Genesys X

by B. J. Graf

  Our canoe was drifting off course. I realized I’d stopped paddling and started again.

  “Tell me the truth. You worried my being a desk jockey is going to reflect poorly on you, Madame Partner?”

  She sighed. “I’m worried you’re unhappy unless you’re off by yourself digging up dirt somewhere.”

  “I have the weekend off,” I said. “Maybe I’ll tackle those weeds.”

  Jo smiled. “Maybe.” She sighed. “Maybe we’re both working too hard.” Her tone of voice went from wistful to playful. “What do you say we quit our jobs and run away together? Some place calm – with a beach.”

  “The Greek Islands,” I said. For our honeymoon. After I ace that OIS Investigation, close the Devonshire case and buy another bottle of champagne.

  “All the way home I kept thinking.” Her tone had gone all serious again. “What if things had gone the other way yesterday? What if you were the one who got shot?”

  “They didn’t,” I said. “I wasn’t.”

  “It’s just…” She leaned forward. Her knuckles grasped the sides of the boat so hard the flesh was white. “Let somebody else be the hero for a change, Eddie. I need you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I promise.”

  Jo took a deep breath and leaned back again, her face inscrutable. I rowed a few more strokes in silence.

  “What about that vacation?” Jo said. “You won’t get bored with this partner if life does get peaceful. Will you, Eddie?”

  I looked at her for just a second. Then I capsized the canoe. Jo squealed, and I swooped up the soaking wet woman in my arms. I kissed her. A long kiss. By the time I put Jo down the water had settled again, and I saw our reflection in the canal – the happy couple. I suddenly knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d dig that ring out of my gun safe. I wanted to hold that picture in my memory forever, but I had to deal with less pleasant thoughts.

  The Devonshire autopsy was set for Monday at eleven-thirty. Shin would be there – without me if my interview with the Officer Involved Shooting Team didn’t go well. My interview was scheduled for Monday at nine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At eight forty-five Monday morning I was walking along the fifth floor corridor of Nokia P.D.. Jay Espinoza, the union rep I’d met moments before scurried along on my right, rattling off a stream of advice as we approached the OIS interrogation room, unofficially known as the See Cave. The Use of Force Review Board is convened on all Officer Involved Shootings. The board submits its findings and recommendations up the chain to the Chief of Police. If they found me at fault, I was out of a job. Or worse.

  “Now remember, I can defend a mistake, but not a lie.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” I said. “It was a righteous shoot.”

  “Still best you don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.” Espinoza ran his hand through thinning hair. Fifty summers of sun and disappointment had etched deep trenches in his face.

  I nodded.

  The door to the See Cave popped open as we passed our barcodes over the sensor on the wall to the right.

  “Counselor Jay Espinoza, Police Union Representative,” announced the robotic voice of the smart-room as my rep stepped over the threshold. “Edward Piedmont, Detective II, Homicide I,” droned that same metallic voice as I took off my hat and followed him into the room.

  The See Cave was a bare room with green walls set up for hologram re-enactments. In the little back chamber five grey chairs stood empty behind a long table of burnished steel, and two in front meant for Espinoza and me. A tall man with skin the color of café au lait and eyes of seaweed green was already seated in another chair off to the side. He nodded as we entered and handed me a holo-viewer. Robbery Homicide Detective Dewayne Jefferson was a familiar face, but I didn’t really know him. A special section of RHD does all the preliminary investigations on Officer Involved Shootings. Jefferson had already taped my statement at the scene and submitted his findings to the committee.

  Espinoza and I were just about to sit down when the door to the right of the last chair opened. Three cops and one civilian filed in and took their seats. My rep and I followed suit. One seat behind the steel desk remained empty. The panel members leaned in towards each other for some last pre-hearing pow-wow.

  Espinoza took the opportunity to brief me on the players. Opposite me on my far left sporting a really bad haircut was Sonny Chung, a pudgy ballistics expert from the crime lab. Sonny knew guns and ammo cold, rattling off their stats like a rabid baseball fan discussing the RBI’s of his favorite players.

