But if a shooting turned questionable or public reaction got heated, the DA might choose instead to convene a grand jury. It could take weeks for testimony to be presented. During all this time, Vega would be under a cloud of suspicion—so much so that even if a majority of the jurors eventually decided not to indict him, his credibility would be ruined. Every future arrest would be nitpicked by superiors. The slightest civilian complaint would earn him charges. Informants would mistrust him. Other cops would refuse to work with him for fear of becoming collateral damage. He might never be able to work a field assignment again. He might even be pressured to resign. Anywhere Vega went after this, his reputation would precede him. In the era of social media, he’d be an embarrassment to any law enforcement agency that considered hiring him.
And that wouldn’t be the end of things, either. He could spend the next five years testifying. Even if the grand jury voted not to indict, the feds could decide Vega had violated the man’s civil rights and convene their own grand jury to hear the case all over again. Or the governor could decide he didn’t like the grand jury’s decision and appoint a special prosecutor to restart the case from scratch. Not to mention the fact that Vega would be facing the same case in civil court when the family brought a lawsuit against him. Vega couldn’t recall a police shooting in which a family didn’t try to bring a case against the cop—even when the shooting was clearly justified.
But none of these scenarios even began to address the most terrifying one: Vega could get indicted. He could go on trial and be convicted. He could go to prison. Cops did these days. Not for twenty-five years, perhaps. But for three, four—even ten. All of it in protective custody since a cop in prison was a pi?ata in a room full of baseball bats. Everybody was just dying to take a swing.
Vega palmed his eyes. He was only just beginning to process what he was up against. “I did not execute Hector Ponce,” he said slowly. “I swear. Won’t the autopsy vindicate me?”
“It could,” said Waring. “If there are no powder burns on that chin wound, that would argue against your having shot him at close range.”
“Then again,” said Lorenzo, “if you put the muzzle right up to Ponce’s chin and shot, there wouldn’t be any powder burns either. No opportunity for the powder to make contact with air.”
Leave it to Lorenzo to kill even the suggestion of hope.
“Look,” said Waring. His voice sounded a little kinder. He was a cop too, after all. “I believe the forensics will vindicate you if what you are saying is true. But the investigation could take weeks. Ponce was shot five times by two different guns—yours and Luis’s. There is now disagreement on the range so every single investigator is going to want to double-and triple-check his findings.”
“What do I do?”
“Stay out of the public eye,” said Waring. “Don’t eat in restaurants. Don’t go to parties. Don’t attend sporting events. Don’t go to concerts. ”
“But I’m a musician. I play in a band.”
“Get someone else to fill in for you until this case cools down.”
All Vega had was his music. That’s how he lost himself. That was his therapy. And now he didn’t even have that.
“I don’t think the DA is going to make any decisions about whether or not to convene a grand jury until Monday at this point,” said Waring. “In the meantime, the less you are out there, the better.”
The meeting broke up and Vega walked his lawyer to her car. “Thanks for your help tonight,” he told her.
Jenkins regarded him over the oversized rims of her big red glasses. “We’re not through, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“That wasn’t just a line I said in there, Detective. You really do need to seek counseling.”
“I will. When I have time.”
“You have time now. That’s about all that Waring has left you at this point. Do you have someone in mind or would you like me to set something up?”
“Aw, for cryin’ out loud!” Vega raised his hands in frustration. “Look, I was married for thirteen years to a psychologist, okay? I’ve had my head examined more times than I care to count. And when all that was over, her lawyer examined my wallet.”
“You’re talking about your marriage, Detective. I’m talking about dealing with post-traumatic stress.”
“Same thing, trust me. And for the record, I’m not suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
“What do you call your behavior in the woods tonight when I came to see you? Normal?”
“I live out in the woods. It’s normal to be concerned about intruders.”
Jenkins shook her head. “This is not negotiable, Vega. You heard Captain Lorenzo. Either you get your butt into counseling or I’ll do it for you. Which is it going to be?”
Vega ran a hand through his hair. He felt like an overripe piece of fruit some therapist was about to stick a knife into. No way would he slice up cleanly. If he opened up, it would be messy and sticky and God only knew what sort of rotten bits might be at his core. He was scared. Scared of what someone might find. Scared of what he might find most of all.
“What’s it going to be, Vega?”
“This cop I know, he gave me a name of a shrink. I’ll call her.”
“Tomorrow.” Jenkins shook her finger at him.
“Okay, okay. Tomorrow.”
She got into her car. Vega watched her pull out of the parking lot. His cell phone rang as he walked back to his truck. It was Joy. Her voice sounded shaky.
“Dad? Can you come over to my campus?”
“Sure thing, chispita. What’s wrong?”