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The north precinct building was old — a cement block building with strips of glass and an odd porch structure that looked like the bow of a boat. It had required a remodel inside in the 1990s when there’d been a drive-by shooting, and it turned out that glass panels weren’t bullet-proof. So the inside was kind of an odd rabbit warren of a place, with too many cubicles for the space.
There were noises about constructing a new precinct building, and Mac couldn’t really blame the cops for wanting something better. There was a sump pump in the basement because they’d built the building on wetlands. He shook his head — even in the 1960s, they should have known better than that.
Still, he’d been hearing that the plans for the building were over the top. Maybe Joe would be willing to check that out. Covering architectural drawings for a new cop shop wasn’t on his to- do list — not if he could help it. Or maybe the city hall reporter? That had possibilities.
Angie parked down the street from the building so that they didn’t get blocked in. There were already people milling about in the parking lot in front of the building — television crews were setting up cameras. Their vans were parked up close.
“Do you see the judge?” Angie asked. She had her camera around her neck and a camera bag of gear slung over her shoulder. Mac resisted the urge to offer to carry it for her. He’d learned his lesson about that. He had his backpack over his shoulder — a lighter, smaller pack with a notebook, laptop, recorder, and a smaller video camera. In the bottom of the pack was a small Glock. He should have left it in the car, he thought ruefully. Taking a gun to a police station was stupid — he’d learned that lesson the hard way too.
He started to turn back to Angie’s car, when she said, “Is that the judge that Joe’s talking to?”
Mac stopped and looked. A distinguished-looking Black woman in her 50s was talking to Joe, all right. She was wearing a tailored red dress that went down just below her knees, and it looked like she had red heels on to match. Power dressing, Black woman style, he thought with admiration. A Black man in a nice black suit was standing next to her — had to be her attorney, because no one in Seattle dressed in suits like that except attorneys.
Well, and Stan Warren, Janet’s partner, an FBI agent who had transferred out here from D.C. a year ago. He still dressed like that — much to the skepticism of others in the bureau. Mac thought that it was pretty funny.
One crew member from a television station was setting up a microphone for the judge so that the wall sign reading ‘Seattle Police Department North Precinct’ was behind her. She nodded her thanks. Marianne Moore? Was that her name?
“I’m going to take some photos,” Angie said.
“Give me your keys, I need to put something in the car,” Mac said. Angie rolled her eyes, demonstrating that she knew full well what he was talking about. She pulled out the keys and handed them to him.
Which was why Mac was nearly a block away when all hell broke loose.
The door of the police station opened, and a line of police officers in riot gear marched out, helmets on, visors and shields up. They were all dressed in black, and anonymous. This is clearly action designed to intimidate.
Really? Riot gear in north Seattle?
Mac counted six men and he started back toward the press conference in an easy lope. Running men scared people, and scared people did stupid shit. But he could see it unfolding before his eyes — the officers were going to use those shields to push people back away from the building.
Where was Angie? He looked for her, and grimaced. Right down front, of course. She was crouched down in the parking spot right in front of the door, and in front of the police officers who were pushing their way out. She had her camera up and was shooting photos. The cop in front said something to her — she ignored him.
Probably told her to stop taking photos, Mac thought grimly. Yeah, like that would work.
He thought the man was Sgt. McBride. McBride was tall, broad through the shoulders, a bit beefy. The man looked right for him. Had he decided to do his own dirty work this time?
Judge Moore stood her ground, he saw. Joe was still standing next to her, with his recorder going. And none of the television crews were moving either. As far as they were concerned this was just better theater for the evening news.
Mac didn’t fault them for it — it was news, and these black-booted fascists were going to rough up a district judge? News at 10 p.m. But then their girlfriend wasn’t crouched down on the ground just feet from those officers.
For a minute, Mac thought he was going to make it in time. He slowed to a walk as he reached the television cameras. Ignoring a few muttered protests, he pushed through them. He’d just stepped in front of the cameras, when the police line reached Angie and the judge.
“Back up,” a cop ordered. Mac was sure it was McBride, now. “Clear the area. You won’t be maligning my men on our own turf. This is an official police order — leave now, or we’ll arrest you for failing to obey an officer.”
