In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  She looks at my card, then lays it on the bedside table. “All right,” she says in a small voice, falling back on her pillows. She’s wiped out. And I’ve learned all I need to know—more.

  “And once you feel better, you have to come back to the trial,” I nag her again. “Even if you don’t want to. The outcome might depend on your being there.”

  She lowers her eyes. “I will try.”

  That’s all I can ask for.

  Omar Chatterjee, M.D., is the coroner’s office DNA expert. Although he came here from India thirty years ago, he still speaks with an Indian-British accent. He knows his stuff cold, and unlike the celebrity pathologists who hog the headlines, he doesn’t trumpet his knowledge. His word is impeccable. I’ve never known him to mess up.

  Siobhan Flynn, our DNA specialist, is at the defense table with Joe and me today. She’ll do the cross-examination. Chatterjee puts on a pair of latex gloves and takes the evidence—the panties that were found in Salazar’s truck—out of the evidence bag.

  “Are these the woman’s undergarments that were certified as belonging to the victim, Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz?” Arthur Wong asks. Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz was the Full Moon Killer’s last victim, the one whose underpants were found in Salazar’s truck.

  “Yes,” Chatterjee answers. He’s a man of few words.

  “Is there any doubt at all that they could have belonged to someone else?”

  “No. These are Ms. Steinmetz’s panties. The DNA evidence confirmed it.”

  Siobhan and I have gone over the test results very carefully. The panties were compared to DNA taken from the corpse at the autopsy, and they matched. These panties belonged to the last Full Moon victim. We won’t contest that evidence, it is beyond question.

  Wong asks a few more questions to cement the fact that the panties found in Salazar’s truck belonged to the victim, and that there is no possibility they could have been anyone else’s. He puts the panties back in their container and returns it to the evidence table.

  Siobhan replaces Wong at the podium. This will be her only appearance at the trial, unless something else about DNA comes up. “Besides finding Ms. Steinmetz’s DNA on those panties, did you find anyone else’s?” she asks Chatterjee.

  Chatterjee is direct and explicit. “No.”

  “Not Mr. Salazar’s?” Siobhan sounds surprised. I look at the jurors. They seem a bit surprised, too.

  “No.”

  “What about fingerprints? Did you find Mr. Salazar’s fingerprints on the panties?”

  “No.”

  Siobhan looks even more surprised. “Isn’t that unusual? If Mr. Salazar took them and put them in his truck, wouldn’t his fingerprints be on them?”

  “Not necessarily. Not all materials pick up fingerprints,” Chatterjee explains. “That’s a common fallacy. Or they may be smudged so that they cannot be identified. Or Mr. Salazar could have used gloves to pick them up. If he was the assailant,” he adds. A careful scientist, he deals with facts, not suppositions.

  “There are several plausible reasons why his or anyone else’s fingerprints weren’t found on those panties.”

  “Were the victim’s?”

  “Yes. But they were her undergarments. She would have handled them many times while wearing them, such as pulling them down to go to the bathroom. Touching an article multiple times increases the possibility of leaving prints.”

  Siobhan nods, but looks skeptical. She picks up the Ziploc bag containing the panties from the evidence table and holds it up, squinting like a jeweler examining a gemstone as she looks at it. “Let me ask you something else, Doctor. Can you tell how recently Ms. Steinmetz’s DNA was left on these panties? Was it definitely on the night she was killed?”

  “Not necessarily,” Chatterjee answers firmly. “That would not be possible to know, because DNA lasts a long time. Months, even years. Although once the panties had been washed, the traces would be gone, so you would assume the samples were recent. But to specifically answer your question, the answer is no, we can’t pinpoint when the DNA was deposited onto them.”

  “Then it would be possible,” Siobhan continues along that line, “for the DNA that was recovered to be weeks or months old.”

  “Yes.”

  “If that’s so, then it would also be possible that those are not the underpants the victim was wearing on the night she was killed at all. They could be a different pair altogether, and could have been put in Mr. Salazar’s truck long before Ms. Steinmetz was killed.”

