The Shooting (27 page)

—My dad'll be here, he'll take him. Does he know yet, do you know?

—I don't know.

—He probably does. I bet he's on his way now, I bet he's already on the plane. That's the kind of guy he is. When do I go home? We have to post bail, right?

—We're working on it. Tell me what happened.

Lee thinks about it for a moment. Face still in his hands.

—Lee?

—I don't
know,
he says.

Potter is quiet. Lee can hear him breathing, he can hear the ink on the point of his pen sticking and unsticking on the paper of the legal pad as he waits. He can hear sirens outside. Then a cop's
voice in the hall saying something about football and laughing. Then he can hear his father and his father says,
You know what happened. You know. So tell him.
And Lee tells him. His father tells Lee, then Lee tells Potter. He tells how in the middle of the night he heard a noise and got up to investigate. He tells how he grabbed this dinky old gun he has, a family heirloom he keeps around only for decoration and was not sure even worked. He tells how he hoped just the sight of it would be enough to scare off the intruder because he had no intention of using it, could not even remember if it was loaded. He tells how he encountered the intruder in his living room. It was dark, he could not find the lights, he could only barely see the guy. He made to retreat and call the police, but before he could, the intruder was speaking. He was saying,
I got a gun and I'm going to kill you and everyone who lives here.
Lee tells how this made him fear for his life and the life of his son. He then thought he saw the intruder point a gun at him. Terrified, reasonably believing he was facing imminent death, Lee did the only thing he could and raised his own gun and pulled the trigger. It did in fact work, it was in fact loaded. He fired only until the intruder was no longer a threat and then he called 911. Then he attended to the intruder to see if there was anything he could do to keep him alive until first responders came—but there was not. And that is what happened.

Potter nods his head and stares at his notes, clicking and unclicking his pen. —Okay. Okay. He reads it over then says again, —Okay.

He and Potter speak with a detective. The detective is a chubby blond guy with a buzz cut and a sport coat similar in style to what Lee likes to wear. The detective starts by looking at Lee's FUBU shirt and apologizing for the limited selection of men's apparel available here but, he says, their fall line has not come in yet. A little joke, Lee guesses. He does not laugh. The detective says anyway he just sent someone to swing by Lee's place and grab him some clothes, they should be here shortly. The detective waits for Lee to thank him and at last Lee does and the detective waves him off, humble. —Least I can do. You've been through hell tonight. He stands, takes off his sport coat, drapes it over the
back of his chair and sits back down, sighing. —How you doing? You holding up?

—I'm okay.

—I'm sorry you had to go through this. I know where you're at right now. I've had to fire my weapon in the line of duty. No one understands what it's like. No one gets it. Not unless you've been there, like we have. Even when it's someone who gave you no choice, it sucks, right? It sucks. All I can say is, what you're feeling right now never goes away, but it does get easier with time.

He goes quiet and looks at Lee like he's waiting for him to say something, but Lee does not know what to say. Lee looks at Potter, who looks straight down at his notes.

The detective says, —I know you want to get out of here, but my job is to ask you some questions first. Don't worry, it's all just basic stuff. It's not a test, you won't be graded on it or nothing. The detective chuckles, winking at Lee. —It's just protocol. I think we can probably knock this out in a few minutes, then get you back home with your family, which, God knows, is where you want to be tonight. How's that sound to you, Lee? The detective looks at Lee closely, then suddenly laughs, shaking his head and looking down at his papers. —I'm sorry, you know, I just got to admit here, it's a trip looking across this table and seeing a guy like you. It's kind of a breath of fresh air. Obviously something has gone wrong here because usually I'm sitting here across from, you know, crackheads and gangstas. People who, well, they're bad guys. They usually look more like that kid than like you. You understand? And they sure as hell don't like
me
much. Even getting them to tell me basic information like name and address is like pulling teeth. I swear. Makes things much more difficult than it needs to be. Very time consuming, very frustrating. It makes me not want to help them much, to be honest. They just don't understand that the system relies on guys like me who know the ins and outs and who to talk to, know how to
help
them, to keep them from getting locked up for twenty or thirty years. Or worse. If not for me? Hoo boy. And I enjoy helping them. I do. I see it as my duty, as a matter of fact,
being a Christian. It's a relief having you here because I know a guy like you understands the process and will get me home at a decent hour tonight so maybe I can take my kids to school for once. So thank you for that in advance.

