Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Objection,” Volo said, raising his hand holding a gold pen. “Witness is not an expert in psychiatry.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Jury will disregard the last remark.”

  “Thank you, Detective. What can you tell us about the gun you recovered from the defendant’s car?”

  “The weapon was covered in the defendant’s fingerprints, as later proven by the Crime Lab. Furthermore, ballistics demonstrated it was the weapon used to murder Detective Park.”

  “Was this your case?”

  “No, it was not. There was a BOLO out on Marcus Jones. I happened to be the one who saw him and executed the arrest.”

  Gully smiled briefly. “No further questions, Your Honor. Your witness,” he said to the opposing counsel, then walked to his desk and took a seat.

  Frederick Volo Jr. shuffled through some papers, then stood and walked slowly with a calculated gait, until he was only a few feet away from the stand. For a long moment, he stared at Holt, but the detective didn’t budge, didn’t blink, didn’t lower his gaze.

  “Detective Holt,” Volo eventually said, just as the judge was starting to glare at him. “Were you assigned the investigation into Detective Park’s murder?”

  “No, I was not,” Holt replied calmly.

  “Who was the case assigned to?”

  “It was assigned to my colleagues, Detectives Nieblas and Crocker.”

  I looked briefly over my shoulder and saw Nieblas shamelessly grinning, satisfied to have his vindication in open court. The only thing that seemed to matter for Nieblas was to even the score with Holt, whatever the damage. As for Crocker, he seemed detached, dispassionate, absentminded.

  The defendant, a bulky man I knew better than I cared to remember, seemed uncomfortably dressed in a suit his attorney must’ve forced him to wear under severe threats. Although he’d been trying to clean up his appearance for the court, he hadn’t given up on wearing at least half a pound of jewelry, assorted in the poorest taste possible, a must have for twenty-nine-year-old, semi-famous rappers like him. As for his demeanor, once a thug, always a thug. His head on a swivel, he kept looking back and forth, from Volo to Holt to the public and back to the jurors, with a fresh smirk on his face and a hip-hop hand gesture whenever anyone said anything that went his way, as if expecting the public to cheer for him.

  By contrast, thin and tall at his six-foot-five stature, Volo wore with class a silver gray Armani suit that lent the fifty-year-old litigator a youthful look, enhanced by dark-rimmed, designer glasses and side-parted blond hair. His white shirt shone like silk, and he wore it with gold cufflinks, in all probability embossed with his initials. I liked his physical appearance up to a point; what worried me specifically were the tension in his jaw and around his chin, the fierce look of determination in his blue gray eyes, and the overall predator demeanor. I’d seen all that before, not something I’d easily forget.

  Volo paced the room for a moment and stopped in front of the stand again. “Tell me, Detective, is it a common occurrence to arrest other detectives’ suspects? To take over their cases?”

  I cringed; the answer wasn’t at all favorable.

  “Which question would you like answered, Counselor? If it’s common to arrest other detectives’ suspects? Or if it’s common to take over their cases? You should know these are two different situations,” he said casually, in an attempt to throw Volo off his game.

  His back tensed; I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could’ve placed a relatively high bet he was glaring at Holt.

  “How so? Please elaborate, Detective.”

  “As a law enforcement officer, I am sworn to uphold the law, regardless of case number. Therefore, if I see a known suspect at large, I will apprehend him or her, because it is my sworn duty.”

  “How about taking over another detective’s case?”

  “That I will not do in the absence of a direct order from my superiors. It’s against regulations.”

  “I see,” Volo said in a low voice. “This wasn’t your case, Detective, I believe we established that?”

  “No, it wasn’t my case. But there was—”

  “Thank you,” Volo interrupted, putting both his hands in the air, palms facing Holt, in the universal, unspoken message to stop. “Did you think, at any time, to call the two detectives on the case?”

  “There was no reason to waste police resources. There was a BOLO out for Marcus Jones; every police officer in Las Vegas was looking for him.”

