by Colin Conway
Instead he headed right through the general parking lot where officers arrived throughout the day with suspects to book into jail. Garrett kept his head down and didn’t see anyone he knew. He walked into the nearby neighborhood, taking side streets until he ended up at a 7-11.
Garrett purchased a pre-paid cell phone and a Red Bull. After he paid with his credit card, he asked the kid behind the counter for the number of a taxi company.
Outside he made the phone call, confirmed they took credit cards and gave them his address. Ten minutes and a Red Bull later, a white SpoCab arrived and Garrett slid into the back seat.
The driver, an aging white man in a white shirt and bow tie, eyed Garrett with caution. “Where to?”
Garrett gave him his address on the Five Mile Prairie. Whether it was the address or the length of the fare, the driver smiled.
The drive took roughly ten minutes and Garrett let his mind wander to earlier events of the day.
He appeared in court at 9 a.m., the first case on the docket.
He had expected to be represented by a public defender, since it was only first appearance, but Pastor Al Norris had arranged an attorney for him. He had worked with a group in the local community to raise support for Garrett’s defense. Regardless of the video of the assault, several affluent members of the black community had been willing to come to his aid after Norris’ request. They hired Pamela Wei, a five-foot-two ball of indignation out of Seattle with both a courtroom and a media pedigree. Wei took her time getting into the courtroom to brief Garrett, instead spending time with several reporters in the hallway. She wore a dark blue pantsuit and high heels. Her black hair fell past her shoulders.
“There are only words four words I need to hear from you today,” she told him without greeting, right before the bailiff called for all to rise. “Those words are ‘thank you, Your Honor.’ That’s it. Got it?”
Garrett nodded.
When the proceedings started, the judge read off the charges Garrett was booked under. Wei immediately requested that Garrett be released on his own recognizance.
“Justification, Counselor?” the judge asked by rote.
“Your Honor, Mr. Garrett is a long-standing member of this community. He has deep family ties. His employment history is consistent throughout his adult life, even while he was attaining his college degree at a local university. His life has been one of service to the people of Spokane. We acknowledge that the charges against him are felonies but not even the most cynical of people can believe Mr. Garrett is a flight risk. In fact, Mr. Garrett is extraordinarily eager for the opportunity to publicly answer to these specious charges and to clear his good name.” She sat down and glanced over at the prosecutor, waiting.
The prosecutor shuffled a couple of papers and cleared his throat. “Uh, Your Honor, the state recognizes defense counsel’s argument. Mr. Garrett was booked into jail based on the probable cause of the arresting detective. However, as of this morning, no probable cause affidavit had been filed pursuant to this arrest.”
Wei sat up straighter in her chair, as if poised to rise.
The judge looked down at the prosecutor with a trace of irritation. “Then am I to understand that you are dropping the charges, Counselor?”
Garrett’s heart raced at those words, but the exhilaration lasted only a moment.
“No, Your Honor. Since we haven’t received the paperwork from the police department, the state has no choice but to request that Mr. Garrett be held until my office can coordinate with investigators on this matter.”
The judge cast a withering look at the prosecutor. “I will not deny a man his freedom so that you can get your paperwork in order, Counselor.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge turned back to Wei. “Anything further from the defense?”
Wisely, Wei said, “No, Your Honor.”
“Then it is the ruling of this court that the defendant, Tyler John Garrett, is hereby released from custody. All charges in this matter remain unresolved, and the state may file said charges with the court at a later time in accordance with state law and court rules. This hearing is over.”
Wei patted Garrett on the forearm.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Garrett said.
While Pamela Wei reveled in the media spotlight, Garrett was quietly ushered back to his cell to gather his things.
Garrett refocused as the taxi entered his neighborhood. Up ahead he saw an unmarked car sitting in front of his house.
“Keep driving,” Garrett said.
“What?”
“Drive on by the address I gave you. I’ll give you a new location in a minute.”
Garrett slowly sunk down in the back seat until he was eye level with the car door. As the taxi passed the unmarked patrol car, he saw two detectives sitting inside.
Talbott and Pomeroy.
The taxi left the neighborhood and Garrett pushed upright in his seat.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” the driver asked, looking at Garrett in the rearview mirror.
“No.”
“Those were cops back there.”
“I know. I’m a police officer, too.”
The driver looked at him several times in the rearview mirror. “You’re that guy on TV.”
Garrett looked at met his gaze in the mirror. “Is that a problem?” he asked, his voice challenging.
“Not for me. I hate the police. No offense.”
Garrett looked out the window. “None taken.”
The taxi dropped him off at the corner of Fourth and Thor. Garrett put his back against a nearby building and dialed a number he’d called for years, hoping the friend would answer a call from this number.
He picked it up after the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, buddy, it’s Ty.”
