Enemy in Blue (30 page)

“
I doubt it.” Sphinx swirled the scotch around in his glass. “As for Martinez, you mean the same Martinez that hunted down Shaver and the chief of police? The same Martinez that kept the only video of the incident on his person instead of checking it into evidence?”

“
He couldn't check it in—it would have been 'lost' for eternity.”

“
That would be your argument, naturally, but we'll see how much traction you get out of it. That is a serious breach in the chain of custody. We will be moving to keep that video out of evidence.”

“
You haven't told me anything unanticipated, Sphinx. What's the real purpose of this meeting? To intimidate me? I've dealt with much more than you before.”

“
I know all about you, Cruz. What's wrong with wanting to meet face-to-face?”

“
Now that we have, are we done?” Cruz stood up from his chair.

“
I suppose, unless you want to stay and get acquainted even more.”

“
Please,” Cruz said sarcastically.

“
Joffrey!” The butler stepped into the waiting room. “Please show Cruz out.” Sphinx extended his hand to Cruz. “See you soon, Cruz.” Cruz reluctantly shook his hand and walked to the front door.

“
Do I get a Town Car home too?” Cruz asked. Sphinx had disappeared. “Guess not.” Cruz walked outside and down the long driveway to Sphinx's home. He dialed Sandra's number on his cell phone and started walking in the direction of the city.

Sandra picked up, “Where are you? Martinez and I have been trying to get in touch with you. We've got something you'll want to see.”

“
Out near Bellevue. What is it?”

“
Tell you when we pick you up.”

T H I R T Y-T H R E E

__________________________________________________

M
orning light spilled over Mason's desk as he sat in silence. Files, manila folders and case documents covered his desk. He organized the mess at the start of each day and by the end of each one it was like the same bomb exploded in his office.

He faced significant backlash from his own office since reaching out to Cruz Marquez. The local papers ran two articles on whether the state could try a fair case against Sergeant Shaver with Cruz in the loop. Attorneys in his office asked how Cruz could help on the case—shouldn't he be a witness? Then there was that prick Sphinx. That was all Mason needed on the other side of the ledger.

Sphinx and Mason knew each other well. They came up in the same law school class. Where Mason was measured, Sphinx was loose. Where Mason was ethical, Sphinx manipulated rules like a three-year-old with absent parents. The first time Mason argued a case against Sphinx was actually in law school. The two had a trial advocacy class together with a mock case called State v. Outlander. Mason initially represented Outlander, a young man who had hit and killed two pedestrians while driving drunk. Sphinx appeared on behalf of the state. The two were so lackluster in their representation that the trial advocacy teacher switched their sides. It was a battle from then on that continued to this day.

Sphinx graduated with a higher class rank than Mason, but only by a few percentage points. Both were in the top ten percent of their class. Both had offers from major downtown firms—the silk-stocking, mahogany desk, thirty-second floor types—and both turned those firms down. Mason on account of wanting to get into trial, Sphinx on account of “not wanting to be someone's bitch for the rest of his life.” Then, Sphinx incomprehensibly joined the public defender's office and he was the state's bitch, and a much poorer one at that.

The state's public defender and district attorney offices had a high turnover rate in common. The low pay, long hours and hugely stressful caseloads quickly culled the weak and half-hearted. Like Mason, Sphinx rose through the ranks quickly. He was trying felony cases within a year. Within three years he tried seven murder cases. That was when Sphinx got the thought that inevitably comes to all attorneys—“I can do this, do it alone and do it better.” Except there was a greater priority for Sphinx. “I can do this and make a ton of money.” Certainly, that feeling was further magnified by his paltry salary.

Mason remembered that just before Sphinx left the public defender's office, the two had a murder trial against each other. Sphinx was a master in the art of persuasion bordering on guile. Mason was polished, but always felt compelled to let the facts speak for themselves. After two days of deliberation, the jury returned a guilty verdict. Sphinx came over to Mason while he was packing up his documents.

“
Full circle, isn't it, Mason?”

“
Kind of feels that way Sphinx,” Mason said. He looked up and saw the anger in Sphinx's eyes. “I thought you did a good job, if it helps.” Sphinx kept silent.

“
Is there anything else, Sphinx? You've lost before, this isn't...” But before Mason could finish his sentence Sphinx clocked him across the chin. “What the hell?!” Bailiffs ran up and grabbed Sphinx but Mason told them to hold on. Mason eventually decided not to press charges. He was initially angry, but then felt more sorry for Sphinx than anything else. It was the act of a spoiled adult.

Sphinx went on to open his own practice after that trial and the rest is history. Mason toiled away at a modest salary, in a modest office, with a modest home. Sphinx defended some of the most notorious criminals in the country, from mob bosses to chief executive officers of Fortune 500 companies. Nothing was modest in Sphinx's life.

The sigh that Mason let out when he heard Sphinx would be representing Shaver was not out of fear of losing. Instead, it was an old warrior's sigh, from full knowledge of the impending battle and the toll it would inevitably take. Mason kept the effects of the years to himself, but felt it creeping up every day. The seemingly endless reserve of energy that Mason had through his twenties and thirties was starting to fail him. Like the old warrior, he had the vague feeling, emanating from a combination of his gut instinct and years of experience, that this could be the last fight as a district attorney.

It was Christmas morning. Mason looked over a three-inch thick manila folder one of his investigators created for him. The office was silent—which often accompanied his hard work. Mason used to go to church, and the Catholic guilt never left him, especially when he was doing something like missing church on Christmas morning. His wife tried to prod and poke him into going to church more. Too many years of questioning and too few signs of existence of a God had him as far from religion as ever in his life. If anything, he saw signs on a daily basis that confirmed no God existed. The scurvy crew he dealt with—the rapists, pedophiles, kid-killers, abusers of the elderly, serial killers—numbed the would-be effect of any religion, let alone Catholicism. But the guilt persisted.