  “You want the jury to believe that Mr. Jones, despite being asleep in plain sight with a weapon by his side as you keep claiming, was found by you, entirely by accident?”

  “That’s the truth,” Holt replied with a slight shrug.

  “Let’s talk about my client’s car,” Volo said, turning to face the jury for a quick moment. “What kind of car are you alleging my client was asleep in when you found him?”

  “A Mercedes S-Class convertible, white.”

  “Was the top down, Detective?”

  “The car top was down, yes.”

  “So, you could easily see the gun on the passenger seat, correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Was the gun packaged in anything?”

  “No, it was just the gun, directly on the seat. That gun was later proven to be—”

  “Thank you,” Volo cut him off again.

  I remembered his tactics from the times I had to take the stand and be interrupted every two phrases. But Holt was handling it much better than I had. He was a cool customer, my partner.

  “Is it possible,” Volo continued, “that someone else could’ve dropped that gun onto the car seat, because the top was down, and my client was asleep?”

  Holt frowned. “Yes, but—”

  “Yes or no answers, please,” Volo said. “Is it possible, then?”

  “Yes,” Holt admitted, letting out a sigh of frustration, the first emotional reaction he’d shown that far.

  I glanced at ADA Gulewicz, wondering how he felt about Volo’s cross. He seemed to sense my look, because he turned briefly in my direction. We locked eyes for a moment, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly. He was too smart to let Volo have the last word.

  “Isn’t it a fact that you planted that gun on the passenger seat of my client’s car, Detective?”

  The courtroom reacted with a collective gasp, followed by a wave of whispers.

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that my client, startled out of his sleep and shocked to find a gun by his side, a gun that wasn’t his, touched it out of reflex?”

  Holt looked at Volo inquisitively. “What reflex is that you’re talking about?”

  “It’s a proven scientific fact that humans use their sense of touch to investigate things that are new to them, especially under duress. Is it possible that my client touched the gun after you woke him up?”

  “Absolutely not,” Holt replied calmly. “If you recall, I was holding my service weapon in my hand at the time I approached the vehicle and had the defendant in my sights. If your client would’ve touched that gun, he would’ve been in the morgue right now with two in his chest, not here, in this courtroom.”

  “So, you admit to wanting to kill my client, Detective?” Volo asked serenely.

  “Objection,” Gully said.

  “I’ll rephrase, Your Honor,” Volo said quickly, before the judge could rule. “Are you a good cop, Detective?”

  “Define good,” Holt replied calmly.

  “Abiding by the law in everything you do, upholding the law at all costs, following procedure?”

  “Yes, all that.”

  “Have you ever broken the law, Detective?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “How about bent it?” Volo said with a smile filled with contempt. “Just a little, to get your man?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Have you ever engaged in any illegal activities while on duty or off duty?”

/>   “Objection, Your Honor,” Gully said promptly. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Are you going somewhere with this, Mr. Volo?”

  “I am, Your Honor.” He cleared his throat again and arranged his tie, smoothing it down with both his hands, while smiling at the jury. “You claimed the defendant was under the influence of drugs and alcohol when you arrested him, is that correct?”

  “I did not claim anything; the Crime Lab ran those tests. They are the experts who said that.”

  “But you know a thing or two about drugs and alcohol impairing judgment, don’t you, Detective?”

  My blood froze. Volo’s tone as he’d asked that loaded question had been eerily calm, but I knew better than to be fooled by that.

  “It comes with the job,” Holt replied calmly, although color had drained from his face.

  “Is that the only experience you have with impairing levels of drugs and alcohol, Detective? Through your job?”

  “I believe so,” Holt replied, still calm.

  “You believe so?” Volo reacted. “Have you ever been impaired while on the job, Detective?”

  “No, I have not,” he replied.

  “Are you sure about that, Detective?”

  “Positive.”

  “Are you a fame seeker, Detective?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Holt asked.

