State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  “Let’s not jump to the wrong conclusions just yet,” Stone said. He led the three to the bartender—a fiftyish, heavyset man with a Fu Manchu mustache and shaved head.

  “How can I help you?” he asked after Stone had identified them as police detectives.

  “We’re looking for a man named Manuel Gonzalez.” Stone peered at the man. “Know him?”

  “Yeah, sure. Manuel hangs out here all the time.”

  “How about today?”

  “How about it?” The bartender tugged at his mustache. “You just missed him by five minutes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The photographs were blowups of Rafael Santiago’s shaved pubic region. Beverly looked on with revulsion at the red, black, and green tattoo of a lizard that rested above Santiago’s penis.

  “He’s got a lot more guts than I do,” joked Gail, glancing at one of the pictures. “Though I suppose it could’ve been worse, like having his penis tattooed.” She winced at the notion.

  “I don’t think guts has anything to do with it.” Beverly studied the lizard. “My guess is that it’s some sort of Latin machismo thing. Probably a gang initiation rite or badge of honor in the hood.”

  “So you’re saying that other members of his gang or hood also could have lizard tattoos in their pubic area?”

  Beverly laughed weakly at the absurdity of it all. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” she took the Fifth. “But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Santiago was more of a follower here rather than a leader.”

  Gail wet her lips uneasily. “All evidence aside, you do believe we have the right man in custody, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely!” Beverly made clear. “Even if other Latino men had their pubic areas tattooed identically, Maxine Crawford identified Rafael Santiago by both his face and his lower anatomy. There cannot be two of him walking around this city.”

  Even though I saw with my very own eyes someone who was the spitting image of Rafael Santiago. At least from the waist up. Chances are he didn’t have the same lizard tattoo on his pubic area as Santiago had as his calling card.

  She thought about Maxine Crawford and the not so veiled warning from Grant to lay off any investigation into her and Judge Crawford’s private lives. What did either of them have to hide that was so off limits? Could it have any bearing on this case?

  Or the man they had charged with committing the crimes?

  Beverly gazed across the table. “What’s the latest on the DNA evidence?” she asked.

  Gail met her eyes. “The DNA tests on the semen and hair samples taken from Maxine and the bed where she was sexually assaulted indicate there is a match with both blood and hair samples taken from Sheldon Crawford and Rafael Santiago.”

  “That’s good,” Beverly said. “Establishing that Santiago left his DNA calling card will make it difficult for his attorney to convince a jury he was elsewhere when the crime occurred.”

  “But there could still be a potential issue with the DNA evidence,” Gail pointed out. “Santiago’s attorney will likely try to score some points with the jury by suggesting that the Crawfords engaged in rough sex, thereby somehow mitigating what Santiago did to Maxine.”

  “Well, let him try.” Beverly could feel the hair rise on the back of her neck at the thought of what Maxine Crawford had been put through by that animal. “Juries are too sophisticated these days not to be able to separate consensual sex, whatever that may consist of, from forced sex acts. I think the evidence, along with circumstantial evidence and the victim’s direct testimony, is sufficient to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Santiago was there and did perpetrate the multiple sexual assaults, murder, and break in.”

  “I agree.” Gail picked up a coffee mug. “Unfortunately we’ve come up short on any fiber evidence from clothes or fingerprints that ties Santiago directly to the crime scene. Even the shell casings found at the scene had no identifiable prints to link to the suspect and bolster our case against him.”

  “That’s not too surprising,” Beverly said. “Santiago probably dumped the clothes he wore in the incinerator or the lake. As for fingerprints, considering that Maxine has stated the suspect wore gloves, it was unlikely that any would surface; and shell casings rarely turn up prints at that.” She wrinkled her brow, a bit concerned about the lack of a murder weapon. “If you believe in miracles, that gun will somehow fall into our laps and eliminate even the slightest doubt in the jurors’ minds about Rafael Santiago’s guilt—”

  And my own mind, for that matter.

  * * *

  After she left the conference room, Beverly walked to her office. She passed Jean, who was busy on the phone while waving frantically to her, as if trying to flag down a cab. Out of the corner of her eye, Beverly spotted an attractive, well-dressed woman in her thirties. She was seated beside Jean’s desk, rising when she saw Beverly.

  “Ms. Mendoza...” the woman said on a breath, short blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders.

  Before Beverly could speak, Jean got off the phone and said, “This is Lydia Wesley. She’s writing a book on the Suzanne Landon murder case.”

  “Ah, yes,” mumbled Beverly, recalling that a detective from the Wilameta County Sheriff’s Department had directed the woman to her.

  “Ms. Wesley has been trying to see you for a couple of weeks now,” Jean said apologetically. “I told her that you might be able to spare her a few minutes this afternoon—”

  Beverly had a feeling she was being ganged up on. Jean, who was usually efficient in re-routing unwanted visitors, was obviously sold on this one for some reason. If nothing else, Lydia Wesley was certainly persistent.

  And I’ve got better things to do with my time than talk to a true crime writer.

