John Grisham: Partners

That night, the other cop, Keith Knoxel, was in for a $100 quickie. The rate was $125 for the other customers but her pimp liked to take care of the cops. Knoxel had stopped by several times, said she was his favorite. Her street name was China. She was now eighteen years old, but she’d been seventeen on the night of the killing.

Not long after Knoxel left her, she heard gunshots but had no idea where they came from. Gunfire was not uncommon in Little Angola. An hour or so later word hit the streets that a cop had gone down. She wondered if it was Knoxel. Didn’t matter to her.

Bradley opened a drawer and produced a photo of Knoxel, one she’d seen before. “That’s him,” she said. “Remember him well. Don’t get many white guys.”

Bradley looked proudly at Sebastian and said, “So, Counselor, in summary, the State’s star eyewitness, while on duty, was actually having sex with a child under the age of eighteen while his partner was getting himself shot. And, as you know, Officer Knoxel is a married man with three small children.”

Sebastian said, “Got it, but he’ll just claim it’s a lie, that he’s never met China.”

To which she replied, “He was regular. Other people know him.”

As Sebastian was leaving, he whispered to Bradley, “Make plans to get her out of town.”

The Honorable Owen Schofield read slowly and silently, flipping one letter-sized sheet of paper every five minutes, it seemed. The deep wrinkles in his forehead, along with the occasional pinching of the bridge of his nose, revealed a growing concern as the words accumulated. Without comment he finished the affidavit of John Doe, set it aside, and picked up the one from Jane Doe. No relation.

On one side of the narrow table Sebastian sat alone and doodled on a legal pad. He’d written both affidavits. There was no need to read them again.

Across the table, Max Mancini sat uncharacteristically alone. As he read the affidavits, he put himself through an entire repertoire of histrionics as his face grew redder. Veins bulged in his neck. He shook his head in disbelief. He shot murderous looks at Sebastian. He bit his tongue and clenched his jaw to keep from blurting out something and interrupting His Honor. He tapped his fingers nervously as he turned the pages. He exhaled loudly in complete disbelief.

“Would you knock it off?” the judge said, glaring at him.

“Sorry.”

The judge returned to his reading. When he finished, he looked at Sebastian and asked, “As for Jane, when did you learn this?”

“Yesterday,” Sebastian replied.

“It’s clearly inadmissible, Your Honor,” Max finally blurted. “The deadline for disclosing witnesses was a month ago.”

Schofield looked at Max as if he were a complete idiot. He paused, then said, “Last time I checked I’m wearing the black robe. If I need anything from you in the way of commentary or opinions, I’ll ask. Until then, try to restrain yourself.”

Max did not respond. Sebastian said, “John Doe appeared on the scene last week. Jane, yesterday.”

“And Jane is willing to reveal her identity at trial, but John is not. Correct?”

“As of today, Your Honor, that is the case.”

“They’re both lying,” Max said.

Schofield looked at him and said, “Well, it looks as though Mr. Knoxel may be having his own problems with the truth. That’s why we have juries. To hear evidence and evaluate the credibility of those testifying.”

“So you’re going to allow them to testify?” Max asked.

“Yes. To exclude them would be reversible error in the event of a conviction. Fairness dictates allowing them to take the witness stand. Gentlemen, let’s tee it up.”

Knoxel brought a lawyer to the meeting, a union veteran named Dahl, a tough labor guy the cops ran to when they were in trouble. Dahl had once been a cop and had learned the ways of the streets from the gutters up. He truly believed that no cop should ever be punished. The average citizen wanted to be safe but had no idea what that required of the men in blue. Any day could be their last. The criminals had them outnumbered. The pressures were enormous, and if they cracked occasionally it should be overlooked or swept under the rug.

On the phone Mancini said it was bad. As Dahl and Knoxel read the sworn statement from Jane Doe, Mancini watched them carefully. He fancied himself a shrewd observer of people. He had to be. Success in the courtroom often turned on which side presented the most effective witnesses. Smooth liars, and they were rare, often convinced jurors. Honest witnesses often came across as unsteady because of the pressure.

Watching Knoxel read the affidavit, Max Mancini had no doubt Jane was telling the truth. When Knoxel finished, he huffed and tossed it on the table. “What a crock of shit,” he said.

“Unbelievable,” said Dahl.

“Were you with the girl?” Mancini asked.

“What? Hell no.”

“You’re lying, Keith. Look at you. Your eyes. You’re a deer in headlights.”

Knoxel flinched as his jaw dropped open. He had just been called a liar by the chief prosecutor. They were on the same side, weren’t they?

Because he had to say something, Dahl offered a weak “You don’t believe this stuff, Max, do you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Mancini said, glaring at Knoxel. “It’s what the jury believes.”

Knoxel’s heart was pounding and his forehead was moist. He looked away and thought of his wife and three children. The marriage wasn’t that stable at the moment anyway; they were barely holding it together for the kids. This testimony from China, in a crowded courtroom with the press licking up every word, would be the end. He had fantasized about his wife sitting proudly in the front row while he carried the ball for the entire force. He would be the man of the hour, and perhaps she would be proud of him.

He shook his head as Mancini bore holes in him. He would simply maintain his innocence, claim she was lying, and convince the jurors. Hell, he was a white cop. She was a black hooker. Surely credibility would swing his way. He managed to say, without a trace of conviction, “Come on, Max, she’s lying. This is just some more fiction created by Rudd.”

Max replied, “I don’t trust Rudd for a moment. But how do you respond to paragraph number ten, where she says there’s at least one other girl who can identify you as a customer? And, of course, the pimp.”

“I’ll bet the pimp has a record a mile long,” Dahl offered gamely.

“He doesn’t,” Max snapped without taking his eyes off Knoxel. “The cops leave him alone for some reason.”

“It’s a crock, Max, okay. All fiction. I’ve never met this girl and I don’t sleep with hookers.” Knoxel folded his arms over his chest and pouted like a four-year-old. How dare they question his integrity. Worse than the divorce would be the humiliation in front of his brethren. They were counting on him, the star eyewitness, to nail Tee Ray, to deliver a guilty verdict followed by the death penalty. For eleven months Keith Knoxel had been their hero, the comrade who would avenge the killing of one of their own. Now, though, he was being accused of having a little paid sex in a run-down flophouse with a minor while his partner was gunned down a block away.

He would be ostracized, cut out, ignored, fired, or worse. Divorced and out of work. “I don’t believe this,” he mumbled.

Knoxel took a day off for personal leave but did not tell his wife. After dark he went to a bar and started drinking. Alone in a dark corner, he weighed his options, the most attractive of which, at that awful moment, was putting his gun to his head. He could do it. It was not uncommon in his line of work. He knew three guys in the past five years who’d done it. All the same: no pills, no ropes, no jumping off bridges. There was only one way for a cop to handle things-take the service revolver, put a bullet in the temple.