  “Are you actively hunting for collars, looking to score as many as possible, to look good to your superiors and gain access to promotions and raises, maybe even media attention?”

  Holt grinned, that asymmetrical grin of his that meant he had the upper hand and only he knew it. “I’m not seeking fame more than anyone else, Counselor. Not more than you do.”

  I couldn’t contain a smile. Bravo, Holt!

  But Volo seemed unfazed. Instead, he made a gesture of theatrical frustration for the jury, then turned to Holt. “Are you asking the jury to believe that my client decided to have a nap with the top down and he just left his gun—according to you, the murder weapon—for all to see?”

  “Yes, that is the truth.”

  “Because I can’t understand why my client would be so stupid as to fall asleep in his convertible, a gun next to him, and wait for someone like you to slap the handcuffs on him. This is incredible, as a matter of law. Unless you’re omitting something, Detective. What are you omitting?”

  “I’m not omitting anything,” Holt replied. “My testimony includes all the details pertaining to the arrest of Marcus Jones, a suspect in the case of Detective Park’s murder.”

  “But you do affirm that someone could have planted that gun on the passenger seat of his car, while he was asleep.”

  “With his fingerprints already on it?”

  “Yes or no, please?”

  “Yes, I believe it’s possible, if they’d—”

  “Thank you, no more questions,” Volo said. “Defense rests.”

  “Redirect, Your Honor?” Gully asked.

  ADA Gulewicz stood and smiled at the jury. The twelve men and women lined up on the two rows of chairs fidgeted in place after having held their breaths during Holt’s cross-examination. I could easily relate, because I’d barely drawn air myself.

  “Detective,” Gully said, approaching the stand, “do you believe someone else planted that weapon in the defendant’s car?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  “As previously stated, the weapon was covered in the defendant’s fingerprints, as later proven by the Crime Lab. Furthermore, ballistics demonstrated it was the weapon used to murder Detective Park.”

  “Has it ever happened before to collar another detective’s suspect? On your own?”

  “No, never. This was haphazard; he was in the right place at the right time to make my day.”

  Holt ended his statement with an infectious smile. I saw several jurors smile also, and Gully used the opportunity to end the redirect.

  “Recross, Your Honor?” Volo asked.

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge replied, looking at his watch. “Make it quick.”

  I felt a new, stronger bout of anxiety grab my insides and twist them in a knot. I’d thought we were done, over with it. I’d been wrong.

  “Detective,” Volo asked, “where were you last Wednesday at nine PM?”

  My breath caught. Last Wednesday night he’d attended an AA meeting, giving into my insistence. Somehow, Volo had found out about Holt’s cocaine addiction and was using it to discredit him. How the hell did that happen? Anonymous, my arse… He was totally screwed. I suddenly understood why the IAB wanted him gone, as in gone for good, without the faintest possibility of him carrying a badge again in his life.

  I sought his eyes, but he was looking straight at Volo, unfazed. “I’m afraid I can’t recall, exactly.”

  “You must have some idea, Detective.”

  “Objection,” Gully finally sprung to his feet. “Relevance? The detective’s private life is his own.”

  “I believe it’s relevant to my client’s defense,” Volo argued.

  “I’ll allow it, but watch it, Mr. Volo. If you’re fishing, we’re done here.” The judge turned to Holt. “You may answer, Detective.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor, I really can’t recall.”

  “Approach, Your Honor?” Volo asked, and I felt as if I were going to faint, right there, on that crappy courtroom bench.

  The judge beckoned with a bored and rather irritated expression on his face. Volo started saying something in a low, rushed whisper I couldn’t comprehend, but I thought I’d heard my name and I froze. I wasn’t sure at first, but then I saw alarm in Holt’s eyes as he looked at me. Still on the stand, he was close enough to the bench to hear what was going on.

  My head started spinning.

  In a daze, I saw Gully and Volo take their seats, and the judge picked up the gavel.

