Trick Roller

by Cordelia Kingsbridge

  “I see,” Durham said, momentarily flustered for the first time all afternoon. “Ah . . . so when you entered the room, you saw Detective Abrams and Mr. Barton fighting, believed Detective Abrams was in danger, and came to his aid by attacking Mr. Barton yourself.”

  Dominic gave him an easy smile. “Nah. If I’d wanted to attack him, I would have just knocked him out, you know? Truth is, I had no idea what was happening, so I was trying to separate them. A chokehold seemed like the easiest way to do that.”

  Durham stared at him for a few seconds. “Mr. Barton has stated that once you had him in the chokehold, you threatened his life.”

  “No, definitely not. Although he was panicking at the time, so I can see how he might have misunderstood me.” Shifting so he was addressing the jury as well, Dominic said, “A strong choke can easily cause injury, even if you don’t mean it to. Barton was thrashing and flailing around so much, I was worried I might hurt him by accident. I warned him to stop moving so that wouldn’t happen.”

  Several members of the starry-eyed jury nodded along with his explanation. Durham frowned, then glanced briefly at Levi and back at Dominic, his brow furrowing deeper.

  Levi suddenly realized Durham’s predicament. He must have intended to present an image of Levi and Dominic as partners-in-crime, an aggressive, intimidating duo who had attacked Barton and cooked up this story to cover their asses. No doubt he had assumed Dominic’s size and military history would make that easy, but he hadn’t expected Dominic’s mellow personality.

  Now it was too late. The jury was firmly on Dominic’s side, and a few jabs wouldn’t change that. If he pushed too hard, they’d turn on him instead.

  “Mr. Russo, let’s return to the beginning of the story, if you don’t mind,” he said. “When you received the texts warning you that Detective Abrams was in danger, you didn’t doubt they were genuine?”

  “Actually, I was split fifty-fifty. I wasn’t convinced that the danger was real or that the texts had come from the actual Seven of Spades.”

  “Yet you went straight to the hotel anyway? You didn’t even call 911?”

  “The texter said they’d already called,” Dominic said with a shrug. “I figured that if the texts turned out to be fake, the worst that would happen is I’d be the butt of someone’s practical joke. No big deal. But if the danger was real and I ignored it? Detective Abrams could die. I couldn’t take that risk.”

  Durham returned to the defendant’s table to sip from a bottle of water. Levi felt spiteful glee at the frustration on his face—everything he did was just making Dominic look better.

  Durham put the bottle down, turned back, and said, “You and Detective Abrams are involved in a sexual relationship, isn’t that right?”

  There were a few scattered murmurs of surprise. Dominic smiled at Levi.

  “We’re in a committed romantic relationship,” he said. “Sex is part of that, sure.” He winked at the jury, and Levi could swear that one of the older women straight-up swooned like a Victorian maiden.

  “Oh my God,” Martine said under her breath. She pressed her face against Levi’s shoulder to stifle a laugh.

  “Ah, well.” Durham cleared his throat. “Were the two of you involved, romantically or sexually, the night of the events in question?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you had feelings for Detective Abrams then.”

  “I liked him,” Dominic said, meeting Levi’s gaze across the courtroom. “I respected him. I’d spent the previous week getting to know him better, and I’d learned what a good heart he has, and how dedicated he is to protecting the people of this city. So yeah, you could say I had feelings for him then.”

  Durham looked like he was fantasizing Dominic’s ugly and painful demise, but he kept it together. “Do you believe the Seven of Spades interfered that night to help protect Detective Abrams?”

  “Yes. As I stated earlier in my testimony, I believe the Seven of Spades was angry with Mr. Barton for trying to pin his wife’s murder on them. They told Detective Abrams themself that they would kill Barton if it looked like he might get away with it. I think they saw Barton give his tail the slip and break into the detective’s hotel room, felt guilty for their role in the whole thing, and contacted me for help. Then they shut off the electricity in the hotel as a final protective measure. They knew Detective Abrams’s training would give him an edge in the dark that Barton wouldn’t have.”

