William Bernhardt - Death Row

“Which is good. But it’s no automatic pass. The court might well assume that she was telling the truth then and that for whatever reason she’s lying now. I think your best shot would be to augment the actual-innocence arguments with incompetence-of-counsel arguments. But that would mean I’d have to drop out.”

“No way. I want you in charge.”

“I can’t possibly argue that trial counsel was incompetent when I was the trial counsel. No judge is going to buy it.”

“No judge is going to buy it no matter who makes the argument. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Whether I did or I didn’t, the argument could be made.”

“Forget it, Ben. I want you on the case.”

“Ray, stop and think for a moment. This is important.”

“I don’t have to stop and think for a moment. Answer me one question, Ben. Do you think I’m innocent?”

Ben looked at him levelly. “I know you are.”

“That’s what I want. And I’m not going to get it anywhere else. No one else would’ve stuck with me so long, Ben. No one else would’ve fought so hard. You’ve already saved me from the executioner once. And I know it’s been a good long time since you got paid. You’re not doing this for money or glory. You’re doing it because you believe in me.” He pressed his palm against the Plexiglas screen between them. “I want you running the appeal.”

Ben didn’t know what to say. “You’re the client.”

“Good. Subject closed. Now go get that young lady’s story down on paper and take it to the judge. Erin Faulkner may have done me a great disservice before, but she’s going to compensate for it now. I’m sure of it. As long as we have her testimony on our side, we can’t lose.”

Mike stared at the television screen, a tense expression on his face. The brunette telejournalist was reporting live from downtown.

“I’m LeAnne Taylor, and here at the scene of the tragedy, many questions are being asked about what happened-and why. I spoke earlier to Peter Rothko, the owner of the Tulsa-based Burger Bliss restaurant chain, about the tragedy.”

The picture switched to a tall, handsome man with a thick shock of red hair. Surprisingly young, Mike thought, for a corporate CEO.

“It’s a tragedy,” he said, shaking his head. “A tragedy.”

Mike grimaced. Someone needed to buy these people a thesaurus.

Taylor pressed a microphone close to Rothko’s face. “Will the restaurant reopen?”

“I don’t know about that. I think some sort of… memorial might be appropriate.”

“What do you think of the Tulsa PD’s handling of the situation?”

Rothko paused before speaking. “Well, it’s not my job to assign blame. But I understand there will be a full investigation, and I support that decision. If there were any inappropriate actions taken, those responsible should be called to account. We need to make sure tragedies like this do not happen again.”

Mike switched off the set, muttering beneath his breath. The quest for scapegoats had already begun.

His secretary, Penelope, entered his cubicle. Mike had worked with her long enough to know that when she came in with that expression on her face, she was not bearing good news.

“Chief Blackwell?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Mike wasn’t surprised. In fact, as he made his way down to the chief of police’s second-floor office, he wondered why it had taken this long. In the hours following the Burger Bliss fiasco, the media coverage had been omnipresent. The papers and airwaves had been filled with reportage of the “bungled siege” and “the Tulsa PD’s tragic comedy of errors.” They were already comparing it with Waco and Ruby Ridge.

Which explained all too clearly why he had been summoned to Blackwell’s office.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Blackwell bellowed, not ten seconds after Mike entered his office. He was not one for small talk. In the past six months he had given up cigars and, to make matters worse, had recently abandoned coffee. To say he was cranky was like saying Madonna was uninhibited.

“My job,” Mike replied succinctly.

“You’re a homicide detective, damn it. You don’t have any business screwing around with the SOT team.”

“I thought they could use all the help they could get.”

“So you decided to barge in and take over?”

“I felt Sergeant Hoppes was making some… erroneous tactical decisions.”

Blackwell ran his hands through the hair at his graying temples. He’d aged remarkably little in the years Mike had known him. He must be sixty, at least, but he was still in good shape and looked much younger. “Sergeant Hoppes has trained for over five years to lead that team.”

“I didn’t interfere with his handling of the team. I interfered with his handling of the hostage situation and a mentally unstable individual. I thought I could talk the kid down. I thought I could get everyone out of there alive.”

“Well, you were sure as hell wrong about that, weren’t you?”

“With all respect, sir, no. If Hoppes had held his men back, as I instructed him to do, I think I could’ve resolved the matter without injury to anyone. It was only when the kid saw armed snipers flanking him on all sides that he panicked.”

“Says you. Hoppes tells a different story.”

I’ll bet. “I’ve submitted my report, sir. It contains everything I have to say.”

Blackwell was not appeased. “The one thing your report doesn’t explain is what you thought you were doing in the first place, pulling rank on Hoppes and playing James Bond on his turf!”

“Sir-”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, Mike, and we both know it. I’ve tried to cover for you, but you’ve become a loose cannon. I never know what you’ll try next.”

“I give my job one hundred and ten percent. Is that a problem?”

“No.” He paused. “I suspect the problem is that you don’t have a life.”

“Sir?”

“If you had a wife and family you wouldn’t be running around arresting speeders for jollies and interfering in hostage situations.”

“Now wait a minute. That’s not fair.”

“Don’t give me not fair.” His voice hardened. “You know what’s not fair? I’ll tell you. Three people injured. Three dead. And why? Because they happened to go to a burger joint on the wrong day. That’s what’s not fair.”

Blackwell began pacing behind his desk. “I guess you know I’ve got the press crawling all over me. And the mayor. She’s furious. And who do I have to thank for that? One hotshot cop who can’t keep his nose out of other people’s business!”

So he’d been right; he was going to be fired. So we’ll go no more a-roving…

Fine. He wasn’t going to sit still and take it like a punching bag. “Look, you want my badge? You’ve got it!”

“Mike…”

“I know how this dirty game is played. Never mind all the years I’ve given this force. I’ll be your scapegoat.” He pulled out his badge and slammed it down on Blackwell’s desk. “Consider this my resignation.”

“Your resignation is not accepted.”

“It-” He stopped short. “What’s that?”

“It’s not accepted. I didn’t drag you down here to fire you.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t. So siddown already.”

Mike did as he was told.

Blackwell took his seat behind his desk and stared intently at his steepled fingers. “How long have you and Tomlinson been working together?”

Mike cast his mind back. “Since the Kindergarten Killer case.”

“Right. A good long while. I wonder if maybe it’s time for a change.”

“Wait a minute. Tomlinson and I work well together. He’s my protégé.”