Toby Miller also stood up, grabbing his clipboard, his heart pounding. Where was Dempsey? "Is the arresting officer present?" Nora asked, her gaze locking onto the young rookie. "Uh Officer Toby Miller, your honor," Toby stammered, stepping up to the wooden partition.
"My partner, Officer Dempsey, is the primary arresting officer. He was He was just here, your honor. I don't know where he went." "I know exactly where Officer Dempsey is, Officer Miller," Nora said, her voice dropping the temperature in the room by 10°. He is currently sitting in a holding cell in the basement of this building, having just been arrested for felony assault."
A collective gasp echoed through the courtroom. Tonya Richards' eyes widened in shock. Toby Miller dropped his clipboard, the heavy plastic clattering loudly against the wooden floor. "Furthermore," Nora continued, her gaze shifting to the bewildered prosecutor, "having personally experienced Officer Dempsey's blatant disregard for protocol, his immediate resort to unprovoked physical violence, and his willingness to assault individuals he perceives as powerless, I find his credibility as a sworn witness to be entirely nonexistent. Case dismissed with prejudice.
Ms. Richards, you are free to go." Tonya burst into tears, her public defender catching her by the shoulders. Nora leaned forward, looking directly at Toby Miller, who looked like he was about to be sick. "Officer Miller, tell your captain that the 12th District is no longer Dempsey's playground. The rules have changed.
Down in the subterranean depths of the courthouse, the holding cells were usually a chaotic symphony of shouting suspects, clanking bars, and the heavy smell of desperation. But cell block C had been entirely cleared out. In the center cell, sitting on a rigid metal bench with his head in his hands, was Rick Dempsey. His badge, his gun, his radio, and his heavy belt had been stripped from him. He was wearing his standard-issue blue uniform trousers and a gray undershirt.
For the last hour, the reality of his situation had been slowly, agonizingly digesting in his gut. He had assaulted a presiding judge. A judge who was close friends with the mayor, highly respected by the district Attorney and known for her ruthless application of the law, but Dempsey still clung to a shred of hope. The Brotherhood. The blue wall of silence.
He had survived excessive force complaints before. Greg Fowler, his union rep, always found a way to muddy the waters, to blame the victim, to cite officer safety and split-second decision-making. Surely Fowler and Captain John O'Reilly would come down here, pat him on the back, and figure out a way to spin this. Maybe they could say she startled him. Maybe they could say she was resisting his lawful orders in a restricted area.
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor buzzed loudly and swung open. Heavy footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway. Dempsey bolted upright, grabbing the steel bars. Captain John O'Reilly, a stern, gray-haired man with a deeply lined face, walked into view. Besides him was Greg Fowler, clutching a leather briefcase.