The Heights Read online

  “They’re going to object to that. I can only speak for myself. I’m not Internal Affairs or whatever special task force we’re using these days.”

  She just stares at me, her blue eyes searching my gray ones for something.

  “I did not use any force whatsoever. I handcuffed Mr. Reynolds, advised him of his rights, and told the patrol officers to escort him downstairs and put him in the back of the zone car. Nothing more.”

  She watches me through her newish tortoiseshell glasses. “You know you’re not on trial here, right?”

  I sigh. “Of course I know that. But you have to understand, I’m not just some witness. I’m a cop, and this is borderline rat territory. It’s a big deal, Julia.”

  She picks her pen up from the table and bites the cap. “You’re doing this because you have to.” She shuffles a folder around. “Everyone knows you’d rather stay out of it. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “Yeah, well, the guy’s gonna lose his job and maybe serve time. Doing the right thing feels like shit.”

  “Probably not as bad as not doing it would, given the extent of the injuries.”

  She has a point there. I consider the medical report that said Reynolds ended up with a broken nose, a broken collarbone, and a concussion.

  She gets back to business. “Did you notice whether he had any injuries at that time, before he was taken downstairs?”

  “At that time, no. But he was covered in what was later determined to be his grandmother’s blood.”

  “How about later?”

  I run my hands through my chin-length mop, try to squeeze the tension out of my neck, then let my hand drop to the table. My big watch clacks against it, and it startles me. I glance at it and watch the second hand click twenty-four times. “Later, after we took his clothes into evidence, swabbed the blood on his skin, all of it, I noticed that he had a bloody nose, a contusion on his forehead, and bruising on his neck.”

  “When and where was this?” She knows the answer. Lawyers ask questions only if they already know the answers.

  As much as it irritates me, the prep can’t hurt—I’m not looking forward to being on the stand this time. “When I questioned him about the stabbing and the earlier rape of the neighbor. In the interview room. It was early the next day, at approximately six o’clock.”

  She scans my face. “Did you witness anyone else using excessive force at the scene?”

  I flinch because perjury isn’t my thing. I’m practicing for a real trial, not the trial of Shareef Reynolds. He’s already pleaded guilty to stabbing his grandmother thirteen times over a twenty-dollar Timex watch after he raped the grandmother’s neighbor. No, I’m practicing for the trial against officer John Grimes, so I decide to play it straight. “I witnessed Officer Grimes place Mr. Reynolds into a choke hold.”

  She nods. “Was this before or after you handcuffed him?”

  I clear my throat and adjust my black button-down. “After.”

  “Was this the kind of choke hold that the department trains officers to employ?”

  “I have no comment about that.”

  She rolls her shoulders back. “Think about your credibility. Of course you have a comment on that.”

  “At this time, the department does not allow any kind of choke hold, and it was certainly against procedure to put an otherwise-restrained man into such a hold.” I don’t care for legalese, but that’s how we have to sound in court, like the mindless drones that we’re supposed to be.

  “And you did what in response?”

  “I told Grimes to stand down and that he needed to get his shit together—I mean, I suggested that he take a moment to regroup. Then I took Reynolds down to the car myself and called my lieutenant regarding the fact that we had Reynolds in custody and were bringing him in.”

  “Did Officer Grimes say anything to you following your demand that he stand down?”

  “Of course not. I have rank.”

  “Liz.”

  “He suggested, under his breath, that I not tell anyone what I saw him do.” I start jiggling my leg.

  “Did he threaten you in any way?”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “He said he would have me, quote, ‘gang raped by a bunch of, uh, N-words,’ because ‘fucking dumb bitches have no place being detectives’ and that he ‘knew my kind, anyway.’” I smooth my jeans. He could probably organize some kind of attack, but it’s more likely that he’s full of shit.

  “Did he say ‘N-words’?”

  “No.” I flinch again and look away, feeling my pale skin blush. I don’t use that word.

