by JF Freedman
After we resume, I wrap up my questioning in less than ten minutes. True to her word, Lorraine doesn’t question him. I have no other witnesses, so by lunchtime, closing statements have been given, Judge Hodgkins has charged the jury, and after lunch they go into deliberation.
At four-fifteen in the afternoon, while I’m at my desk trying to make a dent on my backlog, the phone call comes that the jury has arrived at a verdict. Now I’m back in the courtroom. My client is sitting next to me. He’s a bundle of twitches: knees dancing, shoulders rolling, fingers tapping.
“This is good, ain’t it?” he whispers as we wait for the jurors to be brought in. “Quick verdict usually means not guilty, don’t it?” He’s still hoping against hope.
“Sometimes,” I whisper back. Actually, the reverse is true, but I’m not going to tell him that now. He’s too fragile. “No matter what, keep your feelings to yourself. This judge doesn’t like shows of emotion.” I should tell him it could affect the length of his sentence, but I don’t have the heart.
“That’s the problem with this damn system,” he wails. “They don’t want you to be human.”
Those are the first rational words I’ve heard from him in all the time we’ve been together. Too bad they came so late.
Judge Hodgkins emerges from his chambers and nods to the bailiff to bring the jury in. They enter single file, like circus elephants entering the ring trunk to tail. None of them make eye contact with Reggie. Hodgkins asks them if they’ve reached a verdict.
“We have, Your Honor,” the foreman, a black retired postal worker, calls out as he stands up. He hands the slip of paper to the clerk, who passes it to the judge. Hodgkins glances at it, hands it back. There’s no surprise on his face.
“The defendant will rise.”
Reggie and I stand. He’s shaking. “No matter what, stay cool,” I remind him again.
“Read your verdict, please,” Hodgkins instructs the foreman, who says the seven words no defense lawyer wants to hear: “We find the defendant guilty as charged.”
Everything moves fast now, herky-jerky, like a speeded-up film projector. Hodgkins thanks the jury for their service and dismisses them. He announces he’ll formally sentence Reggie the day after tomorrow. He makes a note on his calendar and brings his gavel down. “Court is adjourned,” he states, as he gets up and disappears through the back door.
I turn to offer Reggie some hollow words of encouragement. He’s slumped over, crying. I keep my mouth shut.
The court deputy takes Reggie by the elbow and pulls him to his feet. As the poor sap is being led out, he turns to me.
“Would it have killed you to wear a skirt?”
ELEVEN
AS PREDICTED, THE POLICE were flooded with phone calls from hundreds of nutcases, along with as many from earnest but misguided do-gooders, each of whom claimed to have information that would lead to the arrest of the Full Moon Killer, or a theory that would bring about the same result. The scam artists threw in their ante, too. The money was there, someone is going to get it, why not me? As is always the case in this kind of overheated and frantic situation, all the so-called leads turned out to be bogus, but they all had to be checked out. Luis Cordova, who was running the operation, personally read the transcripts of every conversation between his detectives and the callers, no matter how preposterous. If there was a needle buried in that haystack, he didn’t want to miss it.
A week went by. Nothing tangible emerged.
This latest caller seems saner than most; he is elderly, a retired accountant. Accountants don’t believe in fairy tales, and they’re pretty good about knowing what’s real and what’s bullshit, because their clients try to blur the line; it’s human nature. So when this man tells one of Cordova’s detectives that he had seen something the night of the latest killing that might be a clue, he isn’t dismissed out of hand. He is picked up at his home and driven down to Parker Center, where he is escorted into Cordova’s office so the task force leader can hear the story firsthand.
Cordova’s small office is strictly functional. Desk, chairs, filing cabinets, shelves overflowing with files and directives. Nothing on the walls, no family photos on the desk, no plants, no personal mementos. There is a window to the outside world, but the blinds are kept closed. The window looking out to the bullpen also has blinds, but they are open so Cordova can maintain visual contact with his troops, and they with him. Except when he is having a private interview, the door is open as well; there are no secrets in Cordova’s squad, no hidden agendas. Cordova hates secrets. That’s how cops get into trouble, by not being transparent. Secrecy leads to temptation, which leads to crossing the line. A rogue cop is worse than a civilian criminal, because upholding and enforcing the law is his job, what he is paid to do. Cordova is outspoken in his contempt and hatred for cops who go over to the dark side. They violate a sacred trust.
