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The problem with my generation
is that we all think we’re fucking geniuses.
Making something isn’t good enough for us;
and neither is selling something,
or teaching something, or even just doing something;
we have to be something.
Nick Hornby
Doug’s voice crackled in Em’s ear. “Is everyone in position?”
“I’m set by the Dubliner, on Stone Street,” Juárez said.
“I’ve got Pearl Street covered, and my partner is ready on William,” Peters announced.
Philip chimed in, “I’m positioned on the twelfth floor of One New York Plaza, overlooking Stone. I’ve got an excellent overview.”
Em coughed, holding her sunglasses steady against her ear. “I’m sitting at a table on Coenties, but it’s hard to appear inconspicuous with all you yakking.”
“Understood, Em, but since I’m monitoring the situation from the electronics van on Beaver Street, three blocks away, I need to maintain contact to understand what’s happening.”
“Be cautious, they’re on the lookout for police.”
“This has got to be the worst place for a transfer. There are people all over, heading in every possible direction.”
Em continued holding her glasses as she studied a menu, watching those passing by. “Phillips, that’s their design. I’m guessing they’re familiar with the location, working nearby.”
“The traffic should ease as soon as people return to work.”
“It’ll lessen, but this region is always busy. It’s a popular tourist spot, with Frances tavern and other restaurants close by.”
“The coffee and bagels aren’t bad, either,” Juárez teased.
“All right, enough pointless chatter.” Doug surveyed the video feeds from the surrounding surveillance cameras. None of them were well situated since this was a low crime area. “The decoy is ready to fly.”
“It isn’t time for the meet yet. Let’s not rush things.” Em scanned the area again. She noticed one young man with curly hair, a sparse goatee and wearing a dark coat, a wool cap covering his head. She’d seen him several times. He seemed to be studying the scene instead of heading anywhere in particular.
“Still, it’ll take him a while to walk there. I think it would be best if we sent him now so he’ll be ready when his contact shows up. I can track him with security cameras along Pearl Street. We’re also sending a plainclothes to trail him.”
Watching the man wander away, glancing over his shoulder, Em stood. “Em here. I’ve got a funny feeling. I’m going to check something before he arrives.”
“You’re leaving?” Phillips asked. “You’re leading this project.”
“Doug’s got eyes on everything and knows what he’s doing. I’ll be keeping tabs, but I want to check something. Em out,” she said as she turned on South Williams.
“It appears our lead detective just checked out.”
“Can it, Phillips. Everyone look alive. I don’t want anything going south.”
“Do we know who the decoy’s meeting?”
Doug sighed. “No. The person who arranged the meet was different than his previous contact. So it could be anyone. All we know is they’re male, probably white. We’re waiting for the transfer of funds. As soon as it takes place, we move in.”
“A Caucasian guy? You described ninety-five percent of the people here.”
“No one’s paying attention,” Juárez observed. “So far everything’s clear.”
“I can’t see anyone who seems anxious.”
“It’s still several minutes ‘till the meeting time,” Doug reminded them.
“Yeah, but no one’s going to show up late if they’re transferring so much money.”
“Don’t forget where we are. If they work on Wall Street, delayed arrivals might be how they do business. It’s a classic power play.”
“OK, our man is nearing Coenties.”
“There’s someone tracking him near Beckett’s Bar.”
“Alright, prepare to act. There’s no telling whether this is an honest pay off or another attempt to off a witness.”
“So far, they haven’t tried to murder anyone who hasn’t been caught,” Juárez said.
“You mean, aside from the murders which started the whole investigation,” Phillip cracked.
Doug switched between displays, trying to find one which showed what was happening. “That’s true, but in this case, there’s no telling how they’ll respond to a cop on the inside. They might think there’s too much temptation to turn on them.”
“Suspect is reaching in his pocket!”
“It’s too early for a payoff. Don’t panic, yet. Wait until you see a weapon.” A truck stopped on the south end of Pearl, blocking Doug’s view. He chewed his pencil eraser, waiting an agonizing several seconds before a response came back.
“False alarm. They were checking their phone.”
“OK, everyone back off. We don’t want to cluster around the decoy. Alright, he’s turning on Coenties Alley. Without Em there, we’re short a man.”
“Don’t worry, I shifted down so I can cover Coenties and Stone Street,” Juárez said.
“Pay attention to anyone approaching from Stone,” Doug cautioned, switching between the various monitors. “If I realized Em was gonna bail, I’d have picked a techie to handle communications,” he mumbled.
