Page 71 of Under Cover
“By the ADA?” Garcia asked, because he’d studied this in the last few days.
“Yeah. I had to give my depositions about six thousand times before Brandeis took a plea for a supermax instead of the death penalty. At one point the defense attorney was practically ripping my nails out to get me to change my story, and my ADA snapped, ‘Marty, if you don’t back off and put on your human skin, I’ll tell your wife how you’re treating this kid and we’ll see if you ever get laid again.’”
Garcia snickered into his hand. “What did the defense attorney say?”
“Well, first he said, ‘Fuck you, Alan, and see if I inviteyouto poker night,’ andthenhe turned off his tape recorder and looked at me and said, ‘Kid, you’re holding pretty tough, but you gotta be a steel wall, coated in Kevlar, coated in goose shit. If the jury sees you crack, it is myjobto drive a truck through that crack and get my client off. It’s your job to make sure they know why that shouldn’t happen.’ Then he turns back to the ADA and goes, ‘Fair?’”
Garcia gave a slow nod. “Itwas,” he said, surprised. “I mean, the guys defending the scumbags really are doing their jobs. And you and Ibothknow if more of the little bad guys had a lawyer, the cops would spend more of their time with the real criminals.”
“Yeah,” Crosby agreed. “But also, you know, who knows you best?”
AndnowGarcia got it. “The guy whose job is to stick it to you.”
“Yeah. Someone smart must have said that if you really want to know someone, know their enemies.”
Garcia had brought a legal pad out to write down ideas and take notes as they ate. He wrote that down and double underlined it. Then he wrote down a list of places to look to find the people who had gone up against Cavendish in the past.
A silence fell, and Crosby yawned, then peered outside. “Getting late,” he said on a sigh. He stood and took his plate to the counter.
“Leave the dishes,” Garcia told him, waving his hand. Then he went to the top of the fridge and grabbed a bakery box of bran muffins, the kind he’d seen Crosby eat every morning for the last six months. “Here, put this in your gym duffel. You’ll have something to eat tomorrow.”
Crosby did, giving him another one of those shy smiles. “You thought of that for me?”
Garcia nodded. “You know, someone always brings them for you. I just… you know me. Always thinking about the next meal.”
Crosby’s grin almost undid him. He sobered quickly, stepping into Garcia’s space and bending to kiss him, warm, strong, kind—all the things Garcia treasured about Crosby were in that kiss.
“I’ll be in touch,” he promised.
“Be safe,” Garcia begged.
“You too. We both work the same job, you know.”
Yeah, but you’re working it through the looking glass. You’re going to get some stuff backward, Judson. There’s no way to avoid it.
“Yeah, but you know. First day we worked together you ran into a sitch without me and got shot. Bad things happen when I’m not there to have your back.”
Crosby’s response to that was another kiss. “I’ll text you the uplink for the bugs,” he said soberly. “You’ll have my back.”
And then he was gone.
Garcia closed the door behind him and fell against it, closing his eyes against the gnawing worry and the empty echo of the house.
He swallowed, working for resolve, and went back to the kitchen to load the dishwasher, which was when he realized Crosby never reallyhadeaten his dinner.
Fuck.
He finished the kitchen and then wandered into the bedroom, saw the sheets rumpled and marked with their lovemaking, and lost to temptation. He picked up the pillow where Crosby—hisCrosby—had slept like the dead, secure for the only time in three days that his partner had his back, and held it in his arms, smelling his body wash, his shampoo… and his fear. Oh, it was in there, the faint scent marker of fear.
And that’s when he gave in, hugged the pillow to his chest, and cried.
Flatfoot
“HEY, BEER!”everybody in Creedy’s little apartment cried, and “Rick Young” put on his best face.
“Beer’s always welcome,” he said, because it was true, but also because it was part of his schtick. Yeah, sure, he spent five days a week, sometimes twelve to sixteen hours a day, working as a patrol officer in the neighborhood, but when he was off, he was expected to “socialize.” He was well aware it was the only way he was getting out of this sitch alive. A lot of the guys worked night security at the warehouse with some sort of loading device called a “big bitch”—those were the nights they stayed out late. The next day, they were sleepy and hungry and high.
Always a good day for beer.
