No Truth Left to Tell

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No Truth Left to Tell Page 18

by Michael McAuliffe


  28

  THE VINEYARD

  Adrien Rush sat at the end of a red bench that lined the inside of the ferry’s starboard side. The ferry plied the sound between Woods Hole, on the mainland, and Martha’s Vineyard, an island seven miles off the coast of Massachusetts. Weekenders filled the ferry’s passenger cabin despite it being after the summer season’s official end. His eyes followed the line of ripples that fanned out from the curved hull. His thoughts, however, never wandered too far from the looming embrace of the woman he had desired for over a year. All that he saw—the translucent sea foam, the smooth contours of the worn banister, the elegant perch of the pilot’s window—were merely transposed images of Nicole DuBose. He took a deep breath as the ferry approached the dock at the Oak Bluffs terminal.

  Much had happened since the grand dragon’s conviction. Rush had moved on to other investigations, including new explosive allegations of corruption within Lynwood’s police department, but his trip after the verdict to see Nicole DuBose in New York had proved especially auspicious. After all, he had promised to protect Nettie Wynn and had vanquished the grand dragon to prison. Wasn’t he now a civil rights crusader with the accolades to prove it? At first, DuBose had time only for occasional dinners, but evenings turned into nights, and now the nights had become a weekend away on an island.

  The captain abruptly reversed the ferry’s engines, and the vessel stopped a hundred feet short of the dock. Rush, already standing in line to disembark, searched the expressions of his fellow passengers for clues, but nobody seemed concerned about the stalled arrival. He worked his way toward the front closed doors, the ones designed to unload cars, trucks, and countless umbrellas. He wanted to abandon ship and swim the last yards to shore. The ship’s captain must have been told to play the role of tormentor.

  After five or forty-five minutes, he didn’t know which, the screws churned again and the ferry moved into its slip. In good time, cars poured out in orderly succession while passengers walked along a wood plank causeway. The crowd mingled with familiar, time-honored manners, creating a meandering mass of shorts, hats, and bags. As he left the dock, he looked for Nicole in a sea of smiling faces.

  Her free-flowing one-piece linen dress floated in the breeze. She pulled her volume of long, wiry hair back onto the soft nape of her brown neck. Her sandals had the outlines of her bare feet pressed into them from constant use. She moved as if she were skimming on the smooth surface of a waterway. Her half smile hinted at the weekend. She raised her arm to wave.

  He had feared he would miss her in the throng of attractive African Americans. Ordinarily, he could spot her anywhere, in any crowd, not because she was beautiful—which she was—but she was usually in a sea of white. He searched the crowd with the internal blemish of uncertainty.

  He found her after a few moments and blushed, giving his pale skin the look of a steamed lobster. He made his way over, weaving between and around joyful kisses and extended hugs. When he reached her, he dropped his bag and stared with adolescent desire. She kissed him like a warm summer pond caresses bare skin.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello, you.”

  She put her index finger over her curved lips to suggest that the upcoming journey to her apartment would be wordless. He obeyed, the silence only adding to his excitement.

  On the walk to her apartment on the far side of the town’s waterfront park, they bumped hips as their bodies swayed back and forth. They smiled at the collisions, and eventually parted a few inches. The park was settling into its evening routine, with children preparing for last sprints across the open lawn and hardy picnickers unfolding blankets and putting on extra layers.

  At her second-floor garage apartment on Samoset Avenue, she stepped in front and guided her guest up the outside staircase. Once through the unlocked door, he stood just inside the threshold, closed his eyes, and inhaled ocean and expectation.

  Fingertips rapped on the screen door. Someone had followed them up the stairs.

  “Hey, Nicole.”

  “Oh, hi, Cassie.”

  “Has your—”

  “Yes, Adrien’s here. This is Cassandra. Cassie, this is Adrien.”

  “Hey there.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”

  “Came by to tell you Thomas and I are going to grab a bite. Join us? Maybe a trip to Back Door Donuts after.”

  “Tempting, but I think we’ll be staying in tonight.”

  “I understand. That’s probably what I’d do too. Would be exactly what I’d do. See you both tomorrow then?”

  “Tomorrow, for sure.”

  “Bye. Nice to meet you!”

  Cassie whistled her way down the stairs and into the evening.

  Nicole locked the front door for the first time in a long while. She led Adrien into the whitewashed bedroom. She pulled down the roller shades mounted inside the double windows. Hooks at the ends held back thin lace curtains. From the streets and sidewalks below, muffled sounds of enthralled tourists and chatty locals meandered up and through the small apartment. She sat down, both of them now together on the edge of her iron-post bed. She tilted her head and kissed him a long welcome.

  He watched as she slid out of her dress, the room’s warmth from the day’s sun enveloping and protecting them from the coolness outside. He stroked her cheekbones and tasted salt on her neck. He stood up in the filtered light and undressed. Night came as they embraced and disappeared into each other.

  . . .

  The couple followed the serpentine path of the water’s edge. As the surf pushed half shells and hustling sand crabs around with the changing tide, they meandered past the frayed volleyball net where the beach widened and bathing suits became optional. Rush followed DuBose, his steps mimicking hers, except in size.

