by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Thirty Seven
The flight wasn’t long. I enjoyed first-class seating beside Edward Berg’s attorney Mr. Rothstein, who insisted I call him James. His lawyering really shone through on the flight, asking me a series of questions about the Valentine’s Day mystery, each one thoughtfully worded, an employment of learned methodology which escalated into some kind of point that was eluding me, confusing me. I didn’t tell him all that much, claimed ignorance on a lot of things that I was in no way ignorant of. He saw through that bullshit and said I wouldn’t be writing a novel if I knew so little. I tried winning him over with a grin and an apology (if you’ll recall I’m ruthlessly apologetic) and offered to let him read the manuscript when it was finished. Truth was, I didn’t want James knowing too much as I sat in on the initial interview between attorney and client.
After the plane landed in Boise I phoned my girlfriend as promised. She had a productive morning as I was in the terminal and thirty-thousand-feet above sea level. She had a couple questions for me to ask Edward. I jotted them down. I proudly told her that I bargained my way into a second meeting with Edward down the road, weeks or months later. After saying I love you, I phoned Aaron Mendelssohn and asked if he had any questions to ask Edward. He did have one. I jotted it down.
We had a limo drive us to the courthouse. It was a bonafide circus there. Innumerable news vans in the parking lot, camera men chasing after us from the limo to the building, frantically ejaculating questions, such as, “Does the murder of these two girls have anything to do with the Valentine’s Day mystery?” Of course this spectacle was the very reason why James took this case pro bono, as it was a payment of another kind (publicity), so he spent a little time expanding his reputation as a legal giant by answering questions in the typical defense-attorney fashion, which was staunchly supportive of the suspected criminal and indignant over the absurd allegations aimed at his client. “My client is innocent of all wrong doing,” and, “if this thing ever goes to trial—which I am highly doubtful of since there is no evidence against Edward Berg—I am unequivocally certain that the case would be thrown out,” and, “it is important to get your facts straight, that nobody witnessed Edward Berg physically carrying the bodies of the two victims.”
I stood a dozen yards or so away from him, pleased that nobody recognized me—I’d have been surprised if anyone had. I had given two interviews myself several months ago, but that’s it. If I had brought Norrah along (she had badgered me to let her come) she’d have been instantly recognized and this thing would have really blown up and gotten out of hand. I suspect Rothstein would have disallowed her to come for that very reason.
After five minutes or so of interviews, James was escorted inside the courthouse with me at his heels. We went through metal detectors and were wanded before being ushered along in the direction of Edward. Down a corridor we went, then down another narrower one. Finally we entered a small room with a single table and a few chairs on either side of it. There were pale green tiles on the floor, no pictures on the white walls, an astringent odor of disinfectant. The only door was windowed (a short and wide window), where a security officer would observe the meeting and spring into action should a fit of violence break out.
Inside the room went James and myself. He opened his briefcase and placed a digital-recorder center table. He and I sat side by side. It was ten minutes later when the heavy door opened and Edward was let inside. The door closed behind him. Now it was us three.
James stood and shook his hand, as did I. He took a seat opposite us, facing the window where a guard watched. Just seconds prior James reminded me that I was to imitate an attorney, and not to mention who I really was. “Of course,” I assured him.
“I’m recording this interview,” James said, and pressed a button on the device.
“You guys have to believe me,” Edward said with wide probing eyes. “I swear, I didn’t kill anybody!”
Being a self-proclaimed excellent judge of honesty and interpreter of body language (I’ll throw in astute observer of social behavior as well; why not?), I was quick to judge this guy was telling the truth.
“I didn’t kill those girls, I swear to God.”
“Edward,” James said with a hand gesturing to calm down, “we’re on your side. Of course you didn’t kill them. It is my job to tell your story to the world so they’ll believe you as well.”
He swallowed, round eyes exploring the plain room. “It’s just so damned weird,” he said.
“What’s weird?” James asked.
“This. Everything. This has to be a dream. I keep expecting to wake up.”
“Unfortunately for you, and those two girls, this is real. Tell me how you came to be in Boise.”
He looked away shamefully and said, “You won’t believe me, but I have no memory of how I ended up here. None.”
“I do believe it. I do believe it because I’m your attorney and I’m going to make you a free man, so tell me everything you do know. What’s the last thing you remember before… before your lapse in memory.”
