by Steve Gannon
“That won’t happen this time,” Kane promised quietly. “Everything is being done by the book. If nothing else, you can bank on that.”
33
Early the next morning, a radio call from a patrol car in the Palisades came in to the West L.A. station. The call was transferred to the homicide unit. Ten minutes later Kane was driving west, thinking that an already troublesome case had taken yet another turn for the worse. As he proceeded up Mandeville Canyon, he berated himself for not having seen it earlier. The clues had all been there … not that he could have done anything to change things.
She’ll forgive me when I see her again.
Following the interrogations on the preceding afternoon, Kane had received word that the Frenches were opening negotiations with the DA’s office to explore the possibility of a plea bargain. So far, as with their formal police interrogations, Jordan’s parents had admitted nothing. Nevertheless, it appeared that rather than risk going to trial on first-or second-degree murder charges, they were considering pleading to a lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter. And despite the DNA comparison that could link Mrs. French to the ransom note, Kane realized there was a strong possibility that the district attorney would take the deal.
As the DA had repeatedly pointed out, the bulk of the case against Mr. and Mrs. French was circumstantial, and nothing had changed. The one potentially solid piece of evidence, a comparison of Mrs. French’s DNA to the DNA traces on the ransom-note stamp, might not even pan out. If it didn’t, there was still the possibility that Mr. French wrote the note, but Kane didn’t think so. After his interview with Mrs. French, he was certain that she wrote the note. But even if a positive DNA match did come back on her, as Kane was sure it would, convincing a jury that the loving parents of Jordan French had murdered their daughter would still be problematic, as was so aptly pointed out by Mr. Artz.
On the positive side, a DNA match would give Kane probable cause for an expanded search, and the next time he entered the Frenches’ estate with a warrant in hand, he would have the right to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. As he had surmised earlier, it was likely that all evidence tying the parents to the murder had already been destroyed, but you never knew what might turn up.
Approaching the Frenches’ estate, Kane noticed a fair-sized media contingent already assembled across the street. More were undoubtedly on the way. The entry’s iron gate stood open at the head of the driveway. A private security guard was stationed there, barring the way. Kane flashed his badge, and the guard waved him through.
The house and grounds appeared to have changed little since Kane’s last visit—landscaping well tended, hedges precisely pruned, flower beds immaculate. Water from a morning hosing was puddled near the tennis courts. Beyond the courts, two black-and-white patrol cars sat in the driveway.
Kane parked behind one of the cruisers. After identifying himself and conferring with a uniformed officer outside, Kane started up the steps to the house. The front door stood ajar. Halfway up the stairs he saw the body.
Mrs. French’s lifeless form hung from a banister pole on the second floor, her bare feet suspended above the staircase’s lower landing. Upended on the entry tiles below lay a chair that she had apparently used to position herself—kicking it away as her final act.
Nodding briefly to a pair of officers inside, Kane stepped inside. He peered up at the body, noting that Mrs. French had chosen a black, knee-length dress in which to die. Moving closer, he also noted that she had removed her wedding ring before using what appeared to be a dog leash and an attached metal choke collar to end her life. Crude, but effective. Near the top of the leash’s thick nylon webbing, a childish hand had written the name “Greta.”
“The husband says he found her like that when he woke up,” offered one of the officers.
Tearing his eyes from the corpse, Kane turned. The patrol officer who had spoken, a young Asian whose nameplate read “Lowe,” tipped his head to the left. “He’s in there.”
Kane glanced into the living room. Sitting straight and unmoving on the couch where Kane had first interviewed Jordan’s parents, was Mr. French.
“He gave us this,” said the other officer, a florid, thick-necked man whose plate read “Flinn.” He handed Kane an irregularly shaped piece of paper that looked as if it had been scissored from a larger sheet.
Kane took the paper. In elaborate, flowing script, someone had written the words “May God forgive me for what I did,” followed by the signature “Elizabeth French.” Kane looked at the officer who had handed him the note. “Where’s the rest?”
Flinn shrugged. “The husband didn’t say.”
“We already called the coroner,” said Lowe. “Want us to help get her down?”
“Let the coroner’s assistants handle it,” Kane replied. Then, studying the body a moment longer, he noticed that several of Mrs. French’s long, painted fingernails were broken off at the quick. In her final moments, it appeared that Mrs. French had changed her mind about dying.
Kane walked into the living room. Mr. French gazed at him briefly, then resumed staring out the window. “You won,” he said. “Satisfied?”
“Nobody won,” Kane replied. “Where’s the rest of the note?”
“Gone. That part was meant for me. Nobody else.”
Upon receiving the scissored paper from the officers in the hall, Kane had suspected that in unburdening her soul, Mrs. French had implicated her husband in Jordan’s death as well. Now he was sure of it.
“Tell me something, Mr. French,” said Kane, his hands unconsciously balling into fists. “It’s just you and me here. I haven’t read you your Miranda rights, so anything you say will stay just between us. I have most of it figured anyway. I only need your help on one point. I know you had been abusing Jordan for years. I also know that her death was probably an accident, and I know that you and your wife concocted a phony abduction story to cover it up.”