“Your partner doesn’t like playing by the rules. She takes too many shortcuts.”
“She’s the only reason we’ve gotten this far, but still, I’d feel better if she were participating.”
Doug waited another several minutes for Milton Moore to reach the mutually agreed upon meeting area. When he arrived, he turned, glancing around, Doug spoke into his earpiece. “Let’s not appear anxious. If they’re not there, take a seat and wait.”
“Except there’re no available seats,” Milton protested.
“Hey, talking to yourself will alert anyone observing. Maintain radio silence. Do like everyone else and wait for a seat to empty. If nothing else, window shop and appear unconcerned. They know what you look like and what you’re wearing, so you don’t have to be the one to establish contact.”
“Except you keep reminding me that I might get popped,” Milton reminded him. “I’ll be looking at the pretty girls in the shop windows. That’s more relaxing than glancing over my shoulder.”
“Do that, just keep quiet.”
The radio chatter halted for several minutes, people continued to pass back and forth. The views were frequently obstructed, making monitoring the situation difficult.
“Possible bogey approaching,” Phillip warned.
Doug stared at the central monitor. “I see them. I’m trying to get a decent picture to run a facial scan on. Don’t turn around yet, but if you can, see if you can move them into the sunlight so I can get a better image.”
“Officer Milton?” The audio from his body mic was muffled by his clothing. To compensate, Doug had cranked the volume up, but it just added to the random background noise.
“Contact established. Settle your positions and be prepared to respond,” Doug advised.
Milton turned, sizing the stranger up. “Yeah, that’s me. Am I allowed to ask who I’m speaking to?”
“Call me John,” a rich baritone answered. Unfortunately, his back was to the sun, so his face was covered in shadows. Doug could see a pale, receding hairline with thick graying hair and some facial hair, but not many details beyond that.
“Well, John. I completed the task, at tremendous personal risk. I had to dance to avoid the normal security arrangements.”
“Let’s move away from the storefront. I’d rather no one overhears if you’re discussing security,” John suggested.
Milton tried to maneuver to his other side, but John kept shifting. Not wanting to be obvious, Milton gave up the attempt.
Stopping in the midst of people wandering past, but moving too fast to overhear much, John began again.
“You’ll be pleased to know we’ve taken care of your wife. Whatever medical expenses she requires, she’ll receive. One of my charity organizations ‘heard’ of her plight and has kindly offered to take responsibility for her.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I’ve been worried sick about her. I’m not concerned with what happens to me, as long as she’s covered.”
John frowned, or at least attempted to. Instead, the edge of his mouth twitched up, revealing a smirk. “That’s perfect. It’s what we assumed. Since you’re a cop and are likely to develop a conscience once your wife gets better, we didn’t want to take a chance. Between your police pension and life insurance, your spouse should be set. She won’t live high on the hog, but she’ll get by without you.”
“What are you saying?”
As John reached into his jacket, Doug noticed a glitch in his monitor. He wiped the screen before realizing the bad pixel was part of the image.
John pulled out and opened a folding mirror, holding it for Milton to see. Emblazoned on his forehead was the red dot of a laser. Shaken, Milton shifted to the side, but John moved with him, keeping the mirror focused. The laser target tracked Milton’s movements exactly. He glanced up, but couldn’t trace the source with the sun shining in his eyes.
“If you move, you’ll die. Since I don’t want to be implicated in the murder of a policemen, I’ll depart. If you or anyone else attempts to stop me, you’ll be killed. What’s more, if you survive, your wife will receive nothing.
“You said you’d trade anything to save her life. Well, we granted your wish. You’ve traded your life for hers.” John patted his arm, moving away in another direction. “It was a pleasure working with you. We’ll let your wife know it’s because of you she’s receiving her life saving treatments.”
“What’s happening, chief?” Phillip asked, unsure whether to intercede or not.
“I don’t know!” Doug mumbled, clutching his head. “If we arrest him, Milton dies! If we don’t, the guy gets away and he still dies. This is why I never wanted to be in charge!”
Em followed the source of her curiosity as he turned right on South William Street. She turned the corner just in time to observe him ducking into the parking garage, stopping to furtively glance around. She allowed him a second before following.
He entered the staircase. When she followed, she could hear him jogging up the stairs. Moving quietly, she took two steps at a time, trying to guestimate which floor he was nearing. When the metal door slammed, she was sure he exited on the roof. Reaching it, she hesitated to give him some distance, and followed.
