by Colin Conway
“Excuse me,” Tuck said, “but that’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think? You’re saying that an unknown party planted the drugs in Garrett’s house, right where Detective Talbott happened to find them?”
“I’m not asking you to solve the case, Artie. In fact, I think we’ve just about covered everything on the agenda that relates to your office. Thank you for your support and your integrity. I’m sure both will ensure your re-election next year, the same as my own.”
Tuck took the obvious dismissal with a pinched expression. He rose from his seat and addressed the mayor. “Drew, I’ll keep my word on the things we’ve agreed to here, but I’m throwing up a Chinese wall on the rest. Anything else you decide, you keep me out of it.” He glanced around the table. “All of you. Contact me in an official capacity only, and I will reply in the same fashion.” He returned his gaze to the mayor. “I’m not getting caught up in your dirt.”
The mayor didn’t reply. Tuck turned around and briskly strode out of the room.
Once he was gone, the mayor resumed his line of questioning. “Is there any evidence the drugs weren’t planted by a third party?”
Baumgartner spread his hands. “I can’t prove a negative.”
“Then it is clear to me that Officer Tyler Garrett is a victim. More than that, he is a hero, the first of two officers attacked in this community. We are going to go out into the world and tell them that. Moreover, we are going to apologize for his arrest—”
“Apologize?” Farrell said, choking out the word.
“Yes!” The mayor nodded decisively. “We’re going to apologize to him, and we’re going slap that life-saving medal on his chest just like we already should have done. And then I am going to get the city attorney working with his lawyers on a damages settlement to protect us from a future lawsuit.”
“Sir—” Lofton began, but Sikes ignored him.
He pointed directly at Baumgartner. “If you are still chief after that, you can oversee whatever internal investigation you want. If you want to sully the reputation of a slain officer like Talbott or further victimize a hero like Garrett, you go right ahead. You want to turn the tragedy of a depressed man succumbing to the stresses of this noble profession, you go right ahead. If it were me, though, I think I’d realize that the facts in that case are inconclusive.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Sikes looked at the faces around the table as if gauging the resolution of each person there.
Farrell’s mind was whirring. What did he have? In the end, what did he really have?
Not much.
The only solid piece of evidence that Clint could point to was Nona Henry’s identification. That was it. An eighty-year-old woman identifying a black man from two houses away, and then picking out of a photomontage the one black man that had been plastered all over television screens for the past week.
Clint was right. It wasn’t enough.
Everything else was tainted, or inconsistent, or circumstantial. Once the mayor put through this plan of his, any of that weak evidence would be rendered even weaker, or useless. Once Garrett was painted as a victim and a hero, only a smoking gun could change that.
Even so, when the mayor’s hard stare landed on him, Farrell felt the urge to speak up. He could share the revelation of Nona Henry’s shaky identification and cast some doubt in the minds of the men present. From the way the conversation had gone, he believed Lofton might back him. Normally, that might be enough, but it was clear that Lofton was currently not in the mayor’s good graces.
Baumgartner would be enraged at him, of course. Keeping his chief out of the loop was inexcusable. There would be severe consequences. The chief had the power to reduce him back to lieutenant, and stick him in some administrative, nowhere job. Janitorial services, or something equally as dead end. He might have been able to survive the transgression if he had something substantial when he finally came forward but everything Farrell had was falling away fast, like paper in fire.
The mayor’s eyes narrowed, as if he sensed the conflict in Farrell’s head. Under that gaze, Farrell saw how committed the mayor was to his chosen path. If someone stood in his way, the mayor would likely destroy that person. If Farrell spoke up now, both Baumgartner and Sikes would become his enemies.
Am I really willing to sacrifice my career just to be on the losing end?
Farrell’s lips parted, but no words came.
The moment passed, and Sikes moved on to Baumgartner.
“We do it your way,” Baumgartner said, resigned.
“Of course, we do,” Sikes replied, slapping the table. “Because I’m the fucking mayor.”
Farrell hung his head and stared down at his shoes. Waves of shame rolled over him, but if he was being honest with himself, part of the shame he felt was because it was accompanied by a strong sense of relief.
“Let’s get this done,” the mayor said, “and then let’s put it behind us.”
Friday
A deception that elevates us is dearer than a host of low truths.
—Marina Tsvetaeva, Russian poet
Chapter 56
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned, and everyone in the small hearing room obeyed. The judge made her way to the bench and took a seat, and the rest followed suit.
The court clerk quickly read the criminal complaint number and charge, and then she sat down as well.
“This is strictly a bail hearing,” the judge said. “The defendant will have the opportunity to enter a plea once these charges have been formally laid before the court. This is the second time the court has heard arguments regarding this matter. Mr. Garrett was booked previously on the probable cause of police detectives, but no affidavit was filed. He is currently before the court because the prosecutor obtained a warrant for his arrest.”
“Your Honor, if I may?” Pamela Wei stood respectfully.
“Ms. Wei,” the judge acknowledged.
