One of the Good Guys

“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty.”

“Thank you for your service. You are dismissed.”

It was completed without fanfare, another routine of the daily court. Court adjourned, a date was set for sentencing, and the handful of people in attendance began to trickle to the doors. It was all mundane, but I had never felt so alive. My chest swelled with pride, and my skin tingled.

This was my first case, my first conviction. I had joined the detective force at the start of the year and had first been assigned to this case. My partner Sellers had already initiated the investigation but had thoroughly mentored me through every step of the process. He had a coveted record for solving cases and was chummy with ADA Hanover. His mentorship could make my career. Say what you want about the chauvinistic remarks, I could handle a little ribbing, it was how this world ran.

The glow of accomplishment swept through my body. I was making the city safer, I was protecting my people, I stewarded good in the world. Through my hard work and dedication, I had caused this to occur. I, myself, was a force.

My face remained composed. I glanced at the felon. Shawn Dubois – I will never forget that name. He had a bewildered look on his face. His mom was clutching at him over the bar, grasping for that hug, the last bit of physical contact. Tears streamed down her face. He was stunned and barely mobile. The court guards approached to escort him from the courtroom. I watched her flailing at him and huffed. You raised the piece, what did you expect?

I pulled on my jacket and proudly floated from the courtroom. Sellers was waiting in the hall, drinking coffee and reading a file. He closed it when he saw me and slapped my arm.

“Enjoy the show?”

“Yes!”

He chuckled, “Better get used to it. This is what we do, take those ruffians off the street.” He passed me the file. “Here. Forged checks at the corner store on 7^th and Chester. I made a few notes on some details to verify. Take care of them. I need to follow up with Carson.”

I accepted the file. “Of course.” I was invigorated.

“Let me know if you have any questions. We will discuss.” Sellers turned to leave and then stopped. “Whiskeys on Friday, my treat. No frou frou drinks.” He winked. “We do celebrate.”

I just grinned, too caught up in the win to mind the slight. “Yes, boss!”

At that moment, the defendant’s family burst from the courtroom. Two family members supported the mother – one a teenage boy nearly identical to the convicted man. His eyes caught mine; I stepped back, filled with unexpected emotion. Sellers directed me to leave with him. “There are consequences to every crime. C’mon let’s go.”

Back at the station, I cracked my fingers, settled in at the computer, and opened the file. “What do we have here?” I murmured to myself. I began cross-referencing details and dutifully checking each of Sellers questions. The receiving cops had already identified an initial suspect – D’Sean Botts. Fantastic. I accessed the bureau’s database to review his details. I nod to myself, a decent rap sheet. There’s some minor offenses for petty theft and trespassing eventually escalating

My eyes furrow, that’s not correct. A detailed note identifies Botts as a suspect in a burglary, Case #39234.  I read the case number again. Case #39234 closed today. We put Dubois away. Who is this Botts?

The file is still on Sellers desk. I fetch it and leaf through the stack. D’Sean Botts is scrawled and typed into multiple witness statements, the original police report. I glance at the case numbers and dates. The case numbers match. August 17^th. About a week before I started. Okay, someone made a typo, probably Sellers; that’s why I am handling these details. I had also never read several of these documents. I had taken Sellers at his word, followed his direction. Now, something seemed off.

Two witness names jump out at me. Tia Blanchard and Robin Myers. I had spoken to them previously. I knew where to find them. I grabbed my coat.

Lopez stopped me on the way out, his large frame blocking my path. “You okay? You are off all of a sudden.”

“Assignment for Sellers. I want to wrap it up before the day ends.”

“You need a partner? Scotts is free.”

I shake my head. Scotts watches my body too much for comfort. “Nah, easy detail, I can handle this.”

Lopez shrugs and lets me go. “Caution, young lady.”

“Yeah, I told him 2:15 at first. Coffee?” Robin pours for the customer at the counter.

I trail her as she attends mugs. “When I spoke with you, you said midnight or so.”

Robin shruggs. “Guess I was wrong.”

“Robin, what does that mean? Did he return after 2 or midnight?”

