"The only thing necessary for the triumph
of evil is for good men to do nothing."
Edmund Burke
Prior to the kickoff of a Clark County coroner's inquest of Erik Steele's fatal shooting, a somber, tense group gathered in Sofia Knight's office. The lawyer briefed the Steeles and Erik's close friends on the hearing's absurd rules.
"What you're about to experience is the most ridiculous, unfair, one-sided excuse for a legal procedure you'll ever find in America. We'll basically be impotent observers," Sofia warned. "I cannot challenge potential jurors, cross-examine the district attorney's witnesses, present our own witnesses, or object to any outrage that occurs in the courtroom.
"I've not been allowed to preview any of the 'evidence' that will be presented. I don't even know what witnesses will be called. All we're allowed to do is scribble hand-written questions for submission to the judge, who will decide whether or not to read them in the jury's presence.
"You're about to be subjected to a uniquely Las Vegas mockery of justice. And it's going to be ugly."
She answered a few half-hearted questions, checked a wall clock and announced it was time to troop over to the courthouse.
"Everybody has to go through a metal detector. Leave your weapons here."
The weak attempt to lighten a dismal mood flopped.
The next six days of unmitigated hell for the Steele family and E-Team were beamed from in-courtroom television cameras to the citizens of Southern Nevada. Via Internet, the proceedings also were streamed in real time to viewers across the globe.
Friends, supporters and the merely curious from Kansas to Canberra, and Paris to Shanghai and Moscow watched in disbelief, as two assistant district attorneys paraded more than fifty witnesses across the stand.
Ho's employees, customers, three Metro shooters, a couple of detectives, a Clark County emergency medical technician, and a host of video-recorder experts spun tales about the shooting and subsequent Metro "investigation." Most lacked even a scrap of credibility, spouting blatant falsehoods, while under oath.
Win, Layna, Kyler and Erik's incredulous friends and supporters occupied one side of the room, behind a waist-high wooden barrier. A sizable group of Ho's employees and skinhead, steroid-bulked Metro cops dominated the other.
The Nevada Attorney General attended part of the hearing, always seated on the cops' side of the room.
A TV camera operator and pool reporter were crammed into a gap between the jury box and the cops' bull pen.
As an elderly witness gave yet another confused, contradictory account about "the man, who pulled his gun out of his pocket and pointed it at the officer," Sofia shielded her lips from the unblinking camera, and whispered to Win:
"I'd shred every one of these witnesses on cross! What a crock of shit!"
Indeed, the entire proceeding was a sick joke, a kangaroo court with stark, clear objectives: Establish a perception that Erik Steele was a drug-abusing, violent, gun-crazed, whacked-out nutcase, who had refused to comply with clearly enunciated, repeated commands from highly professional officers. Unfortunately, he had failed to respond, made a "furtive move," and Officers Krupa, Akaka and Malovic had to shoot the big redhead. Seven times. Five in the back.
Tragically, the all-important Ho's security surveillance video recording system evidently had failed a few days before the shooting. The dad-gummed hard drive had not been repaired, before that fatal Saturday, and was "not operating."
Darn it, not a digital bit or byte of Erik's actions inside the warehouse store, or even outside, where he was shot to death, had been captured on Ho's defective video recorder.
Ironically, when Metro's own video-network specialist had arrived at Ho's, about four hours after the shooting, he merely rebooted the video-recording system and it worked fine. No problems.
Then, in a staggering move that violated every best-practice procedure in Metro's manual, the department's crack detectives had left the offending digital video recorder in Ho's control for five days! For some reason, Clark County's prosecutors saw no reason to question that remarkable gem of "oversight."
Further, detectives allowed Ho's personnel to mess with the "failed" recorder, during those five days. Ho's undercover security officer, Hajji Taseer, and his carefully selected IT experts had valiantly attempted to "recover the video," by screwing around with the hard disk. A contractor had run several recovery programs, but to no avail.
Five days after the Steele shooting, a Metro detective decided maybe he oughta pick up the hard drive and send it off to experts, who would discover the hard drive had been physically damaged. Shucky darn.
