“I have the unfortunate duty to inform you that I have a warrant for your arrest in conjunction with your whereabouts on August 3,” Westbrook replied, sensing that the situation was getting out of hand. “There’s evidence suggesting that you might have been in California.”
“California? Now you wait just a goddamned minute, mister,” Ryan replied, angry that the officer’s presence was not merely a routine visit he could quickly dismiss. “I’ll answer your questions…but we’ll do it right here. I’ve got an expensive crew waiting on me.” Jutting out his jaw, he defiantly folded his arms across his chest.
“It’d be a lot better if you came peacefully, Mr. Marshall,” Westbrook replied. “I’ll need to properly record your answers. I’m sure this is just a routine matter and you’ll be back on the job in no time.”
“I don’t think you understood Mr. Marshall,” Corky Chalmers added. “We don’t take kindly to interruption from outsiders. It disturbs the guys, and when they’re disturbed…accidents can happen. So why don’t you just ask Mr. Marshall your questions and we’ll get back to work?” he said insolently, signaling a couple of the guys to join the brewing discussion.
“Okay, look,” Westbrook replied, remembering the gas station attendant’s warning that he not cross these men. “I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. This wasn’t my intention. Maybe if you can tell me your whereabouts the past couple of days, we can quickly resolve the matter.”
Corky’s signal was like an alarm had gone off. The crew acted as if they had received an emergency signal. Everyone on the ground trotted over and, within moments, they completely encircled the truck, with the unknown intruder in the dark glasses held captive in the center. “What’s up, Corky?” several workmen asked in unison, each jostling for a position in the tightly forming circle.
“This yahoo thinks he’s taking Mr. Marshall to jail,” Corky responded. “I don’t know who he thinks he is…but on this job, everyone abides by the rules. What’s the first rule?” he asked, holding up a finger.
“ Nothing goes without the foreman’s approval,” the men shouted together.
Westbrook was feeling very uncomfortable. The situation was beyond his control. Pressing his authority would only further alienate this rowdy bunch. He decided the path of least resistance was to quickly remove himself from the knot of belligerent men, and return later with reinforcements.
“I hope you guys understand I’m only here to investigate Mr. Marshall’s whereabouts the past couple of days. It wasn’t my intent to upset anyone; I apologize for provoking you,” he said in a calm, reassuring voice. “We can discuss this another time.”
“Listen, Detective…Westbrook, is it?” Ryan said, before his men made the situation any worse. “I wasn’t in California the past month, let alone the past couple days. But before I say more, can you tell me where you think I might have been?”
“I’d really prefer to discuss this in private, Mr. Marshall,” Westbrook replied. “My questions could be personally damaging; you might not want anyone to know the nature of this business.”
“Enough of this hokey bullshit,” shouted a voice from the unruly crowd. They were tightening upon the detective standing next to Marshall at the center of the group.
“Throw his ass in the gorge,” yelled another antagonistic voice.
“Hey, mister, how’s ‘bout a firsthand look at what pissed-off iron workers can do to your sorry ass?” someone else shouted. There were loud shouts of agreement and many of the men began waving steel spud poles above their heads.
“Okay, okay,” shouted Ryan above the din of voices, raising his hands aloft, trying to calm his men. He appreciated their trying to intimidate the officer, but he didn’t figure obstruction of justice was the solution, either. “Let’s hear the man out.”
Westbrook waited for the tumult to quiet before he continued. “Mr. Marshall, you’re wanted for questioning in conjunction with a theft at the office of your cousin, Dr. Jarrod Conrad, at Stanford University on the night of August 3. There was a security guard fatally wounded in the building that same night. The Palo Alto detectives in charge of this investigation have found evidence at the scene that suggests you were in your cousin’s office. It’s the nature of the evidence that has brought me here today. I had hoped to talk to you about this privately…but obviously this has become impossible.”
“That son-of-a-bitch! ” Ryan yelled, the veins in his neck popping out, and his face flushed by the accusation from the officer. “Let me tell you something, Detective,” he shouted, moving closer, pointing his finger in Westbrook’s face, “there’s no way you’re going to arrest me on this trumped-up charge. This is bullshit! Earlier today we discovered that tower crane had been tampered with,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder at the crane. “It would have caused a terrible accident had we tried to lift that chunk of iron over there. I’ll bet anything my fucking cousin’s at the bottom of this whole mess. Now he’s made it look like I broke into his office. You’ve got to listen to me, Detective. Things aren’t what they appear. My cousin’s as twisted as anyone you’ve ever met. What exactly did you find that led you out here?”
“Look, let’s everyone just back it down a notch,” Westbrook pleaded, feeling even more threatened by Marshall’s outburst. He wished he hadn’t taken this assignment without proper backup. He also hadn’t followed the usual protocol of notifying the Taos County sheriff that he was in their jurisdiction. He was in big trouble; his only hope was to remain calm and hope to survive in one piece.
“Palo Alto PD found a crumpled piece of note paper with your company logo at the scene. We’ll need to do a handwriting analysis. I’m sure that once we get to the bottom of all the evidence, the facts will prove your innocence. But let’s not make this any harder by resisting arrest.”
Westbrook paused, trying to gauge Marshall’s response. From the enraged look on his face, he could only surmise that his best advice wouldn’t be heeded. “You’re a high-profile man, Mr. Marshall. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want an all-points bulletin issued for your arrest. That can’t help your situation any,” he warned.
Westbrook was powerless. Even if he drew his weapon, the iron workers wouldn’t let him leave without a fight, and there was no way to handcuff this pissed-off giant, anyway.
“Get him, boys,” Corky yelled, as several of the larger men moved in to seize Detective Westbrook. They held his arms fast as he struggled, quickly taking his weapon and cell phone. One of the crew grabbed his keys, running to the vehicle to confiscate additional weapons. He also disabled the two-way radio, severing the cord on the hand-held mike. Detective Westbrook was at the mercy of the iron workers.
“You guys are in such deep shit!” Westbrook yelled as they continued to rough him up. “I’ll have the whole bunch of you jailed on obstruction charges. Let me go… now,” he fumed, feeling certain that these guys were quite capable of killing him.
Ryan Marshall had heard enough. He walked briskly away from the gang of men that had come to his aid. “Corky, I don’t want the good detective to come to any harm, ya hear? After I grab a few things from the office, I’m heading out to track down my fucking cousin. Wait about an hour before you let the officer go, understand?”
Corky nodded.
“And get Big Mo off the truck, then send Apache home. Make sure you talk to the trucker so he doesn’t blab about what just happened. I don’t have a clue when I’ll be back, so you’re in charge now. I want this bridge to stay on schedule. That’s why I hired you. You’re ready, Corky. Can I depend on you?”
“Yes, sir. You’ve got my word,” he said, following Ryan into the construction trailer. “What do you think’s going on?”
“I really don’t know what to think, Corky,” Ryan said in a rush while stuffing items from his desk into his briefcase. He went to the small floor safe and withdrew several hundred dollars of petty cash that the office used for miscellaneous expenses. He left a handwritten note with his signature to account for the withdrawal.