the Kill Clause (2003)

by Gregg - Rackley 01 Hurwitz

  "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?"

  "My primary concern was for the safety of others. We were on a street filled with civilians."

  "So I can take that to mean that you weren't concerned he was going to fire at you?"

  "I thought he was probably going to shoot one of the police officers in front of him."

  "'Thought,'" the lawyer said. "'Probably.'"

  "That's right," Tim said. "Only I used them in a complete sentence."

  "There's no need to get defensive, Deputy Rackley. We're all on the same side here."

  "Right," Tim said.

  The woman flipped through the file, then frowned, as if she'd just discovered something. "The crime-scene report indicates that Mr. Mendez's weapon was still tucked into the back of his jeans when they assessed the body."

  "Then we should be grateful he wasn't given the opportunity to draw it."

  "So he wasn't trying to draw the weapon?"

  Tim watched the wheels of the tape recorder spin their lethargic circles. "I said he wasn't given the opportunity to draw it. He was, in fact, attempting to draw it."

  "We have mixed eyewitness reports regarding that fact."

  "I was the only one behind him."

  "Uh-huh. On the alley side."

  "That's right." Tim let out his breath through his teeth. "As I said, he was a clear--"

  "Threat to the safety of others," she said. His textbook recitation of the deadly-force policy inspired a note of disdain, almost parody.

  The lawyer perked up in his chair, evidently sighting a lead-in. "Let's talk about the 'safety of others.' Did you have target acquisition?"

  Reed grimaced. "I'd say from the looks of the body, he had pretty damn good target acquisition, Pat."

  Pat ignored him, continuing to address Tim. "Are you aware that there were civilians in the backdrop when you took that shot? A whole crowd, in fact?"

  "Yes. Those civilians were my concern. That's why I elected to use deadly force."

  "If you had missed, your round would almost definitely have struck one of those civilians."

  "That's highly debatable."

  "But what if you had missed?"

  "Our pre-op briefing made clear the fugitives had nothing to lose, as it made clear their unwillingness to be taken alive. Mendez's behavior, from the time he aided in taking me hostage, only reinforced this intel. He, like Heidel and Ramirez, was willing to kill any number of people to evade capture. It was a clear calculation: My chances of taking him out were vastly greater than the chances of his not killing someone once he got his weapon free and clear."

  "You still haven't answered my question, Deputy Rackley." Pat slid his pen behind his ear and crossed his arms. "What if you had missed?"

  "I shot a consistent twenty out of twenty on the pistol qual course as a Ranger, and I'm a six-time qualified three-hundred shooter as a deputy marshal. I wasn't planning on missing."

  "Well, bravo. But a deputy marshal in the field has to be willing to consider every potentiality."

  Reed rocked forward and thumped his elbows on the table. "Just because he agreed to submit to questioning does not give you the right to drag him over the coals. There's a subjective element to every decision to engage with deadly force. If you'd ever toted a gun, you'd be aware of that."

  "Excellent point, Dennis. I've heard packing heat greatly enhances one's interpretation of the law."

  Reed pointed at Pat. "Watch your step. I'm not having you harass a good deputy. Not in my presence."

  "Moving on," the woman said. "I understand you've had a recent trauma in your personal life?"

  Tim waited several seconds to answer. "Yes."

  "Your daughter was killed?"

  "Yes." Despite his efforts, some of his fury crept into hi
s voice.

  "Do you think this event may have influenced any of your actions during these shootings?"

  He felt the heat rise to his face. "This 'event' has influenced every single moment of my life since. But it hasn't altered my professional judgment."

  "You don't think that you may have been feeling...aggressive or...retaliatory?"

  "Had I not been in fear for my life or concerned for the lives of others, I would have done everything in my power to bring those fugitives in alive. Everything in my power."

  Pat tilted back in his chair and made a little temple with his pudgy fingers. "Really?"

  Tim stood up and placed both his hands palm down on the table. "I am a deputy U.S. marshal. Do I look like a soldier of fortune to you?"