  “Mr. Volo?”

  “Yes,” he replied, standing again. “Defense would like to call two new witnesses, Detective Laura Baxter and Internal Affairs Lieutenant Steenstra.”

  “Grounds?”

  “Given Detective Holt’s memory problems and his inability to recall his whereabouts last Wednesday at nine PM, we have reasons to believe the two witnesses will bring relevant information pertaining to the professionalism and credibility of the arresting officer.”

  “Granted, Mr. Volo. Have your witnesses ready to testify at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Request for continuance, Your Honor?” Gully said, his voice a little unsure. “This is last minute. We need time to prepare the witnesses.”

  “It’s five in the afternoon, Mr. Gulewicz. You have enough time until tomorrow morning. I won’t hold the jury for one more day, so you can enjoy your work-life balance. Request denied.”

  “Your Honor,” Gully said, “respectfully, we don’t—”

  “We’re adjourned for today.”

  The gavel fell, and with that sound, my entire world collapsed at my feet.

  23

  Plans

  I walked by Holt’s side without saying a word, while thoughts raced through my mind in a desperate search for a solution, for a way out. I couldn’t help but think that was exactly what happened when the lines were blurred or stepped over, when corners were cut just to bring a perp to justice. The scumbag could walk free, and there would be no justice for the death of a good cop. Not to mention, our careers ruined, our lives completely finished.

  I knew I’d be going down with Holt the moment it came out I’d been aware of Holt’s addiction and failed to report it. One thing bothered me more than anything else; was last Wednesday the night I waited just outside of the Community Center, working on Holt’s laptop, while he attended his AA meeting? How many people, some of which had records and could’ve been TwoCent’s old cellmates for all I knew, had seen me there? There was no way I could claim ignorance and avoid a perjury charge.

  I’d been a reckless fool.


  Bloody hell.

  I couldn’t sit and watch our lives destroyed, but I also had no idea how to dig us out of the hole we’d landed in. I hated admitting that I also had no clue whether Holt had done anything he wasn’t willing to share during TwoCent’s arrest. Was it possible he found the gun in a different location, maybe surrendered by a confidential informant, and had decided to conveniently “find” it in TwoCent’s car?

  There was no doubt in my mind that TwoCent was Detective Park’s killer. He’d been picked out of a lineup by a witness, but that witness had since disappeared. Knowing the thug’s background and methods, that poor bloke was now fish food somewhere at the bottom of Lake Mead.

  The more I thought about it, the more things crystalized, came into focus. I couldn’t let TwoCent walk free, and I couldn’t let our lives be ruined. I needed to do something, and fast.

  But what?

  We were at Holt’s SUV when we heard Gully calling us, and we stopped and waited. Holt was grim, the frown that landed on his forehead a permanent fixture since he’d heard I was being called to testify. He avoided looking at me, preferring to keep his eyes riveted on the horizon instead.

  When Gully caught up with us, he was out of breath.

  “This is bad,” he said, between panting breaths. “We’re an inch away from having the judge dismiss the case, and even if he doesn’t, there’s no way they’ll convict. That means Jones walks. And now, this,” he added, gesturing toward me as if I carried the blame for the state of the prosecution’s case against TwoCent.

  “Yeah, I’m not that bloody thrilled either,” I said coldly.

  “Baxter doesn’t belong on the stand, Gully,” Holt pleaded. “She wasn’t my partner when I collared that piece of scum.”

  “It’s not my call, Holt,” he replied. “I did my best in there, and she’ll have to testify tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  “Fantastic,” I mumbled. “You know the perp’s guilty as sin, right?”

  “Yes, I know that, and you know that, but the justice system has checks and balances in place for a reason,” he reacted, bitterness tinging his voice. “What we know isn’t worth much if we can’t prove any of it. Next time, Detective, let the perp sleep and call the lead detective on the case, all right? It would make everyone’s life easier, especially considering your… issues.”