  “Sonny,” my rep whispered, “knows his stuff, and he’s fair.”

  Next to him sat a sergeant named Scott Black. He had the tough lean body of a much younger man with a veteran soldier’s posture and an affable face that reminded me of Steve McQueen. The impression quickly faded. The sergeant’s face, especially the eyes, had the opaque look of somebody who’d seen more than his years, way more than any actor.

  “Black’s a twenty-year veteran from Metro,” continued my rep sotto voce.

  I nodded. If Black had been on the front lines himself, he’d bring that understanding to my case. That’s all I could ask.

  Dead center in the row was the team leader, Lt. Marcella Figueroa, a handsome woman with high cheekbones, skin the color of expresso and an aura of gravitas.

  “She’s a recent transplant from Cuba by way of the Bronx,” said Espinoza. “The word circling the department is she’s smart and ambitious.” My rep looked at me with special emphasis. “Don’t give her a reason to go political.”

  I nodded again.

  Next to Lt. Figueroa sat another officer I didn’t know with hair the color of an Irish setter. His nametag read Rob Plotkin, and he had smoke-stained fingers and a drinker’s nose. That could play for or against me. My rep shrugged. He didn’t have any inside scuttlebutt about Plotkin.

  Trouble in the form of an auburn-haired woman so thin her collarbones could slice sushi came through the door and took that empty seat at the far right. She was literally the last person I expected to see. Joy Kidder was a civilian like Sonny, but that’s all they had in common.

  “She’s a top corporate attorney and a brand new appointment to the civilian oversight committee,” Espinoza said, nodding towards the woman. “She might not be sympathetic...”

  “I know her,” I said.

  “That’s good,” Espinoza said.

  “Not really.”

  Joy lived in an upscale gated community on the Westside where crime was something you watched on your home entertainment center. From the safety of her Herman Miller chair she knew all violence perpetrated by police was excessive no matter what the provocation. I knew that for the same reason I knew she hated my guts without any helpful commentary from the union rep.

  Joy and I had had one drunken hook-up a year ago. After that she’d left a series of texts and video-messages on my voicemail. I should’ve called her back. I didn’t because the next day I’d met Jo, and all other women faded away like old photos left in the sun. I was kicking myself for that mistake now.

  Sitting there at the end of the table, tapping her Mont Blanc laser pointer, Joy glared at me like I was a rabid pit bull off leash. Shin was right. Karma does get you in the end.

  I leaned towards my rep Espinoza, starting to tell him about my history with Joy, and her obvious conflict of interest, but he gestured for me to save it. The proceedings had started.

  The hearing began pretty mildly. Lt. Figueroa had Detective Jefferson enter the recorded testimony of Shin and two uniforms who’d been on site into the record. There was little difference in the facts of these three official statements on glove phone.

  Next we heard the corroborating testimony of two civilian witnesses. The muscles in my jaw relaxed a little.

  Then Jefferson played the contradictory statement of another civilian named Jody Trahn into the record.

  “I got cuts and bruises all over my hands and knees from wher
e the one cop shoved me to the ground,” Ms. Trahn said to the officer who recorded her testimony, shoving her scraped palms towards the lens of the Nokia smart phone.

  I recognized her and shifted in my chair. She’d been the woman with the camera Shin had knocked out of the way. He’d saved her life and put himself in danger.

  “And the other cop, the good-looking one, who shot that kid in the SUV? He should have fired like a warning shot or something. Or maybe just wounded the kid in his arm. He didn’t need to kill him.”

  “If I was the Sundance Kid,” I mumbled. Civilians who’ve never picked up a gun always think cops should be able to replicate movie magic.

  My rep stepped on my foot under the table as Detective Jefferson finished playing her taped statement into the record.

  “As we will see in the holo-record momentarily, Detective Piedmont did warn the suspect,” my rep Espinoza objected as he sprang to his feet. “That warning was ignored. The suspect discharged his weapon. For the benefit of the civilian he explained how firing warning shots into the air, in a city as densely populated as Los Angeles, would likely kill or injure innocent parties and was therefore not departmental policy.