The elevated parking garage expanded before her, the tightly packed cars obstructing the view. By shifting between them, she could make out her target, easily ducking behind a vehicle if he glanced back. He was moving towards the far outer edge, overlooking Coenties Alley where the exchange was taking place.
Following the long way around, running with a light foot, she lost sight of him. Reaching the end row, she saw him crouching beside a car, fiddling with something. She began to edge around the cars when he rose to his knees. He lay a rifle with a scope on the hood of a car, taking aim at someone below. She drew her Glock and stepped into the aisle when she heard him mumbling.
“Target acquired. You’re good to make contact.”
Realizing they needed evidence linking Milton and his contact, she edged forward. If she shouted a warning, the sniper would broadcast it over his wireless headphone, allowing his partner to escape. His concentration was intense. He never glanced up, making minute adjustments.
Her earphone cackled with the announcement that contact was established, but she couldn’t hear the exchange. The stairway door they’d arrived from opened and the assassin tensed. Em shifted against the wall, hoping he wouldn’t glance back. When it shut again and no one exited, he relaxed.
“Target engaged,” the man stated. She continued edging forward, not wanting to alert him and his radio contact, before she could stop him. Apparently the statement was a signal between the two men, as the sniper remained focused.
Without his wool cap, Em noted the headphone and microphone arching around his face. It looked like professional equipment. The man had curly hair and the muscular build of a veteran.
“Target acknowledges laser.”
Em was aware she was playing with fire. The sensible thing would be to stop the sniper before he killed someone. But if she did, the entire plan would unfold, with the main party escaping. She also realized she couldn’t count on the sniper testifying if his legal fees were paid by the person he’d testify against. Figuring her career was finished anyway, she bit her lip and continued. The sniper tensed. Thinking she’d been heard, she hesitated, raising her pistol. Her silent earpiece erupted in excited exclamations.
“What’s happening, chief?”
“I don’t know,” Doug answered, sounding shaky and hesitant. Ignoring the interruption, Em made the last few steps and pressed the cold muzzle of her pistol against the back of the sniper’s skull. He instantly tensed, freezing in place, not daring to move.
Em reached down with her other hand, yanking the headphone from his ears before speaking. “Release the trigger and drop the rifle.” The sniper hesitated, so Em pressed her Glock against his skull, pressing his eye into the scope. If she continued, he’d lose the eye. He released the rifle, which fell with a thud against the hood.
Em took two steps back, switching the pistol between hands and tapping her ear. “Sniper captured. Take appropriate action.”
There was a cacophony of chatter on the microphone, but Em couldn’t concentrate on what was being said. The assassin rolled off the hood, rotating as he fell, reaching for something. The rifle slid off the hood, producing a high-pitched whine as it scraped metal until it crashed to the ground. Not sure whether she could hit a moving target with her left hand in a dark space, she lunged, kicking him in the chest. There was a cracking sound as a rib broke. The man collapsed against the surface with a gasp, followed by an agonized groan. Em stepped forward, pressing her boot against his injured chest, holding him down. The pistol he’d tried to pull bounced under the car with a clatter. She was glad she wasn’t wearing fashionable Miu Mius.
The man groaned, his skull cracking against the asphalt floor. He gasped, his breath coming in a whistle. Em couldn’t tell if the sound came from a punctured rib or a bloody nose. In either case, he wasn’t in any hurry to move. Switching hands, she knelt, pressing her Glock against his forehead. “Think of pulling a weapon on me again, and I’ll back the car over your head to hide the stain your brains left.”
When he didn’t move, she used her free hand to switch ears on her earpiece.
“Doug, what the hell’s happening? I have no eyes on the scene.”
“Juárez has John, the contact. The others are moving in. The presence of guns spooked the crowd so I can’t see what’s occurring.”
“I’ve got John under arrest. He’s not resisting. Peters is controlling the pedestrians while we move him away.”
The wail of siren’s sounded as nearby police cars closed in. The man who’s veins throbbed under Em’s muzzle moaned.
“Face it, it’s over. Your career working for amateurs with money is over. Keep your hands clear and get up. If you flinch, there’s absolutely nothing preventing me from splattering your brains against the side of this car.”
