Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

by Diane Kelly

  It took her ten minutes to make her point. She’d been arrested on suspicion of driving while intoxicated but released when a blood alcohol test indicated she was far below the legal limit. I could see why the officer had been confused. The woman wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. It had probably been hard to tell where dumb ended and drunk began. Still, in case the woman’s experience might taint her opinion of law enforcement, Trumbull dismissed her for cause.

  Next, Giacomo asked if any of the jurors had ever had a problem with the IRS. Two raised their hands. One woman was angry that she’d been held responsible for taxes on her husband’s plumbing business when he’d failed to report his income on their joint tax return.

  “How was I supposed to know he’d earned fifty grand?” she said.

  Gee, you’d think she might’ve clued in by the fact that she only worked part-time as a cashier at a grocery store yet they were still somehow able to make ends meet.

  Trumbull sent the cashier on her merry, lying way.

  Another potential juror had been assessed forty grand in payroll taxes after improperly classifying the cooks and waitstaff in his burger joint as independent contractors rather than employees. “I’m still paying off those taxes,” he snapped, casting an angry glance my way as if his tax debt were my fault.

  Trumbull dismissed him for cause, too.

  Finally, the pool had been whittled down. From among those who remained, Judge Trumbull picked fifteen names, twelve jurors and three alternates. Of the twelve, seven were women and five were men. The man with the birdshot in his butt was among them.

  I looked them over, hoping they’d be understanding. I wondered if they realized what power they held.

  My entire future was in their hands.

  chapter thirty-eight

  SWAT Sweat

  Jury selection completed, Judge Trumbull offered everyone a short break. While Kerr took advantage of the time to speak with reporters, my attorney took a final look at his list of questions for the witnesses and I used the time to produce copious amounts of flop sweat. My gray suit jacket stuck to my back like a scuba suit. Ick.

  As the break ended, the leader of the SWAT team, Officer Lamar Thomas, entered the room. Thomas was a tall black man with a military-style haircut and muscles on his muscles. He wore his Dallas SWAT uniform and even I had to admit he looked impressive. He was the one who’d been supposed to lead the raid on Guys & Dolls that fateful night.

  Thanks to the break in a water main, the SWAT team had been late to arrive. Given the unpredictable nature of Dallas traffic, you’d think he would’ve budgeted extra time for a potential problem. If you asked me, he was partly to blame for my predicament. Had the SWAT team been in place as planned, they would’ve handled the bust, I’d still be a special agent, and my bank account balance wouldn’t be so laughably low. I fought the urge to run over and stomp his big toe.

  When the jury returned and took their seats in the jury box, Trumbull looked down at the prosecution table. “Opening arguments,” she announced. “You’re up, Mr. Kerr.”

  Troy Kerr’s opener was essentially an expansion on what he’d told the jurors prior to questioning them, that their job was not to determine whether Don Geils deserved to be shot four times in the leg—because everyone knows he did!—but whether I’d abused my authority and used excessive force in my arrest of Don Geils.

  Kerr pointed at me. “As the evidence will show, when Tara Holloway fired her first round into Don Geils’s leg, he dropped his weapon. But she didn’t stop there. She went on to put another bullet in his leg. She didn’t stop there, either. In fact, she put a third and fourth bullet into his leg. Four, folks.” He formed a gun with his thumb and index finger and aimed it at the jury. “Bang … bang … bang … bang.” He raised his finger to his lips and pretended to blow away the smoke before taking his seat.

  Giacomo stood for his opener. He cut his eyes to Kerr. “Blowing smoke.” He turned to the jury. “That’s exactly what the prosecution is doing here.”

  Ooh. Good one.

  He stepped over to the jury box and put his hands on the half wall that enclosed them. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m not going to insult you by engaging in silly melodrama. You’re too smart to fall for corny theatrics. I’m merely going to ask you to do one thing. As you listen to the testimony in this trial, put yourself in the place of Tara Holloway that night.” He leaned toward them. “Look through her eyes. Listen with her ears.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “Feel with her heart.”

  He ran his gaze over the jury as he stepped back a foot or two. “The federal government gave Miss Holloway a badge, a gun, and a job to do. It trusted her to do what’s right. Now she’s trusting you to do the same.”

  With that, Anthony returned to his seat.

  Trumbull instructed Kerr to call his first witness. Kerr called Thomas to the stand.

  As Thomas stood in the witness booth, the bailiff looked the man up and down, clearly appreciating what she saw, before raising the Bible for his oath. She swore the man in and he took a seat.

  Kerr led Thomas through a series of questions regarding the plan we’d made for the night of the raid.

  “Did things go according to plan?” Kerr asked.

  “Not at all.” Thomas’ gaze swung my way before swinging back to the prosecutor. “The team was delayed only a minute or two by a break in a water main. When we arrived at the club, we saw Miss Holloway heading inside. She was supposed to hold the door open for us, then stay outside while the SWAT team made our sweep. We ended up having to break the door down to get in. When we got inside, we found three of the security staff with bullets in their feet and another with a concussion from a strike to the temple. It was then I heard gunshots coming from a room in the corner.”

