by Robert Crais
Reports of Jonathan Green’s arrest and the charges against him were interspersed with the coverage of Teddy’s flight, but when the newspeople discovered that the Citation was still in the air, the real show began. Reporters and cameras descended upon the FAA and the various Flight Operations Centers between Los Angeles and Rio. The Citation’s path was charted, and its progress was depicted on a global map. It was kind of like watching the beginning of Casablanca. Every network put a little clock in the corner of their picture, counting down the time until the Citation landed. Crime and show business had merged.
Foreign bureau reporters flocked to the Rio de Janeiro airport, and Teddy Martin’s landing was covered live even though it was after midnight in Rio and you really couldn’t see anything. The Citation taxied to a private flight service facility for corporate jets where it was met by Brazilian authorities and a small army of newspeople. A spokesman for the Brazilian authorities said that Mr. Martin would be questioned as to his plans, but thereafter would be free to go. Teddy Martin pushed through the cameras with his face covered, ignoring the shouting reporters. He reached the flight service facility’s door, then apparently changed his mind and paused to make a short statement. Teddy Martin said, “Please don’t interpret my flight from California as indicative of guilt. I promise you, I swear to you all, that I did not murder my wife. I loved her. I left because I am convinced that I could not and would not get a fair and just hearing. I do not know why they are doing this to me.” He disappeared into the building and must have slipped out by some prearranged and secret manner because he was not seen again.
I went to bed at twenty minutes after one that night, and still the networks were on the air, rehashing the landing, replaying the interviews, offering taped “live” coverage of something that was no more alive than a nightmare.
38
The phone rang several times throughout the night. I stopped answering and let the machine get the calls after I realized that they were reporters, looking for yet another comment. I finally unplugged the phone.
I slept late the next morning and woke to a quiet house. The cat was sleeping on the foot of my bed and the finches were waiting on the deck rail and no one was trying to shoot me, which was good, but for the first time in many days I felt the emptiness of Lucy’s absence, which wasn’t.
My involvement with Angela Rossi and Louise Earle and the events in their lives seemed to be at an end or, if not ended, then certainly diminished. Anna Sherman wanted to interview me in greater detail, but she would speak to Rossi first, then Gibbs and Tomsic. It might be days before we could get together.
I got out of bed, took a shower, then ate a bowl of granola and cottage cheese and sliced peaches. I drank a glass of nonfat milk. I phoned Martin Luther King Hospital, asked about Mr. Lawrence, and was told that he was doing well even though he was listed in critical condition. The nurse remembered me and told me that Mrs. Earle was still there, asleep in the waiting room. She had been there throughout the night. I called a florist I know and sent flowers, addressing them to Mrs. Earle as well as to Mr. Lawrence. I hoped that they would brighten her day.
At twenty minutes after eleven my phone rang again, and this time I answered. Life in the fast lane. Joe Pike said, “Are you looking at this?”
“What?”
“Turn on your television.”
I did.
Jonathan Green was surrounded by reporters on the steps of the Superior Court Building. The network legal analyst was saying that Green had been arraigned at ten A.M., had posted minimal bail, and was now about to make a statement. The two lesser attorneys were behind him, as was an older, gray-haired African-American attorney named Edwin Foss. Foss was a criminal defense attorney of Green’s stature who had made his reputation defending a transient who had shot four people to death while robbing an AM-PM Minimart. The murders had been caught on videotape, but Foss had still managed to gain an acquittal. I guess he had convinced the jury that it was reasonable to doubt what they had seen.
Edwin Foss whispered in Jonathan’s ear, then Jonathan stepped to the microphones and made his statement. His tone was somber and apologetic, and Foss kept a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder as he spoke. Guidance. Green said, “No one is more surprised by Theodore Martin’s actions than me. I have believed in his innocence from the beginning, and I still believe him to be an innocent man. I believed then, and believe now, that the evidence against Theodore Martin was planted by unscrupulous officers involved in the investigation. Teddy, if you can hear these words, I urge you to return. Justice will prevail.”
Pike said, “You think Teddy’s tuned in, down there in Rio?”
“Shh.”
Green said, “I pledge my full cooperation to those investigating the charges that have been made against me. I will aid in uncovering whatever wrongdoing has occurred, if any, and in the prosecution of anyone in my employ who has conspired to breech the canon of ethics by which I have lived my life. I state now, publicly and for the record, that I have behaved honorably and within the law. I have done no wrong.”
Green’s attorney again whispered something in Green’s ear and gently pulled him away from the microphones. The reporters shouted questions, but Green’s attorney waved them off and said that there would be no questions.
I turned off the television and said, “This guy is something. He’s already doctoring the spin.”
Pike didn’t respond.
“You don’t think he can beat this, do you?”
There was a pause, then Pike hung up. Guess he didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he didn’t want to think that it was possible.
