Abuse of Power Read online

  ABUSE

  OF

  POWER

  Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  First published by

  Signet

  1997

  THEY THOUGHT THEY WERE ABOVE THE LAW—SHE WAS GOING TO PROVE THEM WRONG

  A terrifying childhood abduction has left California cop Rachel Simmons with a burning desire to see the law upheld. And nothing will stand in her way—not even the abuse of authority she witnesses at the hands of a fellow officer. Now Rachel has violated the most sacred law within their ranks—the blue code of silence.

  But it isn’t until she is framed for attempted murder and the lives of her children are threatened that she realizes she can trust no one—not even the ambitious D.A. who seems to offer her a way out.

  For Rachel Simmons, justice has become the most dangerous ideal of all…

  Powerful…a surprise ending leaves readers breathless.”

  —Lake Worth Herald

  PRAISE FOR THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF NANCY TAYLOR ROSENBERG

  “NANCY TAYLOR ROSENBERG WRITES LEGAL THRILLERS WITH STRONG FEMALE HEROES WHO TRIUMPH…KEEPS THE TENSION HIGH.”

  —People

  “CONVINCINGLY DEMONSTRATES WHY A BAD COP IS EVEN MORE DANGEROUS THAN A BAD PERP.”

  —Booklist

  “A BARN-BURNING PACE.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “RIVETING.”

  —American Woman

  “INCREDIBLY FAST-PACED AND EXCITING…NANCY TAYLOR ROSENBERG CONTINUES TO TOP HERSELF.”

  —James Patterson

  “GREAT CHARACTERS, RACING PLOT, AND ENOUGH TENSION AND SUSPENSE TO KEEP YOU UP LATE.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “INTRICATE, VIVID, THRILLING…ONE OF THE YEAR’S TEN BEST.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “ANDRENALINE-PUMPED…ROSENBERG WRITES WITH AUTHORITY.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “HITS THE BULL’S EYE…TENSION THAT HOLDS TIGHT.”

  —Daily News

  “UNSTOPPABLE…PRESUMED INNOCENT CROSSED WITH THELMA AND LOUISE!

  —Glamour

  “READ THIS BOOK

  —Cosmopolitan

  “COMPELLING, GUTSY AND FULL-BLOODED.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “MOVES AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT…A THRILLER WITH AN UNDENIABLE AIR OF AUTHENTICITY.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “RIVETING.”

  —Library Journal

  “FAST-PACED ACTION AND SUSPENSE…UNPUTDOWNABLE!”

  —Booklist

  “ARRESTING AND FAST-PACED!”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “A CORKING GOOD THRILLER.”

  Larry King, USA Today

  “BUZZES WITH SUSPENSE AND INTRIGUE…ROSENBERG NOTCHES UP ANOTHER PAGE-TURNER.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A RIVETING AND WELL-TOLD PORTRAIT OF A WORLD IN WHICH TRUTH AND JUSTICE ARE SOMETIMES OPPOSITES.”

  —New York Newsday

  “SIZZLES WITH SUSPENSE.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  To James Dominic Nesci,

  welcome to our family,

  and for my fabulous husband,

  Jerry Rosenberg.

  To Hoyt, Forrest Blake, Chessly, Steve, Beth,

  Michael, Irene, Pat, Alex, and Roxanna, as

  well as Rachel, who I would never allow to

  become a police officer in these perilous times.

  Author’s Note

  This was a difficult book for me to write, and many people assisted in its development. To my editor and friend, Michaela Hamilton, thank you for your tireless support and inspiration. To my publisher, Elaine Koster, and to Peter Mayer, Marvin Brown, Arnold Dolin, Lisa Johnson, Maryann Palumbo, Alex Holtz, Larry Hughes, Ellen Silberman, Peter Schneider, and all my other friends at Penguin USA, I sincerely appreciate your diligent efforts on my behalf.

