Steve Martini - The Arraignment

She could have told Metz to take his problems elsewhere, but that wouldn’t prevent him from calling Nick on his own. Supporter of the arts he may be. But knowing Dana, she was looking for a sure way to sidestep a possible embarrassment. Nick’s story of a conflict with Metz and the ease with which he disposed of it seems a little too convenient to be believed. Nick decided he would refer the case elsewhere.

So who does he call? The one lawyer in town he knows who will not touch a drug case. And kazam, poof, it bounces back to him. Now he is not only able to take the case, he is able to tell Dana that he had no choice. He will take care of her friend, but she will pay the price. That brain would be doing double time with the thought that this would not only give him chits in his marriage but latitude in his practice. How could she complain when it was she who brought this particular client to his doorstep? And after all, he had tried to get rid of it.

By the time I reach the end of the block, I am smiling to myself, convinced that I have untangled the sordid intrigue of Nick’s marital machinations. I am savoring this little victory so that I fail to hear them as individual reports but instead as a continuous burst, like a loud zipper being opened. The shots resonate off the concrete walls of the buildings around me and echo off the four-story government offices that span Front Street. My arms go up, and I crouch against a wall, the instincts of survival taking hold.

It isn’t until I hear the sound of screeching rubber on the roadway behind me that I turn. A small dark sedan leaves a cloud of exhaust and burned rubber as it peels away from the curb in front of the courthouse. I can hear the engine hammering on eight cylinders, the raw power of an engine pushed to the limit as the car slides through a left turn onto Broadway. The cross traffic braking, screeching to a stop to avoid hitting it, horns honking. Before I can focus entirely, the car disappears around the corner.

I look back across Front Street to the main entrance of the courthouse. Two women are crawling on their hands and knees on the sidewalk. A guy helps one of them up, only to have her hands fly up to her mouth as she screams. I can hear it, a piercing high note, even half a block away. She is looking down at something behind her on the sidewalk.

The gathering crowd has blocked my view. One of the marshals in his blue sport coat exits the courthouse door on the run. He disappears behind the small sea of onlookers, I suspect gone down to one knee.

Within seconds, two other men in dark uniforms join him, both coming out of the courthouse door on the run. They have guns drawn. One of them is talking into a small microphone clipped to the shoulder epaulet of his uniform.

Traffic has slowed on Front Street as drivers stop to rubberneck. I weave between cars, horns honking, as I cross over and make my way along the sidewalk toward the front of the courthouse. Other people are running in the same direction now, everybody with the same thought, to see what has happened.

As I come up behind the throng, I try to edge my way through, shoulders sliding sideways until I find a crevice in the crowd where I can see. There on the ground lying in a river of blood is a body. A man, dark hair, his face turned away from me on the concrete, part of it bloodied and gone. He’s wearing a sport coat gone sideways on his upper body as he hit the ground. His gray slacks are soaking up blood, legs tangled as if he were trying to flee as he was cut down.

I look for Nick, but I don’t see him. By now at least a half dozen marshals are assembled, trying to gain control, pushing people back, making a path for the EMTs whose ambulance I can hear in the distance. Two city patrol cars pull up in front, their light bars flashing. One of them has a semiautomatic drawn. Then he realizes it’s over, and reholsters it, clipping it down with the snap strap before he starts pushing people back to clear a path.

People are stumbling, being pushed. An old woman in a long coat and bandanna, nearly goes to her knees. A guy reaches out and grabs her. A look of confusion as she has no idea where these saving hands have come from. Delayed panic ripples through the crowd as stunned silence turns to agitation and people regain their bravado. Curiosity sets in. They press in for a look, and the cops push back, holding the line.

“Did you see it?”

“No. I heard the shots.”

“Anybody hurt?” One of the cops is calling out.

“Over here.” A man’s voice.

A city traffic cop, still wearing his cycle helmet, cuts a swath through the crowd. It isn’t until then that I realize it’s not one gathering but two, each orbiting like constellations around their own black hole. There on the sidewalk I see Nick, sitting, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed in a half-closed sightless stare cast at the rivulet of his own blood running down the sidewalk and over the curb. There are little dark dots seeping into the fabric of his coat, too many for me to count. The bullet holes in his chest run downward diagonally across his body, not disappearing until they reach his waist. The impact has blown him back against a concrete planter box, where his body sits slumped like some child’s discarded puppet.

Standing on the sidewalk, I can do nothing. Within seconds, a fire engine rounds the corner, followed a minute later by an ambulance. Two EMTs jump off the engine, and, before I can move, they are working on Nick. They hover over him, pulling equipment from their large emergency packs-needles and plasma, an oxygen mask connected to a small tank. I move through the crowd and realize that the other man is Metz. I can see the back of one of the emergency medical techs hunching over him, doing chest compressions.

In less than three minutes, Nick and Metz are loaded onto stretchers and moved into the ambulance. I can see part of Nick’s face outside of the mask as they wheel him past. It is ashen, a hue of blue-gray. His eyes are partly open, a lifeless expression that you know is not good.

Before I can turn for my car, the ambulance and its cargo are gone. I would guess to the trauma center, but given the medical facilities in this town I would have better odds playing roulette. Instead of guessing, I head to the car and ply the cell phone. It takes me ten minutes of calling information before I find the right hospital, only to be told that the ambulance has arrived but no information can be given out. The nurse wants to know if I am family. I tell her no. She asks my name and phone number. I tell her I will call back later and hang up. There is nothing I can do. In a daze, I head for the office. One of those episodes when you drive, arrive at a destination, and don’t know how you got there. I’m parked on the street outside my office, sitting in the driver’s seat, not knowing how long I’ve been here.

I shake my head, wipe my forehead. For a moment I think I am imagining it. But my hands are trembling. I turn the key in the ignition halfway and turn on the radio, and push buttons for local stations. I break into one of them and hear the words:

“… outside of the federal courthouse in downtown San Diego. At this time we don’t know how many people have been injured. Again, it was a drive-by shooting.”

I reach for the control and turn up the volume.

“According to confirmed reports, two men are dead.”

My mind has already registered the fact, but hearing it somehow makes it real.

“The identities of the two victims are being withheld pending notification of next of kin. According to police, the motive for the shootings is unknown. There have been no arrests and police say the investigation is continuing. We’ll bring you further details at the hour.”