I nodded. “Kind of what worries me. The next guy may be smarter.”
Phoenix smiled sadly and pressed her fingertips against my cheek. “That’s not all your worried about, is it?”
I said nothing.
“You’ve been beating yourself up all week because you can’t remember when and where you saw him. He was following you around and you didn’t realize he was doing it. You let a threat get so close. You think you’re slipping.”
Still, I said nothing.
“But you proved last Sunday your reaction time is more than up to par. You saw the threat when it manifested as such and eliminated it. You’re not slipping. You’re still good at what you do. If you step outside the pity party for a minute you’ll see that.”
“You’re pretty smart for a pretty lawyer,” I said after several seconds.
“Better believe it.” She took five letters from the tile bag. “That’s why I’m kicking your ass.” Studying the new letters on her tray, she ran her tongue over her upper lip before she rotated the board and said, “Your turn.”
3
The next day, in the Frank A. Sedita City Court Building, I shared a witness bench outside Part 18 with two women I loved, Phoenix and my sister Mira. While I was in an old navy sports jacket and casual gray slacks, both of them were dressed to create an impression of serious authority, Phoenix in a dark power suit with a knee-length skirt and Mira in a modest rust-colored dress with a cropped black jacket
In court every week, Phoenix had a closet full of business dresses, tailored suits with pants and skirts, and stylish blazers. But I was used to seeing Mira in a lab coat or scrubs at work, or in jeans and sweatshirts or tees at home, glasses perched on her upturned nose and eyes lost in thought. A deputy medical examiner, she was accustomed to testifying in criminal cases but as far as I knew had only a handful of appropriate outfits. Today’s outfit looked new, though she hadn’t come to take the stand. She was seated on my left for moral support and to thank the criminalist she had asked to evaluate the physical evidence. A freckled redhead who looked more like a college kid in an off-the-rack suit than a veteran CSI in his thirties, Justin Battles occupied the last space on the bench. On his lap was a document case I assumed held any photographs, charts, or diagrams he would need. Like testimony, forensic presentations were rare in preliminary hearings, but Mira had assured me Battles had enough to support my version of events. Because the evidence was to be presented before a judge and not a jury, there was no need for video or an easel and poster display.
The other witnesses scheduled for the hearing—Larry Winnicki, Corey Parker, and Officers Khalid McKelvey and Ty Moss—were in separate waiting rooms.
On Friday Phoenix and I had met with ADA Adam Caster III, whose nickname was Tripp—from Triple Play—partly because both his grandfather and father had been district attorneys and partly because he had played shortstop well enough in college to spend three years in the minors before law school. Tripp Caster was about fifty, tall and rawboned, with thinning sandy hair, wire glasses, and a shameless Wilford Brimley mustache. In a paneled office with baseball memorabilia alongside diplomas, proclamations, and certificates, he greeted us with a smile that seemed to involve only his lower lip. He explained it was the defense’s request to have witnesses for the hearing instead of statements and walked us through our testimony. Phoenix would take the stand before me, once the responding officers were done. I would be called next. We could remain in court for the remainder of the hearing for the testimony from Larry Winnicki and Corey Parker. Justin Battles was scheduled last, to underscore our testimony and that of the police.
After Phoenix disappeared inside the courtroom, Mira followed her past the swinging door. A few minutes later, she returned to the bench and exchanged a few quiet words with Justin Battles. Then she turned back to me. “She’s doing fine.”
“Well, she does know a thing or two about the law,” I said.
“Hey, where’s Bobby? I didn’t see him inside. We haven’t talked since Friday, but I was sure he’d be here today.”
“He’s got one of his board meetings.”
“Then I’ll sit with Phoenix when you’re up,” she said. “How many boards is he on?”
I shrugged. “I think this one is APP.”
“APP?”
“The Alliance for Public Progress, a kind of community development think tank.”
Gazing across the corridor, she shook her head. “Bobby’s the poster child for how not to retire.” She turned back to me. “Then again, you’re a terrible example in that department yourself. A full army pension and you decide first to keep being a cop and then when things get too heavy to go private.”
“I was too young to do nothing.”
“Coulda gone fishing.”
“Fish turns my stomach. Seems wrong to kill something I can’t eat.”
Mira crossed her arms and scrunched her deep brown face into that determined look I first saw when she was a child who came to live with us after her parents died in a South Asian plane crash. “When I reach my payoff day and put down my scalpel and shears for good, look for me on a beach with canopies over lounge chairs and a steady flow of food and drink.” After a moment she unfolded her arms and cocked her head. “When was the last time you testified?”
“Some years back.” I took a deep breath. “Hellman.”
She nodded. “I thought that might be it.”
“I gave a deposition when he tried to sue me.”
“I remember.” She snorted. “Pain and suffering my ass!” She was quiet for a few seconds before adding, “Didn’t he send you a threatening letter after you were shot?”
“A wish I’d end up with a colostomy bag too.”
“He’s really got a hard-on for you.”
“I’m the one who left him without enough bowel for a resection.”