Ultimately, a U.S. Secret Service data-forensics expert, retained by Metro's homicide detectives, dropped a courtroom bombshell: Ninety-six percent of data on that damaged hard drive had been recovered. The four percent of "unrecoverable" data just happened to be the portion covering the time Erik and Kat had been in Ho's, and when Erik was gunned down outside the store.
The glaring contradiction between assertions that the video recorder hadn't even been operating, and equally straight-faced claims of great efforts being expended to "recover" video data of the shooting, somehow escaped two brilliant assistant DAs, who were tasked with uncovering the facts of this case.
Three shooter-cops and dozens of witnesses raised their hands, swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, then lied shamelessly. As if thumbing their noses at the law, the two prosecutors never challenged blatant discrepancies in testimony. This was their show, and they delighted in demonstrating, unequivocally, that Metro officers had a license to kill. A badge was a Las Vegas cop's "permit."
Max Decimus and Rico Rodolfo surreptitiously used iPhones and iPads to conduct cursory background searches on each witness. Max slipped a hand-scrawled note to Kyler, who grimaced, shook his head and passed it to his dad. Win and Sofia read:
"Most of these witnesses have Metro records. Intimidation? Deals?"
Sofia nodded and whispered, "Of course. Every one of these eagle eyes, who claims Erik pulled his gun, just happens to have a file with Metro!"
During a break, the Steeles' group was huddled in the hallway, outside the courtroom. Sofia was standing apart, checking messages on her BlackBerry. She yelped and rejoined the cluster, excited.
"Hey! We just scored a major touchdown! Several more witnesses, who were watching the hearing on TV, called our office. They are soooo pissed, by what they've heard here! My investigator, Rod, is taking their statements now."
She then whispered stunning "good news"—and swore the team to secrecy.
"This revelation is critical to our case against Ho's," she cautioned. "It categorically destroys Ho's employees' claims that Erik was acting erratic and whacked-out in the store.
"We've got 'em by the short ones now, and you folks will own Ho's, after I drop this hand grenade in court! Game over!"
Through clenched teeth, Win said, "You gotta be… ! That means Taseer lied on the stand and was involved in the Metro cover-up."
"Looks like it. Based on statements from three independent, highly credible witnesses, that's what actually occurred," Sofia declared.
"Testimony from these new witnesses confirms that Ho's employees were cherry-picked and pre-briefed by managers. Every one of them lied under oath today, and can—will—be charged with perjury."
"Good Lord," Layna whispered. "When you think this nightmare can't get any worse, it does.
"How could such a horrible thing possibly happen?"
Sofia had miscalculated. Her "good news" wasn't so good, when viewed from the family's perspective.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… ."
"No apology necessary," Win assured. "We have to know everything! It's just… . Damn!"
He was incredibly frustrated.
"Look, since he was a kid," Kyler explained quietly, addressing Max, Rico and Sofia, "Erik was always incredibly lucky. Everything seemed to go his way. Always! How could so many things have gone so wrong that Saturday? How could Erik be that terribly unlucky?"
Win glanced away and unintentionally locked eyes with a medium-height, pot-bellied figure exiting an elevator. Dressed in a coat and tie, he had short-cropped, prematurely gray hair and black eyes that were too close together.
Win immediately recognized evil on the hoof: Captain Michael Greel.
The Homicide captain looked much worse in person than he had on TV two months earlier, spewing absurdities within minutes of Erik's murder. He was haggard, hollow-chested, almost withered. Greenish dark loops under each eye exacerbated a gaunt, sickly appearance.
Rage surged through the elder Steele's being. Months of intense grief, compounded by the inquest hearing's overbearing, maddening parody of justice, exploded.
The next seconds unfolded in slow motion, as if in a dream. Three steps and Win was blocking Greel's path. Two burly bodyguards at the officer's five and seven o'clock halted, in position, when Greel stopped.
"Captain Greel?"
"Yeah. Who's asking?"
"Win Steele. Erik Steele's dad."
Black eyes narrowed and a sneer was forming, when Win's fist slammed into the homicide chief's face, smashing a fleshy, acne-pitted nose and splitting the upper lip. In the same motion, Win's right leg followed, sweeping Greel's legs from under him. The cop fell hard, butt, then head smacking the faux-marble floor.
