A Sense of Justice

by Jack Davis

  Miguel had been believable and natural in all his interactions with Alvaro. As far as his brother-in-law knew, he was there with his new fiancée to enjoy the island prior to going back to Mexico to introduce her to his family. Alvaro looked uncharacteristically happy when they met and greeted Miguel with a hearty handshake.

  “Business first,” said Alvaro.

  Miguel handed Alvaro a small bag with the cards and received an envelope containing the numbers. It took all of five seconds.

  “I can’t tell you how excited Maria is to meet your fiancée. She wants to have dinner together tonight, okay?”

  “I, I think so.” Miguel took off his cap.

  “Maria is pregnant,” said Alvaro as Miguel wiped his forehead.

  As Miguel heard the word “pregnant,” shots cracked overhead. Alvaro instinctively ducked and ran for cover. Miguel, not familiar with the sound of gunfire, hesitated before he ran too. Knowing he wasn’t supposed to be arrested near his brother-in-law, he ran in the opposite direction. He was confused; so were the agents, and all the officers…except two.

  King and his partner Bobby Muelens were assigned a portion of the middle perimeter that didn’t even have a direct line of sight to the meeting location. Their neatly printed assignment sheet with a map had them around a corner, “controlling the access and egress to zone two.” Once the signal was given, the word “Yankees” would be broadcast over the radio and all arrest teams were to converge on the defendants. “Defendants” was a key phrase. That morning, only a few of the local police knew that Miguel was a cooperating defendant. The rest believed they were arresting two individuals that morning. Both King and Muelens felt they knew enough and expected everything to go just as it said on the sheets they had tucked in their back pockets. They had stopped reading after the phrase “successful apprehension.” If they had kept reading, they might have seen the running password was “Montana,” and passed that along to the uniformed officers they were supervising.

  The detectives listened to their radios and heard the secondary suspect, as Miguel was known, had gotten to the square and was seated at a table facing the street. King stuck his head around the corner to get a glimpse of area. He nodded to his disinterested partner. Five minutes later, the radio came to life again when the primary suspect was spotted three blocks from the site. He was described: height, weight, what he was wearing, the normal information. Since he was coming from the opposite direction, King judged it would be okay to move a little closer to get a better vantage point. They went inside one of the shops and watched the proceedings through the store window. Seeing no one else in the square with the exception of agents Pencala and Swann, posing as a tourist couple, King decided the time was right. He turned to his partner, who was looking at a bathing suit cover-up for his girlfriend, and said, “Let’s have some fun.”

  Muelens, not even looking up from the rack said, “K.”

  “I wanna see how these college-educated, short-haired types act when tings don’t go according to their fuckin’ plan.”

  This at least made Muelens look at his partner and double the syllables of his previous answer, “Okay.”

  “Do I see a knife in da suspect’s hand?” King smiled.

  Muelens knew exactly what his partner meant. “You sure?”

  “Ya mon, just a few bullets over their heads into da ocean, no one gets hurt. It adds realism. I bet you a drink one of those sissy agents pisses his pants.”

  Muelens smiled and shook his partner’s hand to seal the wager.

  Now both men looked at the shopkeeper and flashed their badges as they pulled their guns. Aiming well over the heads of Miguel and Alvaro so the bullets would clear the one-story fruit stands and drop into the empty ocean beyond, they nodded.

  Each officer squeezed off one round.

  Morley, whose plane was delayed, had only arrived at the small mobile command post when the first shots were fired. He automatically looked at Posada who was monitoring the radio.

  “I don’t know.” Posada said as he shrugged.

  Morley bolted from the Winnebago, gun in hand. In the twenty-odd seconds it took him to reach the market it had turned into a maelstrom. Lead whizzed through the humid morning air like angry bees. When the errant insect-like projectiles landed, they produced showers of wood splinters or glass fragments as they tore into the flimsily constructed buildings. The noise of the gunfire echoed off the walls adding to the chaos and making it impossible to determine exactly where the fire was coming from. To round out the scene, the acrid smell of gunpowder permeated the market.

  The first agents Morley encountered were Kruzerski and Murray. They were hunkered down behind a small taxi, and to Morley’s surprise, they had Alvaro face down, in handcuffs.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t know, boss. Everything was fine and then someone started shooting.” Kruzerski glanced at Murray who was maintaining watch over the hood of the car. “We didn’t see anything. Then Lopez came running in our direction, so we tackled him. That’s all I know.”

  Rounds passed close to the car and all hunched their shoulders reflexively.

  Morley looked to his right and saw two uniformed officers crouched behind a large planter. As he watched, one then the other would peek over the top of the pot, duck back down raise their weapon, and fire blindly.

  In that instant Morley knew most of what had happened. When the first shots were fired, all the officers and agents instinctively drew their weapons. The immediate response was based upon the known, the unknown, and unfortunately, training—or lack of training.

  The known was someone was using deadly force. The proper response was to be ready to reply in kind. The basic logic being, if someone fired it was either a bad guy with a gun, or a good guy with a gun. There were only two choices. Either choice elicited the same response: draw your weapon until the situation was resolved.

