by Marcia Clark
I was reading the most recent example when my cell phone rang.
“You in your office?” Bailey asked.
“Yep.”
“Stay there,” she said, then hung up.
I tried to focus on the task at hand while I waited for Bailey to arrive—and failed miserably. What was so urgent and so secret that she couldn’t say it on the phone? Fortunately for my impatient self, I didn’t have long to wait.
“You won’t believe this,” she began, striding briskly into my office. “We got a call about a burglary in progress in the Palisades last night.”
I looked at her, my eyebrows raised. The Palisades again. I’m not a fan of coincidences, but on the other hand, a burglary in a rich neighborhood is a fairly commonplace event.
“Close to Susan’s house?” I asked.
“Close enough. We caught the suspect hiding in another neighbor’s backyard.” Bailey paused to look at me meaningfully, making sure she had my full attention. She did.
“Our perp is a baby gangster. And his crew?” she said, pausing for effect.
“The Sylmar Sevens,” I concluded.
So much for coincidence.
25
I sat back in my chair with a thump. “The Sevens hitting the Palisades makes no sense at all.” A well-policed hood like that isn’t usually a gang’s first choice, especially while there’s still heat on the shot-caller for a crime committed in that same area. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed suicidal for them to hit the neighborhood so soon after Susan’s rape. It was like hanging a GUILTY sign around Luis Revelo’s neck.
Bailey had been watching my reaction. “My thoughts exactly,” she said.
“Anyone talk to the guy yet?” I asked.
“They tried. He clammed up, wants his lawyer.”
“He got one?”
“Not yet.”
Until his lawyer showed up and said otherwise, there’d be no talking. So unless the suspect asked to talk to the cops first—unlikely, given his behavior so far—there was nothing we could do.
For the moment, the conundrum of what the Sylmar Sevens were doing in the Palisades would go unsolved. I turned my attention to Jake’s case. “What are you hearing about the double?” I asked. “Any word on physical evidence, stray hairs? Fibers?”
“They’re not calling it a ‘double.’ ”
“Screw them. It’s not a murder-suicide until I say it is.”
“I’ll let the FBI know,” Bailey said, deadpan. “Anyway, I have no news. They’ve been keeping everything under lock and key.” Bailey paused. A sly look crossed her face. “But I know someone you could ask…”
It dawned on me suddenly that I’d forgotten to tell her about my lunch with Graden. Much as I hated to play into her hands after that innuendo, I couldn’t put it off and risk her hearing about it from someone else. That would hurt her feelings. Besides, her innuendo actually was my game plan: I did intend to squeeze Graden for information.
“I forgot to tell you,” I began. I filled her in. When I finished, she looked at me in disbelief.
“You forgot?” she asked.
I shrugged. “And we got busy.”
Bailey shook her head, but she was smiling. “It’s you. I buy it.” She looked out the window for a moment before she said, “It’s hard not to shit where you eat, isn’t it?”
“Thank you, Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” I said dryly. “I assume you mean it’s not so smart to date the guy who’s heading up the murder investigation on Jake’s case.”
“No, I mean the opposite. The case won’t last forever. And we all work these crazy hours, so where else would we meet someone? I mean, you almost have to shit where you eat.”
“You know, I was kind of hungry until you started talking.” This was Bailey’s way of endorsing the date with Graden, but it was making me queasy.
“Come on, it’s just a figure of speech. ‘You don’t—’ ”
“Stop,” I said, holding up a hand. “Seriously. I’d like to find an appetite again by next week.”
Now it was Bailey’s turn to shrug. She stood to go but hit a more serious note. “You’re wearing your vest, right?”
“Yes, Mother.”
Unfazed, she replied, “Call me when you’re ready to roll.”