  “You’re going to have to say the word on the stand.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re here in spite of the threat,” she says, her face softening.

  “Are we still practicing?” I push my chair back from the table, and my left eye starts to twitch. “Look, I wouldn’t be here at all if his partner hadn’t registered a complaint and named me as a witness.” I consider what I’m saying. “If the guy, Reynolds, hadn’t been jacked up all the way across town and back. I mean, who the hell knows what happened to him in that zone car. Off the record? You don’t get a bruise like that on your face from being in a choke hold. You don’t get a bruise like that and a broken nose unless someone punches you in the face.”

  She looks interested, so I keep going. “I hate to say this, but this whole thing... It’s just... I’m not a rat.” I make my leg stop jiggling and lean forward in my seat. “I would have dealt with him in my own way. On my own time. I sure as shit wouldn’t have gone to IAU, and we wouldn’t be here, like this, right now.” I would have launched an off-the-books investigation on him and figured out how to get him to dig his own grave. I know enough people on that beat, and they respect me enough to give me information. It wouldn’t have been hard—the guy isn’t a genius.

  “But think about those things he said to you, not to mention the things he did to Reynolds. The things his partner says he routinely does in the course of arrests. Not even arrests, just in general. Do you want him representing you to the public? Should cops like him exist?”

  I take a deep breath. “The things he said are part of the job. A lot of us say horrible shit all the time, about anyone and everyone. The things he did are another story.”

  AFTER I FINISH WITH Becker, I change into my regular clothes, and my partner and I end up at Sammy’s, our usual dive bar. Goran keeps looking at me as if he wants to say something, as if he’s holding back. But I don’t take the bait, even when he gives me his even, steely-eyed cop look. I change the subject, and we talk about his wife, his kids, and his new gas grill that he got on sale because summer ended over a month ago.

  He wants me to come by this weekend—we’re off Saturday and Sunday this week—to break it in. “Before it gets really cold,” he says. “Even though you know I’ll be out there in January.” He grins and mimes burger flipping.

  I don’t say whether I’ll come or not. “I’m taking my brother to the Browns game on Sunday.” I empty the last of the pitcher into my glass.

  “Come over after. Perfect timing. Bring Chris. Bring whoever you want. This grill is huge.” He holds his hands about four feet apart. “It’s my dream grill,” he says like he’s in love.

  We laugh, and I don’t tell him that I’m not sure I can do anything this weekend, that I might have to stay home alone because anxiety is needling at my core, that I’m ashamed and guilty and all kinds of other things because of what I saw tonight and have to do tomorrow. I drain my glass and shove my chair back. “C’mon, Goran. You need to get home to the girls.”

  He stands, throws money onto the table, and pulls on his jacket. He opens the door for me, and we step out into the cool October air.

  “You want me there?” he asks as we walk to our cars.

  “No, don’t worry about it.”

  A homeless woman starts to ask for money but then sees the gold shield on my left hip. I give her five dollars, anyw
ay.

  “Bless you,” she says. “Have a blessed day.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow.” He pops a piece of Doublemint into his mouth. “We all will.” He names our whole squad. “Fishner, Roberts, Sims, me. We’ll all be there.”

  I think about protesting then realize I’m smiling.

  CHAPTER 3

  Friday morning comes quicker than I would like. When my alarm goes off to tell me to get my ass out of bed, I have the kind of gritty, cottony-eyed feeling that comes from that weird deep-but-restless sleep. At least I sleep now. It’s kind of a big deal.

  Before I get out of bed, I listen to the two new voicemails from the calls I ignored last night, one each from my friends Josh and Cora. Both wish me luck today, and Josh reminds me that even though I’m a terrible friend—he means it in an endearing way—I’m not that terrible, and I’ll do great, and let’s all get together later. It seems they have plans for some social activity involving me. I have to admit that knowing I have people helps. I send them each a thank-you text.

