No Witness But the Moon(47)
“Detective Vega and I have discussed the matter,” said Jenkins. “He stands by his original statement.”
Waring looked at Vega but directed his question to Jenkins. “Does the detective have any explanation he’d like to offer as to why one of the bullets entered beneath the suspect’s chin?”
Vega fought the urge to defend himself. He silently counted to five and waited for Jenkins to answer.
“Detective Vega fired at the suspect’s center mass, as per departmental training and policy,” said Jenkins. “We believe the first three shots caused the suspect to collapse. The final bullet caught him under the chin as he was in the process of falling backward. My client is confident that ballistics will vindicate any suggestion that he aimed his weapon beneath the suspect’s chin and fired at point-blank range.”
“Confident, hmm,” said Waring. He and Lorenzo traded quick glances. “The district attorney’s office has uncovered a witness, Vega. Someone who swears they saw you shoot Ponce point-blank in the head.”
“That’s impossible!” Vega couldn’t contain himself any longer. “I was never closer than fifteen feet from him!” He caught Jenkins scowling at him and sat on his hands—something he hadn’t done since he was a kid in parochial school and Sister Margarita was trying to get him to sit still.
“Has the district attorney released the witness’s name?” asked Jenkins.
“Yes,” said Waring. “She lives on Perkins Road in Wickford. Her house is adjacent to the woods behind Ricardo Luis’s estate. It was her spotlight that was shining into the woods where Ponce was shot.”
Vega pictured a snoopy old dowager, wheelchair-bound, skin like an oyster, half-addled with dementia, looking out her window and mistaking a deer for him. She was probably confused. Maybe a little lonely. Those big estates in Wickford had to get pretty lonely.
Jenkins must have been thinking the same thing because she asked Waring if he had a description of the witness.
“I have a few notes from the DA’s office.” Waring put on his glasses and read a printout before him. “The witness is a thirty-eight-year-old former bond trader for Goldman Sachs. She’s now a stay-at-home mom with two boys, ages three and five. Her husband is a managing partner at Morgan Stanley.” Waring put the sheet of paper down and stared at Vega. “And for the record? Her vision is twenty-twenty, courtesy of LASIK surgery she underwent about a month ago.”
Vega felt the rope slowly tightening around his neck. Jenkins, ever the good defense attorney, began exploring other angles. “So her mental and visual acuity are not in question, I take it. How about her politics? Would she have any reason to lie about what she saw?”
“She’s on the board of a number of volunteer groups in Lake Holly,” said Waring. “The hospital. The Junior League. A few other local charities. Her politics might be sympathetic toward immigrants. But her background seems pretty solid and community-oriented.”
“In other words,” said Jenkins, “her mere presence as a witness, coupled with all the media attention, is likely to force this shooting in the direction of a grand jury.”
Waring and Lorenzo didn’t answer. No answer was needed. They were all familiar with New York State law and protocol in police shootings. Most police shootings never went before a grand jury because the use of lethal force was considered legally justified. If the suspect brandished a weapon or was in the process of committing a violent crime. If there were witnesses who could verify that the officer reasonably feared for his life or the lives of others. If there was video that backed up any of the same assertions. In these cases, the DA and the police wrote up their paperwork, cleared the shooting in-house and that was the end of it.
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.