No Witness But the Moon(49)
Adele flattened herself against a pocket door and grabbed a glass of white wine off a passing tray. She searched the crowd for familiar faces. La Casa’s board members were all here, including Dave Lindsey and his wife. They were clustered in a tight group at the edge of the event like kids at a first dance. Adele did not see Ricardo Luis, which disappointed her a little. She could dislike him for distancing himself from the shooting. But there was no denying the thrill of meeting a celebrity. Perhaps he was just going to put in a cameo appearance.
“Ah, we meet,” said a booming voice over the chatter and music from a live salsa band in the next room. “And she’s even prettier than I’ve heard.”
Adele turned and took in the black-framed glasses and red bowtie. His trademark. Just in case you confused Ruben Tate-Rivera with some other black college professor-turned-activist. Or some other man who believed complimenting a woman on her looks still passed for high praise.
Adele forced a smile and extended a hand. She knew who Tate was. Everyone in the country knew who Tate was. Vega and other police officers hated him for his bombastic, antipolice rhetoric and penchant for publicity. They accused him of distorting facts to suit his preconceived notions of the world. But Adele had always argued that a free society needed a single-minded person like Ruben Tate-Rivera who embraced the claims of the poor and disenfranchised simply because they were poor and disenfranchised. She didn’t like his style. She didn’t think everything he said was true. But he forced the police and the media to take note of things they might otherwise brush under the table.
She wondered if she’d feel the same way now that someone she cared about was caught in his crosshairs.
“So nice to meet you, Professor,” said Adele. She’d heard he liked to be referred to as “Professor.” He was surrounded by a gaggle of young, fresh-faced assistants who no doubt called him that.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you speak at Fordham University tomorrow,” he said.
“You’re coming to the symposium?”
“Absolutely.”
The symposium was the largest annual gathering of immigrant coalitions in New York State. Strictly speaking, Ruben Tate-Rivera’s constituency wasn’t immigrants. It was activists concerned about police abuse of power. The two areas overlapped of course. But Adele liked to think that her clients were far more concerned with fair wages and a pathway to legal residency than they were their day-to-day relations with the police.
“I spoke to Gloria Mendez, the event coordinator, this morning,” said Tate. “She’s most anxious to hear your comments on yesterday’s shooting. I understand a lot of media will be there, too. This is an excellent opportunity to pressure the district attorney to convene a grand jury—maybe even get the governor to appoint a special prosecutor for the task.”
Adele froze. “I never said I was going to do any of that.”
Tate narrowed his gaze. “It would be—unfortunate—if you turned timid, Adele. The media is expecting a forceful response.”
“Why? Because you told them that’s what I was going to say? Who gave you the right to hijack my speech?”
“Would you prefer I tell them the real reason for your trepidation?” Tate’s eyes bored into hers behind those heavy black-framed glasses. He knew. Adele suspected the source of the leak. She searched out Dave Lindsey’s face just beyond Tate’s entourage. Lindsey tried to duck into the crowd but since he was a head taller than everyone, he was easy to spot.
“My private life is no one’s business,” said Adele. “Least of all yours, Professor.”
“Oh, come now,” said Tate. “I hope you aren’t seriously going to try to make excuses for this cop. His actions are indefensible. His comments since the shooting have been callous and outrageous.”
“How can you say that?” asked Adele. “How can anyone who wasn’t there speak about what happened?”
A small smile curled the edges of Tate’s lips. “But someone was, Adele. A witness. My sources tell me she saw Vega shoot Ponce point-blank in the head.”
“I’ve heard that. And I don’t believe it.”
“Why? Because the detective told you it didn’t happen?”
Adele seethed. She hated Tate for his arrogance and condescension. But she hated Vega too for putting her in this position. Here she was defending a man who wasn’t even willing to defend himself.
“Who is the witness?” asked Adele.
“I’m awaiting official release of her name,” said Tate. “She’s a neighbor, I think. When I find out, I’ll let you know. And then I suggest you rethink your position. You go on that stage tomorrow and don’t demand a grand jury investigation, you can kiss off a career in this field, Adele. Not a single person or group in that audience will be with you.”
“I will.”
The voice came out of nowhere, floating above the music and chatter and movement of waiters. It was a melodic voice with a strong Spanish accent. It carried a hint of the breathy vibrato he was known for. Adele had hoped she’d get to meet Ricardo Luis this evening. She hadn’t planned on doing it this way.
Everyone turned in Luis’s direction. For a celebrity, he seemed rather shy up close.
“I’m not saying I can defend what this police officer did,” Luis said hesitantly to Tate and the crowd. “But I did not sense any anger or hatred in him. Maybe he did what this witness is saying. Maybe he didn’t. But perhaps it is best to let the courts handle it from here, yes?”