The People vs. Alex Cross (15 page)

After Nixon was sworn in, Wills quickly established the witness’s bona fides as an expert on police shootings. Nixon had been a decorated cop in Chicago before joining the FBI, where he had worked as an investigator in the civil rights division. He was involved in the U.S. government’s investigation into police killings. After his retirement from the Bureau, Nixon continued to study the forces that contributed to citizens’ death by cop.

“Sometimes the officer’s a racist,” Nixon said. “Sometimes the officer’s just burned out from the day-to-day pressure of the job and is feeling inordinately threatened. And sometimes, more often than you’d think, the police officer shoots because he believes he’s above the law.”

Wills looked at the jury. “In your opinion, Mr. Nixon, does Alex Cross fit the profile of a police officer who believes he’s above the law?”

“Objection—argumentative,” Anita said.

“Overruled,” Judge Larch said. “Answer the question, Mr. Nixon.”

“He does fit the profile,” Nixon said. “In fact, he’s a prime example of the phenomenon.”

“A prime example,” Wills said. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve studied him at length,” Nixon said, looking earnestly in my direction. “It means I’ve researched every shooting Dr. Cross has ever been involved in.”

“Wait,” the prosecutor said. “Dr. Cross has been involved in shootings other than the three in question today?”

Anita sprang to her feet. “Objection! Relevance?”

Wills said, “We’re trying to give the jury the context in which these three shootings took place.”

“Overruled,” Larch said.

“Judge!”

“Overruled!”

Wills said, “Was Alex Cross involved in other shootings before the three in question?”

“Yes,” Nixon said.

“How many times does the average police officer in America discharge his weapon in the course of a career?”

“Zero,” Nixon said. “The vast majority of police officers never fire their weapon in the line of duty.”

“Zero,” Wills said. “And how many times has Dr. Cross discharged a weapon in the course of his careers at the FBI and DC Metro Police?”

The witness shifted in his chair, said, “I don’t have
all
the
records. Some are sealed. But just from the public documents I’ve looked at, Alex Cross has fired his weapon at least thirty-one times.”

I blinked and felt my stomach go sour. There was a louder reaction in the audience, which caused Judge Larch to pound her gavel. “Order.”

By their expressions, jurors five and eleven had turned against me again. And no wonder. I was as shocked as they were to hear the number.

Thirty-one times. Is that true? And have I shot more than that? He said
at least,
didn’t he?

Wills said, “Can you break down the shots for us in a meaningful way?”

Nixon nodded. “The records I’ve seen indicate that Dr. Cross missed fourteen times and wounded someone eight times.”

“And the other nine times Dr. Cross pulled his trigger in the line of duty?”

“His shots were perfect,” Nixon said. “All of his victims died.”

BY THE END
of the first day of the trial, I felt like that side of beef Rocky Balboa used as a punching bag.

For three solid hours, Wills and Nixon had kept up a relentless barrage of facts about the nine deadly shooting incidents that they said collectively cast me as a cop who believed he was above the law.

“They’ve almost got me believing it,” I said after court was adjourned for the evening. We’d gone to a conference room to reassess before heading home.

Anita said, “You must absolutely not believe it.”

Naomi nodded. “She’s right. Your belief in your innocence has to shine through your body language. The jury will pick up on the slightest doubt you feel.”

My lead attorney put her hand on my forearm. “This is classic Nathan Wills, from what I understand, and we still have more than a few cards up our sleeves. Go home, Alex. Be with
your family. Don’t watch the news. We’ll see you in the morning.”

I nodded. “Sampson’s picking me up in the garage.”

“Perfect,” Naomi said. “And have you thought about that interview request from Gayle King?”

“I don’t see an upside.”

My niece said, “The upside is you get to tell your story to a national audience and counter all the horrible things people have been saying about you.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, and left.

Sampson was waiting for me in the garage in his Jeep Grand Cherokee.

“How’d it go?” he asked after I’d shut the door.

