by JF Freedman
“It might,” Luke answered cautiously. This confirmed Steven’s account of how he had come across the gun inside the house—that he hadn’t taken it out of the case, but found it where his grandmother had inadvertently left it. No one would question Juanita McCoy’s word.
Still, something felt off. “Where did you put the gun?” he asked Juanita.
“On a side table, near the front window,” she answered. “Why?”
“You didn’t drop it on the floor?”
“Heavens, no!” she answered. “Drop a weapon? It could go off, or it could be damaged. No one with a wit of sense would drop a gun,” she insisted. “Why do you ask?”
Steven answered the question. “I found the gun lying on the floor,” he told her.
“Which means whoever used it panicked and dropped it, right there,” Luke concluded. “Someone who doesn’t know anything about handling guns.” He picked up the phone and punched in Alex Gordon’s cell number. “Alex? I have some vital news about that gun.”
“So do I,” Alex came back from the other end of the line. “It’s the murder weapon. The lab confirmed it. I was about to call you.” He paused. “McCoy’s fingerprints are all over it.”
Luke covered the mouthpiece. “The gun is a match,” he told Steven and Juanita. “And, of course, your prints are on it, Steven.”
Steven sat down next to Juanita. They held on to each other like two survivors of a shipwreck clinging to a life raft.
Luke spoke to Alex over the phone again. “I understand. But there’s an explanation.” He repeated what Steven and Juanita had told him. “You must see the significance, Alex,” he said ardently. “It’s a horrible coincidence, but it explains why the prints are on the gun.”
As he listened to the senior D.A.’s reply, Luke’s face began to cloud over. He shook his head, back and forth. “Yes, I understand,” he replied. “Have it your way. For now.”
He slammed the phone down in disgust. “In essence, the D.A.’s answer is, ‘So what?’ Instead of taking the gun out, you found it lying there. The point is, the bullets matched, and your prints are on it. They just got the word from the crime lab. So are the victim’s, by the way, which makes things worse. That gun is the murder weapon—no ifs, ands, or buts.” He braced himself against his desk. “The detectives will be here any minute to arrest you.”
Juanita moaned, and curled into a ball. Steven wrapped a protective arm around her thin shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Grandma. I didn’t kill her.” He looked at Luke. “Can you come with me?”
It’s times like this when you hate your job, Luke thought. “Not now. After you’re booked, I’ll be allowed to see you.”
“When will that be?”
“Later tonight or tomorrow morning, hopefully.”
“I’ll have to stay in jail tonight?” Steven asked, his voice rising in a tremolo.
“Yes, unfortunately.” There was no easy way to explain this. “You’re going to be in jail for a few days, until we can enter a plea. This is a murder case, Steven. It isn’t going to go away fast.”
Steven fell back, his arms splayed out to the sides. “Jesus Christ. How did this happen?”
There are only two answers to that question, Luke thought grimly. Either you’re the unlucky victim of a series of terrible circumstances, or you did it. There were times when he had to be painfully blunt with a client. This wasn’t one of them.
There was a knock on the door. Luke stood up, then helped Steven to his feet as Rebeck and Watson took a few steps into the room. They both avoided looking at Juanita.
Rebeck, her eyes ablaze, did the honors. “Steven McCoy, we are arresting you on the charge of murder, under section 187 of the California Penal Code.”
Steven started to collapse. Luke held on to him to keep him upright. Juanita, hunched over on the couch, was utterly distraught. This is the kind of stress that can kill an elderly person, Luke worried, as he looked over at her. She was a tough old bird, but this was an experience way beyond what anyone could ever be prepared for.
Watson cuffed Steven’s hands behind his back. Luke was at Steven’s side as the detectives led Steven outside.
As soon as they opened the front door, they were blinded by a wall of television lights. An unruly posse of camera operators jostled with each other for position, boom-mikes swung overhead, TV reporters carrying hand microphones pushed toward them like Pickett’s troops charging Cemetery Ridge. The reporters started yelling on top of each other, a blizzard of sound.
