Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3) by Gary Ross (100 best novels of all time txt) 📗

varied, so I thought for a moment about the one I had used, now sitting in the biometric gun safe installed between the seats of my car in the parking ramp across from the court building. “It’s a metal tube, maybe half an inch in diameter and five inches long,” I said. “It extends to a full foot or so to become a close-quarter defensive weapon.”

“The striking tip is metal?”

“Yes.”

“Is a pocket baton lethal?”

“It was designed for non-lethal self-defense, but it can be lethal.”

“Especially if used on a target’s head. Correct?”

Here we go, I thought. “Yes.”

“Mr. Rimes, where did you strike Mr. Snell?”

“On his left cheek.”

“Mr. Winnicki?”

“His right cheek.”

“And Mr. Parker?”

I let out a breath as if taking aim before a shot. “On the top of his head. Once.”

Aronson shifted gears when I expected him to accuse me of attempted murder. “You maintain also that the gun came from Mr. Snell, that when he was on the ground you took it from his pocket after stomping on his hand.” He nodded to Joey, who lifted his hand for the judge to see. The overhead lights caught the blue padding of the splints.

“Yes,” I said. “The gun was in his coat pocket.”

“Why did you stomp his hand?”

“He was reaching for the gun.”

Aronson’s smile widened for a millisecond. “Did you know it was a gun?”

“Not then. I knew he was reaching inside his pocket, presumably—”

“So you broke three of my client’s fingers on a presumption?”

Tripp shot to his feet. “Objection!”

“Sustained,” Judge Vassi said. “Rephrase, Mr. Aronson, or move on.”

“Of course, your honor.” He consulted his pad again. “Why did you stomp on Mr. Snell’s hand?”

“At the time I believed he was reaching for a weapon.”

“So you did not injure my client’s hand by trying to force the gun into his pocket and then yanking it out?”

“Your honor,” Tripp said, sounding exasperated as he got to his feet a third time.

“Absolutely not!” Too loud, Phoenix would tell me later. Loud enough to sound desperate.

The judge told Aronson to move on.

He surprised me by shifting gears again. “Have you ever been questioned as a suspect in the murder of a police officer? Please confine this answer to yes or no.”

My peripheral vision registered the judge turning toward me, surprised herself.

“Yes,” I said, hoping Tripp would object or on redirect give me a chance to explain.

But Judge Vassi stepped in. “Before you continue, Mr. Aronson, I’d like hear from the witness.” She swiveled in her high-backed leather chair to look at me. “Mr. Rimes, we established earlier your investigator’s license is current, so you haven’t lost it to a felony conviction. I’d still like to know the outcome of the questioning raised by defense counsel.”

“I was released for lack of evidence.” I swung my gaze from her to Aronson. “Then the victim’s family hired me. I found the killer myself.”

“I remember reading about that,” Judge Vassi said. “So that was you.”

There was momentary whispering among spectators, one of whom said, loud enough to provoke laughter, “A regular hero.” Tripp fought back a smile as the judge gaveled for silence. None of this dissuaded Aronson from forming his next question for maximum effect.

“Mr. Rimes, are you by nature a violent man?”

“Objection!”

“Mr. Aronson!” the judge said. “I abhor courtroom theatrics.”

“Your honor, Mr. Rimes attacked three men on the presumption they were about to attack him.” Aronson interlocked his fingers in front of him, tight against his belly, as if trying to contain himself. “He did not wait for the attack. Did not see the gun. The minute—no, the second he saw them as a threat, he administered three potentially lethal blows to their heads.” Counting aloud, he swung his arm in an accurate re-creation of the sequence of my actions. “The textbook definition of excessive force.”

“He hit each man once,” Tripp said, “just hard enough to neutralize the threat.”

“Hard enough to leave permanent scars on two of them,” Aronson said. “He stomped one’s hand hard enough to break bone. If my client’s fingerprints are on that gun—”

“Your honor, may we approach?”

Ignoring the ADA, Aronson pressed ahead. “It’s plausible those prints got there as he struggled to keep Mr. Rimes from putting a throw-down piece in his pocket!”

The judge motioned both men to the bench and covered her desk mike with her hand. All three lowered their voices so spectators could not hear, but I heard them.

“This is an attempt to create doubt a felon violated his parole by possessing a loaded firearm,” Tripp Caster said. “That’s the reason for this hearing, not this witness’s actions.”

“The men did not attack Mr. Rimes,” Aronson said. “He attacked them. In combat, he depended upon quick violence to survive. Being a police officer desensitized him to actions and behaviors most of us can’t begin to imagine. While most cops are never in one, he was in two shootouts that left three dead and his partner paralyzed. All these experiences haunt him, and in times of stress, his training kicks in, fueled by his proclivity for—”

“Enough, Mr. Aronson. There’s no jury to entertain. Don’t make me regret saying yes to your request for this hearing.”

“But the criminal code does not permit hitting someone back before he hits you.”

“Three large men, your honor, threatening him. Mr. Rimes clearly feared for his life. Why would he stomp a hand before putting the gun in somebody’s pocket?”

“Your honor, the day we permit self-defense because of perceived intent—”

“I said, enough! Both of you.”

Tripp took a step back and clasped his hands. Upper lip caught between the teeth of a faint smile, Aronson lowered his gaze, as if uncertain but hopeful he had scored a point.

“We’ll get into the specifics of this gun when the CSI tech testifies,” Judge Vassi said. “Right now, Mr. Aronson, do you have any further questions that do not transfer to this witness possession of the gun or stain him with the deranged combat veteran stereotype?”

“No, your honor.”

“Then you can both return to your tables, and you, Mr. Rimes, may leave the