Relentless

by Shawn Wilson

  “See any others?” Ron asked.

  Brick looked around. “No. Not exactly the media presence Blancato was probably hoping for.”

  “They’re all probably over at Landlord-Tenant. It’s a lot more interesting.”

  Ron’s observation was pretty accurate. For defendants, Arraignment Court is a lot like standing in line at the deli waiting for their number to be called. The difference being the defendants are shackled and under the watchful eyes of marshals guarding them. It looked as though Cruz drew number one—he was already seated at the defense table. Next to him was a female attorney. Just seeing her from the back, Brick wasn’t sure who it was. Nor did he recognize the assistant U.S. attorney seated at the prosecutor’s table.

  “All rise.” The bailiff’s booming voice bounced off the walls of the nearly empty courtroom. Even the court reporter jumped at the sound. The door leading to the judge’s anteroom opened and a robed figure emerged along with his law clerk carrying a carafe of ice water. “The Honorable Stephen R. Newton presiding.” The bailiff had turned down the volume. “Be seated and come to order.”

  Brick was amused as he watched Newton settle into what Brick knew was a chair custom designed to make the judge look taller. The robe helped conceal that the man was nearly as round as he was tall. He patted the thinning hair combed over the top of his head as if making sure each hair was in place.

  “Call the first case.”

  The bailiff picked up a manila file folder. “The United States of America versus Guadalupe Cruz.”

  “Who’s representing the government?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “State your name for the record.”

  “Jonathan Eliot.”

  “And for the defense?” Newton appeared to look over his glasses and smile slightly.

  The attorney seated next to Cruz stood. “Lily Nguyen, Your Honor.”

  “Oh, good morning, Ms. Nguyen.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor.”

  Brick knew the judge wasn’t showing partiality to the defense. He had a reputation for being pro-prosecution, but he also had a reputation for paying attention to the female attorneys who appeared in his courtroom.

  Newton appeared to shuffle some papers before addressing the defendant directly. “Mr. Cruz, the purpose of this hearing is to advise you of the charges you are facing and the maximum penalty those charges carry. Do you understand?” Cruz nodded his head. “You have to speak up so the court reporter can record your answer. I’ll ask again, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. According to the indictment filed by the Government, you are being charged with felony murder as to the death of Jose Delgado and Maria Delgado. If convicted, felony murder carries a mandatory penalty of twenty years to life for each count. Do you wish to enter a plea at this time?”

  It sounded to Brick like Newton was just phoning it in. He had recited those lines so many times and the only thing that changed was the crime and the victim’s name. It even looked like he had to stifle a yawn as he waited for Cruz to respond.

  “Guilty.”

  For a second Brick thought he had hallucinated, but then he saw the stunned look on several faces in the courtroom—including the judge.

  “Counselors, approach the bench.”

  AUSA Eliot and Ms. Nguyen quickly complied. It was killing Brick not to be able to hear the discussion between the judge and the lawyers. From what he could see, the prosecutor was saying little, but Lily Nguyen was very animated. When she returned to the defense table, she did not look pleased. She pulled her chair close to Cruz and spoke to him in a hushed tone. After letting Nguyen confer with her client for a few minutes, the judge spoke again.

  “Ms. Nguyen, are we ready to proceed?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “All right then. Mr. Cruz, do you wish to change your plea?”

  “No.”

  All that was left was for Cruz and his attorney to sign the paperwork and be given a sentencing date. There was no need for Brick and Ron to stick around. Blancato and the A-Team had already left, nearly colliding with the Post reporter as they all bolted for the door. She had the scoop; Blancato wanted to tell the mayor before he heard it from another source.

  “Have you ever seen that happen before?” Ron asked as he and Brick headed to the escalator.

  “No, not on a felony murder charge. And, I might be wrong, but I don’t think Cruz’s attorney knew what was coming.”

  “She did seem shaken.” Ron hesitated for a second. “Isn’t she the one the guys call the Dragon Lady?”