“I was shooting pool in the rec-room of the dormitory the night before it happened, had a couple beers. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“Sunday night? Who was with you?”
“Nobody. I was alone.”
“Your subsequent memory has you in Boise?”
“Yes. I swear I’m not making it up.”
“As I said, I’m on your side, and won’t accuse you of lying. What’s your first memory obtained in Idaho?”
“Being arrested! Fucking being arrested!”
“Being arrested,” Mr. Rothstein repeated. “From shooting pool in southern California Sunday night to being arrested in Idaho late Monday morning.”
“I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“I believe you, Edward,” I said. And I meant it. I hoped my eyes conveyed that.
“Good, because it’s the God’s-honest truth.”
“Explain to me what happened,” the lawyer said, “where you were when you were apprehended, and what was told to you.”
“I was in the driver’s seat of some damn car, I don’t know whose. A cop was yelling at me to put my hands up, woke me up.”
“You were asleep when they affronted you?”
“Yeah. As I said, I went from shooting pool to being arrested. Ain’t nothing in-between, man.”
“Someone called the police anonymously to say that a man (you) was seen on the side of highway 44, about four miles northwest of Boise, taking two blanket-wrapped bodies out of a trunk and carrying them down an embankment.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“I agree,” James said, “and not just because I’m your attorney. If a passing motorist spied you carrying off a single body, that would be one thing. But he’d have had to come to a stop to watch you haul not just one corpse away but come back for the second. And the account we’ve been given says he only slowed down when he noticed the peculiarity that is a man carrying a parcel closely resembling the proportionality of a human.”
“I told you, I didn’t do it.”
“That the source of the tip is anonymous, we can use that to our advantage as well. If a juror is on the fence to which way they’ll vote, it might push them in the right direction. Just as pleading the fifth is seen as an admission of guilt, anonymous testimony can be seen as unreliable or even fabricated. Not always, but sometimes. Planting reasonable doubt is an art form I’ve perfected. Now, would anyone have a reason to frame you?”
He considered it. “I don’t think so.”
“I want you to spend a lot of time thinking about it after I leave. Next time we meet I want a list of the top five most likely people who’d frame you not just for murder but in general. Or better put, the top five people who’d have anything at all to gain from your incarceration. Like if you have a girlfriend and you know some guys who think she’s hot… that’s a motive, Edward. In th
e meantime, I need to learn more of what happened. Do you know personally the two girls who were murdered?”
“I don’t even know their names!”
“Lindsey Demitri and Susan Feller.”
“Never heard of them.”
James opened his briefcase and took four eight-by-ten photos out, placed them before his client in a spread.
“Nope. Never seen ‘em.”
I looked over at the attorney, said, “He’s telling the truth. I don’t know how your judge of character is, but mine’s spot on. He didn’t do it.”
James gave me a brief glare, one that said butt out and shut up. I deferred with a low gaze.
“I appreciate that,” Edward said. “It means a lot to me that someone believes me. Even if he’s my attorney.”
Edward was staring at me. More than staring, I think he was trying to place a name to that face. Precisely what James didn’t want. James must have picked up on it because he diverted his client’s attention away from me.
“Was there anyone in the rec-room that night who can vouch for you?” Rothstein asked. “Maybe that you had a few too many beers to drink, or possibly saw you behaving as if you’d been drugged? Anything at all that can cast reasonable doubt on the prosecution’s inevitable case? I should add that there have been no formal charges against you yet. They can only legally detain you for a short while longer, so expect charges to land by then.” He then spoke inwardly, “Unless they pin other charges on you to keep you here. They won’t want you to be released, that’s for damned sure. But they wouldn’t dare charge you with murder until they gather more information, because they know I’ll move to get a dismissal.” He snapped out of his little soliloquy and said, “A trial is a long ways off. But it’s best for us to stay ahead of the game, because I’m going to move to get the case thrown out the hour charges are filed.”
“No, I don’t remember anyone being in the rec-room. Well, April dropped in on her way from doing laundry, but she only popped in to see who was playing.”
“Did you have any plans made for yesterday or today? Memorial day plans that would contradict allegations that you willfully and pre-meditatively drove up to Boise to kill a couple girls? Anything at all, such as a date, or a dentist appointment, or even plans to shoot some hoops with a friend. Anything at all.”
