RK02 - Guilt By Degrees

by Marcia Clark

  “But the birth control pills didn’t help,” Pamela added.

  “Lilah was on birth control?” I asked.

  Pamela gave a twist of a smile. “I saw the pills in her purse about a week before the first miscarriage,” she said.

  “Did Lilah ever talk to you about wanting to have children?” I asked.

  Pamela gave a short bark of a laugh. “Never met anyone who wanted them less. Only kid on the block who wouldn’t babysit even for top dollar.”

  “But we know she got the treatments. In fact, according to the doctor, Zack went with her for all of them.”

  Guy cut in, his voice harsh. “Of course he did. The bastard was forcing her. Just couldn’t let her be.” He stood abruptly and stalked out of the room.

  I started to say we weren’t through but decided we’d be better off without him.

  “Your husband doesn’t think much of Zack,” I said. “Was it always that way?”

  “Always,” Pamela said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But that was nothing new. He never thought anyone was good enough for his baby girl. Hated them all. Every single one.”

  “But you liked Zack?” I asked.

  Pamela shrugged. “I didn’t know him that well. They didn’t visit much.” She pursed her lips. “But Lilah did complain about him once. It was about six months after they were married. Said he was abusive, said he was making her miserable. Said she wanted out. I told her, ‘You made your bed, now you lie in it—just like the rest of us.’” Pamela stopped and nodded to herself. “She was just so used to wrapping her daddy around her little finger, she didn’t know how to manage a man who didn’t jump whenever she called.” Pamela folded her arms. “That was her problem.”

  I was sure Lilah wished that was her only problem. I took an envelope out of my briefcase and handed it to Pamela.

  “I know you have no contact with Lilah,” I said. “But if she ever happens to drop by, I’d appreciate it if you gave her this.”

  Pamela raised an eyebrow and took the envelope. She made no promises, but she didn’t insult me with a lie either. It was a refreshing change.

  Ten minutes later, Bailey and I were back in the car and headed for the Biltmore.

  “You mind if I put the DA investigators on the house?” I asked.

  “May as well. But we both know it won’t work. Lilah will find a way to get that letter, but no way she’s going to show up here, where we can grab her.”

  “True,” I agreed. “But what’ve we got to lose?”

  Bailey nodded.

  The letter was, in part, another ploy to coax Lilah out. And Bailey was right: it wouldn’t work. It would, however, be my chance to leave a “message” for Lilah.

  Bailey headed up the on-ramp to the Golden State Freeway. “I wonder if Mom would’ve told anyone about the birth control pills before the acquittal?”

  “With her…? Anything’s possible,” I said.

  “Do birth control pills cause miscarriage?” Bailey asked.

  “They can,” I said. “And if I, who isn’t even thinking about getting pregnant, knows that—”

  “Then so would Lilah.”

  We rode in silence for a few moments, considering it all.

  “So now we know why Lilah couldn’t afford to wait,” Bailey said. “She couldn’t keep forcing miscarriages forever.” She turned onto Grand Avenue and parked in the loading zone.

  “Yeah, but there’s one more person I want to talk to.”

  I gave Bailey directions to Mike Howell’s office, a small suite in a building just outside downtown. Like me, he always worked late, so now was the best time to catch him.

  When he greeted us at the lobby door, I noticed his dirty-blond hair was already starting to recede. But he still looked trim in his slacks and shirtsleeves. He ushered us up the elevator and settled us on the couch in his office. He took the chair across the coffee table from us. “Can I get you anything to drink? No booze at the moment, but I’ve got water and soft drinks.”

  Bailey and I gratefully accepted the water.

  “So you want to talk about Lilah,” he said.

  “I know you can’t say much, but since she got acquitted, and you know I won’t go to the Feds, I thought you might be able to give us a little something.”

  “Fire away.”

  “We looked into your ‘skinhead did it’ defense,” I said. I raised an eyebrow.

