Whoever went after the judge obviously knew what the hell he was doing. And did it without a hitch. Except for the fact an eyewitness was inexplicably left behind.
Was this by omission? Had the perpetrator somehow been scared off before he could finish the job he started?
“Your coffee, Detective.”
O’Dell turned and saw Maxine Crawford standing there. She held a tray with two cups of coffee. He lifted one off the tray.
“Thank you.” He saw that she had removed the towel from her head, leaving long, tar-colored individual braids cascading freely across her shoulders.
“We can talk in here,” she said, and led him back to the living room. She put the tray on a rectangular glass coffee table and took a seat on a white leather couch.
O’Dell sat on the adjoining loveseat. Sipping the coffee, he eyed the attractive new widow and began respectfully with, “I want to say how sorry everyone is at the police department about Judge Crawford’s death. He was a good man and a good judge for law and order.” At least as far as anyone knew.
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Maxine said with genuine emotion, lifting her cup expertly. “Sheldon only tried to do his best as a husband and criminal court judge. Why someone would do this to him...and me...”
O’Dell almost wished he could comfort her in some way. But what could he do or say to someone who had seen what she had, and been sexually assaulted as well?
“We want to get the man who did this to Judge Crawford—and you,” he stressed.
Maxine sipped the coffee. “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” she said with a swallow. “It all happened so fast. I’m just not sure—”
The judge’s murder didn’t happen fast enough, since he had enough time to get out of bed before the gunman finished him off. And from what O’Dell understood, the perpetrator took his own sweet time in sexually assaulting the lady in more ways than one.
“How about if we go over a description of the perpetrator first?” O’Dell took out his notepad, glancing over the information from her initial statement. “How old would you say the assailant was?”
Maxine swallowed pensively. “Maybe in his early thirties.”
“Race...ethnicity?”
“He was Hispanic, but not black.”
O’Dell looked at her. He was happy that it wasn’t an African-American who had committed these violent crimes, otherwise they would both be even more uncomfortable under the circumstances.
“What about height and weight?”
Maxine considered this before responding with, “Short, maybe five-ten, and not overweight, but muscular.”
O’Dell saw that her depiction of the person pretty much corresponded to what she’d said before, which was a good step in the right direction.
“I’ll let you look at some pictures,” he said. “These are men who have been sent to prison by your husband and, unfortunately, recently released. Maybe you’ll see someone who looks familiar.”
He handed her the catalog of mug shots. Some of the pictures were in fact of ex-cons who were never in Crawford’s courtroom, but had a history of violent crimes, including rape and sodomy.
Maxine gazed at the mug shots nervously, though trying hard to keep her cool. She could feel the intensity of the detective’s glare and, for an instant it was as though she were being violated again. But she knew that he, like her, was under a great deal of pressure to capture the man who murdered Sheldon. She felt her attack in most people’s minds was, no doubt, second nature.
Sheldon was in many ways the lucky one. He had lived a reasonably long and distinguished life for the most part, and she loved him for it. Even if he didn’t always live up to his lofty image by some standards. But who could nowadays with all the pressures and temptations?
Now Sheldon was gone and presumably at peace somewhere.
Whereas for some unknown reason Maxine had been spared death, forcing her to live with being brutally violated and humiliated at gunpoint and facing the possibility of being infected with HIV and any number of sexually transmitted diseases. These were things she had been careful to protect herself from. Now they could strike her at any time. Anywhere.
People would look at her funny. Judge her by something that happened beyond her control.
Her life would never be the same again. That man had seen to that.
Maxine wiped at tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes and tried to focus on the photographs. Most looked unfamiliar. Others looked like men she may have seen before.
The face of the man who attacked her was indelible in her mind, though he was somewhat of a blur at the moment. Would she recognize him in mug shot pictures when his face may have been younger, thinner, or wider? His hair a different style? When she could not smell him? Feel him? Taste him?
She came to a picture that caused Maxine to freeze. The thin, but well-defined facial structure and crooked grin stared back at her, surrounded by short black hair. The eyes, dark and foreboding, ogled her as if to say, You recognize me, don’t you, bitch?
O’Dell sensed that Maxine had found someone she recognized. “Is that him?”
Her voice was barely audible when she said, “Yes, I think so.”
O’Dell wondered if this was the break they were looking for. “Take a good look at him,” he urged, recognizing the temptation to pick out someone who bore even the slightest resemblance to her attacker. “We need to be sure.”
Though all the men in the mug shots were assholes of the lowest order as far as he was concerned, they didn’t want to try and make a case against the wrong man. Not if it meant the real bastard would still be free to kill and rape again.
Maxine forced herself to remember the attack and all its horror. She saw his face, as if it were close enough to touch. Just as he made her do.
His eyes. His hair. His nose. His mouth. His ethnicity. His terrifying presence.
The more she thought about it, the more Maxine was certain it was him in the mug shot.