  Loomis bolts to his feet. “Objection! This isn’t questioning, it’s editorializing.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Suzuki agrees. “Strike that last comment from the record,” he tells the court reporter. “The defense will save their opinions for their summation,” he cautions Siobhan, at the same time casting a reproving eye at Joe and me.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Siobhan answers. “No further questions.”

  As she walks back to our table, I check the jurors’ reactions.

  From the looks on their faces, they aren’t buying her speculation. We didn’t expect them to. But you have to try everything, especially when you’re on the defensive. You never know when you might get water from what you thought was a dry well.

  During the short recess before the prosecution’s next witness takes the stand, Amanda Burgess slips into the courtroom and takes her customary place behind our table. She gives Salazar an encouraging smile and mouths “She’s okay.” Salazar digests that information stoically, not a muscle moving in his face.

  Joe gives Amanda a cursory nod. “Her highness returns,” he mutters under his breath. He appreciates the support she’s giving Salazar, but he’s also put off by the whiff of privileged condescension that is inevitable in such a relationship. I felt that way, too, until Amanda and I became closer.

  “She means well, Joe.” I have to defend her. We’re having a baby together.

  “I know. It’s my knee-jerk reaction to the high and mighty.”

  I walk to the railing. Amanda comes to meet me. “The hospital sent her home,” she whispers. “I talked to her. I think she’s going to be all right.” She grimaces. “What an ordeal.” She touches my hand. “She told me you came to see her. That was terrific of you. I didn’t have the courage. Thank you for doing that.”

  “I did it for him,” I say in a quiet voice, nodding at Salazar. “She has to show she supports him, no matter what.”

  “She’s awfully fragile,” Amanda says. “I don’t know if she can handle more public scrutiny. Having to go through that media gauntlet every day is awful, even for someone who’s tough. I get the shivers every time I walk by all those reporters and cameras. Any more stress and she could have a major breakdown.”

  Amanda is right about that, but she and I have different agendas. She’s concerned for the entire Salazar family. My only consideration is my client.

  “I’ll talk to her again,” I tell Amanda. “I want her to see a psychologist. I told her I’d give her some recommendations. Get on her case to call me later today, after we adjourn. It’s really important to show a united front.”

  Amanda looks doubtful. “I’ll try. How is it going?”

  “The DNA evidence against us is bad. Joe got in a few shots, but it was a rough morning.”

  “I’m glad I missed it, then. Should I stay around for the rest of the day?”

  “Your call. Roberto likes having you here. You’re the only supporter who comes anymore.”

  “I’ll stay, then.” Comforting fingers on my hand again. “Keep up the good fight. I’m proud of you. You’re doing a wonderful job.”

  I’m glad she thinks so. Personally, I’m not so sure.

  Aaron Lazarus, the eighty-four-year-old man who saw one of the victims on the night she was murdered, is sworn in. He stands proud and erect as he takes the oath, like a small-town Rotarian reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Testifying in a trial is a civic responsibility that he takes seriously—I can see that patriotic lo
ok in his eye. And for a man who has been retired for fifteen or more years, without much to look forward to besides taking his dog on her twice-daily walks, having a moment in the public eye is an occasion to savor.

  Loomis, as the oldest and senior member of the prosecution team, leads the sprightly octogenarian through his testimony. How he was out walking his dog, late at night. A pretty young woman walking in the middle of the block caught his eye. You’re never too old to admire a lovely woman, he comments, to light chuckling and all-around smiles. What a sweet old gent, still dreaming of the possibilities of romance. Then, as he watched her, because there was nothing else to do until his dog did her business, he saw her stop at the other end of the street and talk to a man who seemed to be working on his truck, maybe checking the tire pressure. She and the man seemed to know each other; her body language was relaxed, and she seemed to be at ease while talking to the man. Lazarus recalls thinking that the man looked out of place in this neighborhood at this hour of the night, and then that he immediately felt guilty about it, because that was racial profiling, which he does not approve of. But he did get a good look at the basic elements: the man’s age, basic complexion, what he was wearing, the color and condition of his truck.

