Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  I considered which jackets would fit over the bulky body armor, then walked out onto the balcony to get a feel for the weather. It was brisk, but the sky was a cerulean blue that said clouds were unlikely, and the sun was a brilliant diamond that promised it wouldn’t stay this cool for long. The air was scrubbed clean, not a shred of smog in sight. As I had many times before, I thought that days like this were probably the norm for L.A. back in the ’30s. I decided on a roomy cream-colored blazer but had to settle for carrying my .22 Beretta, because the pockets weren’t big enough for the .357. I wouldn’t ordinarily have made that compromise, but since I’d be wearing the vest, I still felt loaded for bear. Especially since, after I got to work, I’d be with one cop or another all day—and they got to carry .44s.

  On my walk to the office, I told myself that I was moving fast so I could squeeze in some aerobic benefit to make up for all the gym days I’d missed recently. True or not, my effort was significantly encumbered by the stiff, heavy bulletproof vest that made me feel like I was climbing up the side of a building. After just two blocks, I was already out of breath. Terrific. If someone wanted to shoot me now, the vest was my only hope, because I sure as hell couldn’t outrun them. As I slogged my way up the hill, I reconsidered the possibility that the shooting yesterday might have been a random event. The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that it had to be. I sincerely doubted that ours was the first unreported shooting in that area, which meant it would probably be impossible to figure out what kind of bullets had been fired at us. The more I thought about it, the happier I was that we hadn’t reported it. Though, given the sirens I’d heard, it was likely someone—maybe a teacher at the school—must have.

  I picked up my pace and furtively looked around for baggy clothing or tattoos. I keyed in on the guy selling churros from a pushcart. I thought his pants looked pretty loose. He caught my gaze. When our eyes met, he started to give me what probably used to be his sexy smile. He looked like he was about ninety, and his sexy smile needed work. It’d probably been a very long time since he’d seen someone checking out the junk in his trunk. Unless someone was looking at his car.

  I blew out a sigh of relief as I briskly pushed through the doors of the Criminal Courts Building and ran for the elevator, but a familiar sight brought me to a stomach-lurching halt. There was no mistaking that thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair. Or the sound of that rich baritone voice. Daniel Rose, my ex. My heart beat slow and hard as I watched him chatting easily with a couple of prosecutors at the bank of elevators. My vision blurred, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I quickly turned away and moved into the crowd near the metal detector. Of all days to run into Daniel, I thought, it had to be today. Since our breakup, dating was a rare occasion for me. My last date—a mini-break for coffee in the outdoor café of the Ahmanson Theater—had been four months ago. What kind of sick twist was it that I had to see him today? Feeling defeated by fate, I waited for his elevator to arrive and finally allowed myself to breathe when I heard the ding and saw the doors close. I moved out to the nearest elevator on leaden feet and punched the up button.

  On the eighteenth floor, I ran into Toni as I was getting off the elevator.

  “Hey, you!” she said. Then she stopped and looked at me more closely. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

  I nodded wordlessly, not wanting to tear up in front of the whole world. Toni pulled me into the ladies’ restroom across the hall. Luckily we had the space to ourselves.

  “I just saw Daniel downstairs,” I said quietly. I swallowed and tried to push the lump out of my throat.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, honey.” Toni put her arms around me and patted my back.

  I held on to her and breathed for a moment, grateful for the comfort. After a minute, I pulled away. “Thanks, Toni,” I said. “I just feel like I’m never going to get over him, and I’m sick of feeling this way.”

  “And you’ll keep feeling that way until you are over him. You know what I mean?”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  “You’ll be hurting until you won’t be anymore. It just takes time,” she said gently. “And you’ll probably always feel at least a little something when you think of Daniel, because he’s a good guy. That’s how it is with the good guys.”

  I nodded.

  “And you also haven’t really tried to see anyone else. That’s keeping it fresh too.” Toni looked at me with a steady gaze.