Ray Zielinski inhaled audibly. “Oh, man. Uh, how are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“Hey, can we meet? I need to talk.”
“I can’t,” Zielinski said.
Garrett closed his eyes. “Why not?”
“I’m scheduled for an interview with the county detective on your shooting. It probably wouldn’t look good if we were seen together right before that. People might think we were getting a story together or something.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Garrett sighed, then asked. “At least tell me how things are going inside the department right now. I’m frozen out.”
“It’s bad, man. The whisper stream says you’re untouchable. Detectives are talking to your friends and associates, right now. They called me in yesterday and interviewed me. Asked me if I knew that you were into drugs.”
“Who’s leading that charge?”
“Talbott.”
Garrett opened his eyes, watching traffic as it passed.
“Some are saying it’s a witch hunt, but it’s got a lot of guys worried. When you get called in and a detective starts poking at your life, you never know, right?”
“Yeah, you never know.”
Zielinski remained silent on the other end of the line. Garrett could sense something going on with the veteran officer. “What gives, Ray? Are you buying into Talbott’s line of shit?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just…a couple of things got me wondering, is all.”
“Like what?”
Zielinski cleared his throat. “Like why didn’t you call for back up, for starters?”
“For starters? There’s more?”
“Yeah, I guess there is, if I’m being honest. I wonder what you saw that made you shoot at Trotter. Why you charged the shooters in the house and why didn’t you turn on the dash cam?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No,” Zielinski said, but his voice wavered slightly.
Garrett shook his head in disbelief and anger. “I thou
ght you knew me better than that, Ray. Hell, I thought I knew you better. Someone’s coming after me, I need help, and all you can do is doubt me.”
“They’re just questions. No big deal.”
“Just questions, huh?” Garrett made no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Yeah,” Zielinski said. “Just things I was wondering about.”
“You know what I wonder?” Garrett asked.
“What?”
A long moment of silence filled the airwaves between them. Garrett could hear Zielinksi’s breathing on the other end.
“Never mind,” Garrett said finally, and ended the call.
Garrett crossed the street and entered Oak’s Barbershop. A young man was seated in one of the chairs while a barber cut his hair. James Brown’s “The Payback” played on the old stereo located in the middle of the shop. The barber sang along tunelessly with Brown as he cut the young man’s hair.
In the corner, an older gentleman sat reading Sports Illustrated. He looked up from his magazine and smiled automatically at Garrett. When he realized who he was smiling at, he tossed the magazine on the table to his side and stood.
Delmar Oakley, who was just months from seventy years old, hurriedly walked to the front of the store. He wrapped his arms around Garrett and held him tightly. Garrett hugged him back. When they broke the embrace, Oakley held the younger man by the arms and smiled. “Garrett, what are you doing here?”
Oakley refused to call Garrett by either his first or middle names. Garrett never understood why when he was younger, but as he grew older he assumed it was because the names were a little too pale for Oakley’s liking.
“I had nowhere else to go,” Garrett said. “I figured it was time to come home.”
Oakley said, “Let’s go into the back and talk.”
They sat in the small kitchenette at the rear of the building. Oakley poured them both a glass of unsweetened tea.
“Why do you drink it this way?” Garrett asked.
“Sugar ruins the taste, son. It’s better this way.”
Garrett sipped the tea again and cringed. “Oak, you’re ruining the experience.”
Oakley pulled out a couple sugar packets from a drawer and tossed them on the small table. “Here you go, poison yourself. Now tell me what’s going on.”
Garrett laid out the events of his life, from the shooting to his release, including the recent news that there was now a witch-hunt within the department. As he told the story, Oakley listened attentively, exactly how he used to do whenever he told him stories about school. When he was finished, Garrett said, “Now, I’ve got to figure out what to do. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You know it isn’t always about wrong and right. Sometimes it’s about black and white.”
Garrett nodded. “I feel boxed in and I don’t know why these people have turned against me.”
“It’s clear you’ve only got one choice, son.”
“What’s that?”
“The other brother in this mess,” Oakley said, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. “He’s the only one looking out for you, right?”
Garrett shook his head. “He’s not looking out for me, Oak. He’s doing his job.”
“If he’s doing his job the right way, the honest way, then he’s looking out for you.”
Garrett ran his finger around the rim of his glass, thinking about Oakley’s words.
“You should call him, Garrett. He’s the only one who will give you a fair shake.”
The younger man sipped his tea and then nodded. “I’ll call him because you said so, Oak. I’ve always appreciated your guidance.”
Oakley patted his hand. “Good, good. Now, it’s my turn. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How’s your mother?”
Garrett smiled. “You ol’ dog. Why don’t you just go and see her?”
Oakley waved his hand dismissively. “She’ll never give me the time of day. She’s never gotten over your father’s passing. Even when you’d come and hang out in the shop with us, she never took to me. Probably because of all the bad lessons you kept picking up around here.”
