McNair snatched up her papers, motioned to the other woman, and they left the room.
Jen stood up and stretched, walked to the two-way mirror.
The door opened. The thin boxer came in, one big paw hanging loosely at his side, the other clutching a cardboard cup.
“Lieutenant says to give this to you.”
He came toward her and held out the coffee.
I saw it and tried to warn her—the red light, the camera, it’s off!—but too late. As his free arm shot toward her, he tucked himself down and, with his whole body behind it, plowed that oversized fist into Jen’s solar plexus.
Since I’d known her, she’d been hit many times and in many places. But never with such force or so much venom. The momentum of his fist lifted her up onto her toes. She was close to blacking out, and I fought to keep her conscious. She tried to breathe, her mouth wide open, but she couldn’t pull in a lick of air. Panic rose. It doesn’t matter if you know your diaphragm will soon be back on the job, instinct tells you to breathe if your lungs are suddenly empty. And if you can’t breathe, panic takes charge. With all I had, I forced her to relax and, after several agonizing seconds, she sucked in air, first a trickle, another trickle, then a bit more, and finally great gulps. She looked up to see the cop standing there, admiring his work, drinking whatever coffee hadn’t spilled onto the floor. She felt her stomach rising and puked, then finally stumbled backward and landed in the chair.
She heard the boxer leave the room.
Jen’s head thumped down onto the table. She felt like utter crap. I tried to talk to her, to cheer her up, but she refused to say a word.
Finally, she said, “Chandler, did you see his badge number?”
“Of course.” I recited it to her.
She said, “If it’s the last thing I do …”
The door opened and Jen’s head jerked up in alarm. But it was one of the cleaning staff, who mopped the floor without saying a word.
Ten minutes later, McNair and the other woman returned.
“God, it stinks in here. I hear you weren’t feeling well.”
“Your officer assaulted me.”
Jen caught a flash of alarm on McNair’s face. “Detective,” McNair said, “I find that hard to believe.” But it was clear to Jen that she wasn’t the first person who had reported a run-in with that cop, and it was clear to both of us that the boxer had been instructed to scare her, even if his brutality genuinely caught McNair by surprise.
The questions started again. This time, infinitely more hostile. Bashing deeper and deeper before going full out against Captain Brooks, including a rapid-fire series of questions ending with blistering accusations. “When did you start having suspicions that Captain Brooks was part of the ring distributing the contraband treatment?” and “When did you start conspiring with him?”
I listened in silence, absolutely amazed at how Jen, still aching and nauseous from the punch to her gut, managed to thread a needle through this onslaught.
And amazed at what Jen was not saying.
I didn’t know what she and the captain talked about on the roof, but I knew it was often her initiative to see him and not some whim on his part. I knew that afterward she’d be buzzing with new orders for the Eden case.
I had figured out ages ago that she had met up with people from the computer co-op. But not a word of this came from her mouth.
And I knew damn well she suspected Archambault and Teko Teko were linked to the poisonous street version of the treatment.
McNair and the FBI woman left the room. I felt Jen tighten, worried what was coming next. But instead, they returned with someone Jen and I knew.
“Doctor!” Jen said.
The two women stared at him. He said to them, “It’s Jen’s—sorry—Detective Lu’s nickname for me.”
Jamal el Massot was a senior technician with the implant program. Not one of the surgeons, but someone who calibrated and monitored my functioning before implantation and especially in the first months afterward.
McNair said to Jen, “We’d like to question your implant.”
“Is that an order?”
“Depending if you want to start cooperating.”
“I’ve been cooperating. Go ahead.”
McNair said to me, “What do you want me to call you?”
“Chandler.”
“Chandler, do you promise to tell the truth?”
“I promise, but that’s unnecessary because, as you should know, I am not capable of lying.”
McNair turned to Jamal. “Is that right?”
“One hundred percent.”
She asked how many times Jen had switched me off during her work hours.
“Including the time she was disciplined for?”
“No. Since then.”
I answered. They both looked at Jamal, who studied my diagnostics on his tablet and gave a thumbs up.
Where and for how long? I gave precise times and locations for each date; Jamal pointed his thumb upward. McNair thanked him and asked him to wait in the hall in case she needed him again.
And then the questions started in earnest.
We covered much of the same ground as she had with Jen, although, as with my court testimony, my responses were infinitely sharper. Where Jen had searched for answers, where she fumbled to find the right word, I spoke instantly and clearly.
I’d only been asked to do this four times in my life, most recently in court and now this. Each time, I loved every moment. I felt fully appreciated and respected. I knew that my crystalline knowledge counted for something. I knew that I mattered as a person. Good times.
After Lieutenant McNair had asked seventeen questions, she tossed in her grenade: “Did Jen Lu ever do anything or say anything to you or one of her fellow officers about the Eden investigation or matters concerning exit that she omitted from her reports over the past six months, or that she has not told us or misstated to us during this interview?”