  "Listen--"

  "I'm not talking to you, ma'am." Tim didn't remove his eyes from Pat. Pat remained tilted back in his chair, fingers pressed together. When it became clear he wasn't going to respond, Tim reached over and turned off the tape recorder. "I'm done answering questions. Anything further, you can talk to my FLEOA rep."

  Reed rose as Tim exited, but Pat and the woman remained seated. As Tim walked away, he could hear Reed start laying into them. The marshal's assistant stood as he passed her, heading for Tannino's office.

  "Tim, he's in with someone right now. You can't just--"

  Tim knocked on the marshal's door, then opened it. Tannino sat behind an immense wood desk. An overweight man in a dark suit was sprawled on the couch opposite, smoking a brown cigarette.

  "Marshal Tannino, I'm very sorry to interrupt you, but I really need a moment."

  "Of course." Tannino exchanged a few words of Italian with the man as he showed him out. He closed the door, then waved a hand at the cigarette smoke, shaking his head. "Diplomats." He gestured to the couch. "Please, sit."

  Though he didn't want to, Tim sat. His dress shirt was pinching him at the shoulders.

  "I'm not gonna lie to you, Rackley. The press is bad. Now, I understand you weren't one of the knuckleheads throwing high fives, but you were the shooter, and we both know shooters take the scrutiny. Deserved or not, the service got a black eye on this one. Here's the good news: The shooting review board is convening next week at headquarters, and they're going to clear you."

  "They don't seem like they're going to clear me. They seem like they're looking for a scapegoat for a situation that doesn't demand one."

  "They will clear you. All the written statements are in and check out. They just sent out a few board members to run your statement through the ringer in-house so steps won't have to be taken out of house. We don't want any FBI involvement here. Or some state DA looking to make a name."

  "What's the bad news?"

  Tannino puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. "We're gonna put you on light duty for a while, get you off the street until the press calms down. In a couple of months, we'll get you qualified on a fresh service pistol."

  At first Tim was not sure he'd heard Tannino correctly. "A couple of months?"

  "No big deal--you'll just do analytical work rather than fieldwork."

  "And while I'm putting my training to use making schedules at the operations desk, what is the unparalleled service PR machine going to be putting out about me?"

  Tannino walked over and examined a Walker .44 cap-and-ball sixgun that hung on the wall, encased in Lucite. A black plastic comb protruded from the back pocket of his suit pants. "That you've quite responsibly elected to enroll in an anger-management course."

  "Absolutely not."

  "That's it. It's a nothing thing. Then headquarters can stand behind your decision to engage with deadly force, and we're a big happy family again."

  "What does this have to do with Maybeck and Denley high-fiving?"

  "Absolutely nothing. But this is a bullshit perception game, as you'll see if you're ever so unfortunate as to reach my level. And the bullshit perception, because of that goddamn photograph, is that we're a bunch of bloodthirsty, gung ho loose cannons. If we indicate the shooter is acquiring a heightened sensitivity to anger issues, we cut some of that perception, and the paper pushers at the Puzzle Palace can go back to their normal job, which is doing exactly nothing. In the meantime I get the pleasure of dealing with this on all fronts and of having to ask one of my best deputies--unjustly--to take some shit for us." His grimace showed more regret than disgust. "The system at work."

  Tim stood up. "It was a good shooting."

  "Good shootings are relative. I know that what they're asking is difficult, Rackley, but you have your whole career ahead of you."

  "Maybe not with the U.S. Marshals Service." Tim unhooked his leather badge clip from his belt and laid it on Tannino's desk.

  In a rare display of anger, Tannino grabbed it and hurled it at Tim. Tim trapped it against his chest. "I am not going to accept your resignation, goddamnit. Not considering what you've been dealing with. Take some more time--administrative leave--hell, a few weeks. Don't make a decision now, in these circumstances." His face looked tired and old, and Tim realized how much it must have pained him to take the kind of company line Tannino himself had always despised and thought cowardly.

  "I'm not going to do it."

  Tannino spoke softly now. "I'm afraid you're going to have to. Everything else I'll protect you on. Everything."

  "It was a good shooting."

  This time Tannino met his eyes. "I know."

  Respectfully, Tim laid his badge back on Tannino's desk, then walked out.