  I returned her stare for a moment, then looked away. Toni and Bailey had been trying to get me back out in the mix for at least six months. So far I hadn’t been able to make it past a single cup of coffee, let alone into a relationship. But I didn’t tell her about my lunch date with Graden because I was seriously thinking about canceling, and I knew Toni would try to talk me out of it. And I admitted to myself that I probably hadn’t told her before this because, deep down inside, I’d had a feeling I’d want to get out of it anyway.

  I hugged her again.

  Toni leaned back, held my shoulders, and looked me in the eye. “You going to be okay now?”

  I nodded. “Work beckons,” I said with a rueful smile.

  “Your great escape,” she agreed. “I’m around if you need me. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. I knew I wouldn’t want to talk about it, though. I never did.

  Toni gave me a knowing smile. She knew that too.

  We walked out into the hallway. The ding of the elevator sounded, and Toni trotted out to catch it. She stepped inside and blew me a kiss, and I smiled and blew one back. I punched in the security code and made my way toward my office, lifting my hand to wave to Melia as I passed by Eric’s anteroom. Her head was bowed, and she was staring down into her lap, reading one of her tabloid mags under the desk. That meant Eric had probably just left for a meeting, because she knew better than to let him catch her at it.

  I tried not to look at the police seal on Jake’s door as I headed for my office. The bright-yellow tape was like an open wound. Part of me wished they’d take it down; another part of me was glad, because it meant the case was still open.

  With those happy thoughts, I opened my office door to find my intercom buzzing.

  I quickly slipped out of my jacket and began unfastening my vest as I answered. It was Melia.

  “Mark Baransky on the… uh…” Melia stuttered to a stop, having forgotten the name of the case he was calling about, although he’d probably just given it to her seconds ago. Poor thing, I thought, it must be hard to remember dumb old case names when you’re concentrating on important stuff like which celebrity is banging someone else’s wife’s daughter.

  “The Duncan case. I’ve got it, Melia,” I said, then switched over to the line with the blinking light and kicked my vest under the desk. I couldn’t let anyone know I had it, or there’d be questions.

  “Hey, Mark, your guy ready to plead?” His client Ramon Duncan had murdered a husband and wife during a home-invasion robbery. The office had decided to go for the death penalty, but I’d told the lawyer I could probably talk the brass into a sentence of life without parole if his client would plead to the sheet.

  “Yeah, and he’s asking for death. Says he knows how busy you are and doesn’t want you to have to bother with a trial.”

  Lawyers are fun. “I’m glad someone finally understands. Tell your client that I’ll put a letter in his file about how grateful we are for all his tips on the Aryan Brotherhood.” A note like that about the notorious prison gang would get his client killed within minutes.

  “Knight, you’re a riot.” He laughed a little uncertainly.

  I didn’t join in the mirth. Let him squirm. “What’s up?”

  “I’m going to run a few motions, try to get some evidence thrown out, but I’ve got a trip to Greece planned, so I won’t be able to do it at the next setting. I’ll need a continuance,” Mark said.

  “Let me make sure I’ve got this right: you want me to agree to put the case over so you can have time to t
ake a vacation before you come back and try to gut my case.”

  “That’s about it. But, look, fair’s fair. If you’ve got any trips planned, I promise to go along with a continuance for you. Deal?”

  This only rubbed salt in the wound, because not only did I not have time to go anywhere, but I couldn’t really afford any trips—especially not to Greece.

  “Yeah, I’ll take you up on that offer real soon,” I said sarcastically. Defense attorneys have to deal with the miseries of representing criminals, but the money they get is a nice consolation prize. “You are such a putz, Mark. What date do you want?” I said, looking at my calendar.

  The morning flew by after that point. There was a lot to catch up on. By the time I finished making and returning calls, it was noon. After the way my day had started, I’d lost my appetite for a lunch date. I’d just begun to hope that I was being stood up when Lieutenant Graden Hales called.

  “Want to meet me outside the building?” he asked.

