“I don’t see an upside.”
My niece said, “The upside is you get to tell your story to a national audience and counter all the horrible things people have been saying about you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and left.
Sampson was waiting for me in the garage in his Jeep Grand Cherokee.
“How’d it go?” he asked after I’d shut the door.
“Slightly better than the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Shit. And here I was, hoping the iron maiden and the rack were making a comeback in our legal system.”
I glanced at him, saw him grinning, and laughed. “Yeah, I get it. I suppose it could have been worse. I just don’t know how.”
We left the courthouse garage, skirted around the media mob waiting for me to exit the building, and headed home.
“Anything I can do?” Sampson said.
“Not unless you can speed up lab work faster than Bree can.”
He looked over at me, puzzled.
“Some saliva tests Anita wanted done. They might help.”
“With what?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand,” he said, but his tone said he didn’t, and there was a strained silence between us the rest of the ride.
Sampson pulled over well down the street from the small crowd of journalists camped outside my house. “You best take the alley home.”
“It’d be easier,” I said. “Thanks for being a standup guy, John.”
He paused, and then nodded and said, “I have a great role model.”
He drove away. Knowing Sampson still had my back, I felt okay as I walked down the alley that ran behind my block. Even better, the air smelled like garlic and basil when I went through the back gate and stole through the side door.
Ali and Jannie were on the couch in the great room, watching the NBC evening news with Lester Holt, when I came in.
“Dad!” Ali said, running over and hugging me.
Jannie’s eyes avoided mine. She was barefoot but still in her warm-ups, watching the screen. Holt wrapped up a piece on the latest budget impasse in Congress and then turned grim and said, “Thirty-one times.”
Behind him, a dark silhouette of a man appeared. He held a pistol. Beneath the image, a caption read POLICE GONE BAD?
Holt said, “The trial of noted detective Alex Cross opened today in Washington, DC, amid what prosecutors are saying is a long-needed discussion in America about police gone bad and gone violent, above the law.”
The screen jumped to footage of me and Anita entering the courthouse that morning, with Holt talking in a voice-over. “After opening statements, the prosecution brought in star witness Norman Nixon and almost immediately there were fireworks and harsh accusations, including the stunning news that Detective Cross has fired his weapon at least thirty-one times in the course of duty when the average police officer never fires his gun at all. Before the two killings he’s on trial for, Cross’s shots have proven fatal nine times.”
The screen jumped to a frizzy-haired woman identified as a sociology professor sitting in front of a wall of books. “Thirty-one times?” she said. “He kills nine before these two? I’m sorry, but this is a cop who shoots first and asks questions later.”
CHAPTER
49
“TURN IT OFF,” I said.