“You usually have a couple of drinks with dinner?” Mickey asked me.
“Yes. A few times a week.”
“Well, there you go. Drinks at dinner were an ordinary occurrence for you, and .067 is borderline, anyway. Then comes a major trauma. You were shot. You were in pain. You coulda died. You killed someone—and that’s what you’ve been obsessing about. Half of all shooting victims block out the incident entirely. You’ve done fine, considering what you’ve been through.”
I let out a sigh. “What now?”
“Well, at least we know what they have. Maybe they’ll put Sam Cabot on the stand, and if they give me a chance at that little bastard, we’ll come out on top.”
The courtroom filled once more, and Mickey went to work. A ballistics expert testified that the slugs taken from my body matched those fired from Sara Cabot’s gun, and we had Jacobi’s videotaped deposition from his hospital bed. He was my witness on the scene.
Although in obvious pain from his gut wound, Jacobi testified about the night of May 10. First, he described the car crash.
“I was calling for an ambulance when I heard the shots,” he said. “I turned and saw Lieutenant Boxer go down. Sara Cabot shot her twice, and Boxer didn’t have a gun in her hand. Then the boy shot me with a revolver.” Jacobi’s hand gingerly spanned his taped torso.
“That’s the last I remember before the lights went out.”
Jacobi’s account was good, but it wouldn’t be enough to overturn the margaritas.
Only one person could help me now. I was wearing her clothes, sitting in her chair. I was queasy and my wounds throbbed. I honestly didn’t know if I could save myself or if I would make everything worse.
My lawyer turned his warm brown eyes on me.
Steady, Lindsay.
I wobbled to my feet as I heard my name echo through the courtroom.
Mickey Sherman had called me to the stand.
Chapter 19
I’D BEEN A WITNESS dozens of times during my career, but this was the first time I’d had to defend myself. All my years of protecting the public, and now I had a bull’s-eye on my back. I was raging inside, but I couldn’t let it show.
I got to my feet, swore to God on an old worn Bible, and placed my fate in the hands of my attorney.
Mickey cut straight to the chase. “Lindsay, were you drunk on the night of May tenth?”
The judge broke in: “Mr. Sherman, please don’t address your client by her first name.”
“Okay. Lieutenant, were you drunk that night?”
“No.”
“Okay, let’s back up. Were you on duty that night?”
“No. My shift was over at five p.m.”
Mickey took me through the events of that night in excruciating detail, and I told it all. I described the drinks I’d had at Susie’s and told the court about getting the call from Jacobi. I stated that I’d told Jacobi the truth when I’d said that I was good to go along that night.
When Mickey asked why I’d responded to the call when I was off duty, I said, “I’m a cop twenty-four hours a day. When my partner needs me, I’m there.”
“Did you locate the car in question?” Mickey asked me.
“We did.”
“And what happened then?”
“The car took off at high speed, and we chased it. Eight minutes later, the car went out of control and crashed.”