by Marcia Clark
“They found Jenny Knox. She’s dead.”
THIRTY-THREE
I stopped abruptly, and a young kid on a skateboard almost rammed into me. It took me a second to process what she’d said. “Hang on, let me get in the car so I can put you on speaker.” When we were settled in the car, I asked, “Where’d they find her?”
“In the morgue.”
“What? How long has she been there?”
“About a year. She’d been strangled to death. Her body had been found in a dumpster.”
I held my breath as my brain tried to push away the implications. “How come . . . why are they only finding out about it now?”
“Because she didn’t have any ID on her when they found her body. She was in the morgue as a Jane Doe—”
“Does the paperwork say why they only just found her?”
“I didn’t get any of this from discovery. I got it on the news. It’s everywhere. On TV, the Daily Beast, Deadline, Twitter.”
I wanted to bang my head on the dashboard. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Yeah, that’s me, always kidding about dead hookers. Anyway, I’m guessing Zack will fill you in. He just called a few minutes ago.”
“Did they say how long after the rape charge she got killed?”
Michelle sighed. “Yeah. They said it was about a week after she made the report.”
I ended the call and sat staring through the windshield. I felt sick as the obvious connection sank in. Dale had one hell of a motive to kill this woman. And the timing was hideously perfect.
“Goddamn it!” I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. I felt like a mountain had just rolled on top of me.
Alex sighed. “I know the timing looks bad, but Dale wasn’t the only one who had a reason to hate her. This lady had a lot of enemies, Samantha.”
“But none of them had been accused of raping her, and none of them stood a chance of losing his career because of her.”
“The DA can’t put this in at the trial, can he?”
“It doesn’t matter. If our jury pool thinks Dale killed one woman . . .”
Alex swore softly. “So now it’s not just the rape. We’ve got another murder to get him out of.”
I nodded, too miserable to speak. And we didn’t have much time. The indictment would come down any day now, which meant we’d be in trial within sixty days. “We’d better head to Twin Towers and find out what Dale has to say about all this.”
I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to have to confront the fact that he’d probably held out on me again. And lied straight to my face about it again. The thought of having to see his earnest expression, to hear his “heartfelt” apology, made my stomach turn. And just like all the other times, it’d be nothing more than the command performance of a sociopath.
While Alex drove, I took out my cell and found Zack’s number. I wasn’t anxious to talk to him. But I needed to get some information before I saw Dale.
“DA’s office, Zack Chastain.”
“It’s Samantha—”
“I didn’t let this story out. I don’t know who—”
“Okay, whatever.” Jenny Knox’s murder was a matter of public record. Anyone could’ve dropped a dime on this one. “When and where was the body found, and what’s the time of death?” I was back in lawyer mode, searching for the gaps. If Dale had any kind of alibi, I could muddy the waters.
“Hang on.” I heard papers shuffling. “They found her at a little after five a.m. on January eighth. She was in a dumpster on Selma Street in Hollywood. Coroner makes her time of death anywhere after ten p.m. on the seventh, to two or three a.m. on the eighth.”
“What’ve you got on the suspect? Any prints? DNA? Fibers?”
“Not that I know of so far. They’re going back over everything.”
“How come they just found her now?”
“I told my IO to rerun all the Jane Doe prints from the coroner’s office in the past year. But I’m giving you fair warning—if I can tie this to Dale, I’m going to try and get it in at trial.”
And if he succeeded, we’d be toast. I heard someone in the background telling Zack the meeting was starting. “I’ve gotta jet,” he said. “Just so you know, the sheriffs are moving on the leak investigation. I gave them my statement yesterday.” He paused for a brief moment, then cleared his throat. “I keep forgetting how messed up this whole thing must be for you. I can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“Yeah, me neither. When are we going to get the reports?”
“You’ll get everything we’ve got in the next hour—”
“Okay, thanks—”
“Wait.” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about that low blow in court. About this being too personal for you and . . . all that. It was over the line.”
