Murder of Innocence (Murder Is Forever)

by James Patterson

  “Your Honor, District Attorney Scrooge clearly just wants to lock my client up now while she still can because she knows she’s going to lose on verdict.”

  “Oh, Roger, give me a break. Your client is about to get hit with a hundred and twenty years. You know it and he knows it. Is this court really supposed to trust him not to use his millions to flee the country during a two-week-long vacation?”

  “Counselor,” Judge Riley interjects, “I respect your concerns. But Mr. Diamond is right. The defendant has thus far complied with all his bail requirements impeccably. He’s had eighteen months to, as you say, withdraw his millions and flee, but he hasn’t. I see no reason to suspect he might do so now.”

  The normally cool and collected Fox begins to lose her temper. “Your Honor, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Andrew Luster is going to jump bail. Mark my words. It’s not a matter of if he’s going to run, it’s a matter of when. And we’re telling you that now is the time.”

  But the judge isn’t having it. “The People’s motion to revoke the defendant’s house arrest is denied. Further, the defense’s motion to grant the defendant limited weekday travel and visitation rights to counsel’s Los Angeles office is granted, with the imposition of an eight p.m. nightly curfew.”

  Fox’s jaw drops. “Your Honor, you can’t seriously be—”

  “Now, if there’s nothing else on the table, I have presents to wrap. We’re adjourned.”

  Judge Riley bangs his gavel. Fox shoots Diamond a vicious look. Diamond responds with a victorious one, then returns to the defense table to gather up his files. He’s expecting Andrew to be his usual boyish, upbeat self. Instead, he looks ashen. “Why the long face? Rather spend Christmas in the clink?”

  “Did Fox really mean what she said up there?”

  “Mean what?”

  “That I’m gonna get a hundred and twenty years. That we both know it. You’d tell me if I was screwed, right, Roger?”

  Diamond sighs. He hates having these conversations with clients. “Here’s what I can tell you: I don’t know. I’ve already instructed my office to begin preparing to file your appeal. We’re going to be ready either way.”

  “An appeal? That doesn’t fill me with a whole lotta confidence!”

  Diamond takes Andrew by the shoulders. Looks into his eyes. “This thing isn’t over yet. Anything can happen. Anything.”

  Andrew listens to Diamond’s words, but he doesn’t seem comforted. Apparently, the stark reality of his situation is finally beginning to sink in.

  “Now, go home,” Diamond instructs. “Get some rest. We have only a few more court days before the holiday recess. I need you focused. Hear me?”

  Andrew nods in agreement.

  (Diamond realizes only later that his client’s mind was elsewhere. Plotting.)

  CHAPTER 25

  January 3, 2003

  ONE OF ANDREW LUSTER’S worst fears has been confirmed.

  It was nearly impossible to put a skintight wetsuit on over a GPS-monitoring ankle bracelet.

  So he’d improvised by cutting a long slit down the left calf of one of his older suits. It’s a struggle to get into it, but at least he’s still able to go surfing. Thank God the monitor is waterproof.

  Today, out in the early-morning shallows, Andrew savors every precious moment of his favorite hobby even more than usual. The smell of the briny air. The rush of catching a wave. The peace and tranquility that only this act provides.

  Traipsing back across the sand, his mind clear, Andrew makes a critical decision. He’d been waffling, but no longer. Today is the day.

  Which means he has no time to waste.

  Inside, after a quick shower, Andrew tosses two large suitcases onto his bed and starts stuffing them with clothes. Summer clothes. Where he’s going, the temperature rarely dips below sixty-five. Next, he ransacks his house for valuables.

  Andrew was never much for high-end antiques, but he does own a few ancient American Indian trinkets that he bought at an auction a few years ago for about eight thousand dollars. They’ve been collecting dust on his mantel ever since. He sweeps them into his arms and drops them on top of his clothing.

  Andrew also has about six thousand dollars in cash stashed in a hollowed-out hardcover on his bookshelf. He rolls the bills up, puts a rubber band around them, and shoves the wad into his pocket.

