Indefensible Read Free Page A

wasn’t big enough to allow a final slumber at full extension. He or she was tossed into the pit like garbage.
    I am a federal prosecutor, head of the criminal division of the district U.S. Attorney’s Office; I see it all. No, actually, I don’t see it all; I prosecute it all. I’m aware of it all. I read crime scene reports and confessions and autopsy results and witness statements. I study eight-by-tens of the most horrible things; I describe the hideous actions of hideous people to juries. I occasionally even attend autopsies. But rarely do I get out to see the actual crime scene. And while this particular incident is probably no great shakes to field-weary guys like Captain Dorsey and FBI Agent Chip, it feels miles more real than what I’m accustomed to.
    I feel—what shall I call it?—the chill. And before I know it, like a plant bending to the light or a dog curling up at the fire, I’m warming myself shoulder to shoulder with Cassandra.
    â€œYou okay?” I ask her. She nods but says nothing.
    After the photographer has documented everything, they pull the arm out from under the body, and with a trooper at each leg and one at each arm, they lift the body from the hole and place it on a tarp. It is scraggly and male and at first looks of indeterminate age, but as dirt falls away from the face, I see he is not bearded and not scraggly. He is youthful, his features gentle, almost feminine, eyes maybe a bit too narrow but offset by a sharp jaw, sculpted nose, and strong cheekbones. His skin is unblemished and smooth except for thewhisker stubble. He looks peaceful and asleep, which is comforting, because last time I saw him, he looked like shit, haggard and scared, with eyes bloodshot from a sleepless, tearful night. The college boy.
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    College boy, whose real name is—was—Zander Phippin, was a shy and likable kid who was selling pot to pay his college tuition. At first he was just selling a few bags on his floor of the college dorm, but when his immediate supplier finished a BA in cultural anthropology and moved away to grad school, Zander stepped up to fill the vacancy. He was in over his head, obtaining his product from some very bad people. When he came to our attention, we let him cook overnight without bail before having a sit-down with him in the morning. The crimes that we could nail him on were minor, good for eighteen months in minimum at most, and normally, we’d have just let the state handle it. But we were itching to get our hands on those suppliers.
    Our conversation with him was cordial. His biggest worry was how disappointed his parents were going to be. “They aren’t, like, hostile,” he said of them. “They just don’t know what to do with me. They, you know, had in mind a kid who could read, for one thing, and who wanted to sleep with girls instead of boys, for another.”
    â€œZander has rather pronounced dyslexia,” his lawyer said.
    He seemed like an average kid, if you can call a gay dyslexic drug peddler average. After graduating from a high school for kids with learning disabilities, he had moved first to Provincetown, then to San Francisco, and finally back home.
    â€œI wanted to try college, get a business degree,” he said. “Maybe I would have followed in my dad’s footsteps after all.” And he began sobbing.
    I have a softness for mixed-up boys (evidence: Kenny), so I was glad to have a lifeline to toss him—forgiveness in exchange for cooperation.
    Who was the contact? Zander didn’t know any names. How did they communicate? The supplier called Zander’s cell to set up exchanges. How had they met? The anthropology student had hooked them up. Would Zander help us nab the contact?
    â€œNo.”
    So Chip explained how, even though we knew Zander did nothing but sell pot, he could be charged as a conspirator in the criminal enterprise of his suppliers.