“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.”
CHAPTER
48
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.”
CHAPTER
49
“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?”