by Kenneth Eade
Brent knew that, since he had set aside the foreclosure sale and the title to Nancy’s townhome was clear, his bail bondsman would write a bond secured by her home for $100,000.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Back at the office, Brent had an appointment with his investigator, Jack Ruder. Jack was a 50-something ex-FBI agent from L.A. who was living his dream retirement in Santa Barbara. Jack walked into Brent’s office wearing a grey G-Man type suit. Lean, fit and looking ten years younger than his age, he could have been on the cover of an FBI training manual
“Hey, Jack. Damn it if you don’t always look like a cop.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Nothing Jack. Sit down, we’ve got a lot to cover. Now, I’ve talked to all of the potential witnesses just to feel them out, you know, but you’re going to have to get in there and talk to them like a cop.”
“I think I may be able to do that, Brent.”
“I thought so. Be careful of that Keith Michel. He’s a wiseass.”
“Should I also talk to Mrs. Haskins?”
“Especially her, Jack. I’d like to know if we’re defending an innocent woman or not.”
“What do you think?” asked Jack, furrowing his brow and leaning in toward Brent.
“Why, Jack, it looks like you really care.”
“Of course I do.”
“I see the Boy Scout has never grown up. Me too, Jack. I care whether our client is guilty or not and I just don’t buy it. Plus, I believe the old lady. I think someone set her up.”
* * *
Jack’s first stop on his tour was Detective Roland Tomassi’s office.
“Hey, Jack, been a while,” said Tomassi when Jack popped his head into his office.
“Got a minute?”
“Yeah, come on in.”
Jack sat down in one of the two steel chairs in front of Tomassi’s not so impressive desk, stacked with papers, files and pictures of his wife and kids.
“I’m on the Haskins case,” said Jack.
“What can I do for you, Jack? All the discovery has to go through the D.A.”
“I know. We’ve got the initial discovery. I’ve looked at the evidence and the reports, and I just don’t get something.”
“What?”
“Why would the perp rig the ricin to pop off in the victim’s face, and then come back to erase all the evidence, but take the flower wrapping home to throw it away?”
“I asked myself the same thing.”
“And where are the flowers?”
“We never found them.”
“It just doesn’t make sense, Rolly. I think you’ve arrested the wrong person.”
“It’s what we’ve got. The evidence is telling us what happened, Jack, not the other way around. Evidence doesn’t lie.”
“I know, but it doesn’t make sense.”
“In our world does anything really make sense?”
* * *
Jack’s rounds with the neighbors were not popping up any new leads either, except for the fact that, whomever he listened to, the person he interviewed seemed to reveal a new possible suspect. There was the pot smoking surfer who made no bones about the fact that he was glad Barbara was dead, the couple with the dead son who didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse about her passing; almost all of the residents in Orange Grove seemed to be happier now that Barbara was gone.
Jack finished his neighborhood tour just as it was getting dark. He decided to top off the day with a visit to Frances Templeton, who grudgingly admitted him into her home.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. Ruder.”
“That’s alright ma’am, neither do I.”
Templeton showed Jack in, but remained standing with her hands on her hips and didn’t offer him a seat.
“Brent Marks has already talked to me.”
“I know.”
“Did you also know that Brent represented me in my divorce?” she asked, coldly.
“Yes ma’am, I do. Do you think that this fact compromises his representation of Mrs. Haskins?”
“Well it surely does as far as the Association is concerned,” Templeton huffed.
“I don’t see that it’s relevant in a murder case.”
“Well, ask what you’re going to ask. I’ve got about five minutes.”
“Did you ever witness Mrs. Haskins to threaten Ms. Densmore in any way?”
“Like I told the detective, she practically attacked Barbara when she just tried to give her a citation.”
“You mean when she told Barbara to shove the ticket and gave her the finger?”
“Yes!”
“Did she threaten her life in any way?”
“She was violent!”
“What did she do besides tell Barbara to shove the ticket and show her finger?”
“Well, she…”
“Nothing else?”
“Well, no, but…”
“And you never saw anything else that could be considered a violent threat to Barbara?”
“Well, there was the time she threatened to kill both of us.”
“She threatened to kill you?”
“Yes, she did.”
“How was that?”
“We had just served her with a notice of default to foreclose on her house…”
“Yes?”
“And she was driving by Barbara’s house. We were standing outside and she yelled from the car, ‘I wish you both were dead!’”
“I see. That’s exactly what she said?” asked Jack, taking notes.
“Yes, she said she wished we both were dead. And now Barbara is dead, and if you get that woman out of jail, I may be next.”
* * *
As Jack was leaving the rather uneventful interview with Frances Templeton, he noticed a bright light next door. It seemed to be seeping from a crack in the weather-stripping around the garage. Since he needed to talk to Keith Michel anyway, he walked toward the light onto the driveway, and noticed that the side door to the garage was ajar.
“Mr. Michel?” he called, as he pushed the door open wider.