The man did as instructed. Once he stood, Em slammed him against the car and cuffed him. Once she had him secured, she knelt and checked under the car. The scope on the rifle was shattered and bent, while the pistol was lodged behind the wheel. Moving him to the concrete railing, Em yelled, waving her hand, holding her sniper where they could see him.
“Say goodbye to your legal defense. He won’t be able to pay for any co-conspirators once we identify who he is.”
Her captive sneered. “His name is John Jacob Miller. He’s a ... political financier.”
“I’m glad you’re willing to confess. It’ll help your case.”
He glanced at her, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t give a damn about prison, but I hate that jerk. He’s so cock sure of every friggin’ thing, I’m ready to see him put away. The man’s a self-important prig.”
Em laughed. “Don’t worry, with your assistance, we’ll rub his face in the shame of public exposure. No judge in the country will go easy on this slimebag.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” the man promised.
Em entered the interrogation room. Doug sat facing John Jacob Miller, not uttering a word. John’s arms were crossed, a crooked smile on his face. She closed the door, the latch snapping shut.
John Jacob turned, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not saying anything until my lawyer arrives.”
Em sat beside her partner. “That’s fine. I’ll talk, you listen.” She checked the microphone between them, ensuring it was working before turning to take in the two cameras trained on them. Facing him, she leaned back, laying her hands on her thighs, palms up, grasping a folder. “Your pal, Roberto Sanchez, sure has a lot to say about you. He didn’t need much prompting either. Makes my job easier.”
“That’s what happens when you hire amateurs.”
Someone knocked on the one-way glass behind them. Em shrugged. “You’ll do better listening. Actually, given his history, he seems like the rest of your recent hires. He’s highly professional, probably the best in his field. The only problem is you don’t inspire the finest work from your employees. They may fear voicing their complaints, but they also don’t feel ... empowered to do their best. Seems they feel ... conflicted about excelling.”
“I’m surrounded by amateurs.” There was another knock on the window behind her. Em ignored it.
“In case you didn’t guess, our first witness is alive and well.” She tossed a photo of Benjamin smiling at the camera, drinking a cup of tea in a comfortable apartment. “You remember Ben Carter, don’t you? The guy you hired to shoot me?”
“I didn’t hire that wacko. That was yet another amateur.” There was another knock on the window. Em motioned behind her. “The lawyers would prefer you wait for your attorney. By the way, he wouldn’t be the same guy representing everyone else in this case, would he?”
John paused, jerking his head slightly. “Is it too late to specify a different lawyer to represent me?”
“He’s already on his way. But since it is the same attorney, we’ve gotten a judge to rule that his representing each of you is a conflict of interest. He’s been removed from each of the other cases. The prosecutor will also be charging him too. We’re examining your financial records to see which payments have been made recently to his law firm. That’s evidence of an ongoing conspiracy. Oh, and regarding how dedicated your employees are, they’re singing like canaries now that no one is watching over their shoulders. We’ve identified who hired Benjamin. He’s a long-term member of your staff. He’s singing too. Again, not terribly motivated employees.”
“Damn trailer trash. They couldn’t empty my garbage without peeing on their own shoes.”
She tossed another couple photos—mug shots—on the table between them. “Benjamin Carter, Daniel Mathews, Milton Moore and Roberto Sanchez. Doesn’t say much for the quality of your work. Sounds like you’re the only amateur here. The people you’ve put your faith in, those keeping you out of jail, were making obvious mistakes. They’d rather you all sink together than you succeed. That’s how much they despise you!” The man grunted. Doug snorted, glancing away.
“What was it you do again? Some nonsensical title someone invents because they can’t do an honest day’s work but likes tossing their money around.” She glanced at her notes, flipping a couple pages. “Oh, yeah, you said, ‘political financier’.” She flipped her book closed again. “That means, you hand over several million, and someone else—like politicians desperate for funds—do whatever you request.”
“Which is why this case won’t go anywhere.” The pounding on the glass grew louder. Em held her hand up, facing away from the window.
“If you’re going to continue talking, I’ve got to warn you about your Miranda rights once again. I realize you’re not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but anything you say can and wi—”
John Miller leaned forward, resting on his elbows, glaring at Em. “I went to Harvard. HARVARD! I know my damn rights. I can repeat them as well as you. Where did you go to school? Podunk U? Some State college?”
Em flipped her notebook open again, flipping through some more pages. “And just how did you accomplish that? You got in on a heritage admission. Your grades were only average until..., wait, here it is, your father donated a new dorm. Your major was changed, you got all new classes, and suddenly you were making As and Bs. Sounds like you couldn’t do an honest day’s work even then.”
