Justice Hunter (31 page)
“A woman hater, huh? That what you think?”
“Just an observation.”
“Is that all it is?” he asked rhetorically, chewing on Hunter’s words, the ire rising. “So basically you’re callin’ me a faggot?”
Clearly the concept of diversity training had yet to find its way into the Philadelphia Police Department. Hunter couldn’t help but ponder the absurdity of his circumstances. His fate, at least for the moment, was in the hands of an intolerant bigot, the antagonist in the city’s crusade, the one he’d been facilitating. It was an ill-fated and delusional moment of nobility, one that had eclipsed the truth—he would’ve done anything to make partner, and he desperately wished he could take it all back.
Hunter was pleasantly surprised by such a juvenile reaction, knowing that Rossi was about to dig his own grave. He marveled at the utility of simply playing to emotion, something he almost always did when a witness had his back against the wall. “Is that what you heard, detective? Because I wasn’t referring to your sexual preference—just noting your seemingly constant need to objectify women.” Hunter paused, feigning a revelation. “But now that you mention it.”
“I’m no fuckin’ queer!” he declared, moving like a klutzy yet raging bull. Hunter had struck a raw nerve.
“All right, all right,” said Hunter, pretending to let it go. “I believe you. Forget I ever said anything. Anyway, you know you’ve got nothing on me. Holding me for this long is bullshit. You’re grasping at straws, Detective.” Under his breath, he added, “Not that anything I’ve told you hasn’t fallen on deaf ears anyway.”
“Get up!”
“What?” Hunter asked as if the detective had ordered him to strip down at gunpoint.
“You heard me! Stand the fuck up!”
Apprehensively, Hunter got to his feet, playing the part of the victim to the hilt. He threw a subtle glance in the direction of the mirror, his eyes and expression warning the observing colleagues about the civil rights suit in the making. Hunter raised his hands meekly, as if he was a negotiator submitting to the irrational demands of a raving lunatic. “Now take it easy buddy. Just calm down.”
“Shut up!” At this point, Rossi was nearly foaming at the mouth, like a rabid, mangy stray. “Now look me in the eye. And answer me one question.”
Hunter did as he was told, letting the episode unfold like a documentary on police brutality. Rossi was self-destructing right before his very eyes. And he was brazen, acting with reckless disregard for protocol. Hunter had trained his eye on him during the hour-long interrogation. Rossi didn’t so much as glance at either of the two compact surveillance cameras. Hunter started to think they weren’t even operable and just there for decoration, to create the illusion of due process. “What’s that?”
Suddenly, the detective’s boyish voice went nearly silent, to a barely audible whisper. Clearly, he wanted the next threat to be completely off the record. “And if you don’t answer, you can bet I’m gonna charge your sorry ass. And don’t think I won’t do it.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
“Look. If this is about an apology—”
“An apology means nothing coming from scumbags like you.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
“All right then.”
Rossi was nearly chest-to-chest now. “I just want to know whether that slutty judge girlfriend of yours ever screamed your boss’s name when she was bangin’ you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hunter smiled fiendishly, triumphantly. “That’s the best you can do, detective. That’s all you can do to feel like a man?”
“Yes or no, you piece of shit.” Rossi was seething.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Hunter savored the moment. And then his world went black.
B
racing, civilly disobedient, proved futile once Detective Rossi landed a surprisingly first-rate jab. The shot struck Hunter squarely in the nose, sending him reeling and causing a mini blackout. He nearly dropped but somehow managed to catch his balance. Astounded that Rossi had actually done it, Hunter rebounded with both fists clenched, preparing to respond in kind. The laws regarding self-defense were very much on his side, and he intended to do something he’d wanted to do since the interrogation began—beat the shit out of this hack.
He tasted blood, which must’ve permeated his naval cavity. Then he heard a forcible click near the doorway. He instinctually scanned the entrance out of the corner of his eye. A torrent of activity flooded the room, and Hunter immediately knew the other detectives were rushing to quell the clash. Hunter continued to wind up. But he barely connected. Risotto had already inserted himself between the pair. A Prada cushion. Another detective struggled to separate Rossi, who flailed his body in an insincere display of resistance. He knew the jig was up. Taking it any further would’ve virtually guaranteed an internal affairs investigation. One punch, like one unprovoked and non-life-threatening gunshot, was still marginally justifiable. With any luck, Rossi just might avoid a reprimand and suspension.
Hunter sat back down on the hard metal chair and tried to absorb the surrealism of the situation. He observed Rossi exiting stage left, dragged away like a rebellious adolescent by an incensed parent. By the time he hit the doorway, his swagger had been reduced to a nervous gait. With Rossi’s back to him, Hunter couldn’t see the young detective’s countenance. He was pretty sure, though, that the expression was a combination of bewilderment and repentance. After shoving Rossi disapprovingly, the other detective, slight build, nondescript, weathered, and appearing ten years older than his probable mid-fifty self, presented Hunter with a well-creased handkerchief. It was a gentlemanly gesture. The cop’s piercing blue eyes, reminiscent of acting god Paul Newman’s, offered a sincere apology for the erratic behavior of the greenhorn. The look was a cool blend of paternity and skepticism.
