4th of July (2005)

by JAMES PATTERSON (with Maxine Paetro)

  “Inspector, are you familiar with Lieutenant Boxer’s reputation in the police community, and if so, what is that reputation?”

  “In a word? She’s a damned good cop.”

  Chapter 96

  BROYLES GOT NOTHING MUCH out of Jacobi on cross. He answered yes and no and refused to rise to the bait when Broyles insinuated that he’d been lazy in performing his duty according to SFPD policies and procedures.

  “I did the best I could do for both those kids and I’m thankful that your client wasn’t a better shot,” Jacobi said. “Otherwise I’d be dead, instead of talking to you here.”

  When court adjourned for a lunch break, I found a quiet spot in a corner on the third floor between a Coke machine and a wall, and talked to Joe, our virtual hug spanning three time zones. He apologized at least a half dozen times for being in the middle of a huge investigation involving threats to airports from Boston to Miami, which was why he couldn’t be with me in San Francisco.

  I had a bite of a dry ham sandwich and a sip of coffee from a machine before taking my seat beside Yuki as court was called back into session.

  Then the moment I’d been dreading arrived. Yuki called me to the witness stand. When I was seated in the witness box, she stood in front of me so that my view of the Cabot family was blocked, and she gave me a sunny smile.

  “Lieutenant Boxer, do you believe in following police procedures?”

  “I do.”

  “Were you drunk on the night in question?”

  “No. I was having dinner with friends. I had a couple of drinks before I got the call from Jacobi.”

  “You were off duty?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not against any rules to drink off duty, is it?”

  “No.”

  “When you got into the car with Inspector Jacobi, you officially went back on duty.”

  “Yes. Still, I was sure that I had all my faculties. I stand by that now.”

  “Would you say you’re a ‘by-the-book’ kind of cop?”

  “Yes, but the book doesn’t cover all circumstances. Sometimes you have to work with the situation at hand and use your best judgment.”

  At Yuki’s prompting, I told the story up to the point where Jacobi and I wrenched open the car door and freed the Cabot kids from the wreck.

  “I made a mistake because those kids looked such a mess. I felt sorry for them.”

  “Why did you feel sorry for them?”

  “They were both crying. And Sam in particular was bleeding, throwing up, and pleading with me.”

  “Could you explain?”

  “He said, ‘Please don’t tell my father. He’ll kill me.’”

  “So what did you do?”

  “As Inspector Jacobi said, we had to get them out of the car. There was a danger of the gas tank exploding. I put my gun away so that I could get a grip on the car door, and together Inspector Jacobi and I got them out.”

  “Go on, Lieutenant.”

  “After they were out of the car, I should have cuffed Sara. Instead, I treated her as a victim of a bad traffic accident. When I asked to see her driver’s license, she pulled a gun out of her jacket and shot me in the shoulder, then in the thigh. I went down.”

  “Where was Inspector Jacobi when Sara shot you?”

  “Inspector Jacobi was calling an ambulance.”

  “Where was his gun?”

  “It was holstered.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “Yes. He was on the phone. His gun was holstered. I yelled ‘Gun’ just before Sara shot me. I saw Jacobi turn and see me fall. Just then, Sam Cabot fired on him—hitting him twice.”

  “You’re sure you saw all this, Lieutenant? You didn’t lose consciousness?”

  “No. I was conscious throughout.”

  “Did Inspector Jacobi lose consciousness?”

  “Yes. I thought he was dead. I saw Sam Cabot kick him in the head, and he didn’t move or try to protect himself.”

  “You saw Sam Cabot kick Inspector Jacobi in the head. Please continue.”

  “Maybe they thought I was dead, because they seemed to have forgotten all about me.”

  “Objection. The witness is speculating.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Just tell us what you saw and heard and did,” Yuki said. “You’re doing very well.”

  I dipped my head and tried to focus.

  “I heard Sara tell Sam that they should leave the scene,” I said. “I got my gun out of my holster and demanded that Sara Cabot drop her weapon. She called me a bitch, then fired several more shots at me. Then I returned fire.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Sara dropped to the ground, and Sam started screaming at me that I’d shot his sister. Again, I demanded that he drop his gun, which he refused to do. I shot him also.”

  “Tell me, Lieutenant, did you want to hurt those children?”

  “No, of course not. I wish with all my heart that none of this had ever happened.”

  “In your opinion, if Sam and Sara Cabot hadn’t been carrying guns, could this tragedy have happened?”

  “Objection,” Broyles shouted. “Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”

  The judge leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling through her thick black-rimmed glasses. Then, having decided, she snapped back upright.

  “Sustained.”

