The only sound in the room was the knocking of the steam radiator. Espinoza and Lindsey exchanged glances.
“Adele,” Lindsey shifted his legs like they were pieces of barn siding he couldn’t find a way to store. The room—the chairs—everything was too small for him. “It seems, once again, you are taking too many matters into your own hands.”
“I’m just trying to be proactive.”
“The board and I have some serious problems with your behavior yesterday. You arranged Benitez’s surrender on La Casa property without consulting a single member here.”
“There wasn’t time,” said Adele. “The brother called Saturday night, but I didn’t discover the message until Sunday morning. He was down to fifteen percent power on his cell phone. What was I supposed to do? Tell him to find a power source and sit tight while I get permission?”
“But . . . our preschool?” asked the emergency room doctor, a woman with short iron-gray hair and no-nonsense hands. She was usually Adele’s biggest ally. “You let this man surrender in our preschool?”
“No children were there,” said Adele. “Benitez wasn’t willing to surrender anyplace else. The school offered the best opportunity for what I thought would be a peaceful resolution. I wanted La Casa to be part of that.”
“No,” said Lindsey. “You wanted to be part of that. Because you think of yourself as synonymous with La Casa. You take everything personally here, Adele. The good and the bad. But it wasn’t your decision to make. And it put this organization in an even more untenable position. Now, not only are we having to justify our existence to the larger community, we’re also having to convince the Hispanic community that you didn’t cave to the Lake Holly Police and deprive a suspect of his right to due process.”
“I was a hostage, Dave!” Adele shot back. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing—from her board chairman, no less, a man twice her size who sold real estate behind a desk all day. “Do you think I was on some ego trip? I’ve had nightmares all night about what happened. I’m a mother, for chrissakes! I did what I did for La Casa. For Catherine’s memory. For the people of Lake Holly, both Anglo and Latino. Because I wanted this situation to end peacefully and fairly. Do I think the police overreacted? Yes. Did Benitez need to die? No. But never once was I in collusion with them to be this man’s judge and jury. I’m a lawyer. I respect the law too much to circumvent it.”
“Well, now it has been,” said Lindsey. “And immigrant communities from Fall River, Massachusetts, to Pasco, Washington, are feeling the backlash, from bomb threats to graffiti to picket lines outside their centers. They see Catherine’s pretty yearbook photo on the nightly news. They see Benitez’s tattooed mug shot right next to it. They can’t take their anger out on Benitez anymore. His kid brother—who may or may not be involved—is locked up. So guess who they’re blaming? Not the Colorado judge who gave him eight months for rape and assault. Not the border patrol that let him slip back into the country. Not the federal laws that prohibit us from asking for proof of identity. They’re blaming us, Adele. Our little community center and all the people who’ve peacefully been part of it for years.” Lindsey looked around the table. “And even more specifically, they’re blaming you. Adele Figueroa. The face of La Casa.”
“What would you have me do?”
Espinoza rubbed a finger along the top of his lip and looked at Dave Lindsey. Lindsey folded his wall of fingers in front of him and shifted in his too-small chair. He looked at Adele. Everyone else looked away.
“We’ve got two choices basically,” said Lindsey. “The first is to close La Casa permanently—”
“No!” Adele nearly sprang from her seat. “You can’t be serious—”
“Between all the negative publicity and the likely drop in donor money, we can’t hope to survive.”
“We can and we will,” said Adele. “This is a temporary setback. A big one, yes. But there must be another option. There has to be.”
“There is,” said Lindsey. He leaned forward. “You can resign from La Casa.”
“What?”
“You can accept responsibility for the Benitez shooting on La Casa property and the improper oversight of client background checks.”
Adele looked around the room at all the uncomfortable faces. She understood for the first time what she was up against. This had all been talked over and decided before she stepped in the room. She felt like they’d slipped a noose around her neck when she wasn’t looking and all that was left to do was pull the lever.
