“She’s on the board of a number of volunteer groups in Lake Holly,” said Waring. “The hospital. The Junior League. A few other local charities. Her politics might be sympathetic toward immigrants. But her background seems pretty solid and community-oriented.”
“In other words,” said Jenkins, “her mere presence as a witness, coupled with all the media attention, is likely to force this shooting in the direction of a grand jury.”
Waring and Lorenzo didn’t answer. No answer was needed. They were all familiar with New York State law and protocol in police shootings. Most police shootings never went before a grand jury because the use of lethal force was considered legally justified. If the suspect brandished a weapon or was in the process of committing a violent crime. If there were witnesses who could verify that the officer reasonably feared for his life or the lives of others. If there was video that backed up any of the same assertions. In these cases, the DA and the police wrote up their paperwork, cleared the shooting in-house and that was the end of it.
But if a shooting turned questionable or public reaction got heated, the DA might choose instead to convene a grand jury. It could take weeks for testimony to be presented. During all this time, Vega would be under a cloud of suspicion—so much so that even if a majority of the jurors eventually decided not to indict him, his credibility would be ruined. Every future arrest would be nitpicked by superiors. The slightest civilian complaint would earn him charges. Informants would mistrust him. Other cops would refuse to work with him for fear of becoming collateral damage. He might never be able to work a field assignment again. He might even be pressured to resign. Anywhere Vega went after this, his reputation would precede him. In the era of social media, he’d be an embarrassment to any law enforcement agency that considered hiring him.
And that wouldn’t be the end of things, either. He could spend the next five years testifying. Even if the grand jury voted not to indict, the feds could decide Vega had violated the man’s civil rights and convene their own grand jury to hear the case all over again. Or the governor could decide he didn’t like the grand jury’s decision and appoint a special prosecutor to restart the case from scratch. Not to mention the fact that Vega would be facing the same case in civil court when the family brought a lawsuit against him. Vega couldn’t recall a police shooting in which a family didn’t try to bring a case against the cop—even when the shooting was clearly justified.
But none of these scenarios even began to address the most terrifying one: Vega could get indicted. He could go on trial and be convicted. He could go to prison. Cops did these days. Not for twenty-five years, perhaps. But for three, four—even ten. All of it in protective custody since a cop in prison was a piñata in a room full of baseball bats. Everybody was just dying to take a swing.
Vega palmed his eyes. He was only just beginning to process what he was up against. “I did not execute Hector Ponce,” he said slowly. “I swear. Won’t the autopsy vindicate me?”
“It could,” said Waring. “If there are no powder burns on that chin wound, that would argue against your having shot him at close range.”
“Then again,” said Lorenzo, “if you put the muzzle right up to Ponce’s chin and shot, there wouldn’t be any powder burns either. No opportunity for the powder to make contact with air.”
Leave it to Lorenzo to kill even the suggestion of hope.
“Look,” said Waring. His voice sounded a little kinder. He was a cop too, after all. “I believe the forensics will vindicate you if what you are saying is true. But the investigation could take weeks. Ponce was shot five times by two different guns—yours and Luis’s. There is now disagreement on the range so every single investigator is going to want to double- and triple-check his findings.”
“What do I do?”
“Stay out of the public eye,” said Waring. “Don’t eat in restaurants. Don’t go to parties. Don’t attend sporting events. Don’t go to concerts. ”
“But I’m a musician. I play in a band.”
“Get someone else to fill in for you until this case cools down.”
All Vega had was his music. That’s how he lost himself. That was his therapy. And now he didn’t even have that.
“I don’t think the DA is going to make any decisions about whether or not to convene a grand jury until Monday at this point,” said Waring. “In the meantime, the less you are out there, the better.”
The meeting broke up and Vega walked his lawyer to her car. “Thanks for your help tonight,” he told her.
Jenkins regarded him over the oversized rims of her big red glasses. “We’re not through, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“That wasn’t just a line I said in there, Detective. You really do need to seek counseling.”
“I will. When I have time.”
“You have time now. That’s about all that Waring has left you at this point. Do you have someone in mind or would you like me to set something up?”
“Aw, for cryin’ out loud!” Vega raised his hands in frustration. “Look, I was married for thirteen years to a psychologist, okay? I’ve had my head examined more times than I care to count. And when all that was over, her lawyer examined my wallet.”
“You’re talking about your marriage, Detective. I’m talking about dealing with post-traumatic stress.”
“Same thing, trust me. And for the record, I’m not suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
“What do you call your behavior in the woods tonight when I came to see you? Normal?”
“I live out in the woods. It’s normal to be concerned about intruders.”
Jenkins shook her head. “This is not negotiable, Vega. You heard Captain Lorenzo. Either you get your butt into counseling or I’ll do it for you. Which is it going to be?”
Vega ran a hand through his hair. He felt like an overripe piece of fruit some therapist was about to stick a knife into. No way would he slice up cleanly. If he opened up, it would be messy and sticky and God only knew what sort of rotten bits might be at his core. He was scared. Scared of what someone might find. Scared of what he might find most of all.
“What’s it going to be, Vega?”
“This cop I know, he gave me a name of a shrink. I’ll call her.”
