They sat a moment in the uncomfortable silence with only the faint clinking of glasses across the bar to guide their consciences.
Then, Danny had more. He raised two fingers toward the waitress, ordered a backup round, and launched into Martinez’s prior assignment; the complaints that got buried, the sergeant who tried to write him up but ate a transfer to nights instead. It irked him… enough to feel he was satisfying something pent by merely regurgitating things shitty cops do, so he’d feel better.
The door swung open, and Sergeant Brennan walked in, still in his uniform pants and a white tee, still a little damp from the vest he’d squeezed into for 10 hours. He spotted Danny and Trey, smiled, walked over.
“Gentlemen. Room for one more?”
Danny and Trey exchanged the quickest glance as the conversation died like someone pulled the plug on a record player.
“Absolutely, Sarge. Grab a seat.”
They talked about the Cowboys. They talked about Danny’s kid making the travel baseball team. They talked about nothing.
An hour later, Brennan stretched and checked his watch. “Alright, I’m out. Wife’s gonna be asleep if I don’t scoot.” He threw a twenty on the table. “Next round’s on me. See you jackasses Monday.”
He headed for the door, keys in hand.
“See you Monday, Sarge.”
The parking lot at Grace Fellowship Church holds maybe 200 cars. Today, it has 225.
Bustling feet and low-toned conversations between those who knew him filled the room before the service started.
“…and that’s the last time I ever kept my mouth shut,” Trey said, as confidently as one can while fighting back tears.
Later, Danny stood next to him, both in dress blues, watching the casket roll past. His jaw tight. Pissed. Sad. Accountable.
“I keep replaying that night at the bar,” he finally said. “I mean…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Three days after that Tuesday night, a man named Victor Almonte lay in wait in the bar’s parking lot. His nephew was the seventeen-year-old with the TCU scholarship. The kid took a plea on Martinez’s planted evidence. Lost the scholarship. Humiliated. Depressed. Dropped out. Six months later, he was dead from an overdose in a motel bathroom.
Victor spent a year trying to get someone to listen. IA. The chief’s office. The local news. Nobody moved. The Blue Wall held. Justice denied… for the moment.
Victor, shut out, frustrated, prison-weaned, and without a single positive encounter with cops to fall back on, decided to deliver his own justice. But he didn’t have a name. He just had a precinct. A bar. A uniform. And it didn’t matter.
Sergeant Brennan was the first one out that night.
Took two rounds to the chest just as Brennan got to his ride. Then, in a most frustrating yet predictable fashion, Victor calmly sat down on the curb, placed a note on the ground beside him, and put his pistol under his chin.
The note was three sentences:
“Shawnie is dead because of you. Fuck your Blue Wall of Silence. You take my mines, I take yours.”
Brennan had nothing to do with Martinez. He’d never even worked the same shift. He was a good cop, a good man. He’d spent twenty-two years trying to do the job right. He left behind a wife and two daughters. And, notably, so did Victor.
Martinez still has his.
For now.
The Monday after they buried Brennan, Trey walked into Internal Affairs and closed the door behind him. Martinez is under investigation again. But this time, somebody’s talking.
—
Tegan Broadwater spent 13 years with the Fort Worth Police Department, including two years assigned to the FBI working deep undercover inside a violent Crip organization. That operation, detailed in his book Life in the Fishbowl, resulted in 51 convictions. He has since founded Tactical Systems Network, an armed security & protection firm primarily staffed by veterans, is a creative writer and musician, and hosts The Tegan Broadwater Podcast. All book profits benefit children of incarcerated parents. Learn more at TeganBroadwater.com
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