by Steven James
It wasn’t what Tessa had thought she would say. “I guess I will.”
“That’s a rather harsh punishment to sentence yourself to, don’t you think? For something you had no control over?”
That wasn’t what she’d expected her to say either.
Someone behind them honked, and Tessa finally stepped out of the car.
“Good luck on your exams,” Martha said. “And take care of that arm.”
“How did you-”
“I found the bandage you threw away last night. It was in your trash can. Right on top of the diary.”
“Oh, right-wait, how’d you know it was my arm?”
“I’ve seen your scars, dear.”
Then Martha gave her a smile, and Tessa closed the door and crossed the sidewalk.
After a few steps, she glanced back to see if Martha was still there, but she’d already driven away.
Then the five-minute bell rang and Tessa swung her knapsack over her shoulder and walked up the steps, but her mind wasn’t on her upcoming exams; instead she was thinking about the diary and the bloody bandage she’d dropped on top of it.
And the harsh sentence she’d handed to herself.
There are a lot of different kinds of scars.
And she had a feeling Martha had seen more than just the ones on her arm.
94
The Cook County Criminal Courthouse Chicago, Illinois8:27 a.m. Central Time
I knew the media frenzy today would be even more intense than it’d been on Friday, and I really didn’t want to face any reporters, so I’d made arrangements for Ralph to meet me at the back door of the courthouse. And now as he opened the door and gestured for me to come in, I saw that his face was swollen. “What happened to you?”
“Turns out I’m allergic to raisins,” he grumbled.
“You’re almost forty years old. How could you only find that out now?”
“Don’t ask me. I guess I never ate quite so many at once before. Now, get in here.”
I joined him inside. “Maybe you’re allergic to being bald.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s sort of funny.”
“Keep it up, Mr. Profiler, see what happens.” I started toward the main lobby, but he directed me down the east hallway. “I convinced ’em to set up a secondary security screening area, so people involved in the trial don’t have to walk past the protestors. It’s this way.”
“Good call.”
“There’s a lot going on,” he said. “I need to fill you in on a few things.”
“Do you mean Calvin?”
“Calvin?”
“Yes,” I said. “I talked to him this morning. Did you know he’s in Denver?”
Ralph stopped walking. “You talked to Calvin?”
“Just before I left the hotel.”
“What did he say?”
Ralph seemed curious, but something deeper as well, and as I summarized my conversation with Calvin he listened intently, then began walking again. “He didn’t mention anything else? Calvin, I mean?”
“No.” We arrived at the security checkpoint. “Why? What’s going on?”
After the shooting last week, security was even tighter than it had been on Friday, and most of the people passing through were being patted down. Thankfully, Ralph and I didn’t have to deal with that, although we did have to hand over our weapons.
“When I couldn’t find him yesterday,” Ralph said, “I did some checking. Ran a complete background, the whole nine.” Ralph wasn’t looking at me, and I got the feeling he was avoiding eye contact on purpose. “Medical records included.”
I didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. “You found something.” He was quiet as we gathered our things from the far side of the X-ray conveyor belt. “What is it?”
Ralph eyed the hallway in both directions, then motioned for me to join him in an out-of-the-way alcove at the end of the hall.
“Tell me, Ralph. What’s going on?”
After we were alone, he said, “I think there’s a reason Calvin has become so interested in seeing justice carried out promptly.”
My thoughts leapt ahead to the most obvious conclusion, one that I didn’t want to be true. One that couldn’t possibly be true. “You’re not saying…?”
Ralph didn’t answer. I waited. He looked conflicted. Torn. At last he put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
“No.” I shook my head. “It can’t be. He would have told me.”
“I talked to a couple of his family members. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even told them.”
A crushing sadness overwhelmed me. “I need to get back to Denver, Ralph. I need to find him.”
“You need to testify first.”
“No, Ralph. I have to-”
“You just told me Kurt was looking for him,” Ralph said firmly. “He’ll find Calvin. You’ll see him when you get back tonight, it’ll all work out. Right now you need to be here at this trial.” He tapped my head. “All of you needs to be here.”
He was right, of course, but I needed to take a couple seconds to think things through.
“You all right?”
Grant Sikora’s dying request flashed through my mind.
“Promise me you won’t let him do it again.”
“I promise.”
“All right,” I told Ralph. “I’m good. Let’s go.”
95
“So, you know what you’re going to say up there?” It was Emilio Vandez, and the beginning of the trial was only minutes away.
I thought of the story about the midwives, about how they’d lied to protect innocent lives and God had honored them for it. And, despite Calvin’s misgivings about his guilt, I was still convinced that Basque was responsible for the murders-and that he would kill again if he were set free.
“Yes,” I told Emilio. “I think I know what I’m going to say.”
“All right.” He chugged my shoulder good-naturedly. “Then let’s do this thing.”