I made an early lunch for myself, then brought the phone out onto the deck and called Lucy Chenier at her office. She had heard about Jonathan’s arrest and Teddy’s flight on the national news, but she didn’t seem particularly anxious to hear the inside dirt. When I described the events beneath the radio towers, she told me that she was late for a meeting. Great. Anna Sherman called later that afternoon and asked me to come to her office the following day to make a statement. I did, and spent three hours in the Criminal Courts Building being interviewed by Sherman, Bidwell, and three LAPD detectives whom I had not previously met. Pike came in as I was leaving. Sherman told me that Mrs. Earle had been interviewed the day before.
Two days after my interview, Mr. Walter Lawrence was taken off the critical list. His prognosis was excellent. I went to see him and brought more flowers. Mrs. Earle was still there and told me that she planned to visit LeCedrick. It would be the first time that she’d seen him in the six years that he had been at Terminal Island. I offered to drive her.
Teddy’s flight and Green’s arrest stayed in the headlines. “Teddy Sightings” were a regular feature in the tabloids, which reported on various occasions that Teddy was now living in a palatial Brazilian mansion that had been built by a famous Nazi war criminal, that Teddy had been seen in the company of Princess Diana, and that Teddy was gone for good because he had been abducted by short gray aliens with large heads. The California State Bar Association announced that it was launching an investigation into Jonathan Green’s conduct independent of that by the Los Angeles Police Department and the District Attorney’s office. Green said that he welcomed the opportunity to clear his name and would cooperate fully.
Jonathan Green and his attorney appeared regularly on local television news, local radio talk shows, and in the L.A. Times. Reports from “unnamed sources” began surfacing that Elliot Truly had made a secret deal with Teddy, unknown to Mr. Green. Leaks “close to the prosecution” were quoted as saying that computer files found at Elliot Truly’s home confirmed such an agreement. Other sources leaked that Truly had had several meetings with Teddy while Teddy was in jail to which Mr. Green was not privy. Carefully worded public opinion polls charted a swing in the belief of Jonathan Green’s involvement from “absolutely” to “probably” to “uncertain.”
Eleven days after the events beneath the radio tower, the LAPD Int
ernal Affairs Division announced that it had completed its investigation of Detective Angela Rossi and had found there to be no evidence either in the LeCedrick Earle matter (LeCedrick Earle himself had recanted his claims against her) or that she had manufactured or planted evidence against Theodore Martin. The story was given two inches on page nineteen of the Times, and the same public opinion polls indicated that seventy-three percent of the public still believed that she was a corrupt cop who had framed LeCedrick Earle (even though he now denied it) and who had “probably” mishandled evidence against Teddy Martin. She was returned to active duty with her partner, Dan Tomsic.
I listened to the news and followed the investigations with a growing sense of unease. Jonathan Green signed a two-million-dollar contract with a major book publisher to publish his version of the story. He appeared on Larry King Live and Rivera Live, and each time he presented himself as a victim. I was offered many jobs, but I declined them. The press still called, though with less frequency, and I avoided them. I listened to talk radio and gained weight, as if I felt a hunger that I couldn’t satisfy.
The days grew warm again, and I decided to refinish the deck. It had been almost eight years since I’d last stained and sealed the deck, and the wood was showing its age. Joe offered his help, and we spent the core of each day sanding and staining and sealing. We listened to music as we worked, but from time to time we turned to the news. Twenty-three days after the events beneath the radio tower, the California Bar quietly closed its investigation, saying that all evidence pointed to wrongdoing by Elliot Truly and not by Jonathan Green. Twenty-five days after the tower, the District Attorney’s office dropped all charges against Jonathan Green save one count of tampering with evidence. I was on a ladder beneath the deck when we heard the news, and Pike said, “He’s getting away with it.”
I went inside and called Anna Sherman, who said, “It’s the best we can do.” Her voice was faraway and sounded lost.
I said, “This is crap. You know he was behind it.”
“Of course.”
“He set up Truly just like he set up Rossi and Pritzik and Richards. He ordered Lester’s murder. They were going to kill Louise Earle. He did his best to destroy the life and career of a police officer who did nothing worse than do her job.”
She didn’t say anything for a time, and then she said, “He knows how to play the game, Elvis. What can I tell you?” Then she hung up.
Twenty-eight days after the towers, Pike and I finished sealing the deck. It was slick and gleaming and smelled of marine-grade varnish. After the varnish had cured, we put the deck chairs and the Weber and the little table back and sat in the sun drinking cold Falstaff. We sat for awhile, and then Pike said, “Say something.”
I looked at him.
“You haven’t said anything for three days. You’ve said next to nothing for almost two weeks.”
“Guess I’m getting like you.”
I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back.
I finished my Falstaff, crimped the can, then put it carefully onto the shining deck. Little rings of condensation beaded on the thick varnish. I said, “I’m not sure that I want to do this anymore.”
“Be an investigator?”
I nodded.
“What do you want to do?”
I shrugged.
“You want to stop being what you’ve been for almost fifteen years because Jonathan Green is getting away with murder?” He frowned when he said it. Like maybe he was disappointed.