  My “sure” came out a little frostier than I’d intended. Without much enthusiasm, I made a token effort at a touch-up of lip gloss and eye shadow, tried and failed to fluff up my hair, and threw on my blazer. I decided I could dispense with the vest for now—after all, I was going to be with a cop. I grabbed my purse and headed out to the elevator as I devised ways to cut this lunch as short as possible.

  21

  He wasn’t standing on the sidewalk in front of the building when I got there, so I glanced at my watch to see if I’d made unusually good time in the elevator. I hadn’t. It was almost a quarter past noon. Maybe he’d given up? Feeling more relieved than disappointed, I was about to head back into the building when someone in a new black 750Li BMW honked the horn insistently. I looked up and down the street to see who wasn’t getting the message. A car in front of the BMW pulled away from the curb, and the BMW pulled forward. When the passenger window slid down, the driver leaned over.

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you I’d be driving,” Graden said apologetically.

  Or maybe what he’d be driving. What was a cop doing with a hundred-thousand-dollar car? Maybe he was one of those people who lived in lean-tos so they could drive some fancy wheels. Somehow I hadn’t made him for that kind of guy.

  “Not a problem, Lieutenant.” I got in and buckled up, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.

  He looked at me and gave a small smile. “Does ‘Graden’ sit okay with you? Or at least Hales?”

  “I think I can manage Graden.” I didn’t tell him he could call me Rachel.

  He pulled out into traffic, and I glanced at him sideways. I noticed that he had a slight tan—in winter. What was that all about? And he was wearing an expensive-looking gray sports jacket and white dress shirt, open at the neck. A tasteful patch of chest hair peeked out just at the top of the V. And no gold chains. Thank God. I settled back into the cushy leather seat as he navigated. The streets were packed with aggressive drivers and pedestrians who’d been crowded off the sidewalks and were weaving their way through the gridlock. When he’d managed to squeeze out the other side of the snarl and headed toward Beaudry, I asked, “Where are we going?”

  “PDC. I’m in the mood for a Bloody Mary. Sound good?”

  It sounded more than good. The Pacific Dining Car was an actual old railroad dining car that had been converted into an intimate, Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin–style restaurant with great lobster, steak, and one of the best bars in town. It was a favorite of mine, and it was known for making great Bloody Marys too. But it was pricey, so the PDC was strictly a special-occasion place for me. Graden pulled into the driveway and handed the keys to the valet.

  The host, Fred Astaire in slacks and a navy-blue blazer, greeted Graden by name and led us to a quiet booth in the bar area. Behind the bar was a full wall of liquors from just about everywhere in the world. The pin-dot lighting made the bottles glow like jewels in the cool darkness, and the bartender, in his shirtsleeves and apron, was backlit, making him look like a painting from the ’50s come to life. As we slid into the booth, the host flipped open the linen napkin that had been folded on the table and set it expertly in my lap, then did the same for Graden. He handed each of us a menu, and the lieutenant ordered a Bloody Mary, as threatened. Although I didn’t usually drink at lunch, I decided, since I didn’t have any court appearances and my heavy work was done, to splurge and ordered one too.

  I was lousy at making small talk and didn’t want to pretend otherwise. But that left me with shoptalk—I’d be good with it, but experience had taught me that not everyone shared my appetite for all work, all the time. I’d planned to use this lunch to find out what was happening on Jake’s case, but given Graden’s past tight-lipped attitude, it seemed smarter to hold off and wait for the right moment.

  He solved the problem for me. “I hear you and Bailey have a pretty hot lead on the Densmore rape case.”

  The knot that I hadn’t even known was in my stomach began to unravel. I brought him up to speed, ending with our efforts to chase down our prime suspect, Luis Revelo.

  “Have they run the rape kit through to see if it matches anyone in the database?” he asked.

  “Yep. No hit. But that doesn’t mean Revelo’s not our guy. For some reason, he managed to dodge the DNA-testing bullet.”

