No Witness But the Moon(8)

“How are you holding up, Detective?” asked Waring. The captain’s gray-blue eyes registered no genuine concern except perhaps for what this incident might do to his own career.

“Fine, sir,” said Vega. You don’t say “okay” to Captain Waring.

Waring turned to a uniformed sergeant named Lasky. “Sergeant? Please get the detective a glass of water.” The water had nothing to do with any worry over whether Vega was properly hydrated. “Sergeant Lasky will take you down the hall for a urine sample.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Lasky, an old-timer nearing retirement, looked embarrassed by the request but Vega understood the procedure: everyone needed to be certain he wasn’t under the influence of anything. Vega had nothing to hide. He wasn’t even taking cold medicine. He sipped the water and then walked down the hall and whizzed in a cup while Lasky waited on the other side of the door. After that, the sergeant sat him in one of their interrogation rooms, a windowless space with a one-way mirror, a scuffed table, and a few folding chairs. That was it. No sound or light save the buzzing fluorescents overhead. Vega felt like a criminal—which he supposed he was in a way. He’d taken the life of an unarmed man. How much worse a crime can you commit?

“Can I get you anything, Vega? A sandwich? Some coffee?” asked Lasky.

Food was about as appealing right now as choking down carpet padding. Vega took the coffee but then watched it grow cold before his eyes. Several times cops mistakenly opened the door to the room, thinking it was available. As soon as they saw who was sitting there, they got wide-eyed and panicky, apologized profusely, and left. Everyone knew what had happened. They probably knew more than he did at the moment. When the door was open, Vega heard snatches of conversation.

“. . . No weapon. Just some old photo . . .”

“. . . This Latin pop star’s house . . .”

“. . . Three Hispanics in all of Wickford and they gotta rob and shoot each other . . .”

Vega had the attention span of a goldfish. He couldn’t keep a thought in his head for more than two seconds. He typed stuff into his phone’s search engine just to see what popped up. Already, the news had hit the Internet: Police shoot and kill robbery suspect in Wickford . . . Robbery suspect breaks into Latin pop star’s house. Okay. Those were the facts. He could live with them. He typed in Ricardo Luis and came back with a dimple-faced Mexican man in his late thirties from the cover of his latest CD—the same man Vega had seen on that driveway in Wickford. Luis had recently published an autobiography too, called Song of My Heart. The cover showed Luis in a beefcake shot with his shirt undone to his navel.

There was a knock on the door.

“Yeah?”

A short, stout black woman with close-cropped white hair entered the room. She wore big gold hoop earrings and round bright red glasses attached to a chain around her neck. Her feet were encased in orthopedic loafers and her navy blue pants suit and white shirt looked starchy enough to be a uniform. She closed the door behind her and stretched out a hand.

“Isadora Jenkins.” She spoke with a throaty tremor. “I’ve been hired by your union to represent you in these proceedings.”

She wasn’t at all what Vega was expecting. He’d assumed his union would hire some jailhouse lawyer type with a paunch and a comb-over. Isadora Jenkins looked like a retired schoolteacher. A long-retired schoolteacher. All except for her choice in jewelry. On her bony hands, she sported several clunky costume-jewelry rings that seemed totally at odds with her drab attire. She looked like a Jehovah’s Witness who’d gotten lost in a dollar store.

Vega rose from the table and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said woodenly.

“No, you’re not. You’re deep in the doo-doo, facing the worst day of your life and you’re wondering what genius in your union decided to send somebody’s grandma to represent you.”

Vega bit back a smile. “I would never say that.”

“Good. Then you’ve got enough brains not to say everything you’re thinking. I like that in a cop.” She grinned. “Hell, I like that in a man.”

Jenkins plunked her briefcase on the table. It looked scuffed enough to suggest she’d had the same one since she graduated law school. Vega sat back down and waited for her to take a seat across from him. Instead, Jenkins folded her arms across her prow of a chest and began walking the room, staring at him from every angle. He flushed at the wattage of her scrutiny. He settled his eyes in his lap.

“Look at me, please.”

“Huh?”

“I am walking around this room and keeping my eyes on you. Please do the same.”

Vega forced himself to comply. He felt acutely uncomfortable. He began jiggling one of his legs nervously under the table. He started to sweat.

“I don’t understand,” he said after a minute.

“People are going to judge you from this moment forward. Like I am now. Keep looking at me. Don’t back down.”

Vega held her gaze and did as she requested.

“Good.” She nodded, finally taking a seat. “You look away; people think you’ve got something to hide. You can feel sorrow. Sorrow is normal. No decent human being can be happy about what happened this evening. But if you act ashamed, then you’re telling the world that you did something wrong—something that deserves punishment. You see what I’m driving at?”