“Uh… actually I was going to see a Dodgers game with my buddy Pete yesterday. We hadn’t bought tickets yet or anything. But he can vouch for me on that.”
“What’s Pete’s last name?”
“Dixon.”
“Okay, good. That’s a start in the right direction.”
“Mr. Rothstein,” I said, “would you mind giving me a few minutes alone with Edward?”
James looked disapprovingly at me.
“Just a few minutes. Please. Would you mind, Edward?”
“Not at all.”
James stood and glared down at me, threatened me with his eyes. Don’t do anything stupid, he wanted to say. He said he’d be back in five minutes and went out the door.
I leaned forward in my seat, wasted no time; Edward reflexively did the same.
“You recognize me, don’t you?” I asked him.
“I think so…”
“I was the cop who told you all that you were being detained. Norrah’s boyfriend.
His eyes widened. He licked his dry lips. “Why are you here?”
“I want to help you in any way I can. I know you’re telling the truth. A close friend of mine is one of the twenty-three, he wore the frog mask. He has quite a story to tell, and I’d tell you it myself but we don’t have the time. The fact of the matter is Paul is a real piece of shit, and he had something to do with what happened on Valentine’s Day. Do you recall the guy he was there with? He wore—”
“A black hat with horns,” he said in no more than a whisper. “I dream about him every night.”
“I know you do. The others did, too. He killed you all in your dream, didn’t he?”
His mouth opened. He nodded.
“We have a hunch—we being myself, Norrah, and Frog, or Aaron—that Paul or his friend or both of them had something to do with this as well. We have nothing to go on, but we sense it.”
“Why would he do that? What did I ever do to him?”
“Nothing. I don’t know why, Edward.”
“Call me Eddie.”
“Okay, Eddie. When’s the last time you saw Paul?”
“The evening of the party.”
“How about his friend? The dude with the white mask.”
“Same. The party.” Eddie closed his eyes and took a deep nervous breath. “How sure are you that Paul had something to do with what happened at the party?”
“Very. Why?”
“You think you know someone,” he said under his breath. “I thought Paul was my friend. We’ve been friends for almost a year.” He reconsidered. “Actually, for more than a year now. I’m the reason why he got invited to the party, which he ended up hosting. I introduced him to Taylor, and convinced him to invite Paul. Paul had liked the idea of a masquerade party from the moment I mentioned it. We have them every year. I met Paul at Wizards (a billiards club) last February, just after Valentine’s Day Masquerade 2012. I challenged him to a game of pool, loser had to buy a round of Red Bulls. He lost, and bought the drinks. But during that game I told him about the party I had just went to the other night, the masquerade party, and it intrigued him. I said if he was around next year he should go, that I’d get him an invite. He seemed like a cool dude. But he lies. I’ve caught him in a lie a bunch of times. His biggest lie was probably that he was a student at University of Redlands. I have no idea why he kept that lie up, or why it mattered to him that people thought he went there. But after he confided in me that he wasn’t really taking classes there, I kept the secret for him. From the night we met we started hanging out pretty regularly at Wizards. I invited him to some frat parties, too.”
Edward looked through me, contemplatively. He said, “I don’t get it, man, we’re friends. We’ve had long talks about personal shit. Confided in each other. I can’t imagine what he possibly could have done that would make a week of our lives blink away seamlessly, and I’m not sure I want to know. Some things are better left unlearned. But you know what?—I guess part of me isn’t that surprised. He has a dark side to him. He’s the type of guy who you’d expect to have killed a lot of animals as a kid, for experimentation, or maybe just for kicks.”
He then sharpened his gaze on me. “Do I want to know what Paul did?”
“He didn’t do anything first-hand. It was his friend. Eddie, you’re the only person I’ve met who knows Paul. I mean really knows Paul. Everyone else just met him recently, and are only acquaintances of his. Knowing that you were close with him, that opens the door to possibilities. Maybe you told him something, or he told you something, and it lead to this happening: two girls dead, with you being framed for it. James Rothstein said to make a list with the top five people most likely to want to betray you or whatever, and I’m thinking Paul should be at the top of that list, unless someone else comes to mind.”
