“Aren’t you curious?” she said. “Don’t you want to know if I shot him or not?”
“No,” he said, bracing his head with his hand. “Does that answer your question?”
“I guess so,” Rachel said.
Atwater cleared his throat before speaking. “Carol Hitchcock is a viable suspect,” he told her. “One of the clerks in our office lives in her apartment building. She confessed this morning that she had leaked information to Hitchcock regarding the attempted rape complaint against Cummings. I guess when she saw he had been shot, she got spooked. Maybe Hitchcock went crazy when she heard what Grant had done to you. She was working last night. She could have left the station, then returned a short time later to shoot him.”
Rachel arched her eyebrows, wondering if his statement might be true. “I don’t look anything like Carol. Do you think the witness actually saw Carol in the locker room, and then decided to shift the blame to me because I was causing trouble at the department?”
“I don’t know,” Atwater said, toying with the salt shaker. “I only know one thing that might discredit their eyewitness.”
“What?”
“The man who swears he saw you with the gun in your hand was one of the men at the beach.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. It could only be Ratso, Townsend, or Sergeant Miller. “Who?”
“I can’t tell you yet,” Atwater said, taking a sip of his coffee.
Rachel carried her cup to the kitchen counter, gazing out the window into the backyard. Her grass was too high. Now that she wasn’t working, she would have time to mow it and weed the flower beds. The green foliage suddenly melded into another image. She saw Grant’s face looming over her in the orange grove. She shook her head, knowing she was hallucinating, suffering from sleep deprivation. She had been surviving on caffeine for days now, consuming one cup of coffee after another. Her heart was beating at an erratic rate. Her head was throbbing, her scalp tingling. She held her hands in front of her and saw that they were shaking.
The attorney was watching Rachel from across the room. Light was filtering through her nylon robe and he could see the outline of her body: her soft, rounded hips, the gentle slope of her waist. But something else also captured his attention. Dark shadows seemed to cover her torso from her shoulder blades to her knees. He blinked, thinking it was an aberration, something to do with the light.
Standing and walking over to where she was standing, Atwater put his hands on her waist. All night long he had thought about her, dreamed about her. How had he stooped so low? His plan to further his career at Rachel’s expense now seemed despicable. Even the reporters camped out in her yard held no interest for him.
Without thinking, Atwater let his hands roam to her breasts. Rachel caught hold of his thumb and bent it backward, causing him to cry out in pain. “Don’t touch me,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his hand. “I just wanted to hold you. Christ, you almost broke my thumb.”
“I don’t want to be held,” she told him. The doorbell rang in the front of the house. As if on cue, Joe began crying in the other room. “Go see if you can take care of my son. I need to get dressed. There’s some crackers in the cabinet by the sink. He’s hungry. I was about to give him breakfast when you came.”
“No problem,” Atwater said. He started to walk off and then stopped, glancing back at her. “I have to warn you, I know nothing whatsoever about kids.”
“You’ll do fine. Don’t worry, it won’t take me more than a few minutes,” Rachel said, leaving him and heading to her bedroom.
She looked through the clothes in her closet, wanting to look her best. The only thing suitable was the black knit dress she had worn on her date with Atwater. Putting on her underwear, she slipped the dress over her head, then went to her daughter’s room to get her makeup. She didn’t want to look washed out in the photographs. She wanted to look strong and confident.
When she looked into the kids’ room, Atwater was sitting on the floor with Joe. Both were covered with cracker crumbs. When the boy saw Rachel, he began crying. She knelt down beside him, kissing him on the top of the head. “It’s okay, Joe,” she said. “Mike is a nice man. Why don’t you show him your coloring book?”
“I can’t stay much longer,” Atwater told her, an anxious look on his face. Just then, Joe leaped in his arms and hugged him around the neck. “Hey, guy,” he said, “you’re strangling me.”
“He likes you,” Rachel said, picking up the eye liner pencils off Tracy’s bureau and leaving to go back to her room.
