“His amigos took it when they ran off.”
“Did the boy mouth off to you, Mr. Lund, is that how the confrontation started?”
“The suspect refused to obey my orders. He got in my face. Things got out of hand.”
“Things got out of hand?”
“Yeah. It happens.”
“It seems to happen a lot with you, Mr. Lund. Your record shows nine deadly shootings, numerous other questionable discharges of your firearm, a dozen reprimands for unnecessary use of force, internal affairs investigations for freelancing, running interdiction operations without agency approval-you put together quite a career at the DEA, Mr. Lund.”
Delroy shook his head with disdain. “Civilians. Mr. Fenney, the war on drugs ain’t gin rummy at the country club. Mexican drug cartels are violent and ruthless narco-terrorists. They’ve killed over a hundred women in Juarez, many of them young American girls. They’ve kidnapped and killed dozens of American tourists in Nuevo Laredo and dumped their bodies in the Rio Grande. They’ve murdered border patrol agents and Catholic priests who spoke out against them. They own the police throughout Mexico and those they don’t own they kill. You want people like them running around Dallas? People like me, Mr. Fenney, we keep people like them on their side of the river.”
“That may be true, Mr. Lund, but the fact is your superiors at the DEA grew tired of your practices, didn’t they?”
“Bunch of desk jockeys who couldn’t cut it on the border.”
“Shortly after that incident in Del Rio, you were forced to retire from the DEA?”
“Yeah. By bureaucrats more concerned about getting promotions than results. I got results.”
“You got results with Hannah Steele, too, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Lund, did you bribe Hannah Steele to absent herself from this trial?”
“Nope.”
“Did you threaten to make her fish bait?”
“I don’t fish.”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I did not threaten anyone.”
“Do you know Hannah Steele?”
“Nope.”
“Did you attempt to bribe my cocounsel, Robert Herrin, to drop out of this case?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t offer him a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Nope.”
“Did you know Clark McCall?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Honestly?”
“Why not, we’re in a court of law.”
“He was a little fu…” Delroy stopped and glanced past Scott to Senator McCall.
“A little fuckup? Isn’t that what you called Clark? Isn’t that the term you used to describe him?”
Delroy looked back at Scott and said, “He was a real nice boy.”
“A real nice boy who liked to beat and rape girls?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Where were you on the night of Saturday, June fifth, of this year?”
“D.C.”
“Washington, D.C.?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Scott picked up another document from Carl’s envelope. “Mr. Lund, I have a copy of a first-class plane ticket from Washington to Dallas, flight number 1607 on American at eight-twenty-three A.M. on Saturday, June the fifth, in the name of Clark McCall.”
“So?”
Scott picked up the next document. “So I also have a copy of another first-class plane ticket from Washington to Dallas, at eight-thirty A.M. on the same day, flight number 1815 on US Airways. It has your name on it.”
Delroy didn’t blink an eye. “Must be a mistake.”
“You think there’s another Delroy Lund running around out there?”
“You never know.”
“Clark’s flight was booked at four-thirty-seven P.M. on June fourth. Your flight was booked twenty-eight minutes later. You had someone in Clark’s office keeping tabs on him, didn’t you?”
“Nope.”
“May I see your driver’s license?”
“What?”
“Your driver’s license, would you please produce it?”
The slightest hint of unease invaded Delroy’s dark eyes. He leaned slightly to his left and reached around to his right back pant pocket. He pulled out his wallet, removed his license, and somewhat reluctantly held it out to Scott.
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
Judge Buford nodded. Scott walked over, took the license, and walked back to the podium. He compared the license to the next document.
“Mr. Lund, you’re sure this isn’t your plane ticket?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure you weren’t in Dallas on June fifth?”
“Yeah.”
Scott held up the document. “Well, then how do you explain this rental car agreement with Avis at the Dallas airport dated June fifth with your signature and driver’s license number on it?”
Delroy uncrossed his legs. His eyes turned down. His expression did not change, but his jaw muscles began flexing rapidly, like he was grinding his teeth into chalk. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his broad forehead. He was lying and everyone in the courtroom knew it. He knew that they knew it, and that he was on the verge of a perjury charge. But Delroy Lund hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with Mexican drug lords without having brass balls. His face turned up, he looked Scott straight in the eye, and he said, “You know what, now that you remind me, I was in Dallas that day. I forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“Yeah, I forgot.”
“Okay, Mr. Lund, we’ll go with that. You arrived in Dallas on Saturday, June fifth, at eleven A.M. and you left Sunday afternoon on US Airways flight number 1812 at four-fifty-five P.M.?”
“Sounds about right.”
“So why did you come to Dallas for just thirty hours?”
Delroy grinned. “To get laid. To pick up a two-bit hooker”-he gestured at Shawanda-“like Blondie there and get laid.”
“Mr. Lund, do you usually carry a handkerchief?”
“Yeah. Allergies.”
“May I see it?”
He reached back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and held it out to Scott.
“Keep it.”
Scott walked over to the defendant’s table to get a pad and pen. He looked at Shawanda and froze…her hair was brown. Not blonde like the…Scott glanced over at the prosecution table…wig. The wig she had been wearing that night was blonde. Delroy just called Shawanda “Blondie.” Delroy had been there that night.