“Because you’re a good shot. Think he’ll try to get somebody else to go after you?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But I don’t think you need to worry, for yourself or Shakti. Our relationship isn’t a matter of public record, not even on Facebook.” I turned to her, suddenly concerned for her son. “Shakti’s not on Facebook, is he? Talking about movies and games with Uncle G?”
“In third grade?” She shook her head. “He doesn’t have a phone and I monitor the hell out of his screen time. Julie has strict instructions: no computer or iPad when I’m not home.”
A grad student working toward a Ph.D. in mathematics, Julie Yang was Shakti’s live-in nanny.
“He won’t even have a picture on social media till he’s eighteen and has a black belt,” Mira said.
“That’s a relief. I thought he might be swiping right on Tinder during recess.”
She swatted my arm and laughed. “Smartass.” Her laugh ended abruptly. “There’s no need to worry about us. Bobby maybe—you both do live under the same roof.”
“But not in the same apartment,” I said. “All public records show is Bobby’s my landlord, not the godfather who raised us.”
“What about Phoenix? A high profile attorney. You’re together all the time.”
“Mainly weekends.”
“Please!” Mira sucked her teeth. “You two are a very public item. P and G can mean you as easily as Proctor and Gamble.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “Restaurants, movies, plays, concerts, art galleries, political events, Black cultural events, Latino cultural events, legal gatherings.” A thumb remaining, she threw up her hands. “What’s to stop Hellman from trying to get to you through her?”
I was quiet a moment, a quip now the farthest thing from my mind. “I’ll have to do something about that.”
Then, earlier than I had anticipated, the bailiff, a beefy man with short gray hair, stepped out and called my name.
4
When I entered the courtroom, I did not yet know Phoenix’s testimony had wrapped so quickly because the public defender was saving his best cross for me.
About a
dozen spectators were in the courtroom. Following the bailiff down the center aisle, I glimpsed Phoenix on my right, waving Mira into the seat beside her. Ahead was City Court Judge Marlo Vassi, an ash blonde woman in her late fifties. With the U.S. flag on her right and the New York State flag on her left, she sat in front of the bronze seal of the state’s unified court system, watching me draw near. I swore to tell the truth and took the stand in the witness box to the right of the bench. As I stated my name for the record, my nostrils caught a trace of stale cigarette smoke—in a non-smoking building, no less. Then I looked at the counsel tables—ADA Caster in a gray suit sat on one side with an auburn-haired young man and Joey Snell on the other. Joey was in white shirtsleeves and an old red tie to offset his neck tattoo. Three fingers on his right hand sported adhesive-taped metal splints. His left cheek had stitches that looked days past their scheduled removal.
Tripp Caster rose and buttoned his jacket. He asked the same questions he’d outlined in his office, using my answers to establish my military background and my time as an army detective, my brief post-retirement service as a Buffalo State College police officer, the campus firefight with Marv Tull and Jasper Hellman that ended their interstate murder spree, and my subsequent decision to become a private investigator. My bona fides in the record, he gave me the chance to recount my confrontation with Snell, cutting in once to ask me to confirm I believed the Jasper Hellman Mr. Snell mentioned was the same man I had shot in the line of duty. Then Tripp thanked me and sat down.
“Mr. Aronson,” Judge Vassi said, her voice bearing witness to a long smoking habit.
Eli Aronson rose, buttoned his brown jacket, and smiled at me. “Mr. Rimes, first, thank you for your service. Combat could not have been easy. I know the price of your Purple Heart was blood. If army policing is anything like civilian policing, that too was a difficult job. So thank you.” He paused, as if waiting for a response. When I said nothing, he rocked on his heels for a second or two as he consulted the yellow legal pad on his table. “Sir, you testified you were not carrying a gun on the day under discussion. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You were a soldier. A police officer. An army detective. Now you’re a private investigator. You have a concealed carry permit. Why weren’t you carrying a gun that day?”
“I wasn’t working.” I fought the urge to shrug. “We spent the day doing things that didn’t require me to be armed, going places that prefer not to have guns present.”
“You and the previous witness, Ms. Trinidad.”
“Yes.”
“When do you carry a gun?”
“When I do security work for a client or take part in a protection detail.”
“Like bodyguarding.”
“Yes.” I thought for a moment, adjusting my stainless steel eyeglass frames. “Sometimes I carry at night, or when process serving takes me to unfamiliar areas.”
“As a decorated soldier, you must have fired your weapon on the battlefield. Mr. Caster established that as a Buffalo State police officer you discharged your sidearm in a shootout with a pair of killers on the run.” Now Aronson leaned forward, palms flat on the defense table, confident he knew the answer to his next question: “Has firing a gun ever come into play in your role as a private investigator?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“December before last.” I took a breath to order my thoughts and shape my response. “I’d been hired to find a missing person. I found her, and someone took a shot at her when she was in my car.”
“So you returned fire.”
My passenger had fired my gun because I was struggling to control the car. But there was no need to name her when she had moved past the trauma that had driven her into hiding in the first place and was now doing well. Fortunately, Aronson’s wording kept me from lying. “To make them back off.”
He grinned. “On the Kensington Expressway, wasn’t it? With other cars around?”
“Yes.”
