Chapter 30
The officer got out, walked around the car, and opened the rear passenger door.
“You’re home, Dunham,” the officer said.
“Looks like you’ve got company.” Jack swung his foot down onto the pavement and climbed out.
He couldn’t feel his fingers and toes, and he smelled of wet garbage with a hint of piss.
He was certain that he’d soiled himself but wasn’t sure if the pissing had occurred while he was in the cemetery or the cruiser.
“Ah, fuck. What are they doing here?” Jack said, noticing his wife, Corrine, on the porch talking to the prosecutors, DaSilva and Dillard. “This day keeps getting better and better.”
“Yeah, well, you owe me.”
“Sure, sure, I’ll take care of you,” Jack said. “You just keep this little episode between us, got it?”
“You get me those Bulls tickets and I won’t say shit. Make sure they’re courtside, too.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be so close you’ll smell what Derrick Rose had for dinner.”
The officer left Jack standing on his walkway and got back into the cruiser.
Jack approached the steps leading to the porch but didn’t attempt to climb them. He was still drunk from the bottle of whiskey he drank at the cemetery, and his joints were so cold that he worried his toes would succumb to frostbite.
“What the hell is going on?” Jack asked. “Didn’t know you two suits made house visits.”
“They’re here to see you,” Corrine said.
“But I’m sure that’s no surprise.” She was petite with auburn hair and a weathered face, and she was draped in an oversize turtleneck sweater.
Jack thought Corrine dressed only slightly better than the bag lady who lived in an alley on his patrol route.
His wife’s usual daily attire was a massively big shirt and soiled UGG boots.
After almost fifteen years of marriage, he’d forgotten what she’d looked like in her prime.
Seeing what she’d become after two kids and no job was enough to make him want to give up on women altogether.
Thank God for Heaven, he thought. She breathed new life into him and gave him an outlet from his wretched marriage.
“Where are the kids?” he asked.
“Inside, where else?”
“Then go see about them. I’ll deal with whatever the hell this is.”
“Where the hell have you been, anyway?” she asked. “The kids were worried about you.”
“Did you hear what I said? Go the fuck inside, will you?”
Corrine sucked her teeth and flipped Jack the bird. Her middle finger was crooked. Jack had drunkenly broken it five years ago when things got physical during an argument.
“You’re such a dick,” Corrine said before going inside and slamming the door.
DaSilva and Dillard stepped off the porch and met Jack on the walkway.
“Officer Dunham, you’re a hard man to get ahold of,” DaSilva said.
“Well, you found me, didn’t you?”
“We’ve been waiting around for a few hours. Do you usually disappear like that and not tell your wife?”
“You come here to give me marital advice?”
“We need to talk about the Hollis Montrose shooting.”
“Do I have a choice?”
DaSilva sniffed the air. “We could always have you come down to our office in the morning, maybe after you’ve sobered up, if you’d prefer. Just curious, though, how much have you had tonight?”
“I’m Irish. I can’t get drunk,” Jack said proudly. “Not that it’s any of your business what I do off the clock.”
“You really think being publicly intoxicated is wise, given the spotlight that’s on you right now?”
“Are you talking about that little press conference Montrose’s lawyer gave where he spewed conspiracy theories about Chicago PD?
The nerve of him to question the integrity of our department,” Jack said, then hawked a loogie onto the frozen lawn.
“I’ll have you know that my fellow officers and I, who, mind you, have received numerous honors, didn’t do a damn thing wrong.
We followed procedure and did our fucking jobs. End of story.”
“Glad to know you watched the press conference,” DaSilva said. “I won’t have to fill you in.”
“I saw everything I needed to see. Read my report. It’s all in there. What more do you need?”
“We have read it,” Dillard said. “That’s why we’re here to clear a few things up. You stated that Hollis Montrose didn’t have identification on him at the time of the traffic stop—no driver’s license and no police ID. Is that correct?”
“That’s what the report says…”
“You also stated that you were unable to read the license plate because it was illegible. Are you suggesting the license plate had been manipulated in some way that prevented you from reading it?”
“Look, lady, it was dark, and the guy was swerving, and—”
“It’s A.D.A. Dillard,” she said sternly. “Not lady.”
“Apologies,” Jack said, smirking. “Look, A.D.A., we tried to run the plate but couldn’t get a good read on it. It happens.”
“We had the impound lot take photos of the tag.” Dillard opened her briefcase. She removed an 8x10 picture of Hollis’s license plate. “It looks like it’s been tampered with—bent here,” she said, pointing to the creases in the metal.
“Yup, looks that way.”
“However, that video that’s circulating doesn’t seem to show this kind of damage. Are you saying this is the plate you saw on Hollis Montrose’s vehicle when you initiated the stop?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” Jack said. “Like I said, it was dark.”
“And you’ll testify to that in court? That you aren’t sure of the condition of the plate because it was dark?” Dillard asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“Had you ever seen or met Hollis Montrose before that night?” DaSilva asked.
“No, why?”
“But you are aware he was formerly an officer with the Chicago Police Department?”
“News to me.”
“You’re telling us that you didn’t know that?” Dillard asked. “You expect us to believe that?”