  For everyone except King and Muelens, the unknown was who was firing and why? That led to training. Unlike what King had hoped for and predicted, the agents’ high degree of training kicked in, as did the lack of training for the Royal Police. It was this lack of suitable training that started a chain reaction of “sympathetic shooting.”

  Instead of remaining in their assigned positions, officers eager to see where the shooting was coming from moved forward, only to have rounds from officers on the opposite side of the square fly past them. They returned fire, semi-blindly at the only potential targets, a man and woman with guns in their hands.

  Kay and Doc!

  “Lionel, stay with Lopez. Brian, stop those two clowns from firing,” said Morley he pointed to the officers firing from behind the planter, then sprinted around the fender of the taxi.

  At the corner of the first building, he came across an officer reloading his revolver. With no time to explain himself, he simply grabbed the gun from the stunned man and continued running.

  As Morley closed on the stand where Swann and Pencala were stranded, he slowed to a walk and stood up straighter as he yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” He hoped his actions, and the raid jacket with large yellow letters—POLICE—would at least give the officers pause.

  He heard his words echoed from his left and saw Constable Freeman cautiously walking toward him yelling for his men to stop firing. The firing slackened, then stopped.

  When the firing died, Miguel used the lull to bolt from his hiding spot. He turned the corner that King and Muelens should have been watching screaming, “Montana, Montana, Montana,” at the top of his lungs. Rounding the building, but looking backwards, he plowed into Officer Terrell Davis, coming from the opposite direction. The collision was bone-jarring. Both men were knocked to the ground.

  Miguel, fueled with more adrenalin, was quicker to his feet and sped away while Davis scrambled for the gun that had been knocked from his hand. Once armed again, but still seated, the officer fired in the general direction of the fleeing figure…and one other.

  Unfortunately for
Morley, who had seen Miguel flee and gave chase, Officer Davis’s aim was better than his fire discipline. The officer’s first round struck Morley just above the left kidney. It propelled him into Miguel and drove both to the ground.

  The Wild West-style shoot-out was a significant event in Nassau. It was bad for tourism and action had to be taken to figure out what to do next and how to spin the incident. The governor general of the Island was notified, and Constable Freeman was summoned to answer questions. This left King and Muelens as the senior local officials on the scene.

  After the area had been secured, Alvaro was transported to the station. Kruzerski was in the left front seat and Muelens drove, while King and Murray flanked the prisoner.

  “Whad ya do with da knife?” asked King, looking somewhat nervous. “Whad ya do with da knife?”

  Knife? Mouthed Murray to Kruzerski, who shrugged.

  “My partner and I saw a knife. You found out your brother-in-law was setting you up and you planned to kill him, didn’t you?” asked King as he leaned over, grabbed a few of Alvaro’s mustache whiskers, and yanked them out. The defendant’s face contorted with pain, but he remained silent.

  King turned toward Murray. “Bobby and I thought we saw a knife. He tried to radio everyone, and I fired a shot to warn people.” He turned back to Alvaro. “Whad ya do with da knife?” He ripped more whiskers from the prisoner’s face. There was no answer.

  With lights and siren, the drive only took ten minutes. The station house was an old whitewashed two-story brick building with an orange terracotta roof, worn tile flooring, a strong smell of perspiration, and a small cadre of determined flies.

  After securing their weapons, the officers walked Alvaro through the intake process, with one notable exception, no photographs were taken.

  The prisoner didn’t utter a sound during the entire procedure. Upon completion of the fingerprinting, King manhandled Alvaro to the basement, and stripped him to his underwear.

  “What’s your name?” demanded King.

  Alvaro stared at the grey cement floor.

  “Oh, you’ll talk,” said King as he slapped the back of the defendant’s head. When a few more open-hand strikes produced no result, King moved around to the front. As Alvaro’s face reddened and started to swell, the Americans realized why no photographs had been taken.

  After a minute without a word from Alvaro, King resorted to a closed fist and drew blood. Kruzerski, standing against the wall, moved forward. It was only then that Muelens noticed the agents looked uncomfortable. Concerned about what people might have seen, and how the agents would testify, he stopped King. Walking over to the large white agent, he asked in a sincere voice, “Is this questioning bothering you?”

  Kruzerski, who had done his share of intimidating suspects but had never and would never have gone this far, answered, “Yes.”

  King, in a friendly voice said, “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “We can’t stand by and watch a defendant get beat up,” said Murray.

  King nodded. “I understand.” Then they led Alvaro into an adjacent shower room. Muelens draped the defendant’s handcuffed wrists over a showerhead. King grinned as he closed the door.

  Morley could tell Greere was trying to avoid the potholes, but there were just too many. He grimaced as the car struck another crater and the pain in his lower back radiated up spine.

  “Sorry, PJ.”

  “No problem. Now what exactly did Murray say?”

  “He asked how you were doing, and I told him how lucky you were, that two inches lower and the round would have gone below your vest.”

  “If I were really lucky it would have been three inches left and missed me completely.”

  Greere nodded and continued, “He was kinda cryptic, gave the impression there were others around and he couldn’t talk. He implied that the locals were being…forceful.”

  “Shit.” Morley braced for another bump.

