“I can change that with one call to your boss.”
Ryan tried to calm the heat coursing through her veins. Uncontrolled rage was never a productive weapon against her father. She would need to switch tactics.
Envisioning a Hallmark commercial that always reduced her to tears, she sniffed. A second later, the waterworks began. “Daddy, if you tell Peter I shouldn’t be at the crime scenes, he’ll think I put you up to it. I’ll look like some fat kid trying to get out of gym class. I guess I can kiss Strike Force goodbye — probably trials too. I’ll be too embarrassed to stay at the D.A.’s Office when I get moved to a desk. I’ll be miserable, but I suppose I’ll manage to find a new job somewhere.”
She allowed a single tear to roll down her face. “I just always thought you wanted me to be happy. I thought you loved me.” She ended by placing her hand on her forehead and slouching down into the seat.
Her father had a pained expression on his face. “You can stop being a drama queen, Sara Bernhardt. Your act might work in the courtroom, but not with me.” Then he softened his tone, and Ryan knew that, despite his words, he was caving in. “I just worry about you, baby.”
“But you have no reason to worry about me.”
The captain let go of the steering wheel and threw his hands up in the air. “Look at how you dress to come to a crime scene, for Christ’s sake. The only thing missing was a pole for you to dance on.” He was getting worked up, but he was also changing the subject.
Ryan gave him a look out of the corner of her eye, trying to contain a smirk. “You and Shep been hitting Big Who’s? You both seem to have the low-down on strippers these days.”
Big Who’s was a strip club, nasty even by Bourbon Street standards. The owner had set the “W” on the sign to blink, alternating the name Big Who’s with Big ho’s. The NOPD had frequent dealings with Big Who when his girls failed to wear the obligatory pasties and G-strings as they danced in the club’s windows.
The captain turned red, but remained silent.
“Don’t tell me I’m right.” Ryan knew she was pushing too far, but couldn’t resist. “Somehow I just can’t picture you shoving a dollar bill down some stripper’s thong.”
“The way you talk to me! I have never been to a strip club in my life, young lady. Well, not voluntarily. I mean, I’ve gone undercover a few times —”
“I bet you have,” Ryan interrupted, and then smiled the smile of the victorious. Topic deflected. Her father was no longer thinking about her crime scene duty. She used the lull in conversation as an opportunity to change the subject. “So, do you think you’re going to come up with any suspects for Smith’s murder?”
The captain shrugged, and Ryan knew he wasn’t going to discuss the case with her. Not that his reluctance would stop her from prodding. One of the things she enjoyed about her job as a prosecutor was being in the loop.
“Do you think Shep is right that Smith’s murder is going to be impossible to solve?”
The captain glanced over at her cautiously. “Let me worry about that. And what’s with your sudden interest in Chapetti? You’ve mentioned him twice already.”
“Why would I be interested in Shep?” she asked, avoiding the question. “I’m not exactly his type.”
“Well, I’m glad you realize that, at least.” The captain seemed a little too relieved.
Ryan decided to not let him off that easily. “Now that we’re clear on Shep, what about Monte Carlson? Are you going to warn me about him next? Because you know,” she lowered her voice and looked around the car as if someone might be listening, “I’ve heard he’s black.”
“Monte Carlson? Jesus Christ, Ryan, I was worried enough you might be interested in Anthony Chapetti. Are you trying to drive me to an early grave?” The captain put his left hand over his heart.
“And you would have a problem with that?” She feigned surprise. “Me going out with a black man?”
Her father pointed at her. “Never mind the fact that he’s black. Jesus Christ, Ryan, Carlson’s not even Catholic.” He turned onto Napolean, where the houses were sizable, but not quite the mansions of St. Charles Avenue.
They were still several blocks away from Ryan’s house when she said, “Well, Daddy, Shep is Catholic.” That would most definitely give the captain something else to think about other than complaining to the D.A. about her presence at the crime scenes.
