Cross Examination

by James C. Gray

Jerrod collected his thoughts for a few moments as he sipped his coffee. "Did you know I killed a man a few years ago. Before I came to the SO."

  "I heard something about that,” Scott said. “Sure. That's how your hand got hurt."

  "I'm sure you have. Cops gossip more than junior high school girls do."

  Scott cracked a weak smile.

  "Me and this guy fought for the gun he was going to kill me with," Jerrod said as he looked at the U-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. "I was literally nose-to-nose with him and looking right into his eyes when the gun went off?"

  "I didn't know that."

  "I saw that man's face in my mind every time I closed my eyes for weeks afterward."

  Scott nodded.

  "I think about it from time-to-time now, but it did fade after awhile. I'm sure this will too. It's just going to take some time."

  Scott took a sip of water. "I'm sure it will. Thanks, Sarge."

  "No problem. The SO doesn't have any counseling available to us for stuff like this. No department does, that I know of. We have to take care of each other."

  Scott nodded.

  "Back when I was with the PD, our whole team would just gather in the parking lot after a bad shift to drink 'orphan beer' and talk about the stuff that happened until we finally decided to go home. We kind of had our own style of debriefing back then."

  "What's 'orphan beer?'" Scott asked.

  "Never heard that before?" Jerrod asked. "'Orphan beer' is what you find on patrol when a group of kids abandon -- 'orphan' -- their beer because no one was twenty-one."

  "We sure can't do that here. We have to pour the beer out or book it into property."

  "That was a different time, Scott."

  A male dispatcher's voice on their portable radios interrupted the conversation. Scott acknowledged a call involving a prowler at a residence. The dispatcher added the RP was an "LOL" – an acronym for: "Little Old Lady."

  Scott reached into his pants pocket for some cash as he stood.

  "I got it," Jerrod said. "We can talk anytime you want."

  "Thanks again," Scott said as he headed for the fire exit door.

  Jerrod left three dollars for the coffee and Scott's water. On-duty cops didn't pay for drinks at Sophie's, so the friendly server got to keep any cash left on the table.

  CHAPTER 9

  "3-4, Sam-15." Jerrod radioed Tyler Baumann on Orange -- the informal and unmonitored radioed channel used by field units. "Got any reports for me?"

  "A few," Tyler radioed back.

  "Name it," Jerrod radioed -- asking him for a location to meet.

  "Behind Schroder's Market," Tyler radioed -- naming the small neighborhood market in the middle of the "Four Beat."

  As Jerrod drove south on the Pacific Coast Highway -- the only freeway in Mesa County -- the events of the shift played over and over in his mind: The radio call. The search. The ladder. And the gruesome discovery of the senseless terror a man had inflicted on his own family.

  He felt a pang of guilt knowing he hadn't told Scott the entire truth during their conversation at Sophie's. He told Scott he held that vision in his mind of Armando Mendoza's face -- at the moment he pushed Mendoza's finger against the trigger of the Colt pistol and sent a fatal bullet into his brain -- for a few weeks.

  The actual truth was that vision had never faded. He often saw it as he fell asleep. He saw it when he woke up screaming from his recurring violent dreams. And he saw it at odd times during the course of the day. Most every day. For over five years.

  He feared the sight of Armando Mendoza's face may actually start to fade as it was replaced by the carnage he saw that night.

  "Three reports are done. I'm just finishing the last one," Tyler said after Jerrod parked his patrol car next to his -- facing the opposite direction -- so the two open driver's windows were about a foot away from each other.

  A citizen ride-along had once called it the "cop-car mating position."

  SO deputies hand wrote their various crime and incident reports in their cars, at a firehouse, or on the table top at a restaurant like Sophie's.

  "How are you doing with that Cardinal Lane scene tonight?" Jerrod asked as he finished reviewing the first completed report and added his signature to the "approved by" box.

  "It was pretty gruesome," Tyler said without looking up. "But I'm okay... I guess. Why?"

  "Just wondering," Jerrod said as he considered whether the young deputy was just acting tough or if he hadn't quite captured the gravity of the scene. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

  "I'll be fine," Tyler said. "Here's the last report. Thanks."

  "Let me know if you have any problems or anything."

  "I'm okay, Sarge. Really."

  CHAPTER 10

  At six-fifteen, Jerrod drove north on the PCH into the City of Mesa and took the off-ramp onto Beach Boulevard -- the main surface street running through the center of the city. The morning traffic was minimal and he caught all green traffic lights as he headed to the headquarters of the Mesa County Sheriff's Office.

  The modern two-story Sheriff's Office building was located just off Beach Boulevard. It shared several acres of prime real estate next to the County Jail -- which was twice the age of the newer building. The bottom floor belonged to the Patrol Division. The Investigations Division, Administration, Records, and Dispatch shared the upstairs.

  Jerrod parked his green-and-white in the secured parking area and shut the radio down until it would be used again -- by him or another sergeant.

  "You're in early, L-T," Jerrod said to Lieutenant Harold Knapp as Jerrod plopped into a chair in the SO Patrol Watch Commander's Office.

