What annoyed Crocker even further was the sight of Carla in a white dress sitting beside his father.
What the fuck is she doing there?
He was trying to remain calm and resist the powerful impulse to throttle Deputy Sergeant Atherton, who sat behind the prosecutor’s table in a freshly pressed uniform, looking like an altar boy.
Judge Whitney turned a stern face to Crocker and asked, “Does the defendant have anything to say before he enters a plea?”
Crocker’s attorney stood. “No, your honor.”
Crocker rose right behind him. “Yes, I do.”
“Proceed, Mr. Crocker.”
Nestor shot him a confused look that didn’t stop him. Crocker’s charcoal-gray suit felt like a straitjacket. “Your honor,” he said, “my father, Mr. William Crocker, seated behind me, is a military veteran and holds the position of commander at his local VFW. Several months before the incident, I had become aware that he was helping out a young Gulf War vet named Carla and her son. Your honor, he was helping them out financially to the tune of over twenty thousand dollars. I became concerned because my father is a man of modest means who basically lives off his military pension. He’s also a very empathetic man, and I suspected that Ms. Ruiz was taking advantage of him.”
The female assistant district attorney stood and asked, “Your honor, can I approach the bench?”
“Let the defendant finish his statement.”
“A day or so before the incident, I learned from my father that he had given Ms. Ruiz an additional ten thousand dollars to attend a private drug rehab facility to kick her dependence to Vicodin and other drugs. My father told me that she was attending the facility at the time. That night I drove by Ms. Ruiz’s apartment and noticed that the lights were on. When I rang the bell, she didn’t answer, despite the fact that I could see her in the apartment through the kitchen window. I saw her in the company of another man. When they left the kitchen, I entered through the open window.”
“You entered her apartment illegally?” the judge asked.
“I did, your honor.”
“You admit that?”
“I do. When I entered Ms. Ruiz’s bedroom, I found her and Officer Atherton sitting on her bed smoking crystal meth.”
“Objection!”
The judge pounded her gavel, then, turning to Crocker, asked, “How did you know it was crystal meth?”
“They were smoking it through a glass meth pipe, and it had that unmistakable smell like oven cleaner or burning plastic.”
“What happened next?”
“Officer Atherton identified himself as a cop and told me to leave immediately. When I didn’t, he assaulted me with his fists. I stepped out of his way, causing him to lose his balance and crash into a wall. While that was happening, Ms. Ruiz reached into a drawer by her bed and produced a pistol. She threatened me with it, and I disarmed her.”
“Did you threaten to kill her, Mr. Crocker?”
“I told her that if she took another penny from my dad under false pretenses, I’d break every bone in her body.”
“So you did.”
Both Crocker’s attorney and the assistant district attorney jumped to their feet and called for the judge’s attention. Just then a man in a shabby gray suit entered from behind them, spoke to one of the court officers, approached the judge, and handed her a document. As the people in the courtroom waited, she unfolded it and read it, then called both attorneys and Crocker into her chambers.
Crocker emerged thirty minutes later. Finding his father sitting on a bench in the hallway looking worried, he said, “Let’s get out of here and get lunch.”
He escorted his father out of the building and down the steps, and his father stopped and asked, “Tom, what happened with the judge?”
“It was pretty straightforward. She handed me a warning and dismissed the charges.”
“Gee, Tom, that’s terrific news.”
A very relieved Crocker opened the passenger door to his pickup and watched his dad climb in. Soon as he settled on the backseat, his father asked, “She dismissed the charges, just like that? No explanation?”
“Apparently Deputy Sergeant Atherton was caught on video this weekend selling meth to an undercover DC police officer,” Crocker answered. “I dodged a bullet.”
“Thank God.”
“From now on you’re not giving any more money to that Carla Ruiz piece of shit, are you?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m still your father.”
“Sorry, Dad. But what were you thinking, sitting with her in court?”
“Carla wants to talk to you. She feels badly.”
“I bet she does.”
As soon as Crocker started the engine, his cell phone rang. It was Jim Anders, deputy director of CIA operations. He put him on speaker.
“Crocker, you still in the DC area?”
“Yes I am.”
“Good. There’s someone I want you to meet, this afternoon at four. A safe house in Arlington. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’ll be there.”
Crocker hung up, shifted into first, and pulled out into traffic.
“What’s going on?” his father asked.
“You didn’t hear that, okay?”
“You need to lighten up.”
Chapter Eleven
When men speak ill of you, live so nobody may believe them.
– Plato
It was a ranch house off Wilson Boulevard with a white gravel driveway and a FOR SALE sign on the front lawn. Looked like it had been built in the late sixties. Two big Scorpion CIA private security guards checked Crocker’s ID through the half-open screen door.
“Come in,” one of them said gruffly.
He peeled off the suit jacket and set it on the back of one of the living room chairs. The air was stale and reeked of cigarettes.
“You think one of you guys could crack a window?” Crocker asked.
“You’re a guest here. Take a seat.”
Choosing the path of least resistance, he sat and checked his texts. One of them had come from Cyndi, wishing him luck in court.
He used his thumbs to text back “All good. Charges dismissed! Tnx.”
They talked on the phone practically every night. He was hoping to get an opportunity in the next week or so to travel back to Vegas and meet her daughter. She also had a nephew who was interested in going to BUD/S and wanted to meet him.
If all went well, he was thinking of flying himself, Jenny, Cyndi, and her daughter to Hawaii for Christmas. They’d stay on Maui, his favorite island. If he could afford it, he’d rent a house away from the hotels on the south shore for a week-windsurfing, exploring, eating fresh fruit and fish.
He was trying to imagine how Jenny would respond to the idea when Anders entered in a burst of energy. Broad-shouldered and clean-cut, he walked with a slight limp-the result of a bullet wound at the hands of Syrian agents in a Paris hotel elevator-and spoke into a cell phone. Behind him followed a short, thin Asian man wearing a porkpie hat, sunglasses, and Bermuda shorts even though it had barely cracked fifty outside, and two more large security men.
Anders was arguing on the phone with someone. “I know. I’ve heard that, but I don’t agree. Look, I’ve got to go now. Print it out and leave it on my desk.”
They clasped hands and bumped chests, military style. The two had gone through a lot together over the past three years. Adversity had drawn them closer.
“Crocker. Real good to see you. What’s with the suit?”
“It’s a long story. How’s the knee?”
Anders rolled up the leg of his khaki pants to show the fresh scar. “Bullet entered here and shattered the patella. Took four hours of surgery and pins, screw, and wire to put it back together. Rehab’s been a bitch. But the knee’s working again, so I can’t complain.”
“Glad to hear it.”
One of the Scorpions entered with bottles of water, which he placed on the table. He pulled the shades closed and left as Anders introduced the Asian dude who was scrolling through something on his iPhone.