Was he trying to soften me up for the kill? Trying to get me to let my guard down? Or . . . unbelievable and improbable as it was, did he really mean it? “Thanks.”
I spent the rest of the ride downtown fantasizing about the ideal alibi. That Dale would say he’d been working at a soup kitchen for the homeless that night, or working at a shelter for runaways, or providing free security at a fund-raising party for the oncology ward of Children’s Hospital.
Since he’d never done any of the above—or anything remotely like it—I knew these fantasies were unlikely to materialize. As a backup, I’d settle for him being tied up at another crime scene where fifty cop-hating (makes the alibi more credible) civilians had seen him. But hell, let’s face it, five civilians . . . or three . . . or even one old drunk would do.
Alex paused as we neared the entrance to Twin Towers. “Samantha, I don’t mind waiting out here if you want—”
“No. You’re investigating this case. You need to hear what he has to say about this.” And I didn’t want to be alone with Dale.
I could feel the acid churning in my stomach as we made our way up to the attorney room. It was the rape charge all over again—but worse, so much worse. I didn’t want to believe Dale had killed Jenny Knox, but I knew the odds were that he had. No matter what he said. I couldn’t let myself fall for his act again. Having my belief in him get shattered over and over had left me feeling bruised and battered inside. I couldn’t do it anymore.
When the guards brought Dale up, he was smiling. He didn’t know. Good. It’d give me a chance to gauge his reaction.
I picked up the phone. “They found Jenny Knox.” I paused and watched his face. “She’s dead.”
His eyes widened. “What? How the fu . . .” He rubbed his forehead. It took him a few seconds before he looked up again. “Who killed her?”
I stared at him.
He leaned forward and put a hand on the glass between us. “Samantha, I didn’t do this. I swear. You’ve got to believe me.”
It was a good performance. But then again, it always was. I waved the “Lawyer 101” flag. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. Your jury pool is going to think you did it because you had the motive. I heard she was strangled, but I haven’t seen the autopsy report yet. I need you to think back about what your schedule was like a year ago. Specifically on the night of January seventh into the early morning hours of January eighth.”
“What day of the week—”
“Tuesday.” I paused to give him time to dredge up any memories. “Do you have any idea whether you might’ve been on call?”
He stared over my shoulder for a few seconds. “I could’ve been. But I’m not sure.”
“And I guess you can’t remember right now whether you were at a crime scene.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. I didn’t really expect him to. It’d been more than a year ago. “I’ll get your work records from the department. Assuming for now that you weren’t at a crime scene, who were you most likely to have been hanging out with?”
He rubbed his temple. “Rick Saunders . . . Nate Flemming . . . Ignacio Silva . . . Larry Scofield.” He paused and stared at th
e counter in front of him for a few seconds, then shook his head. “That’s all I can think of.”
Alex wrote down the names.
“Are they all detectives?” He nodded. “In Hollywood?”
“Rick and Nate are. Ignacio’s in Rampart, and Larry is . . . I’m not sure where he is now. He was hoping to transfer out to Wilshire Division.” He ran a hand through his hair, which made it stand up on top.
“We need some decent counter-spin right now. Who can we put on camera to say good things about you? Cops won’t help; everyone expects them to stick up for you. We need some civilians. Like family, childhood friends, college friends—maybe neighbors? And it’d be a twofer if any of them were women.”
Dale shook his head slowly, looking depressed. “Mom passed away a while ago. Dad’s got dementia. He’s in a nursing home in Phoenix. My sister lives out there, too, but we haven’t spoken in years.”
“Why?” Even as the words left my mouth, I knew it was a question I would never have asked any other client.
He looked away. “Just kind of lost touch. Different lives . . . she’s not a big fan of the police.” His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment. When he finally looked at me, he sighed. “Karen got busted for an illegal grow when she was living up near Sacramento.”
“Did you help her out?”