  “That’s quite an interesting interpretation,” Durham said, clasping his hands at his waist. “And do you, like Detective Abrams, believe that Keith Chapman was framed, and that the real Seven of Spades is still alive?”

  “Yes, I do,” Dominic said without a moment’s hesitation.

  Durham waited for the crowd’s reaction to die down. “You must have a lot of faith in your partner.”

  “He’s the kind of man it’s easy to have faith in,” said Dominic.

  Levi swallowed past the ache in his throat. He dropped his gaze to his hands, but he could see Martine smiling in his peripheral vision.

  “I also have my own reasons for believing that, though. Detective Abrams and I were two of only a handful of people who were with Keith Chapman in his final hours. I heard his story firsthand, saw his behavior up close, realized how incredibly sick he was. I don’t know how much sense this can make to someone who wasn’t there themselves, but there’s no way Chapman was capable of the Seven of Spades murders. It’s just not possible.”

  Durham stood in front of the witness stand, absolutely flummoxed, having to revise his approach yet again.

  “Mr. Russo, I’d never question your integrity,” he said, as if he hadn’t spent the past ten minutes doing exactly that. “Like everyone here, I appreciate your service to this country, and the personal sacrifices you’ve made to protect our freedom.”

  “Thanks,” Dominic said dryly.

  “You’re obviously a man of great honor and loyalty. But sadly, there are people out there who will take advantage of good men such as yourself.”

  Dominic gave him a blank look.

  “You heard the gunshot from Detective Abrams’s hotel room, but you didn’t see what actually happened. The truth about that encounter is purely the detective’s word against Mr. Barton’s. The gun found at the scene was unregistered and couldn’t be traced, and it had both men’s fingerprints all over it.”

  “That’s true, but Barton’s hands tested positive for gunshot residue after he was arrested that night.”

  “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Barton fired at Detective Abrams in self-defense?”

  “No,” Dominic said.

  Durham raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Just no?”

  “That’s right.” Dominic’s body language wasn’t so casual anymore.

  “Oh no,” Levi muttered. It was extremely difficult to provoke Dominic, but he did have sore spots. His biggest weakness was his gambling, which Durham must not know anything about or he’d already have brought it up.

  His other weakness was Levi himself, and Durham was zeroing right in on that.

  “We’ve heard from Detective Abrams’s own testimony that he’s a skilled fighter capable of and willing to commit serious violence. His preoccupation with the Seven of Spades is such that it endangered his job. Meanwhile, your feelings for him are so strong that you rushed to his aid on nothing more than an anonymous text message and have supported him unwaveringly ever since.”

  “Make your point, counselor,” Sanchez said, while Dominic stared at Durham with a face like stone.

  “Isn’t it possible that Detective Abrams brought Mr. Barton to his hotel room with the malevolent intentions my client has described, then sent you those texts himself, knowing that you would never question his version of events?”

  “That’s insane,” said Dominic. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that Levi would impersonate the Seven of Spades.”

  Durham shrugged. “Maybe Detective Abrams is the Seven of Spades.”


  The resulting uproar was instantaneous and deafening. Levi rocked in his seat like he’d been punched in the gut, his back slamming against the wood. Martine’s hand tightened on his arm as if she thought he might leap up, but his legs wouldn’t have supported him even if he’d wanted to. Up on the stand, Dominic’s expression was dark with anger.

  Sanchez called repeatedly and uselessly for order. Over the din, Wu was shouting, “Objection, Your Honor, for God’s sake! This is wild, baseless speculation.”

  “Withdrawn,” Durham said before Sanchez could respond, but the damage was already done. Once something had been said, the jury couldn’t unhear it, regardless of the judge’s instructions to disregard the statement.

  Sanchez got the room under control eventually. Levi didn’t dare look at anyone but Dominic, but Dominic wasn’t looking back; he was scowling at Durham instead.

  “You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Mr. Russo, please watch your language,” Sanchez said, sounding pained.

