Abuse of Power

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Let’s back up a minute,” the sergeant said, acid bubbling back in his throat. “Tell me again about the fingerprints. What exactly are you talking about?”

  “I wiped the phone down for her,” he said. “She was afraid she’d get canned if the truth came out. I felt sorry for her. I bagged the perp the other night, so what the hell difference does it make?”

  “You destroyed evidence,” Miller shouted, spit flying from his mouth. “And you have the gall to sit here and admit it to my face.”

  “Hey,” Grant said, as calm as before, “you want to shitcan me, go ahead. I’m one of the best officers you have and you know it. Before you made sergeant, I bailed your ass out a few times, too. Have you forgotten the drug bust on Momingside Road? You read the numbers on the search warrant wrong. We ripped apart the wrong house and the old fart who lived there had a heart attack. The department was sued over that incident, remember? Because you thought it might keep you from getting your stripes, I took the fall for you.”

  “Get out,” the sergeant said, pointing toward the door. “You’re a loose cannon, Cummings. You’re not fit to carry a badge.”

  “No problem,” Grant said, standing and striding to the door. “Just remember one thing,” he said, glancing back. “If I go down, I’m taking a lot of people with me. Since you might be one of them, I suggest you find a way to keep Rachel Simmons in line.”

  Picking up a toothpick from a box on his desk. Sergeant Miller shoved it between his teeth. What he needed was a cigarette, maybe a stiff drink. Crossing the room, he opened the door and tilted his head, indicating Rachel should come into his office.

  Instead of taking a seat, she stood in front of his desk.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “I don’t feel like sitting down.”

  “Fine,” he said, placing his palms on top of the desk and glaring at her. “I’ll stand, too.”

  Rachel dropped into the chair.

  “Okay,” Sergeant Miller said, slowly lowering himself into his seat, “let me make something perfectly clear here, Simmons. What you said in the briefing room could cost Grant Cummings his shield. Are you aware of that?”

  “Timothy Hillmont is dead,” she said. “I don’t think Grant’s problem compares to his.”

  “None of the men’s statements support your version of what happened out there,” he went on. “How can you be certain what you saw when you’d just been hit over the head with a beer bottle? As Ratso pointed out during the meeting, your visual perception could have been less than accurate.”

  “I know what I saw,” Rachel insisted, her voice ringing with conviction. “I didn’t receive a concussion. It was only a scalp wound. I was in no way impaired. I was looking directly at Grant when the boy fired at him. Townsend saw what Grant did. He just won’t admit it because of their friendship. For all I know, they all saw it. Even Ratso is turning into an animal. Cruelty is contagious. If you ask me, Grant Cummings is the source. I guess the men figure if Grant can beat the crap out of people, they can too.”

  Oh boy. Miller thought, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair. The woman who had once been so submissive, almost scared of her own shadow, had suddenly developed a king-size set of balls. He could see it in her eyes, read it in her body language. He had to find a way to get her to back down. If he didn’t, the whole disgusting mess might surface. “Let’s try to discuss this rationally,” he said. “Say Grant did what you said. I don’t believe he did, but just for the purpose of conjecture, let’s pretend everything happened exactly as you said.”

  “Pretend!” Rachel shouted, rising a few inches from her chair. “Now we have to pretend I’m telling the truth. My word no longer has any value.”

  “Okay, okay,” Miller said, holding up a palm, “maybe I used the wrong word. Calm down. You said Grant was holding Timothy Hillmont by the arm. That means the boy was standing beside him, right?”

  “Right,” she said, kicking her leg back and forth.

  “If the boy was standing right beside Grant, then he could have easily been hit by the bullet no matter what Grant did or didn’t do. Do you agree on this point?”

  She ran it over in her mind before speaking. “Possibly,” she said, “but I doubt if the Hillmont boy’s wound would have been fatal under those circumstances. When Grant moved him in front of his body, he caused the boy to take a direct hit to his chest. The bullet punctured his lung.”