“Your Honor, not only do all of our previous arguments to release Mr. Garrett on his own recognizance apply in this case but this second arrest is beginning to appear almost punitive in nature. Only last night, the mayor of Spokane and the chief of police held a news conference and formally apologized to my client. They apologized, Your Honor! This is an admission of wrong-doing in this case, of persecution of my client. This morning, I have already been contacted by the city’s civil attorneys to negotiate a settlement to avoid a lawsuit.”
“This is a criminal court, Ms. Wei, not a civil one.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but the city’s action bears upon this criminal case. If the mayor and the chief of police are apologizing for arresting my client, how can the prosecuting attorney even be remotely considering charges in this matter? It’s unconscionable.”
“Please keep your editorial remarks in check, Ms. Wei. This is a court of law, not a media scrum. We discuss facts in this courtroom.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I apologize.”
The judge turned her attention to the prosecutor, a gangly man who sat scrunched in his chair like a dog who had been repeatedly whipped and knew another beating was imminent. “Mr. Carver?”
Carver rose reluctantly. “Your Honor, I’ve been informed by District Attorney Tuck that this case will be dismissed without prejudice due to extenuating circumstances.”
“Those circumstances being?”
“In the charges of assault, the district attorney does not believe it is likely the state can overcome the assertions of self-defense made by the defendant in this matter to the required burden of proof of beyond a reasonable doubt.” Carver swallowed and continued. “Furthermore, the state is unable to materially pursue the second charge, possession of a controlled substance, due to the fact that the key witness in this case has, tragically, passed away. The state is unlikely to meet the required burden of proof of beyond a reasonable doubt without the testimony of this witness.”
The judge eyed Carver dangerously. “If this i
s the state’s intent, Mr. Carver, please explain to me why Mr. Garrett spent last night in jail and is currently standing in my courtroom?”
Carver licked his lips nervously. “These determinations were made very recently, Your Honor.”
“How recently?”
“I was only informed shortly before this hearing, Your Honor.”
The judge gave Carver a withering look but said nothing.
Pamela Wei rose. “Your Honor, in light of what the counsel for the state has said, I would respectfully request that my client be released from custody immediately.”
The judge didn’t hesitate. “Your request is granted.” She banged the gavel. “See that he is out-processed from jail, Mr. Carver. Rapidly.”
Chapter 57
Ty Garrett stood at the out-processing counter waiting for Deputy Rob Utley to return with his bag of personal items.
Garrett looked around, taking it all in. He studied the agency-sponsored posters on the wall advocating various types of treatment. Each of them was loaded with contact information. Spousal Abusers Seek Counseling Now! Drug Abusers Call Today for Treatment! Learn to Control Your Violent Impulses! Garret shook his head. His attention was then attracted to the wooden bench attached to the wall. It was littered with hand-written graffiti.
He sat on the bench and let his eyes scan the various tags and monikers that had somehow made their way onto the wood. His fingers ran over the letters and he looked around for a pen, wondering how they’d made their way on to the bench over the years.
Deputy Utley returned to the counter, a brown paper bag in his hands. His bald head gleamed under the building’s fluorescent lights. The heavyset man gently placed the bag onto the counter. “Here you go, Ty,” he said.
Garrett stood and walked over to the counter. He opened the bag as Utley ran down the list of clothing. “Green T-shirt, green sweats, socks—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Garrett said, waving at Utley to give him the clipboard and pen. “I know the stuff inside.” He quickly signed his name but held on to the clipboard.
“I’m glad things worked out for you,” Utley said.
“Really?
Utley looked confused. “Of course.”
“That’s funny because you were a dick to me the first time I came through.”
The big man swallowed.
“I’m the same man I was before. I was innocent then just like I am now, but you already judged me. Why the change in attitude, man?”
“I’m sorry,” Utley muttered. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
Garrett smiled. “Yeah, I figured. That’s how most racists play it. Puss out when confronted.”
Utley’s face went flat. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Garett tossed the clipboard on the counter and grabbed the bag.
“You’re an asshole,” Utley said.
“You’re the asshole!” Garrett yelled as he walked into the bathroom to change.
It only took Garrett a few minutes to put on the green sweats and T-shirt he’d purchased from Walgreens. When he stepped out of the bathroom, he checked for Utley. He wasn’t behind the counter. Since most prisoners come from a separate hallway that Utley would see, he wouldn’t have expected Garrett to come back.
Garrett walked over and sat on the bench. With the pen he’d kept from Utley, he quickly scratched his initials into the wood.
When he was done, he stood and smiled at his work. He then tossed the pen over the counter and left the building.
Chapter 58
The Maxwell House Tavern sat in the midst of an old school West Central neighborhood. Working cops had always liked the tavern’s perfect proximity to the Public Safety Building—far enough away to avoid the fancier locales that the judges and lawyers and white shirts frequented, but still only a short drive away for cops just getting off shift. For years, it served as something more than just another neighborhood bar in a rough and tumble part of town, but something less than a flat-out cop bar. It was a place where cops were seen in the same light as plumbers and mechanics, grocers and steelworkers.
