Bury the Past

by James L'Etoile

  In the bottom was a photo of Paula in the same pose as the drawing on the wall. It was a photo from when she’d testified at Sherman’s trial. The small letters on the bottom said it was from the Sacramento Bee. Another folded scrap of paper was a prosecution witness list, with the names of Paula, Burger, Wing, Ronland, and McDaniel typed out along with their badge numbers.

  A witness list wasn’t that unique, but the bold lines drawn through the names of Burger, Wing, and McDaniel were unsettling. A shiver shot up his spine when he noticed the small print at the bottom of the page.

  It was Paula’s address followed by a single comment: “Burn it.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The level of noise in the cellblock amped up suddenly. Most of the inmates were at their cell doors, yelling and banging the steel fronts. John stepped from Sherman’s cell, anticipating a riot like some episode of Prison Break. There was nothing in the dayroom. The disturbance came from behind secured steel doors. The faces locked on to something behind John, and a few inmates joined in with the loud protest because the others did. A sympathetic display—solidarity of the broken.

  John glanced over his shoulder and found the magnet that had attracted the inmates’ attention. A television mounted on the dayroom wall broadcast a local station with the closed caption feature activated. Charles Sherman’s prison mugshot filled half the screen, with the other side dominated by a live shot of a press conference. District Attorney Linda Clarke took up the podium and adjusted the microphone.

  “Hey! Can you turn this up?” John asked the officer in the control booth.

  The officer nodded, picked up a remote, and raised the volume until it started to reverberate off the concrete and steel of the dayroom.

  The DA opened a folder and glanced down at the prepared statement. “The Ninth Circuit Court has ruled on the appeal of former law enforcement officer Charles Sherman. The court has ordered his conviction set aside and that he be granted a new trial on the grounds of prosecutorial misconduct in the form of ‘possible’ coerced false testimony.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Paula said, now standing next to her partner on the dayroom floor.

  “The court has reason to believe that a state’s witness was paid to give testimony against Sherman and that the witness recanted his statement.”

  “Burger never recanted,” Paula said.

  “The change in statement was never provided to the defense, and it prohibited Sherman’s legal counsel from providing effective representation.

  “As a result, my office has reviewed the likelihood of a conviction following a new trial, and I have decided not to burden the court with a new proceeding that will not serve justice. Witnesses that could have testified against Mr. Sherman are no longer available.”

  “She’s gonna let him walk,” Paula hissed.

  The assembled media at the news conference began pummeling the DA with questions. No one thread was discernible in the jumbled mass, each shouting for attention. DA Clarke pointed to someone off-camera. “Ron.”

  The camera swung to the reporter. “Are you saying that Charles Sherman is innocent?”

  “No. I’m saying I have no evidence to bring before a jury.”

  “Does that mean no charges will be filed?”

  Clarke looked annoyed at the question but responded slowly like she was teaching a group of first graders. “When you have no evidence, you cannot file charges.”

  “Will Sherman be released?”

  “Yes, he will.”

  Paula’s knees buckled, and she leaned against a stainless-steel table.

  Another murmur shot through the crowd. “When will you release him?”

  “That is a matter between the court and the state’s prison system. I have nothing to do with it.”

  “Where is Charles Sherman now?”

  “As I understand it, Mr. Sherman is recovering in a local hospital following a tragic suicide attempt,” Clarke said.

  “Yeah, just frickin’ tragic,” Paula seethed.

  “Will he be filing a civil claim against the state?”

  “You’d have to ask his attorney, but given he was imprisoned over potentially false testimony and went so far as a suicide attempt, it’s safe to assume he will file some sort of civil suit. What I can add is that Mr. Sherman has provided my office with significant information that will likely lead to an arrest for the person responsible for the recent murders of two former law enforcement officers.”

  “Man, why doesn’t she just tee it up for him?” John said.

  The television coverage of the press conference ended, but a news anchor came on and continued breaking news coverage. “We bring you now to Folsom Mercy Hospital for a live update.”

  The video feed switched over to a reporter inside the hospital. “In an unusual turn today, prison officials have allowed us access to Charles Sherman, who is recovering from injuries he received in prison.” The camera panned over to Sherman in a hospital bed. A deep-purple bruise showed on his neck, and he made no effort to hide it.

  “Mr. Sherman, what are you feeling following today’s court ruling?” the report asked, shoving a microphone in his face.

  “Relieved and angry, if that makes any sense.”

  “What are you angry about?”

  “I’ve been locked up based on fabricated evidence. The DA finally saw the truth, but not until I was so desperate that I did this,” Sherman said, pointing to his neck. A mist filled his eyes. “I don’t blame the district attorney for prosecuting me; she only followed the evidence she was given. Now that witnesses have died—witnesses who could have fully exonerated me—and cannot testify, I will always carry the stink of a man convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit.” A slight tear fell to Sherman’s cheek.

