“I need to think about it.”
Kostya nodded. Marcus asked him how things were going with Jesus Loves 2 Barbecue. Kostya told him to bring the family over for a meal when it opened. They embraced and parted. Driving over Laurel Canyon back to the Valley, Marcus considered the encroaching shadows, the nether world whose chilly squeeze he’d accepted. He looked at his cell phone and thought about calling Kostya right then, getting it over with. Let loose the Chechen. He would be protecting his family. Why should he go to jail?
It was after midnight, and Marcus and Jan were in the kitchen folding laundry. Neither one could fall asleep. He hadn’t discussed his meeting with Kostya, because he wanted to form his own opinion on the course of action he should take, and he hadn’t been able to as yet. Marcus rolled a pair of black socks into a ball. Jan was folding one of Nathan’s T-shirts.
“If I have to go to jail, do you think you could manage?”
“You’re not going to jail.”
“But if I did.”
“It’d be hard. Not because of money. We have enough to last for a while, but … Nate, you know …” Jan didn’t have to finish the sentence. She placed the T-shirt in the basket on top of a pile that had already been folded.
“What if I told you I found a way to make the case go away?” When she asked him what he meant, he told her what Kostya had suggested. She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“You’re not really thinking about it?”
“Obviously I’m thinking about it. I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Marcus, no. Hasn’t everything gone wrong enough? If you get involved in something like this … I can’t … I can’t! Jeez, are you crazy? Neither can you.”
He threw the socks into the basket, where they landed next to the T-shirts, and picked up another pair to fold. Marcus was grateful for his wife’s simple affirmation, but a moment later found he was wishing there was a way the Chechen stuntman could guarantee his work was untraceable. Suddenly horrified by his thoughts, he went to the cabinet, took out a glass, and poured himself some whiskey. He nervously drained it, then told Jan he was going to try to go back to sleep. Upstairs, he lay down, his mind pinwheeling. The Chechen made him remember Tommy and Memo, the ride north, the long walk through the woods, the gun blast echoing against the dry hills. He’d seen it up close. Not seen it exactly: he was lying on the forest floor at the time, his face in the pine needles. But he knew what it looked like when someone was killed and realized he could never indulge that impulse.
Ten minutes later, his gloomy ruminations were interrupted by a soft knock.
“Marcus?” It was Lenore. He told her to come in. The door opened, and she entered holding a joint. Marcus silently regarded her from his recumbent position, not moving. She inhaled and let the smoke run out of her nose. “You want some? It might help you sleep.”
“No, thanks.” He didn’t have the energy or the desire to tell her to put it out.
Lenore wore yellow pajamas with purple vertical stripes that had the effect of making her look like an exceedingly thin commedia dell’arte clown. The dim hall light threw a soft nimbus around her small frame.
“I can’t sleep either.” She took another hit as Marcus waited for her to continue. “I’ve been thinking.”
“What about?” He didn’t really want to talk to anyone right now, but it was better than wrestling with his doom-laden imaginings.
“I want to take one for the team.”
Marcus rolled over on his side and propped himself up on an elbow. “Lenore, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m willing to go to the cops and tell them I was the one running the service.”
Although he was stunned by her offer, he quickly formulated a response, which was: “Absolutely not.”
“Marcus, you can’t go to jail.” Lenore took another hit, and let the smoke stream from her nostrils. “You have a wife and kid. No one’s depending on me. I could do a couple of years, easy.”
“No. Forget it.”
“You took me in when Shel died, you paid for my medical care…”
“Don’t appeal to my sentimental side, Lenore, because it’s gone. So, look, I appreciate your offer and, yes, I’m touched by it too, but I have to tell you again … absolutely no way will I let you do that. No way. Now go back to sleep.”
“At least say you’ll think about it.”
“Give me a hit before you go.”
He could tell that her disappointment was not feigned. She handed him the joint, and he inhaled deeply. It had been years since he’d smoked dope, and as it filled his lungs he began to cough. The spasm lasted nearly thirty seconds and so taxed his pulmonary system that he felt exhausted enough to drift into a fitful sleep moments after Lenore said good night.
Chapter 23
On a bright May morning, two years since Marcus had left the toy business, a year and a half since embarking on his second career, and six months after it came to a grinding halt, the man Channel 9 News had dubbed “Pimp Daddy” sat at the defense table of the courtroom in Van Nuys Courthouse West, wearing the dark suit he had purchased for his son’s bar mitzvah. The apprehension that filled the days leading up to the trial had affected his appetite, and the jacket hung loosely on his frame. Atlas was seated next to him, ready to have at it with the judge, the prosecuting attorney, the media, and anyone who thought they might impede the redemptive story line he intended to construct. Jan sat behind them, unindicted, fearful of an outcome that would send Marcus to state prison for a minimum of three years as mandated by the California penal code. Lenore sat next to her, tortured at having to watch this man, who had always tried to do the right thing by her, being put through the public humiliation that is any criminal trial.