He sits back in his chair, opening his body to Lee, and, again, waits for Lee to speak.

—What do you want me to say? Lee says.

Potter says, without looking up from his papers at either of them, —Just tell him what you told me, Lee.

Lee tells the detective what he told Potter. Disappointment comes over the detective's face.

—Lee, he groans, —I know you're scared right now, buddy, but lies do neither of us any good.

—I'm telling the truth.

The detective shakes his head. —I mean, I want to see it, Lee. I'm really trying to. But I just don't. This kid walked into your house, okay, and you got scared and shot him, right? Of course. Who wouldn't? Perfectly reasonable. I would have done the same thing. That's what they train
us
to do. I mean, you did everything right, Lee, tactically speaking. I mean, Jesus, what the hell did that kid expect? You can't just walk into a man's house. Especially not in New York City. You're a single father, you've got your baby, you see someone—you don't know who—come through the door, you get your gun and go after him, right? So you have a gun—as is your constitutional right. Nothing wrong with a law-abiding citizen owning a firearm for self-protection in his own home. It's not like you're outside waving it around or nothing. So you get your firearm, right? And you creep out into the dark silently, and you sneak up on him, right? You have no idea if this guy's got a gun and you're not going to wait and find out. You have to assume the worst. You've got to go after him. You know you gotta be aggressive. You gotta neutralize the threat right away. Right? You get the first move on him. You shoot him before he can shoot you, right? That's what I would have done. That's how they train us at the academy. You know that. You're competent. You're skilled. It's not like you have a character problem or something.

He looks hard at Lee. Lee seethes, humiliated, flashing back to his academy interview decades ago. Could the detective know about that?

—That's not what happened, Lee says firmly. —I told you what happened.

—Tell me again.

—Go ahead, Potter says. —Tell him again.

Lee tells him again. He knows he's trying to trip him up, catch him with discrepancies. But all his life he has imagined someone breaking into his house and what he would do, what he would say to the cops after. His father always taught him that the first part of responsible gun ownership is knowing the law. And criteria for justifiable homicide in the state of New York, in the event of a home invasion? Duty to retreat, reasonable fear of imminent death, rendering of aid. His father taught him to be a man who knows things and is prepared, a man who knows how to take care of himself and his family. He can tell the detective what happened as if by muscle memory, despite the chaos, the hurricane of worry for his son ripping through his head and heart.

—Now just hold on, says the detective. —This guy just
stood
there and let you
shoot
him?

Lee looks at Potter, who says, —It happened fast.

—I'm not asking you, says the detective.

Lee says, —It happened fast.

—If it was me and I saw you had a gun, know what I would have done? Run. He saw the gun and ran, right? He ran for the door.

—No. He kept coming.

—Dude, look, it's okay, it's been a chaotic night. I'm not accusing you of lying to me, I'm just trying to help you remember accurately. I cannot accept him seeing your gun and then
advancing
on you. That's not what people do. Okay? If he saw your gun, he would have done one of two things: pull his own gun or run away. So try again.

Lee shrugs, helpless.

