The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

  His father left midway through the ceremony. Tim watched his solitary form make its way down the grassy hill, shoulders not squared with the resoluteness that ordinarily so defined his father’s posture, and his father.

  On the drive home Tim jerked the car to the side of the road and hunched over the wheel, his breath hammering through him. He used to wake up this way a few times a month upon his return from Croatia, flooded with images of mass graves, but he’d not before experienced such claustrophia in the daylight. Dray reached over, rubbed his neck lovingly, patiently. The sensation of constriction departed as suddenly as it had started. He sat staring numbly at the road, the rise and fall of his shoulders still pronounced.

  “I wanted to give her things I never had. A stable home. Support. I wanted to teach her ethics, respect for society—things I was never shown, things I had to find on my own. Now that’s gone. I lost the future.” He blew out a shaky breath. “What’s the point now? To make another mortgage payment? To get up for work another day, go to sleep another night?”

  Dray watched him, wiping her cheeks. “I don’t know.”

  They sat until Tim’s breathing returned to normal, then drove home in silence.

  Waiting for them on the doorstep was the morning paper, still unread. The cover photo featured Maybeck and Denley throwing high fives outside Room 9 of the Martía Domez Hotel as two cops carried off a body bag on a stretcher. Both deputies were smiling, and Denley’s glove was smudged with blood, probably from checking Heidel’s pulse inside. The headline read: U.S.MARSHALS CELEBRATE DOWNTOWN BLOODBATH. Without a word Dray walked the paper to the curb and dumped it in the recycling bin.

  In the middle of the night, Dray’s keening from the bedroom awakened Tim on the couch. He walked back to the bedroom and found the door locked. She answered his soft knock between sobs. “I just n-need…to do this alone for a while.”

  He returned to the couch and sat, her sobs reaching him muffled through the walls.

  To respect Dray’s need for space, Tim took to brushing his teeth and showering in the other bathroom, near the garage, entering the bedroom only to get clean clothes. On the coffee table beside the couch, he put an alarm clock and a reading lamp. Marshal Tannino had asked him to take a few days while things cooled down, so Tim tried to keep busy, working out, doing small repairs around the house, trying to limit the time each day he spent feeling sorry for himself or basking in his unrequited hatred of Kindell.

  He and Dray ate at different times so as not to overlap in the kitchen, and when they passed each other, their eye contact was short and uncomfortable. Ginny’s absence loomed large in the house, a growing shadow that fell between them.

  If Tim had bothered to turn on the TV or read the newspaper, he would have seen that the Heidel shooting had captured that hottest spotlight of all, the attention of the L.A. media. Highlights from the trial of Jedediah Lane—the right-wing extremist thought responsible for releasing sarin nerve gas at the regional office of the Census Bureau—occasionally bumped the shootings from the front page, but Tim’s story proved to have surprising staying power. Phone calls from the press trickled in at first, then reached a fevered pitch. Soon Tim could glean whether it was a press call based on how firmly Dray put the phone down. Tim raised the issue of getting a new number, but Dray, unwilling to concede another change no matter how small, wouldn’t have it. Mercifully, no media made the trek to their house.

  Tim was to give a statement for the shooting review board the day before Kindell’s preliminary hearing. He awakened early and showered. When he entered the bedroom, Dray was sitting on the bed, her hands in her lap. They exchanged polite greetings.

  Tim walked to his closet and gazed inside. His three suit jackets were center-vented so his pistol would never be exposed at his hip. All his shoes were lace-up; he’d learned the hard way about loafers his first time walking the fenders on a Protective Services detail on a muddy afternoon.

  He dressed quickly, then sat on the bed opposite Dray to pull on his shoes.

  “Nervous?” she asked.

  He tied his shoelaces and crossed to the gun safe before remembering that he no longer had a service-issued weapon. “Yes. More about the prelim tomorrow.”