  “Nor is it policy for police to fire their weapons unless there is a lethal threat,” he continued. “However, when a suspect creates that kind of threat, as did Mr. Ramirez, an officer must respond.”

  Joy looked up from her copy of the digital photos. “Yes, counselor, when there’s a lethal threat. However, in this instance the threat was exaggerated. Detective Piedmont overreacted to the actions of a scared honors middle school student. He responded with excessive force.”

  The room seemed to go even quieter than before.

  I’d vowed not to look at Joy, but the sound of her voice made me turn my head. Her eyes were hard black beads. Three-timers determined not to head back to San Quentin for life had leveled eyes just like those at me over the barrel of a .45.

  Espinoza was already on his feet objecting again. “We will show there was a lethal threat in the holo-record. For the moment, however, please note that the honor student story is media spin. I refer you to Detective Dewayne Jefferson’s testimony.”

  “That’s right.” Detective Jefferson’s deep baritone resounded as he read his background report on the dead kid into the record.

  “Paco Ramirez was a marginal student at Adidas Middle School with AzteKa 17 gang tats and one prior for dealing,” Jefferson said, referring to his notes. “Not an honor student. He borrowed his brother’s car and drove without a license. The gun was an illegal street purchase. Paco’s whole family’s tight with the AzteKas.”

  The knowing nods around the table told me we’d scored a point in my favor. Detective Jefferson finished his testimony without objection.

  Then Sonny introduced the ballistics evidence, including a dissertation on the merits and debits of the Glock 20Z dual action laser semi-automatic. The registered number on each casing from all the bullets in the clip discharged was read into the record in turn. Each had been found imprinted with a number from the gun registered to me as required by law. I never disputed that the fatal bullets shot were mine.

  But Sonny proved Paco Ramirez shot bullets too. Ramirez’ bullets came from an unregistered 9mm, which matched the gun found in his Excalibur. Now we only had to prove his bullets were shot before mine.

  The See Cave went black as we put on our holo-viewers. Sonny revved up the holoplayer. Three cameras on site plus the footage from two officers’ helmet-cams had captured the incident from various angles. When the holo-function was added, two dimensions sprang into three as the walls receded.

  It was like reliving the scene as an out of body experience. We saw the incident from several points of view, unfortunately, none of them mine. Things had happened so fast I hadn’t had time to turn on my body cam.

  Bang! Shots fired from the Excalibur before it rolled to a stop. I saw myself shout “Police!” to the occupants of the SUV in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. “Come out of the vehicle with your hands in the air.”

  Once again the civilian, Jody Trahn, ran out into the middle of the street - just at the moment the Excalibur punched the gas hard and went in reverse. Rob Plotkin flinched, jumping back. I shut my eyes, tight, and sat quiet in the dark. I didn’t need to watch to know what came next.

  “Stop!” I heard my digital clone yell again, followed by the sound of my shots and a laser chaser reverberating through the room. I heard the Excalibur lurch and bang into the yield sign. The horn blared. There was the sound of feet scrambling across pavement, my feet, as I’d made my way to the driver’s side and opened the door. There was a pause and the muffled thud of something soft and heavy falling out – Paco’s body. Jody Trahn, the woman Shin had saved, started to scream. I opened my eyes. My stomach was a hard knot.

  Sonny backed up the action and played the whole thing all again, freezing when the shots went off. Bang!

  My union rep drew the group’s attention to my image. “Note the clear indication that Detective Piedmont has not yet fired his weapon when the subject fires.”

  The clear indication was Shin diving for the ground in slo-mo this time, taking the clueless civilian with him, as I took cover and aimed. I yelled for the suspect to put down his weapon and exit the vehicle with hands up. He accelerated instead. My digital doepplegaenger fired.

  “Can we see it once more, please?” Joy aimed her laser pointer at my image.

  They played that shooting twice more. My head throbbed more with each replay.

