shooter, but there was one vehicle that stopped on the corner of the intersection, right by the bus stop, and it paused for less than a minute at five-forty-six p.m. A Honda Prius registered to an Uber driver called Ahmed Subry. It came from the south, stopped, and then went back the way it came.”

“Dropping someone off?” I suggested.

“Looks that way,” Mo-bot replied. “I’ll send you Subry’s details.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And please pass on my appreciation to our friend in Maryland.”

“Already done,” Mo-bot told me, before hanging up.

“Anything?” Sal asked as he headed my way.

My phone vibrated with an incoming message from Mo-bot. “Looks like he might have taken an Uber up here.” I checked my phone. “Driver is called Ahmed Subry. He lives in Ladera Heights.”

“Let’s go,” Sal said, and we headed back through the settlement toward his car.