“Rough business,” Fowler said. “Kind of mess that’ll drive a kid right around the bend, make him go and do something crazy, like rob a successful doctor.”
Bob kept his voice equally hushed. “See, the thing is, Officer, I know that kid a little better than you might think, despite being a bottom-feeding lawyer. And I know not only that you planted that gun, but that you must’ve had a darn sight better reason than a robbery. And where there’s smoke…”
Fowler smiled slightly at that, nodding, relishing the challenge. “Well, now, I do believe you’re in the wrong place, Mr. Richmond. I believe you should’ve stopped by the fire department if you needed help on that front. If you’re doing some fire investigatin’. Me, I have to let you take my statement, let you depose me, as the man says. But I only have to do it once, officially, with a steno. Other than that, I’m just a local officer of the law and you’re… well, you’re a visitor in my town. And I’ll thank you kindly to keep that in mind.”
He gave Bob a little wink and turned to open the door of his cruiser.
He looked over his shoulder. “As I am on time-off-in-lieu for the next two working days, I believe I may have some place in my schedule next week, if you’d like to call legal services to set that up.” He got into the car and slammed the door, then started the engine and rolled down the window. “Enjoy your time in Bakersfield, Mr. Richmond. I’ll be seeing you.”
The car rolled off.
“Sir?”
Bob turned. The officer behind him was stockier, a little bigger, holding his hat ahead of him like it needed inspection. He had a tight crewcut and square chin, a neatly trimmed moustache His badge read ‘Czernowitz.’ “I understand you’ve been looking to speak with me?”
Bob nodded towards the road. “Your partner just left without you.”
“I’m not supposed to be working today on account of treatment for a medical condition,” the officer said. “But Sergeant Dyche did indicate that you wished to speak about the Singh case.”
“Yeah… Your partner was just telling me how you found the gun in the car,” Bob said.
Czernowitz frowned. “I do not believe that is accurate, sir. I believe Officer Fowler found the gun on the person of the young man we arrested, Mr. Pell.”
“You believe?” Bob said. “You mean you didn’t actually see him find the gun.”
Czernowitz scowled, appearing confused. His eyes darted from side to side as if weighing options. “I mean… I did, yes. From the accused.”
“You… saw him take the gun from the kid’s pocket?”
Czernowitz’s head bobbed a little, as if he wanted to acknowledge the point again. Instead, he licked his lips anxiously. “I do agree with everything in Officer Fowler’s official report.”
Bob held up both palms in surrender. “Officer… it’s okay. I’m not trying to trick you or trap you or anything. We can just talk about what actually went down.”
“I’ve said all I can say, sir,” Czernowitz stressed. “Because that’s what happened. Yes, sir. Jeb… Officer Fowler, he said you will try to get us fighting over the details. I know that’s what lawyers do, defense lawyers most of all. Try to trick us, make the good people seem bad.”
“I just want the truth about—”
“I need to go, sir,” Czernowitz said, anxiously flitting glances at the door to his left. “If you need me to make a deposition, I will do so and repeat the same thing, that—”
“You agree with everything in Officer Fowler’s report. Yeah, I got that.”
“Okay then. Good day and thank you,” Czernowitz said awkwardly before heading for the door.
Bob watched him head inside, a memory twigged, of a guy he’d known in the Marines. He’d been a hell of a fighting man. It had taken Bob a solid six months to figure out he had the maturity of a toddler and was intellectually slower than molasses in January.
Czernowitz had given him the same vibe.
That could be good, because toddlers are pretty easy to handle. I mean… you’d have to think so, anyway.
Or… that could be really, really bad.
Because nobody sane gives a toddler a gun.
Bob walked around the building to the public parking on Eye Street. He was almost at the Buick beater when a woman called out.
“Mr. Richmond?”
Bob turned her way. She hurried up the sidewalk towards him
“Mr. Richmond, I’m Sharmila Singh. Hap Singh is… was my father. Margaret Swain said you’re representing the kid they charged.”
“Marcus Pell.” She was a shade over five feet tall, East Indian, in a purple pant suit and black blouse. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she had no makeup on. Her eyes were darkly ringed from fatigue.
“Miss, we probably shouldn’t be talking yet. He still hasn’t been arraigned.” The last thing he needed was to be attacked by someone’s grieving daughter, but he didn’t want to just blow her off. The pain was written across her face.
She nodded down the sidewalk. “You see those people on the corner up there?”
A small group of people in business wear were gathered. A few were holding small objects—phones?—but from half a block away Bob couldn’t make it out. “What’s—”
“Reporters. That’s the cream of the local press, such as they are. They’re waiting for the deputy chief to make his statement about how they nabbed a killer moments after the act, and how my father will get justice, and just how much he and the department care.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
She nodded, crossed her arms over her torso, pulling them in tight towards her, her jawline suddenly tense, her lips pursed, her expression glum. “It’s all a show. They know that boy didn’t do this. They know my father had enemies. They don’t want to catch whoever really did it. Knowing Bakersfield, they’re probably working for them.”
Bob nodded. He wanted to tell her about the gun, and how it fit, but he didn’t know the woman from Adam. She seemed grieving and sad, but that didn’t also mean she was stable or trustworthy. And no community was that black and white.
“You say that like you might have some idea on the matter.”