Once she had made up her face, Rachel brushed her hair, then clipped on a pair of gold earrings. Returning to Joe’s room, she told Atwater he could leave now.
“Are you going out?” he asked, wondering why Rachel was so concerned with her appearance.
“I’m going to talk to the reporters,” she said. “Didn’t you hear them ringing the doorbell?”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, standing and sitting Joe down on the floor. “You’ll be opening a can of worms, Rachel. The media can twist things around. You might think they’re your friends, but trust me, all they care about is a story.”
She plucked her son off the floor and headed to the front door, Atwater tagging along behind her. “The more people know,” she told him, balancing the heavy three-year-old on her hip, “the safer my family will be. Grant isn’t the only one with a grudge against me, you know. It’s the whole department.”
“It’s your decision,” Atwater said, turning to leave out the back of the house.
Rachel flung open the front door. Camera shutters clicked. Microphones were shoved in her face. She took a deep breath and then said, “I’m speaking to you today so you will know the truth. A number of officers I worked with at the Oak Grove Police Department are brutal and corrupt, more concerned with enforcing the code of silence than performing their duties in the community.”
A man with a mini-cam on his shoulders stepped up, and Rachel turned to face the camera. “An officer by the name of Grant Cummings tried to rape me. I additionally saw him use Timothy Hillmont as a human shield, causing the boy to take a bullet in the chest. My sergeant, along with several other officers, threatened me and forced me to withhold this information. As you probably know, Hillmont died from this injury. Grant Cummings is the person responsible for his death.”
“Did you shoot Cummings?” Mary Standish said, jumping up so Rachel could see her.
“I’m not here to answer questions about the shooting,” Rachel answered firmly. Joe reached over and grabbed a handful of her hair. Rachel pried his hands off, placing him on his feet and taking hold of his hand.
A male reporter with bushy hair said, “Where did the attempted rape occur?”
“At the beach,” Rachel said.
“Were you on duty at the time?”
“No,” she said. “It happened during a watch party.”
“Are you certain Grant Cummings was the man who tried to rape you?”
“Absolutely,” Rachel said.
The questions came at her like bullets now. “Were there any witnesses?”
“Other officers were present,” she said. “They knew what was happening. They did nothing to stop it.”
The sensationalism just went up another notch. Reporters were pushing each other aside to get a better position. “Tell us their names, Rachel,” someone shouted.
“Jimmy Townsend, Sergeant Nick Miller, and Fred Ramone.”
Rachel watched as the reporters scribbled the names on their notepads.
Joe attached himself to Rachel’s leg. “I’m hungry, Mommy.”
“You have to be quiet a few more minutes,” Rachel told him, patting him on the head.
“Timothy Hillmont is the football player who was shot in front of the Majestic Theater, right?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “He would be alive today if it hadn’t been for Grant Cummings. Cummings is a coward and a predator. I have reason to believe
he’s sexually assaulted other women besides myself. Now that I’ve come forward, maybe his other victims will speak out as well.”
“If this guy was so bad, why didn’t the department get rid of him?” the bushy-haired reporter asked. Before Rachel had a chance to answer his first question, he shot another one at her. “You mentioned the code of silence. What exactly were you referring to?”
“Threats, intimidation, failure to respond for backup when an officer is in trouble,” Rachel explained. “Police officers protect one another, cover up each other’s mistakes and bad deeds, even if innocent people suffer as a result. Anyone who attempts to break through this wall of silence is in great danger. I know,” she added, “because that’s what happened to me.”
“Do you know who shot Cummings?”
Rachel shook her head. “I have nothing more to say. I’ve given you what you wanted. Please respect my privacy now.” She picked up Joe, closed the door and bolted it.
c h a p t e r
TWENTY-SIX
Grant Cummings’s hospital room was dark and dreary, located in a wing of Presbyterian Hospital that had no outside windows. For security reasons, orderlies had moved him from intensive care as soon as his condition had stabilized. Carol Hitchcock had been at the hospital since she first heard Grant had been shot, sleeping in a chair next to his bed. Her clothes were rumpled, her face haggard. At eleven-thirty, she left the room to get a bite of lunch in the hospital cafeteria. When she stepped back into the room, he moaned, then opened his eyes. “Grant,” she said, hurrying to his bedside. “I’ve been so frightened. Don’t move, baby. I’ll get the nurse.”
