“And we did!” Cho snapped. “The log shows that we did. Since defense counsel had the evidence last, the presumption that the evidence has somehow been lost or destroyed rests with her, and all negative inferences should be construed against the defendant.”
Rivas shook her head. “That’s for another hearing,” she said. “Regardless, you have the same problem; no court will court-martial a defendant based on the alleged improprieties of his attorney. Since Mr. Trejo was sitting in the brig at JBLM, he clearly had no involvement. As I said, you might get by here, at an Article 32 hearing, but the court-martial is another story altogether.”
Rivas paused, perhaps thinking of the political ramifications that could unfold if the prosecution did not find the tape. She shook her head as if to shake the thought. “I’m going to give the prosecution twenty-four hours to come up with the tape or an explanation for its disappearance. I will keep the Article 32 hearing open until then. If the tape cannot be found, I will make my decision on the evidence I have before me. If you wish to bring a motion that the presumption of wrongdoing should shift to defense counsel, you can do so. In the interim, I’d get on the phone with Seattle PD. And, I would check all of your offices.”
Cho and Clark followed Grassilli out of the room. Battles let them go before she started to leave. “Lieutenant Battles,” Rivas said.
Battles stopped and turned back, already certain of what Rivas intended to say. The box of evidence was in her possession last, and the ramifications of the tape having gone missing would also rest with her.
“I would seriously consider new counsel for Mr. Trejo,” Rivas said, “and perhaps for yourself.”
Battles hurried into her office and shut the door. It didn’t stay shut for long.
Brian Cho stormed in without knocking. “Is beating me so important that you would risk your career?”
Battles faced him. “Get over yourself. This isn’t about you.”
Cho took another step forward, the two now just inches apart. “You’re damn right it isn’t about me. It’s about you. Big-time. We’re going to bring that motion, and after I intend to drop an e-bomb in DC. It isn’t going to just be Trejo who’s looking at a court-martial.”
An e-bomb was an ethics complaint filed with the JAG office at the Pentagon in Washington, DC. Such a threat was not levied lightly nor taken lightly. The JAG officers who did the investigations were referred to as “coneheads” because, while bright, they usually had little common sense and zero sense of humor.
“Bring it!” She stiffened. If Cho was looking to intimidate, he’d picked the wrong person. “I didn’t take the Goddamn tape,” she said. “And when you find it on your desk, or in Clark’s bed, you can take your apology and shove it up your ass.”
Cho looked like he was about to react. Battles hoped he did. She’d bust his nose and send him out the door, walking bent over for a week, before he laid a hand on her.
“Counsel.” Rebecca Stanley stepped into the office. Cho quickly stepped back. “Is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am,” Cho said.
“Then I think you should be spending your time searching for that videotape, don’t you?”
Cho nodded. He looked like a teakettle about to spout as he stepped from the office into the hallway.
“Lieutenant?” Stanley said.
Cho turned back, his jaw undulating.
“Close the door, please,” Stanley said.
Cho reached and pulled shut Battles’s door, giving her a final glance.
After a beat, Stanley turned and addressed Battles. She spoke calmly. “You want to tell me what happened?”
Battles shook her head. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You had the box of evidence last?”
“I had the box brought to my office last night. Bob said it had the significant pieces of evidence and it seemed easier to just log out the entire box.”
“He delivered it to your office?”
“Yes.”
“And you returned it?”
“Last night—probably around eleven.”
“But Bob wasn’t there.”
“No. I left the box on his chair. I’ve done it before.”
“Maybe, but that isn’t procedure, Leah. The court reporter takes physical custody and is responsible for all Article 32 evidence.”
“I know.”
“You put Bob in a bad position.” Stanley exhaled. “And you don’t know whether the tape was in the box?”
“I don’t recall taking the tape out of the box, and I certainly did not view it last night.”
“Did you see it?”
“Not last night.”
“So you don’t know.”
“I can’t say for certain I saw it, no.”
Several seconds passed. In a solemn voice, Stanley said, “But you were the last person to have the evidence box.”
Battles took a moment, thinking back to the prior night, to Cho pimping her in her office, and the evidence box sitting on her desk. She measured her response. She knew she’d have to measure all her responses from this point forward.
“I was the last person to have the evidence box,” she said.
Stanley dropped her hands. “Then you better hope Cho finds that tape, Leah. You better hope this was all just a big misunderstanding, because Lopresti wants somebody’s ass to run up the public flagpole, and if he can’t have Trejo’s . . .”
Stanley let the thought, and the alternative, linger unsaid, but both women knew whose ass Lopresti would hang from the flagpole and it wasn’t Stanley’s.
Del stepped into the elevator at Police Headquarters at the end of his shift tired and emotionally spent. After going through Allie’s e-mails and text messages, he’d gone to work; he needed the diversion, and work had always provided it. Tonight, however, had been slow, leaving him time to think about Allie’s text messages and what might have been had he destroyed her phone when she went to rehab.
He’d decided to wait before telling his sister about the contents of the e-mails and text messages. He would stop by her house and talk to the twins before work tomorrow and ask if they knew about J-Man, or at least whether they knew his real name.
He stepped from the elevator and started across the secured parking structure where the detectives kept their personal vehicles and the department kept its pool cars. Pigeons pranced and cooed in the concrete rafters. Spiked fencing had not deterred them, nor had the persistent drone of the cars on the adjacent I-5 freeway. Most of the detectives’ personal cars were gone, but Del wouldn’t have missed her if the lot had been full.
Celia McDaniel leaned against the trunk of his Impala looking like a catalogue model. She was dressed in blue jeans with knee-high black boots, a white silk shirt beneath a jean jacket, and a black-and-white scarf fashionably draping her neck.
Del stopped cold, confused to see her here, at this hour of the night. His tired mind tried to determine some reason she’d be present.
“Celia? What are you doing here?”
“I figured this was your car.” She pushed away and admired the Impala. “You really are old-school, aren’t you?”
On the car’s trunk he noted a wicker picnic basket. “In some things, I guess.”
“I like that,” she said. “I’m old-school also.” Her smile had a warmth and a genuineness to it Del had not experienced in years.
“You,” he said, “do not come across as old-school.”