If anybody else had shown up on Adele’s front lawn this morning, she might have written it off as an overreaction. But Lindsey was no zealot. He’d started out a decade ago as a vocal opponent of an immigrant outreach center in Lake Holly, insisting at town meetings and demonstrations that such a place would encourage a greater influx of “lawbreakers” into the area, thereby weakening the economy, straining public services, and spurring white flight. He became a champion of La Casa when he discovered that the newcomers were hardworking people who kept downtown vacancy rates low and made it possible for small stores to flourish. He spoke softly, thought pragmatically, and shied away from political vitriol. If he was here this morning, it wasn’t over some vague notions of injustice. It was because of something very, very real.
“Okay.” Adele sighed. “Let’s go inside.”
Lindsey carried the tree into her living room and fitted it into the stand while Adele coaxed Sophia to play in her room and then went into the kitchen and put up some coffee. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she placed two mugs on the kitchen table and went to take a seat. She felt a stitch in her side.
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Lindsey, folding his long frame into a chair. His legs took up most of the floor space beneath. “When I first heard about this shooting, I didn’t think it would end up quite so heated as this. But then word started coming in. First, that the suspect was unarmed. Then, that he had no criminal record. Then, that when his daughter went to ID his body at the morgue, he was unrecognizable from the neck up.”
“That’s not a rumor? He really was shot in the head?”
“Worse than the head. The chin. The bullet apparently caught him under the chin and obliterated his whole face.”
“Dear God.” Adele closed her eyes. There was only one way she could picture something like that happening.
She didn’t want to think about it.
Lindsey gave Adele a puzzled look. “The police confirmed this at a press conference this morning. Haven’t you spoken to Vega about this?”
“He can’t talk about the shooting—not even to me.”
“But you could call the DA’s office,” said Lindsey. “You have that contact there—what’s her name?” For a businessman, Lindsey was terrible with names—especially Spanish ones.
“Myrna Acevedo.” Adele had known her since law school. She and Myrna often traded things off the record. But this was different.
“Going to Myrna on this would feel like a betrayal,” said Adele.
“If Vega’s not talking—what choice do you have?”
“To wait for the results of the autopsy and police investigation before rushing to judgment.”
Lindsey shook his head. “Normally, I’d leave a decision like that in your hands. But I think you’re letting your personal feelings blindside you. This case is already garnering national attention. This morning, I spoke to both Ricardo Luis’s publicist and Ruben Tate-Rivera.”
“Ruben Tate-Rivera isn’t even from this area! He’s just looking for publicity.”
“Well, he’s going to get it. And you need to be ready.” Lindsey leaned forward and held her gaze. “Vega joked about the shooting.”
“What? That’s nonsense! He would never joke about something like that.”
Lindsey fished a piece of paper out of his backpack and handed it to Adele. “He did. Read the transcript. It’s part of the interview the DA’s investigator conducted with Wickford Police Officer Drew Franklin. Franklin and Alison Peters were the first two officers on the scene.”
“How did you get this?” asked Adele. “Even I couldn’t get this.”
“Tate faxed it to me. He’s got friends and media contacts everywhere.”
Adele put on her glasses and read the highlighted portions.
DA: Did you see Detective Vega shoot the suspect?
Franklin: No, sir. But my partner and I heard the shots.
DA: How many shots?
Franklin: Four.
DA: How close were you to the shooting?
Franklin: About fifty feet downhill from the scene.
DA: Did you get a sense how close Detective Vega and the suspect were to each other when Detective Vega shot the suspect?
Franklin: They sounded close—maybe only a few feet apart. But I can’t say for sure.
DA: How did Detective Vega behave after the shooting? Was he distraught? Nervous?
Franklin: Nervous. He kept insisting we find the gun.
DA: And what happened when you didn’t?
Franklin: I commented to my partner that I wasn’t sure the suspect had a gun and Detective Vega said, ‘No, I just blow people’s brains out for the fun of it.’
DA: He said this to you?
Franklin: I think he said this to himself but we both heard it.
DA: Do you think he was joking?
Franklin: Yes, I think he was trying to be funny.
Adele put the transcript down. “He was trying to be funny?”
“It was probably a nervous reaction,” said Lindsey. “Nevertheless, Ruben somehow managed to get this interview. Which means it’s going to become public if it hasn’t already.”
Adele knew from her days as a criminal defense attorney that people under pressure made spontaneous utterances all the time that bore no correlation to their real feelings. His “joke” was distressing. But something else in the interview was far more distressing. Officer Franklin said that Vega and Hector Ponce sounded like they were only a few feet apart. Vega never mentioned a scuffle. He had no defensive wounds. And yet Ponce was shot under the chin, which would be a difficult wound to inflict in a scuffle anyway.