Conviction (21 page)

“Had Officer Reyes ever received any credible complaint about his conduct on the job or conducted himself in such a way that any disciplinary action was deemed appropriate?”

“No, ma’am. Never once.”

Laila smooths the front of her jacket. “Was he hotheaded?”

“No, ma’am. Not one bit. Sweetest guy you ever met. Besides that, he was with his nephew that night. He was crazy about that kid. He would never do nothing risky when he was with his
nephew. Or when he had no backup.”

“Under what situation would an officer conducting a traffic stop pull out a gun, as the defense has claimed Officer Reyes did that night?”

“It would have to be something pretty serious. Because you don’t want a situation escalating or nothing. A suspect sees you pull a weapon, he’s going to lose his cool, and all
of a sudden you got a situation on your hands. Frankie wouldn’t do that. Frankie never discharged his gun one time on the job. Not one time in six years. You’d only do that if maybe
there was a threat. Maybe if the other guy reached for a weapon or something, but only then. But you saw the pictures. He never even got a chance.”

“Officer Molson, can you explain why Officer Reyes’s fingerprint was found on the taillight of the suspect’s car?”

“That’s standard, too.”

“Why is that?”

“Ah—” He looks off toward the side. I know the courtroom’s filled with cops who’ve driven in from as far away as Reno to be there; in the papers, one of them said
in an interview that even though he’d never met Officer Reyes, he’d still lost a brother. He told the reporter they want justice against my dad. “We train our boys to do that. You
pull someone over; on your way up to talk to them, you stop and you mark their taillight. The fancy departments get cameras, but we can’t afford that. It’s half superstition. At least
you hope you never actually have to use it. But that’s so then we know for sure you were there just in case something ever goes wrong.”

Laila says, “Officer Molson, let’s go back to the night you and Officer Reyes first encountered the suspect. What happened?”

“We were called to the house because of a missing-child situation. The man couldn’t get ahold of his kid, so he called us. This was back in January. So we came to the house and
started asking questions. Standard stuff. You know—where’d he last see his kid, was there anything that would make him think we had a runaway situation, had his kid been talking to
anyone unusual lately—all that. I mean, I got two girls and Frank’s got a nephew and nieces he’s close to, so we know teenagers pretty well. Now, I’ve been on the force,
oh…twenty years, about, and I’ve seen a lot of upset parents. We see a lot of things. But there was something off about Raynor. He was all defensive, for one thing. Usually parents
want as many questions as possible because they want to find their kid. They’ll answer anything. But he wasn’t that way. I can’t say I was too shocked when I heard it was him who
killed Frank.”

Mr. Buchwald objects again. Judge Scherr says sternly, “Stick to the facts, please.” Officer Molson gives a nod of acknowledgment, but his expression isn’t nearly so
polite.

“It was weird stuff about him,” Officer Molson continues. “Like he wouldn’t answer our questions, and he didn’t like when we tried to tell him his kid was probably
fine. He didn’t like when we made suggestions, either. He kept saying this couldn’t be happening because his kid was supposed to be at a baseball game. Reyes and I keep looking at each
other, like, ‘Your kid’s missing and all you care about is a ball game?’ Like he couldn’t believe the kid’s not there to be his trophy for one afternoon.” The
microphone screeches, and Officer Molson jerks back like it startled him. “Or maybe like he couldn’t believe anyone had the nerve to cross him. And the other thing is he didn’t
like Frankie right away. That was the other thing. He had a real nasty attitude with him.”

“Did Officer Reyes respond?”

Officer Molson flattens out his lips. “Some. Just a little. You can’t get into it with a man like Raynor. It’s just not worth it. But something about him—he really knew
how to drag you into it. And Frank could get kind of sarcastic. Not the worst I’ve ever seen. All due respect, ma’am, you woulda got snippy with him, too.”

The way Laila pauses reminds me of when you’re behind the plate waiting for the pitcher to wind up. “After that incident, would you characterize Officer Reyes’s relationship to
Mr. Raynor as hostile?”

