Judgment at Santa Monica

by E. J. Copperman

  We were standing on the steps of the courthouse. I’d planned on going home with Angie, getting some Thai food and absolutely not thinking about Cynthia’s case, except all the time because who was I kidding? But Nate had shown up just as we left the building and dropped this particular bomb on me.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I know you, and you don’t just make stuff like that up. So who have you been talking to and what do you have to prove that Leopold didn’t die of a heart attack?’

  Nate was in such an urgent frame of mind that he didn’t ogle Angie at all and he forgot to show us how smug he was about how well he did his job. ‘Talked to a friend of mine who works in the ME’s office and had him look at some samples taken at the time. Nobody bothered to check for poisons because the guy had a heart attack, but sure enough when he ran the tests it came back positive for lily of the valley.’

  Angie, who was probably quite pleased not to be ogled for once (although she likes Nate fine) looked at him with confusion. ‘Lily of the valley?’

  ‘Yah. Apparently it’s a cardiac glycoside, and if you get enough of one of those, it can look a lot like you had a heart attack.’

  I was starting to see a theory develop. ‘And how do you get too much of it?’ I asked Nate.

  ‘It has a slightly sweet taste.’

  ‘So it can be hidden in food,’ I said. I wasn’t really talking to Nate so much as thinking out loud. ‘Probably dessert.’

  ‘And … this guy Leopold ate too much of it because it reminded him of candy?’ Angie is very smart. Don’t let her fool you, because she’ll try.

  ‘I think the important thing right now is to find out what was on the menu at Wendy Bryan’s house,’ I said.

  When I called Lieutenant Trench with my theory, which he described as ‘wild-eyed’, despite not being able to see my eyes at all, he used his best Vulcan ability to suppress emotion and did not let out an exasperated sigh. I know he wanted to. But instead he suggested that Nate and I (and Angie, but Trench didn’t suggest that) drop by his office to work things out.

  ‘I don’t see how this helps you with your case,’ he said after Nate explained what he had discovered. ‘Your client is not charged with killing Leopold Kolensky.’

  ‘Come on, Lieutenant, you’re a homicide detective,’ I said, although I was pretty sure he had not in any way forgotten that. ‘Doesn’t the possibility of a second, or in this case, a first murder taking place and involving the same woman tingle your spidey-sense just a tad?’

  ‘My … spidey-sense.’ Trench seemed to roll the term around in his mouth for a moment and, for lack of a spittoon, did nothing about it. ‘Trust me, Ms Moss, I will be perfectly happy to investigate something when I’m assigned to do it by the chief of detectives. And if there is a police report filed that indicates the need for a homicide detective, I’m sure that I or one of my fellow peace officers will look into it to the best of his or her ability.’

  I wanted to make a wry comment on the idea of ‘peace officers’, but I liked Trench in a way and didn’t want to insult him specifically. ‘I’m surprised at you, Lieutenant,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think procedure would get in your way when a possible murder victim hasn’t received justice.’

  That’s when things got weird. Trench wrinkled his nose. No, really. Just like a real person with a problem on his mind. Trench! I know!

  He took in a breath and looked at me. ‘I would greatly appreciate it if you did no more about this for the time being,’ he said. ‘As I said, I see no benefit to your efforts to acquit Ms Sutton of her mother-in-law’s murder.’

  ‘I think it has a lot to do with Wendy Bryan’s murder and I think it will direct suspicion away from my client,’ I told Trench, trying to goad him into revealing something he knew. Because he knew something. He always knows something. ‘And I intend to bring it up in court tomorrow. Can you give me a reason that I shouldn’t?’

  Trent remained silent for a moment, which was his way of groaning. ‘Ms Moss, I have no authority to tell you what you can or cannot do in a court of law. But I can inform you that it would seriously jeopardize an investigation I have been conducting for months if you were to make public what you think you know about the death of Leopold Kolensky.’