“We are not talking about Chapetti again.” From her father’s tone, Ryan knew better than to push this time. “He’s a good cop, but with all women who call him at the station I’m surprised he ever gets any work done. And don’t get me started on the poor girls who have shown up at the station for him. I didn’t think my little girl would be happy being some gigolo’s plaything.”
“Nobody uses the word gigolo,” she said as her father pulled into her covered driveway. She knew her father was exaggerating, as he always did when he was trying to convince her of something. Her father’s propensity for embellishment, however, didn’t stop Ryan from wondering exactly what Shep did to all those women to make them pursue him so aggressively.
When they were out of the car, the captain finally said, “I won’t call your boss about this crime scene bullshit. Yet. But so help me God, if you so much as get a broken nail at one of these scenes, my size 15s are going to be embedded in somebody’s ass.” He pointed to his boots.
Ryan smiled with relief. No matter how she got there, she always managed to get what she wanted.
They walked in silence toward the front steps of the shotgun double she rented. The house was raised three feet from the ground, set on cement blocks like many of the houses in town to protect them from the frequent floods. All of the rooms were in a single row, lined up directly behind each other, and locals said a shotgun slug fired through the front door would travel through each room and exit the back door, hence the name. The house was a double, but the adjacent apartment was used as storage by the owners, so Ryan had no immediate neighbors.
The captain detoured from the Camellia-lined cement path to the page wire fence that surrounded the back yard. His eyes scanned the length of the yard before joining Ryan on the porch. He then walked into the house ahead of her, checking the house for intruders, stopping in the kitchen. “I’m glad to see you finally took the key out of the back door.”
Ryan was glad that her father had something positive to say for a change. She wasn’t about to tell him she had no idea where the key was, and couldn’t remember the last time she had seen it.
He had lectured her when she first moved in about not leaving the key in the double bolt, because an intruder could break the small panel of glass in the door and reach the key inside. Ryan had pointed out that if someone was willing to break the glass to get to the key, he could just as easily break a window to get in. Her father had told her that her attitude invited trouble.
She followed the captain back to the front door. He started to say something, but Ryan suddenly noticed the deep lines etched in his face, and his words were lost. Every now and then, she caught a glimpse of her father, and saw him, not as her overprotective parent, or even as the stern, commanding police captain, but as a tired, worried old man.
Ryan impulsively threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, comforted by the familiar scent of stale cigarette smoke, pungent sweat, and just a tad Old Spice. “I love you, Daddy. I’m sorry I make you worry so much.”
He planted a kiss on top of her head. “I know, princess.” He reached into his back pocket and came up with his wallet.
Ryan squeezed him as hard as she could, barely able to get her arms completely around his mid-section. “I don’t need any money,” she said, embarrassed that her father assumed her affection was born of an ulterior motive. “Thank you for not going to the D.A. about the crime scenes. I promise I’ll be careful.” She finally let go of him. When she looked at his face again, the tired, worried old man was gone, and her father was back.
“I love you too,
baby,” he said, and walked out, remaining on the porch until Ryan locked the front door and set the alarm.
Ryan looked at the clock and realized in just a few hours she would have get ready for work. As exhausted as she was, Ryan jumped in the shower and scrubbed herself with the hottest water she could stand, trying to get the St. Thomas stink off of her body. She hoped that when she fell back to sleep, the voice and image from her earlier nightmare wouldn’t return.
JACOB
His mother had named him Jacob. For some reason, the new parents had thought they could erase the first eight years of his miserable life by changing his name. But they couldn’t, and, after more than twenty years, he was still Jacob, no matter what the new family had decided to call him.
He grabbed a plastic CD jewel case off the entertainment center, and used a razor blade to chop the off-white, crystal-like chunks on top of it. The pieces could easily have been confused for rocks of crack cocaine, but were actually chunks of crystal methamphetamine, readily available to purchase at clubs and college campuses. Of course, part of the thrill was in stealing the crystal from evidence. One hundred percent free, and impossible to trace back to him.
