The Witness

“Okay.”
    When they’d finished, Brooks took a long study of his friend’s face. That angry color had faded so the freckles stood out like mottling on the sick pallor of his face. “I’d like to have Jeff drive you home, but you’re going to want to go back to the hotel.”
    “I have to.”
    “I know it. He’ll take you. I’m going to be a while here. I’ll come over to your place when I’m done, if you want.”
    “I’d appreciate it, Brooks. If you could call anyway, let me know how you think things stand.”
    “I will, and I’ll come to where you are after I do. I don’t want anybody cleaning up that mess yet, all right?”
    “How long do you think—never mind.” Russ held up a hand. “All right.”
    “I told Boyd to put police tape on the door. I know it’s not what you’d like, but the tougher we make this, the better chance we have of getting it all the way through if the Blakes decide to go to court.”
    “You do what you have to do.”
    “There’s one last thing.” Brooks opened a drawer and took out a digital camera. “Say shit.”
    Russ let out a little laugh, sighed. Then scowled at the camera. “Shit.”
    When Brooks left his office, he noted Blake was no longer in the outer area. Probably gone off to hound the mayor, or burn up the cell towers with calls to the state rep, the freaking governor.
    “It’s a sorry shame,” Alma said, and handed Brooks an envelope. “I took a boatload of pictures, like you said. About broke my heart, too.”
    “This won’t.” Boyd held up a trio of evidence bags. “We got your marijuana, your cocaine and some Oxy to round it off.”
    “That’ll work. Did you log it in?”
    “All nice and official. We got the video camera like you said we should, and Ash ran it while I did the search. Can’t document much clearer.”
    “Good work, all of you. Is Harry still back there?”
    “He hasn’t come out.”
    “I’m going back, starting with the ringleader. Boyd, why don’t you take Chad Cartwright, and Ash, you talk to Doyle Parsins. You remind them of their rights again, you hear? And you get everything on record. If either of them says ‘lawyer,’ you stop.”
    “They didn’t ask for one yet, or for a call, either,” Ash told him. “Last I checked, both of them were passed out back there.”
    “Give them a wake-up call.”
    Brooks went back to the tiny conference room. He banged on the door, shoved it open. “It’s time you and I had a talk, Justin.”
    Justin continued to sprawl in the chair, one arm thrown carelessly over its back. He only curled his lip.
    “Chief, if I could have a word with you.” Harry got up, murmured something to Justin that had the boy jerk a shrug.
    Harry came out, closed the door. He was a head shorter than Brooks and about fifteen years his senior. Back in the day, Harry had coached Brooks’s Little League team to a championship.
    “Brooks, I realize that between the three of these young men there was some damage done to the hotel suite, and I understand there was some underage drinking. The fact is, they’ll make good on the damages, if indeed there are any, and my client is permitted an independent assessor in that matter. And we both know the drinking’s not going to go anywhere. Slap on the wrist, some counseling maybe. As for the claim of assault, Justin tells me Russ was understandably upset, and there was some mutual pushy-shovy. Now—”
    Brooks pulled the digital print of Russ’s split and swollen lip out of his file. “Does that look like pushy-shovy to you?”
    Harry stared down at the photo, then just sighed, raked his hands through his short thatch of brown hair.
    “Don’t you ever get tired of doing this dance?”
    Harry waved a hand, shook his head. “I’ve got to do my job, Brooks.”
    “You know there are days I think my job sucks. Yours sucks more.” Brooks opened the door. He took out a tape recorder, put it on the table.
    He noted the night had taken some of the shine off Justin’s gold and bronzed prince-of-the-city looks. Good, Brooks thought, looking into the cocky, bloodshot eyes.
    “Were you read your rights, Justin?”
    “Yeah. I’ve got the right to say fuck you.”
    “Justin,” Harry warned.
    “Freedom of speech.”
    “I’ll exercise that same right. You want to look at these, counselor.” Brooks poured the photos on the table as he sat.
    As Harry studied them, Brooks studied the boy.
    Justin Blake, the only child of Lincoln and Genny Blake, had