  During his many years as a cop, Nick Miller had done some outrageous things, but he had never once been called on the carpet. His record was flawless, his chances to move up the ladder excellent. Was this where it all stopped? Was a scrawny, freckled-faced woman going to be the one to finally take him down? “Do you really believe Grant did this on purpose?”

  “Of course,” she said, nodding. “He did it to protect himself at the expense of the kid. I don’t know if he forgot that he was wearing his vest, or what was wrong with him. I only know what I saw.”

  After a number of strained moments had passed. Miller shifted to another tactic. “Have I treated you fairly since you joined the department?”

  Rachel blinked several times, not certain where the sergeant was going. “Not always,” she said. “I thought my last performance review was unfair. You rated my performance below average in almost every category. I’ve been here every day on time. I always try to do my job to the best of my abilities. I’ve never had a citizen’s complaint filed against me, and my response time has always been in line with department policy.” Since they were putting everything on the table, she decided she might as well speak her mind. “The detective bureau has commended me on my reports on numerous occasions. Even Captain Madison praised me the other night over a rape case I handled. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a lousy review, other than the fact that I’m a woman.”

  “I wasn’t really referring to your performance review,” Sergeant Miller said, chastising himself for coming down so hard on her. In many ways, Rachel’s statements were true. She wasn’t a bad officer. She had an outstanding memory, and her writing skills were as good as anyone’s in the department. Her reports were concise and cohesive, painstakingly detailed and consistently accurate. He’d just never been fond of women in patrol. A field officer had to be aggressive, cunning, alert to his or her environment. Rachel Simmons was not aggressive. “I mean,” he went on, “have I given you the proper field training?”

  “Yes,” she said, pushing a shock of red hair back behind one ear. “I don’t have any complaints in that area.”

  “Being a member of this department is the same as belonging to a closely knit family,” Miller continued, his tone less confrontational than before. “Families look out for one another, take care of one another, sometimes even bend the rules for each other. When you had a problem the other day with some fingerprints, someone helped you resolve it. Isn’t that true?”

  Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Are you referring to the robbery?”

  “Yes, I am,” he said.

  “You can’t possibly condone what Grant did,” she said, her eyes enormous. “He tampered with evidence in a felony.”

  “He didn’t tamper with evidence to save his own neck, though,” the sergeant pointed out. “Right?”

  “No,” she said, flicking the ends of her fingernails. “He did it for me, but I swear I never asked him to wipe down that phone. I knew I’d screwed up, and I guess I just panicked. You’d been all over me the past month. I’d just lost my side job with State Farm. When I asked Grant to help me, I don’t know what I expected him to do.”

  “With your recent performance review,” Miller said, arching an eyebrow, “and the incompetent manner in which you handled the robbery, the personnel review board might consider this sufficient grounds for dismissal.”

  Rachel leaned forward in her seat, a hand pressed into her abdomen. “What are you saying?”

  “I think you get the gist,” he answered, fiddling with some papers on his desk.


  She gripped the arms of the chair. “You want me to lie, right?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I need this job,” she said. “I have two kids to support. You’re trying to blackmail me into covering up what Grant did with the Hillmont boy. How can I sleep at night if I don’t tell the truth? I’m the one you sent to tell this boy’s parents he was dead. Do you know how terrible it is to lose a child? Don’t these people have a right to know what really happened to their son?”

  “Well,” the sergeant said, his voice just above a whisper, “sometimes a person has to compromise their standards. The world is not an easy place, Simmons. Do you get my drift?”

  “Can I go now?” Rachel said, standing.

  “Are we in agreement?”

  “I guess so,” she said, holding onto the back of the chair. “I lie or I lose my job. Isn’t that the nature of our agreement? Since I can’t afford to lose my job right now, I have no choice but to lie.”