  The door to the courtroom opened behind us. We all turned to see Don Geils being led into the room by a U.S. marshal. Geils’ black hair was as thick and coarse as ever, though his roots were gray. Looked like the prison store didn’t stock Just For Men hair color. His sizable paunch had shrunk a bit. Either prison food didn’t agree with him or he spent his time in the yard running from other prisoners attempting to woo him. He seemed even shorter without his stacked heels. He wore the standard khaki federal prison uniform, his hands cuffed in front of him. He walked with an uneven gait I suspected was exaggerated. He limped his way forward until the marshal gestured for him to take a seat in the fourth row.

  I forced my eyes away from him. Worthless bastard.

  “Let’s talk about those gunshots,” Kerr said, turning his attention back to the witness on the stand. “How many seconds elapsed between them?”

  “The second shot came immediately after the first one,” Officer Thomas said, “but there were two or three seconds between the rest of them.”

  Several members of the jury glanced over at me as if to gauge my reaction. I hoped I looked nonplussed. In reality, I was scared shitless. Had I fired in rapid succession, the shots would look more like a reflex or impulse. The fact that a few seconds elapsed between each shot made them appear more questionable. Still, when I’d fired my gun that night I’d been beside myself with rage and terror. I’d used every bit of my restraint not killing Geils. Then some sort of autopilot had taken over.

  Kerr asked Thomas only a couple more questions, then passed the witness.

  Giacomo stood, buttoned the coat of his designer suit, and approached the officer. He didn’t stop until he reached the divider. The vision was comical. Even seated, Thomas was nearly as tall as Giacomo, and he was half again as wide. They looked like David and Goliath.

  The attorney looked the officer over appraisingly. “You are a mighty big man, Officer Thomas.”

  Thomas chuckled. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Six foot four.”

  “Wow. Weight?”

  “Two twenty.”

  Anthony gestured to the officer’s upper arm
s. “Your biceps are enormous. How much can you bench-press?”

  “The same,” Thomas replied. “Two twenty.”

  “Impressive.”

  I glanced over at Kerr. His expression was quizzical, as if he couldn’t understand why my attorney was making his witness look good. I wasn’t so sure myself.

  Giacomo cocked his head as he eyed Thomas. “Is your size part of the reason you were appointed to lead the SWAT team?”

  “My physical abilities were part of it,” Thomas said. “Also my leadership abilities.”

  “Your team respects you? Does what you ask of them?”

  “If they didn’t do what I told them, they wouldn’t be part of SWAT. Not for long, anyway.”

  Giacomo raised a finger. “You make a good point. The officers who join SWAT, they’re a special breed, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Thomas agreed. “Very driven. Dedicated. Willing to take risks.”

  “Do you enjoy leading your SWAT team?”

  “I do,” Thomas said. “We work together well.”

  “Lots of planning and anticipation go into the raids?”

  “Of course.”

  Giacomo had the witness eating out of his hand. “It must be extremely satisfying when you make a successful bust.”

  “There’s nothing like it.”

  “Then it must also be very frustrating when you expect to make a bust, but someone else beats you to the punch.”

  Thomas didn’t respond verbally, but he stiffened, realizing now where Giacomo had led him with his flattery.

  Kerr stood and objected. “The defense hasn’t asked a question.”

  Trumbull raised a brow at Giacomo, who rephrased his words. “Obviously, being so dedicated and driven, you’d feel frustrated if you anticipated making a major bust only to be thwarted by the fact that another officer had already taken care of things. Isn’t that true?”

  Thomas would look like a fool if he argued the point, and the SWAT officer was no fool. “It would be natural to feel a little frustrated, though it’s always good to see a criminal get his due, no matter who handles the arrest.”

  Giacomo left it at that. The seed had been planted in the jury’s mind. No need to press the point further.

  Giacomo took a couple steps back from the witness-box. “You’ve admitted that the SWAT team was late arriving at the club that night, correct?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but only a minute or two.”

  “Isn’t it true, Officer Thomas, that timing is critical in a bust?”

  “It can be.”

  “Being off by just a few seconds can make all the difference in the world, can’t it?”

  “It depends on the case.”

  “Sure, sure.” Giacomo nodded. “When multiple officers are involved, each counting on the others, it’s important that each party do their part exactly as planned, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Thomas said, locking a death glare on my attorney. “And Miss Holloway didn’t follow the plan.”

  Giacomo offered him a placating smile. “Ah, but it was you who first failed to follow the plan. Isn’t that true?”

  “It’s not my fault a water main broke.”

  “No, but common sense tells us that, as the team leader, it is your fault that you didn’t allow adequate time for contingencies?”

  Thomas had two choices. Argue with Giacomo and come off as defensive and self-righteous or agree and admit he was imperfect, too, like me. He hedged his bets and gave an evasive response.

  “I suppose some people could possibly look at it that way,” he said.

  “You suppose it’s possible?” Giacomo stepped right up to the witness-stand and stood there a moment more, staring right into Thomas’ face. “Do I intimidate you, Officer Thomas?”