“But no innocent drivers were hit. Only one of the bad guys.”
“No one was hit,” I said. “The driver was killed when his car hit a bridge abutment. The shooter was injured. I held him for the police.”
“A regular hero. But your car was totaled. Your insurance must be stratospheric.”
“Objection, your honor.” Tripp was on his feet, buttoning his jacket. “Counsel is badgering the witness. His line of questioning has veered deep into irrelevance.”
“Sustained,” Judge Vassi said. “Counsel will address the matter at hand.”
“Of course, your honor,” Aronson said. “All right, Mr. Rimes, you testified Mr. Snell and two associates threatened you and Ms. Trinidad.”
“Yes.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “You responded with a device called a telescoping pocket baton.”
I had an inkling where he was headed now, so I steadied myself. “Yes.”
“Your response was three quick swings of the baton that put all three men on the ground. In seconds.”
“Yes.”
“Before they actually touched you?”
“They used the name of the killer—”
“Please answer yes or no.”
“Yes, they said Jasper Hellman wanted me hurt.” I rushed my sentence to get it in before he could demand yes or no again. His surprised silence let me add, “As I testified earlier.”
He smiled as if to say, Nice move! “Would you describe the baton, for the record?”
Baton specs varied, so I thought for a moment about the one I had used, now sitting in the biometric gun safe installed between the seats of my car in the parking ramp across from the court building. “It’s a metal tube, maybe half an inch in diameter and five inches long,” I said. “It extends to a full foot or so to become a close-quarter defensive weapon.”
“The striking tip is metal?”
“Yes.”
“Is a pocket baton lethal?”
“It was designed for non-lethal self-defense, but it can be lethal.”
“Especially if used on a target’s head. Correct?”
Here we go, I thought. “Yes.”
“Mr. Rimes, where did you strike Mr. Snell?”
“On his left cheek.”
“Mr. Winnicki?”
“His right cheek.”
“And Mr. Parker?”
I let out a breath as if taking aim before a shot. “On the top of his head. Once.”
Aronson shifted gears when I expected him to accuse me of attempted murder. “You maintain also that the gun came from Mr. Snell, that when he was on the ground you took it from his pocket after stomping on his hand.” He nodded to Joey, who lifted his hand for the judge to see. The overhead lights caught the blue padding of the splints.
“Yes,” I said. “The gun was in his coat pocket.”
“Why did you stomp his hand?”
“He was reaching for the gun.”
Aronson’s smile widened for a millisecond. “Did you know it was a gun?”
“Not then. I knew he was reaching inside his pocket, presumably—”
“So you broke three of my client’s fingers on a presumption?”
Tripp shot to his feet. “Objection!”
“Sustained,” Judge Vassi said. “Rephrase, Mr. Aronson, or move on.”
“Of course, your honor.” He consulted his pad again. “Why did you stomp on Mr. Snell’s hand?”
“At the time I believed he was reaching for a weapon.”
“So you did not injure my client’s hand by trying to force the gun into his pocket and then yanking it out?”
“Your honor,” Tripp said, sounding exasperated as he got to his feet a third time.
“Absolutely not!” Too loud, Phoenix would tell me later. Loud enough to sound desperate.
The judge told Aronson to move on.
He surprised me by shifting gears again. “Have you ever been questioned as a suspect in the murder of a police of
ficer? Please confine this answer to yes or no.”
My peripheral vision registered the judge turning toward me, surprised herself.
“Yes,” I said, hoping Tripp would object or on redirect give me a chance to explain.
But Judge Vassi stepped in. “Before you continue, Mr. Aronson, I’d like hear from the witness.” She swiveled in her high-backed leather chair to look at me. “Mr. Rimes, we established earlier your investigator’s license is current, so you haven’t lost it to a felony conviction. I’d still like to know the outcome of the questioning raised by defense counsel.”
“I was released for lack of evidence.” I swung my gaze from her to Aronson. “Then the victim’s family hired me. I found the killer myself.”
“I remember reading about that,” Judge Vassi said. “So that was you.”
There was momentary whispering among spectators, one of whom said, loud enough to provoke laughter, “A regular hero.” Tripp fought back a smile as the judge gaveled for silence. None of this dissuaded Aronson from forming his next question for maximum effect.
“Mr. Rimes, are you by nature a violent man?”
“Objection!”
“Mr. Aronson!” the judge said. “I abhor courtroom theatrics.”
“Your honor, Mr. Rimes attacked three men on the presumption they were about to attack him.” Aronson interlocked his fingers in front of him, tight against his belly, as if trying to contain himself. “He did not wait for the attack. Did not see the gun. The minute—no, the second he saw them as a threat, he administered three potentially lethal blows to their heads.” Counting aloud, he swung his arm in an accurate re-creation of the sequence of my actions. “The textbook definition of excessive force.”
“He hit each man once,” Tripp said, “just hard enough to neutralize the threat.”
“Hard enough to leave permanent scars on two of them,” Aronson said. “He stomped one’s hand hard enough to break bone. If my client’s fingerprints are on that gun—”
“Your honor, may we approach?”
Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) Page 2