  ‘Leopold Kolensky was poisoned with lily of the valley, a cardiac glycoside that can simulate a heart attack,’ Angie told him, while Nate looked surprised. He might have wanted to drop this bomb himself but he seemed more shocked that Angie would remember all the words in the right order. People – OK, men – tend to underestimate Angie, usually at their own expense. ‘He probably ate it in a chocolate mousse he had at dinner at Wendy Bryan’s house the night he died, on an evening we know for a fact that Cynthia Sutton was not present.’

  ‘She was filming for her series that night, and we have a sign-in file from the studio that confirms it,’ Nate said. No matter what he needed to get some of his own back. Which was fair, since he was the one who’d unearthed all this information, including the studio records.

  Trench sat back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, a typical position he used when thinking. Of course, he was thinking all the time, but when he was really concentrating, the finger-lacing thing was his go-to posture.

  He looked at me. ‘You bring an unusually loyal team with you,’ he said. ‘The level of commitment is impressive.’

  ‘You’re trying not to say anything, Lieutenant, and I respect you well enough to understand that you have good reasons. But my job is to keep an innocent woman out of prison for the rest of her life and you are playing it cagey with me.’ I leaned forward and put my chin on my hands, elbows on the edge of Trench’s desk, which I knew he wouldn’t like. It was for effect. ‘If you know something that can help me, I’d like you to consider that when we knew something that could help you, we came straight here to tell you about it. And I can decide not to mention this information in court tomorrow, but I need a reason.’

  Trench stood up, probably because of the proximity of my face, and walked around a bit behind his desk. He wasn’t exactly pacing, but it would be hard to say he definitely wasn’t. ‘This is what I can tell you, Ms Moss,’ he said. ‘Mrs Bryan’s business, which was being managed by the late Mr Kolensky, was leveraged beyond normal limits. In other words, she was going broke. She had Mr Kolensky to her house weekly for dinner as a gesture of support and confidence in him. But that practice ended about seven months ago, and she did not invite him again for two months. Then he visited her for dinner once more and died that evening. You say it was a result of poisoning, the pathologist who did the autopsy said it was a coronary issue. You may take from that what you will. Now if you don’t mind, I have other pressing business.’

  And that’s when it dawned on me. ‘You’ve been investigating Kolensky’s death the whole time,’ I said to Trench. ‘That’s why you were outside Wendy Bryan’s house the night she was murdered. Did you suspect her housekeeper, Isobel Sanchez?’

  ‘You are speculating,’ Trench said, his voice a bit sterner. ‘And you are speculating without sufficient facts. That’s a dangerous game, Ms Moss. I’d advise you to reconsider what I’ve told you before and pay special attention to the people who have made several attempts on your life, and why they might be doing so.’ Just because Judy had stayed outside, he thought I’d relaxed my security efforts. I made no move to change his mind.

  I stood up, which probably was a relief to Trench. ‘I have just one question for you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Ask it quickly so you can leave,’ he suggested.

  ‘Do you know which nights Isobel Sanchez used to have off?’

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Mr Conway, did Wendy Bryan ever delay a payment to you?’

  Against my better judgment I’d listed Pete Conway as a defense witness, on the hope that he could speak to the financial problems at Rafael that I believed were among the reasons she had been murdered, which would help put my client, who was not having financial problems, in the clear. Pete
wasn’t exactly a friendly witness, but Valencia hadn’t seen a reason to call him as a prosecution witness, which made sense. I wasn’t sure Pete and Cynthia had actually ever met, so he’d have a serious problem implicating her.

  ‘It’s Chirac,’ Pete said.

  The stenographer, because yes, we still use them, looked up. ‘Excuse me?’ she said. Judge Hawthorne, who was visibly displeased by the stenographer performing an end run around her, decided not to say anything about it. But she nodded to Pete that he should answer.

  ‘My name. It’s Pierre Chirac.’

  ‘That isn’t your legal name, is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I am in the process of making it my legal name,’ Pete sniffed.

  It’s a one-hour process (including waiting in line) to change your name at a clerk’s office, but I let it go. I had to remember Pete was supposedly on my side. ‘Of course. Mr Chirac, would you please answer the question? Did Wendy Bryan ever delay paying you after she sold your artwork at her gallery?’