  “Low-level rap sheet?”

  I nodded. “Chicken-shit stuff, mostly a year or two ago. Seems to have cleaned up his act, or—”

  “Gotten much better at it,” he said. “Some of these shot-callers are smart. They keep their hands clean and let the little guys do the dirty work.”

  “They’re getting more like politicians every day,” I agreed.

  Graden chuckled, and the white-coated waiter brought our Bloody Marys and took our orders. We both stirred and then sipped appreciatively.

  “Perfect,” I said. Just enough Tabasco and spice to give it a kick, not so much that you couldn’t taste anything else.

  We chatted on about our other cases, and the conversation flowed effortlessly over common ground. There was an easiness between us that went beyond our careers, though I couldn’t really pinpoint why. All I knew was that this was one of the most fun, stress-free, unawkward first dates I’d ever had. My quest to squeeze information out of Graden about Jake’s case lurked in the back of my mind, but I didn’t want to force the issue and possibly spoil not only our lunch but my chances of ever getting him to talk to me about it. I decided to wait and see if our conversation took us there naturally. I can be patient when it matters. After the waiter brought our orders—Graden opted for steak; I chose the grilled trout—I mentioned the lawyer who’d called to get a continuance so he could go to Greece.

  “Great time of year to go,” Graden mused with a faraway look. “I spent ten days in Crete last year. Love that place.” He went back to his drink, so he didn’t see my look of disbelief. First the late-model BMW, then the PDC for lunch, now Crete. What the hell?

  Finally he glanced up and saw my expression. “I sell dope on the side,” he said with a grin.

  “Oh good. I was worried you might be doing something sleazy. Like movie-set security.”

  He chuckled and I waited for the explanation. He gave it.

  “I loved video games as a kid. Actually, ‘addicted’ is more the word for it. I got into making up my own games after a while. It was just a hobby. I never considered doing it full-time,” he said.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t play Grand Theft Auto,” I remarked. The cops were always getting shafted by the crooks in that game.

  “No, that was a little after my time,” he said. “Probably a good thing. I would’ve lived a life of crime and wound up getting prosecuted by you.” He smiled.

  “I might’ve cut you a deal, you never know,” I replied.

  Graden smiled even wider, then continued. “My brother, Devon, is a computer whiz, works at Hewlett-Packard. Growing up, he was one of those kids who always knew what they wanted to do. It took me a little longer. While I knock
ed around doing odd jobs, trying to figure out who I wanted to be, I’d dream up video games. After I got into the police academy, I came up with Code Three.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve heard of it.”

  “I have,” I replied. Code Three—cop lingo for “in pursuit”—was a megahit.

  Graden smiled very briefly in acknowledgment. “Frankly, it wasn’t my favorite. But Devon was dead sure it would sell, so on his days off he worked on the program. In the meantime, I graduated, got on the force, and lost interest in video games. I told Devon to let it go, but he kept plugging away. Five years later, he’d finished the program and found a buyer—”

  “And the rest is history.”

  Graden shrugged noncommittally. “Pretty much.”

  I took another sip of my Bloody Mary and tucked into my trout.

  “Can I get you another one?” Graden asked, gesturing at my nearly empty drink.

  I considered it for a moment, tempted, but declined. “Thanks, I might need my brain for a little longer.”

  Graden followed suit.

  I was struck by his dismissive attitude toward his success. “I’d imagine that game made you rich enough to quit work.”

  Graden half nodded. “Probably.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  He put down his fork and took a sip of water before answering. “It was kind of a fluke, you know? I don’t trust it. At some point, maybe even tomorrow, the kids will decide it’s not cool anymore. You’d be surprised how fast money runs out when you’re just spending and not earning.” Graden picked up his knife and fork and cut another piece of steak. “I don’t take risks when it comes to paying the rent.”

  “And yet you’re a cop,” I remarked. “Hardly a risk-free proposition.”

  “But it’s a steady paycheck,” he pointed out.