  “Yes, I think I can manage a few minutes to answer some questions,” Beverly told Lydia. She gave Jean a you-owe-me-one look. “Let’s go to my office.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia said keenly.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Wesley,” she offered, joining her in the visitors’ chairs across from the desk so as to keep this informal. “How can I help you?”

  Lydia sat up straight, showing signs of nervousness. “I just want to get your feedback on a few things regarding the Suzanne Landon-James Wright love affair turned deadly—”

  “All right,” Beverly nodded, noting that the clock was ticking.

  Lydia removed a small tape recorder from her bag, setting it on the corner of the desk. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  “Fine. Just be sure to get my approval before quoting me in your book. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Lydia smiled. “Did you believe that Suzanne Landon was guilty from the very start?”

  “It was hard not to when she failed to notify authorities for nearly two weeks that her lover was missing,” Beverly remarked. “Only when what was left of James Wright’s corpse was discovered did Ms. Landon suddenly remember that he accidentally fell 320 feet to his death.”

  “Do you think the fact that Suzanne had reported being abused several times by James Wright could have had anything to do with his death—you know, sort of a self-defense motive?”

  “Oh, please!” Beverly sneered. She did not discount the legitimacy of the battered woman’s syndrome and some women resorting to murder to escape the abuse. But this was different. Very much so. “Those reports came within the two months leading up to his death, though they were living together for two years. I think it was more likely that Suzanne Landon wanted out of the relationship, but not until she knew she would be handsomely compensated to the tune of one million dollars in insurance payouts.”

  Lydia ran her fingers through her hair. “Isn’t it unusual for women to be convicted of murdering their lovers?”

  What planet are you living on, lady? “Maybe, when compared to men who kill their significant others,” Beverly stated somberly. “The truth is women can be just as violent and deadly as men, if the motivations and means are there. As a result, those who do com
mit such acts are just as likely to be convicted and sent to prison as their male counterparts.”

  Lydia crossed her long legs and sighed. “Do you think the D.A.’s office made you the lead prosecutor on the case to keep it from appearing to be a sexist attack on a brave woman standing up for herself?”

  Beverly couldn’t help but offer an amused smile while masking her indignation at the suggestion that she’d been given the case for any reasons other than her ability as a trial lawyer. “First of all, I was not the lead prosecutor,” she said snappishly. “Grant Nunez and I were co-counsel. Second, this trial was not about men versus women. It was about justice versus injustice. Suzanne Landon was not seen as a woman standing up for her rights, but rather a female who murdered her lover and tried to collect on it. It’s as simple as that.”

  Lydia’s face reddened. “Is there any chance that I can get some crime scene photos from you?” she asked hesitantly. “These days publishers practically reject your proposal from the start unless you can produce vivid pictures for the book.”

  “You’ll want to talk to the police about that,” Beverly passed the torch. Her own policy was never to allow photos from her cases to be handed over to the media or writers, out of respect to the victims.

  Lydia’s brow creased. “I tried, but they aren’t willing to release any photos without approval from the victim’s family. And they won’t even talk to me—”

  “Can you blame them?” Beverly narrowed her eyes. “Would you want to see the headless body of your family member in a true crime book for the whole world to gawk at?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts!” argued Beverly, her point being made. She suddenly felt sorry for the author and decided to bend a little for her trouble. “I’ll authorize the release of a couple of benign crime scene photographs, but none of the body. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it,” Lydia swallowed respectfully.

  “Good.” Beverly stood, waiting for her to do the same. “Leave your number with Jean and I’ll be in touch. I’ll also expect a copy of the book when it’s published.”

  Lydia smiled. “Count on it.”

  Beverly saw her out and decided impromptu to take the rest of the day off. She’d earned it and would do something with Jaime.

  Maybe she would invite Grant over for dinner afterwards and they could continue where he left off when he told her he’d fallen in love with her.

  Did he really love her?

  The idea excited Beverly. Perhaps as much as realizing that her growing sentiments towards Grant were exactly the same.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Manuel watched from his car as the Latina lawyer, her son, another boy around the same age, and a tall black man left the house. He suspected the man wanted to get in the broad’s pants. If he hadn’t already. Everyone was casually dressed, suggesting they weren’t on their way to somewhere fancy.

  They drove away in the man’s Cadillac. Manuel wondered if he was a lawyer, too. Or maybe a stockbroker.

  After they were out of sight, Manuel quietly crept from the car and made his way to the side of the house. The fact that tall, thick trees surrounded it, as if a fortress, made it hard for nosey neighbors to see what was going on. It was more than he could have asked for.

  He tried a couple of windows and found that they were locked. Impatient, he grabbed with gloved hands a nice sized rock that seemed like it was waiting for him to arrive and make good use of. He slammed it only once into a side window, causing it to shatter, glass flying in all directions.

  Undoing the lock, he raised the window and climbed in.

  The first thing Manuel did was look around for a security system. Surprisingly he didn’t find one. The bitch must have thought she didn’t need protection in this old, but well-preserved, neighborhood.

  Think again.

  Only one light was left on in the house. He figured it was probably to scare burglars from entering.

  Wrong again, he laughed.

  On the kitchen counter he found some half-opened mail. He lifted up something with her name on it.

  Beverly Mendoza.