“Thanks,” said Hunter as he accepted and placed the polyester square over his wounded nose, carefully surveying the extent of the damage for the first time. The pain of the blow had spiked, and he was left with a tingling numbness and a building pressure on his sinuses. Fresh and dried blood stained the transparent white material, confirming what he’d already suspected. Detective Rossi had broken the goddamn thing.
Shit.
The injury conjured up images from Hunter’s high school soccer days. The scene played out in his mind’s eye as if it were yesterday. The frigid winter Chicago air. An impenetrable gunmetal gray sky, just like the one he had seen when this whole thing started. A premonition. The rock-hard dirt bearing an occasional mutilated patch of grass, the remnants of Adidas cleats. His beloved father, unwavering in his support, cheering him on from the sidelines, inspiring him to greatness. The love was pure and unadulterated.
It was the championship game, and Hunter’s team enjoyed home-field advantage. They were the ordinary working-class kids. The enemy was Bellevue Prep, the most exclusive private day school within a fifty-mile radius and their greatest archrival, at least in their own mind. The teams had been battling for well over an hour already, and Hunter’s team was down by one. The rickety, underfunded public school’s scoreboard showed 2–3 with just under two minutes to play. Hunter had earned the distinct honor of leading his team in points that season, with assists accounting for more than half of the tally.
After a funny bounce and then dodging two sliding tackles with elbows, Hunter managed to wrestle himself free at midfield, gathering momentum as he went, the adrenalin coursing through his system like a twin-turbo charge. Within a few fast breaths, he had rocketed into scoring territory. Only the last line of defense stood between him and the tying goal. The obstacle was a brutish prepster with a buzz cut, haughty grin, and tree-trunk thighs. He was like a muscular Richard Nixon as an adolescent.
He slowed for what seemed like a millisecond, scanning the area for crimson and gold jerseys, his school’s colors, and contemplating his penultimate move. He drew the defender out patiently, luring him to commit. And then like a bat out of hell, Hunter cut straight to the goal. Mid-stride, as Hunter cocked his kicking foot and honed in on his target, the faster of the two foiled midfielders was upon him. Somehow he’d managed to catch up. And like a taunted wasp, he was incensed and hungry to avenge the wily maneuver at midfield. Then, suddenly, in a last-ditch act of vindictiveness, the opponent lunged mightily for Hunter’s legs, immediately giving way and plunging him headlong. Hunter’s body tumbled wildly, the fall buttressed cruelly by the near-frozen earth. With one final thud, he landed almost squarely on his nose, having no time to get his arms out to brace the fall. With the clarity of a Hollywood sound effect, the gory cracking sound signaling a broken bone taunted Hunter and the other players, even over the din of cheers and boos.
He still got uneasy just recalling the injury. That was the first and only other time he’d broken his nose and was the origin of the bump, which some, particularly of the female persuasion, had referred to as “character building.” For that, it was worth it, he supposed.
“We should probably get you some medical attention for that,” observed Detective Risotto as he approached Hunter, snapping him out of his stupor.
With the bloodied cloth still pressed against his nose, Hunter said, “I think I’ll survive.”
“We’ve got some ice on the way up.” Risotto paused. “I trust you’re anxious to get the hell out of here.”
“Why?” Hunter asked facetiously. “I enjoy being held against my will and interrogated by some raving lunatic with a badge.”
Risotto smiled, amused. “Please accept my apology on behalf of Detective Rossi. He’s a little…hotheaded, shall we say?”
“To put it mildly.”
“Youth coupled with idealism,” he observed nostalgically, recalling the beginning of his own crime-fighting career. “Something of a lethal combination.”
The detective could’ve just as easily been referring to him. And knowing Risotto, the insinuation was strategic.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s refreshing,” he continued. “But undeniably it’s a liability. I suppose there’s something to be said for a little cynicism every so often. Disillusionment can be a good thing. Breeds tact.”
“Like you, right?”
“Me? Others might say I’m just jaded and miserable. Seen too much of everything. Seen it all in fact. For me, life has become little more than an incessant flow of predictable problems and disappointments.”
“Must be difficult for someone with such a discerning eye. That amazingly keen perception. A real monkey on the back.”
“I get by.”
“How about striking a middle ground?” challenged Hunter. “Maybe that’s where you should concentrate your efforts. All the zeal tempered by a bit of prudence when necessary.”
“Ah,” said Risotto, feigning enlightenment. “The best of both worlds.”
“Something like that,” downplayed Hunter, reminding Risotto that their words were little more than fodder for repartee. The revelations the detective aspired to achieve wouldn’t come so easily. Nevertheless, he continued chiseling away at the words like a Renaissance sculptor practicing his craft on a crude rock until presented with a worthier slab of marble. “Otherwise some might say that you’re too jaded. Blinded to the reality of the situation. Making the facts fit the result. A dangerously myopic perspective.”