  The sun hung on a low hook, and the air, cool to the skin, still carried the scents of dune life. The setting allowed them to gaze at each other through an ethereal haze, its mysticism sweeping the otherwise careful, even reticent, lovers into deeper waters.

  “You’re quiet,” she said, slowing her steps and taking his hand.

  “I’m taking it all in.”

  “Like it here?”

  “Love it here.”

  “I’m happy to share.”

  “You know how to pick a place.”

  “Credit goes to my parents. They wanted so badly to find the special family retreat. This island was it—somewhere welcoming to them.”

  “My trips were mainly solo camping out on the western slopes in a used mountain hardware tent. A stroll on an empty beach with a gorgeous woman is quite an improvement.”

  “I envy your sense of purpose.”

  “I envy your sense of family. Your grandmother, and the rest.”

  “She’s always protected me,” she said. “Why don’t you ever talk about your family?”

  “Not much to say.”

  After several wayward steps and a decision not to press, she asked: “How’s work?”

  “The usual. Bad things being done to mostly good people.”

  “You help them, those people, through horrible experiences.”

  They stopped walking and perched themselves on a large beach boulder abandoned by the last glacier retreat. The glistening rock was low and wide, suitable for an intimate communion. They sat, staring at the gulls surfing the airlifts along the shore.

  “Didn’t your family protect you?”

  “Protection wasn’t a word I was familiar with growing up.”

  They sat for a while. Rush plucked his shirt, jettisoning small clumps of wet sand back onto the beach.

  “A new case came in last week. It involves a public school coach assaulting a student—sexually assaulting her.”

  “I fear it happens more often than we dare admit, but what’s that got to do with your family?”

  Rush sat with his face turned down and away. “It does happen more than you think. And to people you know.”

  “I don’t understand.”

/>   He gulped in the ocean air, its frothiness coating the inside of his lungs with damp coolness. He took several more deep, rhythmic breaths as if he were about to start a long journey. He wanted—no, needed—to tell her his secret. He loved her and knew in that moment he had something more intimate than a night to share with her.

  “My parents divorced when I was in high school. They bolted to different cities in search of new lives, and to shed their old ones. I was part of their unhappy past, so they shed me too. I was on my own from then on.”

  “You haven’t said a word—”

  “I lived at friends’ homes for a week or two at a time, or in my ancient Forester at a local campsite. I spent the fall of my senior year hanging on, nothing really expected of me. My guidance counselor knew all of it. He took a special interest in me—told me he wanted to help.”

  “So he was a surrogate parent?”

  “I was grateful for the attention until a classmate pointed out that I was being called to the counselor’s office nearly every day. He would start by sitting on my side of the desk during our meetings. He’d reach over and brush the inside of my legs or pinch my crotch with a quick flick when I got up to leave. I was uncomfortable, but it happened so fast I thought it was my imagination, so I didn’t say anything.”

  “Adrien—”

  “It’s so obvious looking back, but at the time you’re just confused. You think nobody would deliberately do that. I dreaded being called to his office. I barely ate, lost weight.”

  “This was your high school counselor?”

  “He was grooming me. I know that now. During our last meeting, he abandoned any pretense, blocked the door, and went at me. He pushed me hard against the wall, hands and mouth everywhere like he wanted to consume me.”

  “What?”

  “He unzipped and started stroking himself. Nothin’ left to imagine or excuse. He was in his own universe. It was horrifying and surreal all at once. I froze. After he finished and backed away, I bolted.”

  “That sick bastard.”

  “No more meetings, or college application reviews, or recommendations. No surprise, I didn’t get into any colleges that year.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “I kept it to myself for as long as I could, but after several weeks of silence, I went into the principal’s office and sat down. I told the receptionist that I needed to talk to him—alone. It might be awhile, she said. I told her I’d wait.”

  “I can’t believe you had to do this on your own.”

  “I told the principal what had happened. He said not to tell anyone else and that he’d take care of it. I trusted him, but nothing happened. Nothing. After the winter break, the counselor had left the school. Retired was the story.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Now, you do. I don’t know why—I really don’t—but when I read the bureau file about the girl and the coach, it was as if I was back in high school and it had just happened. I still can’t shake the feeling I did something wrong.”

  “That’s nonsense. It’s impossible for any seventeen-year-old to know what to do, even without being on your own. You’re the victim of a child molester who used his position to abuse you. End of story.”

  “I’ve never talked about it. Worst part is, no one ever even apologized, not the counselor, the principal—no one. So I moved on.”

  “Because you had to.” She watched him as he cast his thoughts out to sea. “I’m so sorry no one was there for you.”

  “I know how it feels to be targeted.”

  “That’s why you care so much about the victims in your cases.” She ran her index finger along his arm. “And remember, we met helping one victim in particular.”

  “True.”

  A wave hit the boulder’s base on its sea-facing side and sprayed them with water, reminding them of the time. The advancing surf threatened to turn the boulder into an island, so they rolled up their pant legs and together jumped onto the soft sand.

