The Kill Clause tr-1 Read online

  Richard gave a self-assured little nod.

  It took a moment for Tim to speak through his shock. “Well, I’m willing to come clean again. Let’s do it now.”

  Andrews cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy, son.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Post pressed both hands on the table, palms down, as if readying to do a push-up. “What we’re saying is, we’re having a tough time finding independent evidence.”

  “What?”

  “We need independent corroboration of your account. Robert and Mitchell Masterson are dead, as are Eddie Davis, William Rayner, and Jenna Ananberg. The only accounts we have from potential victims Bowrick and Dobbins are of you acting in a protective capacity. Even the kid at the video store doesn’t want to press charges. He says you were polite, never pulled a gun on him, and he told you you could have the security videos. He’s a bit shaken up and just wants to put the episode behind him.”

  “You certainly knew how to go about things to cover your ass,” Tannino said.

  Post continued, “We have no witnesses to put you with any of the Vigilante Three before the Dobbins event and no direct evidence, no eyewitness testimony, no physical evidence, and no forensic evidence-ballistic or DNA-tying you to the Lane earpiece bomb or the Debuffier assault. Hell, we can’t even link your gun to any bullets fired anywhere because the bore is blown apart. The files we recovered at Rayner’s office indicate you were being illegally spied on-that’s all.”

  “Oh, come on,” Tim said. “Run some interrogations around KCOM-someone will be able to recognize me despite the disguise. Maybe the guard who frisked me by the loading dock-”

  Richard was on his feet again, yelling. “You are not supposed to help build the case against yourself.”

  “But we all know I’m telling the truth about my involvement.”

  Post raised his hands, then let them fall into his lap. “It’s not what happened…”

  Andrews cocked his head, somber eyes on Tim. “It’s what you can prove.”

  “Even with evidence there’d be a good chance you’d skate on charges,” Post said. “Since Lane was planning to unleash sarin nerve gas after his interview, you could argue defense of others.”

  “I didn’t have prior knowl-”

  “My client has no comment on that matter,” Richard said.

  “At Debuffier’s house you weren’t even the shooter, and that was clear defense of others,” Post said. “And you didn’t go through with Bowrick.”

  “Fine. How about the Stork’s house? The Mastersons at Monument Hill? You have plenty of evidence. I had their blood all over my shirt.”

  “Eddie Davis died of a heart attack.”

  “You could argue the felony-murder rule.”

  “Mr. Rackley,” Richard said. “Shut up, please.”

  Andrews said, “Mitchell Masterson was clear self-defense, and Robert Masterson…well, even in my infinite legal wisdom, I don’t know if there’s a case to be filed for someone having a booby-trapped gun blow up while attempting to commit murder.”

  Tim held up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait.”

  “Plus, we’d have mitigating emotional circumstances to fall back on, due to your daughter’s death,” Richard said. “Maybe even post-traumatic stress disorder or temporary insanity.”

  “No,” Tim said. “Absolutely not. I knew what I was doing. I was just wrong.”

  Tannino finally raised his dark brown eyes. “You are so goddamned stubborn, Rackley.”

  “Plus,” Richard continued, “you’re a citizen in good standing, you turned yourself in and cooperated with authorities in helping alleviate the threat of the Vigilante Three.”

  “Cooperated,” Tannino muttered. “Hardly.”

  “Throw that on top of your daughter’s murder and the fact that several of the deceased conspired to kill your daughter, and our jury-sympathy factor is through the roof.”

  Tim glanced at Reed. “And this is fine with you?”

  “Just because I’m IA doesn’t mean I like to see the service get a black eye when it’s not necessary. The Rampart case set LAPD back ten years in the eyes of the public. We’re not covering something up-there’s just sparse legal ground to stand on here.”

  “Hanging everything on the other members of the Commission doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Don’t you fucking worry about fair,” Tannino said.

  “The homicides are shit cases, son,” Andrews said. “Take it from me.”

  “In light of insufficient evidence and a lack of independent corroboration, I have to decline to prosecute the homicides,” Post said. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’d like to cut a deal,” Richard said.