  “I’m forced to concur with the testimony of Jody Trahn,” Ms. Kidder said finally. “Clearly Detective Piedmont used excessive force in this situation.”

  Scott Black, the Sgt. from Metro, shot her a look of disbelief. “It’s a righteous shoot,” he said, rubbing a hand over his short-clipped hair. “The suspect precipitated events. Detective Piedmont gave warning. The suspect didn’t desist. Piedmont had no choice.”

  Lt. Figueroa asked for a show of hands on the ruling of my actions being within departmental rules. Four right hands rose into the air. Joy’s arms stayed glued to the top of the table.

  The vein throbbing on my temple eased up a bit. Maybe I wouldn’t need to raise the alarm about my previous history with Joy after all.

  Smiling slightly, my rep introduced the motion to adjourn the hearing. Then came the kicker.

  “Wait,” Joy said in a voice of deadly calm. “What about Detective Piedmont’s blood alcohol levels?” There was the killer instinct for which corporate clients paid her big bucks.

  Espinoza started to take furious notes, muttering under his breath as my blood alcohol readings from the scene were introduced into the record.

  I’d had a BAC level of .045%. .08% is the legal limit.

  “Detective Piedmont was off-duty and returning the vehicle to the police lot when the 503 came over the radio,” Espinoza argued. “The suspect rammed and disabled the squad car already in pursuit. Another cop might have waved and driven by, but Detective Piedmont had a direct visual on the suspect, and shots had just been fired. He did his duty and responded. He wasn’t drunk. His BAC levels were well under the legal limit.”

  “It is a matter of record that even small amounts of alcohol impair reaction time and performance in general,” Joy countered, her eyes boring into those of each of the panelists in turn.

  Plotkin lowered his eyes first, his face reddening to a shade of crimson that matched his drinker’s nose.

  “But I see here that Detective Piedmont’s blood alcohol test was administered a full hour or more after the incident,” Joy continued. “That means there was time for his system to metabolize a considerable portion of the alcohol. So how drunk must he have been during the incident?”

  “Not so drunk he couldn’t hit a moving target,” Scott Black muttered loud enough for the record.

  Joy gave him a withering look. “Maybe because he’s habituated to alcohol. And we all know how alcohol precipitates violen
ce.” She turned her gaze back to me. “Detective Piedmont’s record shows quite a history of violence. This is his second officer involved shooting.”

  “That shooting was ruled within policy, counselor,” my rep said.

  I guess it didn’t matter that shooting had also prevented the murder of an innocent civilian targeted by a serial killer looking to up his body count.

  “I would remind you,” Joy said locking eyes with Sonny now, “that it is the job of this panel to address public concerns regarding our city’s law enforcement policies, and to bolster public confidence in the men and women of the LAPD.”

  Sonny held her gaze, but his fingers started to beat a tattoo on the table top.

  She moved her sights to the next target, focusing on Lt. Figueroa.

  “If I thought Detective Piedmont’s drunken behavior was the departmental norm, I’d say we need to look more closely at police protocols, so the LAPD could learn from these incidents. As a matter of principle.”

  When lawyers stand on principle, cops watch their backs.

  Figueroa kept her expression blank, but her eyes smoldered and the muscles in her jaw tensed.

  Black’s face had hardened into a mask of dislike. A few bad apples in the brotherhood had tarnished the reputation of us all forever. Nobody wanted another Christopher Commission and more federal oversight.

  Teeth grinding, I had to hand it to Joy. She knew all the departmental pressure points and where to lean.

  “But I do not want to tar the entire department for the actions of one rogue cop,” Joy said, winding up for the final pitch, “Instead I recommend a five year review of Detective Piedmont’s record to determine the extent of his alcohol related incidents. The safety of LA’s citizens demands it.”

  “I’m not a rogue cop,” I said, keeping my voice calm as I locked eyes with Joy Kidder. “And I wasn’t drunk. But sometimes you have to do things you wish you didn’t.” I hoped she’d hear and accept my apology for past sins.

  Joy’s face flushed. The panel turned with questions in their eyes from me to her.