Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  “Right.”

  I told her how I’d met Lieutenant Graden Hales. Bailey nodded, serious for a moment. When I’d finished, I drained what was left of my water and attacked the Bloody Mary again.

  Bailey looked at me speculatively. “He may be a little too popular for my taste, but I have to tell you, Hales does seem like a good guy,” she said as she lifted her glass. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to try and move past Daniel.”

  I opened my mouth to argue that I had moved past Daniel, that it’d been a year since I’d broken up with him. But I knew what Bailey meant, and although I hated to admit it, I knew she was right. It hadn’t been a clean break. Daniel Rose, a world-class criminal defense attorney, had become one of the most sought-after Strickland experts—lawyers who give expert testimony on the competence, or lack thereof, of other lawyers—in the country. I’d met him when a rapist-murderer, whom I’d gotten life without parole, had tried to get his conviction overturned by claiming his lawyer was incompetent for failing to present an insanity defense. I’d put Daniel on the stand to refute his claim, and from our very first meeting, I could feel the electricity in the air between us. I’d had no idea that he’d felt it too until the day we won.

  Daniel’s testimony had torn the defense ploy to shreds. Within minutes after Daniel left the stand, the judge denied the motion to overturn the verdict. Daniel had called me at the office that evening to find out how the judge had ruled, and when I told him, he proposed a celebratory drink. The drink had turned into dinner, hours of talking until the wee hours, and then lunch the next day. By the end of the week, we had plans for the weekend.

  What we had in those first few months was idyllic. Experiencing that kind of happiness was completely foreign to me. Daniel was my lover, my best friend, my cheerleader—and someone who could give me a game. Challenge, thrills, and comfort, all in one package. For the first time in my life, I let myself get wrapped up in a relationship with a man instead of holding him off at arm’s length. I was afraid but filled with wonder—a pale cave creature basking in its first exposure to sunshine.

  If I’d given it a moment of rational thought, I could’ve predicted what the death knell of our relationship would be—but I didn’t want to know. And so the corrosive forces seeped quietly and imperceptibly into my subconscious, then bled out, inch by inch, into the space between us.

  Daniel, being a nationally recognized expert, had speaking engagements and court appearances all over the country. But when we met, the season for lectures had just ended, so I didn’t realize how much time he usually spent on the road. When the season picked up again six months later, he was traveling, doing lectures and court appearances that kept him on the road for at least two weeks out of every month.

  Without even realizing it, I began to back away. Suddenly I couldn’t find the time to take Daniel’s calls, then I forgot to call him back, and on the days he was in town, I always seemed to have to work later than usual—which, given my habitually late hours, meant that on some nights I didn’t leave the office till nearly midnight. At first Daniel accepted my excuses—a gnarly case, a recalcitrant witness—but eventually he began to ask if there was something wrong. A very faint voice from deep inside whispered that there was, but I didn’t want to hear it. Daniel, on the other hand, didn’t have my powers of denial, so finally, over what was supposed to be a romantic candlelit dinner at his house, he asked me point-blank if I was seeing someone else. Horrified, I’d sat speechless. When I made my voice work, I managed to ask him how he could think that. He told me: all the nights I’d been too busy to see him, all his calls that I hadn’t taken—and never returned. I told him that there was no one else, and that was the truth. But I also told him that the only reason I’d been so scarce was that I’d been overwhelmed with a double homicide I’d been preparing for trial. Although I’d wanted to believe that was the truth, it wasn’t.

  The truth was, my old scars—the ones that had always screwed up my relationships, the ones I thought I’d finally vanquished with Daniel—were reemerging. Carla, my shrink, called it a problem with object constancy. Having suffered the early traumatic loss of Romy, I never learned emotionally that when people leave they also come back. And so every time Daniel left town, a part of me, on a deep subconscious level, sealed up against the pain of the complete loss my child-self knew was bound to happen. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. It wasn’t until after we’d broken up that Carla pointed it out and I realized what had happened.