“Believe whatever the hell you want, but I’m telling you that I had no clue who the guy was when we pulled him over. Now, can I go inside? I’m wet. I’m freezing my balls off. And I’d like to avoid pneumonia.”
“One more thing,” DaSilva said. “Montrose filed an official complaint against the CPD and a lawsuit before leaving the department years ago, after which he took a position with Metra.”
“So?”
“In both the complaint and lawsuit, he names officers who verbally harassed him during his tenure and states that he was passed over for numerous promotions.”
“All that, and the guy still got on with Metra? They must’ve been desperate.”
“Montrose cites off-duty incidents in which he was called racial slurs and was threatened with physical violence if he told anyone.”
“Off-duty incidents?”
“That’s correct,” DaSilva said. “One of the incidents occurred when a group of officers was at the bar celebrating an officer’s promotion and another during an officer’s retirement party. He said four or more officers singled him out and assailed him with racial slurs.”
Jack rubbed his hands together and blew his hot, foul breath to warm them. “Will you get to the point?” he said. “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“According to our records, you were employed by CPD at the same time.”
“You know how many cops are on the force? I’m telling you I don’t know the guy.”
“You’re positive you never had a run-in or interacted with Montrose in any capacity? Not even during one of these off-duty events?”
“Read my fucking lips: I. Don’t. Know. Montrose. The first time I laid eyes on him was during the traffic stop.”
“Dunham, you need to be aware that your entire record is going to be called into question. Do you understand that?” Dillard asked. “Anything you keep from us will only hurt our case, and you don’t want that, because it would cost you whatever career you have left.”
“Save the threats, lady.”
“A.D.A. Dillard.”
“Wow, your husband must love you,” Jack said. “Or maybe you don’t swing that way, huh?”
“You better watch your mouth,” Dillard said. “I can make your life a living hell.”
“Can’t get any worse. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m freezing, and I need to take a leak.”
“We’ll be in touch, Officer Dunham,” DaSilva said. “And I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but don’t leave town.”
“Next time you want to have a little chat, I’ll be sure to have my union rep present,” Jack said, and made his way upstairs and onto the porch. He fumbled with the door, unable to get a firm grip on the handle, and finally staggered inside.
His sons were running around with lightsabers. They were only two years apart, and after drinking, he could barely tell one from the other.
“Stop running in the house!” he shouted. “And your room had better be clean.”
The boys stopped and gauged their father’s surly mood, then raced upstairs to their room.
Corrine came up from the basement holding a laundry basket. “Those two looked pretty serious,” she said. “What’d they want?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Definitely looked like something to me.”
“They just wanted to ask me some questions. Don’t bust my balls about it.”
“What kinds of questions?”
“Routine stuff about a case.”
“Just any case? Or do you mean the one you got suspended over?”
“I’m not suspended,” he said. “I’m on paid leave. There’s a big fucking difference.”
“Can you not curse while the kids are around, please?”
“They’re upstairs, they can’t hear shit.”
“Can you just do as I ask for once?”
“Whatever,” he said, nearly falling as he struggled to take off his boots.
“Seems like whatever got you put on leave was just the excuse you needed to get wasted.”
“Sue me, I had a beer.”
“Just one?”
“Yes, I had a beer or two, so what? I risk my life day in and day out. I put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. I deal with the worst people this city has to offer and get shit pay in return. Then I come home to you, and well, you’re no peach, are you? So yeah, I fucking drink.”
“What did I say about the language?”
“Give me a break—”
“You can save the pity party because I’ve heard it all before.”
“What the hell do you know? Why do I even bother explaining anything to you? You haven’t worked a real job in fifteen years.”
“I got eyes, Jack. I see what’s going on. You can lie to DaSilva and Dillard, but you can’t lie to me.”
“Save it, will you? I’ve had to listen to enough assholes today who think they know best. Like they’ve got it all figured out.”
“You’d better hear me, Jack.” Corrine set the basket on the floor and squared up to her husband. “Whatever you did, I’m not going to let you take our family down with you.”
Jack grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her viciously. “Don’t you threaten me,” he said. “You better remember, everything you’ve got came from me. Without me, you’d have nothing.”
“You’re hurting me,” Corrine said, trying to wrench out of his grip. “Let go.”
“Threaten me again and see what happens to you.”
Jack’s fingers dug into her flesh and she cried out, “Let me go!”
The boys appeared at the top of the stairs. The oldest, Aidan, said, “Dad?”
“Mind your business. Your mom and I are just talking.”
“Why’s mom crying?” their other son, Martin, asked.
Though Jack never vocalized it, Martin was a mistake.
He always thought things might’ve been different between him and Corrine if it had only been Aidan.
They might’ve managed better with one kid, but two had brought about more stress and more sleepless nights, pushing their marriage to the brink.
“Don’t do this in front of the boys,” Corrine said.
Jack looked at his sons’ faces. Their expressions reminded him of Hollis’s face the night they shot him. Fear was present, but helplessness, too, like there was nothing Hollis could do to stop the inevitable.
He let Corrine go and stepped away from her. She quickly rushed upstairs to the boys and ushered them to their room.