Legalese jumped all around the “writ, summons, and complaint” as I tried to find the point of it. It wasn’t that hard. Dr. Andrew Cabot was suing me for “wrongful death, excessive use of force, and police misconduct.” He was asking for a preliminary hearing in a week’s time in order to attach my apartment, my bank account, and any worldly goods I might attempt to hide before the trial.
Cabot was suing me!
I felt hot and cold at the same time as a sense of profound injustice roared through me. I replayed the whole scene again. Yes, I’d made a mistake by trusting those kids, but excessive force? Police misconduct? Wrongful death?
Those murdering kids had had guns.
They’d shot me and Jacobi while our weapons were holstered. I’d ordered them to drop their guns before I returned fire! Jacobi was my witness. This was a clear-cut case of self-defense. Crystal clear!
But I was still scared. No, actually I was petrified.
I could see the headlines now. The public would set up a howl: sweet-faced little kids gunned down by a cop. The press would lap it up. I would be pilloried on Court TV.
In a minute or so, I would have to call Tracchio, get legal representation, marshal my forces. But I couldn’t do anything yet. I was frozen in my chair, paralyzed by a growing notion that I’d forgotten something important.
Something that could really hurt me.
Chapter 14
/> I WOKE UP IN a sweat, having thrashed my Egyptian cotton sheets to a fine froth. I took a couple of Tylenol for the pain and a sky blue Valium the shrink had given me, then I stared at the pattern the streetlights cast on the ceiling.
I rolled carefully onto my uninjured side and looked at the clock: 12:15. I’d only been asleep for an hour and I had the feeling I was in for a really long night.
“Martha. Here, girl.”
My pal jumped onto the bed and settled into the fetal hollow I made with my body. In a minute, her legs twitched as she herded sheep in her sleep while my brain continued to churn with Tracchio’s new neatly hedged version of “Don’t worry about nothin’.”
To wit:
“You’re gonna need two attorneys, Boxer. Mickey Sherman will represent you on behalf of the SFPD, but you’ll need your own lawyer to defend you in case . . . well, in case you’ve done something outside the scope of your job.”
“Then what? I’m on my own?”
I was hoping the drugs would tumble my mind off the hard edge of consciousness into the comfort of slumber, but it didn’t happen. Mentally, I ticked off the remains of the day, the meetings I’d set up with Sherman and my lawyer, a young woman called Ms. Castellano. Molinari had recommended her highly—and it means something when you get a rave review from the deputy director of Homeland Security.
Once again I concluded that I was taking good care of myself, given the circumstances. But the coming week was going to be hell. I needed something to look forward to.
I thought of Cat’s house. I hadn’t been there since she had moved in right after her divorce two years ago, but the images of where she lived were unforgettable. Only forty minutes south of San Francisco, Half Moon Bay was a little bit of paradise. There was a crescent-shaped bay with a sandy beach, redwood forests, and a panoramic ocean view, and it was warm enough in June to relax on Cat’s sunporch and bleach the ugly pictures from my brain.
I simply couldn’t wait until morning. I called my sister at quarter to one. Her voice was husky with sleep.
“Lindsay, of course I meant it. Come whenever you like. You know where the keys are.”
I fixed my thoughts on Half Moon Bay, but every time I nodded off dreaming of paradise, I snapped awake, my heart racing like a cyclotron. Fact was, my looming court date had taken hold of my mind and I couldn’t think about anything else.
Chapter 15
THUNDERCLOUDS GRAZED THE ROOF of the Civic Center Courthouse at 400 McAllister, and a lashing rain soaked the streets. Having dispensed with my cane this morning, I leaned against Mickey Sherman, attorney for the City of San Francisco, as we climbed the slick courthouse steps. I was leaning on him in more ways than one.
We passed Dr. Andrew Cabot and his lawyer, Mason Broyles, who were giving an interview to the press beneath a cluster of black umbrellas. The only blessing was that there were no cameras pointed at me.
I grabbed a quick look at Mason Broyles as we passed. He had hooded eyes, flowing black hair, and a wolfish curl to his lip. I heard him say something about “Lieutenant Boxer’s savagery” and I knew he was going to gut me if he could. As for Dr. Cabot, grief had turned his face to a mask of stone.
Mickey pulled open one of the heavy steel-and-etched-glass doors and we entered the foyer of the courthouse. Mickey was a cool old hand, respected for his doggedness, street smarts, and considerable charm. He loathed losing and rarely did.
“Look, Lindsay,” he said, furling his umbrella. “He’s grandstanding because we have a great case. Don’t let him get to you. You have a lot of friends out there.”
I nodded, but I was thinking about how I’d put Sam Cabot in a wheelchair for life and his sister in the Cabot family plot for eternity. Their father didn’t need my apartment or my pathetic little bank account. He wanted to destroy me. And he’d hired just the guy to do it.