Chapter 59: Inspecting One by One (Please Keep Reading)

With the arrival of the helicopter, the SEB tactical team was no longer responsible for monitoring and apprehending suspects. Instead, they advanced to the warehouse entrance, checked their gear, attached their night vision goggles, and charged inside with smoke grenades leading the way. Even though it was pitch black within, they tossed in what needed to be tossed. Waste belonged to the department; their lives were their own.

Shouts and gunfire echoed from inside.

Sitting in the car, Ozzie silently mourned for those trapped within.

He glanced outside—most of the people squatting on the ground had already been apprehended, and soon those in the cars would be dealt with as well.

“When the cops ask you later, just tell the truth about what happened beforehand. After the shooting started, we followed the crowd out, got into the car, tried to leave, but it was too chaotic, so we couldn't drive away—then the police arrived.”

“But what if I can’t act convincingly?”

“Well, that’s too bad. You’ll have to give up your baby here.”

Joan couldn’t help but laugh. “Is there such a thing as a baby who's six foot one and weighs a hundred and sixty pounds?”

Ozzie snuggled into her arms, shaking his head. “You’re seeing one right now.”

As the two were wrapped up in their banter, someone knocked on the car window from outside. “Open the window! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

Ozzie looked up—two police officers were standing outside, watching them warily.

He rolled down both side windows, gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and gestured for Joan to place her hands on the dashboard.

“Take it easy, officers. I’m a deputy with the Temple City Station, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. This is my girlfriend. I have my badge and full duty firearm on me. I can slowly remove them and hand them over, or you can take them yourselves.”

One of the officers immediately called out, and two more quickly approached, their pistols raised halfway. After exchanging glances, one male officer stepped forward.

“Don’t move. Do you have only one firearm? Any others in the car? Does the lady beside you have a weapon?”

“No, just one on me—nothing else in the car, and my girlfriend isn’t carrying.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, where’s your ID? I’ll get it myself.”

“It’s in my left pant pocket. The pistol and spare magazines are on my belt. Please be careful.”

Keeping his gun drawn, the officer opened the car door, lifted Ozzie’s jacket, and immediately saw three spare magazines.

Ozzie noticed the officer’s slightly surprised expression and smiled faintly. “Better to be overprepared than under, officer.”

The officer pursed his lips, reached into Ozzie’s pocket, and retrieved his badge. He checked Ozzie’s face against the photo repeatedly before finally nodding to his colleagues.

The other three officers let out a breath and lowered their weapons.

“Alright, I need to verify your credentials. Until I get back, please stay as you are and don’t move, okay?”

“Of course, no problem.”

The officer returned soon after and addressed his colleagues first. “It’s legit—he’s a cop.”

He then turned back to Ozzie. “Alright, you and the lady can step out and come over here. Please hand me your firearm and gear, and you’ll need to be searched. A female officer will search your girlfriend. Then, I’ll need to inspect your car. If everything checks out, you’re good to go.

I need to have your firearm checked by a specialist to see if it’s been discharged. This applies to all weapons carried by those present, and everyone will be searched—it’s not just you.”

“No problem, I’ll get out now.”

In the United States, during an interception or check, if police suspect something, they can request a search of your vehicle or person. You can legally refuse, but if they insist, it’s usually best to comply to avoid escalation. After all, they’re armed, and you can’t shoot first, but you can challenge it in court afterward.

Planting evidence—like drugs—is usually reserved for Black suspects, most of whom have records, so there’s zero risk for the police. If a Black suspect sees evidence being planted, he knows he’s being targeted and will likely attempt to flee, prompting police to empty their magazines in pursuit.

Chinese Americans with clean records don’t need to fear being framed—just deny everything, and the matter will proceed to court.

Even if you’re detained and pressured by police to confess, you can say anything to avoid physical harm, then recant in court. According to the Miranda principle, just because you said something doesn’t mean it’s factual. The prosecution must provide evidence to confirm your statement’s truthfulness; your confession alone isn’t grounds for conviction, even if you’re undocumented. Immigration status is the concern of immigration authorities, not the courts.

One lie leads to another, and eventually, inconsistencies will expose the truth behind any attempted frame-up.

All of this Ozzie had learned from research—no guarantees of accuracy.

He signaled for Joan to exit the car as well, and the two of them stood beside the vehicle.

He lifted his jacket, displaying his sidearm and spare magazines, unclipped his holster, and handed it to the officer, followed by all the spare magazines.

Two officers then thoroughly searched both them and the car, confirming nothing was hidden. They collected the car keys and placed a marker on the roof to indicate the vehicle had been cleared.

The two were led to a designated area with others who had been cleared for now. They were told not to wander off—officers stood nearby, ostensibly for security but really to keep them under watch—while they waited for further instructions.

As for Ozzie’s gun, it would be returned after examination.

There was no shelter from the wind or rain here, no blankets, coffee, or hot cocoa—he gave it a poor review.

Left with no choice, the two found a spot to sit. Joan nestled into Ozzie’s lap, and together they watched the unfolding drama. The SEB tactical team was now escorting out a number of menacing-looking Black and white men—judging by their attire, probably wealthy performers scheduled for tonight’s show.

Whether the numbers matched up, or if a few had been killed by SEB, was anyone’s guess.

Paramedics rushed in with stretchers and came out looking grim—most inside were already dead, the place littered with bodies. Who would pay for this mess? It was a loss.

But, really, they would be fine; there were plenty of wounded left to be transported, and the concert crowd was no less troublesome: there were those high on drugs, drunk, injured from falls or trampling, brawls, those beaten by police, hit by stray bullets or flying debris—even someone who, startled by sudden gunfire while buying a soda, suffered a fractured pelvis. His screams were gut-wrenching. The ambulances were packed with all sorts of casualties.

Various Los Angeles agencies were arriving in droves. Ozzie could spot members of the county sheriff’s gang unit and narcotics squad.

Many officers in city police bulletproof vests moved around as well.

After a while, a few all-white SUVs rolled up, and several police dogs jumped out, barking as they began to search for hidden firearms, drugs, or even bodies and bloodstains. Who knew if the famous “Hunter Brothers” would show up?

Even the FBI, DEA, and ATF—names Ozzie had only heard but never seen—were present, all armored with bulletproof vests bearing agency initials.

And of course, there was a swarm of reporters who’d crawled out of bed in the dead of night in pursuit of fresh scoops. They crowded the perimeter, shouting about freedom of the press but unable to cross the police line.

Were it not nighttime, and given how dangerous it would be for so many news helicopters to fly in such a small area, their own choppers would be swarming in for live coverage as well.

Ozzie was absorbed in the spectacle when suddenly, a hand clapped his shoulder.

“Ozzie!”