  “What deal?”

  “Plead you out with a misdemeanor-1361, malicious mischief. They can prove that.” Richard recoiled a bit from Post’s glare.

  “What’s the sentence?”

  “Time served.”

  Tim’s jaw literally dropped. “So I just go free?”

  “It’s not like anyone’s concerned with recidivism here.”

  Post said, “Despite the various levels of contempt in which we hold you-and they are various-we all do agree on one thing. You’re not worth the space in our prison system.”

  “We’re not gonna make it easy for you and send you away for ninety years.” Andrews extended a knobby finger and pointed at the far wall, a gesture intended to indicate the awaiting world. “Out there, however, are hundreds of cameras representing international media organizations. The wolves. They want answers.”

  “But you walk,” Bear said.

  Tim finally sat down. “The system’s not supposed to work this way.”

  “Do us a favor this time, Mr. Rackley,” Reed said. “Don’t do anything about it.”

  Tannino stood up and placed his knuckles flat against the table. “Here’s what your future looks like, Rackley. Tomorrow in court you plead to this misdemeanor”-he spat out the word-“and you skate. It goes without saying that we’re gonna keep you on a very tight leash, keep an eye on you. If you step even an inch out of line, we’ll hammer you. Any part of this unclear?”

  “No, Marshal.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Marshal.’” On his way to the door Tannino shook his head, muttering under his breath. “A Medal of Valor winner. For the love of Mary.”

  The others filed out, Richard pausing to shake Tim’s hand. Only Bear remained. They had a tough time making eye contact but finally did.

  “Did you do that on purpose? Forget to read me my rights?”

  “Nah.” Bear shook his head. “But if I did, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.” His shirt was rumpled as always, and Tim thought he detected a splotch of salsa beneath the too-short tie. “I brought you a suit for court. Have it out in the rig.”

  “I hope it’s not one of yours.”

  It took a moment, but Bear returned his smile.

  47

  Thereadiness conference went so quickly that Tim barely kept up with the proceedings. Though sawhorses and cops were keeping throngs of press at bay on Main Street, inside it was a remarkably unimpressive affair; he was shoehorned between an Argentine drug dealer and a Bel Air madam with reputed mob connections and two-inch lashes. Though he smelled distinctly of tequila, Richard proved capable and articulate counsel.

  Tim barely rose to his feet before Judge Andrews pronounced, “You are free to go.”

  As he headed down the center aisle toward the courtroom doors, he was enfolded in an incredible loneliness. For the past several months, he’d been focused on one crisis after another, all of them immediate. Now he had the rest of his life to face. The events of the past forty-eight hours still hadn’t taken on a reality; it was inconceivable that he could be walking away.

  The clamor of media rose as he stepped through the doors-glinting lenses, flashing bulbs, shouted questions. An army of reporters documenting his going free due to precisely those types of technicalities he’d committe
d such violence to protest. With some effort, police held their line at the sawhorses.

  Tim continued down the marble courtroom steps, his eyes on the Federal Building standing tall and proud across the square.

  When he glanced down, he saw Dray standing in the apron of calm at the base of the stairs, a twenty-meter stretch of sanity before the held-back horde. She was wearing the yellow dress with tiny blue flowers, the dress she’d worn the first time they’d met. He drew nearer, his pace slowed with disbelief, and saw that she was wearing her ring-no rock, no inscription, the plain, worn, twelve-karat band he’d given her on bended knee back when he couldn’t afford anything more.

  The din seemed to recede-the scrape of cable on concrete, the babble into microphones, the strident queries-fading into inconsequentiality.

  He paused a few feet from her, regarding her, unable to speak. The wind kicked up, blowing a strand of hair across her eye, and she left it.

  “Timothy Rackley,” she said.

  He stepped forward and embraced her. She smelled like jasmine and lotion and a touch of gunpowder around the hands. She smelled like her.

  She pulled back her head and regarded him, hand on his cheek.

  “Let’s get you home,” she said.

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