“Ma’am, there was no relationship. We just showed up there that one time. Frank’s a professional. We deal with so much on that job I bet he never thought about it again. I
can’t imagine him getting worked up about it the next time he saw him. In the car afterward, he was his usual self, joking around. Told me he was looking forward to the weekend.”

“What state was Mr. Raynor in when you left?”

“He wasn’t in a good way, to tell you the truth. Just didn’t seem like he had himself all the way under control. And now I know we should’ve stuck around, maybe made sure
the kid was all right, looked at Raynor more, but at the time…”

Officer Molson reaches up and wipes his forehead. He’s wearing a blue shirt and there are sweat stains starting to show under his sleeves. “The thing is that at the time, Raynor had
no record. And he’s on the radio and you see his picture, and you figure, sure, he’s an asshole, maybe, but you figure he’s all right. You can’t arrest someone just because
you don’t like him. And to be straight with you I figured the kid needed to be taught a lesson and I thought, good, his old man’s pissed off at him. Jesus, I would’ve done it
different if I knew what kind of person Raynor was. Everyone keeps asking how come I didn’t do nothing at the time and then maybe Frankie would still be around. But I didn’t know it was
going to turn out like this. I thought he was just upset about the kid and that was why he was acting that way. How was I supposed to know?”

In his cross-examination, Mr. Buchwald rubs his hands together briskly and peers over his glasses at Officer Molson on the stand. The lawyer looks bright-eyed and alert; he
practically leapt up when the judge gave him the go-ahead.

“June eighteenth,” he says. “Four years ago. The twenty-two-year-old son of Officer Isaac Willingham—a thirty-year veteran of your department—was accused of sexual
assault. Is this correct?”

Officer Molson frowns. “He was cleared of—”

“It’s a yes or no question. Is this correct?”

“Yeah, sure. He was accused.”

“And yet no charges were ever filed. Is this also true?”

“Yeah, because—”

“The son of one of your colleagues was accused of rape and was never arrested, never investigated, and never formally charged with a crime. Is this correct?”

“He never—”

“Please answer yes or no.”

“Of course he was investigated.”

“Who did the investigating? Was it your department?”

He pauses. “Yes. That’s standard.”

“On August tenth, four years ago, did Officer Reyes Taser a woman’s young dog to death in front of her?”

“That dog was a threat.”

“The puppy’s mother tried to sue your department—”

“Pal, the puppy’s
mother
was a dog.”

You can hear someone in the audience snicker. Mr. Buchwald presses his lips together. “I don’t believe I finished my question. The puppy’s
owner
tried to sue your
department because she said there was no threat whatsoever.” Mr. Buchwald leans closer. “Did Francisco Reyes attempt any other courses of action before attacking the dog?”

“It was his Taser. It wasn’t a gun.”

“Did he attempt to subdue the puppy in any other way first?”

“He didn’t have time for that. Look, this wasn’t some cute puppy. This was a pit bull trying to attack the neighbor’s kid, okay? But it wasn’t supposed to happen
like that, and no one felt worse about it than him.”

“The dog was shot at a distance of approximately fifty feet from any human being. Is that correct?”

“I got no idea.”

Mr. Buchwald looks irritated, but he doesn’t press it. “In September, two years ago, was Francisco Reyes investigated for excessive use of force during the arrest of Jordan
Dadier?”

“That was a DV suspect trying to cover his—”

“Yes or no, please, Mr. Molson.”

“He was investigated, sure. Then he was cleared. People say all kinds of things about us, but that doesn’t make them true.”

“Did Francisco Reyes receive two weeks’ paid leave from taxpayers while your department conducted an investigation into the incident?”

“That’s standard procedure.”

“Did your department appoint its own employees to conduct its own internal investigation?”

“Well, that’s how—”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“Yes.”

“And he was found to have acted in accordance with department policy based on the results of that internal investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Was an investigation ever conducted by an outside committee?”

“Nothing like that was needed.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“The night of January eleventh, did Francisco Reyes tell Mr. Raynor’s teenaged son, ‘If there was any justice at all in the world, you wouldn’t have come back here
safe’?”

“I don’t remember exactly what—”

“But he said that? That he wanted Mr. Raynor’s sixteen-year-old son harmed in some way?”