Oh, I thought, like figuring there is some type of a link between the co-op and Eden? Like breaking into a crime scene? Like trespassing in a private club? Like lying about her interest in Teena Archambault and Teko Teko? Like coming back from her rooftop meetings with a whole new set of instructions?
I mean, where to start?
I said, “How long do you have for my answer?”
Lieutenant McNair brightened. A smile slithered onto the face of the agent leaning against the wall.
I felt Jen’s panic rise. I ignored her, as I am programmed to do in moments such as these.
Lieutenant McNair said, “We have all day, Chandler. Take your time.”
“But,” I said, “that won’t be necessary. The answer is no. There’s not one single thing that she hasn’t reported to you or that isn’t in her reports.”
“Nothing? Nothing you can think of?”
“No, nothing at all.”
“You swear to that? Remember, you promised to tell the absolute truth.”
“That is my programming. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot bend the truth or omit information. There was nothing, no actions, no words, no conduct concerning the investigations into Eden, exit, or any aspect of the legal or illegal treatment that Detective Lu has not reported to you or that is not in her reports.”
McNair and the woman from the FBI or DEA left the interview room.
Don’t even think it, I said.
To distract her, I asked about Zach’s business, and we got into a spirited discussion about xeriscaping—that is, low-water gardening.
Twenty-five minutes later, McNair returned with Jamal and a staff member from human resources. McNair stayed on her feet.
“Detective Lu, please stand up,” she said.
Jen did so.
“Under the provisions of the Code of the District of Columbia, Chapter 10A, Subchapter 1, Section 7-3218, I hereby suspend you, Detective Jennifer B. Lu, from active duty. You will receive full pay during your suspension. You may be notified in the coming da
ys of specific charges against you.”
McNair then recited a long list of restrictions, requirements, and responsibilities that Jen faced while under suspension. She reminded her there was still a civil suit pending against her and the department for assault and unnecessary force during the arrest of James O’Neil, and Jen would be required to cooperate if that proceeded during her suspension.
“Do you understand the conditions of your suspension?”
Jen was too stunned to answer.
Jen, I said, say “I do.”
Like a robot, Jen said, “I do.”
“Would you please surrender your badge to me?”
Jen mechanically fished out her badge and handed it over.
“We have already confiscated your service revolver. Your service accounts have been blocked and your passwords nullified. Any personal effects at your station will be bagged and returned to you.”
And that, I thought, is that.
But I was wrong.
McNair said, “Mr. el Massot, would you now deactivate Detective Lu’s synthetic implant?”
“But—” Jen said.
“There is no discussion here.”
“I’ll do it,” Jen pleaded. “I’ll turn him off.”
“You don’t understand. We’re not just switching him off. He is being permanently deactivated.”
Jamal fiddled with his pad.
He looked deep into Jen’s eyes … my eyes. “Chandler, I’m sorry.”
His index finger hovered for a second above the screen.
And then—
38
Fog. People bumping against her. Mid-intersection, horns blasting. Brain dead as a frog stewed in formaldehyde. Her life pulled out from her.
Legs moving. Phone vibrates: ignore. Light fading. Legs moving. Phone vibrates: ignore. Nighttime. Phone vibrates: answer.
Zach’s voice. “Hey, Jen. Busy?”
Can’t remember how to speak.
“Can you hear me?”
A sound croaks from her parched throat.
“You okay? I’ve been worried. I—”
Try again, make a sound. Not there.
Hang up.
Text Zach. Fingers don’t remember how. Finally get it: Will call soon.
Looks around. No idea where she is. Can’t bother to check map. Spot pizza joint. Go in, buy drink, leave.
Phone Zach.
Not easy, not fast.
Tell him.
“I’ve been suspended.” Deep breath. “They killed Chandler.”
* * *
The first day and a half were the absolute worst. She could not eat. She spent hours in bed but caught only feverish snatches of sleep. She was the only woman left on the planet. She floated into hallucinations where she talked to Chandler, trying to figure out what had happened and what she could do. She tumbled into explosive anger, wanting to kill someone. The ham-fisted cop. McNair. Anyone. Everyone.
Zach kept coming over and she kept shooing him away. Once or twice, she mustered the energy to stare outside; an unmarked car was parked ostentatiously across the street. Finally, Zach dragged her out for a listless walk. The car followed for thirty minutes and then drove off, peeling past them as if in warning. And maybe, Jen thought, there are others who are the actual watchers, hoping I might lead them somewhere.
She had been ordered not to speak to any officer in her station or any fellow officer involved in the Eden investigation.
“What about if they’re my friends?” she’d asked, thinking of Les.
McNair had said, “You should have thought of that before.”
“Before what?”
No answer.
But late on her second night, she took a round-about route and dropped in to see Les at his apartment. He came to the door eating ice cream out of a carton.
“Jen, what are you doing here?”
She didn’t answer—it was obvious.
“They ordered me not to speak to you,” he said.
“We’re supposed to be friends.”
“Jen, we’re best friends. But they read me the riot act. Talk to you and I risk suspension or dismissal.”