  29

  THE WIRE

  The US attorney reunited Rush and Mercer as partners to investigate allegations that Lynwood police officers were beating suspected drug dealers and stealing their drugs and cash. The prosecutor and the agent had circled each other for most of their work together, skeptics of the other’s motives and methods. However, like a hardened snow bridge over a glacial crevasse, the success of the Klan case had buried, but not entirely eliminated, the early mutual mistrust. It even allowed the unlikely duo to share a beer on occasion.

  “Your dad was also bureau?” Rush asked after taking a swig. He had heard stories about Mercer’s famous father, but Rush had never brought it up. The Mercer family’s past was off limits.

  “Academy class of ’64.”

  “Was he the first—”

  “No. One of the first five.”

  “That’s still a pioneer. Why’d he join?”

  “He served in the air force in Korea. After the service, he got recruited to be the prototype. The model black agent.”

  “A tough assignment.”

  “His burden was heavier than for the white agents,” Mercer said, veering at last into the personal. “My father was stoic, but his stoicism hid a resolve to prove himself even in the rigid environment of the bureau.”

  Rush moved his glass around, not knowing how or if to respond. Like father, like son, thought Rush.

  “From what I heard, he did,” Rush said.

  “Yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Everyone.”

  “He followed every rule down to the individual letter. He never compromised on anything so far as I can tell.”

  “Principled.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Stubbornly principled—”

  “Maybe,” Mercer said. “Principles can be the anchor that pulls you under, when what you need to do is to swim to the riverbank.”

  “Sounds like he was a hero.”

  “When I was nine, he tried to stop an attempted carjacking. Had nothin’ to do with being an agent. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Mercer and Rush sat next to each other on their barstools. The moment passed.

  “Time to get on home,” Mercer said.

  Rush remembered that Mercer had done the same thing—left for home—the night of the guilty verdict, which was also the last time they had sat in a bar and touched, however obliquely, on his personal life.

  . . .

  The agents had pursued leads in the new police case debriefing shady informants, even placing the officer suspects under long-term surveillance to find incriminating evidence. Their efforts through the winter produced just enough evidence so that the investigation couldn’t be shut down, but the results didn’t make for a prosecutable case. So they kept lumbering forward, searching in the shadows of human weakness and deceit. They had needed a more powerful tool, like an infrared light able to reveal the leopard lurking in the dark.

  The interception of private communications was the answer. A wiretap was almost unprecedented in a federal civil rights investigation. Despite the procedural hurdles and long odds, Rush and Mercer eventually convinced a US district judge—with the aid of a 170-page application and supporting materials—to sign an intercept order allowing them to capture the private talk of the suspect officers.

  Agents in any wiretap room possessed a predatory quality, like an octopus probing hidden spaces; both were patient hunters searching for unwitting prey. Agents passed headphones to their replacements along with written logs detailing the calls they overheard during their shifts. The monitors’ mission was to identify words of criminality as they listened to snippets from hundreds of calls and thousands of words over many weeks. They had to master subtlety and nuance, down to the tonal qualities of a “yes” or “no” whispered into an unseen phone. And this particular wiretap was to be a disembodied journey into the locked rooms and dark closets of Lynwood’s finest.

  Most of the agents gathered for the ini
tial meeting hoped that the current allegations against the Lynwood police officers proved unfounded. One agent, himself a former officer from Lynwood, radiated his disgust about his assignment to help catch his former brethren; it didn’t matter that the officers were beating suspects and stealing cash and drugs—the allegations were really just street justice, not the kind of activity worthy of the feds’ unforgiving focus.

  Rush led the first wiretap meeting, one meant to set expectations and explain limitations. Several agents nodded, probably recognizing him from the Klan case, but they still viewed him as the upstart from DC.

  “The judge signed the order this morning, so we can start the intercept once we finish up here,” Rush began. “As you know, this is our best shot to get compelling evidence of criminal misconduct.”

  The audience, spread throughout the room, sat flat and quiet.

  “Most importantly, we need to focus on what’s in the order,” Rush said. “Like it says, and everyone should have a copy, we’ve developed credible information that a cabal of officers is skimming money and drugs off detainees and arrestees and inflicting punishment to keep them in line. We’ve tried and failed to pierce the conspiracy’s shell, so we don’t know the extent of the corruption or how high up it goes.”

  The day prior to the meeting, the FBI special agent in charge had directed three squad supervisors to assemble a wiretap monitoring team. The SAC was less than forthcoming with the supervisors about this particular wiretap, but rumors of a sensitive civil rights investigation echoed around the office. By the time the orientation meeting started in the bureau’s large bullpen, the agents knew a little, and the news wasn’t welcome.

  The agents looked like a room full of mourners at a wake. The newer agents kept their heads down, studying the worn gray carpet, flooring that had been installed long before they had graduated from grade school. They likely recognized the necessity of investigating law enforcement for serious transgressions, like the gang activity alleged in the wiretap application, but the others—the veteran agents, by their furrowed brows and scowls—considered it treasonous to investigate cops, no matter what the reason. The juniors became the wallpaper in the room.

 

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