am.
I feel bereft without my star, but at least I can take solace in the fact they won’t take my gun. It’s a personal firearm, not department-issued.
And then it hits me—I won’t be able to follow through on my current investigations, including the murder of Addison Jenkins. These are my cases. “What about my caseload?”
Jud frowns. “I’m reassigning your cases. I’m sorry, but you’ll need to turn over your notes, reports, anything you have to the investigating officers.”
Jud gestures to his door. “The assistant DA is on her way, so we’ll need to move this meeting to the conference room. Your attorney can join us there.” He smiles sadly. “Let’s get this over with.”
I follow Jud and the other two down the hall to one of the larger conference rooms.
“Have a seat, Tyler.” Jud motions to the chair at the head of the table. He sits to my right.
Andrea and Bill take the two seats next to Jud.
“I’ve been contacted by the assistant DA,” Andrea says. “Brad Turner has filed a complaint against you, detective, alleging police brutality. Apparently, you beat him in a nightclub restroom?”
“I did.” There’s no point in denying it. “Although I was off-duty at the time. It was a private matter between us, not official police business. Is there any word yet on what the exact charges are?” The charge will make a big difference in how this plays out.
Andrea shakes her head. “No. But given the fact that the plaintiff—Mr. Turner—was in the hospital for four days, we can assume battery. Maybe even aggravated battery.”
“Any specifics on his injuries?” Jud asks.
Andrea checks her notes. “A cracked left eye socket, broken nose, and numerous lacerations. Oh, and a concussion.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “The security guards on duty at the club that night reported that, and I quote, ‘you hammered the hell out of him with your fists.’”
Everyone looks my way, as if they expect me to either deny or corroborate the account. “Yeah, I hammered him all right. He was choking my boyfriend.” And now I’ve just outed myself to the whole room.
The room goes silent as everyone digests that little bomb.
“So, it was self-defense,” Bill says.
After I give them a detailed rundown of the events that night and answer all their questions, Andrea reviews her notes. “Based on witness interviews, there’s plenty of video evidence from the scene. Three bystanders in the hall took video, as did Turner himself.” She turns her phone to face the rest of us and plays a short clip. “Turner took this. That’s his voice you hear.”
The video is jerky, as presumably Turner’s hand was shaking as he recorded it. The camera is focused on Ian, who’s collapsed on the floor, hand to his throat as he coughs and wheezes. He looks shaken, his face flushed. Turner’s voice is strained as he grates out, “And here’s Ian Alexander, the little cunt who started it all!”
Then the camera turns to me, as I’m being physically restrained by two nightclub security guards. With a growl, I break free of their hold and rush Turner, slamming my shoulder into his abdomen, pushing him back into the wall. He drops the phone, and we hear it clatter as it hits the floor. There’s no picture now, but we hear the distinct sound of a fist hitting flesh, accompanied by Turner’s grunts and cries of pain.
“The incident took place at Sapphires?” Andrea asks, confirming her notes.
“Yes,” I say.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s a gay nightclub, isn’t it?” she asks.
“It is.”
“I see.” Andrea writes something on her notepad.
“Tyler’s sexual orientation has nothing to do with this case,” Jud says, sounding more than a little defensive.
“You’re right. It doesn’t,” Andrea says. “But it’s going to come out, one way or another, and it will be an issue in the court of public opinion. It’s inevitable. We have a Chicago cop beating a gay man in the bathroom of a gay nightclub. I’m assuming the plaintiff is gay—please correct me if I’m wrong. Either way, it’s not a good optical.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Jud calls.
The door opens and a young officer pops her head inside. “Excuse me, sir. Assistant DA Lydia Franklin is here.”
“Send her in,” Jud says.
A few moments later, a tall African American woman with a trim afro walks into the room. She’s dressed in an emerald green business suit and white blouse, with matching heels. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she says. “I came straight from the courthouse.” She takes