  Brick nodded. “One and the same.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “WHAT DO YOU say, partner? The party should be in full swing by now.”

  Brick looked up from the keyboard, nostalgic for the days when clerks typed the handwritten police reports cops turned in. His hunt-and-peck technique was slow and error-prone but at least for now it gave him an excuse to stay behind. “Go ahead, Ron. I’ll meet you over there.”

  Post-conviction or guilty plea celebrations were customary but Brick wasn’t in a hurry to join in. Still, he felt obligated to make an appearance, have a drink, and leave. Let everyone see he was a player even though he hoped he’d never again have to work that closely with the A-Team. Given a choice, directing traffic at Connecticut and K during rush hour in a blizzard would be preferable.

  Brick glanced up at the clock—about fifteen minutes had passed. He reread the report he had written, corrected a couple of typos, and hit close. As he waited for the computer to shut down, he called Tracy Collins. He got her voicemail.

  “Hey Tracy, it’s Brick. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Our perp shocked everyone by pleading guilty at his arraignment. That puts our double in the closed column. Anything new on your case? Hope you’re enjoying your day off.” He hung up, locked his desk, and headed toward the elevators.

  On this April day, which felt more like August, beads of sweat rolled down Brick’s back as he walked the six blocks to the FOP. Go along to get along, he reminded himself as he approached the unmarked front door. He hesitated. Access required entering a code into the cypher lock. For a minute he was stumped, then he remembered. Routinely, on the first of January it got reset to the current year. He entered the four digits and stepped inside, grateful the AC was cranked up. As Brick made his way to the bar, he passed one of three pool tables. He nodded to a deputy marshal he recognized. Cue stick in hand, she appeared to be planning her next shot.

  “Hey, Brick, long time no see.” Hank Murphy wiped his hand on his bar rag before extending it in Brick’s direction. “How have you been?”

  “Okay, how about you?”

  Hank’s hand gesture indicated so-so.

  “You look good, like you’ve gained some weight.”

  “Can’t complain. I’m thankful for every day above ground.”

  Murphy had reason to be. Three years earlier, while assigned to the Robbery Squad, he had responded to a silent bank alarm and walked into a robbery in progress. Wearing a vest saved his life, but one of the three bullets he took shattered his knee and ended his career. While in the hospital, he contracted an infection that nearly killed him. Bartending left him in pain, but as he liked to say, he’d still be in pain sitting in front of the TV so he might as well supplement his disability pension. Brick suspected it really wasn’t about the money; Hank missed being a cop and working at the FOP allowed him to be around his buddies.

  “Go ahead, Brick, name your poison.” Hank was kidding but not by much. Some of the bottles lining the bar wouldn’t even be used for rail drinks in most places.

  “How’s the gin?”

  “Good if you’re painting and run out of turpentine.” Hank gave Brick a knowing look. “Go for the whiskey.”

  “If you say so.” Brick was skeptical but trusted the guy he was often paired with when they were cadets at the Academy.

  Hank reached behind the bottles of whiskey o
n the counter and retrieved a hidden bottle of Bushmills 1608. He poured a generous shot into a glass and slid it across the bar. “Try this.”

  Brick took a sip and smiled. “That’s definitely the good stuff.”

  Hank nodded. “According to my doctor, the old liver can tolerate an occasional drink. No sense wasting it on the rot gut I serve in this place.” He returned the bottle to its hiding place.

  Brick looked around the room. “Have you seen Ron?”

  “Your partner, Ron? Yeah, he was here a minute ago. Think he stepped out to take a phone call.” Hank motioned toward the table where Travis Allen was holding court. “Kind of hard to hear yourself think with your man over there telling the same friggin’ joke he tells every time he’s in here—which is way too often, if you ask me.”

  Brick laughed. “Don’t hold back, Hank, say what you think.”

  “Oh Christ, here he comes.”

  Allen bumped into a chair as he made his way to the bar. He tapped the two empty pitchers up and down on it.

  “Hey, bartender, looks like we need refills.” Allen’s speech was just this side of slurring.

