Chavez?” Ernesto asked, eyeing the bandage covering much of the priest’s right cheek.
Luis nodded. Ernesto explained who he was to the detectives. Happy for the excuse to hand off the scene to a fellow member of law enforcement, the pair passed out business cards and admonitions to call if anything came up.
“Who were they?” Ernesto asked.
“It was dark. But they were well equipped and knew what they were doing.”
“Well equipped?”
“They wore night-vision goggles. Like in the military. All four of them. Expensive tech.”
“What were you thinking?” Ernesto said. “They could’ve killed you.”
“First thing I said to him, too,” Whillans chimed in.
“They were too smart for that,” Luis said. “Then the cops would actually have to do something.”
Ernesto was about to bite back, then held his tongue. “I should’ve insisted you bring her into custody.”
“If cops really are involved in this, that might not have changed anything,” Luis replied.
Ernesto hadn’t thought of that.
“It may be too late, but I might’ve found your city attorney. I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but there’s a deputy DA who was keeping a case that sounds a little like this under wraps.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Michael eyed the police officer, Peter Cubillas, on the witness stand. He’d only been sworn in five minutes before but already looked uncomfortable.
Just stay with me for five more minutes. That’s all I ask.
“Where did you find Miss Mascarello?”
“Burger King parking lot. Near the pay phones.”
“How’d she look?”
“Objection,” the defense attorney, Laura McClain, said. “Asking the witness for an opinion.”
The judge looked sleepily from the defense attorney to the police officer, then over to Michael at the prosecutor’s table.
“Rephrase?” he asked.
“Did it appear she’d left her home in a hurry?” Michael tried.
“Objection,” McClain repeated. “Same reason.”
The judge gave Michael a look that said, Work with me.
“Was she dressed?” Michael asked.
“She was,” responded the officer.
“Pants? Shirt?”
“I don’t remember.”
Goddammit.
“Would it help refresh your memory to see the police report?”
“Yes.”
“May I approach the witness?” Michael asked.
“You may,” said the judge.
He moved to the witness box and handed Cubillas his own police report, open to the page in question. The officer looked at it and handed it back.
“What was she wearing?” Michael asked.
“A T-shirt and shorts.”
“Shoes?”
“No.”
Michael glanced to the jury. It was only the third day of the trial, but they were already spent. He couldn’t blame them. It was an ugly case. An eighteen-year-old woman had been repeatedly threatened with violence by her sometimes live-in, sometimes homeless boyfriend. On the night in question he came home high on drugs and attacked her with a carving knife. She grabbed her baby and ran out of the apartment.
This was bad enough, but the guy (a) had a history of violence, (b) was a registered sex offender, and (c) had possibly impregnated the victim when she was underage. Though he hadn’t been charged with statutory rape, the insinuation hung over the proceedings like an ammonia cloud.
No one wanted to be there.
The courtroom door opened and Michael glanced back, figuring it was some kind of court business for the bailiff. He was therefore surprised to see a priest, one who looked like he’d taken a shot or two to the face, grab a seat in the gallery. He didn’t recognize him and thought he must be someone invited by the defense.
What, a visual reminder of the defendant’s redemption?
He caught a bemused glance from the defense attorney and realized she thought it was his doing. He glanced back and saw that the priest was looking over at him. He nodded casually in greeting, and the priest nodded back. He shifted his gaze to the jury. At least half had seen the exchange.
Why
Luis nodded. Ernesto explained who he was to the detectives. Happy for the excuse to hand off the scene to a fellow member of law enforcement, the pair passed out business cards and admonitions to call if anything came up.
“Who were they?” Ernesto asked.
“It was dark. But they were well equipped and knew what they were doing.”
“Well equipped?”
“They wore night-vision goggles. Like in the military. All four of them. Expensive tech.”
“What were you thinking?” Ernesto said. “They could’ve killed you.”
“First thing I said to him, too,” Whillans chimed in.
“They were too smart for that,” Luis said. “Then the cops would actually have to do something.”
Ernesto was about to bite back, then held his tongue. “I should’ve insisted you bring her into custody.”
“If cops really are involved in this, that might not have changed anything,” Luis replied.
Ernesto hadn’t thought of that.
“It may be too late, but I might’ve found your city attorney. I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but there’s a deputy DA who was keeping a case that sounds a little like this under wraps.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Michael eyed the police officer, Peter Cubillas, on the witness stand. He’d only been sworn in five minutes before but already looked uncomfortable.
Just stay with me for five more minutes. That’s all I ask.
“Where did you find Miss Mascarello?”
“Burger King parking lot. Near the pay phones.”
“How’d she look?”
“Objection,” the defense attorney, Laura McClain, said. “Asking the witness for an opinion.”
The judge looked sleepily from the defense attorney to the police officer, then over to Michael at the prosecutor’s table.
“Rephrase?” he asked.
“Did it appear she’d left her home in a hurry?” Michael tried.
“Objection,” McClain repeated. “Same reason.”
The judge gave Michael a look that said, Work with me.
“Was she dressed?” Michael asked.
“She was,” responded the officer.
“Pants? Shirt?”
“I don’t remember.”
Goddammit.
“Would it help refresh your memory to see the police report?”
“Yes.”
“May I approach the witness?” Michael asked.
“You may,” said the judge.
He moved to the witness box and handed Cubillas his own police report, open to the page in question. The officer looked at it and handed it back.
“What was she wearing?” Michael asked.
“A T-shirt and shorts.”
“Shoes?”
“No.”
Michael glanced to the jury. It was only the third day of the trial, but they were already spent. He couldn’t blame them. It was an ugly case. An eighteen-year-old woman had been repeatedly threatened with violence by her sometimes live-in, sometimes homeless boyfriend. On the night in question he came home high on drugs and attacked her with a carving knife. She grabbed her baby and ran out of the apartment.
This was bad enough, but the guy (a) had a history of violence, (b) was a registered sex offender, and (c) had possibly impregnated the victim when she was underage. Though he hadn’t been charged with statutory rape, the insinuation hung over the proceedings like an ammonia cloud.
No one wanted to be there.
The courtroom door opened and Michael glanced back, figuring it was some kind of court business for the bailiff. He was therefore surprised to see a priest, one who looked like he’d taken a shot or two to the face, grab a seat in the gallery. He didn’t recognize him and thought he must be someone invited by the defense.
What, a visual reminder of the defendant’s redemption?
He caught a bemused glance from the defense attorney and realized she thought it was his doing. He glanced back and saw that the priest was looking over at him. He nodded casually in greeting, and the priest nodded back. He shifted his gaze to the jury. At least half had seen the exchange.
Why
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