Right away he knew he was in trouble. Although Vega’s department hadn’t formally released his name yet, the activist, Ruben Tate-Rivera, had somehow gotten hold of it. Worse, Tate had put Vega on his Wall of Shame, along with Vega’s incredibly unflattering departmental photo. Vega had lifted his chin too high and blinked at the wrong time so he had a brutish look in the picture. His coloring was washed out too so he looked much whiter than he did in real life. Beneath the bad photo was his name: James O. Vega. The O was for “Orlando,” his father—the only part of the man that stuck around. The middle initial gave Vega’s name a Gaelic lilt. Great. Just what I need. I’m now a brutish, white-looking Irish cop. A perfect image for all his new Internet fans.
Vega scrolled through the copy on Tate’s website. There was almost no mention of Ricardo Luis who’d mistakenly led dispatch to believe Marcela’s father was armed in the first place. Instead, Tate told readers that the shooting happened in Wickford, NY, one of the wealthiest towns in the United States. It identified the dishwasher as Hector Mauricio Ponce-Fernandez (where the name “Antonio” or the Atlanta connection came from on his other ID was anyone’s guess). It went on to describe Ponce as a married father of two young boys with a steady work history and no criminal record. Vega’s stomach tightened to read about the boys, ages twelve and fourteen. Vega couldn’t believe he’d robbed them of their dad.
But his guilt was quickly replaced by rage as he read on. Tate mentioned that Vega, a detective with eighteen years on the force, had shot Ponce four times and that some of the shots had been delivered to the head, execution-style.
Whoa. Hold on. Was Tate seriously suggesting to his almost one million website followers that Vega had executed the man? Here, Vega was forbidden to speak about the shooting, and this media gadfly who hadn’t even been there was making unfounded accusations and turning him into a coast-to-coast whipping boy for all that was wrong with the police.
People were buying it, too. On Twitter, Vega’s name suddenly popped up under hashtags like #handsupdontshoot, #killercops, #immigrantlivesmatter, and a hashtag created exclusively for him: #shotforaphoto. Under each was a torrent of hate mail: I hope they lock up his sorry ass and throw away the key. . . .
Wait until he sees what happens to cops in prison....
If I could do to him what he did to that dishwasher and get away with it, I would....
He better never meet ME in a dark alley. . . .
He’s gonna NEED a gun after this....
Vega felt like he was going to explode from all the hurt and anger inside of him. He wanted so badly to punch something—anything—to get the rage out. But he didn’t want to make any noise and wake Adele. She didn’t deserve to be dragged through this. Their original plan had been to take Sophia to pick out a Christmas tree this morning at Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church in town. But Vega couldn’t imagine doing anything so normal. Instead, he scribbled a quick note of explanation and left it by Adele’s bedside. He hoped she’d understand. He didn’t write what he was really thinking—what he didn’t yet want to acknowledge. The kindest thing he could do right now was to leave and never come back. They’d been together only eight months. She didn’t deserve to sacrifice a decade of hard work because of his two seconds of bad choices.
In the kitchen, Diablo greeted him warmly, jumping up for a scratch, dancing around the back door to go out. The cab could wait. Vega fetched the leash off a hook in the mudroom and attached it to Diablo’s collar.
“Come on, pal. Let’s take a walk.”
It was a cold December morning. The air felt like peppermint in his lungs. Pale rays of sun lit up the hard frost on car windshields up and down Adele’s street. Somewhere down the road, Vega heard an engine humming and the sharp sound of an ice scraper across glass.
Diablo was all good cheer as he trotted down the sidewalk, his tail and ears turned up on alert, sniffing every fire hydrant like he’d never before encountered such a thing of beauty. Vega had to fight with him a little to get him to heel but overall, the dog seemed comfortable with him. They soon developed a rhythm. While they walked, Vega pulled out his cell phone and checked his messages. They were multiplying like a virus. From friends. From fellow cops. Everyone wanted to talk to him about the one thing he couldn’t talk about.
Vega was halfway to the next corner when Diablo began turning in circles behind a leafless sycamore and arching his back. Too late, Vega realized that he’d forgotten to bring a baggie to pick up after the dog. That was all he needed: to get Adele in trouble with her neighbors. He had to hope the dog would just be quick about it.
No such luck. Vega could hear the soft purr of a car engine slowly pulling alongside him as Diablo finished his business. Vega turned, ready to plead with some annoyed homeowner. He recognized the white Buick as soon as it pulled to the curb. The driver’s door opened and a familiar figure hefted himself out from behind the wheel. A weak shaft of sunlight caught the top of the man’s bald head as he frowned at Vega over the roof of his car. The man bent down and rummaged through a cellophane package for something. When he emerged again, he had a stick of red licorice in his gloved hand. He bit off a piece and chewed loudly.