Start Shooting by Charlie Newton

for putting cops and politicians in prison, and for “thirty-two-degree eyes that don’t blink when children die.”
    The ASA shows me a copy of this morning’s
Herald
. “Is this what you and your brother discussed? And if so, what was the substance of that discussion?”
    “The Olympics is a bit off my beat.”
    The ASA frowns, flips the
Herald
over, and points to the exposé teaser.
    I silently count to five before answering. “Help me here. I’m not named in the Dupree lawsuit. And why does libel in the
Herald
on an unrelated case that happened when I was
thirteen years old
matter tonight?”
    “Answer the question please.”
    “I will, after you explain why it matters.”
    “You shot a man tonight; we want to know why.”
    “Because he had a machine gun and he’d just murdered one of my fellow officers.”
    “Please answer the question.”
    “I forgot, what is it?”
    “What information do you have on the Coleen Brennan murder?”
    “Coleen Brennan was my friend when other people wouldn’t be. Whatever we were is none of your fucking business.”
    “That’s your answer?”
    “If that’s your question.”
    Uninvited, the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Illinois, one of the most powerful federal officials outside Washington, D.C., takes over. “Did you ask Officer Lopez if she was a federal agent?”
    Neither the ASA nor my new commander challenge Ms. Merica’s right to take over, so I turn to her and answer, “No.”
    “Did any member of your gang team ask Officer Lopez if she was a federal agent?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “That’s your answer? On the record?”
    “Yeah.” Bit of adrenaline.
    “Have you discussed Officer Lopez with Chicago Police Department officers Anderson, Cowin, and Mesrow?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you discuss the possibility that she was a federal agent?”
    “Don’t remember.”
    “You’re certain you don’t remember?”
    “I don’t remember if I remember.”
    A meticulously dressed subordinate supplies Jo Ann Merica with papers and points mid-page. “Officer Mesrow remembers. Does that help?”
    “No. Sorry.”
    The subordinate’s finger points Ms. Merica to another section. She reads it, then says, “You told the OPS: ‘No way they light up the Toyota if they know we’re cops. But they knew something, expected some kind of car-bomb, big move, and they knew it was that exact car.’ Is that what you said?”
    “Something like that.”
    “How would the Latin Kings know?”
    “Somebody tipped them. And no, I don’t know who. I was told by my sergeant who was told by our commander”—I nod across the table at my commander, intent on saving her career—“to perform the buy at a specific time and in a specific manner. That’s what I did; that’s what we all did, including Officer Lopez.” I cut to the ASA. “And I was not notified of this mission until
after
I left my brother and Mr. Barlow. And no, I did not speak to either man again until I saw Ruben at the crime scene.”
    The U.S. attorney taps her pen. No one speaks, not the ASA, my commander, or the OPS investigator. The U.S. attorney continues. “Did you and your brother discuss the red Toyota at the Levee Grill?”
    “I already said, no.”
    “Not to me.” Pause. “I understand former First Ward alderman Toddy Pete Steffen was at your table.”
    Uh-oh. Either the Levee Grill is under federal surveillance or Ruben and I are being tailed. “Mr. Steffen said hello. To Ruben’s lawyer.”
    The U.S. attorney nods. “And the two Japanese men from Furukawa Industries?”
    Staring at Jo Anne Merica, it hits me that she hasn’t asked about the Duprees’
federal
lawsuit that might make her governor. Her only focus,
at midnight
, is me, Ruben, and federal undercover agents. And now Toddy Pete and Furukawa—
    “The gentlemen from Furukawa—did you or your brother speak with them?”
    Blink. “Why would we?” My commander and the ASA stare bullets at me. I cut back to the U.S.