  The saddest part is that even if I had known earlier, I couldn’t have brought myself to tell Daniel. It made me feel weak, which I hated, and beyond that, I didn’t want to tell him about Romy. Because worse than having to admit weakness was having to admit guilt.

  Daniel and I patched it up, but problems left unresolved never go away; they just hide in dark corners, where they fester and simmer—and eventually boil over. Over the next six months, Daniel would periodically point out that I was withdrawing again. I’d make excuses; he’d forgive me. We limped along that way for the rest of that year. But finally, just before Christmas, I accepted the fact that my demons had defeated me again, and I told Daniel good-bye. The sadness and tears in his eyes pierced my heart with a physical pain. The year that followed our breakup had rounded the sharp edges of that pain but hadn’t washed it out. Time and again, I’d notice that I hadn’t thought about Daniel for a few days and I’d congratulate myself on being over him… until I caught a glimpse of him in the courthouse. Then all the old feelings, mixed with the despondency of loss, would flood through me, leaving me with an ache so strong it stopped my breath. Bailey and Toni never argue when I say I’ve gotten past it, but they both know better. I’m hoping that if I keep on saying it, someday it’ll be true.

  “So Graden’s riding point on Jake’s case,” I said, bringing us back around to the more immediate issue.

  Bailey nodded. “The working theory right now is that the kid they found with Jake was blackmailing him. Kid’s nude picture was in Jake’s shirt pocket. Jake couldn’t pay—he cracked and decided to check out and take the kid with him.”

  “Is that so?” I said, suddenly incensed by the cavalier judgment. “Did anyone ever stop to consider that nothing about this fits the person Jake actually was? Not a fucking thing!”

  Bailey raised an eyebrow. “The person Jake actually was? Something you want to tell me about you and—”

  “Of course not,” I said heatedly. “It’s just not right. He was a good guy, and he deserves better than to have everyone believe… this crap.”

  Bailey nodded as Drew reappeared. While she ordered dinner (in the most sultry voice I’d heard outside of a James Bond movie), I forced myself to power down. It wasn’t Bailey’s fault that everyone was taking this crime at face value. When Drew turned to me, I was tempted to again throw dietary caution to the wind and get the shrimp scampi Bailey had ordered, but I took pity on my waistband and got the salad niçoise instead. Drew made a face that said “Again?” but I ignored him. He probably hadn’t gained a pound he didn’t want since he was born.

  As Drew left to turn in our orders, I said, “Sorry, Bailey. I’m just wondering why no one’s digging below the first inch. I knew Jake pretty well, and I—”

  She put up a hand to stop me. “You’re preaching to the choir. But I want you to prepare yourself. How well did you really know Jake? Did you go to his crib? Did he come here? Did you meet his family? His girlfriend? You ever do anything together except work in an office?”

  I just shook my head. And as far as I knew there was no girlfriend. An unbidden tendril of doubt snaked its way into my thoughts. At Jake’s age, and with his looks and charm, there should have been a woman, a man—someone in his life, past or present, who should have come up in conversation at least once. Closemouthed as I was, I’d certainly mentioned Daniel’s name a time or two. I didn’t like the way this was making me feel. “Look, I’m not saying you don’t have a point, okay? I just want to ma
ke sure they don’t close the case before they’ve explored all the options.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Hales?”

  “I have. He basically said the same thing you did. And he’s being really closemouthed about it for some reason,” I groused.

  “He’s probably under pressure not to leak.”

  I took another sip of my drink and pondered what I could do on my own. Being a prosecutor, I was not, as they say, without resources.

  Bailey looked at me appraisingly. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  Drew brought my salad and Bailey’s scampi. My stomach growled as I inhaled the rich aromas floating up from her plate.

  Bailey smiled. “Want a bite?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” I said, picking up my fork.

  “And… Rache?”

  “Yep?” I said as I concentrated on getting my fork under a good, healthy chunk of Bailey’s shrimp. It melted in my mouth, and I savored the mix of flavors for a moment, then realized that Bailey was waiting to get my attention. I looked up at her.

  “I’ll help.”