I slipped out Tessa’s cell phone and found no messages from Kurt about whether or not they’d found Calvin, or if Adrian Bryant and Benjamin Rhodes were still alive. Then the bailiff rose, I shut off the phone, and the trial began.
The opening trial procedures seemed to take forever, but finally, I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then I took my seat on the witness stand-an act that Tessa had pointed out to me one time was an oxymoronic thing to do-and surveyed the courtroom.
Emilio Vandez looked anxious.
Judge Craddock, annoyed.
The jury, exhausted.
Richard Basque, confident.
And Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman looked pleased to be on center stage once again.
She spent a few minutes reviewing the previous week’s proceedings, being careful to avoid drawing too much attention to the attempt on her client’s life. I suspected she was concerned that bringing up the attempted murder might cause the jurors to become convinced that Basque really was guilty-after all, why would Grant Sikora have tried to kill him if he were innocent?
But she was taking longer than she needed to, and five minutes after I thought he should have objected, Emilio finally did, saying that if she wasn’t going to ask me any questions, why had she called me back to the stand in the first place?
Judge Craddock told Ms. Eldridge-Gorman to get on with it already.
“Of course, Your Honor.” She plucked up a file folder.
“Just to remind the jurors, immediately prior to the terrible incident on Friday, I had asked Dr. Bowers if he assaulted my client after arresting him thirteen years ago in the slaughterhouse. I would like to resume my questioning there, but, if it pleases Your Honor, may I request that the court reporter read the transcripts of the final moments of Friday’s testimony so that the jury can have an accurate accounting of the line of questioning?”
Judge Craddock nodded toward the court reporter,
who took a moment to shuffle through a stack of papers and then read: “Coun-sel: ‘Did you break Richard Basque’s jaw with your fist? Did you attack him after he was handcuffed?’” He paused and asked Priscilla, “Is that where you want me to start?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
The court reporter went on, “Counsel: ‘Dr. Bowers. Are you having trouble remembering that night at the slaughterhouse? I’ll ask you one last time. Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse? Judge Craddock, please direct the witness to answer the question.’ Judge Craddock: ‘Dr. Bowers, I advise you to answer the counselor’s question. Will you answer the counselor’s question?’ Witness: ‘No.’ Judge Craddock: ‘No?’” The court reporter paused. “And then…”
“Yes,” Priscilla said. “That’ll be fine.” She gazed at me. “Dr. Bowers, you answered no. Was that in response to my question, or to the honorable Judge Craddock’s question?”
I hadn’t realized I’d actually said no aloud. “I was responding to Sikora’s movement toward the gun,” I said, “not to your question or Judge Craddock’s.”
She might have pounced, arguing that I must have been answering either her or the judge, but she didn’t go there. I assumed that once again she was avoiding that line of questioning so she could stay clear of what she’d referred to a few moments ago as “the terrible incident.”
Instead, she opened the manila folder.
“I have here the original case files from thirteen years ago in Milwaukee. Just to refresh your memory, Dr. Bowers, here’s what you wrote concerning the arrest: ‘There was an altercation. Later it was discovered that the suspect’s jaw was broken sometime in the midst of his apprehension.’ Are those your words?”
“Yes, they are, and-”
“I checked the case files.” She cut me off, and though it annoyed me, I decided to let her be the rude one. I would bide my time. “And your description of the events fits the one given by my client during his interrogation-that he broke his jaw when you swung a meat hook at his face. But in preparation for this trial when I asked him about his injury, he told me that he was afraid of you and that’s why he didn’t tell the truth during his interrogation.”
She took a moment to gesture toward Basque.
“My client claims that after you pulled your gun on him and he tried to run, you tackled him, handcuffed him, and then beat him. Of course, he might be lying. He might just be saying that to get set free. You could clarify everything right now, and certainly the jury will believe you, Special Agent Bowers, PhD.”
Oh, she was good. She was really good.
The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I waited, but her question didn’t come.
And as I waited, I remembered that night in the slaughterhouse, the desperate, terrified look on Sylvia Padilla’s face as she died.. .
Cheyenne’s pendant pressed against me through my pants pocket, and I recalled her comment that dying alone was the worst way to die.
“So, let me get back to my original question,” Priscilla said, “the one that I asked you on Friday.”
I remembered my conversation with Calvin about justice. And I remembered the midwives protecting those babies.
“Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque. ..”
And arresting Basque.
And the satisfying crunch of my fist against his jaw.
“… after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse?”
Truth and justice always wrestle against each other in our courts.
Always.
On Friday I’d told Calvin that justice isn’t served when truth is censored.
Now, I realized Basque wasn’t the only one on trial.
So was I.
So was my past. My conscience.
I opened my mouth to answer Priscilla’s question.
And hesitated.
“Once again,” Priscilla said petulantly, “we wait for an answer.” I made a decision.
“So here we are-” she began.
“This is what happened.” And then I told the court the truth about what happened that night in the slaughterhouse.
