No Witness But the Moon(36)

“Look, Adele—”

She cut him off. “We have to talk. Not in an hour or two. Right now. Dave Lindsey came by to see me this morning. He wants me to use my keynote speech at Fordham tomorrow night to call for a grand jury investigation into the shooting.”

Vega felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. “Sure. Why not?” he asked icily. “Why bother with all the niceties like due process, when it’s so much more fun to string me up by my cojones right now.”

“Jimmy, don’t get defensive. I told him it was a bad idea.”

“But you didn’t refuse.”

“I will refuse. But he’s technically my boss. I have to have a reason.”

“A reason? How about the fact that the ME hasn’t conducted the autopsy yet? How about the fact that ballistics and forensics haven’t weighed in? If I were one of your damned clients, would you and your zealot friends be calling for my head right now?”

Vega scanned the crowd one block over. He was close enough to read the signs. I CAN’T BREATHE! NO MORE FER-GUSONS! IS MY SON NEXT? Worse than the words—at least for him—was the fact that his departmental photo was plastered on great big two-by-four signs. So if anybody had forgotten what he looked like, all they had to do was look up.

The crowd had grown, too. They were easily ten people across. And every one of them looked personally affronted, as if Vega were to blame for every slight in their lives. How come all these protesters only came out when they were angry with the police? Where were the marches against the gangs and drug dealers in the neighborhood? Against the proliferation of guns? Where was the political will to make the schools better? The projects safer? The parks cleaner for children?

“Do you think I want to be in this position?” asked Adele. “We’re talking about the first step to possibly putting you on trial.”

“I know what a grand jury is, Adele. You don’t have to educate me.” His nose was starting to run with the cold. He wiped it. He hoped he didn’t sound like he was sniffling. “So . . . are you?”

“That’s why I’m calling,” said Adele. “I’m hoping you can give me the ammunition to dissuade Dave and the rest of the board.”

“You know I can’t talk about the shooting.”

“Well, you damn well did last night!” she yelled. “I spoke to my friend, Myrna Acevedo, in the DA’s office this morning. The Wickford cops are saying you joked about the shooting right after it happened.”

“I what?” Vega ducked into a walkway on the side of a building. He didn’t want to be having this conversation out in public.

“An officer by the name of Drew Franklin said that you stated in the presence of him and his partner that you blow people’s brains out for the fun of it.”

Vega’s words came back to him now. Stupid, careless words. Muttered under his breath in a moment of panic and desperation. He couldn’t even remember the two officers anymore, apart from the fact that one was a man shaped like a torpedo and the other was a woman with dandelion hair. He felt like some stray that had wandered into the middle of the Cross Bronx Expressway. He was about to be run over no matter which way he turned.

“Jimmy,” said Adele. “Ruben Tate-Rivera has a copy of that interview. He’s going to make it public if he hasn’t already. If it’s not true, you need to say something.”

Vega kicked at some broken glass beneath his feet. The narrow passage smelled of rotting garbage. He closed his eyes. It was true. And either way, there was nothing he could say. He started walking again. He had to find a way past the gauntlet to his car. Maybe north? The mob on the boulevard just seemed to grow and grow.

“Where are you?” asked Adele.

“Running some errands,” he lied.

“Look,” she said. “Words are just words. I don’t care what you said. I know you were under stress last night. I’m more concerned about this witness.”

“Witness? What witness?”

“Hasn’t your lawyer made you aware that a witness is about to come forward?”

Vega thought about the text he’d received an hour and a half ago from Isadora Jenkins, asking him to call her right away. He’d been at his mother’s grave at the time. He’d thought it could wait.

“Jimmy—the DA is speaking to someone who claims to have seen you shoot Hector Ponce last night at point-blank range.”

Vega’s breath seized in his lungs. The sounds and smells of the Bronx pressed in on him. Diesel fumes. The squeal of brakes. Fast food wrappers. Babies crying from open windows. Car sirens. Police sirens. Or was that an ambulance? Vega used to be able to tell the difference when he was a boy. But he’d grown soft and out of touch with the sharp edges of city life.

“One of the bullets you shot apparently hit the underside of Ponce’s chin,” said Adele. “Your own department verified that. If what this witness is saying is true, the only way you could have made such a shot is if you—if you—”

“If I executed him,” said Vega flatly, finishing her thought. Something burned in his nasal passages. The silence between them felt as deep and wide as the North Atlantic.

“It’s not true, is it?” Adele’s voice was almost a whisper.

Vega felt like he was being kneed in the gut with his hands tied behind his back. “Adele, please—”