  “Good,” Miller said, brushing his hands over his face. “It’s been a long night, Simmons. Go home now and get some sleep. You can come in later this afternoon and finish your report.”

  “I’m starting my days off,” Rachel told him, a nasty, metallic taste in her mouth. “I’d rather not come back to the station. I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”

  “Finish the report at home,” he said. “Just drop it by when you’re finished. Leave it in my box.”

  c h a p t e r

  THIRTEEN

  At ten o’clock Monday morning, Mike Atwater’s secretary received a call from Bill Ringwald, the elected district attorney of Ventura County.

  Five minutes later, Atwater stuck his head in the door of Ringwald’s office. “My secretary said you wanted to see me,” he said. “I have a hearing at ten-thirty. Do we have enough time, or would you rather I come back later?”

  “Come in,” Ringwald said, a solemn look on his face. “I have a meeting myself this morning. We have to talk now.”

  Because of his position. Bill Ringwald had one of the coveted corner offices with floor-to-ceiling windows. Spacious and well-appointed, the room contained a large maple desk with a polished surface, two high-backed leather chairs facing Ringwald’s desk, and a small conference table in the far corner. In his late fifties, Ringwald was a large, intense man with dark hair and a round face. His hair was combed carefully to cover his bald spot, then held in place with spray. His skin had a yellowish cast and was creased with heavy lines. An avid sailor, he had spent too many weekends baking in the California sun.

  Ringwald’s predecessor, Harvey Ledderman, had managed the agency like a Hollywood studio, cultivating a stable of star prosecutors. With the exception of Mike Atwater, Ledderman’s top men had all abandoned the agency for greener pastures. They were now considered the legal elite of Ventura County. Many of them had large, prestigious law firms. A number had seats on the bench. One had even gone on to become a State Supreme Court justice.

  For Atwater, though, the rewards of being a star prosecutor had not yet fully materialized. The attorney was still searching for the perfect case—one that would give him the widespread notoriety he craved. Ringwald had seen it before in other attorneys of Atwater’s stature. Their eyes took on a frenzied look; they jumped on sensational cases the minute they came into the agency, thumbing their noses at crimes that weren’t newsworthy enough. They became almost like ambulance chasers, showing up at crime scenes, cultivating contacts in the police departments, developing cases through the use of paid informants.

  “Did you hear about the shooting Saturday night in Oak Grove?” Ringwald asked.

  “The football player, right?” Atwater said, sitting down in one of the leather chairs. “Wasn’t it some kind of school rivalry that got out of hand? As I understand it, the boys involved were on either the Simi Valley football team or were members of the Oak Grove team. Simi Valley won the state championship.”

  Ringwald stared off into space. “I’ve known Larry and Liz Hillmont since Larry first got a seat on the City Council.” He paused, releasing a low sigh. “The man worshipped that boy. They had another son. He died of some rare disease when he was about ten years old. Liz was in her forties then, and didn’t think she could get pregnant again.”

  Atwater fiddled with his ear. “The paper said the Hillmont kid might have had a chance to play college ball.”

  “Tim was a good kid,” Ringwald said, thinking of his own son and the heartache his friends were suffering. “There’s no indication he used drugs. He might have had a beer now and then, but the Hillmonts claim they never once saw him drunk.”

  “Well,” he said, deciding Ringwald had called him in only to commiserate. “I only know what I read in the paper this morning. Sounds like the boy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bill. Sad, but with teenagers, these things sometimes happen.” He glanced at his watch, then stood and walked toward the door.

  “I’m assigning you to prosecute the Trueman boy for the shooting,” Ringwald said.

  The attorney turned with a scowl. “You don’t need me to try this,” he said, leaning back against the door. “It’s an open-and-shut case. Dozens of police officers witnessed this crime. Even Blake Reynolds could try it. In ability and comprehension, he’s about a seven now. When you brought him on board, I pegged him as never making it past a five.”