  Without saying a word, Hank obliged and slid the full pitchers across the bar. As Allen picked them up, he noticed Brick.

  “Grab your ass, I mean glass, and join us. We got reason to celebrate.”

  Brick followed him to the table but not before turning and rolling his eyes in Hank’s direction.

  Allen set the pitchers of beer down, sloshing some onto the table and narrowly missing a crime lab tech still in uniform. Brick pulled up a chair and sat across the table from Allen. He recognized most of the guys at the table as having been assigned to the task force. He was about to introduce himself to the two he hadn’t met but didn’t get a chance. Allen’s voice filled the room.

  “A priest, a rabbi, and a hooker—” The table erupted in laughter. Allen swallowed a hiccup. “What?”

  “You just told us that one. Last call for you.” Adkins playfully reached for his partner’s glass, but Allen grabbed it first.

  “I don’t think so.” Allen tipped up his glass and drained the contents before refilling it. “Gotta have a toast.” He took a swig of beer then stood and held up his glass. “Come on, raise your glass.” One by one, except for Brick, the guys followed suit.

  “Here’s to … I forgot what it’s called.” He lowered his glass. “You know, in hockey.”

  “Hockey?” Adkins asked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Come on … when a guy scores three times.” Allen took another drink. “Know what I call it when I score three times?” He raised one eyebrow and waited. “A slow night.” Even Brick laughed at that.

  “A hat trick,” two guys at the table responded at the same time.

  “What?”

  “In hockey, it’s called a hat trick.”

  “Oh, right.” Once again Allen raised his glass. He cleared his throat and swayed slightly. “Here’s to a Mexican hat trick—one in jail and two in boxes.”

  It only took a nanosecond for Brick to wrap his head around what he had heard. The image of Maria floating in the Tidal Basin and Jose dead on his bathroom floor flashed in front of his eyes. Instantly, he jumped up, lunged across the table, and grabbed the front of Allen’s shirt. The beer glass Allen had been holding flew out of his hand. Budweiser rained down on the two cops seated next to him before the glass hit the floor and shattered. Suddenly, the room was silent and everyone seemed frozen in place.

  “HEY! HEY! HEY! Let him go!” As Ron grabbed Brick’s arm in a viselike grip, Brick’s fingers relaxed, releasing the fist aimed at Allen’s jaw. He and Allen glared at each other but said nothing. If looks could kill, they’d both be dead. Brick shook free of Ron’s hold and headed for the back door leading to the alley. He kicked it open and heard it slam shut behind him.

  As if reflecting his mood, the sky had turned gray and overcast. Huge drops of rain splattered on the dirty pavement. Brick took a couple of deep breaths. What just happened felt like an out-of-body experience. The adrenaline, which had surged through his veins, now slowed. His heart still beat so fast, it felt like it might crash against his rib cage.

  Brick could count on one hand the times he had lost control like that. He hated letting Travis Allen, a shit-faced Allen no less, get to him, but he couldn’t stand by and let him disparage Jose and Maria. He had ignored plenty of remarks in the past—not this time. All cops used gallows humor, but as far as Brick was concerned, there was a line you didn’t cross. Blatant disrespect for victims crossed that line.

  It was raining harder. A striped awning over the service entrance to the restaurant across the alley provided shelter, but it was already occupied. A guy wearing an ICE windbreaker taking a smoking break leaned against the wooden exterior. The last thing Brick wanted was company, but he craved a cigarette, and a whiff of secondhand smoke made it worse. It had been at least a year since he had actually bought a pack and almost that long since his last smoke. One lousy cigarette was just that. It wasn’t a relapse, he told himself.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brick watched the guy take one last drag before dropping the butt on the pavement. With his heel, he ground out the glowing ember. He stepped out from under the awning and nodded in Brick’s direction as he crossed the alley.

  “Can I bum a cigarette?”

  “Sure.” The guy reached inside his pocket and retrieved a pack of Marlboros. He handed them to Brick along with a lighter.