  “Lindsay. Is it true that in your ten years in Homicide, you’ve been cited for excellent arrests on thirty-seven occasions and received fifteen unit citations and twenty meritorious-service commendations?”

  “I didn’t keep count, but that sounds about right.”

  “In short, Lieutenant Boxer, the San Francisco Police Department would agree with Inspector Jacobi’s description of you. You’re a ‘damned good cop.’”

  “Objection. Counsel is making a speech.”

  “Thanks, Lindsay. I’m done, Your Honor.”

  Chapter 97

  I FORGOT ABOUT YUKI as soon as she turned away from me. I was falling backward in time, feeling the pain of that horrifying night. The whooshing sound of Sam’s breathing was like the sound of salt water washing over my open wounds, and the courtroom was a slick sea of faces, reflecting back what must have been my own pained and stricken expression.

  I picked out six members of the Cabot family by their resemblance to Sara and Sam, and the fury in their eyes. And I saw cops everywhere, men and women I’d known and worked with for years. My eyes locked on Jacobi, and his eyes held mine. He gave me a thumbs-up and I wanted to smile, but Mason Broyles was coming toward me.

  He wasted no time with amenities.

  “Lieutenant Boxer, when you shot my client and his sister, did you shoot to kill?”

  There was a loud ringing in my ears as I tried to understand his question. Had I shot to kill? Yes. But how could I say that I had meant to kill those kids?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Broyles. Could you repeat the question?”

  “Let me ask it another way. If this incident happened as you say, that Sara and Sam Cabot refused to put down their guns, why didn’t you simply disable them? Shoot them in the arms or legs, for instance.”

  I hesitated, trying to imagine it. Sara standing squarely facing me on the pavement. Those shots pounding into my body. Falling to the street. The shock. The pain. The shame.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Mr. Broyles, I fired in self-defense.”

  “Amazing that your aim was so good. Drunk as you were.”

  “Objection. He’s badgering Lieutenant Boxer.”

  “Sustained. Watch yourself, Mr. Broyles.”

  “Yes, Judge. Lieutenant, I don’t understand. You shot two bullets into Sara’s heart—a pretty small target, wouldn’t you say? Why couldn’t you have shot her so that she’d survive? Why didn’t you shoot Sam Cabot’s gun out of his hand?”

  “Your Honor! Asked and answered.”

  “I withdraw the question. We understand
what you did, Lieutenant.” Broyles sneered. “We understand exactly what happened.”

  Chapter 98

  I HEARD YUKI SAY, “Redirect, Your Honor.”

  Then she approached me, moving quickly. She waited until I was looking into her eyes.

  “Lindsay, when you fired on Sam and Sara Cabot, was your life in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s proper police procedure for that situation? What’s ‘by the book’?”

  “You shoot to center mass to alleviate the threat, and once the threat is alleviated, you cease firing. Often those center-mass shots are fatal. You can’t take any chances by shooting at extremities. You could miss. The individual might still be able to shoot, and you’ve got to make sure the shooter can’t hurt you or other people.”

  “Did you have any other choice but to shoot the way you did?”

  “No. None at all. Once the Cabots introduced lethal force.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Now we understand exactly what happened.”

  I was weak with relief when I stepped down from the stand. As soon as I took my seat, I heard the judge dismiss the court.

  “See you all tomorrow at nine,” she said.

  Yuki and Mickey and several attorneys from his office formed a buffer zone around me as we left the courthouse by the back door and entered the black Lincoln Town Car that was waiting for us on Polk.

  Through the car’s smoked windows, I saw the angry, chanting crowd holding posters with my picture and the slogans “Loose Cannon” and “Dirty Harriet.”

  “You did great, Lindsay,” Mickey said, reaching over from the front seat and patting my arm. But his brown eyes didn’t smile, and the lower half of his face looked frozen.

  “I shouldn’t have hesitated. I—just didn’t know what to say.”

  “No harm done. We’re going to dinner now. Yuki and I have to spend some time going over her closing. You’re welcome to come with us.”

  “If you don’t need me, why don’t you drop me off at Yuki’s place. Let you guys work in peace.”

  I clutched Yuki’s keys in my hand and watched the city I knew so well fly by the darkened car windows. I knew that I’d blown it. A few seconds of hesitation and everyone in the room had read my mind.

  The impression that jury walked away with today was that I’d shot those kids to kill.

  And, of course, they were right.

  Chapter 99

  A SHRILL ALARM SHATTERED whatever nightmare had gripped me in its vise lock. I lay stiff and immobile, trying to get my bearings, when the alarm went off again, less strident now, less jarring.

  I grabbed my cell phone from the night table and flipped it open, but the caller had disconnected.