96
As I related the facts, all of them, I knew I was signing a death warrant to my credibility, and probably to my career. Even worse, I realized I was creating empathy for Basque among the jurors and that those feelings would most likely influence their verdict.
But unlike the midwives or the people in the other biblical stories, at the moment, I wasn’t being asked to hand innocent people over to certain death. I was only being asked to tell the truth. If Basque were set free I would deal with that when the time came.
“I hit the defendant in the jaw,” I said. “I hit him twice after he was handcuffed, after he was in custody. It wasn’t the meat hook that broke his jaw, it was my fist.”
Judge Craddock leaned forward and actually seemed interested in the trial. I thought the jury would be surprised by what I’d said, but most of them just looked disappointed instead.
Priscilla smiled. “That’s all I have.” And for a moment she reminded me of a snake that had just swallowed a mouse. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Does the prosecution wish to redirect?” Judge Craddock asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Emilio stood.
I glanced at the clock on the east wall.
12:04 p.m.
Still plenty of time to get to O’Hare for my 1:59 flight, if Emilio didn’t drag things out.
But he did.
He composed himself, and before asking me any questions, took his time distancing my actions in the warehouse from the crimes Basque was accused of. “Agent Bowers’s reaction only reflects the deep anger any of us would have felt coming face to face with the scene in the slaughterhouse that day,” he told the jury. “The evidence tells the story of Mr. Basque’s guilt, and it is the evidence, and the evidence alone upon which you must base your verdict.”
Finally, he asked me a few questions, and I answered them, but in the end I suspected the damage had already been done. Regardless of how guilty Basque was, the fact that I’d assaulted him and then apparently tried to cover it up by not being more forthcoming in my original police report would be enough to discredit my testimony.
And as every defense attorney knows, discrediting even one of the prosecution’s witnesses-especially the arresting officer-is enough to raise questions in the minds of the jurors. And since our court system requires a jury to unanimously find a defendant guilty beyond reasonable doubt, a few questions were all you needed for an acquittal.
When Emilio finished, Judge Craddock called for a brief recess for lunch, I stepped from the witness stand, and my duties in Chicago were officially over.
12:28 p.m.
As I collected my things and got ready to leave, Emilio came toward me. “Well,” he said. “That was a little rocky, but I think we’ll be all right.” He was putting his best spin on what had just happened, and I could tell. “And I don’t think you need to worry about Basque pressing charges. The statute of limitations in Wisconsin for physical assault have-”
“Run out. I know. That isn’t really what concerns me.” I noticed that Richard Basque was watching me, shaking his head slowly as if to reprimand me for telling the truth.
And then he called to me, “No one is beyond redemption, Agent Bowers.”
The old, familiar anger churned inside of me, searching for an opportunity to get out. I didn’t reply, just turned away before I found myself giving in to my urges and attacking him like I’d done the night I arrested him.
He didn’t say anything more.
Why did he ask you to lie?
I still had no idea.
Emilio was watching Ms. Eldridge-Gorman, who was chatting amiably with her legal team. “However,” he said, “it is true that things have become a bit more complicated.”
I thought of the weight I�
��d been carrying all these years, the subtle power Basque had exerted over me by knowing my secret. Now, there were no secrets. “No,” I said to Emilio. “Things were complicated. They just became a lot simpler.”
Then he stepped away, and I checked my watch.
12:32 p.m.
My flight left in less than ninety minutes and I still had a forty minute drive to O’Hare. It would be cutting it close.
On the way to the hall I called Kurt, asked him about Calvin, and he told me rather bluntly that he would have let me know if he’d found out anything and that I didn’t need to keep bothering him about it.
OK?
I wasn’t sure how to take his sharp tone, and for a moment neither of us spoke, then I said, “Kurt, what is it? What’s up?”
“Yeah, it’s the…” Kurt was a tough man, but I could hear defeat creeping into his voice. Whatever was bothering him was something big. “It’s Cheryl,” he said finally.
I felt a rush of concern, and I paused beside the door. “What happened?”
Silence.
“Is she all right?” I said. “Did something happen to-”
“She left me.”
The words slammed into me. Left me groping for what to say. “Kurt, I’m so… I’m so sorry.”
“She went to her sister’s place up in Breckenridge.” It seemed like there was more he wanted to say, but he left it at that.
I wanted to encourage him, to tell him it would all work out, but I knew how long he and Cheryl had struggled to make things work, and there are no easy fixes when things got to this point. Finally, I asked him if there was anything, anything at all, I could do.
“I need some time,” he said. “I’m not trying to bail on you, but I need to go up there, maybe take a couple days, see if I can salvage this thing. I can’t just let everything-”
“Go. We’ll be fine. We’ll get John. And if there’s anything you need, call me. OK?”
He told me that he would. “Cell reception up there in the mountains is terrible, but yeah, I’ll give you a shout.” We ended the call, and I was left wishing there was more I could do, but since I didn’t have a direct flight, I wouldn’t land in Denver until almost six.