  “Thanks.” Brick took one, lit up, and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could before exhaling, then handed the half-empty pack and lighter back to their owner. The guy took a step toward the door of the FOP but stopped and looked back in Brick’s direction.

  “For what it’s worth, if you ask me, Allen’s an asshole. He had it coming.”

  Brick didn’t respond. The vote of confidence was unexpected, but it didn’t make him feel better. Already, he regretted making a scene. It wasn’t his style.

  The Marlboro Man left it at that. He reached for the doorknob then stepped back as the door swung wide. He and Ron brushed shoulders as one man exited and the other reentered the FOP.

  For a moment, Ron didn’t say anything. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a jagged streak of lightning lit up the western sky. “You okay?”

  Brick nodded.

  “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

  Brick took another drag on his cigarette. “I’ll walk.”

  Ron shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re about to get a mother of a storm. You need to beat feet to my car before those Cole Haans are waterlogged.”

  One more look skyward, and Brick knew Ron was right. They made it to the car just as the skies opened up.

  “That was close.” Ron exhaled and started the car. Hip-hop music blared from the radio. “Sorry about that.” He quickly turned down the volume and changed stations. As Ron backed out of the parking space, the sound of WJZW’s smooth jazz competed with hailstones pelting the roof of his car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “THE LIEUTENANT WILL see you now.”

  Blancato’s secretary was clearly back to her prim and proper self. Brick couldn’t resist. “What … no f-bombs this morning?” He smiled as he rose to his feet.

  His half-hour wait had been reminiscent of his youth sitting outside the principal’s office. At least the upholstered leather chair was more comfortable than the wooden bench where his younger self sat waiting for his punishment. Usually this had meant a detention, which he didn’t mind all that much. He managed to read several of Ed McBain’s novels cleverly hidden inside his calculus or chemistry folders. Had it not been for the cops of the 87th Precinct, he might have pursued an entirely different career.

  “Shut the door and have a seat.”

  Brick complied.

  Blancato tossed a toothpick in the direction of the wastebasket. He missed. The toothpick landed next to a couple of others
scattered on the floor. “I heard about the incident at the FOP.”

  “It was off-duty.”

  “Not to my way of thinking. As long as you’re within the District of Columbia, technically, you’re never off-duty. This is the kind of conversation I’d expect to have with a rookie, not someone who’s been on the job as long as you have.” Blancato leaned forward across his desk. “Jesus Christ, just when we close a big case and are getting some positive press for a change. What were you thinking?” Brick was about to tell him but Blancato only paused long enough to take a breath. He held up a copy of the Washington Post. “They’d love a story about a couple of detectives punching each other out.”

  “Especially when the reason was an ethnic slur about two homicide victims.” Brick locked eyes with Blancato, willing himself not to blink.

  “Okay, you have a point and I’ve spoken to Allen.” Blancato smirked while shaking his head. “You know how he is—sometimes his mouth opens before his brain engages. Besides, he admits he’d had a couple of beers.”

  “So, technically, he was drinking on duty.” Brick couldn’t resist throwing the lieutenant’s screwed-up, you’re-never-off-duty logic back in his face.

  “I’m not going to get in a pissing contest with you. Like it or not, I’m in charge here, and all I need to do is pick up the phone, and you’ll be back in uniform patrolling Anacostia.” He cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “I don’t want to do that. I’m going to cut you some slack. I should have taken you off the case right from the start. I know you said you could handle it, and I thought you could, but looking back, it was a bad idea. You were never on board with the task force; you just went through the motions.” Blancato opened a manila folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. He scanned it before continuing. “Do you even know how much vacation time you’ve got built up?”

  Brick shrugged his shoulders. “No.”

  “Enough that you’re in the use-or-lose category. Take some of it and get a little R and R. Go to Lauderdale and lay on the beach. Better yet, go to the beach and get laid.” He flashed a self-satisfied smile. “That’s what I would do.” Blancato slid the form across the desk. “I need you to sign this leave slip.”