  “He’s gonna be sitting there. In the same room as us.” She shook her head, mouth firmed with anger. “He’s all we have on this. Kindell. No accomplice, nothing else.” She stood up, as if sitting left her in too vulnerable a position. “What if they let him plea-bargain? Or if the jury doesn’t believe he did it?”

  “It won’t happen. The DA will never let him plead out, and there’s enough evidence to convict him six times over. It’ll go smoothly, we’ll have ringside seats at the lethal injection, and then we can get on with things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like finding the right place for Ginny. Like figuring out what parts of all this to let go. Like learning to live in this house together again.” His voice was soft and held longing. He could see his words working on Dray, cutting through some of the calluses the friction of the past days had built up between them.

  “Two weeks ago we were a family,” Dray said. “I mean, we were so close, we were the ones they were jealous of. The other ones, with the bad marriages. And now, when I need you the most, I don’t even recognize you.” She sat back down on the bed. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

  Tim thumbed the snap on his empty holster. “I don’t recognize us either.”

  They shifted and waited, studying everything but each other. Tim searched for what he wanted to say but found nothing except confusion and an intense, unfamiliar need for assurance that unsettled him further.

  Finally Dray said, “Good luck with the shooting board.”

  8

  REPORTERS CLUNG TO the courthouse steps like pigeons, trailing cords and setting up their field lead-ins. Tim drove past unnoticed and pulled through a gated entrance into the lot. Marshal Tannino’s office and those of his chiefs were arrayed along a quiet, carpeted hall behind the courthouse that felt more East Coast library than West Coast lowest bidder. The administrative offices were farther down the hall, past an immense antique safe from a late nineteenth-century marshal’s stagecoach escort team.

  Bear was sitting on a chair in the small lounge, flirting with the marshal’s assistant and, from her weary expression of forbearance, doing a bad job of it. He stood quickly when Tim entered and ushered him into the hall.

  “I’ve got to make a statement in three minutes, Bear.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “We had to take the phones off the hook. Too many—”

  “I drove over to your house two nights ago. Dray said you were out shooting.” Bear studied Tim’s face. “She didn’t tell you I stopped by?”

  “We haven’t been talking so much lately.”

  “Jesus Christ, Rack. Why the hell not?”

  A flare of anger that Tim smothered. “Look, I need to focus on my shooting statement right now.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Bear took a deep breath, held it for a moment. “You’re getting ambushed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you been watching the news?”

  “No, Bear. I’ve been dealing with more important stuff. Like burying my daughter.” Bear took a step back, and Tim inhaled deeply, then squeezed his eyes hard with his thumb and index finger. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

  “The coverage has been pretty ugly. There’s this high-five picture—”

  “I saw it.”

  Bear lowered his voice as a couple of DOJ suits walked by. “It’s getting play like the shot of the INS agent with the MP-5 in Elián González’s face. On top of that, some Mexican Al Sharpton out of Texas has been beating the drum—”

  “That’s ridiculous. Heidel was white, and half our team was Hispanic.”

  “But the photograph is of Denley and Maybeck, and they’re both white. And all that matters is that fucking photo,
not the facts behind it.”

  Tim held up his hands, a gesture of patience and capitulation. “I can’t control press coverage.”

  “Well, you’re not just repeating your statement in there. A few shooting review board members flew out from HQ. You’re gonna get the full-court press.”

  “Fair enough. It was a high-profile shooting. There’s a process. I get it.”

  “Listen, Rack, this thing gets out of hand, goes civil or criminal, I’m gonna represent you. I don’t care if I have to resign—I got your back.”

  “I knew law school would turn you paranoid.”

  “This is serious stuff, Rack. Now, I know I’m just a dumb-ass who took a few night classes, but I can rep you for free and get you a real attorney to cover the hard shit.”

  “I appreciate that, Bear. Thank you. But it’s gonna be fine.”

  The marshal’s assistant stuck her head into the hall. “They’re ready for you, Deputy Rackley.” She withdrew without acknowledging Bear.