I spread my hands. “I guess that’s it. Elvis Cole, sore loser.”
Pike shook his head.
I went inside, brought out two fresh Falstaffs, and gave him one. I said, “What would you say if I told you that I was thinking about moving to Louisiana to be closer to Lucy?”
Pike sipped some of the Falstaff, then gazed out at the canyon, then wet his lips and nodded. “I’d say that I’d miss you.”
I nodded.
“I’d say that if that’s what you needed to do, that I would help any way that I could.”
I nodded again.
“You talk to her about it?”
“Not yet.”
Pike shook his head. “You’re something.”
Four hours later Pike was gone and I was cooking a very nice puttanesca sauce when I decided to call Lucy Chenier. I was most of the way through a bottle of California merlot. In the course of my life I’ve been shot, sapped, slugged, stabbed with a broken beer bottle, and I’ve faced down any number of thugs and miscreants, but talking to Lucy about moving to Louisiana seemed to require fortification. She answered on the third ring, and I said, “Guess who?”
“Have you been drinking?” Don’t you hate smart women?
“Absolutely not.” Giving her affronted. Giving her shocked. Then I said, “Well, maybe a little.”
She sighed. “I heard on the news that the charges against Green were reduced. How’s Angela?”
“Not great, but not bad, either. The public still thinks that she’s rotten, but IA cleared her.”
“How nice for her children.”
“Green kept himself insulated so that there was always plausible deniability.”
“What about Truly’s dying declaration?” I had told her about Truly weeks ago. “That’s legitimate evidence.”
“It is, but since it was witnessed only by me and Angela and Joe, the powers that be view it as questionable. Because I resigned from Green’s employ, and because he accused Rossi, the powers that be feel that a jury would discount our version of events.”
She didn’t say anything for a time, and then she said, “Well, in this case the powers that be are probably right.”
I nodded, but she probably couldn’t see it. “I don’t believe Truly had a secret agreement with Teddy Martin. Green fabricated that, just as he fabricated the business about Pritzik and Richards.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Truly was telling the truth.”
“I’m sure of that, too.”
I didn’t say anything. I was staring at the bubbles rising in the sauce and my shoulders felt tight and I was wishing that I hadn’t drunk all the wine.
Lucy said, “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
I moved my tongue, trying to scrub away the wine’s taste. “Oh, God, yes.”
“You try so hard to make things right, and here’s this man, and he’s oozing through the system in a way that keeps things wrong.”
“He is defiling justice.” Defiling. That was probably the merlot talking.
She said, “Oh, Studly.” I could see her smile. “The law is not about justice. You know that.”
I finished the merlot and turned off the sauce. It was thick with chunks of tomatoes and black olives and raisins. I had cooked it without being hungry. Maybe I just wanted to give myself something worthwhile to do. “Of course I know, but it should be.”
Lucy said, “The law is an adversarial contest that defines justice as staying within the rules and seeing the game to its conclusion. Justice is reaching a conclusion. It has very little to do with right and wrong. The law gives us order. Only men and women can give us what you want to call justice.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “God, Lucille, I wish you were here.”
“I know.” Her voice was soft and hard to hear. Then she said, “You’re still the World’s Greatest Detective, honey pie. They can’t take that away from you.”
It made me smile.
Neither of us spoke for a time, and then Lucy said, “Do you remember Tracy Mannos at Channel Eight? We met her at Green’s party.”
“Sure. The program manager.”
“She called me last week. She arranged for the network affiliate here in Baton Rouge to shoot a test tape of me, and after she saw it she offered me a job as an on-air legal commentator.”
I said, “In Baton Rouge?”
“No, Elvis. Out there. In Los Angeles.”
I couldn’t say anything. The merlot seemed to b
e rushing through my ears.
Lucy said, “It’s more money, and we would be closer to you, but it’s such a big move.” You could hear her uncertainty.
I said, “You’d come to Los Angeles?”
“There’s so much to think about. There’s Ben. There’s my house and my friends. I’m not sure what to do about Richard.”
”Please say yes.” It came out hoarse.
She didn’t say anything for a time. “I don’t know just yet. I need to think about it.”
“I told Joe that I was thinking about moving to Baton Rouge.”
Another pause. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know why, Lucille. I love you.”
She didn’t speak for another moment, and when she did her voice seemed lighter, somehow more at ease. “I need to think.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
“I may not know tomorrow.”
“Call me anyway.”
She said, “I love you, Studly. Always remember that.”
Lucille Chenier hung up, and I lay on my kitchen floor and smiled at the ceiling, and not very much later I knew that I had found the last and final way to bring Jonathan Green to justice.
Or, at least, a close approximation.
39
I called Eddie Ditko first. He came over that night, coughing and wheezing, but happy to eat spaghetti with the puttanesca sauce and listen to my account of the events in the maintenance shed while he recorded my every word. He grinned a lot while I talked and said that he could guarantee a bottom half of the front-page position for the story. He said, “Man, the shit’s gonna hit the fan when this comes out.”