Which is not the same thing as using your instincts, even if that means technically violating a statute, like going into a house where someone’s life might be in danger without waiting for a proper warrant, or searching a suspicious car for drugs or weapons. A cop without good instincts is worthless; worse, he’s dangerous, not only to himself and his brothers and sisters on the force, but to all of society.
Luis Cordova has great instincts. Steve Lopez of the LA. Times, a crusading columnist who doesn’t lob softballs, once wrote a glowing story about Cordova’s gift for the instinctive. Those instincts, honed and nurtured over two decades as carefully as a botanist grows and nurtures a rare orchid, were the reason he was chosen to run this task force. Those same instincts tell him, within a minute after meeting this possible witness, that this nice old man might be for real.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks solicitously. “Water, coffee, a soda? Please, sit down.”
The witness, whose name is Aaron Lazarus, lowers himself into one of the battered wooden chairs that face Cordova’s desk. Although he is retired, he is dressed smartly, including a tie, as if for work. “No, thank you,” he answers. “I’m not thirsty.”
Cordova sits opposite him. He shows his digital recorder to Lazarus. “Do you mind?” he asks.
“Not at all. Accuracy is important.”
Cordova smiles to himself as he turns on the recorder. Accountants, unless they’re crooks, deal with facts. This man isn’t a crook, and he’s too old to be looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. He’s simply a good citizen trying to do his civic duty. The odds are slim to none that, like all the other leads they’ve been chasing, nothing will come of this, but nice Mr. Lazarus isn’t a bullshitter. Cordova’s instincts tell him so.
Cordova recites his name, the time, date, and location of the interview into the recorder. “Please state your name for the record, please,” he instructs Lazarus, which Lazarus does, slowly and clearly, spelling out his last name letter by letter.
The formalities out of the way, Cordova asks, “What do you think you know that can help us, Mr. Lazarus? Try to be as complete and precise as possible.” He hopes this witness’s statement will flow easily, without much prompting. When you have to keep suggesting, you’re on a dead-end road.
The elderly accountant tells his story straightforwardly, without embellishment. On the night the latest victim was murdered, he had been out walking his dog. After she did her business, and they were heading back to his house, a truck came around the corner and drove down the street, in the opposite direction from where he was headed. The motion of the truck had caught his eye, and for a second he instinctively turned and watched it. That’s when he saw the woman. She was walking on the sidewalk, in the same direction the truck was heading.
Cordova listens carefully. The other detective in the room, the one who brought Lazarus down here, stands in the corner, also listening. Cordova has a pad and pen in front of him, but he hasn’t made any notes yet.
Lazarus continues. “The truck pulled over to the curb.”
Cordova perks up. “Where?�
� he asks. “Which side of the street?”
“At the far end of the block,” Lazarus replies. “On the same side of the street the woman was walking on.”
Cordova and the other detective exchange a look. Maybe this won’t go anywhere, but it’s better than nothing. “Go ahead,” he tells Lazarus. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he adds deferentially. “Just go on as you were. So then …?
Lazarus nods pleasantly. He appreciates Cordova’s politeness. Most people are afraid of the police, but they do their best.
“A man got out of the truck,” he continues.
Cordova can’t help but interject. “Was he looking at the woman?”
“I don’t think so,” Lazarus answers. “At least, not at first.” He hesitates momentarily. “You have to understand,” he says, sounding a bit sheepish. “I was at the other end of the block, so I can’t say for sure, but it appeared that he was looking at his truck. Like he thought he had a flat tire.”
“Okay,” Cordova says, meaning, go on.
“The woman drew abreast of him, and stopped.”
That catches Cordova by surprise. He looks to the other detective, whose own brow is furrowed. “Stopped?” Cordova asks. “When she reached this man?”
“Yes.”
“Was there any force involved? That you could see?”