  I have enormous respect for the many valiant officers who risk their lives to protect our communities. Having been affiliated with a number of police agencies through the years, I found the majority of officers I worked with to be honest and dedicated public servants. Since the setting for this novel is Ventura County, and I was at one time employed by the Ventura Police Department, I want to make it clear that the characters and events depicted in this book are fictional and in no way reflect the high caliber of officers who are employed at the Ventura P.D., nor any of the other departments I have been associated with throughout my career in law enforcement.

  Situations like the ones described in this novel are occurring on an ever increasing basis. Although the story I have told is fictional, I drew strictly from real-life events that have been reported by the media. I decided to undertake this project in an attempt to explain what the code of silence means, and to expose my readers to the enormous stress police officers are subjected to while performing their duties.

  In conclusion, I would like to thank my wonderful family for their continued support: Forrest, Jeannie, Rachel, Chessly, Jimmy, and little Jimmy, who appeared on the scene last August. To Hoyt, Amy, Nancy; my adorable mother, LaVerne Taylor; my mother-in-law, Doris Rosenberg; my sisters, Sharon Ford and Linda Stewart; my brother, William Hoyt Taylor, and to all the other members of my family whom I love so dearly. To Irene McKeown and Alex Tushinsky for their in-house support. To my special fans: Grant Smyth, for the use of his name; Patricia Grace Voss, for her lovely cards and inspirational letters; Mary Lou Andrea, for the fabulous quilt she made for me; and a special memorial to Robert W. Begen, who read every book I have ever written and showed up at every book signing.

  c h a p t e r

  ONE

  Seated on a bench outside Department 22 of the Ventura County Superior Court, the male police officer was dressed in his black regulation uniform. His head against the wall, he was sound asleep. The small redheaded woman at his side wore a pink cotton blazer over a simple white dress. Her feet were encased in scuffed black flats, her knees chafed and bony.

  Rachel Simmons glanced to her left at Jimmy Townsend. Testifying was no more stressful to him than writing a speeding ticket. She, on the other hand, detested going to court. How could Townsend sleep when her insides were quivering? “Wake up,” she said, nudging him with her elbow when she saw two men coming down the corridor.

  “What the—” Townsend bolted upright on the wooden bench. A heavyset man in his late thirties, he had unruly brown hair and a round, jowly face. His chin was peculiar, almost inverted. Only a few inches of his neck were visible. His upper body was so densely padded that his shoulders had a tendency to bunch up around his ears.

  The two men stopped a few feet away. Michael Atwater was the district attorney assigned to their case. Dennis Colter was a DA as well. Rachel had attended high school with Colter in San Diego, but she doubted if he would recognize her after so many years. She glanced at Atwater, then quickly looked away.

  “I don’t care what Judge Sanders said,” Atwater was saying. “If you plead it right, you can get an extra six years tacked onto his sentence. The oral copulation is a separate and distinct crime. Sanders has his head up his asshole. If he gives you any more problems, tell him to call me. He must have slept through the last judicial sentencing conference.”

  Once Dennis Colter entered the adjoining courtroom, Mike Atwater walked over to where Rachel was sitting. “We’ll probably call you in about ten minutes,” he told her, ignoring the officer beside her.

  At six-four, Mike Atwater had the most athletic body Rachel had ever seen. A slender man, he carried most of his height in his legs. His hair was brown and neatly trimmed. He combed it straight back from his face, keeping it in place with some product that made it look as if he had just stepped out of the
shower. His eyes were dark and heavily hooded. Before becoming an attorney, he had made a name for himself as a world-class runner, breaking records in the indoor mile. Everything about him was supple and loose. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Did you work last night?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, staring at her hands, “I work every night.” She could not make eye contact with him. When she did, she became a specimen under a microscope. She raised her gaze to his slender wrists, the gold cufflinks in his starched white shirt, the clear polish on his fingernails. “I’m assigned to the graveyard shift at the PD, but I also have an extra job as a security officer at State Farm Insurance in Simi Valley,” she told him. “I work there on my days off.”