Garrett shrugged. “I was an impressionable child. You should have been more careful with the things you said around me.”
“Remember that time you went home and asked her what ‘popping a cherry’ meant?”
Garrett laughed. “She lost her mind when I told her I heard it from you.”
“She came down here, waggled her finger in my face, and told me that I was corrupting a future leader of this city. I swear I fell in love with that woman that very day.”
“You never told her, though.”
Oakley’s look became pensive. “She’s city council and I’m the council of chairs. It’s different levels, son. She had no interest in me. It didn’t fit in with her plans. It’s okay, though. There were plenty of ladies along the way.”
“The legend of Oak,” Garrett said, playfully shaking his shoulders.
“It grows bigger every year.”
They both laughed loudly.
When Oakley left him to attend to a customer, Garrett took a business card from his wallet and dialed the number on it. He left a message and hung up.
Less than two minutes later his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ty Garrett?” the gravelly voice asked.
“Yeah. Wardell?”
“Yes.”
Garrett hesitated before asking, “Are you available to talk?”
Chapter 33
For twenty-five minutes, Lieutenant Dan Flowers paced his office, fuming. He’d called Talbott and ordered him back to the station, but the detective seemed to be taking his sweet time. Every minute that went by, Flowers’ anger increased, along with the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Texting Cody Lofton with a succinct update had done nothing to make him feel better. Neither did his short phone conversation with Captain Farrell.
“Find out what the hell happened!” Farrell had barked at him. “The chief is all over my ass about this and I don’t have answers.”
“Neither do I,” Flowers told him.
“Get them!”
The line disconnected, but the image in his mind was one of Farrell slamming down the phone.
So, he called Talbott then he paced.
He was the commander of the Major Crimes Unit, so ultimately anything that happened on any robbery, rape, serious assault, or homicide case was his responsibility. Running the unit sometimes felt like herding feral cats. Cops were strong-willed, Type-A people for the most part already, and once they got a gold shield some detectives amped up the superiority factor. Add the prestige of MCU and they sometimes believed they were untouchable. Butch Talbott definitely fell into that category, and since they’d become partners, Justin Pomeroy was exhibiting some of the same behaviors.
As Flowers moved around his office, trying to bleed off his anger and anxiety, he sensed another emotion lurking underneath. Frustration. He was responsible for the results and actions of his detectives, but he didn’t have absolute control over their actions or whether they achieved results. In a way, it seemed unfair. More than that, it seemed unduly difficult.
How hard is it to file a goddamn charging request? he raged silently. It was something that every detective did any time they had developed charges.
His cell phone buzzed, and he checked it. It was a text from Lofton.
How could this happen? Fix it.
Great, Flowers thought. Garrett shoots a guy in the back, gets into an ugly fight that is videoed, might be a goddamn drug dealer on the side, his own detectives dick up the charging paperwork, and somehow all of this was his fault.
By the time Talbott rapped on his door and strolled in with Pomeroy, Flowers was seething with anger.
“You rang, El Tee?”
“What are you doing he
re?” Flowers asked the junior detective.
Pomeroy looked from the lieutenant to his partner and back. “I thought you wanted us both.”
“Poms and I were just pulling into the parking lot,” Talbott said. “I told him you wanted to see us. Was I wrong?”
Flowers shook his head, anger building. “Get in here and close the door.”
As soon as Pomeroy shut the office door behind him, Flowers launched into a tirade. He’d planned some of it in his head while he waited, but it didn’t come out exactly as he hoped. His anger and frustration got in the way of structure and cogency. Still, it felt good to rail at them both, and some of the tension he was experiencing dissipated. By the end of it, he’d wanted the paint to be curling off the walls of his office. Instead, Talbott stood impassively, seemingly unaffected. Behind him, Pomeroy shifted nervously.
Flowers stared at Talbott, trying to add an exclamation point to his rant. Then he growled, “Explain yourself, Detective.”
Talbott turned his hands up. “Is this a performance counseling, Lieutenant?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m just wondering if I need a union rep in here, that’s all.”
Flowers shook his head, his anger flaring. “Don’t try to deflect. Garrett didn’t get charged. He’s out of jail. I’m getting questions about why, and I don’t have answers. Give me the fucking answer!”
Talbott pursed his lips. “All right, sir. I’ve got a few answers for you.”
“Good.”
“For starters, why do we need to write the charging affidavit in the first place? Everywhere else in the state, the prosecutor does that, but in this county—”
“We’re not here to argue the goddamn process.”
“Maybe we should. Poms and I are trying to investigate a case. We need to be out in the field doing that, not stuck at our desk doing a lawyer’s job. They’ve got all the information they need in our preliminary report. Any lawyer can type out an affidavit as easily as we can. Hell, they’re the ones who’ve been to law school.”