  “Man, he’s been practicing this monologue,” John said.

  Paula remained riveted to the screen. The light flickered off her graying face.

  “What are you going to do when you’re a free man?”

  “I want to help the DA bring justice and closure to my illegal confinement. There is one person responsible for this.”

  “We’ve learned that Detective Paula Newberry of the Sacramento Police Department was the investigator in charge of the original case against Charles Sherman.” A reporter at the scene held a photo of Paula, and a larger copy of the one found in Sherman’s cell came up on the screen. “The Sacramento Police Department has yet to comment on this matter.”

  The news coverage flipped to another story in the cycle.

  “I—I gotta get out of here. I need some air,” Paula said. She started to wobble but quickly regained balance and rapped a fist on the dayroom door.

  John hefted the envelope detailing Sherman’s correspondence. He’d planned to have Paula look through it while he drove back, but he decided against that as she pounded on the dayroom door for a second time.

  Paula and John gathered their weapons and phones at the entrance gate after retracing their path from the bowels of the maximum-security prison. He tucked the envelope under his arm as they walked.

  John glanced at his phone. “Ten missed calls, five from the lieutenant. This can’t be good.”

  Paula had two missed calls, one from Kamakawa of internal affairs and one from the chief’s office. “No, this can’t be good at all.”

  John drove this trip while Paula returned the call from the chief’s office. Her temper only burned hotter when those calls went unanswered, and they had no way of knowing the level of heat that awaited them when they arrived.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The chief’s outer offices were sparse, arranged for convenience rather than adornment, unlike some law enforcement heads, who splashed photos of themselves with prominent politicians and celebrities. This chief only featured photos of the men and women of the department.

  Joanne was the gatekeeper and controlled access to the chief and arranged his schedule. She’d served the three chiefs before the current one and showed no sign of slowing dow
n.

  When John and Paula arrived, Joanne picked up the phone. “Detectives Newberry and Penley are here.” She hung up. “It will be just a moment. John, how’s your son?” Joanne asked.

  “Good. Tommy’s doing really well. How’s the mood in there today?” John said pointing to the inner office.

  Joanne widened her eyes and shrugged. “It’s been busy.”

  The inner door swung open, and an angry Linda Clarke strode from within. The DA scowled at Paula as she passed. It looked like she wanted to rip into the detectives, but she tightened her jaw and kept walking.

  “Detectives,” Lieutenant Barnes said from inside the chief’s office.

  The chief stood at the far side of the room. He usually kept his emotions on a tight rein, but the red blotches on his neck served as a bellwether of what waited for the detectives.

  Barnes closed the door behind them and motioned them to a pair of chairs at the chief’s desk.

  “How was your morning? Mine included calls from the mayor’s office, every news outlet in northern California, and a congressman, and a drop-in from one very pissed-off district attorney. The only thing missing is a protest by the West-somewhere Baptist Church,” the chief said, “but it’s still early.”

  “Clarke was out of line at her press conference this morning,” Barnes interjected.

  “Out of line or not, we have a problem,” the chief said. He paced back to his desk.

  “Chief, I’m sorry,” Paula said.

  “I don’t want to hear that.”

  “Sir?”

  “Saying you’re sorry doesn’t get us anywhere and isn’t going to fix the problem.”

  Paula buttoned her lip and sat erect in the chair, waiting for the next blow.

  “Chief, Sherman’s been playing us all along,” John said.

  “As much as I want to believe that, how is it possible that a mentally ill prisoner in a maximum-security prison had anything to do with the murders of the DA’s witnesses?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” John admitted.

  “That’s not comforting,” the chief responded.

  “He could have a connection on the outside carrying out the hits for him. We’ve all heard the stories about Sherman’s guardian angels; maybe there’s something to it,” John said.

  Barnes sat in a vacant chair. “It makes more sense than Sherman teleporting in and out of the prison.”

  “Is there anything to back that theory up?” the chief asked.

  “We’re working on it,” John said.

  The chief glanced over at Paula. “You can imagine the conversation DA Clarke and I just had. We have records of payoffs to a witness, a spike strip at one murder scene, and a murder weapon at another. All with one common denominator: you.”

  “There are two,” Paula said. Her voice quavered.

  “Two what?”

  “Sherman’s blood, his DNA, was at the crime scenes too.”

  Barnes nodded. “It was. The defense will argue that it was a lab error—or planted deliberately.”

  “Occam’s Razor,” John said. Blank looks from the ranking cops in the room came in response. “When given two possible explanations, the one with the fewest assumptions is usually the better option.”

  “What are you saying, Detective?” the chief asked.

  “The blood. The simplest way the blood was at the scenes of our murders is that the suspect—Sherman—was there.”

  “You’re missing the big picture. He was in prison. Talk about the ultimate alibi,” the chief said.

  “He was there,” John said.

  “He had to be, Chief,” Paula followed.