—Need help? Want my theory? My theory is he walks into your house, for whatever reason. You don't know who it is, it's too dark. But he sees you, he sees your gun, or maybe you tell him you
have it, he says holy shit and runs for the door. But when he gets there, he can't get it open right away, he kind of struggles with it, probably because he's scared or cracked out or drunk, right? We'll know for sure when we get the toxicology results. You tell him to freeze right there, because you're gonna call the cops. As is the right thing to do. But, ha, what's he gonna do—
wait?
And these motherfuckers, man, these thugs, you know if he gets out of your house he's never gonna get caught. Us cops, we try, but Christ, you know what we're up against, you know if you let this kid leave we ain't gonna find him. You know that. And he'll go off and he'll hurt someone else. No way, forget it, you can't let him go, you've got to be a good citizen here. And that's what you did. You did what you had to do. As a good guy. To keep society safe. We just want to clear that up for you, it will help you later. I got it right, right?

John Potter puts his hand on Lee's arm to make sure he says nothing.

Detective says, —Lee. La Cuzio? The DA? I know him well. He's my boss. If I give him what you've told me, he's just gonna look at it and see the gun and say,
Fuck this guy
, and charge you with murder. But he's very sympathetic to good guys being good citizens the way you were tonight. If he sees that, he'll see things differently. Just confirm I got that small detail right just now so we can get it in there and it'll make me feel much better that you'll be taken care of later.

John Potter says, —He's told you what happened.

—He's given me a rehearsed story that makes no fucking sense.

Potter says again, —He's told you what happened.

The detective sneers at them both, first at Potter, then at Lee. He laughs helplessly and says to Lee, —You're so full of shit it's coming out your ears. I know you were the aggressor. I
know
you didn't have to kill that kid. I know as soon as you saw him you decided he was dead. What you are trying to pull is going to hurt you in the end. Your lawyer here is getting you into serious trouble. This horseshit story you've given me is going to get you charged with murder.
Murder.
Now is there anything else you want to tell me? Last chance.

Lee says nothing.

The detective shakes his head sadly and leaves without another word, forgetting his sport coat.

But then another detective enters. A black guy. —Why you lying to us, dude? he says first off. —Why do I have witnesses saying they heard
you
screaming you were gonna kill the kid? Why do I have witnesses saying you're some NRA white supremacist motherfucker, some ticking time bomb wandering the streets of New York ready to go Dirty Harry on whoever looks at you wrong? You wanted to kill that kid, didn't you? You think you're a cop. You think you can enforce law and order, right? You hoped that kid would come through your door. You smoked him right off the bat, didn't you? You didn't check to see who it was first. You went out into your living room with guns blazing. That's what my witnesses say.

—What witnesses? says John Potter. He says to Lee, —He doesn't have witnesses.

The detective says, —Tell me the truth right now, bro, or the hammer's gonna drop on you. You're looking at
life in prison.
You ever been to Rikers? You gonna get
fucked
up. And I got buddies who are COs over there, they tell me it's way too crowded, they got nowhere to put new motherfuckers, the only place to put them now is with the craziest, gnarliest, blackest-ass motherfuckers who they ain't wanted to put with nobody else because these dudes got dysfunctions, man, they got disorders.

John Potter says, —This is great stuff. Coercion. Intimidation. This on the record? I hope so, I can't wait to read it aloud in court.

—Fuck the record. Tell me the truth. This is your last chance.

Lee says, —He said he had a gun and he was there to kill me. I retreated. I rendered aid.

—He was sleepwalking. You know that? You killed a fifteen-year-old boy in his
sleep.
How that feel? Feel good? You
hard
motherfucker. The one through the face is probably the one that killed him. Got his brains all over the door. How that feel right now, to know that? Feel pride? You proud? Proud to kill your own neighbor who grew up right downstairs from you? Who all his life lived right downstairs
and you didn't even know who he was? I have a question for you, tough man: How many times it take for you to recognize a black person's face?

Lee is sick, knows from how dizzy it makes him that it is true.

No wrongdoing
, his father says.
His fault. Not yours.

It goes on like this for hours, the rest of the night and into the morning. Four more detectives separately try to break him. No one ever shows up with the clothes the first detective promised.