"Very carefully, hand me your weapon," Akaka demanded.
One-handed, using only a thumb and forefinger, the ex-NYPD officer complied. Akaka scrutinized the silver-and-black Smith & Wesson 1911-style semiautomatic, fighting a seething, irrational outrage.
He slammed the driver's ID and paperwork on the car's roof. Expertly, Akaka released the .45-caliber pistol's magazine and slipped it into a uniform pocket. With practiced ease, the imposing officer disassembled the handgun and tossed each component into the rental car's back seat. Retrieving the loaded magazine, he thumbed-out each blunt-nosed round and, one by one, flicked the cartridges into the rear seat.
The New Yorker was dumbfounded, gaping in disbelief. "What the hell… ? You can't… !" he sputtered indignantly.
Akaka shoved the identification cards and rental contract at the ex-cop.
"Don't ever bring a gun to my town. You're lucky I didn't shoot your sorry ass," the hulking officer shouted, loud enough to startle a crowd gathering on the sidewalk. Taxis, vans and cars crept past the officers, drivers and passengers gawking.
The retired NYPD officer barked, "Hey, kid! I was bustin' the chops of assholes like you, before you were born! You can't treat a fellow cop like… !"
Akaka slammed a fist on the car's roof, bent at the waist, and bellowed, "Hey, you, Brooklyn! I'm Las Vegas Metro! I can do whatever I damn well please! Got that… sir?"
The New Yorker could only stare, open-mouthed. Akaka nodded to the stunned rookie, then wedged his bulk into the Metro cruiser and jammed the seat belt bayonet home.
"Doofus!" he snarled. "I shoulda shot his ass."
The rookie's eyes kept snapping between Akaka and the back of the old ex-cop's head. The guy hadn't moved.
Akaka signaled, edged into the creep-and-crawl traffic, and pulled alongside his victim. He angrily waved the New Yorker to get going, then punched the accelerator.
Glancing at his partner, Akaka crowed, "That's how we handle bozos who don't get it, rookie. In Vegas, only two kinds have guns: cops and bad guys. Any stupid civilian that carries is a bad guy—and our enemy.
"Remember that, and you'll live a hell of a lot longer."
* *
COLORADO SPRINGS
"Hey, bud!" said Danny "Bull" Ferris, throwing the door wide. Leading Win Steele to a family room at the rear of the two-story home, Bull added, "Thanks for droppin' over. Wanted ya to meet my guys."
Introductions were made, and Steele shook hands with four U.S. Army non-commissioned officers. Only first names or nicknames were proffered. All were assigned to the 10th Special Forces Group at Fort Carson, a sprawling Army post on the southwest side of Colorado Springs.
Steele recognized Tank, who had helped Bull take out the sniper in Fox Run Park.
"If any of you guys were out there in the snow with Bull and Tank, many thanks for rescuing my sorry ol' tail," Win said, prompting a round of grins and nods.
After a few minutes of good-natured razzing about Air Force dudes and easy targets, Bull turned to Win.
"I didn't say anything on the phone, 'cause your home line and cell are probably being monitored by the Metro shit birds," Bull began. "Same for your e-mail.
"Ever hear of a Vegas cop named Brad Oswald?"
"Sure," Win nodded. "Oswald shot a black kid, Lashawn Miles, a few weeks before Erik was killed. 'Course, he was cleared by the same miserable excuse for an inquest hearing that we went through."
"And a fifteen-year-old kid, 'bout a year ago?" Bull added.
"Right. Tucker Chandler. Oswald shot him in the head, right over his mom's shoulder. The imbecile claimed Tucker had a knife at his mother's throat," Win explained.
"My wife's in close contact with Elly, Tucker's mother, who said Tucker would never have harmed her. The last thing he said, before Oswald shot him, was: 'Mom, don't let them hurt me.' He was never a threat."
"Well, Oswald the Asshole won't kill anybody else," Bull declared.
Win raised an eyebrow. "The sniper?"
"Damn straight. Some slopehead named Michael Greel tapped him to whack you. You know 'bout Greel?"