“You’re going to arrest reporters for filming a protest outside the police station?” a TV reporter called out. “We’re on public property, Sergeant. Protesters have a right to protest on the sidewalks — it’s been ruled on again and again.”
So it was McBride, Mac thought grimly.
“You can argue it in front of the judge when your station posts your bail,” McBride said.
“Or maybe this judge can tell you right now, that protesters have a right to protest from the sidewalk, and news reporters have a right to film it,” Judge Moore said.
McBride glanced in her direction, and then ignored her. Mac wondered if he even knew who she was. McBride said something and his officers took another step forward. It was now move back or be stepped on.
McBride pulled his baton from his belt. “I said pack it up and move out!”
Angie didn’t move back.
McBride reached to grab her camera, and Angie tucked it to her stomach and hunched over it. He grabbed her arm and jerked her upward.
“Hey!” the same television reporter said. “Leave her alone. She’s just doing her job.”
“Arrest him,” McBride told one of the officers. He stepped toward the reporter, who backed away.
McBride tried to take Angie’s camera, and she wouldn’t let him have it. Mac didn’t blame her — if she got it back at all, it would have everything on it erased. And there was no telling how much she had stored on it.
Mac took two more steps forward, and now he was face-to-face with McBride. He gently reached out and took Angie’s camera from her, and then freed her arm from McBride’s grip.
He handed her his own videocamera and hers back to her. “Here,” Mac said. “See if you can get the Judge to start her remarks.”
She glanced at his set face and nodded.
“Judge Moore?” she said, moving in that direction. “You’re filing a lawsuit against the police?”
Mac stayed where he was, facing the cops.
Really it was much like playing defense on the basketball court, he thought with amusement. He played regularly with the younger men at the Y, and it was like this: you planted your feet and determined that they would not go over you. And they didn’t. They flinched. They went around, they lost their momentum. And then it was Mac’s ball — and Mac’s game.
McBride stared at him. Up this close, even behind the helmet and face shield, Mac recognized his angry stare. “Who the hell do you think you are,” McBride demanded. “You’re interfering with a police officer in the line of duty! I’ll have you behind bars for this.”
Mac met his eyes. “I want to listen to what Judge Moore has to say,” he said levelly. “Are you really going to try and turn a judge’s press conference into a riot in front of television cameras? Go ahead, McBride. Let’s see how well that plays on tonight’s newscast.”
The two men stared at each other. Behind him, Mac could hear Judge Moore explaining her lawsuit — a multi-prong suit apparently. Not only had McBride not served the restraining order, the victim’s 911 call went unanswered for 40 minutes. And in spite of the victim’s testimony, the assailant had not been charged.
“Inexcusable,” Moore said. “And just one example of the racial disparity of how this precinct handles the needs of the people it’s supposed to serve. It probably comes as no surprise, that in this case, the victim is a Black woman, and her husband is a white man — a professional in this community. And the police have sided with him, dismissing her legitimate calls for assistance.”
“Is that what you did?” Mac asked softly. “Did you fail to serve a restraining order?”
“We’re short-handed and we have to prioritize,” McBride said. “And restraining orders aren’t a high priority.”
“What about calls from a woman whose abusive husband is breaking into their home?” Mac asked. “That wasn’t a priority either?”
“His house,” McBride corrected. “We determined he had a right to be on the property.”
“Not according to that restraining order,” the Judge said, now listening to Mac’s questions. “He was ordered to stay away.”
“And so you didn’t respond to the call for 40 minutes, and the victim ended up in the hospital,” Mac repeated. “What was more urgent than that call that night, Sergeant?”
“I don’t remember every call of every night,” McBride said dismissively.
“But you remember that he had the right to be on the property?” Mac asked. “You didn’t have any problem remembering that? Wrongly as it turns out.”
“He hadn’t been served,” McBride said.
Mac laughed. “You hadn’t served him,” he corrected. “Who is he, Sergeant? A friend of yours? That’s your SOP, isn’t it? A favor for a friend?”
“That’s enough,” a new voice said, coming from the parking lot. “Sergeant? Stand down. You and your men need to back away and return to your duties inside.”
Mac glanced over his shoulder. The precinct captain, George Abrams, was standing there, looking sour. He must have been downtown for a meeting, Mac guessed. McBride started to say something. “Now,” Abrams ordered.
