Cross-Examination
Common Law
Chapter twenty-five
Complaint: A legal document that tells the court what you want, and is served with a summons on the defendant to begin the case.
"Nick." Wes's voice was rough. "Ben. I think I found something."
"Did you hear that?" Ben whispered from the outside wall of warehouse number nineteen.
"That's Wes." Nick answered evenly. "He sounds pretty adamant."
"I need help with this lock. Guys? Can you hear me?"
"C'mon, Benjie, let's go." Nick picked up his pace, jogging past the vast storage containers—if they were anything else—and heading over to the front of the complex, where Wes was supposed to be.
And he was.
"Ben! Nick!" he was yelling their names, cursing, and then yelling some more. His hands ran through his short, blonde hair in a frazzled manner. "Ni-"
"Detective!" Nick hissed. "Over here!"
Wes's uptight guard fell, if only for a moment. His face contorted in a mix between relief, fear, and rage. Ben appeared, peering over Nick's shoulder as the two crouched low.
"Wh-what the hell are you guys doing?" Wes asked weakly.
"There was some traffic. We didn't want to be seen." Nick stood back up. "The yelling didn't really help, Detective."
"How-"
"Luckily, the driver was blasting Snoop Dog or what-"
"No." Ben interrupted, shaking his head. "No, Nick. Not Snoop Dog. I don't think Snoop Dog is even living anymore."
Nick didn't even answer his partner, pausing only once to shrug, as if to respond, why the hell do I care?
"Anyway." he turned back towards Wes. "Sorry to scare you."
"Scare me?" Wes scoffed, stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets. "No, no, nothing like that. I…you're my ride back to the hotel, so…"
"Understood." Nick almost smiled. "Now, what can we help you with?"
"The—uh, there's a deadbolt on the door." Wes nodded his head in the direction of the door.
"Really." Nick fished a flashlight out from his belt and turned it on. He walked up to the vast door and inspected the lock. "Yeah," he spoke to himself, hitting his flashlight against the lock. "I can get this."
"You can?"
"Benjie, fetch my toolbox, will you? It's in my truck." Nick ignored Wes. Ben's shoulders slumped as he thought of going all the way to the back of the complex again, but didn't argue with the veteran. He ran as quickly as he could. Nick waited until he was out of sight before he looked over at Wes.
"Why this warehouse?" he asked.
"What?" Wes had been thinking of other things. He blinked a few times and bit back a yawn. "S-sorry, what did you say?"
"Why did you pick this warehouse?" Nick repeated. "Number three."
"I was thinking about something Alex said earlier." Wes rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. "R.A.T.S. three. That was on the baseball, right? I'm not sure what R.A.T.S. means, but 'three' works. It could be a clue, just like you said."
"I can't imagine Ramon to be the type to store his things in a warehouse." Nick frowned. "He's not really the materialistic type."
"You can't always read people the way you think." Wes answered wisely. "I learned that the hard way."
"I'm impressed, Detective Mitchell." Nick laughed. "I almost mistook you for a lawyer. Almost."
"Really," Wes laughed as well. "Yeah, well, I married one. I think I know what I'm talking about."
"And I married an elementary teacher, so if we have to do any sudden subtraction tonight, I'm sure I can help." Nick joked. Wes smiled briefly before his eyes were pulled back to the warehouse, and the worry settled in him again. For Travis. For Alex. For anyone in the path of Ramon Caballo.
"You know, Detective, for someone who's divorced, you and your ex seem awfully close. It's different than what I usually see with the divorcees I know."
"How are divorced couples supposed to act?" Wes returned.
"Hey, I'm not trying to offend." Nick shrugged. "I'm just saying, you two seem very…good together."
"Is that a question or a statement?" Wes glanced over at the older cop. Nick was happily married, why did he care about what went wrong for Wes and Alex?
"Neither." Nick answered. "It was more of an observation."
Nick took in a deep breath, nodding to himself slowly. "Detective," he started. "I won't let this man get in the way of your life, just as much as I won't let him hurt those I care about."
"Your wife?" Wes looked up.
Nick nodded. "You know, Rachel and I…we always wanted children, but we couldn't have any."
Nick had told Wes about his marriage. Maybe, now, it was Wes's turn.
"I…I wasn't always a cop." Wes wasn't looking at Nick anymore. He stared at the grass further away from him as each blade rustled gently in the wind. He didn't know if Nick was even listening. "I worked with Alex. We were both attorneys. We were…happy.
"Uh," Wes scratched his head uncomfortably. "Something happened and—and I left my job and joined the police academy. Alex…she couldn't handle the stress of being a cop's wife. Really, who can blame her? Simple things turned into full-blown fights and that, in turn, fueled stupid arguments with Travis and the people I worked with, and, now, here I am. With no Alex, and no Travis, and no way out of Ramon Caballo's clutches."
"Wes-"
"Nick!" Ben ran up, breathing heavily. In his hands was the toolbox. It was old and small, but seemed adequate enough.
"Benjie, there you are." Nick smiled stiffly at his partner—one more thing he had that Wes did not—and took the toolbox from his outstretched arms. "Now we can get started on this lock."