  Another letter was addressed her as Assistant District Attorney.

  So the hot Latina wasn’t just any lawyer, Manuel mused, piqued. She put badass Latinos like him away in prison. Sometimes for life.

  But now maybe I’ll turn the tables and make you my prisoner! Give her a taste of what it was like to be in bondage, subject to someone else’s will and desires.

  He moved swiftly from room to room, surveying all there was to see. It wasn’t as big as some cribs he’d been in, but still bigger than he was used to living in. And nicer.

  Manuel saw no indication that an adult male lived there. He suspected that the boy’s father had probably dumped the bitch when he found out she was pregnant.

  In her bedroom, Manuel pocketed some jewelry that he could hock. He wondered what that old fart at the pawnshop would give him for these...

  Then he went into the lady’s lingerie drawer and pulled out a red silk thong. He put the crotch up to his nose, inhaling the faint odor of her mixed with perfume and detergent. It turned him on. He imagined her wearing them, as well as seeing her without anything covering her privates.

  When it was time, he would make the bitch wear this thong just for him.

  Searching the house for money, Manuel found a few bills stashed here and there and a couple of credit cards. If lucky, they would net him a few thousand before she could report them as stolen.

  Manuel lay on her soft bed for a moment or two, nearly falling asleep as he dreamed of what it would be like to take Beverly Mendoza in this bed—with her doing whatever the hell he wanted. Making her enjoy it almost as much as he would.

  Maybe even forcing her boy to watch. Learn a few things from a Latin lover.

  Until it was time for the boy’s Mama to be put out of her misery, like a wounded animal.

  Permanently.

  Then he would take care of the kid. He didn’t like killing kids, taking away their lives too soon. He had seen friends die before they ever got laid. Or knew that there was life outside the hood. Most were victims of gang retaliation, sometimes from within the same gang.

  But he wasn’t going back to prison for anyone, not if he could help it. Not even for a snot-nosed kid. Dead witnesses couldn’t talk. Not unless there was such a thing as coming back from the dead.

  Manuel took another sweep of the house, searching for weapons. If the broad had a piece, she must have taken it with her.

  In the kitchen, he grabbed a few oatmeal raisin cookies from a jar, eating them whole one by one.

  Then he waited.

  Come home soon, lawyer lady. Guess who’s coming for dinner and dessert?

  Manuel broke into a hearty laugh, his libido rising as he envisioned himself forcing her to do his bidding. He would teach her what he wanted and demand that she give it to him.

  Just like the others.

  As if to psyche himself up, Manuel whipped out his switchblade and began practicing what he planned to do to Beverly Mendoza.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The judge’s chambers were large with plush new carpeting and contemporary furnishings, including a wraparound walnut desk and high backed swivel chair. Plush cushiony chairs surrounded a wooden octagonal pedestal table. A couple of beautiful trailing fuchsias hung from the ceiling and looked as if they belonged. Adjoining the chambers was a full sized bathroom and a conference room.

  “Nice digs, Judge Nunez,” teased Beverly. They had decided impromptu to visit his chambers.

  “Yeah,” Jaime seconded, doing a three hundred and sixty degree turn.

  “Yeah, way cool,” agreed Paco, Jaime’s friend. He was a little taller than Jaime and Beverly could see the Native American heritage Jaime said Paco had on his mother’s side in his prominent features.

  “Thanks, but they’re pretty standard judge’s chambers,” Grant said modestly. “No big deal.”


  Beverly knew it was far more than that to him. Becoming a judge was the culmination of a lifelong dream. And he had made it before reaching forty-one. She wondered just how far he could go.

  And how much she would have to play catch up?

  Grant smiled at her. “Well...let’s head out to the arcade,” he said.

  It was his suggestion that they go to an arcade and the boys were quick to approve. Beverly knew that Grant was trying hard to fit in and she was grateful for that. Neither had broached the subject of love since he left her with that thought by phone the other day. But it stayed with Beverly and made her assess her own feelings and where to go with them.

  “Sounds good to me,” she said, face upturned to meet his eyes.

  Grant held her gaze. “Glad you think so.” Damn, she looks nice.

  In that moment Grant wanted to kiss Beverly, but thought better. Now was not the time. This was his moment to be buddy-buddy with Jaime and his friend. And maybe show he could also be a good surrogate father, should it come to that.

  What Grant knew for certain was that he didn’t regret for one moment expressing his true feelings to Beverly. He only needed to hear the words from her to know that what they had was real and would only get better.

  But that could wait. For the moment, he was content to be able to spend time with her, even as they worked on their careers and made the tough choices.

  * * *

  The arcade was packed with young people and a few older ones. Jaime and Paco seemed to lose themselves in games and Beverly watched in admiration as Grant did his best to keep up. The boys seemed to appreciate Grant’s efforts and were happy to have him around them.

  Beverly felt that Grant was showing more and more of what she was looking for in a man to build a future with. She hoped he saw the same in her and would give them the time to continue nurturing what they had and let things develop at their own pace.

  They had a meal at Pizza Hut before dropping Paco off at home. Beverly promised that the next time she would come in to meet his mother, whom she had spoken to on the phone a couple of times.