  “‘Deputy Rackley,’” Tim repeated, troubled by her formality.

  “I just wanted to warn you.”

  “Thank you.” Tim tapped Bear on the ribs. “How’s the bruising?”

  Bear tried not to wince. “Don’t hurt at all.”

  Tim started back for the lounge. When he turned around, Bear was still watching him.

  •The big brick of a tape recorder shushed hypnotically in the center of the elongated table. Tim’s chair, with its middling size and cheap upholstery, was no match for the high-backed black leather numbers his interviewers commanded on the opposing side. Tim jiggled the handle beneath his seat inconspicuously, trying to elevate it.

  With painstaking detail they’d covered every inch of Tim’s account of his shooting of Gary Heidel and Lydia Ramirez. The Internal Affairs guy wasn’t so bad, but the woman from Investigative Services and the gunner from Legal were attack dogs in knockoff suits. Tim’s forehead felt moist, but he refrained from wiping it.

  The woman uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her finger tracing something in the file before her. “You claim you emerged from the alley and saw Carlos Mendez reaching for his weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you issue a warning to Mr. Mendez?”

  “The firing of warning shots is against agency regulation.”

  “As is firing at fleeing suspects, Deputy Rackley.”

  The Internal Affairs inspector shot her a look of irritation. He was an older guy, probably switched over to IA to log a few more years of service before retirement. Tim remembered he’d introduced himself as Dennis Reed. “This was not merely a fleeing suspect, Deborah. He was armed and intent on firing.”

  She made a calming gesture with her hands. “Did you issue an oral warning to Mr. Mendez?”

  “We’d been issuing oral warnings for the preceding seven minutes to no avail. Two people were already dead as a result of the fugitives’ failure to heed those warnings.”

  “Did you issue another oral warning immediately before you fired on Mr. Mendez?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was no time.”

  “There was no time for you to issue a final command of any sort?”

  “I believe that’s what I just said.”

  “But there was enough time for you to draw your weapon and fire three shots?”

  “The final two shots were irrelevant.”

  If Reed’s smirk was any indication, he liked Tim’s answer.

  “Let me rephrase my question. There was enough time for you to draw your weapon and fire the first shot but not to issue an oral warning of any kind?”

  “Yes.”

  She feigned immense puzzlement. “How is that possible, Deputy Rackley?”

  “I’m a very quick draw, ma’am.”

  “I see. And were you concerned that Mr. Mendez was going to fire at you?”

  “My primary concern was for the safety of others. We were on a street filled with civilians.”

  “So I can take that to mean that you weren’t concerned he was going to fire at you?”

  “I thought he was probably going to shoot one of the police officers in front of him.”

  “‘Thought,’” the lawyer said. “‘Probably.’”

  “That’s right,” Tim said. “Only I used them in a complete sentence.”

  “There’s no need to get defensive, Deputy Rackley. We’re all on the same side here.”

  “Right,” Tim said.

  The woman flipped through the file, then frowned, as if she’d just discovered something. “The crime-scene report indicates that Mr. Mendez’s weapon was still tucked into the back of his jeans when they assessed the body.”

  “Then we should be grateful he wasn’t given the opportunity to draw it.”

  “So he wasn’t trying to draw the weapon?”

  Tim watched the wheels of the tape recorder spin their lethargic circles. “I said he wasn’t given the opportunity to draw it. He was, in fact, attempting to draw it.”

  “We have mixed eyewitness reports regarding that fact.”

  “I was the only one behind him.”

  “Uh-huh. On the alley side.”

  “That’s right.” Tim let out his breath through his teeth. “As I said, he was a clear—”

  “Threat to the safety of others,” she said. His textbook recitation of the deadly-force policy inspired a note of disdain, almost parody.

  The lawyer perked up in his chair, evidently sighting a lead-in. “Let’s talk about the ‘safety of others.’ Did you have target acquisition?”

  Reed grimaced. “I’d say from the looks of the body, he had pretty damn good target acquisition, Pat.”