Judge Ruth Wu was a small woman in her sixties. Her gray hair was pulled into a severe bun, and large black glasses perched on her nose. Her robe seemed to be in danger of swallowing her. Leaning forward, elbows on the bench, she called the first witness, Detective Victor Jarvis from the LAPD, a laconic man wearing an in-court-for-the-day suit that rested uneasily on his paunch. He was sworn in.
The assistant district attorney was Maria Mendoza. Sleek-looking, she wore a dark pin-striped suit and black pumps. Marcus watched her, trying to ignore her sexuality. The obvious contempt she had for him perversely rendered her more attractive. He knew there were men who would pay a lot of money for that kind of disdain and up the ante if she wore the right outfit while exhibiting it. Plum had milked that demographic dry. He quickly tried to dismiss the thought as she approached Jarvis.
“Detective Jarvis, who discovered the body of Mahmoud Ghorbanifar in Angeles National Forest?”
“Firefighters who were up there working.” His voice was a monotone. He could have been reading from a technical manual.
“And you were the first detective on the scene?”
“I was.”
“Why did you suspect the body had been moved?”
“No one goes hiking naked.”
“And no one could have taken the victim’s clothes?”
“Objection!” Atlas said. “Prejudicial. The deceased in question is not a victim. This isn’t a murder trial.”
Marcus was pleased that Atlas had interrupted so quickly. He was not going to let anything pass unchallenged. The judge sustained the objection and told Maria Mendoza to continue.
“No one could have taken Mr. Ghorbanifar’s clothes?”
“The body was found in a remote area. It’s unlikely that someone would have found it and then removed the clothing.”
“Objection. Speculative!” Atlas said.
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“When you brought the body into the lab, what did you learn?”
“There was a pubic hair in his mouth.”
“Please tell the court what happened after that.”
“We ran it through a DNA database.”
“And what did you find?”
“That it belonged to Lenka Robich.”
“What did?”
“The pubic hair.”
“And what was she doing in the DNA database?”
“She had a shoplifting conviction in London. They take DNA swabs over there, and the information gets fed into the international system.”
Given that the physical evidence in question was incontrovertible, Atlas declined to cross-examine the witness. Judge Wu declared a short break. Jan and Lenore went outside, but Marcus wanted to avoid the media. He and Atlas stood next to a window at the end of a long hallway outside the courtroom. Marcus was staring out over the parking structure when Atlas said “I’ve been thinking about what they’re calling you in the media. ‘Pimp Daddy.’ ”
“What about it?” Marcus hated the name.
“I think you should trademark it. It’s catchy.”
“Catchy? When this is over, I’m going to want to forget everything about it.”
“I’ll do it for you. You never know.”
Marcus shook his head, bewildered. How could anything positive redound to him from that mark?
Maria Mendoza said “The State calls Lenka Robich.”
When Amstel took the stand, she did not look at Marcus. He stared at her, profoundly aware that she twirled his life on a well-manicured finger. Forever the enchantress, she had constructed an entirely new persona for her current role as state’s witness. Now she wore a pencil skirt and white silk blouse that made her look like a young corporate executive. In her answers to Maria Mendoza’s friendly questions, Amstel detailed how she had come into Marcus’s orbit and what had transpired the night of Mr. Ghorbanifar’s death. Poised and in control, she drew on her theatrical experience to create a compelling narrative about a sympathetic if carnally inclined immigrant who found herself ensnared in the spider’s web. The jury leaned in, awaiting something salacious. It didn’t take long.
Atlas had purchased his well-tailored suit with borrowed money. Now he confidently stood six feet away from Amstel, boring into her. She looked at him as if he was something she was about the scrape off the window of her Escalade.
“Let’s be clear for the jury, Ms. Robich. The evening when Mr. Ghorbanifar expired and the night you were arrested—those were two different nights we’re talking about, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s talk about the night you were arrested. How long were you in the hotel room before something happened?”
“Ten minutes.”
“And you had already taken off your clothes?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you naked before the interruption?”
“A couple of seconds, maybe.”
“Then what took place?”
“The police came in.”
“How many?”
“I have to guess, I don’t know … maybe five?”
“What happened then? And by the way, were they all male officers?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone talk to you?”
“They say ‘freeze. Don’t move. Stay on bed.’ ”
“What happened next?”
“They go through my bag.”
“Where were you at this point?”
“I am still on bed.”
“Then what happened?”
“They tell me put my clothes on and collect belongings and we are going to police station.”
“After you left the room, I believe you went to the room next door, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you were interviewed by a Detective Blaine, B-L-A-I-N-E, of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember what was discussed in that interview?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t remember anything about interview. I am upset when this happens.”
“You don’t remember what you said to Detective Blaine?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you remember being taken to Precinct 37 of the Los Angeles Police Department?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That you do remember?”