“You all know as well as I do,” said Adele, “that we can’t do the sorts of background checks that would screen out a man like Benitez. A, because it’s illegal. And B, because we don’t have the manpower to do something like that.”
“Adele,” said Espinoza, his sad eyes somehow larger and sadder behind his wire-rimmed glasses, “the board and I have looked at this from every angle. If La Casa is to survive, then someone has to fall on her sword. You are the face of this organization. You’ve said so many times yourself. You bear ultimate responsibility for its records. Plus, you arranged the surrender of Benitez at the preschool. If La Casa is to survive, you have to let go.” Espinoza slid a piece of paper across the table to her. “Dave and I took the liberty of drafting your letter of resignation.”
“You’re forcing me to sign this now?”
“Every second of inaction could hurt us,” said Lindsey.
“Could hurt you,” Espinoza added. “This morning, someone left a voice mail message at La Casa, threatening to bomb the center.”
“And you’re only telling me this now?”
“We’ve already turned it over to the police,” said Lindsey. “There are no plans to reopen the center until we can be sure it’s safe to do so. But the thing is”—he shifted in his seat—“it wasn’t just La Casa they talked about hurting. It was you, Adele. The message specifically said that you should watch your back. If you resign, we can make that public. I think it will take some of the heat off you.”
“Or make me more of a target. Make my fourth grader more of a target.”
“Dave and I and the board have talked about this,” said Espinoza. “We feel you’re safer—La Casa’s safer—if you resign.”
“No one is going to blame you for stepping down,” said Lindsey. His voice had an unctuous sweetness to it, like he was closing the sale on a piece of real estate he’d been dying to dump. “This happens all the time in the business community. You’ll bounce back at some other nonprofit, where your talents and skills will go far. Or maybe you’ll return to the law. I have enormous respect for you as a lawyer. We all do.” He looked around the room at the rest of the board. Everyone nodded. They were judge and jury, and Adele’s verdict had already been decided.
Adele grabbed a pen and signed the paper. “And what if this makes me more of a target? Puts me at more risk?”
“The police are aware of the situation,” said Lindsey.
Adele tossed off a laugh. “That makes me feel really secure, given the cozy relationship I’ve always had with the Lake Holly Police.”
“Just keep a low profile,” said Espinoza.
“Check your locks,” said Lindsey. “And maybe think about installing an alarm system.”
Chapter 17
Cops never do anything except in pairs. Even the higher-ups. They always take a date. Someone to watch their backs and cover their asses. Someone to remind everyone else that there are two of them and one of you.
So Vega knew there was a good chance Captain Frank Waring wouldn’t call him into his office for a reprimand on Monday morning without someone else in tow. Who that person was would tell Vega a lot about how much trouble he was in. If Waring wanted to keep things collegial—maybe punish Vega with some sort of parade duty for a day or two—he’d call in Vega’s pal, Detective Teddy Dolan, who would pretend to take notes and then buy Vega a coffee when it was over.
Waring didn’t bring Dolan. He brought another captain. And not jus
t any captain. Captain Lorenzo. Head of the county police’s special investigations unit—better known as internal affairs.
In police jargon, “special” is never something you want to be.
The rank and file called Lorenzo, “Captain Doom.” The name fit. Vega could already feel the guy measuring his coffin.
“Captains.” Vega offered a salute. He never did normally, but he sensed he’d better here, especially since his boss was ex-military. Waring’s entire office socked you over the head with it. There were flags and eagles and enough reminders that Waring had been a Navy SEAL to make it feel like a museum. Vega didn’t know if Lorenzo was ex-military, but he looked the part. Both men had the hollowed, flinty appearance of soldiers too long on point.
“At ease, Vega,” said Waring. “Have a seat.”
Vega sat stiffly on a cheap padded chair with chrome armrests. It was perfect for Waring’s office because it guaranteed you never got too comfortable in his presence.
“Am I facing disciplinary action?” Best to get straight to the point.
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” said Waring.