  “I wish I shared your confidence. But we don’t have anything to support your story—I won’t even call it a theory. But we have to get this case solved and show some progress or the DA will make good on her threats. She claims Sherman can tie you to the crimes.”

  “He wants to take me down,” Paula said. The drawing of her face in Sherman’s cell came to mind once more. “He’s obsessed.”

  “And she wants your head on a pike. Why did she get scope lock on you even before the Wing murder?” the chief asked.

  “Clarke prosecuted the original Sherman case and rode that reformer bandwagon into her reelection. I know she’s taking the case blowing up personally, but she won’t be the one to take the blame,” Barnes said.

  “It stinks,” Paula said.

  “The bottom line is we don’t have long to take action. When Sherman is released and files a claim against the city, we’re gonna get zero support from the mayor and city council,” the chief said.

  “You’re gonna suspend me, aren’t you?” Paula asked.

  The room chilled with the question finally asked.

  The chief stared at her. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I support my officers until they prove to me that my trust is unfounded. You have my trust. No, Detective, we’re not suspending you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. A bit of color returned to her face.

  “Don’t thank me yet. We have to tie this down, and I hope to Christ on a cracker you can. Clarke reminded me she has a holiday coming up. The city council meets in two days, and if we haven’t given the DA two homicide cases wrapped up with pretty ribbons, the suspension issue may be the least of your concerns.”

  “What are you saying, Chief?” John said.

  “Remember Clarke’s comments in my office? Either Sherman or you? She’s making noise about filing an indictment,” Barnes said.

  “She can’t be serious,” John said.

  “When she presents the spike strip property log, the city check request, the hammer with Paula’s prints all over it, and the connection to the Sherman case, the grand jury will have to take a hard look,” Barnes reminded him.

  “Grand jury indictment; that’s a route the DA’s office doesn’t use too often,” John said.

  “She can control the evidence presented, and Paula won’t get a chance to refute anything she puts out there. A grand jury would eat up Sherman’s testimony,” Barnes said.

  “Would Clarke really do that to save her political future?” John asked.

  “I don’t want to find out. So, detectives, you have two days until the city council meets.” The chief sat back and put his palms down on his desk. “Forty-eight hours. Go make it count.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Paula nearly collapsed outside of the chief’s office. She leaned flat-backed on the wall, head cradled in her hands. “I can’t do this.”

  John put an arm on her shoulder. “You did fine.”

  “I don’t know if the chief believes me.”

  “He does, but he’s only got so long until it’s not up to him anymore—”

  “Until the DA throws my ass away.”

  Paula craned her head up, releasing some of the tension that had taken residence while in the chief’s office.

  John’s cell rang.

  “Penley.” He listened. “I understand,” he said. His jaw tightened. “Do we have eyes on him? Let me write that down.” He snatched his notebook and jotted something down before he disconnected the call.

  “That was the hospital. A Folsom PD cop called with the heads-up. Sherman’s out. They released him.”

  “Christ, the DA didn’t waste any time, did she?” Paula asked.

  “It had to be in the works before her press conference. A friend came to pick him up. Folsom PD gave me the license number of the guy’s truck.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Paula said. “Everyone’s buying his bullshit and thinking I set him up.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Thanks, but you don’t count,” she said, trying to make a joke, but then thought better of it. “Actually, you’re the only one who counts.”

  John called the watch commander and gave him the information for a newer-model silver Ford F-150 pickup truck as described by the Folsom cop.

  “While they’re running that for us, any guess to where Sherman will
hit up straight out of prison?”

  “I hope he goes to an all-you-can-eat buffet and swallows his own tongue,” she said.

  “I’m saying the biker meth house. He’s got unfinished business there.”

  “You’re on.”

  Less than ten minutes later, a patrol unit spotted the truck, and the newly paroled man’s first stop proved them both wrong. Sherman’s friend pulled into a fast-food taco joint where the freshly minted free man filled his gut with greasy tacos and acidic packets of salsa. When he came out, he rubbed his belly in satisfaction, and they got back into the truck.

  The next stop would have earned John a dinner, but the reception wasn’t what the detectives expected.

  TWENTY-NINE

  John thought Sherman meant to finish the job on McDaniel and his biker brothers. If the detectives saw Sherman threaten the bikers with a gun, furnished by his truck-driving friend, everyone goes to jail—end of story.

  The pickup pulled in front of the driveway, blocking the line of bikes from escaping this time. A big man in biker leathers gathered his long greasy hair and tossed it over his shoulder as the truck stopped. He dropped a socket wrench in a toolbox, and it gave a heavy clang when it hit the metal container.

  John pulled up a block away, at a corner with a view of the garage.

  “Sherman’s still in the truck,” he said.

  Paula pulled a digital camera from a zippered pouch and attached a telephoto lens. She pointed it at the front of the house and rotated the lens until it came into focus.