Or it used to be, when Farrell was coming up. His probation party had been at the Maxwell House, and so had several of his promotion celebrations. Things changed, and people did, too. Now, only his generation of cops frequented the place. Anyone with less than fifteen years on the job associated the Maxwell House with the old guard. They chose trendier spots up north, or in the Valley, and the number of cops warming barstools at the Maxwell House dwindled.
He’d come in plain clothes, and taken a corner booth, well away from the bar. While Travis Tritt competed with Lynyrd Skynyrd and Marvin Gaye on the antiquated jukebox that didn’t even accept bills, much less a credit card, Farrell sipped his beer. He’d downed the first shot of whisky as soon as he came in, right at the bar, and chased it with the beer. Now that beer was half empty, and another empty shot glass sat upside down on the table next to it. He was preparing to order a third when Wardell Clint entered through the front door.
That door was another thing Farrell always liked about the Maxwell House. It opened big and wide and showed everyone in the place who was coming in before that person could get a bead on anyone sitting inside. The whole set up was perfect. He couldn’t understand why the younger set was abandoning it.
Clint spotted him after a couple of seconds and made his way to the booth. He slid into the seat across from Farrell.
“I’m about to order another shot,” Farrell said, feeling the slight thickness in his speech already. “You want one? On me.”
Clint shook his head. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a small white cloth. “I will have one of those beers, though, since you’re buying.”
Farrell caught Margie’s attention at the bar with a wave and pointed to his shot glass and his beer.
Clint put away his cloth and returned his glasses to his face. “Exactly how fucked are we, Captain?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
Clint snorted. “You’re the one with the inside access.”
“Nothing but poison on the inside,” Farrell told him. “Believe that.”
“You don’t have to convince me. I’ve been saying it for years. Power corrupts, and the more power, the more corruption.”
Farrell sipped his beer. “Garrett’s out by now.”
“I figured. What were they going to hold him on? The assault was self-defense, and the D.A. isn’t going to file on drugs, so he skates.”
Farrell let the words burn in his ears for a few seconds before replying. “You read Talbott’s notes on the interview with those rednecks. You believe that attack was random?”
“I do.”
“And the drugs?”
Margie arrived with a shot glass and a beer. She put them both in front of Farrell and picked up his empty. She glanced over at Clint expectantly, her expression sour, but when Farrell slid the full beer across to him, she turned and walked away without a word.
“What’s that about?” Farrell asked. Margie was usually pleasant.
“Old shit, forever ago. Don’t worry on it.” Clint took a swig of the beer. “You asked about the drugs. Truth is, I don’t know. Maybe they were Garrett’s and Talbott found them, or maybe he brought them along and planted them. It doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“I suppose not.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. You can bet those drugs and the one’s found next to Pomeroy will be from the same batch.”
“That’s not exactly a news flash.”
“If I keep digging at this, Captain, there’s a good chance I’m eventually going to find a connection between Trotter and that dealer, Ocampo.”
“That’s good. It’ll tie in Garrett.”
Clint shook his head. “No, it’ll tie in Talbott and Pomeroy. Marty Hill found drugs under a cushion in Ocampo’s house. Packaged for individual sale, just like the ones Pomeroy h
ad. If we test those…” He gave Farrell a meaningful look.
Farrell finished the thought. “You think they’ll match.”
“I know they will.”
Farrell sighed. It was one more link between Talbott, Pomeroy, and Ocampo. “No connection to Garrett in all of this except what? The ID from Nona Henry?”
“That, and the location of Talbott’s shooting. It happened outside Derek Tillman’s condo. He’s friends with Garrett.”
“And he’s not saying shit.”
“Probably won’t ever,” Clint agreed. “Even if he did, or a good witness materializes out of thin air, so what? It sounds like Talbott really did fire first and Garrett fired back in self-defense. What do we get Garrett and Tillman on? Garrett for defending himself and Tillman for interfering with a police investigation because he lied?” Clint made a psshhh sound and took a drink of his beer. “It’s not even our investigation.”
“Then there’s nothing else we can do now. Any internal investigation is going to get stymied by the chief. He’s too loyal to the mayor not to go along with the city hall whitewash, especially since breaking ranks means he loses his job and makes a whole bunch of cops look bad.”
“Some of them are bad. Or were.”
“That doesn’t seem to matter these days.”
“And exactly which days did it matter?”
Farrell lifted his whisky and downed it. Clint watched him as he chased it with beer. Farrell enjoyed the spreading warmth in his stomach, then asked, “How does this happen?”
“The world is a dirty place. You ain’t figured that out yet?”
“No, I mean Garrett. How’s that…happen?”
Clint shrugged. “His pops died young. There’s a hole there that even the best mama in the world can’t fill.”
“Clara Garrett was a pretty good mom,” Farrell said.
“Was she?” Clint asked. “She was a great council president, I know that. I don’t have any idea what kind of mom she was. Her son would have been exposed to all the nastiness of Spokane politics at a young age. Maybe he just decided, hell with it, I’m gonna get mine.”