  Finally, he takes a long, painful look around his beloved little home. His bachelor pad. His love nest. His sanctuary. His prison cell. Decades of memories. Hundreds of women. Andrew silently says goodbye to all of it.

  This may very well be the last time he sees it.

  Andrew drags his suitcases outside and slides them into the back seat of his green SUV. He grabs the rusty old pair of garden shears he’s been keeping on the floor mat of his vehicle for this very moment.

  He places his left ankle on the bumper. Rolls up his jeans. Carefully slips the bracelet’s band between the two blades. Then clamps them down hard.

  The blades cut through the vulcanized rubber like butter. The black bracelet flops onto the gravel driveway and lies there like a dead bird.

  And just like that, Andrew Luster is a free man again.

  He hops behind the wheel, guns the engine, and pulls out of the driveway. After a few quick turns through his quiet neighborhood, he’s cruising south on the 101 Freeway. It’s a Friday—the last weekday of the holiday recess before his trial resumes on Monday—but it’s early enough that traffic is moving smoothly.

  Andrew opens all the windows, lets the highway wind roar around him.

  He flips on the radio, finds a classic-rock anthem, and blares it.

  Andrew is in a hurry, of course, but he’s careful not to speed or change lanes without signaling. He doesn’t want to do anything that might get him pulled over. In the past, he could often joke or charm his way out of a ticket. But now, he’s a fugitive. He’s not likely to have much luck now.

  For the first thirteen miles or so, the 101 hugs the coastline, lush foothills on one side, crashing waves on the other. After passing the city of Ventura, the freeway heads inland, through endless scrubby sprawl. Andrew eventually veers south through Topanga Canyon, then merges onto the Pacific Coast Highway. As the name implies, it’s a truly stunning drive, passing the tail end of Malibu and the heart of Pacific Palisades, two of the wealthiest communities in the country, with multimillion-dollar mansions perched precariously on the edges of the cliffs.

  But Andrew doesn’t have much time to enjoy the view.

  If he keeps going in this direction, he’ll soon reach another freeway, one that would take him across the city and deposit him in downtown LA, not far from Roger’s office. He’s made that trip a number of times since his bail terms were loosened.

  But today, Andrew takes the exit for San Vicente Boulevard.

  He coasts for a few blocks through the quiet residential streets of Santa Monica, a little coastal city that’s part of greater Los Angeles. Spotting a pay phone on the corner of San Vicente and Tenth Street, he pulls over and parks under a broad, shady palm tree. Some two hours after leaving Mussel Shoals, Andrew gets out of his car. He grabs his bags. Approaches the phone. Picks up the receiver.

  “Directory assistance,” says the cheerful operator. “What city, please?”

  “Los Angeles,” Andrew replies. “I need a cab. Now.”

  CHAPTER 26

  YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE he is? Is this some kind of sick joke, Counselor?”

  Roger Diamond is in the midst of an epic dressing-down from Judge Ken Riley, whose normally ruddy cheeks have turned the color of stoplights.

  “I wish it were, Your Honor. But I don’t have a clue. The last time I spoke to my client was Thursday. He didn’t return my calls on Friday, but I didn’t think anything of it. When he failed to check in with authorities for his eight o’clock curfew that evening, they went to his home and discovered that he and his vehicle were missing. I was flabbergasted.”

  Deputy DA Maeve Fox sniffs
. “You fought for his bail. You spoke to him last. I don’t have to tell you how this looks, Mr. Diamond.”

  “Counselor, I was doing my job. And I deeply resent that implication.”

  “You loosened Luster’s leash and unlocked his cage,” she responds. “You all but told him to run away!”

  “Ms. Fox, I would remind you that my client is a human being. And I am as shocked and appalled by his absence as—”

  “Enough!” Judge Riley booms. “Save this bickering for the schoolyard. I’ll let the U.S. Marshals Service track down the defendant and investigate his manner of escape. Right now, I believe all of us in this courtroom want the same thing. A fair trial.”