“Tomorrow.” Jenkins shook her finger at him.
“Okay, okay. Tomorrow.”
She got into her car. Vega watched her pull out of the parking lot. His cell phone rang as he walked back to his truck. It was Joy. Her voice sounded shaky.
“Dad? Can you come over to my campus?”
“Sure thing, chispita. What’s wrong?”
“I’m here with campus security? I sorta don’t want to alarm you. But somebody slashed all my tires in the parking lot and put a note on my windshield.”
Vega tried to find his voice. His sense of command. It was fading fast. “A note? What did it say?”
“ ‘Killer cop’s daughter.’ ”
Chapter 17
Adele smoothed the creases in her blue silk dress as she stepped out of her car. This is just a business event like any other business event, she told herself.
She wished she could make herself believe that.
Ricardo Luis had taken over the most expensive restaurant in Lake Holly for the evening, a new place called Harvest where a farm-to-table meal cost as much as six months’ worth of groceries. It was housed in a graceful landmark Victorian that used to be a funeral parlor. Adele was pretty sure the celebrity chef who bought the place had no idea that when Dave Lindsey brokered the property as a “location to die for,” he wasn’t kidding.
Adele checked her coat at the entrance. Her blue silk cocktail dress was all wrong for the event. She saw that right away. She looked like she was the maid of honor at a wedding in 1953. Adele was used to attending events full of earnest academics, dowagers, and politicians where dressing in anything other than worsted wool made her look young and hip by comparison. But truly hip people, she now realized, didn�
��t dress jazzy at all. There was an abundance of ripped jeans and linen jackets. The women wore clothing that was all about showing off skin, not covering it up.
Adele flattened herself against a pocket door and grabbed a glass of white wine off a passing tray. She searched the crowd for familiar faces. La Casa’s board members were all here, including Dave Lindsey and his wife. They were clustered in a tight group at the edge of the event like kids at a first dance. Adele did not see Ricardo Luis, which disappointed her a little. She could dislike him for distancing himself from the shooting. But there was no denying the thrill of meeting a celebrity. Perhaps he was just going to put in a cameo appearance.
“Ah, we meet,” said a booming voice over the chatter and music from a live salsa band in the next room. “And she’s even prettier than I’ve heard.”
Adele turned and took in the black-framed glasses and red bowtie. His trademark. Just in case you confused Ruben Tate-Rivera with some other black college professor-turned-activist. Or some other man who believed complimenting a woman on her looks still passed for high praise.
Adele forced a smile and extended a hand. She knew who Tate was. Everyone in the country knew who Tate was. Vega and other police officers hated him for his bombastic, antipolice rhetoric and penchant for publicity. They accused him of distorting facts to suit his preconceived notions of the world. But Adele had always argued that a free society needed a single-minded person like Ruben Tate-Rivera who embraced the claims of the poor and disenfranchised simply because they were poor and disenfranchised. She didn’t like his style. She didn’t think everything he said was true. But he forced the police and the media to take note of things they might otherwise brush under the table.
She wondered if she’d feel the same way now that someone she cared about was caught in his crosshairs.
“So nice to meet you, Professor,” said Adele. She’d heard he liked to be referred to as “Professor.” He was surrounded by a gaggle of young, fresh-faced assistants who no doubt called him that.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you speak at Fordham University tomorrow,” he said.
“You’re coming to the symposium?”
“Absolutely.”
The symposium was the largest annual gathering of immigrant coalitions in New York State. Strictly speaking, Ruben Tate-Rivera’s constituency wasn’t immigrants. It was activists concerned about police abuse of power. The two areas overlapped of course. But Adele liked to think that her clients were far more concerned with fair wages and a pathway to legal residency than they were their day-to-day relations with the police.
“I spoke to Gloria Mendez, the event coordinator, this morning,” said Tate. “She’s most anxious to hear your comments on yesterday’s shooting. I understand a lot of media will be there, too. This is an excellent opportunity to pressure the district attorney to convene a grand jury—maybe even get the governor to appoint a special prosecutor for the task.”
Adele froze. “I never said I was going to do any of that.”
Tate narrowed his gaze. “It would be—unfortunate—if you turned timid, Adele. The media is expecting a forceful response.”
“Why? Because you told them that’s what I was going to say? Who gave you the right to hijack my speech?”
“Would you prefer I tell them the real reason for your trepidation?” Tate’s eyes bored into hers behind those heavy black-framed glasses. He knew. Adele suspected the source of the leak. She searched out Dave Lindsey’s face just beyond Tate’s entourage. Lindsey tried to duck into the crowd but since he was a head taller than everyone, he was easy to spot.
“My private life is no one’s business,” said Adele. “Least of all yours, Professor.”
“Oh, come now,” said Tate. “I hope you aren’t seriously going to try to make excuses for this cop. His actions are indefensible. His comments since the shooting have been callous and outrageous.”
“How can you say that?” asked Adele. “How can anyone who wasn’t there speak about what happened?”
A small smile curled the edges of Tate’s lips. “But someone was, Adele. A witness. My sources tell me she saw Vega shoot Ponce point-blank in the head.”