  "Some scene out there on Cardinal Lane," he said

  "That was the worst thing I've ever seen, sir," Jerrod said. "By far."

  "I stopped by the condo on the way to the office," the grandfatherly fifty-two year-old said. "I didn't go in. The detectives are going to be there all day working on that scene. They all had nice things to say about you and your guys."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The lieutenant removed his glasses and cleaned them with a tissue. He sighed before saying, "I just don't know what kind of God would allow something like that to happen."

  The dayshift sergeant had just sent his deputies into the field after roll call and was still in the squad room when Jerrod walked in. Jerrod placed Tyler's three approved reports into the "out" bin for the Records Section.

  "Will you take a look at my crime report for the '187' last night?" Jerrod asked the sergeant.

  "187" was the California Penal Code section for murder.

  "Sure," the sergeant said as Jerrod handed him a handwritten report.

  "You've got to be kidding me," the sergeant said as read the details of the scene and looked over at him.

  Jerrod nodded.

  "Unbelievable," he said as he shook his head. "Sick bastard killed his whole damn family. Fucking unbelievable."

  Jerrod left the squad room after the last of his five deputies -- including Scott Jackson and Tyler Baumann -- made it back to the SO safely and finished their shift paperwork.

  In the locker room, there was none of the usual chatter and laughter as gun belts and uniforms and ballistic vests were stored for the next shift. The deputies not involved in the Cardinal Lane call showed tremendous respect for those who were. Some may have even thought they should have been at the scene to take a portion of the pain away from their brothers.

  All knew the memories of the night would not stay contained in the lockers with their equipment, but would be carried out with them into the world as private citizens.

  Outfitted with street clothing, the deputies -- at least for appearance sake -- made the temporary transition from cop to civilian as they emerged into the daylight of the parking lot.

  "Scott. Hang on a second," Jerrod said as Scott reached his personal car.

  "This thing from last night is going to be difficult... on all of us."


  Scott looked down at the asphalt, but said nothing.

  "Do me a favor and don't bottle this thing up. It'll eat you up from the inside. Talk to people you trust. Get it out."

  Scott's eyes came up to Jerrod's. "They wouldn't understand what happened last night. I can't tell my wife about it. Oh, she'll know something happened, but I can't tell her any details."

  "We've got each other," Jerrod said. "You've got me and Tyler and all the other guys on our team to talk to. Anytime. Trust me on this thing."

  "I will, Sarge, Thanks."

  CHAPTER 11

  As he drove home down the PCH in the morning rush-hour traffic, Jerrod tried in vain to stop the endless loop in his head that repeated over and over the scene from the previous evening. He tried to make sense of it all and became especially disturbed by the vision of the dead girl. There was something he was missing about the girl.

  He reached his home on the east side of Valle Verde at about eight o'clock. He parked at the curb and admired the lush green lawn he tended each weekend. He was pleased the spring morning was chilly and overcast -- perfect weather for a daytime sleeper. His neighbors were just starting their day.

  The house was pleasantly cool.

  Jerrod opened a bottle of Heineken and washed down a single dose of Unisom. The beer tended to get him to sleep and the pill helped him stay asleep through the day.

  The loop continued to play in his head as he showered and then got into bed: The three beeps on the radio. The search. The ladder. Scott's terrified reaction. The four bodies. And the girl.

  What was it about the girl?

  He laid on his back with his head on a pillow. He placed a second pillow on its edge so it covered only his eyes -- creating a quiet and dark place.

  He willed his mind to shut down and drifted off to sleep as the continuous loop running in his head was quietly replaced by his fear of the unpredictable and uncontrollable dreams to come.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jerrod was startled awake at nearly noon by a loud car driving by the house. He laid still in bed -- groggy from the Unisom stupor. The loop started again in his head: Radio call. Search. Ladder. Scott. Man. Woman. Boy. Girl. Blood. Heat. Repeat.

  Each time the loop ran, his mind paused at the vision of the girl.

  What the hell was it about the girl?

  The loop morphed into a reconstruction of the event. A vivid and disturbing reenactment appeared -- movie-like -- of an absolutely horrific scenario:

  Man comes home from work. Kids are in bed. Woman is ready for bed. An argument ensues and becomes heated. Son calls 9-1-1. Man takes the phone from Boy -- hanging it up. Man gets a gun. Man marches Boy and Girl from from their rooms to the master bedroom with Woman.

  Bang. He fired a round into the ceiling to get their attention. Woman is screaming. Bang. Man shoots her in the abdomen. Woman falls near the bed.

  Boy is screaming and backs away at the foot of the bed. He holds his hand in front of him. Bang. Boy is shot through the hand and into the chest. Boy goes down. Silenced.

  The girl? Girl runs behind the bed. Trapped. Terrified. No door. No window. No escape. Girl is screaming and running side-to-side against the wall aside the bed like a caged animal. Bang. Girl is shot in the leg and goes down against the wall. Bang. A second shot is fired into her chest. Silenced.

  Woman is still alive. Bang. He fires into her chest. Silenced.

  Man stands at the doorway and sees what he has done. He places the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. Bang. Silenced.