  “Were you able to see the man’s face with any clarity?” Loomis asks.

  Lazarus shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. He was too far away, and he had on that hat.”

  “And you were mostly looking at that pretty woman,” Loomis says with a tacit wink.

  As it turns out, even old people who should, by dint of their seniority, be immune to embarrassment over questions like that, can blush. Lazarus does now. “Yes, I must admit I was.”

  “So if you were to look at the defendant sitting over there …” Loomis points to Salazar, sitting next to me, “… you could not identify him.”

  “No. I could not, and would not. Unless I was absolutely certain, I would not do that.”

  This is a nice structure the prosecution is building. I admire their handiwork. The witness is now on record as being unable to ID Salazar as the man he saw that night, so we can’t attack him about that. But the other pieces—the age, ethnicity, clothing, Salazar’s truck—he’s sure about them. More details to throw onto the coals, like a handful of dry twigs. You accumulate enough of these twigs, you can build a roaring fire.

  “You saw this woman clearly,” Loomis continues with his questioning.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the police show you her picture? Was that how you identified her?”

  Lazarus shakes his head. “No. I did see her face, but not clearly enough that I could identify her with certainty.”

  Loomis looks puzzled. I look at the jurors. They do, too. Jesus, did the prosecution screw up here? Joe leans forward in his chair. He’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  “Then how did you know the woman you saw was one of the victims of the Full Moon Killer?” Loomis asks. He seems to be off-balance.

  “By her clothing. She was wearing a light blue sweat-outfit. UCLA colors. I am an alumnus of UCLA,” Lazarus says with pride, “I know those colors well. And she was wearing casual shoes called Crocs. Pink ones. My wife has a similar pair. I kid her about them, because they are so silly looking. So I was aware of the woman because of that.”

  My bad. Loomis was heading in this direction all along. He let his line out, the jury and everyone else, including Joe and me, took the bait, and now he’s reeling them in.

  “You came to the police voluntarily, is that correct?” Loomis asks.

  “Yes. I felt I had to.”

  “And when you spoke to them, did they in any way, directly or indirectly, give you any hints or clues about these articles of clothing you saw the victim wearing?”

  “Oh, no. Quite the contrary. They were skeptical about me, until I brought that up.”

  “So you initiated the discussion about what the victim was wearing. The police did not lead you on about that.”

  “Not at all. I had to prove myself before they would take me seriously.” He allows himself a satisfied smile. “I believe I convinced them of my seriousness.”

  Loomis asks a few more questions of his witness, then he turns him over to us. He sits down, having established that a man who resembled Salazar in many important ways was seen talking to one of the victims shortly before she was killed, almost right on the spot. Not a home run, but a solid double.

  Joe smiles at Loomis from the podium. “It was around midnight when you saw this encounter between the victim and the man she spoke to?”

  “Shortly before. I took my dog out after the eleven o’clock news, which ends at eleven-thirty-five,” he says with precision.

  “And you were how far away?”

  “About thirty yards.”

  “Thirty yards. A third of a football field. Close to midnight. How well is that street lit, Mr. Lazarus?”

  “Not very well. There is one street lamp in the middle of the block.”

  “So it was dark out.”

  As Lazarus smiles, I groan to myself. I know what’s coming. Joe let one slip by, and he’s going to pay for it.

  “Actually, it was bright out,” Lazarus says, refuting Joe. “It was the night of the full moon, you see, so there was quite a bit of light.”

  Joe winces. Across the aisle, Loomis smiles. Any time you bring in a witness of this age, you’re courting trouble. But it looks as if this old man is going to score for their side.

  Joe’s foundering. He ought to cut his losses and get off the stage, but he decides to try another approach. “Do you wear glasses, Mr. Lazarus?” he asks the witness. Impute the witness’s vision, one of the oldest ploys in the book. You would be surprised how many times it works.