  I pour the first of the coffee then flip on Channel Three. The bright-eyed anchor, who today is wearing an equally bright tie, comes on the screen next to a picture of cops in riot gear. I turn up the volume.

  “Today we’re covering the Cleveland Division of Police’s swift response to yesterday’s events.” It cuts to footage of the line of cops and the people marching in the street. “Following an officer-involved shooting of a person who appears to be a twelve-year-old who had a gun at Kerruish Park, residents took to the streets to protest,” he says in voiceover, “but thankfully the protest was nonviolent.” It cuts to police ID photographs of the two officers who were first on the scene, one of whom fired a bullet into a kid. “Micky Palmer, a twenty-year veteran of the force, and Bryce Richardson, a rookie, have both been suspended with pay, pending investigation.”

  I remember Palmer, who seemed like a good guy when I was a rookie in the districts. Richardson still has baby fat on his face—he can’t be more than twenty-two.

  They’re probably with IAU right now or with the special new task force that investigates our use of lethal force. Maybe both. I’m supposed to talk to the Department of Justice people next week about various things that happened last year. It’s all smoke and mirrors, and we all know it. I push it out of my head because there’s not room right now.

  The news cuts to footage from last night’s press conference with the mayor, the police commissioner, and the chief. The mayor says violence will not be tolerated in the streets of Cleveland. He makes a plea to the camera for his “African-American brothers and sisters to come together in nonviolent demonstrations and vigils for the boy.” The commissioner is stone-faced, and the chief shifts back and forth on his feet, wincing like his shoes are too tight when the commissioner says, “Cleveland will not be like the other cities in which violence has dominated the news. We are committed to peace and to protecting that peace. Fundamentally, we are peace officers.”

  Somehow, the fact that the kid is on life support at MetroHealth gets buried. It’s all about the cops, what the cops did right, what the city is doing right, and how right every single one of us is.

  The anchor promises to keep us posted with new developments then moves on to a story about yet another cop, Joe Mattioli, who is scheduled to appear on some popular morning show. Mattioli, a retired Cleveland homicide dick, wrote a book about his time on the force and his wife’s tragic murder. Now he’s all over the media, smoothing his tie and preening and grinning and telling his sad cop stories.

  People say they hate cops, but they love the idea of us enough that his book’s been on the bestseller lists for weeks. Last I heard, he’d sold the rights to Hollywood so that some famous director can make his dramatic turn away from superhero movies with Mattioli’s story. Apparently, it’s a big deal that he’s coming back home tomorrow. The anchor plays up that he’s going to make an appearance at a suburban bookstore.

  I read the first half of the book when my mom gave it to me for my birthday back in August. It didn’t grab me, so I stopped after briefly wondering if any actual cops could read the whole thing or if most of us would just as soon read romance novels or comic books or something else in our off time.

  I toss the remote control onto the coffee table and avoid tripping over Ivan, who meows his dissatisfaction, on my way to the kitchen for more coffee. Then I hit the shower.

  I don my charcoal-gray court suit, apply my eyeliner more carefully than usual, and toss my cop gear into my messenger bag with my laptop. I scarf a banana and a spoonful of peanut butter over the kitchen sink, pour a cup of coffee for the road, and head to Julia Becker’s office.

  ONCE I’M ON THE STAND, the questioning goes pretty much the way Becker and I predicted, at least at first, and I feel as terrible as I thought I would when I have to repeat what Grimes said to me. I watch him doodle on a notepad, and I swear he chuckles when I get to the threat. I try to avoid looking at Maliq Sims, the newest member of our squad, then I feel bad about that too—I know I’m skirting his gaze because I had to say that word in open court. He probably hears it a lot, and I like to think he expects more of me than to use words like that.

  It goes from bad to worse when Jeff O’Connor, Grimes’s big-deal defense attorney and a huge turd, gets a wild burr up his ass and decides to bring up old stuff. “You’re familiar with uses of lethal force, am I right?” he begins.