The crystal turned into a coarse powder, which Jacob divided into lines with the razor. He took a hundred out of his wallet, rolled the bill and snorted the powder through it. He felt the sting in his nasal passages, and then the burn. The drug left an acrid, phlegmy taste in the back of his throat, a minor inconvenience for the bright, Technicolor rush he began to experience almost immediately. Now he was ready.
He returned the CD case to the entertainment center, ignoring the brown vials neatly lined up next to the other cases. The vials contained extremely rare, highly-concentrated liquid heroin, also taken from evidence. Jacob hadn’t decided yet who would be the lucky recipient, but realized that such a deadly drug could surely serve a worthwhile purpose at some point in the future.
He strode to the window, turned off the lights in the apartment, and opened the curtains. Using binoculars, he peered through the tiny hole he had cut in the window shade, glad that he had spent the extra money for higher power magnification lenses. He was a good distance from the crime scene, but he could see her almost as clearly as if she was standing right in front of him.
Hatred burned deep in the pit of his stomach. Jacob had assumed that a woman as self-centered as Ryan Murphy would have at least sensed when somebody detested her as much as he did. Fortunately, he had been wrong.
He stood motionless at the window, watching her until she left, wondering how he would be able to stand waiting to carry out his plan.
8:55 A.M.
Ryan vaulted out of her Jeep, turning back hastily to make sure the “Official NOPD Business” sign with the NOPD logo was in place in the windshield. She then flew up the front steps of the Orleans Parish Criminal Courthouse, past the dozens of reporters milling about on the steps outside. Ryan was not quite late, but would have been had she not parked illegally in a police zone on Tulane Avenue.
A reporter called her name and tried to catch up to her, but Ryan raced ahead. As much as she enjoyed the spotlight, she didn’t want to agitate the judge by being late. Although if the reporter had been Chance Halley, she had to admit she might have risked it.
“Ryan, wait up.” Mike Boudreaux, her junior assistant, ran up the stairs behind her. Mike had been an offensive lineman for the New Orleans Saints prior to going to law school. Six foot five, he had weighed in at 365 while playing, but, as he frequently stated, had slimmed down to a “lean” 310 pounds since his football days. With his square jaw and large blonde head, he still looked more like a ball player than a lawyer. “I’m all set to go on the molestation case, if he doesn’t plead,” Mike said, his green eyes revealing his excitement at the possibility of going to trial.
Ryan glanced behind her, double checking to make certain Chance was not among the reporters, and was disappointed that he wasn’t. “He’ll plead. Janet never goes to trial,” Ryan said, referring to the public defender in the section. “Did you hear about L’Roid Smith?”
Mike stuck out his chest. “I wish I knew who killed him. I’d like to shake his hand.”
“I guess Bo has the week off now.” Ryan tried not to smile. For the most part, individual statistics determined who received promotions, the number of each prosecutor’s jury trials one of the more important factors. The Smith trial would have tied Bo with Ryan for the total number of jury trials she had prosecuted. Now, Ryan was ahead by one.
“So, how was the murder last night?” Mike bounced on his toes as they waited behind a short line of people entering the courthouse. “I can’t wait until I get assigned to a duty.” He showed his D.A. badge at the top of the steps, and the uniformed deputy, already recognizing them, signaled for them to go around the metal detectors.
“You’ll be assigned any day now. Although I don’t know why you want to be.” She waved down the hall at two police officers she knew.
“So was the murder scene cool?” Mike gave a nod in the officers’ direction.
Ryan covered her mouth as she yawned. “I almost got bit by a cockroach. And you have no idea how difficult it is to get the smell of dead body out of your hair.”
“Cockroaches don’t bite,” Mike said, as if he hadn’t heard the rest.
“Those big German roaches in the projects do. And they hiss like cats.”
