Cross Examination: The Second Jerrod Gold Novel (The Jerrod Gold Novels Book 2)

by James C. Gray

  Jerrod rubbed the back of his right hand. "I'll have to stick to the official version of that investigation, sir."

  "I suspected you'd say that, Jerrod."

  "Why's that, sir?"

  "I run a group of operators... excuse me... investigators here who are highly skilled and highly motivated. I give the detectives -- especially the sergeants -- room to make the calls and take cases where they need to go. I don't worry much about the details. I don't worry much about the overtime. I really only worry about the results... and they get results."

  Jerrod nodded.

  "Some people can't handle the freedom here. They need more structure and more direction. They tend to be afraid to make a decision and stick with it... and they don't last long. I quietly ease them into assignments elsewhere."

  "How does that relate to me, sir?"

  "I'm proposing an expansion of Investigations to the sheriff and plan on adding a new sergeant's position... Staff Sergeant. I want you to work with us."

  "Sir, I've only been a sergeant for a month and--"

  "I don't care about that," the lieutenant said as his voice raised slightly. "I've seen what you're capable of doing. We read the reports that come in from Patrol every day. Since the day you started with the SO, you have taken the responsibility for the follow-up on your calls and do what you could do in-the-field. There are many others who don't."

  Jerrod crossed his legs under the table.

  "The sheriff has accused me being an 'empire builder,'" the lieutenant said as his voice returned to normal. He paused before continuing. "And I guess he's right. I am building an empire here, but it won't always be mine. No position in the SO, including mine, is permanent and any of us could be reassigned at any time."

  Jerrod nodded.

  "In June, I'd like you to put in a memo to the Operations Chief Deputy for reassignment to Investigations at the July shift change. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  CHAPTER 18

  Friday Morning -- Patrol Division

  "Good morning, Jerrod," Lieutenant Harold Knapp said as Jerrod walked into the Watch Commander's office.

  "Good morning L-T. I have a situation I need help with," Jerrod said as he sat in the chair next to the desk.

  "What's up?" he said as he pushed some paperwork aside.

  "Scott Jackson is having some problems dealing with that scene the other night.... the Cardinal Lane thing."

  "How are you dealing with it?"

  "I don't know. I talked to a friend about it... he listened and gave me some advice..."

  "But how are you dealing with it, Jerrod?" the lieutenant asked as he leaned forward.

  "Not so good, sir. I haven't slept very much since."

  The lieutenant leaned back in his chair and thought for a few moments. "I have a friend -- his name is 'Dewey' -- who is a Vietnam War veteran and works with other vets here in Mesa. He helps them cope with the stuff they're still dealing with from their war experiences. Maybe he could sit down with you and Scott and give you a little help too."

  "Can we invite Tyler Baumann?" Jerrod asked.

  "Sure. Is he having issues too?"

  "Just the opposite. No reaction at all. He's still a pretty new deputy and I'm afraid he's covering up his reaction to... uh... that scene."

  "Sure, invite Baumann too." The lieutenant took off his glasses, looked at the lenses, and put them back on. "If he resists, tell him I'm ordering him to attend."

  "Thanks, L-T."

  CHAPTER 19

  Friday Night

  They met at seven-thirty in the Patrol squad room. Jerrod Gold had called Scott Jackson and Tyler Baumann at home and directed them to report early for their shift. Lieutenant Knapp made the introductions and left the four remaining men alone in the large room.

  Duane "Dewey" Mazurek was a physically small man with long white hair pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes were clear and pale blue. The skin of his bearded face was weathered and rutted. He smelled like an ashtray. His handshake was firm. His voice was soft.

  "The Army called us 'tunnel rats' in Vietnam," Dewey said to start the conversation. "They sent little guys like me into VC and NVA tunnels with a flashlight and .45 to flush the enemy out. You never knew if you were going run into an AK-47, a booby-trap, a venomous snake... or all three."

  Jerrod glanced at Scott and could see Dewey had his full attention.