“Slightly better than the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Shit. And here I was, hoping the iron maiden and the rack were making a comeback in our legal system.”

I glanced at him, saw him grinning, and laughed. “Yeah, I get it. I suppose it could have been worse. I just don’t know how.”

We left the courthouse garage, skirted around the media mob waiting for me to exit the building, and headed home.

“Anything I can do?” Sampson said.

“Not unless you can speed up lab work faster than Bree can.”

He looked over at me, puzzled.

“Some saliva tests Anita wanted done. They might help.”

“With what?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“I understand,” he said, but his tone said he didn’t, and there was a strained silence between us the rest of the ride.

Sampson pulled over well down the street from the small
crowd of journalists camped outside my house. “You best take the alley home.”

“It’d be easier,” I said. “Thanks for being a standup guy, John.”

He paused, and then nodded and said, “I have a great role model.”

He drove away. Knowing Sampson still had my back, I felt okay as I walked down the alley that ran behind my block. Even better, the air smelled like garlic and basil when I went through the back gate and stole through the side door.

Ali and Jannie were on the couch in the great room, watching the NBC evening news with Lester Holt, when I came in.

“Dad!” Ali said, running over and hugging me.

Jannie’s eyes avoided mine. She was barefoot but still in her warm-ups, watching the screen. Holt wrapped up a piece on the latest budget impasse in Congress and then turned grim and said, “Thirty-one times.”

Behind him, a dark silhouette of a man appeared. He held a pistol. Beneath the image, a caption read
POLICE GONE BAD?

Holt said, “The trial of noted detective Alex Cross opened today in Washington, DC, amid what prosecutors are saying is a long-needed discussion in America about police gone bad and gone violent, above the law.”

The screen jumped to footage of me and Anita entering the courthouse that morning, with Holt talking in a voice-over. “After opening statements, the prosecution brought in star witness Norman Nixon and almost immediately there were fireworks and harsh accusations, including the stunning news that Detective Cross has fired his weapon at least thirty-one times in the course of duty when the average police officer never fires his gun at all. Before the two
killings he’s on trial for, Cross’s shots have proven fatal nine times.”

The screen jumped to a frizzy-haired woman identified as a sociology professor sitting in front of a wall of books. “Thirty-one times?” she said. “He kills nine before these two? I’m sorry, but this is a cop who shoots first and asks questions later.”

“TURN IT OFF,”
I said.

Jannie didn’t move.

“Jannie,” Ali said, going over and grabbing the remote.

“Don’t,” she said. “I want to know how bad it really is.”

Ali hit the power button and the screen went dark. Jannie glared at him and then at me before jumping up and leaving the room.

“What’s with her?” Ali said.

I gazed after Jannie as she stormed through the kitchen. My grandmother popped up from behind the counter.

“I’ll ask later,” I said, and then I went into the kitchen, where Nana Mama was finishing dinner preparations.

She patted me on the back. “Hang in there. The truth will out, son. It always does.”

“I know,” I said, but there was little conviction in it.

Nana Mama motioned me into her arms. It was still a
miracle to me how such a tiny old woman could radiate so much positive energy.

“Don’t let them get you down,” she said, rubbing my back. “When they hear your side of what happened, old Lester Dolt and Chuck Fraud will be singing a different song.”

I laughed and looked down at her. “Lester Dolt and Chuck Fraud?”

“That’s what I call him and the political reporter guy.”

“But Lester Holt is not a dolt.”

“And Chuck Todd’s not a fraud,” Nana Mama said. “But calling them that when all the news is depressing gives me a reason to smile.”

I gazed into my grandmother’s eyes and saw both confidence and fear.

“You are one complicated old lady,” I said, touching her cheek.

“I should hope so,” she said, pulling away. “Dinner in fifteen minutes?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Chicken roasted in Nana’s special herb rub. Go on, wash up. Bree texted she’ll be home any minute.”