  “I see,” Atwater said, stroking the side of his face.

  “Did you get the flowers?”

  “Ah, yes.” Rachel blushed, fidgeting in her seat. “They were beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You just did,” Atwater said, turning and slapping open the double doors to the courtroom.

  “Flowers?” Townsend said, scowling. “Mike Atwater sent you flowers? He’s an egotistical prick. I’ve worked with him on five other cases. In case you didn’t notice, the asshole didn’t even speak to me. What am I, a log or something?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I have no idea why he sent them, Jimmy. All I did was go to lunch with him in the cafeteria last week when he called me to go over my testimony. The next day I got two dozen red roses. When the delivery guy rang my doorbell, I thought he had the wrong house.”

  “Sort of extravagant, don’t you think?” Townsend said, slouching in his seat.

  The doors leading into the courtroom swung open, and Rachel jumped. “Officer Simmons,” the bailiff said, “they’re ready for you now.”

  Rachel had driven to the station to pick up Townsend so he could go straight home after court and not have to return to his police unit. His house was only a few blocks from her own. The officer had been experiencing financial problems and had sold his extra car the previous month. “Where should we meet?” she asked. “I don’t want to sit out here after I testify.”

  “They probably won’t be finished with me until almost noon,” Townsend said. “Meet me in the cafeteria. We’ll grab some lunch.”

  Rachel stood and smoothed down her knee-length skirt, wishing it covered more of her legs. She was embarrassed that she had not worn hose, but when she had rushed home at eight o’clock that morning, she had been unable to find a pair without a run. She was additionally annoyed that she had not worn her uniform. Wearing it made her feel more authoritative and confident. She’d had only ten minutes to shower, though, and getting suited up took time.

  She looked straight ahead as she walked down the aisle to the witness stand. She was thirty-four, but her unassuming appearance and quiet demeanor made her appear several years younger. Her fair skin was dusted with freckles, the majority of them sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. When she was frightened or angry, her eyes turned blue, shifting back to a nondescript gray when she was ill or exhausted as she was today. Her mouth was small and dainty, her cheekbones clearly defined.

  Rachel took her seat in the witness stand. Once she had been sworn in, Mike Atwater stood and spoke, his voice clear and resonant. “Officer Simmons,” he said, “will you advise the court where you are presently employed?”

  “The Oak Grove Police Department,” she said, moving the skinny microphone closer to her mouth.

  “How long have you been a police officer?”

  “Approximately two years.”

  “What did you do before you became a police officer?”

  “I worked as a salesclerk at Robinson’s department store,” she said, her speech somewhat hesitant.

  “How long did you work as a salesclerk?”

  “Approximately six months,” she said. “Before that, I was a housewife.” She paused and coughed to cover her embarrassment. Most of the officers in the department had college degrees. Rachel had never made it past high school. Even though her grades had been good, she had not been able to save enough money to pay her tuition. “My husband was a landscape architect,” she added, attempting to bolster her modest accomplishments. “I wasn’t only a housewife. I handled all the books for him, made his appointments, things like that. I was his partner in the business.”

  Atwater circled to the front of the counsel table, then advanced to the witness box. “Why did you decide to enter law enforcement?”

  Rachel blinked several times, her eyelids a pale shade of pink. On one lid was a star-shaped mole, right under her eyebrow. “My husband died three years ago. I have two children. The job paid well, the benefits were excellent, and I thought I could cut back on my child care expenses by working odd hours.”

  Atwater yanked on his cuffs, a jerky motion he made frequently. “So your decision was strictly financial, right?”

  Rachel stared hard at him. What was it he wanted her to say? They weren’t simply shooting the breeze as they had the day in the cafeteria. Every question the district attorney asked had a purpose. “I didn’t decide to become a police officer strictly for financial reasons,” she said, thrusting her chin forward. “I’m honest. I’m a hard worker. I’ve never broken the law. I decided I might be able to serve my community.”

