Because he had to say something, Dahl offered a weak “You don’t believe this stuff, Max, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Mancini said, glaring at Knoxel. “It’s what the jury believes.”
Knoxel’s heart was pounding and his forehead was moist. He looked away and thought of his wife and three children. The marriage wasn’t that stable at the moment anyway; they were barely holding it together for the kids. This testimony from China, in a crowded courtroom with the press licking up every word, would be the end. He had fantasized about his wife sitting proudly in the front row while he carried the ball for the entire force. He would be the man of the hour, and perhaps she would be proud of him.
He shook his head as Mancini bore holes in him. He would simply maintain his innocence, claim she was lying, and convince the jurors. Hell, he was a white cop. She was a black hooker. Surely credibility would swing his way. He managed to say, without a trace of conviction, “Come on, Max, she’s lying. This is just some more fiction created by Rudd.”
Max replied, “I don’t trust Rudd for a moment. But how do you respond to paragraph number ten, where she says there’s at least one other girl who can identify you as a customer? And, of course, the pimp.”
“I’ll bet the pimp has a record a mile long,” Dahl offered gamely.
“He doesn’t,” Max snapped without taking his eyes off Knoxel. “The cops leave him alone for some reason.”
“It’s a crock, Max, okay. All fiction. I’ve never met this girl and I don’t sleep with hookers.” Knoxel folded his arms over his chest and pouted like a four-year-old. How dare they question his integrity. Worse than the divorce would be the humiliation in front of his brethren. They were counting on him, the star eyewitness, to nail Tee Ray, to deliver a guilty verdict followed by the death penalty. For eleven months Keith Knoxel had been their hero, the comrade who would avenge the killing of one of their own. Now, though, he was being accused of having a little paid sex in a run-down flophouse with a minor while his partner was gunned down a block away.
He would be ostracized, cut out, ignored, fired, or worse. Divorced and out of work. “I don’t believe this,” he mumbled.
Knoxel took a day off for personal leave but did not tell his wife. After dark he went to a bar and started drinking. Alone in a dark corner, he weighed his options, the most attractive of which, at that awful moment, was putting his gun to his head. He could do it. It was not uncommon in his line of work. He knew three guys in the past five years who’d done it. All the same: no pills, no ropes, no jumping off bridges. There was only one way for a cop to handle things-take the service revolver, put a bullet in the temple.
Or, he could neutralize his little China doll. He was crazy about the girl and obsessed with her. He knew she’d been seventeen and didn’t care. That was part of the package, part of the thrill. It wasn’t as though he’d been robbing her of her innocence. Why would she squeal on him and ruin his life?
The third option was the worst. Do nothing and go to trial. Tell his story with as much sincerity as possible. Brace for the shit storm when she took the stand. Then deny, deny, deny. What if the jury believed her and not him? What if the cop killer walked?
He left the bar and drove through Little Angola. Though he was a cop with a badge and a gun, he was still a white guy in jeans, and strolling through the neighborhoods was not a good idea. The Flea Market was somewhat safe if he were buying drugs, and there was a section of Crump Street where the white guys picked up hookers while the pimps kept things safe. Other than that, though, white folks stayed out of Little Angola after dark.
Knoxel parked beside a church and finished a can of beer. He used a burner to call Maynard, her pimp, but there was no answer. He left the church and weaved nonchalantly through the streets but saw nothing. He stopped at a convenience store with iron bars across the windows and bought another beer. When he finished it, he parked on the street, took out his pistol, clicked off the safety, stuck it in the right rear pocket of his jeans, and ducked into an alley behind the flophouse.
He couldn’t be seen, couldn’t leave behind witnesses. He would neutralize China, then Maynard, and if he could score clean kills and disappear into the darkness all would be well. His marriage, career, reputation-all intact.
Dahl said they couldn’t use the affidavit in court. If Jane Doe failed to show, the affidavit was inadmissible. Something to do with Mancini’s right to cross-examine the witness.