  As the reenactment played in his head again and again, Jerrod -- fully awake now as his bottled emotions erupting inside him -- felt his pillow become wet from the tears pouring from his eyes.

  After another half-hour in bed, Jerrod knew he wasn't going to get back to sleep.

  He got up and started a pot of coffee. He sat at the small table in the kitchen as the coffee maker purred and sputtered. "Four hours of crappy sleep were better than none at all," he said quietly to himself as the comforting smell of fresh coffee filled the small room. "Tonight's going to be a long shift."

  He filled a cobalt blue logo mug and added sugar and half-and-half until the coffee was the perfect color. He sipped and fidgeted as he thought for the next few minutes.

  He put on some jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. He stopped in the kitchen to top off the coffee mug before walking next door and knocking on Colonel Charles Horvat's back door.

  "Jerrod," the colonel said as he studied his face. "I thought you'd be sleeping. Everything okay?"

  "Glad you're home, sir. Can I talk to you about something?"

  "Of course. Come in."

  CHAPTER 13

  Five Years Earlier -- September 1985

  Valle Verde Detective Jerrod Gold studied the spatters of Armando Mendoza's blood on his left hand and sleeve of his blue raid jacket as Officer Mark "Marko" Otero sped him to the Valle Verde Hospital Emergency Room.

  As Jerrod held his mangled right hand from view -- tightly wrapped in the blood-filled front pocket of his jacket -- his right leg started vibrating uncontrollably. He pushed his right foot hard against the floorboard, but couldn't stop the leg from bouncing.

  * * *

  Jerrod was startled awake. He laid perfectly still in the his sweat-dampened sheets and wished it all had just been a bad dream.

  Hector Medina was dead. Valdemar Reyes was dead. Armando Mendoza was dead. Natalie Segura was moving to San Diego. Craig Wallace was home with a bullet hole his knee. And former Captain Andrew Wheaton was enjoying his early retirement.

  That all worked out well, Jerrod thought.

  * * *

  The partial plaster cast was removed and the sutures clipped from the two-inch U-shaped flap on the back of his right hand. The tender skin was raised and pink. Good blood circulation and no infection the ER doctor said. The hand was still swollen and sore as the tiny bone fractures healed. He tried to make a fist and winced as the pain stopped him. Take another week off work. Flex the hand. Apply ice. One more refill of pain medication should take the edge off for the week.

  He went straight to the pharmacy and home from there.

  A bottle of beer and opioid painkillers – the miracle combination. He thought the two should have their own song, like the Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder's duet, "Ebony and Ivory."

  "Heineken and Vicodin work better together than aspirin..." he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep on the sofa.

  * * *

  Jerrod reported for duty a week after the stitches were removed. Suit and tie. His Beretta 9mm -- the blue-steel on the slide and receiver scratched and scuffed from the battle for his life two weeks earlier -- in its holster on his hip. A large Band-Aid covered the raised pink scar on the back of his hand.

  "Welcome back," Detective Guillermo "Willie" Sanchez said as Jerrod sat down at his familiar cluttered desk. Willie walked over and stuck out his right hand.

  "Still pretty sore, no handshake, please," Jerrod said.

  "Okay, sorry," Willie said as he pulled his hand away. "Glad you're back."

  "Glad to be back. I was going bat-shit at home. I needed to get into a routine again."

  Detective Sergeant Pete Hanson walked into the detective bureau. "Look what the cat dragged in."

  "Hi, Sarge."

  "How's the hand?"

  "It's fine, sir. A little tight is all. I'm good-to-go." Jerrod made a fist and controlled the expression on his face as the pain registered with his brain.

  The sergeant said, "You'll need to meet with Officer Otero at the range this afternoon and shoot a qualifying course before we can put you back on full duty."

  Jerrod glanced at Willie and noticed a "oh, that's going to hurt" look on his face.

  "No problem, Sarge."

  Jerrod shook his head and sighed as he shifted his attention to the pile of papers and case files on his desk.

  * * *

  "You sure you want to do this now?" Marko Otero asked as they
stood together at the three-yard line of the Police Range. "This course is fifty rounds."

  "Let's go," Jerrod said as he pulled on the protective ear muffs and unfastened the snap on his holster.

  "Three rounds in six seconds. Ready. Fire," Marko directed.

  Jerrod -- as he had done hundreds of times before -- drew the Beretta from its holster, raised it to eye level as his left hand cupped his right around the grip, aligned the front sight on the center chest of the black human-silhouette target, and pressed the trigger.

  The pain he felt in his hand was like someone had slammed it with a large hammer. He paused for a fraction of a second and pressed the trigger two more times. And received two more blows from the hammer.

  "Are you okay?" Marko asked.

  "Five yard line, then seven, right?" Jerrod asked as he holstered his pistol.

  Forty-seven more rounds and forty-seven more whacks from the hammer.

  Marko started scoring the target. Bullet holes were all over the place and it was hardly a masterful show of marksmanship. "You'll need eighty-percent to pass -- 400 points."

  Marko used a piece of chalk to mark each round starting in the center ten-ring, then nine, then eight, and then the seven. Anything outside the seven-ring was a zero -- and there were more than a few of them.