McBride dropped the baton to his side and stepped back from Mac. He gestured with his head, and the other officers filed silently into building. McBride was the last to leave.
“So, Captain Abrams,” Mac said, “Is this the policy of your officers? To use riot gear on news media and on a judge who is holding a press conference? Why do they even have riot gear? When was the last time there was a call for it in the north precinct?”
“All officers should have access to personal protection devices,” Captain Abrams said. “And I think it’s understandable that they might be a bit touchy about being accused of failing to do their jobs right on their own doorstep.”
“Have your officers ever needed the riot gear?” Mac repeated his question, ignoring the captain’s correction about what it was called.
“The university is within our precinct,” Abrams responded stiffly. “We have to be prepared to respond to requests for backup.”
Mac heard Joe snicker behind him, and he grinned briefly at the idea that university security would ask these men to back them up in riot gear. The university cops were very good at defusing violence at a protest while allowing the protest to continue. They ought to be — they got enough practice at it. “Have they ever asked you for backup?” Mac asked, his amusement showing.
Abrams glared at him. Mac changed the subject. “Are you aware of the lawsuit Judge Moore is bringing against the Seattle Police Department and this precinct in particular?” Mac asked.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing lawsuit,” Abrams answered automatically.
“Are you aware that your precinct has the worst response statistics in the department?” Mac asked. Abrams jerked a bit in surprise. Either he didn’t know or he didn’t expect to be questioned about it. “There’s a rumor that it’s a work slowdown in protest of the investigation last fall into the corruption within the department,” Mac continued. “Do you wish to comment on that?”
“There is no work slowdown,” Abrams said firmly. “We are here to serve the people of our precinct to the best of our ability.” He started for the door.
“Captain?” Judge Moore called, and Abrams stopped. He didn’t turn back to her. “Were you aware of the delay in response to a 911 call that put my daughter in the hospital?”
“I cannot comment on anything related to an ongoing lawsuit,” Abrams repeated. He kept walking into the building, and the door closed behind him.
Mac turned back to the judge. “Do you have anything more you can tell us, Judge?” he asked.
She shook her head with a half-smile. “I think I’ve covered it,” she said. “With considerably more drama than I expected.”
Mac grinned at her and headed toward Angie. Angie silently handed him his camera back. “Ready to go?” he murmured. She nodded.
“I need to get these photos back to the office,” she said.
“You OK?”
Angie nodded. “Might have a bruise on my arm in the morning,” she said ruefully.
Mac made a mental note to get a picture of it, if she did. “Joe?” Mac said. “You got this?”
Joe nodded. “You realize you probably just made the evening news, right? You’d better talk to Janet.”
Mac grimaced and nodded.
When they reached the car, a cop was standing there. Mac tensed, expecting it to be McBride. It wasn’t. A woman officer, someone he didn’t know.
“There is a work slowdown,” the officer said rapidly. “And yes, if you check out the man involved, you’ll find out that he and McBride are friends. You nailed it with that — I’m not sure how you knew.”
“Shot in the dark,” Mac said. The woman snorted. “FYI? I’m going to be working this precinct in person for the next week or so. Boss says. I’d like to get a ride along set up. You game?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But you really want a night shift, and I don’t get assigned to those. Not usually.”
Mac considered her. “But you were the one who responded to the victim that night?” he asked, guessing.
She shrugged slightly. “Dispatch called me at home.”
Whoa. Mac stared at her. “Does the Judge know that?”
She shrugged again. She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “See you around,” she said, and walked down the sidewalk away from the precinct building.
Angie beeped open her car, and Mac got in the passenger seat. “Unless you want me to drive?” he asked. Angie shook her head.
Mac glanced at the card: Sherry Grant. He put it in his wallet, then put the wallet and his video camera back in his bag. He reached under the seat and pulled out his handgun and put it back in his bag too. He probably should stop carrying while working this story. But he knew he wouldn’t. And if he’d had his SUV, he would have been able to store it properly.
“I’m going to need the video camera,” Angie said. “I used it to record everything.”
Mac pulled it back out and put it in the backseat next to all of her gear. “Let me out at the parking lot,” he said. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“It’s beginning to sink in,” she admitted. She held out one hand; it looked steady enough to him. “Adrenaline might be wearing off.”