I hadn’t needed the reminder. Just this morning, the hotel manager had called to ask me, as delicately as possible, when I intended to do something about my car. I had to admit, my little Accord hadn’t looked all that great next to the Benzes and Rolls in that garage to begin with, but now that it’d been turned into a mobile tribute to the artistic renderings of Lil’ Loco, it stuck out like a Cracker Jack ring in a Tiffany display. I’d been putting it off, but I’d have to get it fixed up soon. The bodywork was going to cost me a chunk of change.
But that wasn’t the only reason I hadn’t done anything about my little car. For all my solid logic as to why the shooting had been random, the possibility that there might be someone out there gunning for me—literally—was unnerving. And so was that train of thought. I prefer not to fixate on life-threatening problems I can’t fix, so my mind groped for an alternative. It settled back on Jake’s case.
Maybe it was time to stop fighting the pedophile angle and go straight at it. I turned the problem over in my mind as I stared out the window and watched the sidewalks fill with the 4:00 homebound crowd. Desiree, my favorite tranny, in thigh-high boots with a leather miniskirt and her perennial long, wavy blond wig, was making her way up Spring Street in strong, confident strides, looking straight ahead, daring all who passed to ignore her. She always made me smile.
By the time the office had cleared out, I had a plan. Turning to my computer, I tapped out an e-mail to PedoAlert, a vigilante group headed by Clive Zorn that was dedicated to the capture of pedophiles and child pornographers. I met him during a child-murder case I’d handled a few years back. The case had been presented to me as a battered-child case, and they’d arrested the nanny. The injuries didn’t present a clear-cut case for murder, and there was a strong possibility the jury might buy the nanny’s story that the child’s neck broke after a fall down the stairs—a scenario that could’ve led to a complete acquittal.
Clive had called to alert me to the possibility that there might be sexual abuse involved. There were no overt signs of this on the victim, and I’d been warned that Clive and his group were trying to make a name for themselves by claiming there was sexual abuse on high-profile cases so they’d have an excuse to horn in. I’d been leery of him at first when Melia had given me the message saying he’d called. But curiosity, combined with paranoia—at the thought that something might’ve been missed—made me return his call anyway. When Clive told me that he didn’t want any publicity and that he just wanted to give me some tips on what to look for, I’d been surprised. I was still suspicious, but I’d listened.
An hour and a half later, my hair was standing on end—I’d heard more than I ever thought there was to know about all the possible signs of child molestation. I went back to the detectives and made specific requests for follow-up investigations. Among other things, they found a hidden cache of kiddie porn that featured our victim. Since the age of two. Taken by her nanny. And, in several, the nanny had shaken and abused the child in ways that left no bruises. A dicey case turned into a first-degree-murder conviction that sent the nanny to prison for twenty-five years to life.
Since then, I’d recommended Zorn to every deputy I knew and talked him up to reporters every chance I got. Clive had been effusive in his gratitude for my support, so I knew he’d be willing to help. Sure enough, within minutes of my hitting send, my phone rang. I snatched it up after the first ring.
“DA’s office, Rachel Knight.”
“I’d say it was nice to hear from you, but I’m assuming it’s about another pedophile.” Clive’s surprisingly soft voice had fooled more than one target during the group’s sting operations.
I told him what I knew about Jake’s ca
se.
“And you want to know what we can find out about your victim, right?”
“Right.”
“I’m going to need a copy of Kit’s photograph—the one that was in Jake’s pocket.”
I exhaled sharply. I’d been afraid of this. “Can you do any kind of search based on a description?” I asked. Getting a copy of the picture might be impossible, but I thought I could find a way to sneak a look at the photograph.
“I can try, of course. But your definition of a short nose could differ from mine. What you call dark-brown hair might be medium brown to me. So even if your victim’s picture is on the Internet, I might not recognize it.” I could tell Clive was just beginning to wind up for one of his lengthy, precise, and detailed explanations. This was the downside of Clive Zorn. It made him an amazing engineering professor, but it could also make me want to jump out of the window.