  Awake and grouchy at 6:00 a.m., I moved piles of Yuki’s stuff in the small second bedroom until I found my tracksuit and running shoes. I dressed quietly, collared and leashed Martha, and together we slipped out of the Crest Royal into dawn’s early light.

  I ran through the route in my mind, pretty sure that I could do two miles on gentle hills and flatlands. Then Martha and I headed north for the straightaway of Jones Street at a slow jog, the twinge in my joints reminding me how much I really hated to run.

  I slipped the lead from Martha’s collar so she wouldn’t wrap her leash around my legs and herd me into a pratfall. Then I forced myself into a faster pace on the downhill side of Jones, until the still-irksome pain from my shoulder and leg dissolved into an overall ache of my rusty muscles.

  As much as I hated it, running was my only hope of escaping my obsession with the trial because it was the best way to shift from a mental state to a more manageable physical one. And even though my tendons screamed, it was good to feel my sneakers pounding the sidewalk, my sweat drying in the cool air as the dawn faded into morning.

  I kept running north on Jones across Vallejo Street until I reached the summit of Russian Hill. Straight ahead was Alcatraz Island with its flashing lighthouse and the glorious view of Angel Island.

  It was there that my mind floated free and my heart hammered from exertion rather than from stress and fear.

  I blew through the wall as I crossed onto Hyde and the wonderful endorphins warmed me. To my right was the crooked block of Lombard, an endlessly charming street that runs down the hill to Leavenworth. I pumped my arms and jogged in place waiting for a red light to change, delighted that I was still ahead of the commuter crowd that a half hour from now would totally clog the streets and sidewalks.

  The light changed and I pushed off. The path I’d chosen took me through some of the city’s prettiest blocks of gorgeous old homes and postcard views, even with the fog still drifting around the bay. Martha and I had reached the edge of Chinatown when I heard the shushing of car wheels following close on my heels.

  Someone called out, “Miss, you have to put your dog on a leash.”

  I was ticked off at the interruption of my new blissful mood and swung around to see a black-and-white unit dogging me. I stopped running and called Martha to my side.

  “Oh, my gosh. Lieutenant. It’s you.”

  “Good morning, Nicolo,” I panted to the young officer riding shotgun. “Hello, Friedman,” I said to the driver.

  “We’re all behind you, Lou,” Friedman said. “I don’t mean, like, literally this moment,” he sputtered. “I mean we really miss you, man, uh, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled. “That means a lot. Especially today.”

  “Never mind about the dog, okay?”

  “Hey, you were right the first time, Nicolo. She stays on the leash.”

  “Following procedures?”

  “Yup, that’s me.”

  “Good luck, okay, Lieutenant?”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  Friedman flashed the car’s headlights as they pulled past me. Holding Martha’s lead with both hands so that it crossed tightly against my body, I turned up Clay Street and headed back up the hill toward Jones.

  By the time I stumbled into the lobby of Yuki’s building, all of the knots and snarls had melted out of my system. Minutes later I soaked under the hot shower I’d earned, and it was a stupendous reward.

  I toweled myself off with one of Yuki’s giant terry cloth bath jobbies and then I wiped the condensation off the mirror.

  I gave myself a good hard look.

  My skin was pink. My eyes were clear. I’d run my miles in decent time, including the dog leash stop. I was okay. Win or lose, I was still the same person I’d always been.

  Even Mason Broyles couldn’t take that away from me.

  Chapter 100

  APART FROM THE SOUND of Sam Cabot’s laborious breathing, the courtroom was quiet as Broyles stood at his table, eyes on the screen of his laptop, waiting for the last excruciating moment to begin his closing statement.

  Finally, he stepped over to the jury box and after greeting them in his usual greasily gracious manner, he launched into his summation.

  “I’m sure we all appreciate that the police have a difficult job. To tell you the truth, it’s not a job I’d like to do. The police deal with rough people and ugly situations routinely, and they have to make tough split-second decisions every day.

  “These are all conditions of the job Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer took on when she put on her badge. She swore an oath to uphold the law and to protect our citizens.

  “And it’s indisputable that you can’t do those things properly when you’re drunk.”

  Someone in the back of the room stepped on his rhetoric with a coughing fit. Broyles stood patiently, hands in his pockets, and waited for the hacking to cease.

  When the room was quiet once more, he picked right up where he’d left off.

  “We all heard Lieutenant Boxer’s testimony yesterday, and I find it interesting that she denies what she can’t admit—and admits what she can’t deny.

  “Lieutenant Boxer denies that she should never have gotten in that car. That she should never have assumed the position of a police office
r when she’d had too much to drink. But she must admit that she didn’t follow procedures. And she must admit that she killed Sara Cabot and destroyed Sam Cabot’s life.