Before the stunned bodyguards could move, Win dropped to a knee and drove an elbow into Greel's exposed throat, crushing the larynx. As the captain fought for his final breaths, two guards grabbed Win by the shoulders and yanked him away.
"Win!" Sofia was shaking Steele's arm and slapping his chest. "Hey! You okay?"
The lawyer was wide-eyed, alarmed. Win stared at her, reality gradually returning. The whole Greel attack hadn't occurred. Imagination only.
"I… yeah. Fine," he croaked. Clearing his throat, he pointed.
"That's Mikey Greel, Metro's chief cover-up architect."
Sofia followed Win's arm, noting three men in suits entering a cipher-locked, officials-only door.
"Yeah, so what? Geez! You were white as Casper!" Sofia exclaimed.
"What's wrong?" Layna asked, rejoining the group.
"God-effy! I thought he was having a heart attack!" Sofia exclaimed.
Win shrugged and shot his wife a sheepish glance. No way was he going to "share" the delightful, albeit imagined, buzz of beating Metro's most evil cretin to death.
Actually, he wasn't just fine. He felt damned good.
* *
On the inquest hearing's final day, a decidedly egotistic Metro Detective Brian James took the stand. He and Rob Vaca, a Deputy Public Administrator and former cop, had broken into Erik's condominium and stolen two handguns and two rifles, within hours of Steele's murder.
None of that was mentioned, of course.
The shaved-bald, rotund detective confidently claimed that Erik had carried a second pistol on his person, a .380 caliber Ruger LCP, and that it wasn't listed on his concealed-carry permit.
"He had the blue card, which showed the firearm was bought in mid-oh-nine," James declared. "But, because that particular gun wasn't listed on his white card—the concealed-carry permit—he wasn't allowed to carry it. Steele was committing a felony by having that Ruger in his front-right pocket."
You lying sack of shit! Win wanted to scream.
Kat had confirmed the palm-size Ruger LCP and an extra magazine were on the nightstand, when she and Erik left his condo that Saturday. Kat was the last one to leave the bedroom, and clearly recalled seeing the Ruger there, on Erik's side of the bed.
Photos taken that morning of Erik's firearms showed the small Ruger on that nightstand, as well.
On a hunch that the Ruger blue card might be of use, Win had removed it from Erik's thick, oversized wallet. He drew the blood-stained card from a shirt pocket and held it up for Sofia to read. His thumbnail was under the date of purchase: 6/12/2010, four weeks before the shooting.
Sofia raised an eyebrow.
Per-jur-y, Win mouthed, not caring whether TV viewers lip-read his comment.
He pocketed the blue card and heard the detective answer, "Based on the nine-one-one recording, I'd say about two seconds. From the time Officer Krupa started shouting commands, until he fired his first shot… two seconds, max."
Win and Kyler exchanged a glance. Father and son had come to the same conclusion: No way Erik could have stopped, turned 180 degrees, assessed the situation, lifted a T-shirt with his left hand, and pulled the Kimber Ultra Carry—still in its holster—from inside his jeans' waistband, all in two seconds.
Impossible.
Crime-scene close-up photos had confirmed the Blackhawk-brand holster featured an integral clip that slipped over the wearer's belt. A lip on its lower edge secured the holster in place. Removing that holster from inside a waistband required a concerted, two-handed effort. It sure as hell wasn't a sweeping one-hand operation!
Bottom line: Erik did not touch his firearm, let alone pull it and the holster from his jeans, all within two seconds. Couldn't happen.
In his notebook, Win scrawled, BLACKBERRY! and underlined it three times. Erik had been shot to death, because Krupa had mistaken a BlackBerry cell phone for a semiautomatic handgun, panicked and fired. A no-courage, scared little cop had executed Erik.
Although Win had come to that conclusion two months earlier, Detective James's two-second statement was absolute confirmation.
As James left the stand, the presiding judge ordered a court clerk to spin a cage-like cylinder and withdraw a single slip of paper. She read the number and the Steele side of the courtroom gasped.
That number referred to one of the best, most intelligent jurors. A nurse, she had asked polite, but probing questions of numerous witnesses, effectively cross-examining them. The woman had done a great job of discrediting the shakiest testimonies.