“I’ve heard that. And I don’t believe it.”
“Why? Because the detective told you it didn’t happen?”
Adele seethed. She hated Tate for his arrogance and condescension. But she hated Vega too for putting her in this position. Here she was defending a man who wasn’t even willing to defend himself.
“Who is the witness?” asked Adele.
“I’m awaiting official release of her name,” said Tate. “She’s a neighbor, I think. When I find out, I’ll let you know. And then I suggest you rethink your position. You go on that stage tomorrow and don’t demand a grand jury investigation, you can kiss off a career in this field, Adele. Not a single person or group in that audience will be with you.”
“I will.”
The voice came out of nowhere, floating above the music and chatter and movement of waiters. It was a melodic voice with a strong Spanish accent. It carried a hint of the breathy vibrato he was known for. Adele had hoped she’d get to meet Ricardo Luis this evening. She hadn’t planned on doing it this way.
Everyone turned in Luis’s direction. For a celebrity, he seemed rather shy up close.
“I’m not saying I can defend what this police officer did,” Luis said hesitantly to Tate and the crowd. “But I did not sense any anger or hatred in him. Maybe he did what this witness is saying. Maybe he didn’t. But perhaps it is best to let the courts handle it from here, yes?”
His words took the heat right out of the conversation. Adele could have kissed him, she felt so grateful. Tate nodded curtly to Adele and eased away, surrounded as always by his assistants. Even Dave Lindsey backed off. Adele assumed Luis would too, but he stood there, holding out another glass of white wine to her. Adele couldn’t deny a little skip in her breathing. She’d never been this close to a celebrity before—and a good-looking one at that.
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “For the wine and for . . . um, coming to my rescue.”
“Politics bore me,” said Luis. “I’d much rather talk music and food. Life is too short for so much anger, yes?”
He was charming. She expected him to be charming in a crowd. But not like this. Not up close. He was shorter than he appeared onstage. Probably all of five-seven. He was probably pushing forty though he had none of the crow’s feet or random strands of gray that Adele had begun to notice when she looked in the mirror. He was dressed in a fitted black shirt that managed to look stylish and indifferent to fashion at the same time. He was attractive of course. But even beyond the dimpled smile and perfectly sculpted body, there was something magnetic about him. He radiated star power. Was that always there? Or just a result of his fame?
Stop it. You sound like a groupie.
“I don’t normally make a scene like that,” said Adele. “I must apologize, Mr. Luis—”
“Ric. Call me Ric. Everyone does.” He had a killer smile: lots of white teeth that shone almost as brightly as his liquid brown eyes.
“Adele.” She pressed a palm to the chest of her dress. Her sweaty fingers stuck to the shiny silk for a brief moment, which made her feel even more embarrassed at her choice of attire this evening.
“You don’t have to apologize, Adele,” said Luis. “I think it’s very—how do you say . . . open-minded?—to be head of an immigrant organization and still be able to defend a police officer.”
Adele laughed. “I’m not as open-minded as you think,” she said. “You see, the police officer who shot Mr. Ponce is my, my—I’m dating him.”
“Ay caray!” Luis smacked his forehead. He had a performer’s sense of gesture. Every emotion had an accompanying physical tic. “I had no idea.”
“Then you’re the only one Ruben Tate-Rivera hasn’t blabbed to. That’s why he was going at it so hard with me. He knows I’m not open-minded. Just torn.”
/> A stocky Latino in a black beret put a hand on Luis’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. Luis’s face slackened and then regained its trademark smile. He obviously could pull it out on command, like a pair of sunglasses. Adele assumed he would glad-hand her like a politician and slip away but he waved the man in the beret off and turned back to her.
“We are similar, you and me? You and I?” said Luis. “Forgive me. I learned my English the way most immigrants do. While working my butt off.”
“Your English is fine,” said Adele. “It’s you and I. But we can switch to Spanish if you’d prefer.”
“No. I need the practice. Thank you.”
A waiter walked over with a platter of colorful finger foods that took longer to explain than to eat. Adele would have been fine with pigs in a blanket.
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m also torn,” said Luis. “I’m very grateful to the police officer for coming to help me so quickly. But I’m sad that a man died as a result.”
“I wish you could say that publicly,” said Adele.
“I have,” said Luis. “I issued a statement through my publicist. And I gave a donation to your organization.”
“No. I mean what you’re saying about Detective Vega.”
“Ah.”
Another person came up to Luis, a black woman with platinum-blond hair whom Adele vaguely recalled seeing on the cover of some fashion magazine.
“Adele.” Luis touched her arm. “I would like to talk more to you about this officer and his situation. Can you give me—maybe forty-five minutes to greet everyone? Then can you meet me by the back doors of the kitchen? I’ll need a cigarette by then.”
“You smoke? But your voice?”
Luis winked at her. “Don’t tell my agent, okay? He thinks I’ve quit.”
Dave Lindsey caught up to Adele when Luis slipped away.
“That didn’t go too well with Tate back there.”
“It might have.” Adele held his gaze. “If my chairman of the board didn’t see fit to broadcast my private life to the public.”
No Witness But the Moon Page 15