  I knew the answer to that question but I needed to have Pete say it. ‘I had not sold a piece at Rafael at the time Wendy died,’ he said, barely containing a sniffle. ‘My debut show was still being planned.’

  From there on, his testimony virtually matched Penelope Hannigan’s but for choice of words. Wendy, it seemed, was a secular saint who had propelled the careers of young artists (although neither could name one) and was about to send Pete – sorry, Pierre – hurtling into the stratosphere.

  Pierre: She found me literally painting in an attic and saw something no one else had seen.

  Penelope: Wendy had the best eye for talent I’ve ever known.

  Pierre: I practically lived at her house for three months when I couldn’t pay the rent in my boarding house.

  Penelope: She advanced Pierre fifty thousand dollars before the opening but didn’t live long enough to pay it.*

  ‘Wendy Bryan promised Pierre fifty thousand dollars in advance of his gallery show?’ I asked. ‘Is that commonplace in the art industry?’

  Penelope winced a bit at the use of the word industry. ‘The art world,’ she said. ‘No, galleries virtually never pay in anticipation of sales. Most take art on consignment, meaning the artist makes the piece available and then he and the gallery split the profit when the piece sells. Some galleries even charge artists to showcase their work. Wendy paid Pierre an advance. That was one way in which she was extraordinary.’

  ‘How did you find out about Wendy’s death?’ I asked Pierre. It was a polite way of saying, Where were you when someone stabbed her?

  ‘Penelope called me with the news.’

  ‘So you were not living in Wendy’s house when she died?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, no. I hadn’t been living in the guest bungalow for months.’ The guest bungalow. F. Scott Fitzgerald was right about the rich. Except that he was wrong.

  Still, I had to go on asking Pete questions. ‘How did you react?’

  ‘I was devastated.’

  ‘I have no doubt you were’ (especially since the fifty grand was now gone) ‘but what did you do?’ I asked.

  ‘I went right over there because, I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t going to believe it until I saw it.’ Pete blinked a few times in an attempt to conjure tears. It had the effect of making him look as if he was choking them back, which I guess was pretty much the same thing.

  ‘What did you do when you got to Wendy’s house?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Pete seemed baffled by the question. ‘The police were all over the place and wouldn’t let anyone in.’

  ‘How did you hear about Wendy Bryan’s death?’ I asked Penelope.

  ‘Isobel Sanchez called me,’ she answered. ‘I guess she was off that night because she was calling from her apartment in the Hollywood hills. She tried to break it to me gently, but there’s no easy way to tell someone a dear friend has been murdered with a TV award.’ There was something about the way Penelope said TV award that made me wonder if I was a snob about television and should give Patrick a break.

  ‘Was there any discussion, that night or after, of the fifty thousand dollars … Pierre had been promised by Wendy?’ I said. If she could be a snob about TV, I could be a snot about Pete’s desire to become French for no particular reason.

  ‘We asked about it, of course, but Wendy’s finances were in such a chaotic state. Her executive manager had just died of a heart attack and I don’t think there was anyone in charge of her money at all.’

  ‘Was that matter ever resolved?’

  ‘No,’ Penelope said. She looked away as if the lack of eye contact might mean I wasn’t paying attention to what she said. ‘The estate has been … well, there has not been clarity about the financial situation so far.’

  ‘Aren’t you and Mr Conway’ (because he had not legally changed his name) ‘suing Wendy Bryan’s estate for the fifty thousand?’ It was a matter of public record and I’m a lawyer. You thought I wouldn’t find out?

  Penelope mumbled a bit and Judge Hawthorne leaned down toward her. ‘Speak up please, Ms Hannigan.’

  ‘I said it’s really two hundred thousand,’ Penelope said too loudly. ‘We are also seeking relief for emotional suffering.’

  I walked directly in front of Penelope so she couldn’t avoid my gaze and, for a witness I’d called on my own, I leaned over a little aggressively. ‘Think carefully, Ms Hannigan, and remember there are penalties for perjury.’

  Valencia stood up. ‘Your Honor, does the defense attorney realize she called Ms Hannigan as a friendly witness?’ He was posturing to make me look mean to the jury, and in this case I really didn’t mind very much. It would be a passing moment and my closing statement was a couple of days away. I could win them back.

