The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "He had the blue card, which showed the firearm was bought in mid-oh-nine," James declared. "But, because that particular gun wasn't listed on his white card—the concealed-carry permit—he wasn't allowed to carry it. Steele was committing a felony by having that Ruger in his front-right pocket."

  You lying sack of shit! Win wanted to scream.

  Kat had confirmed the palm-size Ruger LCP and an extra magazine were on the nightstand, when she and Erik left his condo that Saturday. Kat was the last one to leave the bedroom, and clearly recalled seeing the Ruger there, on Erik's side of the bed.

  Photos taken that morning of Erik's firearms showed the small Ruger on that nightstand, as well.

  On a hunch that the Ruger blue card might be of use, Win had removed it from Erik's thick, oversized wallet. He drew the blood-stained card from a shirt pocket and held it up for Sofia to read. His thumbnail was under the date of purchase: 6/12/2010, four weeks before the shooting.

  Sofia raised an eyebrow.

  Per-jur-y, Win mouthed, not caring whether TV viewers lip-read his comment.

  He pocketed the blue card and heard the detective answer, "Based on the nine-one-one recording, I'd say about two seconds. From the time Officer Krupa started shouting commands, until he fired his first shot… two seconds, max."

  Win and Kyler exchanged a glance. Father and son had come to the same conclusion: No way Erik could have stopped, turned 180 degrees, assessed the situation, lifted a T-shirt with his left hand, and pulled the Kimber Ultra Carry—still in its holster—from inside his jeans' waistband, all in two seconds.

  Impossible.

  Crime-scene close-up photos had confirmed the Blackhawk-brand holster featured an integral clip that slipped over the wearer's belt. A lip on its lower edge secured the holster in place. Removing that holster from inside a waistband required a concerted, two-handed effort. It sure as hell wasn't a sweeping one-hand operation!

  Bottom line: Erik did not touch his firearm, let alone pull it and the holster from his jeans, all within two seconds. Couldn't happen.

  In his notebook, Win scrawled, BLACKBERRY! and underlined it three times. Erik had been shot to death, because Krupa had mistaken a BlackBerry cell phone for a semiautomatic handgun, panicked and fired. A no-courage, scared little cop had executed Erik.

  Although Win had come to that conclusion two months earlier, Detective James's two-second statement was absolute confirmation.

  As James left the stand, the presiding judge ordered a court clerk to spin a cage-like cylinder and withdraw a single slip of paper. She read the number and the Steele side of the courtroom gasped.

  That number referred to one of the best, most intelligent jurors. A nurse, she had asked polite, but probing questions of numerous witnesses, effectively cross-examining them. The woman had done a great job of discrediting the shakiest testimonies.

  The clerk repeated the process three more times. Incredibly, four "randomly pulled" numbers eliminated the best, most engaged and intelligent jurors.

  "That's not possible!" Layna muttered.

  Win squeezed her hand and whispered, "In Las Vegas it is. It's how killer-cops are always exonerated."

  Four slips of paper had been pulled from that drum, but the numbers called off weren't on any of them. The clerk had read four figures written on a page the assistant district attorneys had given her, during the break.

  The judge instructed the remaining jurors, prior to deliberations, that they were to consider only one question: Did the three Metro officers, who had killed Erik Steele, believe their lives or others' were in danger?

  Within the hour, the jury returned its verdict: Justified.

  Six days of playacting and fifty-plus witnesses, in the end, were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was three cops swearing, under oath, that they had feared for their lives and the safety of others, forcing them to fire seven rounds into Erik Steele.

  The cop side of the courtroom erupted in cheers, high-fives and congratulatory handshakes. The Steele side sat in stunned silence.

  Sofia finally stood and hugged Layna, then Win and Kyler.

  "I'm so sorry," the lawyer said, tears spilling. "At least we now have what we need to sue these bastards into the Stone Age!"

  Win was staggered, as if he'd been rabbit-chopped from behind. Even though he'd expected a "justified" verdict, hearing the word was still a gut punch.

  He was emotionally depleted, exhausted, spent. And utterly furious.