“When did you decide…”
“Is the charge going to be first-degree murder?…”
“What’s his name…” On and on, a babble of controlled hysteria.
Luke helped Watson and Rebeck rush Steven through the throng to the waiting car. Watson pulled the back door open and pushed Steven inside, cradling his head against the doorjamb. Rebeck ran around to the driver’s side, rudely pushing aside a microphone that had been thrust in her face. “No comment,” she called out. “The sheriff will issue a statement later.”
Watson jumped into the passenger seat. The unwieldy sedan fishtailed down the street as it headed for the freeway on its way to the county jail.
Fucking chickenshit cops, Luke thought in anger, as he watched the car disappear around a corner. They had deliberately leaked Steven’s arrest, to make their sorry asses look good. Down the line, Alex Gordon would pay a healthy tribute for this.
He needed to calm this circus down, if only by a fraction. “My client has fully cooperated with the authorities,” he said into the cluster of microphones. “I am confident that when this all shakes out they will release him, because there is no irrefutable evidence against him.” He deliberated for a moment, then decided to fire a shot across the bow. “The sheriff’s department has been under incredible stress to make an arrest in the Estrada case, even though no one knows whether her killing was deliberate, accidental, or a dozen possibilities in between. While I’m not saying the police were pressured into making a premature and improper arrest, in a case as important as this one there should be a strong preponderance of evidence before anyone rushes to judgment.”
He stopped. They could draw their own conclusions—and they would. “That’s all I have to say—for now.”
11
KATE DRAGGED HERSELF THROUGH the front door of her Westside bungalow. It was a few minutes after nine. She had spent most of the day with Luke Garrison, going over preparations for Steven McCoy’s booking and arraignment. She did the PI work on Luke’s serious cases; this one was going to be particularly grueling, because of who was involved: a murdered Chicano girl and a young, handsome Anglo defendant. That Steven was from one of the county’s most prominent families was additional gasoline thrown on the fire. It wouldn’t be a national story like the Michael Jackson circus, but locally it would be as important. Starting tomorrow, this case would take precedence over everything else on her schedule.
She tossed her purse and carry-bag onto the couch and collapsed in a heap. “A drink,” she moaned. “My kingdom for a vodka and tonic.”
Sophia, dug in at the dining-room table, sheets of scratch paper scattered about, looked over at her mother with a complete lack of sympathy. “I suck at calculus, Mom,” she whined. “Why did you make me take AP instead of regular?”
“Because challenges nourish the soul,” Kate responded. “And I didn’t make you take anything. I suggested it.”
“Strongly suggested.”
“You’ll do fine,” Kate said, dismissing the complaint. Last week’s nemesis had been AP physics. Sophia would get A’s in both. “What did you have for dinner?”
“I didn’t.”
“Weren’t you hungry? There’s still leftover chicken in the refrigerator, isn’t there?”
“I didn’t feel like chicken. We had chicken twice already this week.”
Kate kicked off her shoes. “What do you want on your pizza?”
“Green peppers and mushrooms. What are you go
ing to have?”
Kate punched in the phone number for Rusty’s Pizza Parlor. “Just cheese, I guess. No heavy toppings.”
“Watching your weight again?” Sophia teased her.
Kate whacked a thigh. “Yeah, right. As you can see, I’m making great progress.” She recited their order, telephone number, and address over the phone. “Half an hour,” she said as she hung up. “How much more work do you have?”
“A couple hours, at least. I’ve still got to write a paper for English after this.”
Kate padded into the kitchen. She took the vodka bottle and a handful of ice cubes from the freezer. Dumping them into a tall glass, she twisted open a bottle of tonic. “Do you want anything to drink?” she called out.
“Do we have any champagne?”
“What?”
Sophia came to the kitchen door. “You know. That bubbly stuff that goes up your nose.”
“I know what it does. Since when do you drink champagne, or any booze? Especially on a school night.”
Sophia’s smile split her face. “When I get a part in the school play.”