They continued up the second flight of stairs, a circular, double set of marble steps. Ryan would have preferred to take the elevator, but, as usual, it was out of order. Only the individual courtrooms had air conditioning, and moisture was already beginning to form on the back of her neck.
Mike pushed the Section B door and held it open. “I still think going to the crime scenes would be cool, even if a cockroach does bite me. I can’t wait until they put me on the schedule.”
Mike was so idealistic. That would undoubtedly wear off in time. The two prosecutors walked on the plush carpet down the center aisle, taking a quick inventory of the people already waiting in the heavy wooden benches on either side.
Everything in the courtroom was first class. In fact, as Ryan often pointed out to jurors, the court scenes in the movie JFK had been shot in this very room. The velvet window treatments, solid oak furniture and crystal chandeliers were replaced every two years at the expense of the tax payers. The musty smell, however, was always prevalent. Ten thousand dollars could keep the courtroom looking pretty, but apparently no amount of money could stop it from smelling like feet.
As they approached the state’s table, Mike gave her an admiring glance. “You look really nice today.”
She gave him a quick smile, feeling a little uncomfortable.
The day Mike had been assigned as her junior, Ryan had taken him out to celebrate. Mike had gotten drunk, and admitted he liked her. She had thought it was cute, until he had said he was having second thoughts about marrying his fiancée, and Ryan had felt it necessary to snap him back to reality. She had told him that it wouldn’t be appropriate for them to become involved as long as she was his immediate superior. The entire situation had been a bit awkward, and sometimes Ryan got the feeling Mike still had a crush on her.
Not that she wouldn’t have considered dating him under different circumstances. His body alone would have held her interest for an indeterminate amount of time. But not while he had to answer to her in court, and not while he was engaged to another woman.
Mike seemed to sense Ryan’s discomfort, and quickly changed the subject. “So, do you really think the judge will sentence Johnnie Lee to death? And if we don’t go on the molestation, what are we going to start working on?”
The previous week, a jury had found Johnnie Lee guilty of raping his ten-yearold daughter, LaJohnnie, in a two-day trial that had ended in an impressive twelve-minute verdict. It had been an emotional trial, as was usually the case with child victims, and Ryan was glad that the jury had come back so quickly. After the verdict, the two prosecutors had be
gun preparing testimony and evidence for the penalty phase.
On capital cases, Louisiana law required a separate mini-trial for the penalty determination, where the state was required to prove aggravating factors or circumstances in order for the jury to choose death. The state usually put on evidence of the defendant’s prior criminal record, as well as any relevant aggravating circumstances of the crime. The defendant had the opportunity to put on mitigating evidence, which usually included his mama, begging the jury for his life. But Johnnie Lee’s mama never showed up, and the jury came back with the death penalty after deliberating for three days. The only thing left now was for the judge to actually impose the sentence.
“The death penalty for rape was upheld by the Supreme Court a long time ago,” Ryan pointed out. “The judge has no legal reason not to impose it. And all those reporters out there are just waiting to let the public know if Judge Jackson wussies out.” Ryan had made anonymous calls to the press herself, to let them know the possibility existed that the judge could try to reduce the penalty, an unlikely, but not impossible, scenario. “And anyway, after hearing LaJohnnie’s testimony about all the horrible things that man did to her, I can’t imagine a judge in this building who would have a problem imposing death.”
Getting the death penalty on this case should not only have made history, but Ryan figured the jury’s verdict should also have secured her shot at the promotion. Since the law had been upheld, no prosecutor in Louisiana had ever convinced a jury to vote for death on a rape case. Until now. All she needed was for the judge to impose the verdict, and she was certain that the Strike Force position would be hers.
“The next big trial in here is Gendusa,” Ryan went on, answering Mike’s earlier question, aware that he already knew the answer. The Gendusa case was a five-victim murder, alleged Mafia hits of state witnesses. Mafia or not, the state had a strong case. Marcelo Gendusa was on tape, courtesy of a recording made by his girlfriend, admitting to the murders.
Gumbo Justice Page 3