Vega felt his breath ball up in his chest. He hadn’t done anything illegal or underhanded. He didn’t have alcohol or drug issues. He hadn’t taken a bribe or covered up a friend’s DUI. He hadn’t sexually harassed a female cop or tweeted racist stuff across the Internet. There were a thousand ways to get into trouble on this job. He’d dodged them all. All but the most important one, the only one any bureaucracy ever seemed to care about:
He hadn’t gone through the chain of command.
“You’re an officer on modified duty, Detective,” said Waring. (“Modified”—another word like “special.”) “What on God’s green earth made you think you had the authority to engage in the planned takedown of a violent suspect in another department’s jurisdiction?”
“It was supposed to be a peaceful surrender.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” said Waring. “At best, you broke about ten department regs by not seeking clearance. At worst—”
“You exposed this department to potential legal action,” Lorenzo jumped in. “If Benitez’s family or that La Casa community center or God-knows-who-else wants to sue, we’re going to end up a party to that lawsuit because of you.”
Shit. Vega bounced a look from Lorenzo to Waring. Lorenzo was right. Where was Vega’s head in all this? He’d been blind and deaf to everything—everything except Adele. He should have stepped back. Taken a cooler and more measured approach to this whole situation. Don’t surgeons get other surgeons to operate on their loves ones?
“I have no defense, Captain, except to say that the situation in Lake Holly involved someone close to me. I lost my objectivity and got more deeply involved than I should have.”
“If this department could bring you up on charges, it would, Detective,” said Waring. “But if we make an example out of you, then the Lake Holly PD is going to have to go after Detective Greco for allowing you to be there without seeking authorization on his end. We don’t want to make another department look bad, especially in a police shooting. We’ll never get cooperation from them again.”
Vega felt a small kink in his shoulder relax. They were not going to hand him charges.
“On the other hand,” Waring continued, “we cannot simply let you go back to the squad as if nothing happened. In order to minimize our legal culpability in the shooting, we need to maintain that you were never authorized to be there and were punished accordingly.”
“Punished,” Vega repeated, feeling a new dread creep in.
“You’re going to write up a statement of what you witnessed during the shooting encounter between Detective Sanchez and Rolando Benitez. I want facts only,” said Waring. “No opinions. Nothing that offers even a whiff of blame against the Lake Holly PD. And don’t you dare allude to the personal nature of why you were there. We’re going to file your paperwork and hope this is the end of the matter. I don’t want to ever hear about this situation again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, to address the matter of your new assignment.”
Vega was hoping his punishment would entail a few days of lost pay. “Assignment” sounded far more permanent.
Vega began to sweat. Everything he’d done in this job came down to this moment. Eleven years in uniform. Thousands of traffic stops. Accident reconstructions in ninety-degree heat, blinding rain, or two feet of snow. All the civilians who cursed and spit at him, took a swing at him, or reminded him that they paid his salary. The ones who wanted his badge number for no other reason than because he’d caught them texting while driving or doing seventy in a school zone. The five years working undercover in narcotics—always worrying about getting shot—if not by the dirtbags he was setting up, then by the cops who might not realize they were on the same side. It all came down to this.
“Our new county executive has requested that this department supply an officer to drive a couple of police consultants around for a project they’re working on,” said Waring. “Normally, we’d pull a rookie off patrol for this. But we don’t have a spare at the moment. We just have you.”
“Tag,” said Lorenzo. “You’re it.” Lorenzo smiled. He never smiled. That’s how bad things were. Vega hated that rat bastard. He was behind this move. Vega was sure of it.
“You mean,” said Vega, “you’re transferring me out of the detectives squad? Out of the building? To be a taxi service for a couple of suits?” Suits who work for Mike Carp. Adele’s nemesis. Not that that would make one iota of difference to the men in this room.
“You’re still a county cop,” said Lorenzo. “No one took you off the payroll.” He sounded disappointed about it.
