In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  Yet again, I say, “They had to find the killer. They had to find a killer.”

  I stare at the jurors, turn to look at Salazar, then give my attention to the jury again. “And they did. They found him.” I point to Salazar, who sits in place, motionless and expressionless. “They found a killer.

  “They take him to police headquarters, initially, so they say, for questioning. But later, they arrest him and book him for murder. Because of a pair of underpants that were in his truck. Hidden in his truck. Found by the police detective in charge of the task force. Who had been in the victim’s apartment, hours before. Who had been in her bedroom. Alone.”

  There is a stirring behind me. I can’t help but turn and look. Cordova is on his feet, pushing his way past the other cops in the row where he is sitting. He quick-steps down the side aisle to the back of the room, pushes against the door, and leaves. Everyone in the room watches him.

  I wait for the interruption to subside, then take up my story again.

  “One thing that has been established, and this we don’t dispute—the victims knew their killer. They may have been having an affair with him. Some of them, anyway. Serially or at the same time, we don’t know. But I think both sides agree that there was prior contact, a prior relationship.”

  I pivot, turning my body toward the defense table, so the jury’s eyes go with my movement toward Salazar. “Here is a man who works from dawn to dusk, doing hard, physical labor. Outdoors, where it is hot most of the year. He goes from job to job, barely taking a moment to grab lunch. He spends evenings and weekends with youth groups, church activities, and his family.” I practically roll my eyes. “When in the world would he have time for an affair, let alone several? It’s a preposterous idea. And let’s put our cards on the table—Mr. Salazar and the victims of the Full Moon Killer live in different worlds. I have the utmost respect for my client, but he does not mingle in their world. That’s life. He would be the first to agree with me, and my saying that isn’t going to hurt his feelings. He doesn’t need to have affairs, his life is already filled to overflowing.

  “The only piece of physical evidence against my client is the pair of underpants Lieutenant Cordova found—so he says—hidden in Mr. Salazar’s truck. No other evidence was found. No other pair of panties from any of the other victims. When he was arrested earlier his truck was scoured from top to bottom, because there really was a reason for that. And did any underpants turn up? No. They did not. And this, remember, was right after that previous victim was found. Long before daylight. Doesn’t it make sense,” I argue, “that if his peculiarity is to remove the panties from his victims and keep them in his truck, as was the case, supposedly, a pair would have been found in that truck? But there were none.

  “Let’s return to the theory, which, as I said, both sides agree on, that the victims knew their killer. That some, if not all of them, were having affairs with him. Would it not have been easy for the killer to take a pair of underpants at any time during that affair? And then later, when the heat is on, stash them in Mr. Salazar’s truck? I think that is a possible way this happened. Mr. Salazar did not lock his truck. It was unlocked all day long. He’s out back in someone’s yard, tending to their garden, and a pair of panties is hidden under the floorboard of his truck.”

  I pick up a sheet of paper, part of the court transcript. Holding it in front of my face, I say, “This is the testimony of the DNA expert. The prosecution’s expert, Dr. Chatterjee.” I look down, and read. “Question: Can you tell how recently Ms. Steinmetz’s DNA was left on these panties? Was it definitely on the night she was killed? Answer, from Dr. Chatterjee: Not necessarily. That would not be possible to know, because DNA lasts a long time. Months, even years.”

  I put the document aside. “It lasts months, even years.” Crossing to the evidence table, I pick up the plastic bag that contains the panties that were taken from Salazar’s truck and show it to the jury.

  “There is no evidence, not one shred, that proves or even implies that this pair of women’s underpants was worn by the victim on the night she was killed. None. Zero. They could just as easily have been worn days, weeks, or months before.”

  I walk to the table and place the evidence back. “Just as easily,” I repeat.

  “Now let’s talk about the prosecution’s other main claim against my client. The eyewitness identification. That went over well, didn’t it.”

  Everyone in the room bursts into laughter; everyone except Loomis and his team, who sit at their table, stone faced.

  “She absolutely, positively, unequivocally, without any doubt, one hundred percent, identified Mr. Salazar as the man who was with the victim the night she was killed. No doubt whatsoever. Zero. Nada. The victim and the man who obviously knew each other and were together right before she was killed. Right before. Minutes, maybe. Right before.” I break into a smile. “But guess what? When she came in here and actually saw Mr. Salazar face to face, not a picture in a book, not through a one-way glass, but looking right at him, standing a few feet from her, she could not identify him as the man who was with the victim. When she finally saw Mr. Salazar in the flesh, it turned out she had been wrong!”

  I shake my head in disgust. “An eighty-year-old man looking at something from a block away in the middle of the night, and a witness who recants her sworn testimony. Those are the prosecution’s only witnesses.” I give a knowing nod. “Boy, that is great evidence. Ironclad. I sure wish we had such good evidence.”

  The jury is smiling at me. They like me, and what I’m saying.