He continued in his maddening, nothing-will-rush-me pace. “So you see, Rachel, even if I were to assist you in performing the search after you had described the picture to me, even you might not remember the details well enough to recognize his photograph on the Internet, especially if there’s distortion of any kind. And, of course, my chances of finding a match based only on your description are slimmer still.”
He was right. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll work on it.”
He wished me luck, we said our good-byes, and I hung up. I knew what I had to do, and as much as I hated it, I did it.
He answered on the first ring.
“Graden Hales.”
“I know,” I said, deadpan. “I dialed the number.”
“Just one question,” he replied, not missing a beat. “How many times did you get kicked out of class?”
“None. All of my teachers loved me.” I managed to say it with a straight face.
“And if they tell me something different?”
“Of course, they’ll be lying.” Fibbing wasn’t my strong suit, so I got to the point. “How about a quick bite at The Cover?” It was a speakeasy-style bistro hidden behind an unmarked door at the back of a historic diner that had been built in the 1930s. Dark, quiet, and fairly new, it hadn’t yet been discovered by the Criminal Courts crowd. The Cover would give us plenty of privacy.
“Sounds great,” he said. “When?”
When I didn’t respond right away, he managed not to sputter.
“You mean right now?”
“I know it’s short notice. But, honestly, I need a favor. You may not like it, but even if the answer’s no, we’ve still got to eat, right?”
Graden paused just long enough to make me wonder if he’d hung up on me. “Okay, I’m in. I’m intrigued—and hungry. Meet me downstairs in ten. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
26
The soft light emanating from the small glass lamps that hung from the ceiling created a chic but intimate feeling. And it was comforting to see that there wasn’t one recognizable face in the crowd. We both ordered salads, but Graden followed his up with beef bourguignonne, while I boringly stuck to roast chicken. Not that it wasn’t good, but Graden’s dinner looked better. I strained to keep my eyes off his plate.
I didn’t really want to ask him for Kit’s photo, so I let openings slip by as the internal ethics battle waged inside me. Finally, when the waiter came to clear our dishes, I knew it was do-or-die time. I was just about to take the plunge when Graden put his napkin on the table and leaned forward.
“Okay, Knight. You’ve been fighting with yourself for the past half hour. Out with it.”
I didn’t know whether I was impressed or annoyed that he’d read me so easily. “I need that photo they found on Jake. The one of Kit Chalmers.”
Graden lifted an eyebrow and looked somewhat taken aback. I’d known it was a lot to ask. Now I realized it was probably too much, and I felt embarrassed and awkward.
Finally Graden spoke. “What for?” he asked.
I explained about my contact in the vigilante group. “If he can find this photograph on the Internet, or others that look similar, I might be able to figure out who took the picture and dig into other possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Everyone’s been assuming that Kit was blackmailing Jake. I’ve been thinking—half of that isn’t such a bad hypothesis. But maybe the person Kit was blackmailing wasn’t Jake.” I knew the theory had holes, and Graden immediately went for the biggest one.
“Then why was Jake the person in the room with him? And why was the photo hidden on Jake’s body? And why would Kit bring the photograph if what he wanted was Jake’s protection?”
“Obviously I don’t have all the answers yet,” I said glumly.
“Or any,” he said.
I nodded.
Graden continued. “And I hate to keep shooting you down, but the motel clerk remembered that Jake asked for Kit’s room number just before the shooting.” He looked at me meaningfully.
I gazed down at the table. It wasn’t big news, but it didn’t help matters either. I wanted to argue that if Jake was up to no good, he wouldn’t have spoken so openly to the clerk. But obviously if he’d planned to be dead, that wouldn’t have mattered to him.
“There’s more.”
Graden’s tone of voice told me that this time “more” wasn’t going to be better.
“We checked Jake’s cell phone records. He got a call from Kit earlier that day.” Graden paused. “And that wasn’t the only one. We found calls between Jake and Kit going back for the past two years.”
“How many?”
“Not a lot, not a little. Seemed like every couple of months one or the other would call.”