  Atwater issued a shrewd smile, showing only a glimpse of his teeth. Pivoting on his heels, he marched back to the counsel table. “Before you became a police officer, were you ever the victim of a violent crime?”

  Rachel shook her head in dismay. The attorney was now entering into an official court record something she had told him in confidence. No one in the department knew what had happened to her as a child. She didn’t want her fellow officers to perceive her as a victim. “I—I was kidnapped while returning home from the grocery store,” she said. “I was ten years old at the time.” Her memories of that day came in quick, disconnected flashes. She saw the man’s hands moving across her naked body. Her muscles twitched at the sound of the camera shutter clicking. Balling her hands into fists, she pressed them against her temples, trying to make the images go away.

  “Please continue. Officer Simmons,” Atwater said, oblivious to her distress. “Tell the court how you were rescued from the kidnapper.”

  “Objection,” the defense attorney said. “This isn’t relevant to the present case, Your Honor.”

  “Is there a reason for this particular line of questioning, Mr. Atwater?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said. “I’m trying to establish the credibility of my witness. Her past history as a victim qualifies her expertise beyond her present position.”

  “Objection overruled,” the judge said wearily. “Try to make your point. Counselor. We don’t have all day.”

  “Officer Simmons,” Atwater continued, “can you advise the court how you escaped from the kidnapper?”

  “A woman wrote down the license plate of the car the man was driving,” Rachel said. “An officer with the San Diego Police Department spotted the car in the parking lot of a nearby motel. They dispatched the tactical team, and a police sharpshooter shot and killed him.” Her eyelids fluttered as the shotgun blast reverberated inside her mind. How many times had she relived that moment? The man slumping to the ground, the splattered blood, the terrible wound on the side of his head.

  “A police officer saved your life, then,” Atwater said, glancing in the direction of the jurors. “Isn’t it true. Officer Simmons, that the man who kidnapped you had previously been imprisoned for kidnapping and raping another child?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “He served only seven years of his sentence. He was a doctor at the time of the earlier crime, so I guess the parole board took that into consideration.”

  “Wasn’t it probable that this man would have raped you as well if the police had not come to your rescue?”

  “That’s possible,” she said.

  “Wasn’t this event the impetus behind your seeking employment
as a police officer?”

  “More or less,” she answered, folding her hands in her lap.

  “What happened to you after the kidnapping?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Rachel answered, her throat muscles tightening. She looked up at the judge, whispering, “Can I have a drink of water, please?”

  The courtroom fell silent as the bailiff carried a paper cup to the witness stand. She drained it, then placed it in her lap.

  “Are you ready to proceed?” the judge asked.

  Rachel nodded.

  “Didn’t you develop a phobia of leaving the house?” Atwater asked, his voice booming out over the courtroom. “Isn’t it true that you were unable to speak for almost a year following the kidnapping, that you developed a form of hysterical muteness?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “When you did speak, who was the first person you spoke to?”

  Her face softened. “Officer Larry Dean.”

  “The same officer who rescued you from the kidnapper, correct?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  The defense was alleging police misconduct in what should have been a routine drunk driving arrest. Atwater considered Rachel Simmons the perfect witness for such a case—her unassuming manner, her obvious sincerity, her past hero worship of men in uniform. His eyes drifted over to the rows of jurors again. They were average, working-class people. Wealthy, sophisticated people seldom served on jury panels. The jury could easily identify with a young widow trying to support her family, particularly one who appeared as idealistic as Rachel Simmons. Her history as a victim further enhanced her credibility. “You’re assigned to patrol, is that correct?”

  “That’s correct,” Rachel said, relieved that Atwater was moving away from the subject of her kidnapping.

  “Were you working on the night of April 20th, at approximately three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Can you explain why you came to stop the defendant?”