  “Here’s what I think is a likely scenario. More likely than anything the prosecution has presented,” I say. “The police had to have a killer. We know that. Coming up empty again was unacceptable. The detective who went to the victim’s house could not resist taking a pair of her soiled underpants. It was too hard to pass up such an opportunity. But now that he has them, he has to find an appropriate suspect to plant them on. He doesn’t have one, and they’re running out of time. It’s five minutes to midnight. In five minutes their coach is going to turn into a pumpkin.

  “And then, a miracle happens. A suspect falls into their lap. Some anonymous phone call comes in.” I digress for a moment. “That, by the way, ought to raise a red flag in your minds. Who made this call? Why? Doesn’t that feel fishy to you? It does to me. It really does to me.”

  Back to my thesis again. “The police respond. And there is Roberto Salazar. All wrapped up for them in a pretty pink bow. All they have to do is connect him to the victim. And they do. Her undies are in his truck. A to B to C. Guilty.”

  I come around the corner of the podium and lean against it. Two reasons. My back hurts, and I need to change my posture. And to bring an air of intimacy between the jury and me. I stare at their faces. They are giving me their full attention.

  “The problem is, A to B to C don’t add up. They just don’t. There is no evidence that in any way connects Mr. Salazar to the victim. None. No other evidence was found in Mr. Salazar’s truck, his other truck, his house, anywhere he might have been. None. And the prosecution’s key eyewitness recanted her sworn testimony on the stand.”

  Another gulp of water. I’m in the home stretch now. But there are still some loose ends I have to tie up.

  “The panties, and a very dubious connection to Mr. Salazar’s whereabouts and the locations where the victims were found. Of course he would have been in those locations, that is where he worked. Not just for a year, the year these killings took place. For years and years before. If he is such a sociopath, why did he wait all this time before he went on his killing spree? Did something suddenly snap inside him?” I shake my head vigorously. “There is no evidence that he did, none at all. Not from any physical evidence, not from his psychological profile, which, please remember, the prosecution did not contest. Nor did they contest the findings of Dr. Leonard Silk, a renowned psychotherapist, that Mr. Salazar is not a sociopath. They couldn’t, because he isn’t. He is as s
ane and normal as you or me.”

  One more important note to hit, then I am done. “The prosecution is going to try to make a big deal of the fact that since Mr. Salazar’s arrest there have been no more Full Moon Killings. It’s true—there haven’t been. But there was a break in the action before. That happens in serial killings, it is a common pattern. And sooner or later, they stop. The killer has gotten the evil out of his system, or he may have died, or there are many other legitimate reasons. That no other killings have happened since Mr. Salazar’s arrest does not mean he is guilty of the ones that occurred before he was arrested.”

  I walk to the jury box rail. Putting my hands on it, I lean toward the jurors.

  “The prosecution wants you to believe that this city is safe from this killer. But he could strike again. If that happens, they’ll have a built-in excuse—they will claim that it is a copycat murder. Because the facts are known now, they are public knowledge. Any weird freak out there can kill a woman in the future, take her panties, and he’ll be the Son of the Full Moon Killer, not the original killer. If it does happen, that’s how they’ll spin it.

  “Or maybe the real killer will strike again. Either way, the man who stands on trial before you will not be that killer. Just as he is not that killer now.

  “The law requires—it demands—that if Mr. Salazar, or any defendant, is to be found guilty, he must be found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecution has not reached that bar in this case. They have a flimsy case, built entirely around one piece of evidence that could so easily have been manipulated it is virtually worthless. It is your duty, ladies and gentlemen, to weigh the facts in this case and come to a just decision. And the facts, when you examine them in the cold light of day, do not prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Roberto Salazar killed Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz. He is not the Full Moon Killer. He must be found not guilty, and must be allowed to walk out of this courtroom a free man.”

  “You did good, girl,” Joe exults. He’s like a proud father whose kid just won the Little League championship game with a grand slam home run in the bottom of the ninth. “Really good.” He swigs some Diet Coke. “Better than I could have done.” He smiles broadly. “You kicked some righteous ass.”

  We are on lunch break, hanging out in his office. When we reconvene, it will be Loomis’s turn. He’s champing at the bit. He shot me a look that could cut glass after Judge Suzuki adjourned us until after lunch.

  I didn’t see Cordova after he bugged out, but he will be there. I burned that bridge. I burned more than one bridge this morning. I had to. There was no other way. I want to be collegial, but I crossed the line today. I will still get along with cops and prosecutors, but not like before.

  FORTY-THREE

  HARRY LOOMIS, BALANCED ON his feet like a championship prizefighter, gives his closing rebuttal to my summation.

  “If you believe that a decorated police officer with more than twenty years of experience, a man whose record is one hundred percent clean, who has never been brought up on disciplinary charges, who has dozens of awards and commendations—if you believe that man planted evidence in the accused’s truck, you must find the accused not guilty. You must. Or if you believe that someone else murdered Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz, and planted the evidence in the truck of the accused, you must find the accused not guilty. You must do that.”

  He is leaning forward on the podium, gripping it hard, as if he’s driving a race car. The wind is almost whipping through his hair, he radiates so much kinetic energy. Now he relaxes his white-knuckle grip and stands up straight. He smoothes his tie.