  "I came back pretty fucked-up from that war," he continued. "I had some problems with alcohol and drugs for a few years. That was the late '60s and everyone I knew at the time was a little fucked-up."

  Tyler was paying attention now.

  "I finally found a group of other Vietnam vets and we just starting talking about the shit we saw 'in-country.' We took turns and just let it out. No rules. No time limits. No commentary or criticism. The more we talked -- the better we started to feel about it. I still talk with other GIs about things that happened back then."

  Jerrod nodded.

  Dewey continued, "Let me guess what you guys have experienced in the last couple days: You're having a hard time sleeping, you play that scene over and over in your head and can't get it to stop no matter what you do, and maybe you had an extra drink or two to try and make it go away."

  Both Scott and Tyler were nodding their heads.

  "It's called 'Post-Traumatic Stress,' or PTS, and it's way more common than you might think -- and not just with soldiers and cops. The normal human mind can't handle the overload from witnessing a terrifying event like what you guys saw the other night. Citizens who are the victims of, or even witness to, violent crimes can get the same PTS backlash you guys do."

  "Is that why we're here?" Scott asked.

  "Yes," Dewey said. "We're any of you guys in the infantry?"

  Jerrod, Scott, and Tyler all shook their heads.

  "I'll have a use a different analogy then," Dewey said before pausing to think.

  Scott glanced at Jerrod.

  "I've got one," Dewey said. "Have any of you had an ingrown hair?"

  "Sure," Tyler said. Jerrod and Scott both nodded.

  "Years ago -- before I grew this beard," Dewey said as he scratched at his scruffy face. "I had this big zit right on here on my chin. That stupid zit just wouldn't heal. I'd mess with it and it would scab-over, but it wouldn't heal. I had that zit there for weeks and would scrape it every time I shaved."

  "Okay?" Jerrod said.

  "Stay with me," Dewey said. "One day I knocked the scab off and noticed a little black spot. I took a pair of squeezers and picked at the spot. I grabbed it and started pulling. A hair came out. It was probably three-quarters-inch long, but it looked like it was five-inches. It was all kinked and nasty."

  "What's that got to do with --?" Scott asked.

  "Let me finish," Dewey said. "That zit wouldn't heal because that hair was still growing in it. The hair had to be removed before it would ever heal. And a few days later -- it did heal."

  Jerrod asked, "What's an ingrown hair got to do with why we're here?"

  "Good question," Dewey said. "We all have ingrown hairs on us all of the time... but there not on our faces -- they're in our heads. PTS acts just like that ingrown hair. You need to pull it out and get rid of it... or it will keep growing and never heal. Follow me now?"

  Tyler shifted in his seat.

  Dewey continued, "I'd like for all of you to talk about the incident the other night: What you did. What you saw. What you smelled. What you heard. And what you felt. Go right ahead. You talk -- we listen. We get to hear it from you. Pull that nasty fucking hair out and throw it away." He looked at Scott. "How about you, young man?"

  Scott paused and looked at Jerrod.

  "Want me to go first?" Jerrod asked.

  "Sure."

  Dewey said to Jerrod: "Tell me what happened the other night, just your personal perspective, in as much detail as you want."

  "Okay, well, we got this 'three beeper'..." Jerrod started as we described the call, the sear
ch, the ladder, and the bedroom scene. He felt his chin start to quiver as he started describing the dead girl. He stopped and cleared his throat.

  "Let it go," Dewey whispered.

  "The girl was trapped behind the bed with no place to run..." Jerrod stopped again as tears welled in his eyes.

  "What happened next?" Dewey asked in a smooth, soft voice.

  "The girl was..." Jerrod lost control of his emotions as that point. He covered his face with his hands to hide the tears streaming down his face.

  "Keep going," Dewey encouraged. "Don't fight it."

  Jerrod struggled as he tried to get the words out between gasps for air, wipes of his face, and snorts from his running nose. He glanced at Scott and Tyler sitting across the table from him and saw tears welling in their eyes.