  “Of course, Your Honor,” Diamond agrees. “But under the circumstances, that’s clearly impossible. You need to declare a mistrial.”

  “No, no, no. Your Honor, please,” Fox pleads. “Think of all the testimony we’ve heard. How could I possibly put those poor women on the stand again? How could I ask them to relive the most painful experiences of their life? They deserve justice.”

  “I agree,” Diamond says. “And my heart breaks for them. However—”

  “Yeah, Roger, I’m sure it keeps you up at night. Your Honor, the defendant is the one who skipped bail. A mistrial would be rewarding him for it—and punishing his victims.”

  “It’s not a reward,” Diamond insists. “It’s our only option. How can any defendant get a fair trial if it’s conducted in his absence?”

  Riley pushes his round glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “Counselor, I believe you’ve just answered your own question.”

  For once, the great Roger Diamond is left speechless.

  “I … don’t quite follow, Your Honor.”

  “The trial of Andrew Luster will continue … in absentia. Mr. Diamond, you will present your client’s defense as scheduled as if he were right there beside you.”

  “I … I’m sorry, Your Honor, but that’s absurd. The Hague tries war criminals in absentia. This is a superior court trying a sex offender!”

  “Are you saying I don’t have the authority to order it?”

  “I’m saying that here in Ventura County, California, it just isn’t done!”

  Fox chimes in. “Putting an adult defendant on juvenile-style house arrest just isn’t done in this county either, Counselor. That didn’t seem to bother you before.”

  Diamond fumes. “Then, Your Honor, I refuse. If you insist on continuing this trial as a farce, I’ll resign as defendant’s counsel.”

  “You will do no such thing, Mr. Diamond. Unless you’d like to be held in contempt. Try me, Counselor. I dare you.”

  One of Diamond’s most underrated skills as a defense attorney is knowing when to cut his losses and move on. Knowing when it’s time to shut up.

  This is one of those times.

  “Bailiff? Please summon the jury back into the courtroom. Mr. Diamond, prepare to call your first witness.”

  Gritting his teeth, Diamond returns to the defense table and collects his notes.

  He glances over at the chair beside him—which is conspicuously, ominously empty.

  CHAPTER 27

  February 2003

  DEPUTY DA MAEVE FOX turns to the jury and takes a slow, dramatic breath.

  “First, you heard it in their own words. Three innocent young women. Three strangers. All with three remarkably similar stories. And all with the terrible misfortune of crossing paths with a monster. Maybe you had some doubts about their accounts. Maybe you noticed a few minor inconsistencies, even though you heard from two expert witnesses that after a person’s been drugged, gaps in memory are common.”

  Fox paces to the other side of the jury box.

  “But then, ladies and gentlemen, you saw the tapes. You saw things that no human being should ever see. Tapes the defendant made for his own sick pleasure while committing his despicable crimes. A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words. In this case? I say a video is worth a hundred and twenty-four years.”

  Fox gestures to the defense table, where Diamond sits alone.

  “And what has the defendant had to say for himself? That’s right. Nothing. Two weeks ago, he ran away from his beachside home. Why did he do it? Out of respect for the judicial process? Because he’s prepared to accept responsibility and face the consequences of his actions? Of course not. The defendant ran because he’s a coward. He’s a fabulously wealthy man, accustomed to doing whatever he wants without consequence. Andrew Luster ran because he’s guilty.”

  Fox pauses, letting her words sink in for the twelve members of the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you have the power that Mr. Luster’s victims did not. You can make him pay. Guilty verdicts on all eighty-six counts would put him in prison for the rest of his life and keep him from hurting any other woman ever again.”

  Fox takes her seat at the prosecution’s table. Judge Ken Riley calls on the defense to make its own closing statement.

  For Roger Diamond, writing and rewriting this argument over the past few days has been a Herculean task. So has defending his absentee client over the past two weeks.

  Diamond has tried his best to do this thankless job. He introduced into evidence some of Andrew’s earlier professional soft-core feature films to establish his bona fides as a director. He also tried, unsuccessfully, to get permission to play another tape of Tonja, one in which she willingly took her top off while Andrew filmed.