The clerk repeated the process three more times. Incredibly, four "randomly pulled" numbers eliminated the best, most engaged and intelligent jurors.
"That's not possible!" Layna muttered.
Win squeezed her hand and whispered, "In Las Vegas it is. It's how killer-cops are always exonerated."
Four slips of paper had been pulled from that drum, but the numbers called off weren't on any of them. The clerk had read four figures written on a page the assistant district attorneys had given her, during the break.
The judge instructed the remaining jurors, prior to deliberations, that they were to consider only one question: Did the three Metro officers, who had killed Erik Steele, believe their lives or others' were in danger?
Within the hour, the jury returned its verdict: Justified.
Six days of playacting and fifty-plus witnesses, in the end, were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was three cops swearing, under oath, that they had feared for their lives and the safety of others, forcing them to fire seven rounds into Erik Steele.
The cop side of the courtroom erupted in cheers, high-fives and congratulatory handshakes. The Steele side sat in stunned silence.
Sofia finally stood and hugged Layna, then Win and Kyler.
"I'm so sorry," the lawyer said, tears spilling. "At least we now have what we need to sue these bastards into the Stone Age!"
Win was staggered, as if he'd been rabbit-chopped from behind. Even though he'd expected a "justified" verdict, hearing the word was still a gut punch.
He was emotionally depleted, exhausted, spent. And utterly furious.
The hearing's biased unfairness assaulted every tenet of decency assimilated in his sixty-three-year existence. The America he had known and trusted, the nation his dad, Layna's father, Erik, Kyler and he, Win Steele, had sworn to defend, had ceased to exist.
When that justified verdict was delivered, much of what he'd trusted and believed vanished. The American system for which countless men fought and died had failed Erik.
Given the means, the outwardly calm ex-Air Force officer could have blown the Clark County courthouse to bits. And, if the explosion killed that cluster of slimeball Metro cops and two smug assistant district attorneys across the room… .
What a bonus.
Link Mann was waiting at the courthouse door for the Steeles and their band of glum supporters. He pulled Win and Sofia aside, explaining that the news media had requested a brief statement from the lawyer and family. If they preferred, Link would handle it.
Sofia glanced at Win, who nodded.
"We'll talk to them," she said.
The group descended expansive granite stairs and faced a gaggle of cameras and reporters. Sofia summarized the jury's decision, then stated, "We are disappointed with this verdict, but are now able to proceed with a lawsuit against those responsible for Erik's murder.
"We heard a tremendous number of half-truths and outright fabrications over the course of these proceedings, particularly from public officials. But the whole truth will be revealed, at the proper place and time."
"Are you saying Metro officers lied?" asked a young woman with heavy makeup.
Sofia dramatically raised the Ruger LCP blue card Win had produced in the courtroom. Still cameras clicked and TV lenses pressed in for a close-up of the stained paper.
"Are those… ?" a reporter asked hesitantly.
"Yes," Sofia replied softly. "Those are Erik's fluids."
She didn't have to say "blood." The dark, irregular smears staining the front surface and splatter trails on the other eliminated any doubt.
"Note the date," the attorney added. "Detective James lied, when he said Erik had bought the small Ruger in oh-nine. In fact, Erik purchased it less than a month, before he was killed."
"But since it wasn't listed on the concealed weapon permit, Erik did commit a felony by carrying the second gun," the reporter pressed.
Sofia stared down her nose at the TV journalist.
"There was no second gun," she said icily. "Erik wasn't carrying that Ruger. It was stolen from his condo, when the Deputy Public Administrator and a Metro officer broke in—illegally—a few hours after Erik was murdered."
Her blunt accusation triggered a flurry of shouted questions, which the lawyer deflected.
"The truth will be exposed, when we are ready. And only in the proper venue."
An exasperated reporter turned to Win, standing at Sofia's shoulder and holding Layna's hand. Aiming a block-on-a-stick microphone at him, the woman said, "Mr. Steele, you've been very critical of the inquest process. Do you have any comments about it, now that the shooting of your son was found 'justified'?"
