Beckett tossed
the folder onto his desk. They had returned to the Tribune Building after
being dismissed. “I’m serious about this.”
“What the hell
are you talking about?!” Corbin was furious. “Evan, we’ve destroyed each of
their witnesses.”
“It doesn’t
matter,” Beckett said bitterly. “If Webb shows up, we lose. It’s that
simple.”
“That doesn’t
make any sense?! Russell’s a liar. None of the bank witnesses put him in the
banks—”
Beckett cut him
off. “It doesn’t matter. If Webb testifies, that’s all the jury will
remember.”
“You can’t know
that.”
“I can. I’ve
seen it a dozen times before.”
“You need to
wait!” Corbin growled.
“No! I’m
telling you, if Webb testifies that he took those documents from Beaumont, the
jury will convict Beaumont no matter what else happens.” He paused. “That
means I need to confess and I need to do it before we put on our case.”
“This is
insane!” Corbin yelled. He clenched his fists and paced around the small
office.
“I warned you,”
Beckett said bluntly.
Corbin pointed at
Beckett. “No! You told me you would wait for the jury to act!”
“I told you I
would wait until it became clear the jury would convict. If Webb testifies,
the jury will convict.”
“Are you at
least going to see if you can take his testimony apart?!”
“We can’t. If
he sticks to the story Russell told, there’s nothing we can do, unless you have
something you haven’t told me about?”
“So you’re just
going to stand up after Pierce finishes with him and say, ‘hey, I did it’?”
“My mind is made
up.”
“Don’t do this,
Evan,” Corbin warned him.
Beckett turned
away to avoid Corbin’s stare. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair,
picked up the divorce papers his wife’s attorney had sent the day before, and
pushed past Corbin. He stopped at the door to the office. “You don’t need to
show up tomorrow,” he said, without looking at Corbin. He looked sad and he
looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.
Russell pinned Webb
against the wall. Hillary Morales stood behind Russell. They were in an interrogation
room at the station.
“Let him go,
Sergeant,” Morales ordered. “I just want to talk to him. There’s no need for
violence.” Morales offered Webb a chair, but he refused. She leaned against
the edge of the table. “Officer Webb, you made an arrest—”
“I’m not lying
for you or
you
,” Webb blurted out.
“Let me finish, Officer,”
Morales commanded. “You work for this department, and you are obligated to
testify when called. In the process of exercising your duties,
you
made
an arrest.
You
submitted a report commensurate with that arrest. That
report includes a statement in which
you
assert certain things to be
true. If
you
do not repeat that statement in court, I will prosecute
you
for making false statements. You will be convicted and sent to prison. Your
career, and your life as you know it, will be over.”
Webb folded his
arms.
“The choice is
yours. Are you going to stand by the statement you made in your official
capacity or are you going to admit you lied on official documents?” She waited
for a response, but he remained silent. “We’re not leaving here until I get an
answer from you.”
Webb still
didn’t speak.
“Are we leaving
here with an understanding or are you leaving here in cuffs?” she asked.
They stood there
in silence. After what seemed like an eternity, Webb laughed. He stepped away
from the wall. “You want to call me, that’s fine. I’ll back up the report to
the letter, but nothing further.” He pushed past Russell and stormed out of
the interrogation room. Russell followed him into the hallway.
“What the heck
does that mean?!” Russell shouted.
Webb stopped. “It
means I’ll tell the truth and nothing more.”
Corbin sat on
the edge of his bed in the dark. Sleet hit the window. It was 6:04 am. He
held the gun in his hand. Could he do it? He tried calling Beckett the night
before to give him one last chance to change his mind, but Beckett had checked
out and Corbin had no idea where he was. . . though he knew where Beckett would
be in a couple hours. Corbin squeezed the gun tightly. His face contorted
into a twisted mess. He felt a throbbing pain behind his left eye.
“Fuck!”
He set the gun
down on the bed. He leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees and his head
resting in his hand. He rubbed his eyes with his thumbs. He stood up and
paced back and forth across the room. Finally, he stopped. He stood above the
gun, staring at it, grinding his teeth.