John laughed, though it didn’t improve his demeanor. “An ‘honest day’s work’? Tell me, what does an honest day’s work buy you? I spent more on lunch than you make all week. I signed a deal today for more than your entire department makes in a year.”
“Yet you don’t inspire fidelity from a single one of your employees.” Em tossed another couple of photos on the table. “Alice Maven, your personal secretary. Patrick Simmons, your accountant. Malcolm Waters, your driver, who was the one to hire Benjamin, as per your instructions. Each volunteered statements, implicating you in a host of illegal activities, even though it will mean the ends of their weekly paychecks. Yeah, paying someone to advance you certainly fosters professional conduct, doesn’t it? And you’re the one who thinks they’re qualified to pick the people to lead our country?”
“Oh, you’d rather a lesbian dyke and a cowering chink take leadership roles? People respect power, responsibility and established roles. Without someone to inspire confidence, the whole house of cards collapses. Who’s going to vote for a Filipino for President? I don’t vote these losers into office. The people do. They want the idiots I place before them, and they overwhelmingly elect those I choose.”
“Yet, the ‘loser’ politicians you elect can’t do a decent job either. They’re passing fewer bills than any other time in history. One side won’t even discuss issues with the other. They can’t get their own party to vote together. They can’t pass a budget. They don’t even understand what’s in the bills they’re passing or even the ones they submit. Face it, your choice in candidates isn’t any better than your murderers and thieves.”
John leapt up, knocking his metal chair over as he leaned on the table, shouting at Em. “They wouldn’t even return your phone call! When was the last time you spoke to the Mayor, the Governor, or the President? They take my calls. I phone and they do my bidding. I pay for their vacations, I fund their skeletal campaigns and suddenly they’re respected.”
Em stood, leaning against the table on her fists, facing him down. “If you don’t sit down, you’ll be physically restrained.”
The man stood erect, his hands shaking. “How dare you speak to me like that? I’m the person running this damn country. Without me, there would be no government. I tell these idiots what laws to vote on, which issues to bury. Then I tell them which issues to raise to distract the flighty populace. If it wasn’t for the clear issues we present, American’s wouldn’t even know what the issues are. The American citizens and their elected officials are fools. You have no clue what you’re doing.”
Em faced him, though she was several inches shorter. Instead of growing angry, she smirked at her opponent. “Yet, you’ve been arrested, without a lawyer, with everyone you depend on turning on you. You think you can buy people’s loyalty, think again.”
“It doesn’t matter what those losers do, I’ll have the President pardon me before this even reaches the court!”
Em turned, watching the camera recording John’s tirade. “Not when this interview is replayed during your court proceedings. You think anyone will respect someone who thinks so little of them? You think the President will care what you think once we freeze your assets?”
John lifted his arms, his hands balling into fists. The veins on his temples stood out and his forehead and cheeks turned pink. His hands trembled. He glanced from Doug to Em, then growled and lunged across the table.
Instead of fighting, she simply slid her chair backwards and John slid off the table and tumbled to the floor, landing with a grunt. Doug and Em stood, gazing down as John struggled to his hands and knees, wheezing and unable to catch his breath. He had dirt mixed with the sweat streaming down his cheeks. “You can’t do this to me. I have my rights.”
Em held her hands up. “I didn’t do anything. All I’m doing is talking. You volunteered to speak, knowing the risk you were taking not waiting for your lawyer. You admitted to hiring the people responsible for each criminal act. You’ve conceded you hired their lawyers to keep track on what they were telling the police. You insulted the people you pay, those you played, and then you collapse on the floor, too out of shape to remain on your feet.”
“You’re making a laughing stock of yourself,” Doug advised, speaking the first words since Em entered the room.
She leaned over, extending her hand. “Let me help you up.”
John yanked his hand away, beads of sweat flying from his face with the force of his refusal to be touched. He struggled to his feet, still gasping for breath. This time, when Em placed her hand on the small of his back, he didn’t complain, meekly meandering back to his chair, which he bent over and picked up. Sitting down, he buried his face in his hands.
The door opened and his lawyer entered. “John, normally I’d advise you to ...” He stopped, taking in the scene before him. The officer by the door, who’d let him in, held a finger to his lips, indicating his client. He responded by folding his arms, observing his one-time client.