  Chapter 9

  ON TIM'S WAY home a white Camry emerged from the crush of midday traffic to inch alongside him. A flurry of movement drew his attention to the car's backseat. A young girl wearing a yellow dress was pressing her face to the window in an attempt to horrify nearby drivers.

  Tim watched her. She mashed her nose against the glass, pigging it upward. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She feigned picking her nose. Her mother looked over at Tim apologetically.

  The car stayed more or less at his side, lurching and braking in time with him. He tried to focus on the road, but the girl's movement and bright dress pulled his gaze back to her. Realizing she had Tim's eye again, the girl fisted her straight blond hair out in Pippi Longstocking pigtails. She laughed openmouthed and unencumbered, as only children can. As she looked for a reaction in Tim's face, her expression suddenly changed. Her smile faded, then vanished, replaced with uneasiness. She slid down in her seat, disappearing from Tim's view, save for the top of her head.

  By the time he got home, Tim's shirt was spotted through with sweat. He entered the house and slung his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs. Dray was sitting on his couch, watching the news. She turned, regarded him, and said, "Oh, no."

  Tim walked over and sat beside her. Not surprisingly, the chirpy KCOM news anchor, Melissa Yueh, had taken up the shooting. A graphic of a gun appeared in the upper right corner of the screen, in front of a shadowy outline of two hands high-fiving. Tim's own personal logo. Beneath it stretched SLAUGHTER AT THE MARTiA DOMEZ HOTEL in block letters.

  "Did it go as bad as you look?" Dray asked.

  "They want to let drop I've enrolled in an anger-management course, then desk-jockey me till the storm blows over. It lets them cover their asses without admitting to liability or guilt."

  Dray reached over and laid a hand on his cheek. It felt warm and immensely comforting. "Screw them."

  "I resigned."

  "Of course. I'm glad."

  An attractive African-American reporter came on-screen, soliciting the takes of passersby on the shooting. An obese man with a skimpy goatee and a backward Dodgers cap--the archetypal Man on the Street for the market and time slot--offered his opinion gladly. "The way I see it, a guy's running from the cops like that, he deserves to get shot. Drug dealers, cop killers, man, I say we execute 'em before the judge's gavel drops. That U.S. Marshal guy, I hope he gets away with it."

  Great, Tim thought.

  Next a woman with vivid green
eyeliner added, "Our children are safer with drug dealers like that out of the picture. I don't care how the police get them off the streets, as long as they're gone."

  "Look at those people," Tim said. "No idea what issues are in play." The bitterness in his voice surprised him.

  Dray looked over at him. "At least you have a few allies."

  "Allies like that are more dangerous than enemies."

  "They may not be the most well spoken bunch, but they seem to have a grasp of justice."

  "And no grasp of the law."

  She shifted on the couch, arms weaving together across her chest. "You think the law adds up to justice, but it doesn't. There are cracks and fissures, loopholes and spin. There's PR, perception, personal favors, and cluster fucks. Look at what just happened to you. Was that justice? Hell no. That was a big, self-cleaning machine clanking forward, squashing you beneath it. Look at how the investigation went into Ginny's death. We'll never know what really happened, who was involved."

  "So you're mad at me because...?"

  "Because my daughter got killed--"

  "Our daughter."

  "--and you were in a position--a unique position--to see justice served. And instead, you served the law."

  "Justice will be served. Tomorrow."

  "What if he's not executed?"

  "Then he'll rot in prison the rest of his life."

  Dray's face was flushed, frighteningly intense. She ground a fist into an open hand. "I want him dead."

  "And I want him to talk. To cough out what really happened when he's on the stand. So we can know if there's someone else out there, someone else responsible for our daughter's death."

  "If you had just shot him, instead of asking him, then we'd never have been burdened with this mystery. This unknown. It's awful. It's awful not knowing and thinking someone out there, someone who we could know or could see on the street and not ever guess..."

  Her face creased, and Tim moved over to embrace her, but she pushed him away. She rose to head back to the bedroom but paused in the doorway. Her voice was cracked and husky. "I'm sorry about your job."

  He nodded.