  The hearing's biased unfairness assaulted every tenet of decency assimilated in his sixty-three-year existence. The America he had known and trusted, the nation his dad, Layna's father, Erik, Kyler and he, Win Steele, had sworn to defend, had ceased to exist.

  When that justified verdict was delivered, much of what he'd trusted and believed vanished. The American system for which countless men fought and died had failed Erik.

  Given the means, the outwardly calm ex-Air Force officer could have blown the Clark County courthouse to bits. And, if the explosion killed that cluster of slimeball Metro cops and two smug assistant district attorneys across the room… .

  What a bonus.

  Link Mann was waiting at the courthouse door for the Steeles and their band of glum supporters. He pulled Win and Sofia aside, explaining that the news media had requested a brief statement from the lawyer and family. If they preferred, Link would handle it.

  Sofia glanced at Win, who nodded.

  "We'll talk to them," she said.

  The group descended expansive granite stairs and faced a gaggle of cameras and reporters. Sofia summarized the jury's decision, then stated, "We are disappointed with this verdict, but are now able to proceed with a lawsuit against those responsible for Erik's murder.

  "We heard a tremendous number of half-truths and outright fabrications over the course of these proceedings, particularly from public officials. But the whole truth will be revealed, at the proper place and time."

  "Are you saying Metro officers lied?" asked a young woman with heavy makeup.

  Sofia dramatically raised the Ruger LCP blue card Win had produced in the courtroom. Still cameras clicked and TV lenses pressed in for a close-up of the stained paper.

  "Are those… ?" a reporter asked hesitantly.

  "Yes," Sofia replied softly. "Those are Erik's fluids."

  She didn't have to say "blood." The dark, irregular smears staining the front surface and splatter trails on the other eliminated any doubt.

  "Note the date," the attorney added. "Detective James lied, when he said Erik had bought the small Ruger in oh-nine. In fact, Erik purchased it less than a month, before he was killed."

  "But since it wasn't listed on the concealed weapon permit, Erik did commit a felony by carrying the second gun," the reporter pressed.

  Sofia stared down her nose at the TV journalist.

  "There was no second gun," she said icily. "Erik wasn't carrying that Ruger. It was stolen from his condo, when the Deputy Public Administrator and a Metro officer broke in—illegally—a few hours after Erik was murdered."

  Her blunt accusation triggered a flurry of shouted questions, which the lawyer deflected.

  "The truth will be exposed, when we are ready. And only in the proper venue."

  An exasperated reporter turned to Win, standing at Sofia's shoulder and holding Layna's hand. Aiming a block-on-a-stick microphone at him, the woman said, "Mr. Steele, you've been very critical of the inquest process. Do you have any comments about it, now that the shooting of your son was found 'justified'?"

  "The inquest hearing's outcome was decided long before the first witness was called," Win said calmly. "And the people of Las Vegas have witnessed firsthand what an insult to American due process this farce of a 'fact-finding' exercise was.

  "Now the real war begins, and the truth will be told."

  He hesitated, then added, "Metro pulled the trigger, but Ho's handed them the gun. They both killed Erik, and both will be held accountable."

&nb
sp; That satisfied most of the journalists, who scurried off to file their stories. One reporter asked Sofia for a quick live interview.

  While she was on-camera, Win and his family joined Max, Rico and other friends on a street corner. All were shocked, angry and demoralized. Win thanked each of them for sticking with his family, throughout the intolerable hearing.

  "I can't adequately express how vital your support has been," he said, disappointment and fatigue apparent. "Yeah, we'd feel better, if the decision had been different, but we knew it would go this way.

  "The last six days were nothing but theater, an elaborate, carefully scripted show. It's sole purpose was to make sure three brain-dead killers were exonerated, and that's exactly what happened.

  "All of you need to get back to normal lives," he continued. "Erik would be humbled by your gracious and steadfast loyalty. Honor him by spending time with your families. Give your kids an extra hug. They're precious gifts… and you never know… ."

  Handshakes, hugs and tears were shared, before Erik's rock-solid friends and Steele family allies drifted off to the parking garage.

  "Can we go now?" Layna asked. "I'm exhausted."