  “Sorry, your Honor. But I can’t just sit here and listen to this.” Dominic leaned forward, speaking directly to Durham. “Drew Barton killed his wife. Detective Abrams proved that, so Barton tried to kill him. It’s that simple. Now you’re trying to assassinate the character of one of the best men I’ve ever known to protect this piece of shit—”

  “Mr. Russo.”

  “—but it’s not going to work, because you’ve gone way too far. The Seven of Spades has put Detective Abrams through hell, and what you just implied is one of the most sickening things I’ve ever heard. You should be ashamed of yourself.” He sat back, folded his arms, and said, “I’m sorry, Your Honor. It had to be said.”

  She nodded wearily. Durham, who had taken a couple of steps backward during Dominic’s speech, scanned the jury.

  He’d miscalculated. The angry outburst he’d provoked from Levi had been self-defense, which some people would find off-putting or even frightening. Dominic’s outburst, on the other hand, had been in defense of someone he cared for, which came across much differently. Now Dominic looked like an upset but protective boyfriend while Durham looked like a bullying asshole.

  “No further questions,” said Durham.

  “Good.” Sanchez rapped her gavel. “I think that’s enough for today. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning, at which point I expect to hear the presentation of more solid facts and fewer wild theories.”

  Chastened, Durham withdrew to the defendant’s table. As soon as the judge had taken her leave, Levi whispered, “I have to get out of here,” to Martine and slipped out of the courtroom as quickly and quietly as he could, considering that everyone in the vicinity was staring at him.

  He left the Regional Justice Center through the public entrance, trotted down the first flight of steps, and took refuge under one of the two dozen palm trees planted in front of the building. Leaning his shoulder against the trunk, he raked a hand through his curls and took a few deep breaths.

  A knot of uniformed officers were standing down by the curb, Jonah Gibbs amongst them, chatting and laughing with each other. Levi hoped they didn’t notice him; Gibbs’s attitude was the last thing he was prepared to deal with right now.

  “Hey,” Dominic said behind him. “You okay?”

  Levi turned around to face him and Martine. “Well, I was just accused of being a serial killer in a public courtroom, so no, I’m not having the best day.”

  “He didn’t mean it,” said Martine. “He was just trying to get a rise out of Dominic and make you both look bad. Everyone could see that.”

  That was true, but it did nothing to improve Levi’s mood. He’d always anticipated wanting a few drinks after this trial; now that need was imperative. “I just want you to take me home and get me so drunk I can’t see straight,” he told Dominic.

  “It’s barely four—”

  “I don’t care.”

  Durham and Barton emerged from the building then, their heads angled close together in conversation. Levi’s body tensed from head to foot.

  Durham saw their group, smiled, and walked right up to them with Barton in tow. “What a surprise running into you out here, Detective.”

  Levi was searching for some response other than loud angry cursing or punching him in the face when he was distracted by the slam of a car door down the street. A van from KTNV-TV had just pulled up, and a reporter and cameraman jumped out as he watched. They were joined within seconds by vehicles from three other news outlets.

  “Did you call the press?” he said in disbelief.

  “My client would like to make a public statement, as is his right.”

  “You’re not going to get away with what you did to me,” Barton said to Levi, though the facade of innocent victim was ruined by his nasty little smirk.

  Levi lunged forward without thinking about it. Dominic stepped in front of him, gripped him tightly by both elbows, and said, “Do. Not. Move.”

  “You’re turning this trial into a circus,” Martine said, giving Durham her best scornful glare. “Don’t you have any respect for your profession?”

  “You mean like a cop who breaks bones and beats people unconscious?”

  Levi strained against Dominic’s hold until Dominic shook him hard and hissed in his ear. “I swear to God I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here if you don’t calm the fuck down.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Levi, outraged by the very idea.

  “To keep you from making a career-ending mistake? You bet your sweet ass I would.”