His hand snaked through the guardrail, seizing her by the wrist. Even though he was heavily sedated, his grip was strong. “Where am I?” he asked, his speech slurred from the narcotics. “What did you let them do to me?”
“You’re in Presbyterian Hospital,” Carol told him, gently brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You were shot. Don’t you remember what happened?”
“I remember everything,” Grant said, although his memory was seriously impaired. He didn’t remember the shooting or the seconds following it before he lost consciousness. But he did recall the words Ratso had said: “Rachel shot you. I saw her running away.” He saw Rachel’s eyes full of hatred during the attack in the orange grove, and it was easy to picture her standing behind him seconds before he was shot. Bending over to step into his shorts, he had seen a glimpse of slender legs encased in a police uniform. The images in his mind came into sharper focus. “That fucking bitch shot me. Rachel Simmons. She shot me in the back. I saw her through my legs.”
“The bullet entered your lower back, Grant,” Carol told him, stroking his arm. “They had to operate. Try to be still. You don’t want to rip the stitches out. The bullet lodged in the base of your spine. Tomorrow they’re going to put you in some kind of brace.”
Grant’s eyes flashed in panic. He couldn’t feel his legs. He tried to wiggle his toes, but nothing happened. He grabbed the railing, attempting to pull himself up. “My legs,” he shouted. “Something’s wrong with my legs.”
Carol pressed her hand over her mouth. How could she tell him he would never walk again, that the bullet had damaged the nerves beyond repair? The surgeon had said Grant was lucky. If the bullet had severed the nerves higher up on his spine, he would have been left a quadriplegic. “I’ll get the doctor now.”
“Why can’t I feel my legs?” Grant yelled, eyes wide with terror. “Help me, Carol, I can’t move my legs.”
Carol rushed to the door.
“Don’t leave me,” he called.
Returning to his side, Carol pressed the call button for the nurse. “May we help you?” a woman’s voice said a few moments later.
“Yes,” Carol said, “get the doctor in here right away.”
“Is something wrong?”
“He’s awake,” she said, glancing at Grant and then quickly averting her eyes. “He has no feeling in his legs.”
“The surgeon who operated on this patient is no longer at the hospital,” the nurse said in a flat voice. “We’ll have to call his office and ask him to come over.”
“Then call his frigging office,” Carol shouted. Grant looked panic-stricken. Seeing him this way tore her apart. He was her rock, her warrior. He had also been her tormentor, but she couldn’t think about that now. Whatever he had been in the past was over. It was as if Grant’s spirit had left his body, and a helpless child had taken its place. She leaned over the bed, her voice heavy with emotion. “It’s going to be okay, honey. Just hang tight. The doctor’s on his way.”
“It’s never going to be okay,” Grant said, sobbing. “She did this to me. I want her to pay.”
“She’ll pay. Grant,” Carol said, a look of steely resolve on her face. “Believe me, we’ll make certain Rachel is punished.”
“I think there’s something on TV that you should see,” Barbara Weinstein told her boss, sticking her head in the door of Bill Ringwald’s office at a few minutes before noon. The secretary seldom took lunch outside the office. She had a small portable TV about the size of a transistor radio. Instead of eating out, she brought food from home and watched her favorite soap opera at her desk.
“Oh, really?” Ringwald said, setting some paperwork down on his desk. He flicked on the small television located on his credenza. Swiveling around so he could see the screen, he said, “What channel?”
“Channel Four,” she said, dropping down to his visitor’s chair. “They did a promo for the noon news a few minutes ago. Rachel Simmons, that police officer from Oak Grove, is going to be on television. It sounded pretty sensational. She’s blaming the officer who was shot the other day for Timothy Hillmont’s death.”