“I don’t think he said it like that.”

“You’ve testified that Francisco Reyes was angry and that he got”—he lifts his fingers in quotation marks—“
snippy
with Mr. Raynor, if that’s what
you’d like to call it. Can you categorically deny that he said that?”

“Look, if he said it, he didn’t mean it like that. He meant he wanted Raynor to get his head out of his ass and he meant that his kid was spoiled. That’s it.”

“Would you say you enjoy a camaraderie with your colleagues?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you say you feel a strong sense of loyalty to Francisco Reyes?”

“I’m loyal to all of ’em. And to the community.” He adds, “You too, buddy. We’re here to look out for all of you.”

Mr. Buchwald cleans his glasses with his shirt. “Did you regard Francisco Reyes highly as a person?”

“You couldn’t meet a better kid. Real family guy. Been helping support his family for years.”

“Is it accurate to say you had a close relationship?”

“Yeah. He invited my whole family over to his niece’s
quinceañera
, that kind of thing. My kids loved him.”

“Were you the first person on the scene the night of the accident?”

“That was no accident. But yeah, I got there first.”

“Mr. Molson, just answer the question, please.”

“Yes.”

“The official report states that you arrived at eight-oh-six, Officers Escobar and Washington arrived within five minutes, and the nondepartmental personnel were notified at that time. Is
this correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And at that point Francisco Reyes’s firearm was found in his holster.”

“Yeah.”

“How long would you say you were alone with the body?”

Officer Molson stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a straightforward question, sir.”

He’s reddening. “Look, mister, if you’re asking if I tampered with—”

“How long were you and your department alone with the body, Mr. Molson?”

“We weren’t. His nephew was there.”

“Correct. His nephew. How long were you and your department alone with the body with only a teenaged relative as a witness?”

“I don’t know.”

“The records indicate the paramedics arrived eight minutes after you did. Does that sound right?”

“Sure. Fine. Eight minutes.”

“How long does it take to put a gun in a holster?”

He’s livid. “Listen, pal, you don’t come in here and—”

“Mr. Molson, please lower your voice. How long does it take to put a gun in a holster?”

He lifts his hand, lets it drop against the podium with a thud. “Not long, I guess. Neither does running someone down with—”

“Mr. Molson, please. Does placing a gun in a holster take eight minutes?”

“No.”

“Thank you. And just so we’re all clear—you said, I believe, that you feel a deep sense of loyalty to Francisco Reyes?”

Officer Molson doesn’t answer. Mr. Buchwald smiles.

“I believe it’s already on the record that you do. Thank you,” he says, his tone brisk, as if Officer Molson is just a guy behind a register ringing up his receipt.
“Then, Your Honor, I have no further questions.”

All my life, my dad’s taught me that a person’s worth is measured by what he does. The whole time he played in the minor leagues, some of his favorite teammates were
the Latin American guys—proof it doesn’t matter where you’re from or what you look like as much as it does who you are under your skin. He gave a bunch of money to help build an
orphanage in Mexico and led a missions trip there once with our church, and once when I was a kid I got my mouth washed out with soap for repeating something racist I heard at school.

So he’s not a racist, and anyone who knows him can tell you that. But it turns out Mr. Buchwald was right all along that Laila never saw it that way: after they’re done with Officer
Molson, she plays the jury a compilation of clips from my dad’s show. She plays it straight through without commentary, blinking at the ground with her arms folded across her chest.

One nation under God? Ha. I tell you what, when your nation’s got a whole class of people that broke the law to get here and brought all kinds of criminal behavior across the border,
and then we’re supposed to reward them with health care, with free food, with ballots in their own language—what’s that teach our children? You think those people care about God?
They don’t care about God. And they don’t give a fig about everything our parents and our grandparents before us worked so hard to build. You should take that personally.

You seen what they do when they come here? They bring the third world right to your backyard. You ever seen them take over a town and not run the whole thing to the ground? Because I sure
haven’t. You want to live in those towns? You want to buy real estate there? You want to let your kids play there? We’d be better off rounding them all up in their barrios and shipping
them back, no questions asked. Let that be a warning to all the others.