John sobbed, then began mumbling. “I’m a financier. I make careers. I speak and people respond. I make people. Without me, nothing would work. But everything’s fallen apart. No one respects the importance of my mission. They don’t understand the role I play in their daily lives. People look up to me, but these ... criminals, can’t do anything right. They’ve got to be led through everything, step by step. Told exactly what to do, how to plant the evidence, how to clean up after themselves and where to hide the bodies. They’re all morons.”
The lawyer raised his hand, about to say something before remembering he’d never officially been retained. Seeing as how his potential client was fully implicating himself, he thought it better to withhold his advice for the moment.
John Jacob Miller glanced up, grit mixed in his beard, looking like a lost little boy hiding in the body of a man. “I’m a leader. I lead others. I give them direction, strategies, methods to succeed. I pick those struggling, supply the means for them to succeed, and point them in the proper path. I’m one of the few men making a difference in this world, and yet I can’t find a dozen men capable of handling a single job.”
Em sat back down. Doug followed suit, collecting the scattered papers John’s attack disrupted. Picking each paper up, straightening and aligning them so they created neat files.
“I’m curious. How did this start? What was it Adrian did that was so ... outrageous you couldn’t buy him off?” She spoke simply, keeping her voice calm and barely audible, as if speaking to a little lost child.
“I tried. He wouldn’t do the sensible things, no matter what I offered.” He paused, gathering himself. “He was going to push a new bill to limit corporate contributions to political parties.” John removed his hands from his face, searching for understanding in Em’s eyes. “It would never hold up, no one would support it, but it would shut down my voice. My ability to operate.”
Doug started to say something but hesitated, so he continued. “He knew the Supreme Court approved unlimited political contributions. No court in the land would reverse the decision—something I helped approve, by the way. But he claimed they realized what a mistake it was and were looking for a way to limit it. He was going to float a test case, requiring any organization contributing funds to a political campaign to identify themselves. The date and time of their contribution were to be made public.” John turned to Doug, trying to get him to understand the error of that proposal. “No one would contribute if they thought the public would link their contributions to an unpopular decision. I could keep it from ever being upheld, but sufficient public outrage would cripple the Citizen United decision.”
When neither officer seemed properly outraged, he glanced at the lawyer he didn’t recognize. “With enough outrage, the courts would back down. Without money, the system would fall apart. My job, my position, my entire career revolves around creating situations, moving ideas forwards and shutting others down. Without the ability to move issues on and off the public sphere, there’d be no direction to our politics.” He turned back to Em, realizing she was the central figure, even if she didn’t respond. As if in sympathy, she patted his hand.
“He wouldn’t listen to reason. He wouldn’t pull the new committee regulations. When I threatened to cripple his career, he laughed. He actually laughed at me! He said he was tired of chasing after ever-larger sums of cash. That focusing attention on the issue would garner more publicity than anything I could offer.” He blinked rapidly several times, tilting his head. “What would that do to me? Where would I turn? What can I do if I can’t elect people? How would the country function if I’m not ... guiding them without their knowledge?”
As Em continued holding his hand, Doug shook his head and stood, moving beside John Jacob Miller. “You’re under arrest for murder, graft, corruption, repeated attempts to kill police officers in their line of duty. Hell, you’ve committed too many damn crimes to remember them all. You’re going away for a long, long time.”
As he was led away, his lawyer finally said what he’d come for. “I’m afraid our firm won’t be able to represent you. It seems we have a ... conflict of interest.”
Em stood, collecting her various papers and photos. “I’m not sure he can hear you. He’s so lost in his own self-pity. I don’t think he’s been able to think straight for months. I’d suggest he claim temporary insanity. Once he testifies and makes such well-reasoned defenses of his actions, there’s not a person in the city who’d vote for an acquittal.”
John Miller was in the hall when Em followed him out. “One more thing. How did you know about Commissioner Eddleson’s relationship with Martha Adams? When did you figure you could frame him for your own crimes?”
John turned, his eyes as wide as a young doe’s. “I hired a private detective. He trailed him for weeks, taking photos of everywhere he went, everything he did and everyone he met. He dug his own grave. He was practically asking me to shove him in it.” He paused, staring at Em. “He wouldn’t roll over and die, just like Adrian and everyone else in this whole damn affair.”
Em walked up, patted his arm and shook her head. “I think you’ll find a lot of people in prison who won’t roll over. But then, once you spend a couple of nights in jail, you won’t either.”
