Charles was a teenager himself. He had a juvie record. Reckless mischief, possession. He had every reason, the police said, to create trouble.
And no one else backed up what Charles said he saw.
As she read through the deposition, a throbbing built in Jill’s head. Finally, it was sharp, stabbing. She buzzed her secretary. “April, I need you to get me a police personnel file. An old one. From twenty years ago.”
“Give me the name. I’m on it.”
“Marty Boxer,” Jill replied.
Chapter 95
A CHILLY BAY BREEZE sliced through the night as Jill huddled on the wharf outside the BART terminal station.
It was after six. Men in blue uniforms, still wearing their short-billed caps, came out of the yard, their shift over. Jill searched the exiting group for a face. He may have been a juvie with a police record twenty years before, but he had straightened his life out. He’d been decorated in the service, married, and for the past twelve years worked as a motorman with BART. It had taken April only a few hours to track him down.
A short, stocky black man in a black leather cap and a 49ers windbreaker waved good-bye to a few coworkers and made his way over to her. He eyed her warily. “Office manager said you were waiting for me? Why’s that?”
“Kenneth Charles?” Jill asked.
The man nodded.
Jill introduced herself and handed him her card. Charles’s eyes widened. “I don’t mind saying, it’s been a long time since anyone at the Hall of so-called Justice took an interest in me.”
“Not you, Mr. Charles,” Jill answered, trying to set him at ease. “This is about something you might have witnessed a long time ago. You mind if we talk?”
Charles shrugged. “You mind walking? My car’s over here.” He motioned her through a chain-link gate to a parking lot on the wharf.
“We’ve been digging through some old cases,” Jill explained. “I came across a deposition you had given. The case against Frank Coombs.”
At the sound of the name, Charles came to a stop.
“I read your deposition,” Jill went on. “What you said you saw. I’d like to hear about it.”
Kenneth Charles shook his head in dismay. “No one believed anything I said back then. They wouldn’t let me come to trial. Called me a punk. Why you interested now?”
“You were a kid with a rap sheet who’d been in the system twice,” Jill answered honestly.
“All that’s true,” Kenneth Charles said, “but I saw what I saw. Anyway, there’s a lot of water under the bridge since then. I’m twelve years toward my pension. If I read right, a man served twenty years for what he did that night.”
Jill met his eyes. “I guess I want to make sure the right man did spend twenty years for that night. Look, this case hasn’t been reopened. I’m not making any arrests. But I’d like the truth. Please, Mr. Charles.”
Charles took her through it. How he was watching TV and smoking weed, how he’d heard scuffling outside his window, shouting, then a few muffled cries. How when he looked out, there was this kid, being choked.
Then, as Jill listened, everything changed. She took in a sharp breath.
“There were two men in uniform. Two cops holding Gerald Sikes down,” Charles told her.
“Why didn’t you do something?” Jill asked.
“You have to see it like it was back then. Then, you wore blue, you were God. I was just this punk, right?”
Jill looked deeply into his eyes. “You remember this second cop?”
“I thought you said you weren’t making any arrests.”r />
“I’m not. This is something personal. If I showed you a picture, you think you could pick him out?”
They resumed walking and arrived at a shiny new Toyota. Jill opened her briefcase, took out the picture. She held it out for him. “Is this the policeman you saw, Mr. Charles?”