Jack felt a jab in his gut from the dark and looked forward to find the barrel of a shotgun shoved against his abdomen.
“Make a move and I blow you away!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jack froze, as a surge of adrenalin brought the hairs on his neck to full alert and beads of sweat instantly popped out on his forehead.
“Hands up!” said the stranger with the shotgun. He was Hispanic, around his mid-30’s and wearing surfer gear; probably one of Michel’s roommates. Jack immediately complied.
“You got a warrant, Chupas?”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator.”
“You look like a cop.”
“Everyone says that,” ventured a smiling Jack, his half-assed attempt at humor to lighten the situation.
“What are you doing here, cavron?”
“I came to talk to Keith Michel.”
“Why don’t you use the front door like everyone else? I could’ve blown you away.” The fat stranger patted Jack down with his left hand, keeping the shotgun pinned against his gut, and removed Jack’s Glock 9mm from his shoulder holster. “And you’re packin.” The stranger tucked the gun into his pocket. “Looks like we got us a situation,” he said, taking a couple of paces backward.
“Can I just come in and explain?”
“You ain’t explainin nothin.”
“Could you at least put the shotgun down? I’m not armed anymore.”
The stranger put the shotgun at his side and Jack exhaled nervously, but not loud enough so that the stranger could notice. This business required a thick skin of discipline. Jack recalled the day when, as an LAPD cop before his FBI days, he answered a domestic violence call. One moment, the woman had been standing in front of him in the doorway, animated and ranting and raving about her husband and the next moment she was gone and in her place was a
man holding a smoking shotgun with a blank look on his face. Inside, Jack was crumbling apart, but on the outside, he appeared to have nerves of steel when he commanded the man to turn over the gun.
Jack averted his eyes over the stranger’s shoulder to try to get a look into the garage.
“Whaddaya lookin at?” yelled the stranger, going for the shotgun.
“Nothing, nothing. Look, just give me my gun back and I’ll leave.”
The stranger took the Glock out of his pocket, ejected the clip, slid open the slide and checked the chamber, then emptied out the clip, popping bullets onto the pavement, and slammed the slide back with the precision of a knowledgeable gun handler. He handed the gun back to Jack, and immediately took up his shotgun again, standing at ready position.
“Can you please tell Mr. Michel to give me a call?”
“Whadda I look like? An answering service?”
“I’ll give you my card, may I?” Jack asked, reaching for his vest pocket, and resisting the urge to answer the stranger’s question. The stranger nodded and waved the shotgun. Jack took out the card and handed it to him.
* * *
While Jack was on his field trip, Brent was enjoying some well-deserved rest and relaxation, with no clients and no cats. He had gone home after leaving the office to feed the cat, shower and freshen up for his date with Angela. When he arrived to her two-level Spanish style apartment, he practically ran past the fountains and gardens which usually gave him pause because they were so beautiful. It was true that being apart built up anticipation, but it was beginning to be a real killer.
Brent knocked on the door of Angela’s apartment, and she opened it, wearing hardly anything but a smile.
“Quick, come in,” she said, as she pulled him inside.
“Oh, I get it. You’re getting ready, uh, where do you want to go?”
“Brent are you blind?” said the light-haired green eyed beauty in the slinky blue silk bathrobe that barely covered her small round bottom.
“Huh?”
Angela knew that once Brent “got it,” all the time she spent on preparation would be appreciated. Sometimes men are so dense, she thought. She leaned forward for a kiss so Brent could not quite embrace her, but could get a good whiff of her scent.
“We’re staying here tonight.”
Brent tried to softly pull her to him for a hug, but she broke away, giggling.
“I’m making you dinner,” she said, pulling the tie on her robe and letting it fall to the ground, exposing lacy negligee that barely covered her small but perfectly rounded breasts, and left not a lot to the imagination. “And I’m dessert.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jack Ruder was on time, as usual, but not as crisp as he normally appeared, when he walked into Brent’s office.
“Long night, Jack?” asked Brent.
“Long and hard.”
“Sounds like the title of a porno movie.”
“Very funny,” said Jack, as he sat down in the wooden chair in front of Brent’s desk with a sigh. “Can’t you afford a more comfortable chair?”
“Dude, those cost me a fortune. Besides, we don’t want clients to get too comfortable. Just long enough to say what’s necessary.”
“I thought you charged by the hour.”
“Well, Jack, since you do too, let’s get down to it. What’ve you got so far?”
“Well, first of all I was almost shot by a Hispanic guy with a shotgun.”
“Really?” Brent at once felt out of his joking mood.
“Keith Michel’s house. As I was leaving my interview with Frances Templeton, I noticed the garage side door was ajar at Michel’s house. I needed to talk to him anyway, so I approached. Before I knew it, I was cozying up to a shotgun. Almost pissed my pants.”
“What do you make of it?”
“I think it has something to do with drugs. Maybe a meth lab. Tomassi says Michel’s a pot-head. Maybe they’re growing marijuana.”