“Yeah, that’s always the trick,” Mac agreed. “Gotta save enough adrenaline to get home. Always an embarrassing look to face down the bad guys and then do a faceplant afterwards.”
Angie laughed at that, and he could see some color coming back to her cheeks. “He was going to arrest me,” she said.
Mac nodded. He hoped that was all McBride had been going to do — with all the roughness he thought he could get away with.
“Why did the other cops go along, Mac?”
“That’s the million dollar question, babe,” Mac said, looking out the window. “Nobody knows.”
Mac sat in the SUV and made his calls from the parking garage. First call was to Janet to let her know what had happened.
“Come into the office in the morning,” Janet said. “Then go up there after deadline. I’m going to want you to read Joe’s story. You are still going up there, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I said I was.”
“See you in the morning,” she said. “I’ll be interested to watch the broadcasts tonight.”
Mac grimaced. He wasn’t.
He called Nick Rodriguez next.
“Rodriguez,” the man barked.
Mac grinned. “It’s Mac,” he said. “You hear what happened up at the north precinct?”
“When?”
“Just now,” Mac said, and then paused. “Have you been hearing other things about the north precinct?”
“No comment,” Rodriguez said. And as a member of Internal Affairs, he had a better case to be using that answer than Captain Abrams had. “What happened today?”
Mac told him and listened to Rodriguez swear. “Did you know about the lawsuit?” Mac asked.
Rodriguez was silent for a moment. “You know the process for suing the city or the PD?” he asked.
“Something about filing an intent to sue?” he said. Yesenia had described it this morning.
“A person files an intent to sue, and that allows the SPD time to investigate the claims and to possibly settle out of court,” Rodriguez said. “Not talking about any particular case here, just procedure.”
“Understood,” Mac said. “And are those determinations public?”
“Check with the Chief’s office,” Rodriguez said. “The recommendation goes to him for final determination.”
Mac remembered something about that from last fall. “Did the Police Union get involved?”
“Check with the Chief’s office,” Rodriguez said. “Start with the website.”
“How many investigations of the north precinct are there, Nick?”
“They’re called internal investigations for a reason, Mac,” Rodriguez said with a snort.
“Ten months,” Mac countered.
“Believe me I’m well aware of that,” he replied. “But I’m not in the loop on anything having to do with last fall, for obvious reasons. I’m not considered an objective reviewer.”
Mac laughed. No, Rodriguez wouldn’t be. He’d been the first target of the rogue cops’ attacks.
“And there’s plenty to keep me busy without that case,” Rodriguez added. “But check with the Chief’s office. And then talk to Marianne.”
Mac noted the use of Judge Moore’s first name. “She seems like a smart lady,” Mac observed. “She stood her ground.”
“Good woman, good judge,” Rodriguez agreed. Mac relaxed a bit. He always appreciated getting Rodriguez’s second opinion.
“I’m going to be spending a good part of my day at the second precinct for a while,” Mac said. “Janet wants an in-depth look at the precinct to go with a story about its low productivity and this lawsuit.”
Rodriguez grunted. There was a pause, and then he said, “Mac? Be careful. McBride isn’t a stable human being. And there are rumors it’s gotten worse.”
Mac thought about that business card he’d been given. Sherry Grant? He hoped she knew the risks she was taking. “I’m always careful,” Mac said lightly.
“Right,” Rodriguez said dryly. “Tell Angie hello.”
“He grabbed her,” Mac said.
“I wouldn’t mind some footage of that if you have it,” Rodriguez said.
“I don’t,” Mac said, then he snickered. “But watch the evening news.”
Rodriguez hung up.
Mac rotated his shoulders, trying to release some of the pent-up adrenaline and rage. McBride needed to go down, he thought coldly. He left bruises on Angie? What the fuck? He needed to go back looking for Maiah. Something about that exchange at lunch bothered him — the man had been afraid. Not of him, he didn’t think, but maybe for Maiah? Something.
But he couldn’t do it like this. He’d scare everyone in the restaurant, on the street, in the neighborhood.... He really wanted to punch someone. No, he admitted. He wanted to punch McBride until he stopped breathing.
Maybe it was the earlier image of playing basketball at the Y that offered an alternative. His gym had a punching bag. Mac started his car and backed out of the parking space. A workout would help. Especially a long session with a speed bag.