Page 5 of Sighs By the Sea

The prosecution lawyer stands almost immediately. “Objection! Speculation. We’ve already proved that the malfunction was caused by a battery short. It is a known defect, and the Los Angeles PD is replacing all body camera batteries.”

Without looking up, the judge says, “Sustained.”

“Did you hit my client, Detective Parker?” Scumbag asks.

I want to bite my cheek, but I've been told it makes me look unsure. Keeping my eyes forward, I nod. “Yes. He threw an elbow when the taser missed.”

“Do you make it a habit to use excessive force?”

Again, my lawyer is up, fist hitting the table dramatically. Lord, these lawyers are all the same. They love the theatrics. “Objection! Leading the witness. We’ve already shown the photo of bruising along Detective Parker’s chest. Her history has been submitted and reviewed. There have been no records that show any uses of excessive force.”

The judge sighs as someone in the back row snores loudly. “Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Gueston.”

The criminal defense lawyer is pushing his luck. I’m about ready to use excessive force on him.

“Is it true you planted the heroin on my client?” The courtroom explodes into murmurs, and the judge pounds her gavel.

“Mr. Gueston, you have been warned. Do not make me call a mistrial because you continue to speculate wildly.” I want to go up and drop the mic for the judge. She's a good egg, even if she hates cops on occasion.

The crowd calms down, and Mr. Gueston clears his skeevy throat. “No further questions, your honor.”

“Does the state have any redirect?” The prosecution lawyer rises, buttoning his coat and shaking his head.

“You may step down, Detective Parker.”

I get up and walk down from the stand. I don’t stay in the courtroom. Instead, I go straight through the double wooden doors, smoothing my brown hair as I do.

Being a witness is the worst part of the job. All the attention and scrutiny. Everyone is so quick to believe in crooked cops. Not that I blame them. A few bad seeds have definitely made a name for our entire branch of government. But I’m proud of my ability to stay cool and follow the rules.

Outside the court, my partner, Harry, is waiting. The older man is a legend in the LAPD. His wispy white hair often fools criminals into thinking he can’t keep up. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Harry keeps himself in excellent shape and has been a huge resource in my own defense training. I've seen him take down giant men with both knives and guns, twisting their arms until they burst into tears. “How was it?” he asks.

“Don’t ask.”

Harry chuckles. “Figures. Gueston is a fucking creep.”

“No argument here. Where are we headed?” I ask. Harry hands me my gun, and I check the safety to make sure it's engaged before slipping it into the holster at my waist.

“Pick up a parole violator for a check-in.” I recoil my head, my face laced with surprise. Harry holds up a hand. “It’s a favor to Vicki. She says if the guy smells bacon, he’ll book it. He has major agoraphobia since being in prison. He just needs to show up for his check-in, or he’ll get booked again.”

I almost roll my eyes. Vicki is a local parole officer. She’s always calling in favors to Harry. The pair go way back in a way I'm not sure I want to know about. “Fine. I’m driving, though.”

Both of us climb into our undercover car. Anyone with half a brain would know that the brown Crown Vic is a cop car, but I guess it does the job. Far better than the piece of shit Jetta I have for myself. The thing barely makes it to the stop sign at the end of my street without the transmission skipping. We drive in silence as Harry listens intently to the police band. Los Angeles is a big city with lots of troubles. If we can stop along the way to help out, we will.

But there’s nothing nearby that doesn’t seem to be completely under control, and we roll up to the halfway house fifteen minutes later. To help keep our status as detectives a secret, I grab a gray sweater from my backseat and throw it on along with one of Harry's Dodgers hats.

“Stay out here in case he bolts," I say, pulling my ponytail through the back.

“You got it, boss,” he says with a chuckle and hands me the folder. Harry is definitely the senior detective, a fact I give him shit for often, but he isn’t opposed to me taking charge when the opportunity arises.

I get out and stride up to the front door, peeking at the few details as I go. Things like his picture, name, charges, etcetera. With it tucked back under my arm, I reach the porch, trying to look loose as I do. I knock once and hear footsteps inside. The door opens, but it isn’t our parolee. An old woman with graying hair and an unlit cigarette in hand scans me up and down.

“Hi, I’m looking for Lucas Peterson?”

“No girlfriends,” the older woman says, her voice raspy. The door is already being closed. I stick my foot out to stop it.

“I’m not his girlfriend. Sorry, I need to drive him to an appointment.” I try to put on my most innocent smile.

She scrutinizes me with a narrowed gaze. My smile only widens. When in doubt, smile it out. She sighs and swings the door open all the way. “Fine, but I’m not going in there. The room smells like shit.”

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