Win nodded, a grim smile cracking his features. "Oh, yeah! Mikey runs Metro's homicide division. He orchestrated the sloppy cover-up of Erik's murder. According to good Metro cops, Greel is Metro's dirty-deeds expert. The guy's got more corpses to his credit than Al Capone!"
Bull glanced at Tank, then eyed Steele closely. "We've got everything we need on Greel. What can you tell us about the three shooters who killed Erik?"
Frowning, Win recounted what he and a band of loyal activists in Nevada and California had been able to dig up about Krupa, Akaka and Malovic.
"What's this about, Bull?" Steele demanded.
"Well… . My team's going to Fort Irwin for a workup next week," Ferris said slowly. "We'll be flying into Vegas, 'cause the Fort's right over the hill."
"Know it well," Win said. "During the first Gulf War, I spent a cold, windy night at Irwin, while working on a story for our magazine. And Erik did two rotations at NTC [National Training Center] in the mid-nineties, when he was with the First Cav."
"That definitely makes Erik a brother!" Tank interjected. "Nothing but wind, sand and no-see-um bugs out there."
Bull chuckled, continuing, "Anyway, we'll be in Vegas a coupla nights. Here's the deal: You say the word, and we'll take care of those killer-cops. And the Greel asshole, too."
Blunt and unvarnished. Vintage Bull Ferris, professional sniper.
Win was dumbfounded. Five pairs of deadly serious eyeballs stared at him. The room was cemetery-silent for a long, crackling minute.
"That's one hell of an offer, Bull. Erik would be honored, and I'm definitely grateful."
Steele cleared his throat. "But… we're not going there."
He admired the five professionals before him. Every one of them was a seasoned sniper or spotter. Collectively, they had dozens of Iraqi, Taliban and al Qaeda kills to their credit. Maybe hundreds.
"You guys are the best of today's Americans," Win continued. "You're no-shit shadow-warriors, who obviously could take out the bastards responsible for Erik's murder. As much as I would love to see my son's killers toes up, I can't condone outright murder."
"We don't see it that way, sir," Bull said politely. "That Ho's rag-head and Metro's killer-cops are dangerous, homegrown Taliban. They executed one of our own, a brother in arms. That means something to this community.
"If Erik's murder goes unanswered, those assholes will kill again. We're damned good at dealing justice, Win. You clear us in, and we'll take 'em out."
A flurry of foul-mouthed affirmations verified that Bull's sentiments were unanimous.
Win raised both hands, palms out. "I appreciate the logic and commitment, guys. But… no way.
"What if something happened to you? If one of you were killed, trying to whack these butchers, or you wound up in prison?"
He halted long enough to draw a ragged breath. "On top of losing Erik… . No," he declared. "Eliminating a hundred dirty Las Vegas cops isn't worth America losing one of you.
"I'm giving 'the system' one last chance at justice on Erik's behalf. And, if the law fails, there are other nontraditional ways to hold these criminals accountable. Clear?"
He looked at each soldier, in turn, until the man nodded or popped a thumbs-up.
"Thanks, guys," Steele said, standing. "We will get the bastards responsible for killing Erik. Count on it."
He shook hands with each operator, expressing sincere appreciation.
At the door, Win rested a hand on his mountain of a neighbor's shoulder. "Can't thank you enough for that, Bull. Damn… ."
"The offer stands, bud. You change your mind, give me a holler. We'll be at the Fort a coupla weeks, then catch some R&R in Vegas, before we ship out."
Bull and his team were deploying for yet another combat tour, and some of the snipers in that room might not return. If Win wanted to put a few on the scoreboard, now was the time.
"Got it," Steele said. "For now, I'm giving the legal system a last chance. Our attorney is confident that we can win a lawsuit against Metro. Let's see how that works out."
"You're putting a hell of a lot of faith in our jacked-up legal system. I damn sure wouldn't," Bull grumped. "If somebody killed my son, old Bull would be judge, jury and executioner—and the killers would be in the crosshairs now! I can admire your restraint, but I sure as hell don't understand it."
Win smiled wearily, nodded and stepped onto the covered porch. He crossed the street, snagged his mail from a pedestal-mounted cluster of boxes, and sorted through the usual bills, flyers and ubiquitous credit card offers. Several were addressed to Erik Steele or his estate.