“I put in a good word for her, but I couldn’t do a whole lot. Sacramento PD doesn’t care much about what an LAPD cop says.”
But it sounded like she’d held it against him anyway. “These are what you might call extenuating circumstances. You don’t think she’d step up?” He shook his head. Too bad—a sister would’ve been a nice touch. And having a bust for growing marijuana would’ve helped us with the young jurors. I finally told him that I’d met Lisa, that she was a great kid and would probably make a good impression. “From what she said, I doubt her mom would be much help, but Lisa’s way in your corner—”
Dale’s eyes flashed and he slapped the counter. “No! I told you already. I won’t have her dragged into this!”
The guard put a hand on his Taser. I shook my head at him and held up a hand. I mouthed, “It’s okay.” I looked at Dale. His face was closed, hard. “Lisa could really help you. But if you’re willing to pay the price—”
He stared directly into my eyes and spoke quietly but with a hint of menace. “I am. Let it go.”
I didn’t have to let him make this call, but I decided I would. Unlike a lot of my other clients, I knew Dale wouldn’t use it against me if he got convicted. And I have to admit, I admired his willingness to make the sacrifice. “What about friends?”
“I didn’t keep in touch. I had a college buddy—Louie D’Angelo—but we lost contact when I got into the police academy.”
“Any old girlfriends?”
Dale had a sad half smile as he shook his head. “Just ex-wives. I hadn’t been on a date in almost fifteen years when I met Chloe.”
Damn. No women, no civilians, so we were screwed on the PR front. And it looked like the only shot we had at an alibi was a fellow cop. I was losing ground fast. I had to wrap up so I could think of a way out of this.
I gave Dale the update on what Alex and I had dug up so far. As I spoke, I could see he was having a hard time focusing. The news about Jenny Knox had really shaken him up. That made two of us. When I finished, I asked Dale if he remembered hearing Paige or Chloe mention a guy named Marc.
“I . . . no. I don’t.”
Of course not. I stared at him. “You need to think hard about your alibi. Your indictment’s going to come down any day now. When it does, I need—you need me—to be able to say you have an alibi.”
Dale looked at me, his expression forlorn. “I’m sorry, I know this is hell for you, Sam.”
I scanned his face. It radiated nothing but apology and sadness. It was such a great act that even now, I could feel myself getting drawn in by it. And that was the scariest part of all. I hung up the phone and walked out.
THIRTY-FOUR
There was a leaden feeling in my chest as I headed out to the car with Alex. Neither of us spoke. I didn’t want to let my thoughts coalesce. If I did, I’d sink even further.
But I wanted to know what Alex thought. I waited until we got into the car. “Did you believe him?”
He shrugged. “If I didn’t know about the rape charge, I probably would. He really sounds sincere. But now? I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
So even Alex was feeling differently about Dale. I had to find a way to stanch the bleeding or Dale would be DOA by the time we got to trial. I’d gotten onto the 101 Freeway and was heading back to the office when I saw the Warner Bros. water tank towering above the freeway. I remembered we still hadn’t cornered that writer, Geoffrey Brocklin, the guy Chloe had been seeing at some point. I had less hope than ever that he’d do us any good, but I was feeling desperate. He was our last thread to pull with Chloe. And besides, I needed the distraction. I asked Alex if he was up for a fight.
“Hell, yeah. I don’t know if he’s back yet, but it’s worth a try.”
The last time we visited the set, Alex had made a fan of Ramie, the showrunner’s assistant. Now, he called her and found out that Geoff was in the writer’s room. She agreed to get us onto the lot.
When he ended the call, I told him to give Michelle the information we’d gotten from Amaya and let her follow up on Marc Palmer.
“You don’t want me to do that?”
“No. Marc’s a side issue. I need you to move on Dale’s alibi witnesses.”