Lazarus shakes his head. “Not at all. Again, I was on the other end of the block, but it appeared to me that she knew him.”
An involuntarily outburst: “She knew him?”
The old accountant withdraws his declaration, partially. “Perhaps she didn’t know him,” he amends. “Perhaps she was asking him a question, or replying to one of his.” He smiles as a thought suddenly occurs. “Maybe he was saying something about his truck, or asking her a question about it. Does this tire seem flat to you? That sort of thing.”
“But you don’t know.”
“Oh, no. I was all the way at the other end of the block.” There is another slight hesitation. “I don’t think either of them saw me,” he says. “There’s only one streetlight on the block, and it’s at the other end from where I was.”
“Near where they were?” Cordova asks, for certainty. He starts writing notes on his pad.
“Yes.” Lazarus watches Cordova’s penmanship. “Do you want me to wait while you …”
Cordova shakes his head. “Keep going.” He looks up and gives Lazarus a reassuring smile. “I can write and listen at the same time.”
“That’s handy in your line of work, I’m sure,” Lazarus says admiringly. “Well, there wasn’t much after that.”
“What did the driver do then?”
“I don’t know. I was right outside my house. I stood there for perhaps a second or two more, and then I went inside.”
“And the driver and woman were still there?”
“They were when I went inside, yes,” Lazarus replies.
“And you don’t think they saw you,” Cordova asks again.
“I don’t think so. Like I said, my end of the block was in darkness, and my dog was quiet.” With a touch of embarrassment, he adds, “I was standing behind a tree, a bit.”
So they couldn’t see you watching them, Cordova thinks. This nice man didn’t want to admit he was peeping at them. The detective’s thought is not judgmental. He knows from long experience that everyone’s a voyeur, even the local pastor. It’s the getting caught that’s mortifying.
But does this mean anything? A driver out at night, a woman out at night. There would have been dozens of both. “How late was this, do you recall?”
This answer is firm. “After eleven-thirty. Mollie and I—Mollie’s my dog—we took our constitutional after the eleven o’clock news was over.”
That narrows down the field. There wouldn’t be that many people out that late at night, certainly not a woman alone on foot. Cordova makes a note to canvass the area to see if anyone else might have seen the victim that night, after eleven. They’ve already done that, but they’ll do it again, this time more thoroughly.
He puts his pencil aside and retrieves the murder book that is sitting in his top desk drawer and opens it to the relevant page. “Did you by any chance notice what the woman was wearing?” he asks. “Was there enough light to see that?”
Lazarus’s head bobs up and down, a cork on a pipe cleaner. “Oh, yes.” He squints in recollection. “A sweatshirt and sweatpants. Light blue.” He smiles that he still has excellent memory at his age. “And she had these funny clog-type thingies on, like my wife wears for gardening. Crocs, they’re called.”
Cordova drops his pen on his desk and leans back. This old man has the attire pegged, even down to her shoes. This wasn’t public knowledge; the department had kept that a secret, to smoke out impostors. This guy is the real deal—the first one.
“All right,” he says, keeping his emotions in check. He has a good poker face, which comes in handy at times like this. “What about the man? The driver?”
“His clothes were dark,” Lazarus says, not as certain. “They didn’t stand out like hers.”
Meaning you were watching her more than you were watching him. An attractive young woman—that’s what catches a man’s eye, all the way to the grave, apparently.
“Work clothes,” Lazarus continues. “You know, like maybe a mechanic?”
Dark work clothes. Another line of notes. The other detective is doing the same with his notepad. “Did you get a good look at him as well?” Cordova prompts.
“No,” Lazarus admits. “He was wearing a hat, which covered most of his face. A baseball hat,” he offers meagerly.
“Any insignia you could identify?”
“A Dodgers hat?” the man ventures. “I’m not sure.”
Half the male population in Los Angeles wears Dodgers caps. Not much help there. “Did you see his face at all?”
The old accountant shakes his head sadly. “I couldn’t identify him, if that’s what you mean,” he says. “He was dark skinned,” he offers.