Closing his home's front door, Win was struck by an odd notion: Had God dispatched five warrior angels as His tools-of-accountability? And had Win Steele just negated His plan, by rejecting those angels?
Win grimaced, recalling a well-worn joke. A flood victim turned down rescue offers from two boaters and a helicopter, calling, "No thanks! God will save me!" As rising water consumed the believer, he shouted, "God! Why did you not save me?"
A booming voice replied, "I sent two boats and a helicopter, but you turned them down. Now you're on your own."
Had he, Win Steele, spurned the equivalent of God's boats and helicopters? Maybe those five special operators in Bull's living room were His earthly vehicles for holding accountable the miscreants responsible for killing Erik, then covering up their dark deeds.
Steele dropped the mail on an expansive island in the kitchen. Layna was out, precluding an explanation of why Bull had invited him to "pop over."
Win checked the fridge, wandered into his office and settled into a well-worn leather desk chair, munching a cheese stick. He rarely snacked, but had lost more than twenty pounds, since Erik's murder. Stress, the doc had decided.
From an office window, Win watched the special forces team depart, reflecting on the astounding proposal Bull had extended. Never in his six-plus decades had he seriously contemplated killing another human being.
In the Air Force, he'd shot man-size targets, firing "Expert" with both the M-16 carbine and officers' standard-issue, snub-nosed revolver. Anybody who wore a military uniform might have to take an enemy life, but he'd never been faced with a kill-or-don't-kill decision.
Until today.
The image of Bull dropping Olek Krupa from a hundred yards was appealing. And Tank nailing that emotionless Akaka monster, as the Hawaiian strutted across Metro headquarters' parking lot, was an equally attractive vision.
Malovic? The kid-cop might warrant a pass. The rookie had expressed a modicum of remorse, and inside-Metro sources said he had sought psychiatric care, after Erik's murder.
Captain Mikey Greel was another matter. Win absolutely despised that lying, arrogant bastard. Steele could forgive the three shooters for making a terrible mistake, although he admittedly waffled between forgiveness and wanting to personally slice their throats.
But there was no waffling about Greel. That black-eyed reprobate had deliberately covered up Erik's murder, then orchestrated the inquest's assassination of the innocent victim's character.
Win could never forgive him. Maybe God would hold that one against him, but he'd take the hit. Mikey Greel was hundred-proof evil, and his demise would be cause for celebration.
As the last of Bull's special forces team drove away, Win sighed. His brain might always wonder, but his heart knew he'd made the right call. Unleashing a Special Forces hit squad on Las Vegas Metro wasn't the answer.
Not yet.
CHAPTER 26
LEGAL FOLLY
"Now this is not the end.
It is not even the beginning of the end.
But it is, perhaps,
the end of the beginning."
Winston Churchill
LAS VEGAS/SOFIA KNIGHT OFFICE
"Here's the bottom line, as I see it," concluded Ben Donovan. "Metro has five or six witnesses, who all claim Erik either reached for his gun or pulled it. In court, you'll pick their statements apart and destroy their credibility. You'll convince a jury that every one of those witnesses is either lying or has been intimidated, because they all have records with Metro.
"You can prevail in District Court. But, in the end, any judgment against Metro will be overturned. Ultimately, you'll lose."
Sofia Knight was firing eye-daggers at Donovan, her high-priced use-of-force expert.
"Because Metro will appeal," she said, "and the Ninth Circuit Court will rule in favor of the shooters who killed Erik."
"Right," Donovan replied. "Ma'am, I've been on both sides of this issue. I've testified for victims, and I've testified for police officers. In lower courts, the victims often win.
"However, if the case goes to the Ninth, those judges invariably find in favor of police officers."
Sofia slapped the conference table. "Because of that 'Qualified Immunity' bullshit!"
She turned to her father, retired-Judge Stanton Kern. The former jurist was scrutinizing tabbed documents in a thick three-ring binder.
"What's your take, Dad?"
"It's not what you want to hear, Sofie, but Ben's right. Under Qualified Immunity, if there are any significant differences—even mild discrepancies—among eyewitness statements, the benefit-of-doubt automatically goes to police officers."