  ‘Is there an objection there, Mr Valencia?’ Hawthorne was playing it by the book. Good for her and not bad for me.

  ‘No, Your Honor.’ Valencia sat down. The jury probably didn’t even understand what had just happened.

  ‘Proceed, Ms Moss.’

  I didn’t lean in as far this time; my point had been made. ‘Ms Hannigan, were you aware before she died that Wendy Bryan was in financial trouble and that she couldn’t pay Mr Conway the fifty thousand dollars?’

  Penelope’s eyes flashed anger and a few of the jurors at least probably saw it. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘And yet you had contacted a Mr M.H. Brady, a lawyer specializing in breach of promise suits, a week before Wendy Bryan died,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you? Weren’t you asking him about suing her for the fifty grand?’

  Again Valencia leapt to his feet. ‘This time I have an objection, Your Honor. Counsel is badgering her own witness.’

  ‘I have the records from Mr Brady’s office and can produce Mr Brady’s executive secretary if necessary, Your Honor,’ I said. Everybody in Hollywood is an executive something.

  ‘Then she doesn’t need an answer from Ms Hannigan,’ Valencia argued.

  ‘Maybe not, but I’d like to hear it,’ Hawthorne told him. ‘Overruled. Ms Hannigan?’

  Penelope stared forward. ‘What?’

  ‘Please answer the question.’ Hawthorne didn’t have the court stenographer read it back because she knew perfectly well that Penelope had heard my question the first time.

  Still, she took a moment to compose herself, as if she’d been horribly insulted and needed a break to contain her horrified emotions. ‘We were in touch with Mr Brady to discuss the possibility of a lawsuit, but it was not filed until after Wendy had passed away.’

  ‘How long before she died did you know about the tenuous state of Mrs Bryan’s finances?’ I asked.

  ‘As I said before, I didn’t know,’ Penelope fairly snarled.

  ‘Then why were you consulting about a possible lawsuit, which became a real lawsuit?’

  ‘Because she hadn’t paid Pierre,’ Penelope answered. ‘I didn’t know that she hadn’t paid anyone else, either.’

  I had asked one last question of Pete. ‘Did you and Wendy Bryan ha
ve a romantic relationship?’

  Valencia: ‘Objection!’

  ‘I withdraw the question.’

  FORTY

  ‘How do you think we’re doing?’ Patrick asked me.

  The court was in recess for half an hour because Judge Hawthorne had business she needed to oversee and we (Patrick, Cynthia, Jon, Angie, the inescapable Emily and I) had taken over a conference room with the help of a custodian named Will, who was clearly hoping Angie would smile upon him. Which she did. Smile. That was it.

  ‘We’re holding our own,’ I said honestly, sipping from a water bottle I’d gotten from a hallway vending machine. Talking makes my voice raspy, which sounds threatening to a jury. I was trying to avoid that. Hot tea would have been better, except that I hate tea. ‘But we haven’t scored the knockout blow we need just yet.’

  Cynthia who, as in most of our conferences, was trying to distract herself because, she’d told me, ‘I get scared when I think about it,’ looked up from the paperback novel she was reading. ‘Do you have that ready, Sandy?’ she asked. ‘Is there a knockout on its way?’

  ‘We haven’t found the real killer yet,’ Patrick said, then saw the look I gave him and held up his hands in a defensive position. ‘Sorry, love.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’m British.’

  Jon, who had been obsessing over his phone from the time Hawthorne had banged her gavel for recess, didn’t look up now. ‘I think we have enough for reasonable doubt.’

  I nodded in his direction even though he didn’t see me. What was going on with his phone was too fascinating and probably incredibly nerdish. Jon follows sites about comic books, horror movies and superhero TV shows. Jon is complex.

  ‘I agree,’ I told him, ‘but juries are funny. I’d feel better if we could cover over unreasonable doubt as well. I want each and every one of those people to be absolutely certain Cynthia didn’t kill Wendy Bryan.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Cynthia said for, by my count, the zillionth time. We left a pause in the conversation out of habit.