  Mike nodded. He looked out the window as he spoke. “Tell you the truth, when Lilah first retained me, just based on what I saw of the prosecution’s case, I went back and forth: she did it, she didn’t do it. It was too tough to call. But when I got into…everything else…” Mike paused, then looked at me. “I don’t think she did it, Rachel.”

  My expression must’ve conveyed my skepticism, because he held up a hand.

  “You know I’m not one of those true believers who think all their clients are innocent victims of a vindictive prosecution. Ninety-nine percent of the time, my clients are guilty as sin.” He shook his head. “Not this time.”

  “You know about Zack forcing her to get pregnant? And that she took birth control pills to miscarry?” Bailey asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re sticking with the skinhead story?” I asked.

  “No.” Mike looked down at his hands and frowned. “I didn’t like it myself. But Lilah insisted. She wouldn’t let me go after the real killer.”

  “And that was?” I asked.

  “Her father.”

  Bailey and I drove back to the hotel in silence. When we got up to the room, I finally spoke. “Lilah’s either a world-class manipulator, or—”

  “It really is the truth.”

  There was nothing unusual about a defendant lying to his lawyer about being innocent. Defendants think—with some degree of accuracy—that a lawyer who believes in his client’s innocence will fight a lot harder than one who knows his client is guilty. But I’d never heard of a defendant offering up a straw man and then refusing to let the lawyer use that information at trial. It was a heck of a curveball, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was it an incredibly clever ploy to work her lawyer? Or did her father really do it? “What do you think? You believe Daddy might’ve done it?”

  She shook her head, looking perplexed. “Before today, I probably would’ve said no. But now? I don’t know.”

  I remembered Lilah’s father’s fury when he spoke of Zack and his efforts to get Lilah pregnant. It made him a somewhat plausible suspect. And yet…

  I headed for my bedroom. “It’s hard to believe Lilah’d take the fall for her father. I would’ve expected her to throw anyone she could under that bus.”

  “Who says Mike is right? Smart as he is, he could just be another Lilah Moonie who can’t believe the pretty girl’s an ax murderer. And like you said, she might be a world-class manipulator. Matter of fact, I’d be willing to bet she is.”

  I nodded. “And even if she thought she stood a better chance than her dad of getting the jury to acquit, there’s no telling what a jury will do. Any lawyer knows that.”

  Bailey sighed, and we both went to bed. Though I was skeptical of the theory that Lilah’s father had killed Zack, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resolve the question tonight. But I was too keyed up to sleep right away. I wondered what Lilah would make of the letter I’d written to her. I’d deliberately lied—hopefully not enough to be obvious but just enough to get her to pop off and do something stupid. It was the long shot of the century, but it cost me nothing. And I enjoyed the possibility that at the very least, I’d make her worry. A satisfying thought. And a good one to fall asleep on.

  87

  Lilah waited until she’d gotten back to her condo and locked her bedroom door. Then she took the envelope out of her purse and examined it for signs of tampering. It looked intact. Her mouth twisted in a bitter half smile. She knew it wasn’t respect for her privacy. Her parents just didn’t want to know. She used the nail of her index finger to slice
open the envelope and unfolded the letter.

  Lilah,

  I know why you killed Zack.

  You never did find the evidence he hid on the Tran Lee hit-and-run, did you?

  And I know he was trying to force you to get pregnant.

  The thought of carrying the child of the animal who held you hostage was too much, wasn’t it? And if you had children together, you’d never be free of him. It was a game that would go on forever. So Zack had to die, and you deserved to get away with it. By the way, the ax was a nice touch.

  Of course, you wouldn’t have had to deal with any of that if you hadn’t gotten drunk and run over that boy, Tran Lee. So when it comes right down to it, you only have yourself to blame.

  Still, I’m willing to offer you a deal.

  Plead guilty to aiding and abetting in Simon’s murder, and to Tran Lee’s hit-and-run. You do that, and I’ll let you plead to second-degree murder for Simon’s killing and I’ll agree to a concurrent sentence for Tran’s killing. That’ll give you fifteen years to life for two homicides.