“Black? I mean African American?” Cordova asks, quickly correcting himself. The walls have ears. Political correctness and civilian commissions have been ruining the department for more than a decade.
Lazarus shakes his head. “Not that dark. Like you.”
“Latino.”
This time, a nod. “Spanish, yes. Maybe Middle Eastern. But in Los Angeles, you’re probably right.”
A Latino in work clothes in Santa Monica near midnight. Something else to check on.
One more thing to find out. Cordova mentally crossed his fingers. “This man’s truck. Did you get a license plate?”
“No.”
That was too much to hope for. Lazarus hadn’t been suspicious. His attention was based on curiosity, with a little checking out of tits and ass. He must be a liberal, Cordova thinks. A conservative seeing a Latino man around there at that time of night would have called the police. “Make?” he asks. “Model? Color? Style?”
“I don’t know the make,” Lazarus answers. He’s fumbling now, on shaky ground. This cop isn’t as much of a friend as he initially thought. “Japanese, I think. It was a pickup truck—that I do know. Small. Dark color.”
Not as much as Cordova would like, but better than nothing—a Mexican in work clothes driving a small, dark-colored pickup truck. There’s probably no more than half a million men in L.A. who fit that description. Still, it’s more information to throw into the neighborhood canvass, which he will initiate first thing tomorrow.
“Anything else, Mr. Lazarus?” he asks, wrapping it up as he stands. The older man gets up more slowly; it’s an effort to get out of the chair. Cordova hands Lazarus his card. “My office and my cell,” he explains, pointing out the numbers. “If you can think of anything else, call me, twenty-four/seven, late or early, I’ll be there.” He extends his hand, and adds a smile to it. “We appreciate your help, sir. I wish there were more people out there like you,” h
e says, meaning it.
Lazarus smiles back, almost shyly, from the praise. This man is okay, really, he has a hard job to do. “I wish I could tell you more,” he tells Cordova, looking from him to the other detective. “I wish I had paid more attention.”
“You’ve done fine,” Cordova says. “And again, if you do remember anything, even if you think it isn’t important, don’t hesitate to call.” He nods to the other detective. “You’ll see that Mr. Lazarus gets a ride home?”
“Right away.”
Lazarus leaves with his escort. Cordova watches until they’re in the elevator. Then he picks up the phone.
TWELVE
MY MOTHER DIDN’T KNOW squat about guns, but I do. I own one, and it’s not some pissant little peashooter like the one she shot me with. My weapon is a SIG Sauer P239 semiautomatic, the .40 S&W model. It’s small for a powerful gun, which is why it’s a popular weapon for women, because our hands are generally smaller than guys’. Even so, it really packs a wallop—it could stop a bull elephant in its tracks. Not that I’m ever going elephant hunting, or any kind of game hunting. I’m not a hunter; I don’t believe in killing animals that have done me no harm.
What I do believe in, and care about deeply, is my safety. I’m a woman who lives alone in a modern city, which means there’s a potential for danger in my life. The three women who have been murdered lately, along with the thousands of other victims of violent crime every year in L.A. County, are powerful testament to that.
I have never fired my gun in a real-life situation. I hope I never have to. But if I do, I want to be ready, which is why I go to a firing range out in the West Valley four or five times a year and shoot off a few magazines’ worth of rounds. That’s where I am now: Annie Oakley in Lucky Brand Jeans, wraparound Ray-Bans, Banana Boat SPF 50 sunblock, and shooter’s earmuffs. I am woman, hear my gun roar.
It’s hot out here, and bone-dry. The temperature is over a hundred degrees, but the humidity is under 10 percent. When you live near the ocean and work downtown, it’s easy to forget that Southern California is basically a desert. The only reason we’re not as arid as Joshua Tree or Palm Desert is that we have a good water supply, which we stole from Northern California decades ago. If you’ve seen Chinatown, you know that story. When every house in the county, from Long Beach down south to Palmdale in the north, has a lawn, and many of them, even in tracts, have swimming pools, you live under the delusion that we have an abundance of water. But when you’re standing out in the midday sun and your mouth is as dry as a cotton ball, the fragile reality of our ecosystem is right there in your face.