  "Sofia told me to wait," Win said. "Looks like she's about done with the newsies."

  The lawyer shook a reporter's hand and waved at the Steeles. Kyler was off to one side, helping a stocky, sunburned ally retrieve signs and poster-size portraits of a smiling, handsome Erik Steele.

  "Well, this round of BS is finally over," Sofia declared. She paused, until Layna stepped away to help Kyler slip posters into a flat box.

  "Win, please don't use the term 'war' in interviews. The legal process is not war."

  Win shot the lawyer a withering glance, jaw muscles flexing.

  "Not to an attorney, maybe. But every one of these bastards is waging war on my family. I intend to respond in kind."

  The attorney returned Steele's hard stare for a tense moment, but decided to drop it. She smiled, gave Win a firm hug, and click-clicked across the street, dragging a wheeled legal briefcase.

  * *

  After a dinner of Mexican food with supporters, the Steeles returned to a three-bedroom stucco house loaned by one of Kyler's generous friends. They agreed to defer clothes packing and housecleaning until morning.

  Win lay awake, his mind replaying the disgusting inquest hearing's more dramatic moments: Officer Krupa demonstrating how he'd pointed his .45-caliber handgun at Erik, bellowing, "I fired twice. Center mass, double tap."

  Whether intentional or not, Krupa had pointed his index finger directly at Win, simulating a two-hand firing position. The paunchy, diminutive cop had been arrogant, boisterous and in-your-face the entire time he was on the stand. Even several jurors had been annoyed by Krupa's performance.

  The big Hawaiian, Officer Akaka, had been a smidgen more deferential, but was just as adamant that Erik did "go for his gun."

  Only the third shooter, Malovic, seemed to exhibit a touch of genuine remorse. However, he delivered his lines exactly as the script demanded. Yes, he looked as if he might heave, while uttering them, and his eyes flicked about nervously, throughout his testimony. But he'd lied. The guy sacrificed personal integrity to ensure the solid Blue Wall remained intact.

  Layna rolled over and threw an arm across Win's chest, burying her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She'd been crying.

  Win hugged his wife tightly and stroked her hair.

  "God, it hurt so much to hear all those horrible lies about Erik!" she murmured. "And all we could do was sit there and take it!"

  Win whispered, "We'll have our turn, babe. And the truth will come out. Besides, damn few people believed that crap."

  In fact, his spirit was in tatters, as well. Neither he or Layna had much fight left in them. Both were emotionally frazzled and physically depleted.

  They whispered for maybe another half hour, then rested in silence. Eventually, Layna's deep breathing suggested that fatigue had finally won.

  Win turned to prayer, asking again for strength, for guidance, for perseverance. Somehow, some way, he was convinced, the Lord would hold accountable those responsible for stealing Erik's life.

  Win had no way of knowing that the war he'd mentioned was heating up. Or that he was in the enemy's crosshairs.

  CHAPTER 24

  DEADLY AND DISASTROUS

  "Fear is the foundation of most governments."

  John Adams

  Thoughts on Government

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  Reading Castle's final day summary of the coroner's inquest hearing into Comet's murder, Gray Manor sensed a smoldering fury about to erupt and ruin his evening. His post-retirement vow to curb a fiery temper that had been legendary among hard-nosed U.S. Marines was in serious jeopardy.

  Castle's report about absurd testimony by an elderly female witness—who couldn't even describe Erik's location correctly, let alone what transpired in those incredibly brief two seconds, before Officer Olek Krupa fired the shot that ended Comet's life—confirmed a perception that had been taking shape for several days: Clark County Assistant District Attorneys, who had conceived, scripted and directed the farcical inquest, were bleating, in effect, "We can spin any outrageous fairy tale that suits our purposes, and you commoners can't do a damned thing about it!"

  Annoyance morphed into irritation, then to full-fledged outrage, as Manor read a second document on his crypto-secure computer. It was a report prepared by a talented former Special Operations Forces psychologist Manor had tasked to assess the testimony of every inquest witness, using Filter 400, a classified software algorithm. Irreverent GIs and Marines had nicknamed the tool Whopper Whacker.