The folder was full of newspaper clippings, some recorded transcripts, and notes from his investigator. He picked up the newspaper clippings first even though they were most often useless. Repetition of things he already knew. Mason scanned the articles to make sure he didn't missed anything and jotted down the names of the journalists. Nuggets of information sometimes hid with the journalists.

A couple of the articles were written by Sandra Gutierrez. Mason dug into the cobwebbed recesses of his mind to figure out how he knew her. He had a brief moment of frustration as he stared through the clipping in front of him until it broke, “Channel 9 News.” She was a reporter for Channel Nine News. Looks like she also contributed to the local papers. Then he remembered seeing some of Sandra's reports on television about Livan Rodriguez's death. He liked watching her reports. They had an air of sincerity, innocence and purity. The news mattered to her, the content. He wrote her name down on his fresh pad of yellow legal paper.

He picked up the recorded transcripts next. Again, these were generally not helpful from a substantive perspective. As soon as a person is asked, “What did you see?” or “What do you think happened?” or any other permutation of the typical interview question, a floodgate holding back cranial trash opens.

“
Well, you know I saw a man and he looked dark and then he ran to a car that looked like an old American car, but you know I knew the person he shot, Livan, and he was a good man, we used to have neighborhood breakfasts together at his house and eat
huevos con salsa
and drink
horchata
, it's so sad he is gone...”

“
Did you see how tall the man was?”

“
Ohhh no. Tall. But everyone is tall to me.”

“
Did you see his face well enough to describe it?”

“
Yes!”

“
Okay, describe it.”

“
It was round, no mustache or beard or anything like that.”

“
Any marks, could you see the color of his eyes?”

“
Goodness no! I was too far away. Just round, that's what I remember.”

“
What about the car, what color was it?”

“
Dark.”

“
Black dark?”

Thinking. “Maybe black with some blue and purple. Dark.”

“
Was it big?”

“
Yes, very big, a car with four doors.”

That's how they usually went. The people always wanted to get back to the person involved. Natural human reaction. Who cares about the details of the car driving away—besides Mason and his investigator—when a person was just killed? So again, Mason would scan the transcripts to make sure he didn't miss anything. He could also tell from that scan which people he needed to follow up with. Nothing from the transcripts stood out. He would have his investigator contact them in the next few days. The passage of time eventually separated those with actual information from the others.

Finally, he got to the notes from his investigator. He stood up and stretched. Eleven a.m. The morning had flown by.

Background

Deceased was a sixty-two-year-old male. Hispanic descent. Cause of death: bullet wounds to stomach and sternum areas.

Witnesses

Sergeant Colin Shaver

Officer Roman Martinez

Officer Benjamin Tomko (deceased)

Officer Alvin Williams (deceased)

Officer Ted Lindsey (deceased)

Max Silverman (deceased)

Flores Rodriguez (daughter of Livan Rodriguez, address currently unknown)

No other witnesses. Incident took place inside home of Livan Rodriguez.

Mason picked up the phone and dialed his investigator's cell phone number.

“
Hello?” answered a groggy voice.

“
Todd?”

“
Yeah.”

“
It's Mason. Wake up man, it's after eleven.”

“
It's also Christmas morning, Mason. What do you want?”

“
Few questions. Max was a cameraman for the show
Police
, right?”

“
Uh, what are you talking about?”

“
The Rodriguez case. Max Silverman.”

“
Oh, right. Yeah, he was a cameraman.”

“
What happened to him?”

“
Shot dead in his apartment.”

“
When?”

“
They estimate shortly after Mr. Rodriguez was killed because the landlord found the body three days later when it stunk up the apartment.”

“
Any leads on the killer?”

“
None that I know of.”

“
Who's handling the investigation?”

“
I'm not sure but I'll find out for you.”

“
Now, how about this Flores Rodriguez. Have you talked to her?”

“
No, I wasn't able to track her down. Some neighbors suggested that she went back to Mexico. One day she was there, they said, and the next she was gone. No moving trucks, no family or friends to say goodbye, just gone.”

“
You know Esteban Herrera right?”

“
Of course.”

“
He specializes in skip-tracing to Mexico. Talk to him and see what he can find.”

“
Okay.”

“
I'm going to set up a meeting with Officer Martinez and I want you to be there. Also, did you see that Sandra Gutierrez popped up a lot in those newspaper clippings you gave me?”

“
Didn't notice it, who is she?”

“
Channel 9 News reporter. Dark hair, good looking...”

“
Oh yeah! Yeah, I like her.”

“
I'll talk to her too.”

“
I'm sure you will.”

“
Last thing. Who was the guy Officer Martinez brought in with Sergeant Shaver?”

“
You have the file in front of you?”

Mason looked down. “I expected you to have this on the tip of your tongue,” Mason said, buying himself some time as he rummaged to the police report. “Tyler Smith,” he muttered. “What do we know about him?”

“
We don't know anything other than his name. There was nothing in the file and my name search yielded nothing.”

“
I'll ask Martinez about this when we meet him. Who knows how deep this goes, freakin' ghosts.”

Mason hung up the phone, reorganized the documents and shoved them back into the manila folder. He picked up a business card propped up in his keyboard. Cruz Marquez. He hadn't heard from Cruz since he called last week. Mason grabbed the phone again and dialed his number. No answer. It was Sunday, Christmas morning, Mason reminded himself. He picked up his jacket and shut the light off in his office. His church had a twelve-fifteen service.