It had to be.
“That’s the one,” she uttered, trembling.
O’Dell lifted the book from her shaky hands. He recognized the dickhead. He had been convicted of murder and was released within the last month.
“You did a good job,” O’Dell said, impressed, all things considered. For some reason, he hadn’t been overly confident she would be able to pick out someone. Perhaps it was too soon. Or she had been too traumatized to clearly see the person who had done this to her. “We’ll get him,” he told her confidently.
They would go through this again, only with the bastard in a lineup. That way, they would give the D.A.’s office a bona fide suspect who wouldn’t be easily dismissed. And a case that they wouldn’t be afraid to prosecute.
He had seen it all too many times. Cases thrown out or rejected because of witness uncertainty or inconsistencies about the suspect. Which then translated into a prosecutor’s lack of enthusiasm and reluctance, leading to criminals walking rather than doing hard time.
O’Dell was determined to not let that happen in this case, for the wife’s sake and Judge Crawford’s memory. The suspect, once in custody, would not be seeing the light of day again any time soon. Not if he could help it.
What judge in his or her right mind would give this asshole bail? None, given the gravity of the offenses, including the execution-style slaying of a sitting criminal court judge.
But first they had to get the one responsible for it.
Before he hurt someone else.
CHAPTER NINE
“How’s your science class coming along?” Beverly asked her son during the drive to school. Or in other words, was he doing any better in the only class that seemed to give him the most trouble besides math.
“Okay,” he drawled unconvincingly, his Eagles Landing baseball cap tilted onto his brow, seemingly obscuring his vision.
Beverly didn’t want to baby or embarrass him. But she wanted to make sure his grades did not slip to the point of fail
ure. “If you need my help, just tell me,” she said gingerly. “That’s what mothers are for.” And fathers, too, assuming they were they still in the picture and responsible enough to care.
“I don’t need your help,” Jaime insisted. “I’m figuring it out myself.”
Beverly hoped that was the case. “I’m glad to hear that, Jaime, really.” She glanced in his direction. He turned to look out the window.
She didn’t press the issue for now, realizing that he really was trying hard. The A on his math test demonstrated that.
Beverly recognized that her son had reached an age where he was becoming more and more independent and at times distant. It scared her in some ways that he would someday not need her at all. In other ways it thrilled her that he was becoming a young, responsible man right before her very eyes.
It had been two days since they were at odds over the nature of her relationship with Grant. Since then things had remained lukewarm between them, though she had gone out of her way to assure Jaime that her friendships with men had absolutely nothing to do with their relationship.
Even then Beverly knew full well that her relationship with any man had everything to do with Jaime. He was the important person in her life. The child she had given birth to. She would never place that in jeopardy. Her fervent hope was that in the long run he would be pleased that she wanted some stable and trustworthy companionship and be supportive.
Until then, she would not rock the boat when it came to balancing her life as a parent and intimacy with a man.
Beverly’s thoughts turned to another touchy issue that was unavoidable between them.
She turned toward her son. “I’d like to go visit your grandfather on Saturday.”
“I don’t wanna see him,” Jaime groaned with a frown.
“You have to,” she asserted, turning her eyes to the road and back to his profile. “He needs us, just like you and I need each other.”
“He doesn’t need us! Gramps doesn’t even know us anymore.” Jaime slouched and pouted.
“That’s all the more reason why we have to try and keep whatever faint memories he has left alive.” Beverly was nearly to the point of tears as she thought about her once robust father—who prided himself on having a razor sharp memory and fit body—now being reduced to a rambling, incoherent person she hardly recognized. “He’s my father, Jaime,” she uttered firmly. “And your grandfather. No matter how hard it is, we can’t ever lose sight of that fact.”
Jaime lowered his head. “I still love Grandpa.” He dabbed at his eyes that had begun to water.
“And he still loves you,” Beverly assured him, “even if he doesn’t always remember.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes, each collecting their thoughts.
Jaime broke the quiet, seemingly forgetting about the previous conversation. “Can I go to Paco’s house after school?” He raised his cap.
“What about your homework?” She pulled up in front of his school.
“I’ll do it over there,” he answered. “Or when I get home.”
“What time will you be home?”
He shrugged. “Probably eleven.”
“Make it ten,” Beverly said, exercising what control she still had over him. Even that seemed a bit late for a twelve-year-old to be out on a school night. But she realized that some tolerance in today’s active times was almost mandatory.
“No problem,” Jaime muttered, opening the door. “See ya.”
“See ya,” she repeated his words as he slammed the door shut and shuffled toward the building with other students.
Beverly waved goodbye, though he never saw it, and drove off. She turned her attention to her other life as an assistant district attorney. It consumed more of her attention than she sometimes cared for it to. On the other hand, it was what she had worked long and hard for and loved her job. With any luck, along with skill, she could go as far as she wanted.