  Pat ignored him, continuing to address Tim. “Are you aware that there were civilians in the backdrop when you took that shot? A whole crowd, in fact?”

  “Yes. Those civilians were my concern. That’s why I elected to use deadly force.”

  “If you had missed, your round would almost definitely have struck one of those civilians.”

  “That’s highly debatable.”

  “But what if you had missed?”

  “Our pre-op briefing made clear the fugitives had nothing to lose, as it made clear their unwillingness to be taken alive. Mendez’s behavior, from the time he aided in taking me hostage, only reinforced this intel. He, like Heidel and Ramirez, was willing to kill any number of people to evade capture. It was a clear calculation: My chances of taking him out were vastly greater than the chances of his not killing someone once he got his weapon free and clear.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Deputy Rackley.” Pat slid his pen behind his ear and crossed his arms. “What if you had missed?”

  “I shot a consistent twenty out of twenty on the pistol qual course as a Ranger, and I’m a six-time qualified three-hundred shooter as a deputy marshal. I wasn’t planning on missing.”

  “Well, bravo. But a deputy marshal in the field has to be willing to consider every potentiality.”

  Reed rocked forward and thumped his elbows on the table. “Just because he agreed to submit to questioning does not give you the right to drag him over the coals. There’s a subjective element to every decision to engage with deadly force. If you’d ever toted a gun, you’d be aware of that.”

  “Excellent point, Dennis. I’ve heard packing heat greatly enhances one’s interpretation of the law.”

  Reed pointed at Pat. “Watch your step. I’m not having you harass a good deputy. Not in my presence.”

  “Moving on,” the woman said. “I understand you’ve had a recent trauma in your personal life?”

  Tim waited several seconds to answer. “Yes.”

  “Your daughter was killed?”

  “Yes.” Despite his efforts, some of his fury crept into his voice.

  “Do you think this event may have influenced any of your actions during these shootings?”

  He felt the heat rise to his face. “
This ‘event’ has influenced every single moment of my life since. But it hasn’t altered my professional judgment.”

  “You don’t think that you may have been feeling…aggressive or…retaliatory?”

  “Had I not been in fear for my life or concerned for the lives of others, I would have done everything in my power to bring those fugitives in alive. Everything in my power.”

  Pat tilted back in his chair and made a little temple with his pudgy fingers. “Really?”

  Tim stood up and placed both his hands palm down on the table. “I am a deputy U.S. marshal. Do I look like a soldier of fortune to you?”

  “Listen—”

  “I’m not talking to you, ma’am.” Tim didn’t remove his eyes from Pat. Pat remained tilted back in his chair, fingers pressed together. When it became clear he wasn’t going to respond, Tim reached over and turned off the tape recorder. “I’m done answering questions. Anything further, you can talk to my FLEOA rep.”

  Reed rose as Tim exited, but Pat and the woman remained seated. As Tim walked away, he could hear Reed start laying into them. The marshal’s assistant stood as he passed her, heading for Tannino’s office.

  “Tim, he’s in with someone right now. You can’t just—”

  Tim knocked on the marshal’s door, then opened it. Tannino sat behind an immense wood desk. An overweight man in a dark suit was sprawled on the couch opposite, smoking a brown cigarette.

  “Marshal Tannino, I’m very sorry to interrupt you, but I really need a moment.”

  “Of course.” Tannino exchanged a few words of Italian with the man as he showed him out. He closed the door, then waved a hand at the cigarette smoke, shaking his head. “Diplomats.” He gestured to the couch. “Please, sit.”

  Though he didn’t want to, Tim sat. His dress shirt was pinching him at the shoulders.

  “I’m not gonna lie to you, Rackley. The press is bad. Now, I understand you weren’t one of the knuckleheads throwing high fives, but you were the shooter, and we both know shooters take the scrutiny. Deserved or not, the service got a black eye on this one. Here’s the good news: The shooting review board is convening next week at headquarters, and they’re going to clear you.”