  Ringwald shook his head. The attorney’s habit of constantly rating people was demeaning. “I don’t want Reynolds,” he said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Larry Hillmont has served this city for almost ten years. He deserves the best we have to offer.”

  Atwater’s chest expanded. “I appreciate the praise,” he said, “but isn’t it a waste of talent? The paper said the suspect is a juvenile. I don’t try juvenile cases.”

  “Trueman is sixteen,” Ringwald told him. “With a crime this serious, we’re fully justified in trying him as an adult. I know we don’t have murder one, but I want this kid to go to prison for as long as possible. That’s one of the reasons I want you to prosecute the case. Trueman isn’t a gang member, and as far as we know, he has no prior criminal history.” He plucked the newspaper off his desk, glancing at the article. “We’re talking the quarterback on the Simi Valley football team. You know how these things go, Mike. Like you pointed out, the team just won the state championship. Can you imagine the support this kid will have from the community?”

  “Are the police reports in yet?” Atwater asked.

  “No,” he said. “Trueman’s in custody, though, so we’ll have to arraign him by tomorrow at the latest. I spoke with Sergeant Miller at the PD earlier this morning, and he assured me they would have the reports in by late this afternoon.”

  A double homicide was on the burner, an insurance salesman who had gone berserk and killed his estranged wife and young daughter. Atwater had been anticipating it for several months, anxious to get his hands on something meaty and challenging. He knew it wasn’t the case he needed to cap off his career as a county prosecutor, though. An insurance salesman from Ventura would not draw national attention and make him a household name. He had another situation that might be the ticket, but he would have to be patient and nurse it along. In the interim, he could not afford to waste his time trying juveniles.

  The Ventura PD was putting the finishing touches on the double homicide, on the verge of making an arrest any day now. If Atwater got involved in the Hillmont matter, the case he wanted to try might fall through his fingers. “The Scarpella case is about to come in,” he said. “The crime is horrendous and the evidence marginal. I just tried Brentwood, a mammoth waste of time. We convicted him on two drunk driving counts, both of them misdemeanors.”

  Ringwald gave him a cold stare. He respected the attorney’s skills in the courtroom, but his ego sometimes ballooned beyond reason. “What are you trying to say?” he said, the muscles in his face tightening.

  “If you promise to assign me Scarpella when it comes in,” he said, “I�
��ll agree to handle the Hillmont case.”

  “Let me tell you something,” Ringwald snapped, leveling a finger at him. “You will try whatever case I tell you to try. I realize you’ve had carte blanche around here for years, but it’s time for you to come down off your high horse and do as you’re told.”

  Atwater looked as if the man had just struck him. His head jerked back. His hooded eyes flashed in outrage. Without speaking, he spun around and stormed out of the office.

  When Tracy got home from school Monday afternoon, the house was spotless, the furniture in her room had been rearranged, and a chocolate cake was baking in the oven. She found Joe, dressed in clean dungarees, plunked down in front of the television set in the living room watching cartoons. Giving him a quick kiss on the top of the head, Tracy headed to the back of the house to find her mother.

  Rachel was on the floor in her room lifting weights, her clothes soaked with perspiration. “Hi, baby,” she said, dropping the barbell on the floor. She stood and rushed over to embrace her. “Did you see your room? I cleaned out your closet. I even did some work on your drawers. Don’t you like the beds that way? It makes the room look a lot bigger.”

  “Thanks,” Tracy said, pushing her mother back and studying her face. Her eyes were lined with dark circles, but she seemed to be bursting with energy. “I thought you were going to leave Joe with Lucy today, try to get caught up on your sleep. I heard you walking around in here all night last night. Are you on speed or something?”

  “Of course not,” Rachel said, laughing that her daughter would even suggest such a thing. “I went to the store and picked up two great-looking steaks for us. I thought we’d cook them on the grill. You know, have a little barbecue. I even bought some paper plates so we can eat outside.”