  "Thanks, Jerrod," Dewey said as Jerrod finished his tearful narrative. "You're with friends here who share a common experience."

  "Thank you," Jerrod said as he wiped his face again and took a few deep breaths. "That was one of the most difficult things I've ever done."

  "And everything we say and do here stays in this room," Dewey said as he glanced at Scott and Tyler. They both nodded.

  "Who's next?" Dewey asked.

  Scott shrugged and started talking: "Like the Sarge said, we got the shots fired call..."

  Jerrod watched Scott carefully. As he spoke in a quiet voice, the deputy rested his elbows on the table surface. He cradled his chin with his hands and seemed to focus his view on a button on Dewey's shirt as he soothed himself by rubbing his temples. He took brief pauses as the scenario played over in his head. Tears flowed as he described climbing the ladder and peering over the window sill into the bedroom. He became silent for nearly a minute as he gathered himself. Tyler reached over and placed his hand on Scott's shoulder.

  "I just couldn't go into the room," he said. "I should have, but I didn't. I just went numb. I can't explain it. That's all."

  "Thank you, Scott," Dewey said.

  Dewey turned to Tyler. "You're turn, son."

  Jerrod watched Scott as Tyler started talking. He sat erect in his chair. Shoulders back. Head held high. Confidence returning.

  "Okay," Tyler said with a matter-of-fact tone. "I climbed the ladder after the Sarge went in through the window. I watched him check the four bodies and I asked him if he wanted me to come in with him. He told me to secure the condo, so I did. That was my part."

  "Thank you, Tyler," Jerrod said.

  Dewey said, "It's interesting that you three men, all involved in the same situation, could have such different reactions. It just proves we're all different and we process stress in our own ways. There's no right-way or wrong-way. I know you guys need to get ready for work, so we'll wrap up here. I ask you to keep talking to each other about these situations. Men tend to not be able to do that. Women can get together over coffee or wine and talk for hours about what's bothering them. Men -- not so much.

  Jerrod, Scott, and Tyler nodded.

  Dewey continued: "I hope you three have a calm shift and I ask you to do one thing when you get home."

  "What's that?" Scott asked.

  "Don't drink any alcohol before you go to bed. Go to sleep naturally. I think you'll find you'll sleep better. I don't know why that's the case, but that's been my experience."

  The four men stood up and shook hands.

  "Thank you, Dewey," Jerrod said. "I don't think I'll ever look at an ingrown hair the same again."

  CHAPTER 20

  Four Years Earlier – July 1986

  First-day Mesa SO Deputy Jerrod Gold was completely distracted as his FTO, Roger Collins, drove out of the parking lot of Sophie's Diner.

  "I'm not going to try to teach you how to be a cop," Roger said. "You already know how to do that. It's different with the new guys coming out of the academy -- they want to get in a car chase and catch a serial killer on their first day."

  Jerrod nodded.

  "This is kind of a break for me, actually. The first month of training with the newbies is all done by-the-book. No shortcuts. And I have to do almost all of the work. I'm just going to show you around and how we do things here at the SO."

  "Okay."

  Roger took the Willowmere Boulevard overpass arching over the PCH and entered the Three Beat for the first time.

  "We have a pretty good mix of residential and businesses in this beat," Roger said. "We get our share of details and get pulled away to cover the other beats around us all the time."

  The area looked familiar from many years earlier when Jerrod had been driven through to play baseball games for the Valle Verde High team, but he had never had a reason to pay any attention.

  After handling a few routine details and being shown more of the nuances of the area, Roger said, "You always this quiet?"

  Jerrod popped out his daydream. "Sorry. Not really," Jerrod said. "Just doing what I was told to do when I started my last job... at the PD. 'Eyes open; mouth shut,' the guy who trained me said on my first day."

  "Wouldn't know that by the way you talked back this morning to... what'd you call him... the 'F-O-G' -- Fucking Old Guy."

  Jerrod chuckled. "He left himself open for that."