"The inquest hearing's outcome was decided long before the first witness was called," Win said calmly. "And the people of Las Vegas have witnessed firsthand what an insult to American due process this farce of a 'fact-finding' exercise was.
"Now the real war begins, and the truth will be told."
He hesitated, then added, "Metro pulled the trigger, but Ho's handed them the gun. They both killed Erik, and both will be held accountable."
That satisfied most of the journalists, who scurried off to file their stories. One reporter asked Sofia for a quick live interview.
While she was on-camera, Win and his family joined Max, Rico and other friends on a street corner. All were shocked, angry and demoralized. Win thanked each of them for sticking with his family, throughout the intolerable hearing.
"I can't adequately express how vital your support has been," he said, disappointment and fatigue apparent. "Yeah, we'd feel better, if the decision had been different, but we knew it would go this way.
"The last six days were nothing but theater, an elaborate, carefully scripted show. It's sole purpose was to make sure three brain-dead killers were exonerated, and that's exactly what happened.
"All of you need to get back to normal lives," he continued. "Erik would be humbled by your gracious and steadfast loyalty. Honor him by spending time with your families. Give your kids an extra hug. They're precious gifts… and you never know… ."
Handshakes, hugs and tears were shared, before Erik's rock-solid friends and Steele family allies drifted off to the parking garage.
"Can we go now?" Layna asked. "I'm exhausted."
"Sofia told me to wait," Win said. "Looks like she's about done with the newsies."
The lawyer shook a reporter's hand and waved at the Steeles. Kyler was off to one side, helping a stocky, sunburned ally retrieve signs and poster-size portraits of a smiling, handsome Erik Steele.
"Well, this round of BS is finally over," Sofia declared. She paused, until Layna stepped away to help Kyler slip posters into a flat box.
"Win, please don't use the term 'war' in interviews. The legal process is not war."
Win shot the lawyer a withering glance, jaw muscles flexing.
"Not to an attorney, maybe. But every one of these bastards is waging war on my family. I intend to respond in kind."
The attorney returned Steele's hard stare for a tense moment, but decided to drop it. She smiled, gave Win a firm hug, and click-clicked across the street, dragging a wheeled legal briefcase.
* *
After a dinner of Mexican food with supporters, the Steeles returned to a three-bedroom stucco house loaned by one of Kyler's generous friends. They agreed to defer clothes packing and housecleaning until morning.
Win lay awake, his mind replaying the disgusting inquest hearing's more dramatic moments: Officer Krupa demonstrating how he'd pointed his .45-caliber handgun at Erik, bellowing, "I fired twice. Center mass, double tap."
Whether intentional or not, Krupa had pointed his index finger directly at Win, simulating a two-hand firing position. The paunchy, diminutive cop had been arrogant, boisterous and in-your-face the entire time he was on the stand. Even several jurors had been annoyed by Krupa's performance.
The big Hawaiian, Officer Akaka, had been a smidgen more deferential, but was just as adamant that Erik did "go for his gun."
Only the third shooter, Malovic, seemed to exhibit a touch of genuine remorse. However, he delivered his lines exactly as the script demanded. Yes, he looked as if he might heave, while uttering them, and his eyes flicked about nervously, throughout his testimony. But he'd lied. The guy sacrificed personal integrity to ensure the solid Blue Wall remained intact.
Layna rolled over and threw an arm across Win's chest, burying her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She'd been crying.
Win hugged his wife tightly and stroked her hair.
"God, it hurt so much to hear all those horrible lies about Erik!" she murmured. "And all we could do was sit there and take it!"
Win whispered, "We'll have our turn, babe. And the truth will come out. Besides, damn few people believed that crap."
In fact, his spirit was in tatters, as well. Neither he or Layna had much fight left in them. Both were emotionally frazzled and physically depleted.
They whispered for maybe another half hour, then rested in silence. Eventually, Layna's deep breathing suggested that fatigue had finally won.
Win turned to prayer, asking again for strength, for guidance, for perseverance. Somehow, some way, he was convinced, the Lord would hold accountable those responsible for stealing Erik's life.
Win had no way of knowing that the war he'd mentioned was heating up. Or that he was in the enemy's crosshairs.