  Diamond picked apart photographs taken during the police search, suggesting that biased investigators, jealous of Andrew’s wealth, might have planted evidence.

  He called multiple expert witnesses to offer alternative theories of the women’s claims of blackouts and memory loss.

  In a last-ditch effort, he even put Andrew’s own mother on the stand as a character witness.

  But nothing can erase the simple, undeniable fact that his client has skipped bail—and has now been placed on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

  This isn’t just a single elephant in the courtroom. It’s an elephant stampede.

  “Guilty,” Diamond says, buttoning his jacket and approaching the jury box, “until proven innocent. That’s the core principle of our system of justice. But here, things are more complicated. The DA is right, ladies and gentlemen. My client is guilty … of violating the terms of his bail agreement. We can all see that with our own eyes. And if that’s what he were on trial for today, the best defense attorney with the best closing statement in the world couldn’t convince you otherwise.”

  Diamond brushes an errant lock of hair from his brow.

  “But that’s not what my client is on trial for today. And it is very, very important that all of you keep that in mind. When Andrew Luster is located, he will be punished for running bail. As he should be. But breaking one law does not mean you’re guilty of breaking another. Only evidence proves that. And what evidence have we seen? A few made-up stories from some embarrassed, desperate women. A few so-called medical experts who never examined any of the women personally. A few minutes of homemade porn starring one actress who admitted to ingesting GHB with my client!”

  Diamond glares at the jury now. “We’re talking about a man’s life here, ladies and gentlemen.” He raises his voice for the big finish. “His life! Ask yourself: are you truly willing to sentence my client to die behind bars? Has the prosecution fully convinced you of these charges beyond a reasonable doubt? If you’re even the slightest bit unsure, there’s only one option. Not guilty. Thank you.”

  Diamond sighs and returns to his seat. He shoots a quick look at Fox, who offers him a nod of professional respect. Diamond returns it. Whatever the verdict, these two fierce legal warriors have fought valiantly to the bitter end.

  Judge Riley gives the jury a few instructions, then releases them to deliberate.

  Less than an hour later, they’ve reached unanimous verdicts on all eighty-six separate drug and sexual assault counts.

  Guilty.

  Guilty
.

  Guilty.

  Judge Riley thanks the jury for their service. He notes that because he plans to order the sentences to be served consecutively, Andrew Luster will be facing over a hundred and twenty years in prison.

  But if he isn’t found and brought to justice, the fugitive Luster won’t serve a single day.

  CHAPTER 28

  April 2003

  TOWELING HIS THINNING WET hair, fresh from a late-morning swim, Min Labanauskas steps onto his second-floor balcony and gazes happily at his growing kingdom below.

  Eight luxury casitas in various stages of construction, each with its own private patio and pool, are spread out before him along this rocky, picturesque coastline. Needing only paint jobs and landscaping, a few, like his own, are basically move-in ready. Others are little more than clusters of two-by-fours protruding from concrete foundations.

  Just a few years ago, it might have been difficult for some to imagine that this barren strip of beach in the middle of nowhere—outside Punta de Mita, a tiny Mexican fishing village an hour north of Puerta Vallarta—would one day be transformed into Costa Custodio, a high-end private resort community.

  But not for Min, a man of great vision, patience, and determination.

  In a former life, he worked as a biophysicist at a major pharmaceutical company in Tucson, spending months, sometimes years, manipulating a single microscopic organism. Now retired, he and his wife, Mona, have thrown themselves—and their savings—into real estate development. And they’ve never looked back.

  “Hola, Señor La Bamba, ¿qué tal?” calls Alejandro, the friendly property manager and construction foreman, as he pushes a wheelbarrow on the road below Min’s balcony. He and many of the local workers Min hired had struggled to master his tongue-twisting Lithuanian surname, so they’d shortened it to La Bamba, which Min still gets a kick out of.

  “Morning, Alejandro! The new mosaic work on number cinco—great job.”