“What does it matter?”

I slap the counter. “It matters!”

For the first time, she truly looks at me. Her face softens ever so slightly. She pours me a mug of steaming coffee. “Drink.”

I scald my tongue. My eyes burn. I understand the looks of women, the stories hidden in silence. She ends with “I said what I needed to protect my David; they already fingering him for trouble.”

Tia is next. I knock on her apartment. She answers, toddler on her hip. “What?”

“Tia Blanchard? We spoke before about the burglary earlier this year. You were working when it occurred.”

“Yeah.” She looks at me. “I thought it was settled.”

“It is. We just have some followup questions.” She doesn’t respond. “In your original witness statement, you mentioned a man named Botts. Police initially investigated him.” I pause. Still no response. “You didn’t pick him out of the lineup.” Silence. “Why?”

A shrug. “I was wrong. What’s to it?”

“Was he the man on the day of the robbery?”

Her eyes flit to the side. “There were security tapes. We gave them to the police.”

“What? I have never heard of these.”

“That’s what I know. Is that all?”

I nod. I leave.

Maria from Brentwood Juvenile Detention Center calls me. It’s an inquiry about another case. I dutifully update her, and as the call is about to end, I have a whim. “Remember, Dubois? Yeah, can you send his details to me again. I think our file is missing a page or two.”

I approach the evidence desk already knowing the conversation. What tapes? There were never any tapes. Never entered into evidence. Never catalogued. You said who pulled them?

I check out several boxes. I drop them at my desk.

I walk outside. I breathe. I go home.

The next day, Sellers spots in for another detective out sick. He heads out with Knight to interview witnesses for another burglary in Fremont. I sigh with relief and dive into my boxes. My mouth is dry, my hands shake. I diligently peruse each one. At first, I make minor notes on a scrap of paper. As the discrepancies rise, I switch to an excel document detailing each. Lost videos. Variable witness statements. Changing suspect names. Missing paperwork. Incorrect spellings. Suspicious recordings – potentially edited. Broken chains of evidence tracking. Incomplete timelines.

I am working late. Sellers stops by. “Go home, kid. I love the gumption but we all sleep.”

“Making the world a better place one case at a time!” I reply with a cheery smile.

He chuckles. “That’s the spirit, we are the good guys!” He grabs his coat and heads out.

I work late all week and the next. Friday comes and I must face facts. The entirety of Sellers career lays bare before me. It’s all a lie. The faces of young, black men stare back at me. Futures and potential cut short by one white man’s bias. Several white men, I correct myself. ADA Hanover must have been in on this as well.

The gaze of Shawn’s younger brother rises in front of me. He knows he’s next. It is just a matter of time. I did this.

I am nauseous. I run to the bathroom. With the taste of bile in my mouth, I text Sellers. He still owes me a drink.

I bring my findings to Sellers at the bar. He is nursing a whiskey. A drop or too cling to his gray mustache. “Well, kid,” he says “What does all this mean?”

“It’s injust.”

He guffaws. “Those people? They’re nothing but trouble, the entire neighborhood. They all have done something. Catch ‘em sooner than later, I say.”

“You framed an innocent kid. You have done it before.”

He is genuinely shocked. “Absolutely not. I followed the evidence. I found my man. A jury convicted. You think you know more? He was guilty.”

“He couldn’t have done this crime, Mike. He was in juvenile custody at Brentwood at the time. There’s no way.”

“If that was true, his lawyer should have presented at trial. If not, he is obviously guilty of something. We know they all are.”

“Someone covered up and altered the timesteps!” I am nearly yelling.

Sellers shakes his head. “You wanna die on this sword? Go ahead. I have had your back on the squad, goodness knows no one else would.” He raises his hands and leans back. “All you, girlie. Good luck getting anywhere with that attitude.”

With that, I am dismissed. He’s back to his whiskey, some replayed baseball game on the television. I pick up my file and walk out the door. The lawyer’s number is in my phone. I stare at the screen for a few minutes. I press call. It is the most mundane thing.