Steve Bein: Year of the Demon

“Yeah,” said Han. “You’d think your partner wouldn’t say anything to ruffle their feathers before they made their ruling, too.”

She blushed for a second, but he winked at her and even gave her a little grin. “You look awfully relaxed,” she said.

“What’s there to be nervous about? The worst part’s over.”

Mariko hadn’t realized that was true, but now that she thought about it, it was almost self-evident. Working up the courage to make a full confession was agonizing work. After that, taking your licks was easy. Han had just looked his own guilt full in the face; he knew he deserved punishment and he’d already resigned himself to accept it, however harsh it might be.

A few minutes later the review board returned to render its verdict, and again, paradoxically, Mariko found herself more nervous about it than Han. The chairman sat down with what looked like a sheet of prepared notes that he didn’t bother looking at, making Mariko so curious she wanted to jump out of her seat to see what it said.

His ruling was short and to the point: Han had violated Akahata’s right to freedom from unlawful search and seizure; he had transgressed the boundaries of probable cause, though not the boundaries of reasonable suspicion; he had placed his CI, Shino, in a situation that might have become dangerous. All of that was clear. But there was no indubitable proof that he had directly endangered Shino’s life. He would not be charged criminally, and that meant he’d get to keep his badge. But the board found him guilty of violating eight general orders regarding the proper handling of covert informants, and that meant his life in Narcotics was over. The review board busted him back down to general patrol, where every time he walked into a roomful of cops it would be like showing up to a black tie affair with a nice tuxedo and his pants around his ankles. Sooner or later things would get back to business as usual, but for years to come there would be stares and whispers everywhere he went.

As the members of the review board packed up their things, Sakakibara offered Han his stern congratulations; Mariko thought he seemed grimly pleased with the ruling. Afterward he offered to buy Mariko and Han a cup of coffee—or rather, he ordered them to sit down to coffee with him; lieutenants did not offer invitations to their subordinates. All the same, sitting down to coffee outside of their post felt like Mariko’s father taking her out for ice cream after she’d run hard in a track meet and still finished second. That marked it as another fatherly gesture from Sakakibara, both the second Mariko had seen from him this morning and the second one she’d seen from him, period.

They sat down and Mariko and Han waited for Sakakibara to speak. Coffee shop or not, this wasn’t exactly a social call. “Han, I don’t want you coming in to clear out your desk until second shift. Wait until the unit’s down to a skeleton crew. Save yourself that embarrassment, all right? Hell, save me the embarrassment.”

Han swallowed. Mariko gave him an “it’s okay” sort of nod, the kind no one really meant, the kind oncologists everywhere gave their patients when the news wasn’t good but the prognosis wasn’t terminal. “I worked general patrol for a long time, Han. It’s a good job. An important job.”

“And it’s not Narcotics.” He sighed and gave a defeated shrug. “At least one of us still has a spot in the lineup, neh ? I’m really, really glad they didn’t drag you down with me.”

“I am too,” said Sakakibara. “I’m shorthanded enough as it is. But you two need to learn a lesson from this whole fiasco. When you do the right thing and you break the rules, sometimes you need to ask yourself what that says about the rules.”

“Sir?” said Han.

“Sometimes you admit you’re in the wrong. Like your hearing today. You did your job. You did the right thing. But sometimes the rules aren’t what they should be.”

Han’s eyes flicked between Sakakibara and Mariko, and Mariko felt her face go sour when she met his gaze. “What?” Han said. “Oh, hell. You went to Joko Daishi’s indictment, didn’t you?”

Mariko had a decent poker face, but not for Han. She tried to hold his stare but couldn’t. “No,” he said, and in that incredulous, angry tone it came out as a curse word. “He’s going to walk?”

“On most of it,” Mariko said. “They didn’t even bother to charge him with Shino’s murder.”

“Because he murdered the only eyewitness who can put him on the scene.”

“Yep.”

Han was crestfallen. “So the same circumstantial shit that lets me keep my badge—”

“Gets Joko Daishi off the hook, yeah,” said Mariko. She broke down the rest of the details for him. “In the end, we’re thinking— hoping —the terrorism charges will stick, but that’ll be a federal thing, out of our reach.”

Mariko hadn’t thought it possible for Han to deflate any further. His color drained from him; he seemed to diminish in his chair.

Mariko knew the feeling.

Somehow, through heroic effort, Han mustered the energy to speak. “So what the hell did we accomplish?”

“A lot,” Sakakibara said, “and don’t you dare lose sight of it. You’ve both been at this far too long not to have figured this out by now: we don’t have the luxury of total victories in this profession. You think we’re in Narcotics so we can put a stop to illegal drugs? No. We stop one dealer. Then we go stop another one. If the first guy’s out on the streets already, we go back and get him again. This is the game, boys and girls—the game you signed up to play. And you know what happens next?”

Han’s gaze shifted from Sakakibara to Mariko and back, wavering, just as unstable as his own resolve. But Mariko felt steadier. She’d lost her composure when she couldn’t pull the trigger on Joko Daishi, felt it crumble, shot through with a million fractures. Even her victory over Akahata wasn’t enough to restore it. But Sakakibara’s words were like glue, seeping into the cracks, bleeding deeper into them, finding more, binding it all together, making her stronger.

“I do,” she said. “I know what happens next. Their team gets the ball back. They try to get one by us again. And we block it, again and again.” She looked at her partner. “Narcs, patrolmen, paper pushers, it doesn’t matter. It’s all the same job. We’re goalkeepers, Han. This is what we do.”

Han slumped. “And I was always a baseball guy. I guess I’m not cut out for soccer.”

“Han,” Mariko said, “you know that’s not what I mean. I’m trying to say—”

“I get what you’re saying. But the truth is, this goalie got benched, and now he’s getting reassigned to direct traffic in the parking lot. It’s fine. Seriously. It’s no more than I deserve.”

“Han—”

“No, Mariko. I’m out of the game for a little while. But I guess there are traffic violations in the parking lot too. I don’t know how important they are, but someone’s got to crack down on them.”

“Take the rest of the morning off,” Sakakibara said, as abrupt as ever. He stood up to leave. “Get your heads clear. Then put all this crap behind you. Get it out of your mind so you can do your damn jobs. Frodo, I’ll see you at noon. Han, I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Yes, sir,” Han said. He stood up and gave the lieutenant a deep bow. “Thank you, sir. You taught me everything worth knowing about being a cop.”

“Don’t get weepy on me.”

“Sorry.” Han gathered himself and bowed again. “It’s been an honor, Lieutenant.”

Sakakibara gave him a curt nod and walked out.

Mariko finished her coffee and set it on the table with a loud clack . “Let’s go to my place,” she said. “I have something I want to show you.”