Kane paused, unwillingly revisiting the crippling horror of losing his own son, momentarily gripped by the sense of bottomless, crushing loss that had accompanied Tommy’s death. Shaking his head in disbelief, Kane finally continued. “What I can’t understand is how you could truss up your child, a daughter you say you loved, and then stuff her into trash bags and dump her in a reservoir … as if she were garbage you needed to get rid of. How could you do that?”
“I didn’t intend for any of this to happen,” Mr. French said quietly. “I loved Jordan.”
“What you did wasn’t an act of love,” said Kane, his voice as hard as granite. “Not even close.”
“Regardless of what you think, Detective, I’m not evil,” Mr. French replied, regarding Kane levelly. “I made mistakes, I admit it. But I’m not evil. And neither was Beth.”
“You think you’re going to cut a deal with the DA, don’t you?” Kane demanded, fighting hard to control his anger. “Isn’t that right, Crawford? You have it all figured out. You’ll blame the killing on your wife, saying you just helped dispose of the body. As for the sexual abuse, you’ll deny it. You’re the only one still alive, so no one can prove otherwise. Well, I’ve got news for you, pal. That’s not the way it’s going to go down.”
Mr. French looked away. “And why is that?”
“Because I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t,” said Kane, recalling the vow he had made at the reservoir. “You can count on it.”
Thirty minutes later Kane stood on the Frenches’ front landing, watching as the coroner’s van pulled up behind the squad cars in the driveway. With a despondent sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets, again remembering the promise he had made to a dead child months earlier. Somehow, fulfilling that pledge had brought him little satisfaction. Now that it was over, he just felt tired and soiled and sad.
*
“Good Evening. This is Peter Samson for the CBS News Evening News. In Pacific Palisades this morning, the Jordan French murder case took another tragic turn with
the discovery of …”
Heart racing, I watched the monitor to the left of the camera, seeing the CBS anchor’s face but not really hearing his words. In the wake of Mrs. French’s suicide, the location for my live shot—a segment that I knew, once again, was being done to cash in on my relationship with my father—had been switched to the newsroom, with a camera feed linked directly to New York. I was positioned in front of the lighted CBS “eye” outside Lauren’s office. The illuminated “CBS News Los Angeles” logo on the wall behind me was similarly lit. A “key” light glared at me from behind the camera, with several other spotlights shining down from above. To my right, I sensed Brent and Lauren and Liz and other members of the news team standing in the shadows. An expectant tension sizzled in the air.
A clock on the wall read 3:31 PM, making it 6:31 PM in New York. Mrs. French’s suicide was the lead story that night. I would be on in seconds, my words going out live and uncensored to millions on the East Coast. Rebroadcasts to other parts of the country could be edited later, but not this one. For those few moments, I would be CBS News.
“… shocking developments. Here with the latest from Los Angeles is CBS’s Allison Kane.”
A man beside the TelePrompTer who had been doing a silent countdown on his fingers pointed at me. A red light on the camera flicked on. Taking a breath, I gazed directly into the lens. “According to LAPD sources, Mrs. Elizabeth French, mother of murdered actress Jordan French, was found dead this morning in her Pacific Palisades home,” I began, my apprehension abruptly forgotten. “Apparently she had taken her own life. Mrs. French left a note asking God to forgive her—a request authorities reportedly consider an admission of guilt in her daughter’s death. In a related development, sources close to the Los Angeles district attorney’s office revealed today that a plea bargain proposed earlier by the Frenches’ attorney has been rejected.”
The scrolling words on the TelePrompTer ended. At this point I was supposed to sign off and turn things back over to the anchor. Suddenly I knew I needed to say more. “On a personal note, I would like to add a few brief words.”
I felt a current of panic sweep through the newsroom. Ignoring it, I continued. “We in the media called Jordan French’s death a story, and that’s the way we treated it—as if covering the young girl’s murder were simply something to boost ratings. In our rush to report every lurid detail, we forgot that Jordan’s death was a heartrending loss for those who loved her. We as journalists should be better than that, me included. This is Allison Kane, CBS News, Los Angeles.”
The New York anchor came back on, moving smoothly to the next story as though nothing were amiss. My broadcast finished, I turned to a roomful of disbelieving stares.
Brent was first to recover. He strode forward, thrusting his chin within inches of my face. “You conniving little bitch!” he snarled, spittle spraying my face. “You’re not fooling anyone with your holier-than-thou bullshit.”
Though I flinched, I stood my ground. “Mike was right about you, Brent,” I said. “For you, this job is about money and celebrity and getting to the top. Anything for a story. And if people get hurt and lives are destroyed in the process—tough.”
“And you’re different, I suppose.”
“I plan to change.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Brent spat. “As for the Jordan French case, I won’t apologize to you or anyone else for how I cover a crime piece. That girl’s death was a national story, and people wanted to know what happened. We’re a hard-news station and we told them. That’s our job.”
“Maybe it’s your job. I want something more.”
“And what would that be?”
“I want to do something I can be proud of,” I replied. “Not like what we just did.”
Brent’s eyes turned cold. “Screw you, Allison.”
“Same to you, Brent.”
