Page 21 of Punishing Penelope
I stand. “L.A. Times. I have some questions. Is it true that the perp did time for domestic violence and was out on parole?”
The chief of police—a man with almost black eyes and a short gray beard, the trimming overdue—sighs. “The suspect did time in prison for a minor offense and was released early due to good behavior.”
“Would you say murdering his ex-wife is good behavior?”
“This is a gruesome crime, and the perpetrator will be put before the judge. You can trust us on that.”
“Will he be offered a plea deal?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I do, Miss Wilder.”
“Are there any other suspects at this time?”
“No, there are no other suspects.”
“Do you agree his previous ‘minor offense’, beating his then-wife unconscious, should have put him away for a longer time? That an innocent woman would have been alive today if the justice system protected the victims?”
In the corner of my eye, I see Peter move. I glance at him, and he frowns but stares straight ahead.
“That was the decision of the jury. Can the press please keep the questions relevant to the ongoing case?”
“Should he have gotten access to a firearm as an ex-felon?”
The chief smacks his lips, his neck turning red. He looks like a man with high blood pressure, and as if the collar of his shirt is trying to choke him.
“He obtained it illegally. We need to move on. Anyone else have any questions? Yes?” He points at one of my colleagues.
I refuse to back down. “Do you think he had too easy access to a gun?”
“Miss Wilder, please sit down.”
“But in the U.S.—”
“Or you will be escorted out.”
I sit, a string of curses running through my mind. I’m already planning the angle of my feature, and I won’t be stroking their backs.
Accountability.
Devotion.
Some fucking decency.
I don’t demand much from our so-called justice system. I just want them to work toward actual justice. I refuse to stop fighting for the innocent. I dig—into investigations, protocols from the court—and collect names. I know who is corrupt. I know who is lazy. I know who does a piss-poor job.
Peter Hale is none of the above, and somewhere in my stony heart, I feel a measure of pride. He actually does good work.
But he’s part of the system.
I can never condone that.
Trying to catch his gaze is futile. The press conference draws to an end, and I’m bursting with more questions. I have several other shootings I need to bring into the light, ‘lesser’ cases, people wounded but not dead, families torn apart.
Once you’ve seen the darker side, you can never look away.
I’ve seen it. I live it. It always lurks in the shadows, in my dreams.
“This concludes this session,” the chief says, then stuffs some papers into a folder before he taps it against the desk to shake the papers into place.