  Before either of them could say anything more, the steps were inundated with a flood of clamoring reporters and flashing cameras. The commotion caught the attention of the cops by the street, though they stayed out of the way to observe from a distance. Levi tried to retreat himself, but as he was hemmed in by reporters on all sides, he ended up stuck close to Barton with Dominic beside him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for coming,” Durham called out. “All over the country, we’ve seen evidence of corruption inside our police departments. We’ve seen how unscrupulous officers abuse their power to intimidate, harass, and even physically assault the innocent citizens they’re charged with protecting.”

  “Oh no, he did not,” said Martine. Levi could only imagine her fury at hearing one wealthy white man say that about another.

  “But I for one will not stand for this injustice. My client, who has been unfairly targeted—”

  Crack.

  Barton’s head exploded, spraying Levi with blood and bone shards. He’d barely recoiled when Dominic dove atop him and bore him to the ground, bellowing, “Sniper!” at the top of his lungs.

  The steps of the justice center erupted in utter pandemonium. Frantic screams rang through the air as people fled in every direction, mowing each other over in their panicked rush to escape. One reporter stomped on a dropped camera, shattering it to pieces; another slipped in the pool of Barton’s blood and went down hard.

  Staying low, Dominic dragged Levi’s motionless body behind the shoddy cover of a palm tree. Martine crouched behind the next trunk over, her gun in one hand while she spoke urgently into her radio. Down by the road, the cops had taken cover where they could and were returning fire toward the source of the shot, a parking garage diagonally across the street.

  “If you don’t have eyes on the sniper, stop shooting!” Dominic shouted at them. “You’re firing into a populated building! Idiots.”

  Levi stared at Barton’s corpse where it lay crumpled on the steps. The sounds around him faded into the background like the roar of a distant ocean.

  “Levi. Levi!” Dominic tapped his cheek. “They wouldn’t let me bring my gun into the courtroom. I don’t have it on me.”

  Levi didn’t really hear him. There was only one thing he was listening for, and he hadn’t heard it yet—a second rifle round.

  Dominic said his name a few more times, but when Levi didn’t respond, he said, “
Sorry about this,” reached into Levi’s jacket, and pulled his gun out of his holster. “Jesus Christ, Martine, don’t your people know how to deal with an urban sniper?” he asked as he checked the magazine.

  “Only in theory,” she said grimly. “They’ve never been in this situation before.” She began yelling orders, urging the officers to follow protocol, which was to break into teams and flank the sniper’s suspected position from multiple angles.

  Levi stood up.

  “Whoa!” Dominic’s free hand shot out and closed around his wrist. “Levi, what the hell? Get down!”

  After disengaging with a simple wrist grab defense that was as natural as breathing, Levi walked over to Barton’s body. Blood dripped down his face and into his mouth; he spat it on the ground without pausing.

  He was wide open, completely exposed, but he didn’t care. Whether the Seven of Spades had taken the shot themself or hired someone else, they’d gotten what they wanted.

  Barton’s head was like a burst melon smeared across the concrete, even messier than when Keith Chapman had blown his own brains out. Durham was nowhere to be seen.

  Amidst a storm of cursing, Dominic ran out beside him, putting his body between Levi and the parking garage. Since Levi knew any danger had passed, he allowed it.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Levi said. His voice sounded mechanical even to his own ears. “Barton was the only target. The shooter is long gone by now.”

  “You don’t know—”

  A frightened cry behind them made them both whip around, but the officer in question wasn’t hurt. She was pointing across the street.

  A few months ago, the city had installed three-sided ad kiosks on certain streets, the kind that played simple video advertisements on a loop. As they watched, every single ad on each kiosk on Lewis Avenue blinked out one by one, replaced with the same image: a three-dimensional seven of spades card rotating on a black background.

  Awash in unreality, Levi slowly walked down the remaining steps to the curb, drawn closer against his will. Barton’s blood was hot and sticky on his face, his chest, but it was a distant discomfort, as if his consciousness was hovering outside his body. With Dominic and Martine standing on either side, he stopped and waited for what would come next.