  It’s more than fair.

  Call me, and I’ll arrange for you to surrender discreetly.

  But if I find you first, the deal is off.

  Rachel Knight

  Lilah barely managed to choke back the scream of rage. Her fault? None of it was her fault! That stupid kid—it was all his fault! She’d done nothing wrong! Lilah’s breath came in ragged spurts as she tore the letter again and again, until the pieces were too small to hold. Then she put them in the sink and burned them.

  88

  Morning came a little too early, but then, for me, it always did. I wanted to go back to sleep, but the clock said it was already seven thirty a.m.

  I dressed for work in slacks and a blazer, put on heels just for a change of pace, and packed my sneakers in a bag. I went out to the living room and found that Bailey’d ordered a devastatingly evil breakfast of French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon and sausage. I lifted the silver cover on my dish. Instead of my usual egg-white extravaganza, there was a plateful of the best-looking pancakes I’d seen in quite a while. And a side of bacon. I tried to act pissed off, but a big smile spread across my face, which undermined the effort considerably.

  “Just enjoy it for once,” Bailey said.

  “How can I ignore such sage advice?”

  I sat down, snapped open my napkin, and spread it across my lap. Then I got busy with my pancakes. They tasted even better than they looked.

  I noticed Bailey had a copy of the Daily Journal open in front of her. “What’re you reading that thing for?” I asked.

  “Toni told me the story Hemet gave to the press about you being a useless goldbricking Special Trials cherry picker—”

  “You are allowed to abbreviate now and then,” I said, stone-faced.

  “—was supposed to come out today,” Bailey finished.

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “She didn’t want you to stress over it,” Bailey said. “And now I’m really glad she didn’t.”

  “Because?” I prompted.

  “Because it’s not here.”

  I stared at Bailey, perplexed. Good news might evaporate, but bad news rarely did. “Why?”

  She shrugged.

  Bailey dropped me off at the courthouse and headed for the cop shop. Though I’d been working through the stacks of motions, reports, and messages that’d accumulated during my stint in the field, I still had a daunting array to get through, so I decided that today would be the day I got caught up all the way. I kept my head down, not even breaking for lunch, until eight thirty that night.

  When I’d finished, I leaned back in my giant chair and took in the scene with satisfaction: it was only a temporary condition, but my in-box was empty and several clean square inches of desk had emerged. I stretched and looked outside, surveying the view of downtown L.A. at night. The glowing windows in dark buildings, the faint hum of traffic, the stars hanging like silver dust in the night sky. I never tired of the view.

  But it was time to pack up and get out. It was Wednesday night and I had a date. I put my files in order, tossed my heels into the bag, pulled on my coat, and picked up my purse. I made it down to the lobby in mere seconds and trotted out to Chinatown, my destination the Oolong Café. I ordered double helpings of orange chicken, fried rice, beef chow mein, and steamed vegetables, and added an order of chow fun. They packed it up neatly in a grocery bag with handles, and I headed back down Broadway. Though Chinatown still had some action, the streets got emptier as I moved south. By the time I passed Temple, I was the only one on the sidewalk.

  The stretch between First and Second Street was the darkest, and I started to feel shaky as I drew closer to the corner. I considered going back to the courthouse, but that didn’t feel any safer. I started to fish out my cell phone, but using a cell would only distract me and keep me from hearing an approach. And I couldn’t hold the food and my gun in the other hand. I had no choice but to keep moving. I stood at the intersection of Broadway and First and peered into the darkness but saw no one.

  The light turned, and I stepped off the curb. I moved as quickly as I could on the uneven sidewalk, paying attention to every step, every second, and every inch of the space around me. I crossed the street and forced myself to move forward, into the darkness ahead. My throat felt tight, my mouth dry; it was an effort to swallow. I’d call it a panic attack, but there was nothing irrational about the fear I was feeling.