  I stopped midchew. Going out on a limb for a friend is one thing; stepping off a cliff is another. If she got caught reaching into this cookie jar, she’d get in big trouble for digging into a case that wasn’t hers. I didn’t know what to say. The better part of me wanted to stop her, but the part of me that wanted to solve this case told me to shut up and accept her offer. I left the better part of me muzzled and hog-tied in the corner. The only thing I could say for myself was that I’d try to minimize Bailey’s exposure and ask for her help as little as possible. I couldn’t find words big enough to stretch around the gratitude I felt, so I just nodded and let my look of thanks and the beat of silence say it for me.

  Bailey took another sip of her drink. The taste of her scampi had left my mouth watering for more. Unable to resist, I lifted my fork and took aim at another piece of shrimp. Proving there were limits even to a friendship as close as ours, Bailey pulled her plate away protectively.

  I reluctantly withdrew my fork and turned my attention to my salad. Eyeballed a slice of hard-boiled egg. Pretended it looked delicious.

  8

  I opened my eyes the next morning, saw it was only 8:30, and burrowed deeper into the thousand-thread-count Frette sheets. Bailey had arranged to have the crime scene people meet us at Susan’s house at 10:30 a.m., so I’d told Melia that I’d be “out in the field” on the Densmore case. Going to crime scenes was a great way to get out of the office and, in this case, a rare chance to sleep in.

  It was a clear but brisk morning, so I dressed warmly in a long stretchy wool skirt and knee-high boots. I felt a lot better now that I’d run out of hangover, and I swore I’d never do that to myself again. I called Rafi, the valet, and asked him to pull my car out for me, to make up for the tip he didn’t get when Bailey parked at the curb last night. I hardly ever drove, so I didn’t worry about setting a financial precedent I couldn’t keep up with. I winced as he pulled my little Accord out to the curb. It was looking pretty dusty, and I didn’t have time to hit the car wash. Hell of a way to show up in Richie Rich–land. Oh well. I plugged in my iPod and hit my jazz-mix playlist. I floated along to Stanley Turrentine and Maceo Parker and barely noticed the traffic.

  By the time I got to the Densmores’ manse, Bailey had arrived and was standing in front of an open car trunk, talking to the crime scene tech. I was glad to see that it was Dorian. Short, square, and no-nonsense, Dorian, one of the few veteran female criminalists, had processed more crime scenes in her twenty-two years on the job than most of us had ever heard of. Trust Bailey to make sure we got the best.

  “Hey, Dorian, you’re back,” I said. She’d been in the Firearms Identification Unit for the past year.

  “Yeah, I liked it for a while, but I missed the field,” she said. That response, for Dorian, was a long, windy story. She hoisted her crime scene analysis kit out of her trunk. “Shall we do this?”

  “I doubt you’ll find any prints,” I said as we began to walk toward the house. “This guy was pretty careful, so I’m thinking hair or fiber is more likely.”

  Dorian nodded. The same housekeeper from before answered the door. She motioned for us to enter. This time, Dorian got the skeptical eye. Gratified it wasn’t just me, I looked for Dorian’s reaction; if she noticed, she didn’t show it. We tromped up to Susan’s room, and Dorian set down her kit; pulled on latex gloves, paper bootees, and a hairnet; and went to work.

  “I’m guessing you two have already been in here,” Dorian said as she entered the room. We nodded. She gestured for us to stay at the doorway, shaking her head in mild disgust.

  She was right. We should’ve stayed out until she’d processed the scene, though by now everyone and his duck had clomped through the room; still, extra care at any point couldn’t hurt. I reflected that the world would be a better-run place if Dorian were in charge.

  “I’ll need your hair samples and whatever you were wearing—for elimination. Hers too,” she said, nodding in the direction of the housekeeper. “And the parents, and anyone else who had access. I’m guessing there’s quite a list.”

  Bailey and I nodded obediently, and I again glanced at the French doors of Susan’s bedroom, trying to imagine how the rapist had gotten in through a second-story window. Even with the balcony access, it had to be a pretty steep climb. It was no mystery how he’d gotten away—in a house this big, he was probably already on the freeway by the time anyone heard Susan screaming. I decided to go get the lay of the land outside Susan’s window.