  Right away, I know where he’s going, and I concentrate on not fidgeting with my watchband. I study the face, and sixteen seconds tick by.

  “A couple of years ago, I think it was in January,” he says, and it hits me like a fist to the sternum. He looks through his notes and nods. “Did you shoot and kill a man named George Arsalan in a Tremont alleyway while you were on duty? In fact, aren’t you scheduled to meet with Department of Justice investigators to discuss your own use of force”—he pretends to look at his notes again—“next week?”

  I’m not surprised. Of course he would bring it up, because he’s just that kind of guy.

  Becker tries to look poised. “Objection,” she says. “Relevance.”

  I glance at Lieutenant Fishner and the guys, who sit near the back. Goran sets his jaw and gives me the tight nod that means “You got this.” Sims and Roberts, the other guy on our day-shift squad, stare straight ahead.

  Fishner gives me a look, but I can’t tell what it means. O’Connor turns to the jury and goes on some pathos-driven diatribe about why my history of violence and hypocrisy and blah blah blah are all relevant to my credibility as a witness, and Grimes gets a smug expression on his face, which I would like to punch. I gaze at my boss and wait for the judge. I don’t look at the jury.

  “Overruled,” the judge says. “Answer the questions, please, Detective Boyle.” She looks down her nose at me.

  I take a deep breath and hope no one notices, but no one will, because I’m not easy to read in these kinds of situations. “Yes,” I reply. My voice sounds hoarse. I clear my throat. “I did. And yes, I’m scheduled to meet with a Department of Justice investigator next week.” It will be pro forma, Julia told me. Don’t worry about it. The DOJ isn’t going after cops anymore.

  Becker blinks at me, and the left side of her mouth twitches. I’m surprised we didn’t go over this.

  “And you did not face criminal charges, am I right?” O’Connor asks. “In fact, you returned to active duty”—he pretends to look at his notes again—“just six weeks after you murdered that man, am I correct? With absolutely no charges, no loss of income, nothing. And you received very little media coverage, am I right?”

  Something inside me chills into the kind of cold that might never get warm again.

  Julia slams her hand into the table. “Objection! Detective Boyle did not ‘murder’ anyone. She was found innocent of any wrongdoing in the official investigation and faced no criminal charges. This is public record, as are the facts that Arsalan was Caucasian and the leader of a child pornography ri
ng and that he posed an immediate lethal threat to both Detective Boyle and her partner, in addition to any innocent bystanders who may have been in the area.”

  The judge sustains the objection and tells the jury to disregard the word “murder.”

  I don’t look away from O’Connor. I don’t blink.

  “Is there anything else in your jacket, your official police record, that the jury should know about before they decide whether to take your testimony seriously?” He gives the jury a sympathetic look.

  Becker objects, but we both know police jackets are damn near impossible for anyone on the outside, even lawyers, to get. Sustained. O’Connor has no further questions, thank everything holy, and Becker stands up for redirect.

  The questions are gonna be about the shooting. I’m gonna have to talk about it, here, in this room with these people, with a cop on trial who really did assault a man who was in handcuffs and posed no threat. And okay, yeah, he killed his grandmother and raped a neighbor, and I get it. It makes me angry too. But that’s why we have the court system. We can’t just go around hitting people, slamming them into floors, doing horrible things that we think we’ll get away with just because we always have.

  I blink fast a few times and see all of it. My “official police record,” my unofficial one, my whole jacket, Arsalan pulling a Magnum .45 and firing, me shooting him as he put three bullets into a trash can less than two feet away from my partner. There’s every twisted thing I’ve ever done, my whole life story, and the question the department shrink asked me, way back when in that first psych exam, about whether I would bring my traumatic experiences as a kid and young adult to work with me. There had been worry and sleepless nights as I relived all of it and pretended it wasn’t happening. Someone signed off on me, anyway.

  Possible mental instability, it might have said. I realize my hands are shaking, so I place them flat on my thighs.