  Slowly but deliberately, I moved down the street, seeking out the one particular spot that was my destination. When I got to the middle of the block, I saw it. There, in the doorway on the corner, was the pile of blankets with the Lakers hat on top—my friend Cletus’s rig. I owed him big-time for his help on Simon’s case, and this was his Wednesday-night spot, where I usually brought him Chinese.

  I started to head for the blankets when suddenly there was a whoosh of air behind me, the precursor to a lethal swing. I ducked down and turned to see a slender man in dark clothing and a watch cap. Without thought, I doubled up and threw my body into his solar plexus. A black sap flew through the air where my head had been and landed with a heavy thud on the pavement. The flight of the sap drew my eye, and I reflexively looked up. A lucky move, because it pushed me back just as I felt his fingers reaching for my neck. I spun away and dug into my pocket for my gun.

  But he saw my move and knew what it meant. Before I could get it out, he lunged forward. I lifted my knee and swung out my foot, putting all of my body weight into a vicious kick, not caring where I connected. My foot hit his body with force, and I heard him grunt, but when I tried to pull it back, he grabbed and yanked. I landed flat on my back on the concrete, the wind knocked out of me. Momentarily stunned, I saw the glint of a knife in his hand and tried to pull my gun, but it was caught in the lining somehow.

  My hand trapped, I had to improvise. I put my finger on the trigger, did my best to aim, and fired from inside my pocket. And missed. The shot startled him, causing him to drop his knife. But he only paused for a second before reaching into his own pocket. I heard sirens in the distance. I hoped they were headed our way…and that they’d get here in time.

  Before he could withdraw his hand, two shots exploded from under Cletus’s blankets farther down the street. The man turned and fell back a step, momentarily stunned. Bailey burst out from under the blankets and raced toward us as she fired another round, hitting him in the thigh. That stopped him cold. I scrambled to my feet and had just regained my balance when he reached out and grabbed my arm. He pulled me toward him and went for his pocket again. Acting on pure instinct, I wrapped my hand around the barrel of my gun, turned into him, and smashed the butt of it into the side of his head—once, twice…by the third time, he let go and fell back.

  Bailey slammed him to the pavement and rolled him onto his stomach. Pinning him with a knee on his back, she ground his face into the concrete as she pulled out her zip ties. Just to be on the safe side,
I held my gun to his head while she cuffed him. When he was thoroughly trussed, I patted his jacket pockets and found a .38 revolver. I slid it on the ground, out of his reach. Police cars arrived in a screaming phalanx, responding to the sounds of gunfire. Bailey and I held up our shields. The police moved in fast and took over. As Bailey quickly explained the situation, I had a chance to get a clear look at our attacker, who’d lost his watch cap in the scuffle. He had the sinewy appearance of someone who was strong but flexible, and the watch cap had fallen off to reveal a shock of curly dark hair. There was something feral about his features—what I could see of them through the blood coursing down his face.

  Bailey pointed out the knife and the sap that’d fallen to the ground during the fight and made sure they got bagged and tagged. It looked like the kind of combat knife that’d been used to kill Simon. I doubted there’d be anything left on it to allow for DNA testing, but it was pretty distinctive. If all the other evidence panned out, it’d be a nice addition. After the police had loaded the suspect into a car, Mario, one of the investigators, showed up, looking like a balloon that was about to burst.

  “You two okay?” he asked, concerned.

  Bailey nodded.

  “Yep,” I replied. Though it hadn’t gone exactly as planned. We’d thought the attacker wouldn’t make his move until I had stopped at Cletus’s rig. Bailey would’ve been able to take him down before he knew what hit him. It was a flawless plan. Except, of course, it wasn’t. All he’d had to do to derail it was what he did: jump me a little sooner—just a half-block away from the blankets. Only now did it begin to hit me how crazy this whole idea had been. I decided I didn’t need to tell Mario every little detail.

  “Good,” he said flatly. With our welfare out of the way, he was free to let go of one giant hunk of pissitivity. His nostrils flared, and he put his hands on his hips and fixed me with an angry glare. “You were supposed to call me before you left the office.” He turned to include Bailey. “And you two idiots obviously planned this—”