“This is total bullshit. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“So?”
“It would be bigger bullshit if we both lose our jobs. Christopher would—”
“Jesus, Les.”
“Listen, Jen. I don’t know what they’re up to. With the captain or you. But whatever it is, it’s really bad shit, and it’s coming down from on high.”
“Exactly.”
“And exactly why we’ve got to be careful. I’m sure it’s only for a week … maybe two. They can’t keep you suspended forever.”
“They’re threatening to lay charges.”
He looked at her with even greater alarm. “For what?” he said.
“At least take this.” She held out a slip of paper. “It’s the badge number of a cop who sucker-punched me in the gut. Works for that McNair woman.”
“Please, Jen, l can’t. Christopher would … Please, don’t make me choose between you and him.”
She slapped the paper against his chest, and as it floated to the ground, she turned and walked away.
She moped for two more days. Zach tried to comfort her, but she didn’t want to be comforted. For thirteen years, being a cop had been central to her identity. It was with her all the time—not only in her work, but off duty in the confidence it gave her when running alone through the woods or when seeing two people fighting on the street. It was the impact of too many bad scenes; hence the sawed-off baseball bat she kept under her bed. It was the habits she had picked up: never sitting in a restaurant with her back to the door, scanning faces in every room she walked into, waiting for the end stall to be free in a public restroom so her firearm and right hand would be protected against a wall. It was who she was.
Now, she felt useless. She felt very much alone, a feeling exacerbated by pushing Zach away. But the biggest surprise was how much she missed Chandler. She hadn’t known it, but even when she had him switched off for two days or a week’s vacation, she had felt him there, a part of her, ready to spring into action. And now? She felt nothing. She felt astoundingly empty.
She ran an inventory of what she still had. She had nice roommates, some friends—but not her best friend, Les. She had Zach. But how long did she have Zach for? And assuming she didn’t sign the exit papers, she was unlikely to cross the fifty-yard line before ROSE tore her down.
The boundaries of her life seemed to be closing in around her.
She mourned and she moped. But while she moped, more people died. Who knew what was happening to Captain Brooks? And while she moped, some of the most powerful companies in the world were, just perhaps, murdering people whose only crime was that they wanted to stay alive.
She called Zach and asked him to go for lunch, and at lunch asked if he could arrange a meeting.
* * *
Jen relied on every spy movie she had ever seen. No electronic communication with Zach about the meeting or between him and the co-op people. Messages left with friends or hidden in an innocuous text. “For your calendar! Dinner here on the 3rd,” meaning, in their simple code, it was a go for the meeting with co-op members at 3:00 AM, a time when Jen figured the occasional surveillance team would be tucked into bed like good girls and boys.
The roads and trails in the southern part of Rock Creek Park had been cordoned off since the fire a week before; signs warned that entry was prohibited. Jen couldn’t see the point of the signs—the place was a horrible blackened landscape, inviting to no one. Perhaps Disney and the National Park Service were worried about lawsuits from people who tracked ashes back into their living rooms.
Zach was to guide Ximena and Mary Sue to a spot under Jen’s favorite bridge over the creek, a storybook arch constructed more than a hundred years earlier out of massive round stones. Even if a patrol car came along, the four of them wouldn’t be
seen from the road, and as long as no one shouted, wouldn’t be heard.
The fire had stripped away the undergrowth and all but a few trees. Light from the full moon turned the charred forest into a Halloween nightmare. Jen scanned the decimated hillside and finally made out three moving shadows—but then was alarmed to see not three, but four. They wound along the trail down to the road, ran toward the bridge, and scrambled down a pathway out of sight.
As agreed with Zach, she waited five minutes and then carefully worked her way through the black debris to reach the others. It was bright enough to make out faces.
“I said two of you.”
Zach started to speak, but Ximena cut him off. “This is a friend of mine. If this meeting is as important as Zach says, I want him here.”
Best she could in the dim light, Jen stared at the man. Maybe late forties or early fifties, black, wire-rim glasses, wisp of facial hair. She wished she had Chandler to identify him. “Are you from—”
“My friend,” Ximena said, “is my friend. We’d like to leave it at that for now.”
All four looked at Jen.
Ximena said, “Your show.”
Jennifer knew that if she started with questions, it would sound like a police interview. She had decided that the only way to gain their trust was to make herself as vulnerable as they must feel.
“Zach didn’t tell you this, but I’ve been suspended. I’ve been told not to talk to anyone, not to my colleagues, not to Zach, not to anyone about the Eden investigation. If I’m caught with you, I will face some sort of charges and will likely be fired. I could go to prison. If you want to get me fired, you can make a call to the police to report me.”
She let that sink in.
Mary Sue said, “Why were you suspended?”
“I don’t know for certain, but it has to do with what I’m going to tell you and what I’m going to ask you about.”
Ximena said, “Why should we believe you?”
“Ask Zach what’s happened this week.”
“You could have been setting a trap for us.”
The Last Exit Page 23