Lauren, who after the broadcast had rushed to her office to answer a flood of phone calls, signaled to me through her office door. “Allison, please come in here.”
I turned, leaving Brent fuming. Upon entering the bureau chief’s office, I stood in front of her desk, not bothering to close the door. “If you want to chew me out, go ahead,” I said. “I know that I—”
“I don’t intend to chew you out,” Lauren replied, hanging up the phone. “Not right now, anyway. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t condone what you just did. I know you were probably following your conscience, but everyone here at the bureau is going to pay for it—especially me. Given the circumstance, however, I think I understand. You really are your father’s daughter.”
“Am I fired?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” Lauren sighed. “Management may feel differently. We’ll see. Even if they do want you out, I suspect that there will be a position waiting for you at another network. Maybe several.”
I remained silent.
“But your unauthorized speech isn’t why I called you in,” Lauren added quietly, her expression turning to one of concern. “I’m sorry, Ali. I just got a call from your dad. He’s at the hospital. He wants you over there right away.”
34
Upon arriving at UCLA Medical Center, I found my father in the Transplant Unit waiting room. Travis, Nate, and Grandma Dorothy were there, too—Travis standing by the window, Dorothy sitting erect in an armchair nearby, Nate slumped beside Dad on a couch by the door. Overcome with foreboding, I stepped inside. Travis looked at me somberly. The others turned toward me as well. No one smiled. “What … what’s wrong?” I stammered, afraid to hear the answer.
“Your mom’s fever is back,” my father replied, his words dropping like stones. “It’s higher than ever. I got a call from Dr. Miller. He doesn’t think …” Dad’s voice broke. He looked away. “He said it was time to gather the family.”
I clapped a hand to my mouth, feeling as if I’d been struck.
“I phoned Father Donovan,” Dad went on quietly. “He’s on his way.”
Speechless, I felt my knees begin to buckle. The room started to spin. I couldn’t breathe.
Dad rose and crossed the room, placing his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head, trying to clear my vision. “I … I can’t believe …”
Dad’s strong arms encircled me. I buried my face in his chest, wanting to cry. I found I could not.
Wordlessly, my father led me to the couch and sat beside me, his arm still around my shoulders. Nate shifted closer on the other side, his cheeks streaked with tears.
“Can I see her?” I finally managed.
“In a while,” Dad answered numbly. “The doctors are in there now. She’s been delirious. They have her heavily sedated,” he went on quietly, as if he were speaking to himself. “I talked with her earlier. She said she hated feeling weak. She said she hated the thought of not being around to see you kids grow up, of not being there to help you over the rough spots and share in your lives and see you get married and have kids of your own. Can you believe that? Even with all that’s happening to her, she’s thinking of us.” Dad stared at his hands. “Weak? She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
“Dad, I’m so sorry about everything that … that’s been going on,” I said miserably, knowing my words were coming too late. “Between Mom and me, and between you and me, and … everything. I’m so sorry about the way I’ve been acting—”
“Now’s not the time, Ali.”
I glanced at the others in the room, then back at Dad. “I just want you to know it won’t happen again.”
“I know it won’t,” said Dad, tightening his arm around me. “The subject’s closed.”
The room drifted into silence, each family member taking consolation from the other’s presence, yet each lost in his or her own thoughts. Solitary, interminable minutes passed, turning into hours. At 6:30 PM Father Donovan, our parish priest, visited Mom and administered Last Rites. After he left, we all took turns sitting with Mom, whose
condition swung from transitory moments of awareness to progressively longer spells of delirium and unconsciousness. Around 8 PM Dad insisted that Dorothy and the rest of us get something to eat in the hospital cafeteria. He kept watch on the tenth floor, saying he wasn’t hungry.
Despite the antibiotics and other drugs being administered, Mom’s condition steadily deteriorated. Later that evening, when I questioned an intern leaving Mom’s room, the doctor answered evasively—saying that everything possible was being done and now it was in God’s hands. In desperation, I attempted to pray. No matter how hard I tried, the words wouldn’t come.
At a little before midnight, after taking my turn sitting with Mom, I returned to the waiting room, feeling like I was going to explode. I suddenly realized that I had to get away, if only for a few minutes. Plus there was something I wanted to bring back for Mom. I had cleared it with Mom’s doctor earlier that week, and now I wished I had given it to her sooner. Fearing I was too late, I told Dad that I was going to get some air and that I wouldn’t be gone long. He nodded without seeming to hear me.
Feeling guilty for leaving, I rushed to my UCLA dorm room across the street, changed clothes, and hurried back to the hospital, having been gone no more than fifteen minutes. Nothing had changed. Everyone was still gathered in the waiting room except Dorothy, who was taking her turn keeping vigil at Mom’s side. Dad was pacing the floor like a caged animal, his long strides measuring the confines of the claustrophobic chamber. Travis sat slumped in a chair, staring at the wall. Nate had fallen asleep on the couch.
Numbly, I joined my younger brother on the couch. Though I tried to stay awake, I gradually found myself dozing, floating between the hateful reality of consciousness and the forgetful oblivion of slumber. Nod by nod, I drifted off. And as I slept, I dreamed.
