Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“Nervous?” she asked.

He tied his shoelaces and crossed to the gun safe before remembering that he no longer had a service-issued weapon. “Yes. More about the prelim tomorrow.”

“He’s gonna be sitting there. In the same room as us.” She shook her head, mouth firmed with anger. “He’s all we have on this. Kindell. No accomplice, nothing else.” She stood up, as if sitting left her in too vulnerable a position. “What if they let him plea-bargain? Or if the jury doesn’t believe he did it?”

“It won’t happen. The DA will never let him plead out, and there’s enough evidence to convict him six times over. It’ll go smoothly, we’ll have ringside seats at the lethal injection, and then we can get on with things.”

“Like what?”

“Like finding the right place for Ginny. Like figuring out what parts of all this to let go. Like learning to live in this house together again.” His voice was soft and held longing. He could see his words working on Dray, cutting through some of the calluses the friction of the past days had built up between them.

“Two weeks ago we were a family,” Dray said. “I mean, we were so close, we were the ones they were jealous of. The other ones, with the bad marriages. And now, when I need you the most, I don’t even recognize you.” She sat back down on the bed. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

Tim thumbed the snap on his empty holster. “I don’t recognize us either.”

They shifted and waited, studying everything but each other. Tim searched for what he wanted to say but found nothing except confusion and an intense, unfamiliar need for assurance that unsettled him further.

Finally Dray said, “Good luck with the shooting board.”

REPORTERS CLUNG TO the courthouse steps like pigeons, trailing cords and setting up their field lead-ins. Tim drove past unnoticed and pulled through a gated entrance into the lot. Marshal Tannino’s office and those of his chiefs were arrayed along a quiet, carpeted hall behind the courthouse that felt more East Coast library than West Coast lowest bidder. The administrative offices were farther down the hall, past an immense antique safe from a late nineteenth-century marshal’s stagecoach escort team.

Bear was sitting on a chair in the small lounge, flirting with the marshal’s assistant and, from her weary expression of forbearance, doing a bad job of it. He stood quickly when Tim entered and ushered him into the hall.

“I’ve got to make a statement in three minutes, Bear.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“We had to take the phones off the hook. Too many-”

“I drove over to your house two nights ago. Dray said you were out shooting.” Bear studied Tim’s face. “She didn’t tell you I stopped by?”

“We haven’t been talking so much lately.”

“Jesus Christ, Rack. Why the hell not?”

A flare of anger that Tim smothered. “Look, I need to focus on my shooting statement right now.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Bear took a deep breath, held it for a moment. “You’re getting ambushed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been watching the news?”

“No, Bear. I’ve been dealing with more important stuff. Like burying my daughter.” Bear took a step back, and Tim inhaled deeply, then squeezed his eyes hard with his thumb and index finger. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

“The coverage has been pretty ugly. There’s this high-five picture-”

“I saw it.”

Bear lowered his voice as a couple of DOJ suits walked by. “It’s getting play like the shot of the INS agent with the MP-5 in Elian Gonzalez’s face. On top of that, some Mexican Al Sharpton out of Texas has been beating the drum-”

“That’s ridiculous. Heidel was white, and half our team was Hispanic.”

“But the photograph is of Denley and Maybeck, and they’re both white. And all that matters is that fucking photo, not the facts behind it.”

Tim held up his hands, a gesture of patience and capitulation. “I can’t control press coverage.”

“Well, you’re not just repeating your statement in there. A few shooting review board members flew out from HQ. You’re gonna get the full-court press.”

“Fair enough. It was a high-profile shooting. There’s a process. I get it.”

“Listen, Rack, this thing gets out of hand, goes civil or criminal, I’m gonna represent you. I don’t care if I have to resign-I got your back.”

“I knew law school would turn you paranoid.”

“This is serious stuff, Rack. Now, I know I’m just a dumb-ass who took a few night classes, but I can rep you for free and get you a real attorney to cover the hard shit.”

“I appreciate that, Bear. Thank you. But it’s gonna be fine.”

The marshal’s assistant stuck her head into the hall. “They’re ready for you, Deputy Rackley.” She withdrew without acknowledging Bear.

“‘Deputy Rackley,’” Tim repeated, troubled by her formality.

“I just wanted to warn you.”

“Thank you.” Tim tapped Bear on the ribs. “How’s the bruising?”

Bear tried not to wince. “Don’t hurt at all.”

Tim started back for the lounge. When he turned around, Bear was still watching him.

The big brick of a tape recorder shushed hypnotically in the center of the elongated table. Tim’s chair, with its middling size and cheap upholstery, was no match for the high-backed black leather numbers his interviewers commanded on the opposing side. Tim jiggled the handle beneath his seat inconspicuously, trying to elevate it.

With painstaking detail they’d covered every inch of Tim’s account of his shooting of Gary Heidel and Lydia Ramirez. The Internal Affairs guy wasn’t so bad, but the woman from Investigative Services and the gunner from Legal were attack dogs in knockoff suits. Tim’s forehead felt moist, but he refrained from wiping it.

The woman uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her finger tracing something in the file before her. “You claim you emerged from the alley and saw Carlos Mendez reaching for his weapon?”

“Yes.”

“Did you issue a warning to Mr. Mendez?”

“The firing of warning shots is against agency regulation.”

“As is firing at fleeing suspects, Deputy Rackley.”

The Internal Affairs inspector shot her a look of irritation. He was an older guy, probably switched over to IA to log a few more years of service before retirement. Tim remembered he’d introduced himself as Dennis Reed. “This was not merely a fleeing suspect, Deborah. He was armed and intent on firing.”

She made a calming gesture with her hands. “Did you issue an oral warning to Mr. Mendez?”

“We’d been issuing oral warnings for the preceding seven minutes to no avail. Two people were already dead as a result of the fugitives’ failure to heed those warnings.”

“Did you issue another oral warning immediately before you fired on Mr. Mendez?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There was no time.”

“There was no time for you to issue a final command of any sort?”

“I believe that’s what I just said.”

“But there was enough time for you to draw your weapon and fire three shots?”

“The final two shots were irrelevant.”

If Reed’s smirk was any indication, he liked Tim’s answer.

“Let me rephrase my question. There was enough time for you to draw your weapon and fire the first shot but not to issue an oral warning of any kind?”

“Yes.”

She feigned immense puzzlement. “How is that possible, Deputy Rackley?”

“I’m a very quick draw, ma’am.”

“I see. And were you concerned that Mr. Mendez was going to fire at you?”