“Yes.”
“And you remember you were booked?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you remember when they told you that you were going to be charged with prostitution, you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“And what was your response when you heard you were going to be charged with prostitution? How did you feel?”
“Bad.”
“You were worried that you could be deported back to Latvia?”
“Yes.”
“And you were subsequently informed by someone from the District Attorney’s office that if you testified against whoever it was who sent you on the date, that would not occur, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So after they took you to the Los Angeles Police Department, they booked you and told you that you were being charged. That’s when they did a second interview. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“And it wasn’t Detective Blaine any more. Detective Wolfson took over, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And it was he who told you that one of your pubic hairs had been found in the mouth of a man whose body had been discovered in the Angeles National Forest.”
“Yes.”
“And your DNA was in a database because you had a previous criminal conviction?”
“Objection! Not relevant,” Maria Mendoza said.
“Overruled,” the judge said. Atlas smiled. Marcus was almost enjoying this. His lawyer was trouncing the witness. The judge ordered her to answer the question, but she claimed to have forgotten it.
“Your DNA was in a database,” Atlas reminded her, “because you had a previous criminal conviction.”
“Yes.”
“So once the idea of a dead body was introduced, you became more concerned with what might happen to you?”
“Yes.”
“And that is when you exercised your right to a phone call, correct?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“And who did you call?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You were arrested, you were allowed one phone call, and you don’t remember who you called?” Atlas turned to the jury and rolled his eyes. A few jurors laughed. Marcus could tell they liked his lawyer.
“I was upset.”
“After you were charged, after you were in custody, after you were booked, when you were in the station house, and after you made the phone call to the person you can’t remember, that’s when you said Marcus Ripps was aware of your activities. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Did you receive immunity?”
“I did.”
“Who gave you immunity?”
“The Los Angeles Court.”
“And the Los Angeles Court is where your own case is being decided, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And that immunity was granted in exchange for your testimony against my client, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what they told you was ‘We’re going to grant you immunity,’ which means basically that you are not going to be prosecuted, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But Marcus Ripps didn’t send you to that hotel room, did he?” Amstel didn’t answer. Atlas glared at her. Marcus shifted in his seat, and the scraping of the chair on the floor was the only sound in the courtroom. “Did he? And remember, Ms. Robich, you’re under oath.”
“Yes, he did.”
Marcus stared at Amstel, but she refused to meet his gaze. For all his experience, he was still surprised that someone could lie so boldly in a court of law. The amorality of perjury disturbed him, something he viewed as a hopeful sign with rega
rd to his own soul.
“You’re lying to protect someone else.” Atlas paused a moment to let the jury take this in. Amstel eyes shot poison darts at her tormentor. “The reason you’re lying, Ms. Robich, is that you fear this other person will harm you if you testify against him or her, but you’re not worried about retribution from Mr. Ripps. Isn’t that true?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you tell the court that person’s name, Ms. Robich?
The name of whoever it is you’re protecting.” Now Maria Mendoza objected, telling the judge the defense attorney was badgering the witness. The judge sustained the objection, but Marcus was impressed with Atlas’s performance. Amstel was being shredded. He looked at the jury, and several of them were nodding their heads.
Atlas unfolded a sheet of paper and showed to Amstel. She glanced at it.
“Do you recognize this document?”
“Yes.”
“Let the record show that this is a contract you signed. Please read the paragraph I’ve circled to the court.”
He handed the paper to Amstel, who looked at the judge before accepting it. The judge nodded to her, and she took the document and began to read. “I, Lenka Robich, agree that Marcus Ripps will be setting appointments by phone for me. We have discussed and agreed he does not expect me to perform any illegal acts for money. If I so decide to perform or participate in anything illegal during the appointments he has set up for me, I am 100 % completely responsible for my own actions.”
Marcus noticed Atlas allowed himself a barely discernible smile before he turned to Maria Mendoza and said “Your witness.”
Court was adjourned for lunch. Marcus, Jan, Lenore, and Atlas ate at a diner across the street from the courthouse. The conversation had the false jollity that those scared out of their wits will affect when desperately trying to remain composed. While they were waiting for the food to arrive, Marcus’s BlackBerry began to vibrate. He checked to see who had e-mailed him: MannishBoy24. Unable to resist, he opened it:
Having a good day, Breeze?:-).
It instantly dawned on Marcus that he had been pinned like a butterfly to the chair at the defense table by the shapely hand of Malvina Biggs. He surmised Amstel had gone to work for her and been apprehended by the police. Rather than be punished by Malvina, Amstel had chosen to sacrifice the man who had provided her with a retirement plan. And there was nothing he could do about it. Marcus silently vowed that it would be the last time he allowed himself to be played by anyone. He thought briefly about Tommy the Samoan, and Memo dead in the mountains, and the gun. Then he pushed the images away.
Shining City Page 28
