Don Winslow - Dawn Patrol

“Overruled,” Hammond says.

Alan continues: “And were you at Silver Dan's the night of October 17, 2006?”

“Yes,” Tammy says.

“And were you there after closing?” Alan asks.

“Yes, I was.”

“Why?”

“I was dating Dan at the time,” Tammy says. “We were going to go out to breakfast.”

“And did you go out to breakfast?”

“Not directly,” Tammy says, looking at Dan.

“Where did you go?”

“Dan said he had an errand to do,” Tammy says, “at a warehouse he owned.”

“And did you go to the warehouse?” Alan asks, closing in. He spots Boone in the gallery and gives him a quick wink before turning back to Tammy.

“We did,” Tammy says.

Alan turns his back to her to look at the jury, then at Dan, then at Todd-just to stick it in a little-then back at the jury. He walks over to the jury box and asks, with the immaculate timing of a really good stand-up comic, “When you went there, did you get out of the car?”

“Yes.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I went inside.”

“And…” Alan pauses to signal the jury that something important is coming up. “… did you see anything unusual?”

Here it comes, Boone thinks. A few more words out of her mouth and we're done. We can all get on with our lives, and I can try to find a little peace inside a giant wave.

Tammy looks straight at Dan, who pulls a little silver cross on a chain out of his pocket and fingers it nervously. Yeah, Boone thinks as he watches this, like Jesus is going to jump in on your side, pull you out of the deep water.

“No,” Tammy says.

Shit, Boone thinks.

Alan keeps the smile on his face, but it definitely tightens up. This wasn't the answer he was expecting. Boone can see Petra's back stiffen, her head straighten up.

Dan Silver just smiles.

Alan moves away from the jury and walks up to the witness stand. “I'm sorry, Ms. Roddick. Perhaps I wasn't being clear. When you went into the warehouse that night, did you see Mr. Silver there?”

“Yes.”

“And was he doing something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“He was just looking around, checking the back door, that kind of thing,” Tammy says. “Then we went to Denny's.”

She looks at the jurors with an expression of total innocence.

“Ms. Roddick,” Alan asks, his voice edging toward threat, “didn't you tell me that you saw Mr. Silver pouring kerosene on the floor in the basement?”

“No,” Tammy says.

“You didn't tell me,” Burke says, “that you saw him run a twisted sheet into that kerosene?”

“Objection.”

“No.”

“Or hold his cigarette lighter to that sheet and set it on fire?” Burke asks.

“Objection…”

“No.”

“Ob-”

“I have your sworn deposition here,” Burke says. “I can show it to you, if you'd like.”

“-jection!”

Boone sees Petra start hammering on her laptop, bringing up Tammy's deposition transcript. The jurors are literally leaning forward in their seats, totally awake now; the case has suddenly become really interesting, like they see on Law amp; Order.

“Yeah, okay. I told you those things,” Tammy says.

“Thank you,” Alan says. But he's not happy. Torching your own witness, as it were, is never a good thing, because the other side gets to stand up and confront her with the conflict in her own testimony. But it's better than nothing.

Except Tammy says, “Because you promised me money to say it.”

That's not good, Boone thinks.

The jurors gasp. The trial junkies in the gallery sit up with ears pricked. Petra turns in her chair and looks at Boone. Then she shakes her head sadly and goes back to her computer.

Todd the Rod morphs into a semi-vertical position that could be mistaken for an actual human being standing up. “Move for a directed verdict, Your Honor. Not to mention sanctions for gross misconduct.”

Alan says, “Mistrial, Your Honor.”

“I'll see you both in chambers,” Hammond says. “Now.”

Fucked, Boone thinks as he watches Todd the Rod ooze toward the judge's chambers.

Epic macking fucked.

Boone intercepts Tammy as she walks out of the courtroom.

“They got to you, didn't they?” Boone asks.

She just shakes her head and pushes past him into the hallway. He follows her, just a few steps ahead of Johnny and Harrington.

“What did they offer you,” Boone says, taking her by the elbow, “that's worth more than your friend's life?”

She turns those green eyes on him. “If you'd seen what I've seen-”

“What have you seen?”

Tammy jerks her arm away, hesitates for a second, then says, “There's a world out there you know nothing about.”

“Educate me.”

But Johnny steps between them. He shows his badge and says, “Sergeant Kodani, SDPD. Ms. Roddick, we have some questions for you regarding the death of Angela Hart.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“You might know more than you think,” Johnny says. “In any case, we'd appreciate your coming down to the station to discuss it with us. It won't take long.”

“Am I under arrest?” she asks.

“Not yet,” Harrington says, pushing in. “Would you like to be?”

“I have things I have to-”

“What,” Harrington says, “you're late for the pole?”

“Just come with us, Ms. Roddick,” Johnny says. He guides her toward the door.

Harrington looks at Boone. “Another stellar performance from you, Daniels. Congratulations. At least this time, you got a grown-up killed. Maybe next time, it'll be an old lady.”

Boone punches him.

Tammy Roddick is stone.

That's what Johnny Banzai thinks.

“Angela had your credit cards,” he says. “Why?”

Tammy shrugs.

“Did you give them to her?”

She stares at the wall.

“Or did you check into the motel with her?” Johnny asks.

She checks her fingernails.

The interview room is nice. Small but clean, with the walls painted in a soothing light yellow. A metal table and two metal chairs. The classic one-way mirror. A video camera with microphone bolted to the ceiling.

So, as much as Harrington would like to bust into the room, call her a stupid fucking twat, and bounce her off the walls, he can't do it without making a guest appearance on America's Worst Police Videos. All he can do is watch, through a swollen eye, as Johnny takes another tack.

“Hey, Tammy,” Johnny says, “you saw her get killed, didn't you? You were there. You got away. You could give us the guy who did it.”

She finds an interesting stain on the table, wets her finger, and rubs it out.

“That's the good-parts version,” Johnny says. “You want to hear the bad version?”

She goes back to the shrug.

“The bad version,” Johnny says, “is that you set her up. You both saw Danny set the fire, but you made a deal and she wouldn't, so you got her in that room to be killed. Try to follow along here, Tammy, because I'm presenting you with a very important choice. It's a one-time offer. It goes off the table in five seconds, but right now you get to choose which you want to be-witness or suspect. We're talking first-degree homicide, premeditated, and I'll bet I can get ‘special circumstances’ tossed in. So you'd be looking at… I don't know. Let me get my calculator.”

“I want a lawyer,” Tammy says.

Which is some sort of progress, Johnny thinks. At least we've gone verbal now. The problem is, she's verbalized the magic words that will stop the interview.

“Are you sure about that?” Johnny says, playing the standard card because he's not holding any better ones. “Because once you ask for a lawyer, you choose suspect.”