Ben was worried about how much energy Nick was using to break that deadbolt. It had taken his partner some time to hammer the lock until it was limp, but then prying it open was an even more daunting task. Watching his partner's shoulder, Benjamin wondered how much Nick could take before he realized that he was still injured, and barely allowed out of the hospital. And even if he were allowed out of the hospital, it was a greater mystery still how Nick managed to pass his wife, Rachel, and her thorough inspection.
"All right," Nick let out a long breath. "Just one more…" his hammer connected with the lock. It broke in two. "That's good."
"Quick, Wes, the door." Ben made sure that Nick didn't have to exert himself any longer. He and the worried detective from LA grabbed the bottom of the large door.
"On three?" Wes looked over at Benjamin.
"On three." He agreed. "One. Two."
"Three." Wes finished, and the two pushed up. The door was raised slowly, creaking with displeasure at the sudden momentum.
"Here," Nick came up and helped hold the wall up. "Get in, Wes. Benjie and I will guard the outside."
"Aren't y-"
"This is your job, Detective." Nick interrupted. "Go on."
Wes swallowed, staring at the two men. "Give me your flashlight." he looked at Nick.
"Of course." Nick reached down for the light. Ben struggled under the weight of the door.
"Nick!" he gasped. Nick threw the flashlight and grabbed a hold of the door just before Ben's knees buckled.
"Damn." Nick grunted.
"Close the door." Wes suggested. "I'll knock when I need out."
"Sure." Nick gladly let go of the wall, grabbing his shoulder and cringing. Wes watched as Nick's young partner turned in concern to face Nick, and the wall fell with a loud crash to the ground once again.
For a brief, threatening moment, the entire space was dark. Wes stood in the dark room, waiting and listening. For a cry, for a ragged breath, for any sign of Travis. Wes closed his eyes. He could find anything here. He could find anyone here.
With a deep breath, Wes flipped his flashlight on. The light traveled slowly around the room, illuminating a certain object that seemed to repeat over and over again.
The warehouse was full of boxes.
Were they empty? Was Travis in one of them? Had Ramon hurt his partner?
With renewed fervor, Wes raced over to the first box he saw, tearing it down with an anguished cry and tearing it open.
Empty.
Wes ignored this and moved onto the next box, slightly larger.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
They were all vacant.
When Wes had worked his way down a good line of various-sized boxes, his fiery adrenaline was beginning to die down, and the deep, pessimistic doubt began to creep into his bones. Sweat beaded his temple, and he wiped it to the side. He was burning up.
"C'mon," he whispered, almost whining. He grabbed a small, hat box, striped and green, and kicked it as hard as he could. It flew far away from where he was and landed with a clunk against-
Against what?
Wes shone his flashlight towards the left corner of the room. Large boxes loomed before him, larger than any of the boxes he had been throwing around before. Were they refrigerator boxes? No, they were much bigger. Wes shrugged his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves.
Time to get to work.
The first box was huge, just like the others. It took a great effort for Wes to pull it down from atop three other boxes. He opened it quickly to reveal the bare interior of cardboard.
"Needle in a freaking haystack." Wes grumbled. He stood up resignedly and leaned against another large box, wiping his face with his bare arm. His jacket was further away in the large warehouse, but he had lost track of its whereabouts. He took a step forward.
Seconds later, he was on the ground. Cursing, he realized that he had tripped. He slammed Nick's flashlight on the ground in frustration. Fine, Travis isn't here! I get it; I got the red herring, Ramon. My mistake. My freaking mistake.
Wes rolled onto his back, his head in his hands. This wild goose chase was useless. He would never find Travis.
No, he couldn't think like that. He had to know something. Ramon left clues, that's what Nick said. What wasn't Wes remembering?
The letter. Ramon's letter that was taped on the mirror.
Detective Mitchell,
I feel as if we haven't spoken in weeks, which is a shame. I quite liked out conversation earlier at the courtroom. Ah, that day feels like forever ago, doesn't it? I remember the time like it was only yesterday. It was my first time meeting the famous 'Mitchell and Marks'.
Famous for what, you may ask? Many say you numerous solved cases. Or, perhaps, it is the combination of your intriguing lawyer-turned-cop story with your rags-to-riches partner, Detective Marks.
Oh, that's right. Detective Marks. It seems your naïve friend realized his mistake too late. An unfortunate predicament, I must say, but, we can't all win. Trust me.
I sincerely hope you won't miss him incredibly so, Detective. I wouldn't be too discouraged. He wasn't much use to you, anyway.
Of course, there is a way for you to see your partner again, but, for now, he's all boxed in.
"All boxed in." Wes mumbled to himself. He had been right after all. Travis had to be here. Wes rolled over on his side and grabbed the largest box he could find, right in front of him. It fell down with a loud thud.
A very loud thud.
A heavy thud.
"No." Wes moaned, reaching blindly for Nick's flashlight, the only speck of luminosity in the entire warehouse. He placed the butt of the light in his mouth and reached towards the box's flaps. Taking a deep breath, Wes peeled away the cardboard until he could see what was inside the box.
"No. No, no, no. Not him."