“Interesting that a meth lab might be right next door to Templeton and all she can think about is blue curtains.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s the greatest lead for us.”
“Instincts aside, Jack, we’re dealing with creating reasonable doubt here. If Barbara Densmore got too snoopy and discovered something she shouldn’t have seen, that’s a great motive for the killer to take her out. Let’s pursue it.”
“Even if it turns into an agency or a DEA case?”
“Especially if it does. What about the couple with the dead son?”
“I’m not wild about that lead, either. The wife is pretty likeable.”
“Some of the most likeable people on the outside are capable of truly heinous things.”
“I know. I’ll keep following that one. I still haven’t talked to the husband. There’s a lot of people who live in Orange Grove who weren’t sad to see Densmore go. But they don’t like Templeton either.”
“How did it go with her?”
“Got nothing out of that one.”
“But don’t let it go.”
“Roger that.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s about it. It’s going to take some time Brent. Do you need any of this for the preliminary hearing?”
“No. This is going to trial no matter what. The prelim is just for going through the motions. We know the judge will hold Nancy to answer. Just let me have your notes from your interviews with Detective Tomassi. It might help with the suppression motion.”
“Right.”
* * *
Nelson sat by the table while Nancy ate her lunch, intently staring at every move she made, with the cutest look he could manage on his face. Nancy picked at her food. She hadn’t had an appetite since getting out of jail. She looked at Nelson and smiled. She could never get over how cute he was.
“Don’t worry, baby. Mommy hasn’t forgotten about you.”
Now that Burt was gone, Nelson was the only friend that Nancy had, and who knows for how long. Well, she thought, You could say that about anyone. We are all alone in this world; even in a crowd.
Nancy picked up her almost full plate and headed to the kitchen, with Nelson jumping at her heels. She selected a small piece of chicken to give him, and he was already twirling in circles and going through his whole repertoire of tricks to earn it.
“This is going to be easy today, Nelson,” she said as she dropped the piece of chicken. Nelson caught it and continued his floor show. Nancy couldn’t hang around for more. She had an important meeting with Brent Marks.
* * *
Brent was just finishing his lunch with Angela at a quaint little café right across from the Santa Barbara courthouse. Santa Barbara was a small town, but it had over 100 restaurants. They sat at a table on the patio, where they could enjoy the view of the beautiful courthouse gardens.
“Your preliminary hearing is tomorrow, isn’t it?” asked Angela.
“Yes, it is.”
“How does it look?”
“In state court, it’s pretty basic. We know that the judge is going to hold Nancy to answer. The only question is: how will he rule on the motion to suppress.”
“They don’t get granted too often, do they?”
“No, and Detective Tomassi is going to say she gave her consent for the search.”
“Then why make the motion?”
“I’m not so sure she knew what she was consenting to. Anyway, she’s coming into the office in about 15 minutes, so I have to run.”
* * *
When Brent got back to the office, Nancy was already there in the waiting room, fidgeting in her chair.
“Hi Nancy, I’ll be right with you. Any messages Mimi?” Brent asked his secretary.
“No, it’s been pretty quiet here.”
“Thanks. Okay Nancy, come on in.”
Brent led Nancy to his office and she sat down.
“Brent I’m so nervous,” she said, as she took off her round horn-rimmed glasses to clean them.
“Don’t worry Nancy. As I told you before, this is just a preliminary hearing. It’s to determine if the judge thinks they have enough evidence to hold a trial, and I can guarantee you that in almost 100% of all cases, he does. All he has to do is find probable cause to hold you over. There’s nothing we can do to avoid a trial.”
“That’s not reassuring, Brent, but I trust you,” Nancy said, her hands shaking.
“And I’m not calling you to testify. There’s no point to tell your story now.”
“Why not?”
“Because, first, you have a right not to say anything. And second, it won’t help you no matter what you say at this point. Like I said, this is going to trial and if you tell your story, you’ll tell it to the jury because they’re the ones who will be making the decision. The only thing that could keep this from going to trial is a favorable ruling on our motion to suppress.”
“What are the chances of winning that?”
“Slim to none, but it may help us later if we have to appeal.”
“Appeal?” Nancy’s forehead wrinkled, her eyes wide with fear.
“Let’s do this with baby steps, Nancy. First, let’s get through the motion to suppress and the preliminary hearing.”
“Okay Brent. Thank you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Judge Brian Clark had been on the Santa Barbara Municipal Court bench before all Municipal Courts had become Superior Courts, but the job had not changed much with the change of title. He was still in charge of the court’s preliminary hearing mill. He was a balding man in his late 40’s, with still some brown hair left, and he had a habit of sucking on cough drops, even when he was on the bench.
In every felony case, a judge had to conduct a preliminary hearing, to determine if there was enough cause to hold the accused to a trial. It was kind of a one-man show, where the D.A. put on his or her most important witnesses, usually police officers, and the outcome almost always ended in the judge holding the defendant to answer. But it gave the defense a little peek into how those witnesses would act at the trial.