"But we have almost thirty witnesses saying Erik did not touch his concealed weapon, did not make a 'furtive move,' and only had a BlackBerry phone in his hand!" Sofia exclaimed. "The preponderance of evidence weighs heavily in our favor. Erik was murdered, because Krupa panicked and fired."
Kern sighed. "Sofie, Ben's seen dozens of similar cases, where juries go along with that 'preponderance of evidence' argument. In your case, if twenty witnesses testify that Erik did not pull his firearm, and five say he did, average-Joe jurors will conclude Erik did nothing that warranted being shot to death. And they'll return a verdict in the Steeles' favor.
"But, in the end, that does not matter!"
He coughed and reached for a water bottle, flicking an index finger to Donovan.
"The ten-foot gorilla is that damned Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. It's always a roadblock," Ben continued, "and there's no way over, under or around it. The Ninth's stacked with Bay Area-liberals, who are ideologically convinced that government officials are incapable of wrongdoing. They're solidly in the tank for cops."
He reached across the table and tapped a thick document.
"I've highlighted twenty-two wrongful-death cases, all charging excessive use of force. In every single one, the Ninth ruled in favor of the police department and officers involved. Even when cops were at fault, the Ninth still invoked Qualified Immunity—and stopped the plaintiffs cold."
"And twenty-plus killers walked free," Sofia said, shaking her head. She was ready to explode in disgust. "Were any of these cases appealed to the Supreme Court?"
"A few, yes," Donovan answered. "Even fewer were actually heard by the Supremes. Of those, about ninety-some percent were overturned."
"The Ninth's ruling in favor of cops was overturned?"
Hope sparked in the feisty attorney's eyes.
"That's right," Donovan said. "Took a long time to get there, of course. The Supreme Court routinely overturns the Ninth's decisions… "
"Excuse me, Ben," Kern interrupted. "Sofie, before you get all fired up about driving the Steele case all the way to the Supreme Court, think about what that'll entail: Years of litigation. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in expert-witness fees. And the odds of winning are damned slim.
"Are you prepared to spend your next ten years on this case? And risk losing, in the end?"
"If it means exposing Metro's chicken-shit lies and cover-up, hell yes!" she cried. "Erik Steele was murdered! At least fifty people witnessed an innocent man being executed by a pot-bellied simpleton, who should never have been hired and turned loose with a firearm!"
"Then let the
DA or Department of Justice prosecute Krupa!" Kern shot back, equally emphatic. "We're dealing with a civil case here! And your use-of-force expert is telling you that this case is not winnable, in the final analysis. The Ninth will screw you and the Steeles!
"A predisposition in favor of nefarious government officials—particularly killer-cops—is embedded in the Ninth's judicatory DNA," Kern explained. "Its judges love cops, and they hold lowly citizen-taxpayers in abject contempt."
Donovan rested his elbows on the table. "Miz Knight, I'm really sorry. You could get a second opinion, although you'll get the same answer from any credible use-of-force specialist.
"Your father is right: Ninth Circuit justices are inclined to ignore every witness but Metro's. Yes, the Supreme Court might overturn on appeal. Then again, it might not."
He stood and extended a hand. Sofia gripped it for a long moment. "Thanks, Ben. I appreciate your expertise and all the effort you expended on this case. Not the outcome I expected, though."
While Kern escorted Donovan to the door, Sofia went to the office window and crossed her arms. Kern appeared at his daughter's side.
"Sorry, baby," he said.
They stood in silence, watching traffic and pedestrians four stories below.
"Dad, I can win this case! Even on appeal. I want to press on."
Kern turned back to the spacious office, settled into a well-worn armchair, and tossed a long leg over the other. He tapped the worn, expensive leather for several seconds.
"Sofie, your spunk and commitment to these clients are admirable, but it's time to pull the plug on the Steele case. You heard Ben. If you can't find another expert — somebody who will testify that Erik absolutely did not reach for his weapon, or point it at Krupa — you'll never overcome a Ninth Circuit Qualified Immunity finding.
"The Ninth's record is unscathed. Its activist judges slobber all over cops, and they'll do backflips or dance on the head of a pin, if necessary, to ensure a ruling in favor of Metro's bad boys!"
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