  “I wear reading glasses.” Lazarus pulls a slim pair of glasses out of the breast pocket of his sports coat and holds them out to Joe. “Would you like to see them?”

  “No, thanks, I have my own,” Joe says. “I mean for distance.”

  “No.”

  “No distance glasses. Contacts?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have LASIK?”

  Yet another no.

  Joe steps back. “That’s remarkable, Mr. Lazarus. You must be truly blessed.”

  “Actually,” Lazarus says, as if about to confide a secret, “I always had terrible vision, all my life. The lenses of my glasses looked like Coca-Cola bottoms. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. Then I had cataract surgery, ten years ago. The doctor replaced my lenses with silicone ones. I have twenty-twenty vision now, and no astigmatism. And not only that,” he exclaims, “I have UV protection!”

  His energy level, almost manic there for a moment, drops back to level. “So I don’t need glasses to see clearly anymore. I can see as well as anyone in this room. Better than most.”

  Joe’s been around the block too many times; he doesn’t take his losses too hard. “These old codgers live to trip you up. It’s better than a good bowel movement.”

  We’re in his office. I have my feet up on a chair, shoes off. I wiggle my stockinged toes. “He got you good,” I agree.

  “When you swing for the fences, sometimes you hit a home run, sometimes you strike out,” he says philosophically. “We’re going to need some home runs, because we aren’t doing very well.”

  That he says so out loud is a sign. We’re going down. He puts a period on that point. “It’s not only that we don’t have anything in rebuttal,” Joe says. “The tide is against us. I’ve been around long enough to have a feel for that. By now, you should, too.”

  I nod in assent and drink from my carton of juice.

  “So there weren’t any panties in the cube truck. He got rid of them. You can bet your Lotto money Loomis will drive that home, that Salazar usually got rid of them. For some reason, he didn’t in this last case. Maybe he wanted to be out of the neighborhood before he dumped them. Who knows?” He sits down heavily on his couch. “That old man gave them cause to search Salazar’s tr
uck, which was what they had him up there for, and he delivered the goods.” He drains his Diet Coke and takes another one out of his fridge. Thank God diet sodas were invented, Joe would be a type-2 diabetic by now if they hadn’t been, he drinks twenty Diet Cokes a day.

  “We need something better than what we have,” he says. “There has to be an alibi witness out there. There just has to be.”

  That’s if Salazar is innocent, a thought neither of us wants to voice. Our belief in him, what portion we had, is flowing down the drain.

  “Tori is still out beating the bushes,” I remind Joe. “We have time.”

  “Not much. If she hasn’t found one by now …” He throws up his hands, as if to say: she isn’t going to.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “CAN I BUY YOU dinner?” Amanda asks me. “I know you have work to do tonight, but you have to eat, too.”

  It’s early evening. We went straight from the courthouse to our birthing session, which is over now. We walk to our cars, which are parked next to each other in the parking lot. Like their owners, they reveal their class, or lack thereof.

  “If we can do it fast. I’m taking some of the cross tomorrow.”

  Our birthing class is in Santa Monica, midway between our houses. We agree to meet at Chinois on Main. It’s usually impossible to get into on short notice, but Amanda calls them on her cell and we’re confirmed, table for two in fifteen minutes.

  “Rank has its privileges,” she smiles. She doesn’t mind tossing her weight around.

  We’re immediately seated and order a dinner of assorted appetizers. One thing about hanging out with Amanda, you eat well. We talk about how I’m feeling: good, no complications; the trial: not so good, we don’t have a base to build our case around. That is what lawyers have to do, come up with a thesis, an idea, and base their trial philosophy around it. We don’t have one. None of the character witnesses I used last time will speak up for him now, they’re too frightened and distrustful. They would probably be irrelevant anyway; I doubt Judge Suzuki would allow any of them in, because they would have nothing to contribute to this case.