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The third hour was dedicated to one case in particular: the teenage girl I’d shot to death because I’d had no choice. Warren Jacobi had been my partner then, and that cute young lady had led us on a high-speed car chase through the Tenderloin. As I said, she was cute. Deceptively so. When caught, she got out of her father’s sixty-thousand-dollar car and reached for her learner’s permit. She pulled out a gun.
She shot me and Jacobi. I was in bad shape and Jacobi was worse, unconscious and bleeding out onto the asphalt.
The young lady was still shooting when I managed to free my gun from its holster and return fire.
A fifteen-year-old would-be cop killer had gone down. Despite my entirely justifiable self-defense shooting, her rich family had sued me for wrongful death, and I’d been tried in civil court.
It was a horrible experience. Those same feelings of frustration and injustice were coming over me now.
I answered Hoyt’s questions about the shooting.
I had fired in self-defense.
I regretted that I’d had to kill that girl, but the situation had demanded it.
Yes, yes, yes, I had shot several other people in the last few years, and all those shootings had been fully justified and there had been no resulting disciplinary or legal action.
I stayed cool and went on to answer many questions about my critically important first-time meeting with Connor Grant. I said explicitly that I was sure I had heard him correctly when he told me that he had blown up Sci-Tron.
“I asked him to repeat himself. He elaborated on his boasts. I read him his rights and asked him if he understood. He said he did. I turned him over to patrolmen I knew, who brought him to my CO, who was waiting for him in booking.
“Everything I said and did was by the book.”
“His word against yours, but we have your husband’s sworn statement, and that will be considered,” said Hoyt. “I think we have enough for today.”
Tape recorders were turned off. Carol and I left the conference room first, and when we were walking up the stairs, she said to me, “Perfect job, Lindsay. You answered honestly and with conviction. I don’t see anything here but a dismissal of the complaint.”
I couldn’t even smile. I remembered when Parisi, Yuki, Brady, and I had had the same slam-dunk feeling that Grant’s on-scene confession would convict him. Now I knew what the science teacher could do in a court of law.
If Hoyt wanted to bring the charge forward, he would do it. If Parisi, for political reasons, had to let it go to the police commission, I could be sacrificed for the greater good of clearing the department’s name.
I would be fired, made an example of, humiliated, and I would likely never have a job in law enforcement again.
The end.
CHAPTER 73
THAT WEEKEND JOE and I relaxed within the landscaped embrace of Pacifica Rehab’s garden patio. He was in his wheelchair, I was stretched out in a high-quality ergonomic lounger beside him, and while we talked together, we were watching Julie.
Our little bambina was in the kiddie pool with three other kiddos, including Joey, a boy of four who had made up a sea monster game. He was in the starring role and had instructed the others to evade and scream. Fearless, Julie sat on the steps, slapped the water, and giggled. Joe and I laughed, too. It was all sunshine with a side of butterflies in the garden, but as I told Joe about my interrogation by Internal Affairs, my mind spiraled down into a darker place.
I said, “I was grilled on a spit, and Hoyt just kept basting me, jacking up the flame. Sorry to even have to tell you about it.”
“You’ll be okay, and I hope they want to interview me. But I know this is very stressful. I’m here. Tell me everything.”
“Okay,” I said. “So Hoyt curls his lip and says to me, ‘I don’t understand your answer, Sergeant. The scene was chaotic. You’re so certain that you remember Mr. Grant’s utterance verbatim?’
“I said, ‘It wasn’t an utterance, Mr. Hoyt. It was a speech. It was a brag. It was a confession without coercion.’
“He complimented me on the alliteration. Then he said, ‘Sounds a little rehearsed, Sergeant. Let me ask you something else. Have you ever made a mistake on the job? Arrested the wrong person? Shot someone dead? How many people have you killed, Sergeant Boxer? Three? More than that? Fewer than ten?’
“He knew how many, Joe. It was a tactic.”
“Of course it was. Keep going.”
I took a breath and told Joe what I could bear to remember. “‘Why were you demoted from lieutenant to sergeant? Why were you passed over for the job as chief of police? Why should we believe anything you say about anything?’”
Joe sighed. “Sorry, Linds. Look, the public wants cops to take lunatics off the street, and you did that. Your responsibility stops there.”