I was about to head up the stairs when Bree came through the front door. There was strain everywhere about her, and she dropped her gaze and hesitated before coming into my arms.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Bree said. “It must have been awful.”

“Sobering,” I said. “Thirty-one times. I had no idea.”

Bree lifted her head to look me in the eyes with cold curiosity. “And the nine dead and the eight wounded?”

“I remember each and every one of them,” I said. “You can’t
forget things like that. Ever. Even when they were righteous shoots.”

She studied me, her eyes welling with tears, then hugged me tight.

“Jesus,” she said hoarsely. “They want to tear you apart.”

“They better pull hard,” I said, and I kissed her head.

GRETCHEN LINDEL LAY
curled up on her filthy mattress, scratching her head, staring at the plywood walls that imprisoned her, and wondering if her torture would ever end.

Coated in grime, her nightgown in tatters, Gretchen reeked, and her feet were cut and swollen. Her hair was tangled with burrs, leaves, and twigs. She couldn’t pick them out, no matter how hard she tried, and she hadn’t tried in days, at least since the last time they’d come for her.

How long had that been? Five days ago? Six?

She couldn’t tell, and in the end it didn’t matter.

I’m here until I’m not,
Gretchen thought.
It’s like I’m not even me already.

How bad can the last step be?

The big man in black, the one wearing the tinted paintball visor and carrying the knife, had come for her four times since her kidnapping. Each time it had been dusk when he’d untied her blindfold and she’d found herself in the woods.

There were two or three others there, all dressed similarly, all laughing at her when the big one said, “Run, now. Give yourself a chance, and give the boys a show.”

Gretchen played competitive volleyball, and she ran hard the first time, took off, not caring about the stones and sticks that jabbed her bare feet. She’d gotten ahead of them and thought she’d lost them.

Before it turned dark.

Then they were all suddenly around her, yelling in the woods, taunting and calling, “Where are you, blondie? Where are you, uptown girl?”

They had to have been wearing night-vision goggles or something like that, because they’d caught her every time, and every time they’d taken her right to the point where she believed with every cell that they were going to kill her, slit her throat and watch her bleed out, all on-camera, all to their delight.

The first three times they’d hunted her, Gretchen had survived by focusing on her friends and her parents and on how desperately she wanted to see them all again, especially her dad. She shared a special relationship with him, a real friendship as well as respect and love.

It would kill him,
she’d thought when she’d wanted to give up and ask them to end it.
It would kill him, and I can’t do that to him. To either of them.

The fourth time they’d hunted Gretchen, the last time they’d hunted her, had been different. They’d barely let her run before catching her. They’d dragged her to a building in the woods. The big one had torn off her panties while the others held her down. They’d—

She’d gone to a far-off place in her mind then, where there
was no hurt, no feelings at all, as if she’d already found death. That feeling of passing, of being already gone from her body, had stayed with her even after they were done, even after they’d thrown her back in her plywood box, even after days without eating.

Someone threw the door’s dead bolts.

Gretchen cringed and tried to keep staring at the plywood wall.

“You don’t eat, you don’t deserve to play the game,” the strange electronic voice said. “You don’t eat, drink, keep your strength up, you don’t deserve to live.”

“I don’t want to live like this.”

“We kind of thought that.”

She looked at the big guy in black wearing the GoPro camera and the paintball visor and saw something that cut through her feelings of nothingness, made her retreat.

He wasn’t carrying that knife he’d brought the first four times they’d played the game.

This time he carried a coil of rope tied at one end into a hangman’s noose.

JUDGE LARCH GAVELED
the court to order at precisely eight a.m. She took care of several administrative issues before reminding Norman Nixon he was still under oath when he returned to the witness stand.

“Ms. Marley,” Larch said. “Your cross-examination, please.”

Anita patted me on the thigh, got up, and said, “Mr. Nixon, of the nine fatal shooting incidents you looked at involving my client, how many were judged wrongful police conduct?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “None. It’s a—”