Sullivan's Justice Read Online Free Page A

turned to a powerfully built black sergeant with a shiny shaved head. “Tell her what our pal Raphael did last night. She wants to play patty-cake with him.”
    “He tried to kill three inmates,” Bobby Kirsh said, leaning over Powell’s shoulder. “This is a mean son of a bitch. I know one when I see one. I’ve been on the job for twenty years. A little over a hundred and thirty pounds and he took down all three in a matter of minutes. No way you gonna get a face-to-face.” He turned away, then tossed something into the bin. “Take a look at what he did before you end up like this guy.”
    She picked up the photograph, horrified at what she saw—the bloodied face of a black man with his left eye missing from the socket. “What happened to his eye?”
    “Moreno snatched it out. Since we didn’t find it, we assume he ate it.”
    Maybe Bobby was right and Moreno was too dangerous. Collecting herself, she mustered up a stoic look, determined not to back down.
    The sergeant continued his litany, “We found the second guy with a shattered hand stuffed in his ass, his dislocated shoulder dangling like a dishrag.” He grimaced. “I don’t even want to tell you what he did to the third guy.”
    “Put him in a room, Bobby,” Carolyn said, scared but challenged. She wanted to break Moreno, now more than ever. “You know our reports are mandated by law. You also know how I work. Moreno has never cracked. He didn’t say more than two words to his public defender. The DA negotiated a sentence of seven consecutive counts of second-degree murder. No death penalty. No life without parole. Moreno’s only twenty years old. He might live another sixty years and kill dozens of people.” She decided to try a personal appeal. “If he’d killed your family, wouldn’t you want to know what makes him tick?”
    “Not this one,” the older officer said. “When Moreno first came in, we placed bets on how long he’d last. I was sure the prisoners would turn him into dog meat within twenty-four hours. Jesus, he sliced off his mother’s head and shot a six-month-old baby. Every cop in the county, on the street or inside, would blowtorch Moreno and call it a barbecue if they thought they could get away with it. Even my wife offered to take him out.”
    “I understand,” Carolyn said. “That’s just talk, Bobby. Right now, I’m the only one who can do anything.”
    “The three inmates he tangled with last night are bigger than me. You’re good, Carolyn, but you’re not going to get inside this maniac’s head.”
    The longer she stood there, the less chance she had of getting the information she needed. The only people who seemed to appreciate the role investigative probation officers played in the criminal justice system were judges. Probation officers did most of their work for them. They pulled the case together from arrest to conviction. Then they applied the laws as directed by the judicial counsel in San Francisco.
    Probation officers spent sleepless nights trying to decide what sentence should be administered. When the sentencing judge picked up the case file in the courtroom, his eyes swept over the probation officer who had handled it. Fifty years in prison, sure, no problem. The judge was only following the probation officer’s recommendation. No blood on his hands.
    “Our reports are reviewed at every parole hearing,” Carolyn reminded the sergeant. “You want this guy back on the street? Put him in a room and I’ll destroy him. He’ll never taste freedom again.”
    She heard the buzzer for the door and stepped inside. “How long?” she asked, storing her gun in a locker.
    “Give me ten,” Bobby said to the other deputy.
    “Can’t you set him up faster?”
    “Are you nuts, woman?” he told her. “I’m talking about ten men.” He stared at her briefcase. “What’s in there? Open it up.”
    Carolyn’s frustrations escalated. “I don’t have to submit to a search. You saw me lock up my