  Adapted from a Central Intelligence Agency system developed in the mid-2000s, the sophisticated software had proven surprisingly effective, during interrogations of captured al Qaeda and Taliban terrorists. Filter 400 detected and fused minute visual and aural cues, then compared them with a huge matrix of psychological and physiological characteristics to determine when a person was lying.

  Extensive lab testing, augmented by real-world data accumulated in the field, had brought Whopper to a consistent ninety-four-percent "hit" rate. When a terrorist was lying, his interrogators knew it.

  Manor's ex-SOF psychologist had conducted hundreds of interrogations in Iraq, Afghanistan and locales that would never be disclosed. As the nation's foremost Whopper expert, his analyses and conclusions were indisputable: At least eighty-five percent of the Steele hearing witnesses had committed bald-faced perjury.

  The Checkmate chief was particularly disgusted by the finding that every Metro police officer and detective had lied on the witness stand. Badged public servants, who had sworn to live by civilized society's highest standards of trust, had unflinchingly spewed a long string of falsehoods—while under oath!

  Manor scanned Castle's terse report again and locked onto a single statement that appeared to be an afterthought: Sofia's private investigator interviewed several Ho's employees, who had seen… ." The rest was jaw-dropping evidence, which Sophia had deemed "Legal Top Secret," until revealed in court.

  Smart move, Sofie, Manor smiled. When Counselor Knight dropped that little nuke before a jury, Ho's legal case would be on its butt. Frantic corporate lawyers would be begging to settle.

  But their appeals would be too little, too late. Sophia's secret thunderbolt would destroy the $93-billion-a-year corporation. Tragically, Ho's top executives, who had pointedly ignored the Steele shooting, had no inkling that one of their own trusted employees had conspired to cover-up the truth. Now, a judge would hand the Steeles a multi-million-dollar legal victory.

  A front-page Wall Street Journal story about the eye-watering judgment would drive Ho's stock into low single digits. The market's fury would be exceeded only by that of Ho's customers hurling millions of membership cards at store managers.

  Hajji Taseer's arrogant exercise of tin-god authority not only killed Erik Steele, it had ruined a giant, su
ccessful company.

  The demands of overseeing an increasingly complex, domestic counterterrorism campaign had prevented Manor from watching much of the Steele inquest hearing via Internet. However, he had made a point of reading Castle's summary every night, augmented by video clips automatically downloaded from streamed TV coverage.

  Manor had seen enough to conclude the entire six-day coroner's inquest proceeding was a nauseating violation of American due process. How this abomination could exist anywhere in today's United States was inconceivable.

  Manor closed his laptop and sauntered into the kitchen. He emptied a pot's decaf into a mug, ensured the high-end coffee brewing system was turned off, and opened a set of French doors.

  A cool breeze hinted that October was around the corner.

  He leaned against the rustic deck's rail and surveyed a star-studded sky. It was unusually clear, free of summer's muggy haze. The Milky Way swept across a dome of blackness, trailing a bazillion twinkling embers.

  Like a streaking comet, he mused.

  Comet. Erik Steele. Promising covert Checkmate operator.

  Hard to believe that handsome patriot's life had been lost to such senseless inanity.

  Having studied the Ho's security video—which supposedly didn't exist, according to inquest testimony—Manor was privy to an incontrovertible tidbit: Officer Olek Krupa, a low-functioning ex-prison guard, who should never have been entrusted with a badge and gun, had committed an appalling, deadly error. He'd mistaken Erik's BlackBerry phone for a semiautomatic handgun, panicked and fired.

  But, rather than admitting the trigger-happy brown-shirt had made a tragic blunder, Las Vegas Metro detectives and their superiors, aided by the District Attorney, Public Administrator, Ho's managers, and God-knows-who-else, had conspired to destroy and manufacture evidence, concoct a cock-and-bull story about Erik being "drug-addled," and brazenly intimidate dozens of witnesses.

  For what? To protect integrity-devoid cops, who should never have been hired in the first place? To bolster the reelection prospects of a hopelessly corrupt sheriff? To preserve the image of a glittery metropolis that lived or died on its reputation for winking at any and all activities, no matter how unscrupulous and demented?