“Interesting,” said Risotto, pretending to be affected by Hunter’s power of persuasion. “Sort of like the Supreme Court, if you think about it,” he added skeptically.
Risotto’s observation was surprisingly intuitive for a non-lawyer. The Supreme Court was notorious for inventing rhetorical devices to reach an intended outcome, whether on political, religious, ethical, or moral grounds. Look no further than racial discrimination as a glaring example of that practice. Disparate treatment was actually condoned by the highest court in the land during a nadir in the history of this country’s race relations. It suddenly became apparent to Hunter that Risotto had forgone law school not because he wasn’t enough of an idealist, as he portrayed himself. To the contrary—he was far too much of one. The practice of law, as appealing as it might seem to astute overachievers in the beginning, in actuality was a constant compromise. Attorneys, even the most noble, were too often constrained by limitations pervading the law. They were handcuffed by poorly reasoned opinions, senseless precedent, inartfully drafted legislation, and legislation spearheaded by special interest groups with superior lobbying prowess and cavernous coffers to support the effort. Risotto, although still guided by fundamental legal doctrines, enjoyed much greater autonomy as a cop. He obviously relished his ideological freedom.
“Precisely,” replied Hunter. “Absurd results despite glaring evidence.”
“And you think that’s what I’m doing with you?”
“Too soon to tell. But if the last goon you sent in here was any indication…”
“At any rate,” said Risotto, moving on, “we’ll expect a signed release before we can agree to let you go.” The words were clearly spoken in jest.
“How very prudent of you,” Hunter said mockingly.
“Of course, you’ll have the right to independent legal counsel.”
“And very gracious.”
Shifting gears and accelerating past the witticisms like a fine Italian roadster, Risotto asked, “So why shouldn’t we charge you, Hunter?” His tone suddenly turned sober, as if Hunter was dangerously close to being charged with capital murder. “I’ll be frank with you. It doesn’t get much more serious than murdering a judge. The judiciary, not to mention all the heavy hitters in the city, want to see justice served on this one. And swiftly. They want to see someone hang. Not to mention I’ve got the feds breathing down my neck. They want answers, and yesterday.”
Wronged, Hunter replied, “I’m sure you’re under inordinate amounts of pressure, Detective. But you’re not going to get a confession out of me. None of that stuff changes the simple fact that I’m innocent and you know it. Even more important, my conscience is clean.”
“Do I?” Risotto smiled skeptically, clearly possessing evidence to the contrary.
“I swear I had nothing to do with it,” Hunter vowed. “Just think about it. What could I possibly stand to benefit by doing something insane like that?”
Risotto remained unmoved, almost seeming to ignore Hunter’s plea. “And what about his intention to throw out your case? I can only imagine Mediacast’s reaction to that,” probed Risotto, delicately peeling back a layer with the dexterity of a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. He was getting to motive.
Hunter was seething inside as he reflected back on the Mediacast case, the abortion of justice that it was. He tried to maintain his cool, however.
“Come on, Hunter. I can’t imagine you weren’t pretty peeved about the whole thing.”
“I was angry. Naturally. But murdering a judge, for Christ’s sake?” The ludicrousness of the allegations was infuriating. “How about the evidence? The murder weapon? Forensics?” Hunter had a right to know.
“No murder weapon yet. But we’re leaving no stone unturned, I can assure you,” he said accusatorily.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Detective,” Hunter replied, rebuffing the insinuation.
“I’m flattered.” He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he were on a Las Vegas stage, performing a world-famous illusion as the flashbulbs illuminated the blackness, revealing the mesmerized gazes of his legions of female devotees. “As it turns out, all we have at the moment are some prints.”
“There you go,” said Hunter, a bit surprised that one of Mancini’s henchmen would be so sloppy. “Any solid matches?” he asked, breathing an internal sigh of relief. His hope was slightly restored, at least temporarily.
“It’s a little premature. We’re still running some additional comparisons. But we think we’re close, very close.”
“Anything you’re at liberty to divulge?”
“Are you asking…?” He acted taken aback, as if Hunter had just tendered a bribe to a public official.
“You’re right. I understand,” balked Hunter, realizing he was asking far too much from someone so by-the-book.
“Typically, I can’t share that kind of information at this stage in an investigation,” chastised Risotto. “
You
of all people should know that.”
Hunter nodded stoically, reminding himself that extracting vindicating information wouldn’t be so simple with him. Plus Risotto seemed to be reveling in playing hard to get.
“But in
this
particular case,” Risotto went on, doing an about-face, “I don’t see any real harm in filling
you
in. You should be the first to know, I suppose.”
“You have my utter confidence,” assured Hunter.
“Good.” Risotto acknowledged the vow with a manly stare. “Because we think they may be…
yours
, Hunter.” And then the accusation hit him like a heavyweight body blow.
“You’re kidding?” He nearly gagged on his own words.
“I wouldn’t make light of something like that…”