“Captain.” Vega aimed his plea at Waring. “With all due respect, I feel like the department’s throwing me off a cliff. I do this, I’ll never get back to investigative work. Ever.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. That’s when Vega understood: As far as the department was concerned, his investigative career was already over. He was damaged goods. A liability to everyone. The moment Vega stepped into that preschool, he’d sealed his fate.
“Look, Vega,” said Waring. “The department already had a sit-down about this. It will not be revisited. You’ve got your orders.” Waring and Lorenzo rose. Vega remained seated.
“For how long?”
“For as long as Mike Carp says,” Waring answered.
“And then what?”
Lorenzo answered. Vega could see the hint of a smile in Captain Doom’s thin slash of lips. “Carp will be in office for at least four years. Let’s just say, you’d better bring a change of underwear.”
Chapter 18
The offices of the county government were housed in a beige high-rise in Broad Plains, a nexus of highways that tried hard to look like a city. Shopping malls and office buildings were flopped down with no particular aesthetic. Big-box stores sat next to pocket parks with statues of historical figures no one knew.
Captain Waring had issued Vega one of the county’s marked police cars for his new assignment. A six-year-old Ford Crown Victoria. The floor mats were cracked and faded. The interior smelled like Vega had sprayed Febreze on Diablo. The department’s mechanic warned Vega that the car had a tendency to overheat in park with the AC on, but not to worry—he had six months before that became a problem.
Six months! Vega couldn’t imagine himself lasting six weeks. His police dress uniform felt scratchy and hot. He’d gotten it fitted when he first made detective seven years ago. He’d broadened since then—partly from age and partly because of all the weights he’d been lifting. The shirt collar was too tight. The seams of the jacket constricted his arm movements. He’d noticed these things before, but he didn’t wear the uniform often enough for it to matter. And now, unfortunately, it did.
He parked the Crown Vic in the building’s underground garage and found a set of concrete stairs that took him to the lobby. A bronze-cast eagle
stared down at him over the elevator’s doors. The county seal—which looked like Lady Justice smelling her armpits—was embossed on a plaque next to the desk of a bored security guard. Everything felt tired and functional and taxpayer-funded.
Mike Carp’s office was on the twelfth floor, at the end of a narrow hallway full of doors with the names of district legislators on nameplates that could easily be removed for the next occupant. The fluorescent lights did little to hide the worn beige carpeting or the stuffy, slightly dank smell. Vega suspected the legislators didn’t spend all that much time here anyway. Only their flunkies and assistants did. And now, he was one of them.
Vega pushed open a door that read: OFFICE OF MICHAEL C. CARP, COUNTY EXECUTIVE. Inside, half-a-dozen cameramen and reporters were packing up cables and video cams. Phones were ringing. People were talking. A secretary with big blond hair looked up in the center of the chaos.
“Can I help you?”
“Detective Jimmy Vega.” Vega touched the brim of his police cap. “Mr. Carp requested an officer from the county, I believe?”
“He did?” She gave him a blank look. “He just finished a press conference.”
Vega didn’t have to ask what it was about. Catherine’s murder and the Benitez shooting topped the news when he woke up. More distressing, it had unleashed an anti-immigrant backlash all over the country, with protests and fistfights at community centers and hiring sites. One had been firebombed. Several had received death threats. And Mike Carp was likely eating up every minute of it. Before this, he’d had his eye on the governor’s seat. Vega wondered if this new round of press had made him think about reaching even higher.
The secretary glanced at her phone. “He’s not on a call at the moment. Why don’t you just go in?”
“Thanks.” Vega knocked on the hollow-core door.
“Yeah?”
Vega opened the door and stood at the threshold. Mike Carp was seated at his desk, a set of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose as he read over some papers. His name perfectly suited his looks. He was a doughy, pasty-faced man in his midfifties, with thick silver hair that glistened like fish scales, blue eyes that bulged slightly from his eye sockets, and small, pale lips. His portrait would have fit in nicely in one of those decrepit European castles. Anyplace with too much interbreeding and too little vitamin D.
A Place in the Wind Page 13