  “But if you do not believe either of those things, then you must find the accused guilty as charged. Because there are no other possibilities. Someone put those underpants in the accused’s truck. And it wasn’t the Wicked Witch of the West. It was the accused.”

  He turns and points at Salazar, who is sitting in the middle of the defense table between Joe and me. Salazar stares back at him, not menacingly, but with a blankness that is almost Zen-like. I force myself to maintain what I hope is an aura of calmness. Joe, the old pro, takes it all in stride. He twiddles a pencil between his fingers, looks at Loomis, at the jurors, the judge, the other players.

  Loomis turns back to the jury.

  “Either it was Mr. Salazar,” he repeats, “or a decorated police officer whose integrity has never been questioned during his entire career, or some unknown party who took the victim’s undergarments and then planted them in the accused’s truck. Out of all the trucks in all of Los Angeles, he chose that truck in which to stash the incriminating underpants. A truck owned and operated by a man who just happened to be within a stone’s throw of where the victim was found. Who was found almost on top of another victim’s location. Man, what an incredible set of coincidences. Out of all the trucks in all of Los Angeles County, the real killer puts the stolen evidence in that particular truck. What lousy luck for the accused.

  “If you believe that’s what happened.”

  Point by point, Loomis makes his case, and as he does, he kicks the crap out of ours. What is a married man who is faithful to his wife doing with condoms in his glove box? Do he and his wife have sex in his truck? (Mrs. Salazar winces and begins shaking when he brings that up.) Why was he right where the murders took place, not once, but multiple times? Why did he change his schedule just before Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz was killed, which conveniently, oh so conveniently, gave him an excuse to be there?

  Not one but two credible witnesses saw a man who in every way fits Salazar’s description with two of the victims. The truck, the baseball hat, the size, shape, age, ethnicity. Too many coincidences.

  Loomis tackles their key eyewitness’s recantation head-on. “Our main eyewitness …” He shakes his head in resigned annoyance. “That was a blunder,” he admits. “She was honest—she decided she could not, with one hundred percent accuracy, swear that the accused was the man she saw. She was almost sure he is, but she couldn’t swear to it. I think she panicked. People do that in court when they’re not used to the pressure. But putting aside whether or not she was willing to state without any reservation that it was the accused, he still looks exactly like the man she saw with the victim.”

  He turns and looks at us again, specifically, at me. I feel a blast of heat coming my way, and it isn’t friendly sunshine.

  “The defense laid out their story. It was told well. Fairy tales usually are. Which is what that was, a fairy tale. All the elements of a good fairy tale were there—suspension of belief, creating an alternative world, concocting imaginary villains, absolving the hero of any guilt. A good story, but it isn’t true. You all know that. You have good common sense. You know that fairy tales are not the truth.

  “Here’s what really happened. That man sitting at the defense table knew these victims. He was having affairs with them. Why else would he have those condoms in his truck? After he did, he killed them, and took a souvenir of his awful deed.”

  Loomis leaves the podium and starts to slowly pace back and forth in front of the jury box.

  “Why did he kill them? That question may never be answered, but I have a few theories. One, he is a sociopath, despite the defense psychologist’s testimony that he isn’t. Sociopaths often go undetected. They pass lie detector tests with impunity. Why? Because they have no conscience, and no remorse. He killed them because he got pleasure from doing it, and because he could. They were young, defenseless women who trusted him.

  “That is one possibility. Another is that these women spurned him. He was a married man, there was no future for them with him. They had sex with him, maybe once, maybe a few times, then they didn’t want to anymore. And please, folks, don’t judge them about that. They were single, they were not having extramarital sex, they were not betraying a relationship. The accused was. But still, that enraged him, that they would cut him off. So he killed them out of anger.”

  Loomis stops his pacing and faces the jury head-on. “Here is yet a third rea
son, and this one, I think you will agree, is the real one. He was afraid they would turn on him, blow the cover that he had so craftily concocted over the years. The family man. The youth group counselor. The man of religion. His entire life would have gone up in flames. People kill for reasons far less important than that.”

  He takes a step back. “You have a choice. You can believe a fairy tale, or you can believe the truth. The truth is that the accused murdered four innocent women. The truth is that the victim’s underwear was found in his truck. The truth is that he was where she was murdered, when she was murdered. The truth is that he was where another victim was murdered, when she was murdered. The truth is that not one person can say he was anywhere but those places, at those times.”

  Loomis scans the faces of the jurors, one by one. They look back at him in rapt attention. “Part of the accused’s defense is that he is a man of God, and a man of God would not kill,” he says. “Well, we all know that throughout history, millions of people have been killed in the name of God, so that’s not an acceptable excuse. Let me quote from scripture, to put this in the proper frame. A quotation we all know, because it rings so true. First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse eleven.”

  He speaks from memory. “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; but when I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

  “You and I are not children. We are grownups, adult men and women. We have put away our childish things, including believing in fairy tales. Real life is staring us in the face. And in this real life, this real world, Roberto Salazar, the man sitting in front of you, murdered Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz. He must be found guilty of the most heinous crime of all, the taking of another’s life. He must be found guilty of murder in the first degree, with premeditation.”