Beverly thought about Maxine Crawford. She had been released from the hospital yesterday. The police had spoken to her, but there was no word on if there were any viable suspects at this point. She wondered how many people wanted the judge dead badly enough to kill him.
Could there be others on the hit list, too?
* * *
Beverly parked in the garage of the Criminal Courts Plaza. She headed to the elevator, briefcase in hand.
She had just stepped inside when she was practically bowled over by the District Attorney himself, Dean Sullivan. He was sixty-three, tall, and thin in a designer gray suit. Thinning white hair slicked backwards bordered a sagging face with a deep tan. He rubbed his long nose and gave Beverly the benefit of puffy China blue eyes behind silver wire-rimmed glasses.
“Good morning, Beverly,” he said in a hoarse voice, reflecting too many years of smoking before miraculously kicking the habit cold turkey a year ago.
“Morning, Dean.” Beverly had always been slightly intimidated by him, primarily because he was almost too friendly for her comfort. It was as if beyond his charms and easygoing demeanor lay a vicious, manipulative man, lulling people unsuspectingly in for the kill. Of course, she was sure this was far more her fertile imagination than fact.
The elevator doors closed and Dean pushed the button.
“How’s Jaime?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Growing up too fast, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t I know it.” Dean looked up at the numbers. “My son’s about to enter law school. Seems like only yesterday he was still in smelly diapers.”
Beverly chuckled. Like many other men in mid life, Dean had divorced his wife and married a younger woman, with whom he had his only child. If only women could be so fortunate with their biological clock.
Dean touched his glasses, eyeing her. “By the way, I want to congratulate you, Beverly, on a job well done in the Suzanne Landon case.”
Beverly blushed. Rarely had compliments come directly from the D.A. They usually came courtesy of the Deputy D.A.’s office, where Grant just might be less than objective given their personal relationship. Or they were delivered from the D.A.’s office via a general, indirect memo.
“Well, I had a little help,” she said unevenly, in reference to Grant and a supporting staff.
“Maybe,” he allowed, “but I like your style, Beverly. You know how to go after them the way I used to back in the day.”
She was starting to like this. “Just doing my job the best way I know how,” she said modestly.
The elevator opened on the sixth floor, where they both had offices. Beverly got off first.
“If you have a minute, Beverly, I’d like to discuss an upcoming pending case with you,” Dean said, walking alongside her.
As if she could refuse him in order to go file some briefs.
“All right,” Beverly said in a stilted, curious voice.
She followed him down the hall, where each greeted other staffers perfunctorily. When they passed by Grant’s closed office, Beverly recalled the last time she’d been in there, causing her body to suddenly burn with desire. Though the relationship had been somewhat discreet, she was sure everyone in the D.A.’s office knew that something was going on between her and Grant. While workplace romances were not necessarily encouraged, the unspoken policy was to date who you wanted, so long as it didn’t affect the job and there was not an imbalance of power that could potentially lead to charges of sexual harassment. It seemed to Beverly that she and Grant had the perfect recipe for romance. She wondered if it would be the same should he climb the ladder and become a judge.
They entered Dean’s spacious corner office. He closed the door behind them and offered Beverly a seat on an antique English chair. He sat on a matching chair at a forty-five degree angle.
Beverly noted over his head an oak bookcase filled with law books. Though piqued, she felt more than a little ill at ease for some reason. Probably because she could count on one hand the number of times she had been allowed into his office since becoming part
of the D.A.’s team. Obviously, things were starting to look up for her. Or so she hoped.
Dean wrung his hands nervously. “I’m sure you heard about the tragic and senseless death of Judge Sheldon Crawford—”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, Sheldon was a personal friend of mine,” he began. “I knew Maxine, too.” His brow furrowed. “I just received word that the police have honed in on a suspect and they plan to make an arrest shortly.”
Beverly was happy to hear that. “Who is it?”
“Rafael Santiago. Judge Crawford sent him to prison for murder twelve years ago. He was released last month. The bastard vowed revenge against Sheldon when he was sentenced and apparently made good on his threat.”
Beverly contemplated that. It would have to be proven in a court of law, no matter how guilty the suspect appeared to be. But she assumed that was what this meeting was about.
“What evidence do they have?”
Dean considered this. “Maxine Crawford picked him out of a photo lineup,” he said, as if this cinched the deal.
“Anything else?” Beverly had seen more than her fair share of cases where victims picked the wrong person from mug shots in which practically every arrestee looked the same. She presumed there was corroborating evidence to back up the victim’s identification of the suspect.
Dean looked at her as if resenting the question. “Detectives are putting together the necessary evidence, circumstantial and otherwise, to tie Santiago to the crime.” He removed his glasses. “I want you to prosecute this one, Beverly.”
“I’ll be glad to,” she said, knowing that the Suzanne Landon verdict had given her a leg up on this one. Though Grant could very well have said the same thing. So how did she get so lucky?
State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller Page 5