Kate almost dropped her glass. “Is it a good part?” she asked. Please God, she thought, not a munchkin or some other doofus background character.
Sophia was beaming. “The best.”
“Dorothy? You got Dorothy?” Kate was overjoyed. “That’s wonderful!”
“No, I didn’t get Dorothy,” Sophia said, scrunching her eyes like she had cut into an onion. “Dorothy’s totally boring. She’s this goody little girl with her goody little dog who dances down the yellow brick road butting into everybody’s business. There’s no future in Dorothy, Mom. Judy Garland wound up a pill junkie.”
“Then what?”
“Heh heh hey, my lovely,” Sophia croaked, pitching her voice an octave lower. “What unpleasant surprises I have in store for you.” Switching back to her own voice, she sang out: “The Wicked Witch of the West! She’s the arch villain, Mom. The baddie’s always the best part.”
“That’s great,” Kate enthused. This was the most animation Sophia had shown since she’d moved down here. “But unfortunately, I don’t have any champagne. You’ll have to settle for a Diet Coke.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a cold can. “Do you want a glass?”
“I’ll drink it straight.” Sophia cracked the top and licked off the foam. “Are you going to be working on that murder case, Mom?” she asked. “The girl from my school?”
Kate, caught off-guard, hesitated before answering. “What do you know about it?” she asked nervously, bothered both by the tone of the question and how it came out of her daughter’s mouth.
“It’s all everyone in school is talking about. It was on the six o’clock news. Luke Garrison was talking about it. He’s the lawyer for that McCoy guy, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Kate answered heavily. That’s where this was coming from—Sophia knew she did Luke’s PI work. It was logical she would assume her mother would be involved in this. Logical, and upsetting.
“So are you going to be working on this, Mom?” Sophia asked again.
Kate suppressed a sigh. “Yes,” she answered. “I am.”
Sophia took a sip of Coke. “So what happens if you work on it for awhile and you realize he really did it? Would you keep working on it?”
Kate reeled. This had never come up before—it was uncharted waters between them. “Yes, I would,” she said gravely. “That’s my job. It’s not up to me to make judgments. That’s why we have juries.”
“But if you knew, for sure,” Sophia persisted.
Kate tried to explain: “Even with the most airtight case you can never know for absolutely, positively sure. And there are always extenuating circumstances. It’s never completely black and white.”
Sophia shook her head in strong, almost violent disagreement. “Sometimes you do know, Mom. I think that sometimes, you have to.” She stared at her mother intently. “What if it had been me, Mom? Would you still defend him?” She gathered up her work. “I’m going to study in my room. Call me when the pizza gets here.”
PART II
12
“WHAT IS THE CHARGE?”
Alex Gordon answered for the prosecution. “Murder in the first degree. Reserve the right to add extenuating circumstances.”
A copy of the complaint had been delivered to Luke’s office earlier that morning, so he knew what was coming. Still, hearing the charge out loud was crushing. He put a supportive hand on Steven’s shoulder as they stood behind the defense table.
The judge turned and looked at Steven. “How do you plead?”
In a low but firm voice, as Luke had instructed him, Steven McCoy answered, “Not guilty, your honor.”
Superior Courtroom #3, where the arraignment was being held, was sparsely occupied; this was only the beginning of the process. The next step would be the bail hearing, which would take place in a few days, after Steven had been evaluated regarding his potential flight risk, and danger to the community. Luke wasn’t worried about a negative finding on the danger issue. But if the report found that Steven might run after posting bail, that would be harder to overcome. Alex Gordon would fight granting bail, and fight it hard.
A few days after that the preliminary hearing would be held, at which time the prosecution would show enough evidence to bind Steven over for trial. Luke knew that was a foregone conclusion. They had plenty of evidence. He had gotten lots of convictions with less evidence than Alex had already.
Finally, after all that warm-up, there would be a new arraignment, at which time the trial date would be set. Then the real work would begin.