Alex nodded and pulled out his phone. He looked almost as grim as I felt. As Alex spoke to Michelle, I faced the fact that there were just too many “coincidences” happening around Dale and the women in his life. The truth was, Dale had probably killed them all—Chloe, Paige, and Jenny. And if I could do the math, so could the cops. They were probably already pulling up all the unsolved homicides in every division Dale had worked—which was all over the county. That’s what I would’ve done.
Dale was probably a serial killer. My throat tightened as tears threatened to well up. I forced a deep breath. I couldn’t afford to let this get to me. I was fighting a war on two fronts now that Jenny Knox’s murder was out in the open.
I pulled onto the lot and found a parking space close to the building that housed the writing staff. When Ramie saw us approaching, she smiled and waved. It had nothing to do with me. She was twitterpated with Alex. She walked over to us, then glanced around and whispered to him, “I’ll tell Geoff someone’s waiting for him in the director’s office. You’ll have to take it from there.”
She led us to the office, then went to get Geoffrey Brocklin. I braced myself. Any friend of Chloe’s was bound to be an enemy of ours.
Geoffrey stopped in the doorway and frowned. “Who are you?” His hair was shaggy, his wire-rimmed glasses sat too far down on his nose, and his clothes looked like they’d been slept in.
“I’m Samantha Brinkman and this is my associate, Alex Medrano.” I figured associate sounded better than investigator.
Geoffrey’s eyes widened. “You’re that killer’s lawyer? No fucking way am I talking to you—”
He turned to go. Ordinarily, I would’ve let him. There’s no point in trying to beat down a witness who doesn’t want to talk to you. But I was in an angry mood and more than willing to share it.
“That’s fine. Then here’s how it’s going to go: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves why Geoffrey Brocklin wouldn’t even give us five minutes to tell him why we thought Dale Pearson might not be the killer? Wouldn’t an innocent man, one who has nothing to hide, want to do all he could to make sure the real murderer is brought to justice? Because we all know the police can get it wrong. We’ve all seen the stories about men and women who spent twenty, thirty years in prison for crimes they didn’t commit. But Geoffrey Brocklin didn’t want to hear it. Because Geoffrey Brocklin knew who did it—and he knew it wasn’t Dale Pear—”
“Are you kidding me? No one’s going to buy that!”
I tilted my head. “You sure? You and Chloe were close. Everyone knows it. So when she dumped you for Dale, you got jealous.” I actually had no idea whether that was true. “And you don’t have an alibi for that night.” I was bluffing about that, too. If I was wrong, he’d call security and we’d be bounced out on our asses. At this point, I didn’t care.
Geoffrey set his jaw. “We were never a couple. I was just a friend.”
Yes. Like they say, I’d rather be lucky than good. “What did she tell you about Dale?”
“Just that he was a pain in the ass. She kind of liked the idea of dating a cop; it was a change of pace for her. But she said he gave her a lot of shit.”
“About what?”
A defiant look crossed his face. “I don’t know. She didn’t really say.”
“Bullshit. It was about using. She was back on the needle.”
Geoffrey stared at me for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “I was actually on his side about that.” He looked out the window, his expression bleak. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out. She went through hell to get clean and put her life back together. Watching her slide back down, inch by inch . . . it killed me.”
“You tried to get her to stop?”
He sighed. “It was maddening. She’d promise, I’d believe her. And then I’d catch her on the nod.” Geoffrey shook his head. “The day she died, I heard she’d had to leave the set. I found her in her trailer. Getting sick.” He looked at me. “I knew that meant she’d just shot up. But this time she didn’t try to deny it. She said she knew she was out of control.” He swallowed hard. “She asked me for help. She’d never done that before.”
“Then her source had to be on the lot.” She wouldn’t have waited to shoot up in her trailer if she’d scored before she got to work.
Geoffrey’s eyes moved from me to Alex, then back again. “I’m pretty sure I know who it is. But if I tell you, you’ll have to cover me.”
Studio lots were little Peyton Places, and Geoffrey didn’t want to get branded as a snitch. “If we can’t find anything to link him up to Chloe’s murder, this goes nowhere.”