“Nobody comes to mind.”
“Give it a lot of thought, like James said, only I want you to consider what Paul has told you in the past that he might not be comfortable with you knowing anymore.”
“That’s tough, man. We’ve had hundreds of conversations. When we play pool we bullshit the whole time, you know?”
“Yeah, but you got to try. You have friends, Eddie. You have friends in Norrah, Aaron, and myself. Probably the only three friends you have right now. The country thinks you’re a murderer. And those girls were beautiful. Really beautiful. People get pissed off when an ugly person is killed. But when it’s a beautiful girl who get’s offed…? They want revenge. They want the death penalty for the suspect. You killed (allegedly) two girls who every guy in the country would love to get into bed, and you just stole away that possibility from them. It sounds stupid, but it�
��s the truth. What a waste of a hot piece of ass, guys will think. And girls just get sad when anyone with an aura of innocence and sweetness dies, and cute girls always have that look. The D.A. will be going after the death penalty with you, I have no doubt. If they were minorities or ugly, maybe not. Whoever framed you knew that, I’m sure. He or they chose two cuties, all right. I’m surprised one or both of them aren’t cute little toddlers. I guess even maniacs can have a line that they won’t cross.”
I remembered what Aaron said during dinner a couple months ago. When he had found Paul under the bridge with Brooke, and said he wouldn’t rape a girl because it’s disgusting. I wondered if the two dead girls were raped before they were murdered. Autopsy reports would be coming in by late in the week.
“I have something for you,” I said, and fished a necklace out of my pocket that Aaron had overnight mailed me. It was clear fishing line with the gilded cross charm. I was pretty doubtful that he’d get to keep it. His jailors would see it and confiscate it. Or search him and confiscate it. Either way, it didn’t stand a chance. Oh well. “The others stopped having nightmares after receiving these charms, so hopefully it works for you.” I handed it over the table.
Eddie inspected it with no great interest, put it over his neck and under his orange jumpsuit. “Thanks. I doubt I’ll make it back to my cell with it, but I appreciate the gesture.”
“It was a gift from a pastor. You might remember him as Frog.”
“That dude was a pastor?”
“Is a pastor, yes.”
I rummaged through James’ briefcase, found a small notepad and pen. I handed them to Eddie.
“Wedge them between your ankle and shoe. Hopefully they won’t search you. And if they do I don’t know why they’d take a notepad from you. I want you to write down everything you can remember that Paul has told you. Unless you think it was a lie. A useful lie, maybe. Use your judgment. If he once said he’d like to be an engineer one day, jot it down.”
“He wants to be a politician,” Eddie informed as he hid the items away as I had advised.
“There you go. Write that kind of stuff down. Jesus… you really do know a lot about him, don’t you? Has he ever told you a secret, made you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Maybe, but nothing comes to mind.”
The door opened behind me. The lawyer returned to the table, wasted no time getting into questioning and pushing me out of the picture.
We spent forty-five minutes more in that room. None of it amounted to much, except for one thing. One potentially huge thing. Eddie had wondered if we thought this was worth noting, stood up, slid his jumpsuit off his right shoulder awkwardly undressing from it down to his waist, turned to show us his bare side. There was a conspicuously shaped bruise. It began at his hip, a narrow little purple thing extending up his ribs and hooking toward his back just below the armpit.
“You know what that looks like?” I said.
“What?” James said.
“It looks like a tire-iron. You know, to remove lug nuts from a wheel.”
James was ecstatic at the idea. He took a few pictures with his camera phone, then called his limo driver and asked him to get the tire iron out of the trunk and bring it to us. It took a while for him to gain admittance inside with arguably a weapon, but eventually he got in and was escorted to our room. I took the tool and held it against Eddie’s side, matching it against the bruise and sure enough it was the same shape and size. James was so elated that I thought he was going to cry. I didn’t understand his excitement, asked him why it mattered.
“Don’t you see? From Redlands to Boise is a long drive, maybe twelve hours or so. Plenty enough time to build a bruise from having lain on a tire-iron. And where are tire-irons kept?”
“The trunk,” I said with sudden understanding.
“Exactly. Edward here was drugged and stuffed in a trunk on top of a tire-iron for half a day. You see?—he was set up. Let’s get a doctor in here to document this.”