Luke was wearing a Brooks Brothers blue blazer, button-down white shirt, dark slacks, and a Yale tie he’d won in a poker game. For him, this outfit was almost formal attire. A serious charge required a serious, somber look. His client was in jail garb—standard-issue blue jail top and pants, and scruffy shower slippers. Behind them, seated in the first row, were Kate Blanchard, his paralegal Margo, Juanita McCoy, and a middle-aged couple Luke assumed were Steven’s parents. He hadn’t met them yet—they had flown in last night, from Tucson. After this hearing was over—a matter of only a few minutes—and Steven was taken back to the jail, Luke would sit down with them and explain what they could expect over the next several months. He wasn’t looking forward to it; he wouldn’t be painting a pretty picture. Already, they had the shell-shocked look on their faces of people who had just been in a horrific car wreck and didn’t know if they had survived or not.
Across from him, on the other side of the aisle, Alex Gordon stood tall, his eyes straight ahead on the judge. Next to Alex, standing equally erect, although almost a foot shorter, was one of the department’s senior deputy D.A.’s, a barracuda named Elise Hobson. Elise was a career prosecutor, who had worked under Luke when he was the District Attorney. She was a couple of years younger than Luke, and she held her age well, arising at four-thirty in the morning to hit the weights, the treadmill, and the StairMaster. She had been married and divorced twice, once fresh out of law school and again a few years later, and had long ago publicly sworn off commitment—her determined, liberated single lifestyle was a running, friendly joke among her friends. Which didn’t mean that she discovered, in middle age, that she was a closet lesbian; she was simply against attachments, they didn’t work for her. She didn’t even own a cat, she so valued her independence.
She had no problem with men, as friends or sexual partners, and she had the capacity for surprising tenderness. After Luke’s painful divorce from Polly, his first wife, he and Elise had spent a long weekend together in Big Sur. It had been an excellent seventy-two hours—Elise was a good lover, fierce and funny, and pleasurable company the rest of the time. But they didn’t take it any further. He was her boss, recently recovering from the devastation of his failed marriage, and they both knew there wouldn’t be anything between them in the long-term. But that seventy-two hours had been therapeutic for him, at a time when he
had been in dire need of stroking and all-around TLC.
It was only after he had blown off his career, left town with his tail between his legs, met Riva, got married, and moved back down to Santa Barbara, that Elise confided, one night at Intermezzo when they bumped into each other over drinks, that he was the only man for a long time that she had given thought to getting serious about, and that she had been saddened and a bit wounded that their relationship hadn’t gone any further. It had meant more to her than he had realized. Her candid admission had unnerved him, because he had used her, had assumed she knew he was using her, and was doing it to help him, no strings or feelings attached. He had been wrapped up in his own feelings then, not aware of anyone else’s.
They were still cordial with each other, but they were no longer friends. She prosecuted people, he defended them. They’d had some intense battles in the local courtrooms. He had won more than his share of them, which didn’t sit well with her—that tough, competitive nature of hers took defeat poorly. And the undercurrent of their brief but intense encounter hung over them, a mist no one but them could feel.
He glanced over at her and Alex. Both were deliberately avoiding looking at him. Behind them, two rows deep, were some of the policemen and others who had brought State v. McCoy to this point. And behind them sat the family of the murdered girl, Maria Estrada. A sad-looking woman dressed in traditional Mexican mourning black was undoubtedly the victim’s mother. There were some young adults, probably siblings or cousins, and a man a decade younger than Luke, who sat erect on the wooden bench, slightly apart from the others, his eyes burning holes into Steven’s back.
Luke knew the man, Hector Torres, from way back. Torres was a charismatic figure in the Latino community. He owned a plumbing supply shop, and was also a partner in a popular Chicano bar on the Westside. He was a former member of the Mexican Mafia, and had done a couple years in prison on drug-trafficking charges. Since his release from Soledad, fifteen years ago, he had stayed out of trouble, although local law enforcement continued to keep tabs on him. He was also, surprisingly for a man of his background, well-educated—he had finished junior college in prison, and got his bachelor’s degree in business from Cal State Northridge after his release.