  Greere slowed the car to lessen the impact. “He also said they were asking about any accounts in banks in the Bahamas.”

  “Figures, they want a shot at the funds before anyone knows how much is in there; typical.” Morley shook his head in disgust. “I’ll talk to Freeman about that. Anything else?”

  “You can ask him yourself,” said Greere as he pointed to Murray pacing in the station house parking lot.

  Even with his injury, Morley was quick out of the car. He met Murray on the stairs to the building.

  “Boss,” Murray started hesitantly, “the locals are uh, interrogating the suspect.” He paused. “He’s in rough shape. I, uh…”

  Morley stopped him instantly, “Lopez is a Secret Service prisoner. He’s under our protection. We can’t have him looking like a hundred and fifty pounds of ground meat when we bring him in front of a judge.” Morley moved quickly up the stairs, Murray and Greere following in his wake.

  Morley paused for directions as the trio entered the station house. Murray motioned to a hallway on the left.

  As Morley reached the door to the basement, Murray said, “Lopez is pretty tough; he hasn’t said a word.”

  Morley turned and looked at his agent. “None of our guys touched him, right?”

  “No sir.”

  Then Morley cocked his head. “Are we sure that Lopez even speaks English?”

  Murray’s hesitation told Morley all he needed to know. He looked at Greere. “Get Posada on the line. I want him to…”

  Moments later, Morley burst into the basement. He saw Alvaro in the middle of the floor, beaten and bloody. The defendant lay there moaning and occasionally coughing. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth and right ear. One eye was swollen shut and the second was headed that way. The officers obviously knew their business. There were few cuts or wounds, and none that by Bahamian standards would require medical attention.

  “Get him a chair,” Morley demanded of Kruzerski as he moved toward the prisoner. His anger continued to rise with every step. “Get him some water,” he growled at Murray.

  “Who da fuck are you?” King moved toward Morley.

  Morley answered through clenched teeth. “I’m their boss and this man is our prisoner.”

  “Maybe you forgot where da fuck you’re at, mon. This is da Bahamas. You’re not my boss and he’s not your prisoner.”

  King’s right hand moved toward Morley to push him away from the prisoner.

  In a split-second, Morley caught the arm, twisted it counterclockwise, and swept King’s legs out from under him. The detective hit the floor with a thud. Morley finished the maneuver, and his victim was face down, his arm hyper-extended behind him and a shoe on his face.

  Morley turned his attention to Muelens who had moved forward and thrust his hand into his pocket. The reflexive nature of the detective’s motion told Morley all he needed to know: knife!

  “If you have something in your pocket, it’d damn well better be a candy bar, because if you take it out, I’m gonna make you fuckin’ eat it.” To emphasize the point, he added torque to the arm-lock. King groaned helplessly.

  “This prisoner is being arrested on charges brought by the Secret Service through the US Embassy. There is no applicable statute here in the islands to charge him. So, unless you plan to charge him with being your human fucking target, he’s our prisoner.”

  Morley calmed slightly. “The US Attorney has spoken with your Minister of Justice and worked out a deal. Constable Freeman will be here shortly. Until then,” Morley nodded toward Lopez, “he is not to be touched by either of you. If you have a problem with that,” he glared at Kingston, “you’d better call a lot more officers, and a doctor.”

  Alvaro was set in a chair. He pushed a loose molar around with his tongue as he watched the two groups of men talk. He didn’t understand the conversation, but it was obvious they were angry with each other. The American who knocked down one of the men who had beaten Alvaro seemed to be doing most of the talking. He said something and one of the men who had arr
ested him brought Alvaro a cup of cool water. Even with a tinge of the blood from his mouth, it tasted wonderful. The American who was in charge took out his phone, dialed a number, and held it to Alvaro’s ear.

  “Hello, my name is Agent Jaime Posada of the US Secret Service. I am going to read you your rights, first in Spanish and then in English.”

  When he was done, the agent asked, “Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them?”

  Alvaro remained silent.

  “Mr. Lopez, you may not want to answer questions, but I’ll tell you, if not for your sake, for your wife’s, you really want to deal with us rather than the local police. They’ll probably charge her with something, even if they have to make it up, just to hold her. You’re gonna have to pick your poison and I would choose us.”

  Alvaro swallowed hard. “Agent Jaime, does my wife know what happened this morning?”

  “No. The police don’t have anyone here who speaks Spanish, and I haven’t told her.”

  “Agent Jaime, I’ll answer your questions, anything you want to know, if you help my wife. She hasn’t done anything. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “First, you need to tell me your real name; we can start from there.”

  “Alvaro Lopez. My wife’s name is Maria, she’s not involved in anything illegal.”

  “Alvaro, I’d like to believe you, but you have to earn our trust. You need to provide some information. Then we’ll talk about Maria’s involvement.”

  Knowing how the police had treated him, Alvaro’s imagination ran wild with thoughts of what they would do to poor Maria, pregnant Maria. The idea terrified him.

  “Agent Jaime, I will tell you everything. Please don’t let them put Maria in jail, please.”

  “Alvaro, this is not my country. I’m a guest here. I’ll have to work through the police to see about Maria not going to jail.”