“Fuck you, Evan,
fuck you,” Corbin hissed.
Corbin walked to
the closet and removed a hanger from one of his dry-cleaned shirts. Returning
to the bed, he grabbed some packaging tape from the top of the television and a
small white towel. He wrapped the gun in the towel, forming a triangular
package. Then he took the clothes hanger and bent it to match the size of the
triangular package. He taped the hanger to the package, leaving the hook
sticking out beyond the edge of the package, and then sealed the package with
the tape.
Corbin walked
into the alley outside the courthouse. It was still dark and sleeting. He
walked over to the dumpster which sat just one floor beneath the restroom
window. Corbin looked both ways to make sure the alley was empty and he
scanned the windows to make sure he wasn’t being observed. He was alone. He
pulled the towel-package from his coat and carefully placed it into the
dumpster, wedging it between two garbage bags so the hook from the clothes
hanger stood upright, as if it were hanging in a closet.
With the gun placed
in the dumpster, Corbin entered the building. As usual, he emptied his pockets
to walk through the metal detector. The guards thought nothing of the ball of
string in his bag or the dry cleaning he carried. As he entered the courtroom,
Corbin found the bailiff already there. He asked for permission to use the
restroom in the private hallway to change his shirt. The bailiff agreed.
Corbin entered
the restroom, locking the door behind him. Despite the early hour, the
radiator rattled away, causing the window to fog up. He removed the clothes
hanger from his dry cleaning and stuffed the shirt into his bag. He took the
ball of string from his bag and tied it around the clothes hanger. Using the
trick he’d learned from the clerk, he opened the window and scanned the deserted
alley below. The alley was deserted. Slowly, Corbin lowered the clothes
hanger on the string until it hooked onto the package in the dumpster, about
ten feet below.
He carefully pulled the package
up, grabbing it when it got close enough. He unwrapped the gun, before dropping
the towel and the clothes hanger into the dumpster. After closing the window,
Corbin hid the gun in the hand-towel dispenser and returned to the courtroom.
He was ready.
Beckett paused
at the door to the courtroom. The room was empty except for two people sitting
together near the back and Corbin, who sat at the defense table. Beckett
walked over to Corbin. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said, as he
brushed snowflakes from the sleeves of his navy-blue suit.
“There’s a good
chance Webb won’t show up,” Corbin said, without looking at Beckett. He
sounded unconvinced. He looked tired, with dark bags beneath his eyes. He
also hadn’t changed his suit, though he did change his tie. “Even if he does
show up, I want one last chance to talk to you.”
“My mind’s made
up.”
“Hear me out,”
Corbin commanded. He stared right into Beckett’s bloodshot eyes. “Before you
do
anything
, you need to talk to Beaumont about this. He may not want
your confession.”
Corbin was
right, but Beckett didn’t acknowledge it. Beaumont had a right to make the
decision on whether or not he wanted Beckett to offer this confession, which
would essentially be evidence and likely would cause a mistrial, or whether he
felt the trial was going well enough that he wanted it withheld.
“Before you say
anything, you owe it to Beaumont to explain to him what happened and what
you’re about to do,” Corbin repeated.
Beckett shook
his head.
“This isn’t your
decision,” Corbin said coldly. He turned his attention to his notepad and left
Beckett to consider his words.
Corbin and
Beckett sat in silence for almost an hour as people drifted into the
courtroom. The jury remained out of sight, as did the judge. Morales sat at
the prosecution table, waiting nervously for any sign of Webb. Pierce was in
the hallway, talking to the press.
“I’m confident
we’ll get this conviction,” he told two reporters.
“But it sounds
as if the defense has blown your case apart?” asked one of the reporters.
“Oh, nonsense!”
Pierce laughed. “Trials are about surprises. Things happen you never expect.
