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“What?” The man at the desk—bespeckled, slightly overweight, and with receding brown hair—started. “Why?”
“Because you’re under arrest, you incompetent piece of crap,” Sipowicz snarled. “Lieutenant Van Buren and Detective Bernard, here, are taking you to the Two-Seven for questioning.” He jabbed a finger in Johnson’s direction. “You better call your PBA.”
“Under arrest for what?” Johnson protested, and Sipowicz and Bernard hauled him to his feet.
“The DA is charging, among other things, Murder 2,” Van Buren replied.
“Murder 2?” Johnson exclaimed petulantly. “How does he get Murder 2?”
“I believe it’s called ‘depraved indifference,’” Bernard replied, a small smile playing across his face. “You, my white brother, have the right to remain silent.”
“Shut up,” Johnson said as Sipowicz hauled his hands behind his back and cuffed him.
“Todd Hatch,” Lupo called. A moment later, Hatch stuck his head out of his cubicle.
“You need to come with us,” Lupo replied.
“I’ve got work to do,” Hatch said dismissively, and ducked back into his cubicle.
“No,” Salazar corrected. “You don’t.”
Hatch reappeared. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re talking about the fact that you’ve spent the last couple of days destroying evidence,” Lupo replied. “For which, you’re under arrest.”
Hatch stood, stunned and silent, as Lupo cuffed him.
McCoy followed Cole and his detectives into the top offices at One Police Plaza, nodding a greeting to a puzzled Mike Logan at the door and half-hoping that Martins would be in a meeting … or even in CompStat.
No such luck. He was seated at his desk, going over paperwork.
“Excuse me, Deputy Chief Martins?” Cole said, slightly hesitant. Martins looked up.
“Yes?” he barked impatiently.
“I need to ask you to come with us, sir.”
Cole hesitated again. “Because you’re under arrest.”
Martins blinked and his eyebrows met furiously. “On whose authority?”
“Mine,” McCoy responded, not removing his hands from his pockets. Martins mouthed at him for a moment before sputtering,
McCoy stepped forward, and the IA detectives were suddenly aware of the strength of personality that had made him such a successful prosecutor. “Yours was the authority that sheltered an incompetent officer, bouncing him from precinct to precinct until his incompetence resulted in someone’s death,” he stated, his voice suddenly ringing with authority. This was the soldier for justice, battle-scarred and -weary though he may have been, using his most potent weapons: his mind, his words, his talent for persuasion; this was the adversary presenting his closing argument to the jury. “Yours was the mantle that protected this man from the consequences of his infractions—and yes, we know about the cocaine!—until he began to believe that there were none. Yours was the arrogance that nurtured this cancer within your own department … and yours, ultimately, is the responsibility.” McCoy had moved toward Martins until only the desk separated them. “You will be arraigned on the following charges: criminal facilitation 2, conspiracy 2, unlawful manufacture of methamphetamine 3—”
Martins made an inarticulate noise. McCoy ignored him.
“—Criminal sale of a controlled substance 1, criminal possession of marijuana 3, and murder 2.”
“Murder 2?” Martins demanded. “Where do you get murder 2?”
“I haven’t decided whether we’ll be charging depraved indifference or felony murder,” McCoy replied. “I’m presently inclined towards the former, but that could change. And I would point out that there are a couple of A-I felonies in that list. Stand up, sir.”
“What if I refuse?” Martins challenged.
“Then I have these gentlemen haul you out of here. That will simply alert everyone in the building that you have been arrested.”
Martins sat back and regarded McCoy with something like hatred. “I don’t know why the mayor appointed a cop-hating political wannabe to be district attorney,” he spat viciously. McCoy ignored him, simply repeating,
Martins paused as if to tell McCoy that he was in no position to give orders, and certainly not to a Deputy Chief of the NYPD, before he slowly stood.
“If you’ll come with us, sir,” Cole said uncomfortably, raising a hand. Martins moved around the desk, visibly decided not to shove McCoy with his shoulder, and put himself in custody, a black expression on his face. Cole took a breath. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began, and Martins snapped,
“Shut it, sergeant.”
“It’s duly noted that the defendant has declined the reading of his Miranda rights,” McCoy said, poker-faced.
Martins’s face turned purple.
Link to [Part 36]