  Roger laughed as he pulled off the main street in a commercial area and through a large parking lot. "This is Saint Michael's Hospital and we're going to get called here a lot."

  Jerrod made a mental note.

  "Since the County Hospital in Mesa closed," Roger added. "Every crash victim, assault victim, crazy person, drunk or drugged person, and injured cop or firefighter in the north two-thirds of the county comes to Saint Michael's."

  "Okay," Jerrod said.

  "The ER ambulance entrance is right there," Roger pointed to a large double door tucked behind the main building. The doctors and nurses are all friendly and they like us to come in from time to time. Good place to get coffee, use the 'head,' make some phone calls, or write reports."

  "Check this out," Jerrod said as he undid the top button of his uniform shirt, reached into the "shock plate" pocket of his ballistic vest, and pulled out a plastic laminated card.

  "What the hell?" Roger asked.

  "Saint Michael the Archangel," Jerrod said. "He's the Patron Saint of Police Officers. My grandmother sent this to me in a letter when I graduated from the police academy. It's got the policeman's prayer on it and I've worn it in my vest ever since."

  "Amen, brother," Roger said.

  They drove away from the hospital and the car was quiet for a few minutes.

  "It's really bugging you, isn't it?" Roger asked.

  "What?"

  "Nikki."

  Jerrod looked out his open side window. "You said she's off limits -- so she's off-limits."

  "Bullshit. I saw the way you two looked at each other. 'Puppy-dog eyes', as my mom would say. The both of you."

  "She's cute as hell," Jerrod said. "I'm not going to lie to you and pretend I'm not interested." Jerrod paused. "But I'm not going to do anything about it... at least until I'm off training."

  "Nikki and I are friends, okay. On and off duty. I knew her husband pretty well."

  "Ex-husband?"

  "Dead husband."

  Jerrod's head snapped to the left.

  "He died about six months ago.... right after Christmas."

  "You're fucking joking."

  "Wish I was." Roger looked away out the driver's side window as the car went quiet for a minute. "His name was Blake Verdugo and he was a great guy."

  Jerrod watched him... slack jawed.

  "I was working the night they brought him in to the ER at Saint Michael's." He shook his head. "He had been at home with Nikki and told her he had a bad headache. He took a couple aspirin and laid down to take a nap. She went in to check on him and couldn't get him to wake. They did what they could for him at the ER, but he was already gone. I found out later he had a major blood vessel in his brain burst... some kind of genetic defect thing." His voice trailed away.

  "I'
m sorry."

  "Thanks. Me and a few of the guys help Nikki and her kids when we can."

  "She has kids?"

  "Two daughters. Six and three. I think. Cute little shits."

  As they patrolled with the windows rolled down along the roadway hugging the beaches between Mesa and Willowmeer, Jerrod shook his head at the dramatic change in sights and smells from his time with the VVPD.

  Boys with backwards baseball caps on skateboards jumped curbs instead of gang-bangers glaring at them from the sidewalk. Girls in bikinis smiled and waved as they drove by instead of field workers trying to avoid eye contact. Sweet salt air replaced the fetid odor of processing broccoli and cauliflower he had known his whole life living in Valle Verde.

  Roger broke the silence. "There's another unwritten policy here at the SO you should know about."

  "What's that?"

  "Sheriff Osborn. How he handles things."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's a very reasonable man. He understands that we are all human and are going to make mistakes. We're going to dent patrol cars and make dumb decisions in the field."

  "And?" Jerrod asked.

  "He has to hand out discipline now and then. When we screw something up, he expects us to take responsibility for it. If you haven't committed some criminal act, you may get your ass chewed, or a letter in your P-file, or even a day or more on suspension. But then it's over. No hard feelings. Nothing personal about it."

  "Every boss has to do that. What's different about him?"

  "Never try to cover things up. And don't ever lie to him... or you'll be gone. Then it does become personal. There are more than a few ex-deputies who thought they could get away with something. They were all wrong and they're all doing some other line of work now."