  “I’m going to walk around,” I told Bailey.

  “Feel free to join her,” Dorian said pointedly, looking at Bailey before returning to her inspection of the window.

  I tried to hide my chuckle under a throat-clearing maneuver—and failed. Bailey raised her chin, snorted, and stomped down the hall. I sauntered behind her, taking in the scenery I hadn’t had time to notice before. Original artwork lined the walls—a little too modern and abstract for my taste, but I recognized the artists and knew that the paintings cost a small fortune. No expense was spared: everything, down to the smallest detail—an antique miniature crystal bell that rested on an imported Italian credenza of inlaid wood, a thick silken rope of subtle golden hues that held back the drape in the drawing room—was unique and of the highest quality. This was more money than I’d ever been close to. I kept my peasant hands to myself and moved quickly toward the back of the house, through the predictably enormous kitchen—two dishwashers, two Sub-Zero built-in refrigerators—and out the servants’ entrance to the backyard.

  Bailey, who’d briskly preceded me, was standing on the patio behind the house, under Susan’s balcony. I joined her and looked up, judging the height to be about twenty feet, then scanned the area for means of access. It didn’t take long. Leaning up against a tall peppertree was a painter’s ladder that looked as if it could’ve extended out to forty feet.

  “You see any signs of painting going on?” Bailey asked as she looked around the property.

  I shook my head. We walked across the rear patio. Sure enough, painters were working on the balustrades of the balcony that led into what I guessed was the master bedroom.

  “If you had any doubt about our perp being someone who knew the family…” Bailey shielded her eyes with her hand and gazed up at the house.

  “I didn’t, but this clinches it. Whoever it was knew where to find Susan and knew that there was a ladder available.”

  Which made this a creepier rape than most. While it’s true that a vast majority of rapes are committed by someone known to the victim, it’s usually a date-rape situation. This MO had the feel of a serial rapist—but serial rapists didn’t pick victims they knew. Nothing about this fit.

  We headed around to the front of the house. “Think Mrs. Doctor is around?” Bailey asked.

  As we passed by the living room window, I thought I saw a flash of movement. I m
otioned for Bailey to join me as I moved up the front walk and rang the doorbell.

  The housekeeper answered again, this time looking even less excited to see us. I asked, “Is Mrs. Densmore in?”

  She eyed us skeptically, as though we might just be playing around and really didn’t need to see the lady of the house. I put on my serious Humphrey Bogart face to show her we meant business, and she sighed and motioned us into the foyer, then left us there. Two minutes later, Janet Densmore emerged, looking as if she’d stepped out of an ad for the St. John clothing line.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Bailey said in a voice that clearly conveyed the opposite.

  “Please—I’m happy to help however I can,” Janet said gracefully and with apparent sincerity.

  “I wanted to ask you,” I said, “does Susan go to your husband’s clinics?”

  Janet shook her head. “His first clinic was in a bad area of town, so we didn’t want her… exposed. By the time he started to open clinics in safer areas, Susan was already seven years old and she’d gotten used to her own doctor. So we didn’t see any real need to switch her.”

  “Where does Susan go, then?” I asked.

  “Why are you asking?” Janet queried.

  “I’m just looking for places where someone might have information on Susan that she’s not aware of. Because whoever did this knew where she slept and how to get to her,” I replied.

  Janet looked stricken. “But a clinic? I wouldn’t have thought…” She sighed to herself and stared off for a moment, suffering with the thought that Susan might have been stalked.

  “We just have to consider everything at this point, Mrs. Densmore—,” I said.

  “Janet, please,” she said. “But doesn’t it make sense that it was the boy she was tutoring?”

  “It absolutely does,” I replied. “But, like I said, we can’t afford to ignore any possibilities just yet.”

  That seemed to comfort her somewhat. “I’ll be glad to give you the address of the health center,” she said. She paused and smiled to herself. “But I doubt you’ll need to talk to her doctor. He’s about seventy-five years old. I don’t see him climbing through any windows at this point.”