Two hours later, I meet Nate Spurio at a bagel shop in a strip mall north of town. We can’t be seen in public, or at least identified by anyone who might be a cop or know a cop, so we alternate our secret meetings between A, B, C, and D. A is an Arby’s roast beef joint in the suburbs. B is one of two bagel shops. C is the dreadful Catfish Cave, six miles east of the City. D is for a donut shop. When we need to talk, we simply choose a letter from our little alphabet game and agree on a time. Spurio is a thirty-year veteran of the police force, a genuine, honest cop who plays by the book and despises almost everyone else in the department. We have a history, which began with me as a twenty-year-old college boy who got too drunk in a beer hall and found myself outside on the sidewalk getting roughed up by the cops, one of whom was Nate Spurio. He said I cursed him and shoved him, and after I woke up in jail he stopped by to check on me. I apologized profusely. He accepted and made sure the charges were dropped. My broken jaw healed nicely, and the cop who punched me was later dismissed. The incident inspired me to go to law school. Over the years, Spurio has refused to play the political games necessary to advance and has gone nowhere. He’s usually hanging around a desk, filing papers, counting the days. But there is a network of other officers who have been ostracized by the powers that be, and Spurio spends a lot of time tracking the gossip. He’s not a snitch by any means. He’s simply an honest cop who hates what his department has become.
Partner stays in the van, in the parking lot, on guard in case other cops happen by and want a bagel. We huddle in a corner and watch the door. He says, “Boy oh boy, it’s a big one.”
“Let’s have it.”
He starts with Lance’s arrest, the confiscation of his computer, the clear proof that the boy is a small-time dealer, and his detailed admission about tagging along on the Renfros’ router. Their computers are squeaky-clean, but Doug will be indicted day after tomorrow. Keestler will be cleared of all wrongdoing. The typical cover-up.
“Who was there?” I ask, and he hands me a folded sheet of paper. “Eight, all from our department. No state boys, no Feds.”
If I have my way, they’ll be named defendants in a lawsuit seeking damages of, oh, I don’t know, how about $50 million.
“Who led the party?” I ask.
“Who do you think?”
“Sumerall?”
“You got it. We could tell from watching the news. Once again, Lieutenant Chip Sumerall leads his fearless troops into a quiet home where everybody’s asleep, and he gets his man. You gonna sue?”
I reply, “I don’t have the case yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Thought you were the best at chasing ambulances.”
“Only the ones I want. I’ll catch this one.”
Spurio chews on an onion bagel, washes it down with coffee, says, “These guys are outta control, Rudd. You gotta stop them.”
“No way, Nate. I can’t stop them. Maybe I can embarrass them from time to time, cost the City some money, but what they’re doing here is happening everywhere. We live in a police state and everybody supports the cops.”
“So you’re the last line of defense?”
“Yep.”
“God help us.”
“Indeed. Thanks for the scoop. I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Doug Renfro is too physically damaged and emotionally overwhelmed to meet with me, and since a meeting would have to take place in his hospital room, it’s a bad idea anyway. The cops have the only door secured as if he were on death row. Privacy would be impossible. So I meet with Thomas Renfro and his two sisters in a coffee shop down the street from the hospital. The three are sleepwalking through their nightmare, exhausted, stunned, angry, grief stricken, and desperate for advice. They ignore their coffee and at first seem content to let me do the talking. Without the least bit of bluster, I explain who I am, what I do, where I come from, and how I protect my clients. I tell them that I’m not a typical lawyer. I don’t maintain a pretty office filled with mahogany and leather. I don’t belong to a big firm, prestigious or otherwise. I don’t do good works through the bar association. I’m a lone gunman, a rogue who fights the system and hates injustice. I’m here right now because I know what’s about to happen to their father, and to them.
Fiona, the older sister, says, “But they murdered our mother.”
“Indeed they did, but no one will be charged with her murder. They’ll investigate, send in the experts, and so on, and in the end they’ll all agree that she simply got caught in the cross fire. They’ll indict your father and blame him for starting the gun battle.”
Susanna, the younger sister, says, “But we’ve talked to our father, Mr. Rudd. They were sound asleep when something crashed inside the house. He thought they were being robbed. He grabbed his gun, ran into the hallway, then hit the floor when he saw figures in the dark. Someone fired a shot, then he began returning fire. He says he remembers Mom screaming and running into the hall to check on him.”
