No shit, I think. That’s why the department is making such a big spectacle out of this. Not because of the facts of the shooting, which was about as by-the-book as could be. But to try to regain some shred of public respect after all the negative press over the past years.

Grant had been on my radar for a couple months. He was a mid-level Franklin Avenue Soldier and well-known drug dealer. But he was also a devoted husband who coached his little cousin’s youth basketball team and took night classes at nearby Delgado Community College. Not exactly your typical criminal lowlife.

And I’m not exactly your typical police, either. Just try to find another major crimes detective anywhere in the country who moonlights as an award-winning chef and runs a popular food truck in his spare time.

The blogs and papers had a field day with that. The story spread far and wide. The headlines practically wrote themselves. KILLER CHEF TURNS KILLER COP. NOPD IN BOILING WATER AFTER FOODIE FLATFOOT FIRES FIRST. PUBLIC TO CITY: ‘COOKING COP MUST FRY.’

I’ve never tried to keep my double life hidden from anybody. Not from the community, not from my superiors. Killer Chef even catered the policemen’s ball three years running, and the wedding of my chief’s niece. I understand police use-of-force policies are being put under a fresh microscopic examination across the nation. So overnight in my hometown of New Orleans, I’d become an embarrassment to the entire department. A liability. Any support I might have gotten from my fellow cops and senior officers dried right up.

So here we are.

“This board has had the opportunity to read your official statement regarding the events of that evening, Detective,” Bossett says. “Before we begin our questioning, is there anything you’d like to add to your story? Now is your chance.”

My story. Like I was a suspect hauled in for questioning!

What a shit-show. What a betrayal.

But I know if I ever want to get my gun and badge back, I have no choice but to play along.

I take a breath, knowing everything—my life, my future, my dual careers, hell, even the possibility of a prison term—rests on what I’m about to say.

CHAPTER 4

“Thank you, sir,” I reply, grabbing the armrests of my chair to try to control my building anger. “I stand by my story one hundred percent. But yes, there is something I’d like to say before we get started.”

The room grows pin-drop quiet, everyone anxiously waiting to hear the accused speak.