I inhaled slowly, absorbing the news. It wasn’t exactly a signed confession, but it didn’t help any. I sat gloomily as the weight of it all settled over me.
“Sorry, Rachel,” Graden said.
“No, no.” I shook my head. “I have to know. If it’s true about Jake, then I’m going to have to deal with it.” I considered everything again. “But I’m not there yet.”
Graden nodded grimly. “I agree. I just want you to be prepared.”
I appreciated the thought, if not the implied prediction, and we sat in silence for a moment.
He looked around the room, then turned back to me. “If I do this, you’ll have to be extremely careful. That photograph is going to have to stay way under wraps.”
The tightness in my chest relaxed, and my shoulders, previously hunched around my ears, dropped down as a sudden wave of relief washed over me.
“And you can trust this vigilante guy not to flash it around or talk about how he got it?” Graden asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said with certainty. I’d have to make Clive understand the photograph had to be kept under lock and key without letting him know that his possession of it was illegal. It was a fine line to walk with a big drop on the wrong side of it.
Graden watched me closely. “For both our sakes, I hope you’re right,” he said finally.
I nodded with as much confidence as I could muster and signaled to the waiter, who’d been standing near the bar with nothing to do. He came quickly, carrying dessert menus. The early diners had left, and the restaurant was quiet. I knew it was just a momentary lull in the action before the real dinner crowd showed up, but for now Graden and I were at one of only three occupied tables.
I turned to him. “Dessert? I hear the crème brûlée is to die for.”
“Let’s share,” he said. “I’m pretty full.”
I handed the menu back to the waiter. “One crème brûlée, two spoons, coming up,” he said, and left.
“I’m going to ask a favor from you too,” Graden said.
“Yes?”
“Next time, don’t suffer. I get the feeling you don’t like to ask for much. But I don’t get bent about being asked for help, especially when it’s for a worthy cause. So from now on, you want something, just tell me. I’ll do what I can.”
The waiter brought the crème brûlée and
set out two spoons.
We clinked silverware, broke into the perfectly browned, crispy top layer, and savored the first mouthful. The firm yet creamy pudding was just sweet enough without tipping over into sugary. We didn’t talk again until we were both scraping the bowl.
“You’ll have to give me some time to get my hands on it when no one’s looking. It’ll probably be a few days. Where’s a safe place to get it to you?” Graden asked as I paid the bill.
“My place. We can meet in the bar. No one we have to worry about ever goes there.”
“A girl who’s got a bar in her home,” Graden remarked with a smile. “You know, there’s only one thing that could top that.”
“Let me guess. Room service?”
He grinned, getting up from the table. “Are we all that easy to read?”
“Just the ones who’re breathing.”
27
The next day, I came into the office determined to bury myself in work and stay distracted. I didn’t want to think about the increasing likelihood that things were exactly as they seemed with Jake and Kit. Lunch was a turkey wrap at my desk as I worked nonstop, making my way through one case after another. After a few hours, I took a short breather to stretch and look out the window. I noticed that the guard in the parking lot behind the building was asleep in his kiosk. It made me glad I wasn’t driving my car to work. Break time over, I turned back to my desk and pushed through the stack of defense motions, sorting out the ones I’d need to answer in writing. I’d had my head down, nose to the grindstone for an unknown amount of time, when I heard Toni’s heels come clicking down the hallway. I thought it was early for her to be out of court already, but when I looked up at the clock tower, I saw that it was already a quarter to five. Time flies when you’re in avoidance mode.
I called out, “Hey, Toni. How’d it go?”
Standing in my doorway, she looked all amped up. Here we go again, I thought, the Toni and J.D. Show. It’d be nice if they could manage to hang in there.
“You win every motion, or did he throw the defense a bone or two?” I joked. There was no way Judge Morgan would ever let his relationship with Toni affect his rulings, but I saw no reason why that should stop me from teasing her about it.