  Thomas snickered. “Not in the least.”

  Giacomo gracefully tilted his head. “Then why are you afraid to give me a direct answer?”

  Ha! There was that hairy ass Daniel had promised me. I glanced back at my father. His lip quirked as he fought a grin.

  Thomas shifted in his seat. “Okay, fine. Things would have gone better had I allowed more travel time. Is that direct enough for you?”

  “Perfect.” Giacomo ducked his head. “Thank you.”

  Giacomo glanced over at the jury, a nonverbal clue to them that he was about to touch on another important issue. “You mentioned that when you entered the strip club, you found some of the club’s staff injured. Isn’t it true that you also found three members of law enforcement critically injured?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, an undercover officer from Dallas PD’s sex crimes unit lay unconscious on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.”

  Giacomo returned to the defense table. He pulled a glossy piece of paper out of his expandable folder and showed it to me.

  Instinctively I gasped and put a hand over my mouth. The paper was an eight-by-ten color photograph of Officer Aaron Menger as he’d appeared that night, lying lifeless on the floor of Guys & Dolls, his head split open, a pool of blood forming around his head. I hadn’t seen the photograph before, and the image brought everything careering back, all of those sick, frantic feelings of that night. Lying there that night, Lieutenant Menger appeared as if he might already be dead. Once again, fireflies flitted around the edges of my vision. I gripped the edge of the table, took a deep breath, and willed them back.

  The jurors’ eyes moved from me to Thomas as Giacomo walked over to show the photo to the witness.

  “This is what you found when you entered the premises?”

  Thomas glanced down at the photograph, but his expression remained stoic. “Yes.”

  “And it’s what Miss Holloway found, too, when she entered. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Giacomo moved to enter the photograph into evidence.

  Kerr objected on the grounds of relevancy. “Whether another officer had been injured or not has no bearing on whether the force used against Don Geils was reasonable or excessive.”

  “It has everything to do with it, Your Honor,” Giacomo said. “We intend to show that Miss Holloway was under extreme mental distress when Don Geils came after her, and that distress was caused in large part due to having found one of her partners lying on the floor and apparently dead.”

  Trumbull allowed the photograph into evidence. “The charges hinge on whether Miss Holloway’s actions were reasonable or excessive under the circumstances. The jury needs to see exactly what those circumstances were.”

  Giacomo thanked the judge and carried the photograph over to the jury. The first juror flinched as she looked at it and quickly handed it to the man next to her. His nose crinkled, but he turned the photo this way and that, taking a good look before passing it on.

  Giacomo next admitted a photograph of Nick into evidence. Nick had a black eye and blood all over his face and was hunched over to relieve the pain of his cracked ribs. Thomas acknowledged that when the SWAT team had stormed the place they found Nick on the floor of the club, too, alive but writhing in agony.

  Giacomo returned to stand before the witness-box. “When you heard the gunshots, you ran toward the source of the sound and found Special Agent Holloway in the VIP room. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Thomas said.

  “Besides Don Geils and Agent Holloway, who else was in the room?”

  “A middle-aged white man and a young Latina woman who I later learned was an undercover DEA agent.”

  “The DEA agent was unconscious, wasn’t she?” Giacomo asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Her top had been removed?”

  “Yes.”

  “As well as her bra?”

  “She was naked from the waist up,” Thomas said, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Exactly. And her chest and neck were covered in fresh bite wounds?”

  “Yes. She had multiple bite marks on her upper body.”

&nb
sp; Giacomo entered another photograph into evidence, this one of a limp and lifeless Christina, bruises in the shape of teeth marks all over her neck, shoulders, and torso. Her nipples were covered with black squares in the photograph. When my attorney showed me the photo, I instinctively turned my head and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I found four of the jurors eyeing me.

  Giacomo led Thomas through a series of questions in which Thomas acknowledged that Wesley Prescott, the john who’d made a midnight snack out of Christina, was also in the room, cowering under a table, when Thomas arrived. In response to my attorney’s careful questions, Thomas described the shattered mirror in the room, blown to smithereens as a result of Geils firing his gun at me. Giacomo also led Thomas to describe how I collapsed to the floor, physically and emotionally spent, when the SWAT officer entered.

  Giacomo passed the witness. Kerr followed up with couple of questions to hammer the point home that I’d been standing over Geils when Thomas first entered the VIP room. Kerr thanked Thomas for his testimony and dismissed him.

  “Call your next witness,” Trumbull instructed.

  “The prosecution calls Donald Geils to the stand.”

  chapter thirty-nine

  The “Victim” Speaks

  The marshal unlocked Geils’ handcuffs and followed closely behind him as he limped his way to the stand. The marshal stood at the wall behind the bench while the bailiff swore Geils in.

  Once Geils took a seat, Kerr launched into his interrogation. He asked Geils several questions to set the scene, though Kerr chose to focus only on the brief moments prior to the shooting.

  “Can you tell us what happened during the raid on Guys and Dolls?” Kerr asked.

  “I sure can,” Geils said. “I was sitting in my office at closing time, minding my own business, when some of the bouncers got into a little scuffle.”