Some witnesses come through, others don’t. It doesn’t mean the defendant isn’t
guilty. It just means that sometimes witnesses get confused on the stand and
make mistakes. When the jury hears all the evidence, they’ll see clearly that Beaumont
is guilty of these crimes, and I’m confident they’ll convict him.”
“What additional
evidence are you planning to introduce?” asked the other reporter.
“You’ll have to
wait and see,” Pierce said, giving a little laugh as he spoke.
“Would you be
willing to give an on-camera interview for our lunch hour?”
“Certainly.”
Pierce looked at his watch. “I need to get ready, but I’ll be happy to speak
with you during the lunch break. I think you’ll see a very different case by then.”
As they entered
the jury box that morning, several jurors eyed Eddie Pierce skeptically. He
ignored their looks and continued to project an air of extreme confidence, with
his wide smile and easy manner. Morales, however, looked ill. She hadn’t
slept, though her brown suit looked like she’d slept in it. Beaumont hadn’t
slept either. He looked angry, like he always did. Today’s pimp suit was metallic
silver. Neither Beckett nor Corbin slept either. They showed no emotions at
all.
Judge Sutherlin
immediately turned to Pierce. “Call your witness, Mr. Pierce.”
“The people call
Officer Paul Webb, Your Honor,” Pierce proclaimed loudly.
All eyes turned
to the back of the room, where the bailiff opened the door and called Webb’s
name. For what seemed like an eternity, no one appeared.
Meanwhile, out
in the hallway, Russell walked over to Webb, who stepped off the elevator a
moment before he was called. Russell grabbed him by the shoulder. “Don’t you
fuck me, Rook,” Russell spat out venomously, but quietly enough not to be
overheard by the reporters waiting down the hallway.
“Get out of my
way.” Webb showed no trace of being intimidated.
“What are you
gonna tell ’em bastards?” Russell demanded.
“What you’re
doing is a
crime, Russ.”
“What are you
gonna tell ’em!”
“I’m going to
tell them the truth,” Webb replied, his voice drained of emotion. “I’m going
to tell them I arrested Beaumont, that I searched the nightstand, and that I
found the documents.”
“What if they
ask where them documents came from?”
Webb shook off
Russell’s hand and pushed past him. He stopped once he was clear of Russell.
“If they ask me where the documents came from, I’ll tell ’em the truth. . .
I’ll tell ’em you put ’em there.”
Webb walked into
the courtroom. He wore an ill-fitting gray checkered suit, not his uniform. The
sleeves were too long and the pants a hint too short. His black tie was off
center. Slowly, reluctantly, he made his way to the witness box. Corbin
closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Beckett looked pale as a sheet. He
looked like he might throw up. Morales too looked like she might throw up.
Pierce smiled broadly.
“State your name
for the record,” Pierce began in a formal tone.
“Paul William
Webb.”
“You are a
police officer?”
“Yes,” Webb
replied with a trace of hostility, which Pierce ignored.
“Officer Webb,
you’ve been on the force now for just over a year, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were you
involved in the arrest of the defendant, Mr. Beaumont, on November 21st of last
year?”
Webb hesitated.
“I was involved, yes.”
“What can you
tell us about that arrest?”
Webb hesitated
again before responding. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell us what
you did,” Pierce demanded.
“I arrested Mr.
Beaumont.” He said nothing else.
“Is that all?”
Pierce asked testily. “Didn’t you in fact take a number of documents—”
“Objection,”
Beckett interrupted. “Leading.”
“Sustained,”
Sutherlin said. He wasn’t reading his file today, he was watching Webb
closely.
“Did you search
the apartment, Officer?”
“Not the whole
thing, no.” Webb continued to resist Pierce’s questions.
“Did you search
part of the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“What part or
parts did you search?” Pierce asked. His frustration at Webb’s resistance was eroding
his poker face.
“I was asked to
search the nightstand next to Mr. Beaumont,” Webb responded.
“Did you find
anything in the nightstand?”
Webb looked at
Beaumont, looked at Pierce, looked at Beckett, and then looked at the jury.
They watched him intently.