“Grant Cummings?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fairly certain that was the name they mentioned.”
“Call Larry Hillmont at the City Council chambers,” Ringwald told her. “They have televisions over there. Make sure he sees this.”
While Barbara rushed out of the room, Ringwald leaned back. The male news anchor came on and began speaking. “Shocking revelations were made this morning by a thirty-four-year-old police officer and mother of two. During an interview this morning at her residence, Rachel Simmons alleged widespread corruption inside the Oak Grove Police Department. After accusing a fellow officer of attempted rape, Simmons went on to say that the officers at Oak Grove are more concerned with enforcing the code of silence than serving the needs of the community.”
They cut to the tape of Rachel standing on her front porch, little Joe fidgeting in her arms. Ringwald was riveted. If the woman was lying, she was doing a bang-up job of it. She looked straight at the camera. She didn’t blink. She never hesitated for a second. She named names, places, details. She spoke of threats and intimidation, sordid activities, co-conspirators. When she mentioned the incident at the Majestic Theater, Ringwald bolted upright in his chair and pressed the intercom button. “Get the Attorney General’s office on the phone,” he said.
“What should I tell them?” Barbara asked.
“Tell them the lid just blew off the Oak Grove Police Department,” he said, picking up his private line to call Mike Atwater.
A problem of this nature could be far-reaching. When an investigating agency such as a police department fell under public scrutiny for misconduct, dozens of unrelated cases could be affected. Within hours, defense attorneys would begin revising their trial strategies, claiming their clients had been railroaded by corrupt Oak Grove police officers. If their clients had confessed to crimes, they could now say the confession was forced through violence and therefore invalid. Every Oak Grove officer who took the witness stand would be put through the wringer.
Ringwald knew that situations like this followed a predictable pattern. The city flew into an uproar. The media gobbled up the story like candy. The corrupt cops would ultimately be weeded out, and the Oak Grove Police Department would end up with a new chief
of police.
“Atwater,” he barked when the attorney came on the line, “the shit just hit the fan. Get down to my office this minute.” He disconnected, then picked up the line that was blinking to tell the Attorney General what was unfolding.
“Larry Hillmont is on line three,” Barbara said over the intercom. “Should I tell him to hold until you finish speaking to the AG?”
“No,” he said. “Tell him I’ll call him later.”
!
“He’s insistent,” she said. “He says he’s going to have his attorney sue the Oak Grove Police Department. He’s also demanding that you arrest Grant Cummings for causing his son’s death.”
Ringwald sighed. “I don’t care what Hillmont says,” he answered. “Tell him he’ll have to wait his turn. By next week, half the people in Oak Grove will be filing lawsuits against the police department.”
Mike Atwater called Rachel at home at four-thirty, after spending Monday afternoon sequestered in Ringwald’s office. An hour after Rachel’s appearance on TV, Captain Madison had stormed into the meeting, demanding her arrest.
“Grant Cummings is conscious,” Atwater told her. “He was bending over at the time of the shooting. He swears he saw you between his legs.”
“What’s going to happen now?” Rachel paced the living room, clutching the portable phone to her ear.
“I’m trying to stall, but Captain Madison is forcing us to file a complaint against you. When you spoke to the media this morning, you turned it into a war. I tried to warn you, Rachel, but you refused to listen.”
“I told the truth,” she said. Looking out the window, she saw several reporters standing around a white television van.
“I believe you,” he said. “Shit, even Ringwald believes you. Nothing you said on television, however, can excuse your actions if you actually shot this man.”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Rachel said.
“Just listen,” Atwater said. “The bullet severed the nerves in Cummings’s spine. He’ll recover, but the doctors say he’s going to be paralyzed from the waist down. No matter what kind of allegations you’ve made against Cummings and the police department, we have to take action. Don’t you understand? The man’s injuries are too serious.”
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