by Marcia Clark
Toni rolled her eyes in answer. “He won’t let me get in the ADW priors, but I don’t really need them. Otherwise my case is looking pretty good… knock on wood,” she said, rapping on the door frame.
“That’s metal, and I agree, you don’t need any assault priors to nail these guys. Your case is solid,” I said.
But we both knew that trials were unpredictable things—with just a few of the wrong words from the wrong witness at the right time, a sure winner could turn into a dog—so trial lawyers were notoriously superstitious. That’s how I knew that tomorrow Toni would wear her lucky navy “believe me” suit when she started jury selection.
“How you doing?” she asked.
“Had dinner with Graden.”
Toni stepped in, closed the door, dropped her briefcase, and sat down. “Talk about burying your lead, girl.” She let her shoes drop to the floor and put her feet up on the other chair. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
I filled her in.
She looked at me shrewdly. “So now he knows you’re a pit bull, and now you know he’s got a heart.”
I nodded. “I just hope this favor doesn’t ruin us both.”
“Dangerous business, messing around with evidence on an FBI case,” Toni agreed. She paused and checked her watch. “Damn. I’ve got to run,” she said as she hurriedly slipped on her shoes and stood up.
“Where to?” I asked. Toni couldn’t date the judge during trial, and I knew she wasn’t seeing anyone else.
“I started a water-aerobics class at my gym last week. I’ve got five minutes to get there,” she said, picking up her briefcase and opening the door. “Call me later,” she said. “Unless you’re in handcuffs.” Her laugh echoed down the hall as she walked away.
I assessed the pile of motions on my desk. I’d whittled it down to one motion to suppress a defendant’s confession. I could prove the case without it, and generally speaking I wasn’t big on using confessions anyway. They were almost always a Trojan horse, a mixture of admission and avoidance, filled with “yes… but”s. If a defendant wants to bullshit the jury, let him do it on the witness stand, where I have something to say about it. I wouldn’t cry if the judge threw out the confession, so I decided to file a canned response and use the extra time for a workout.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun had waned, but it was still light out. The days were already lengthening, stretching out to reach for spring. I pulled on the hated vest, threw my jacket over it, and felt the reassuring weight of the .357 as I slung my purse over my shoulder. I paused at the door as I remembered I was supposed to call Bailey to come and get me. But it was early, and there were plenty of people in the streets. I decided I could let her have the night off. As I trotted down the hallway, I made a mental note to ask Toni what she thought of her water-aerobics class. It’d be a nice change from my no-frills metal-and-mirrors gym routine.
The last stragglers hurried down the sidewalks toward bus stops and parking lots, their figures casting long shadows on the concrete—a parallel universe of narrow giants that marched smoothly through lampposts and sparsely planted trees. I kept my pace brisk, realizing that night was falling more rapidly than I’d expected.
I’d just cut through Pershing Square when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an old Lincoln stop in the middle of the street just ahead of me. I’d barely had a second to register how strange that was when two dark figures leaped out of the backseat, reached me in a couple of long, fast strides, and took me by the arms. I reflexively pulled back and away and started to lift my foot to stomp on an instep when one of them threw a blanket over my head.
They quickly grabbed me by the head and feet, hoisted me up, and ran for the car. I kicked and bucked and tried to scream, but the blanket muffled the sound. I felt myself tossed onto the floor of the backseat, and the hump in the middle hit me in the stomach, winding me. I tried to catch my breath, but between the blanket and the sudden blow to my solar plexus, I couldn’t seem to get any air. I began to panic, and my breath came in short, raspy spurts. I felt the two men jump into the backseat, one at each end of me. I heard the car doors slam and then the engine gunning. The car peeled out, slamming my face into the front seat. I gasped in pain and struggled for air that would not come. I felt my head swim and tried to fight what I sensed was coming, but it was too late. My last thought was that no one would find me until I was beyond caring. Then everything went black.
28
I woke to the rumble of the engine and the sensation that I was hurtling through space. Unable to see, I panicked, thinking I was blind, then remembered they’d thrown a blanket over my head. I blinked a few times to reassure myself that my eyes were working. I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, or in what direction we were headed.
There were at least three people in the car with me, the two in the backseat who’d snatched me and the driver, but no one spoke a word. From what little I’d had the chance to see, the assholes who’d grabbed me seemed dark-complected. My mind flashed immediately to Hispanic, then to gangbanger, then to the Sylmar Sevens. I wanted to be wrong about this, because if I was right, then I was dead.
I needed a plan. Did I still have my gun? Slowly, trying to keep them from seeing any movement, I wiggled my hands. They weren’t bound. So far, so good. I carefully flexed my left foot. My feet were free too. Even better. But my purse was gone, which meant my gun was gone. That was bad, really bad. I had my vest on, but that wasn’t much comfort. A vest wouldn’t do squat for a head shot. I fought off the sinking feeling that rode a new wave of panic. Focus, I told myself. They’d have to get me out of the car to shoot me. No one wants the mess of someone bleeding out in his car if he can avoid it. That meant at least a few exposed moments that would give me a chance to fight. I tried to remember the street-fighting moves I’d learned from a former date who’d taught Krav Maga. I’d just replayed the kneecap crusher when I noticed that traffic sounds were receding and the streets were getting quieter. As the city noises fell away, I smelled the damp greenness of trees and grass.
Bad had suddenly turned to much, much worse. I thought about all the popular local body dumps where my carcass likely wouldn’t be found for months. Griffith Park was the closest, which would explain the fresh smell of growing plants and nature. I tried not to give in to the fear, tried to stay focused on a decent plan of action. But just then the car pulled onto gravel and slowed to a stop. No more time for plans. I willed my breathing to slow down and focused on what my first move would be when they pulled me off the floor of the car.
The jerk who was sitting near my head wrapped his arms around my torso in a bear hug that pinned my arms to my sides, then pulled me up to a sitting position in the middle of the seat. With the blanket still draped over my head and body, he stuck what felt like a .44 semiautomatic into my neck while the other jerk gripped my elbow at an angle I knew would cause a nasty break if I made any sudden moves. I braced myself for the shot that would tear through my throat as my mind, numbed with terror but hyperalert, took in every smell and sensation. Then a voice from the driver’s seat said quietly, “Okay, now.”
I inhaled sharply, thinking this breath might be my last, and steeled myself against the searing heat of a bullet. Instead, someone pulled off the blanket.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized we were in MacArthur Park—just minutes from downtown—and I was staring into the face of suspect number one: Luis Revelo.
29
“I apologize for the uncivilized intro,” Luis Revelo said in a soft voice. “You probably won’t believe it, but it’s not my style.” He pronounced “probably” prally and gave “style” two really long syllables.
Having just a second earlier believed I was about to shuffle off this mortal coil, I was in a somewhat insane, reckless frame of mind. “Unlike rape,” I barked, my voice raspy, “which apparently is your style.”
“No, ma’am. It ain’t—isn’t,” he corrected himself, trying hard to impress. “See, I knew yo
u was—were thinkin’ like that, so I had to find a way to tell you. Susan was my friend and my ticket out. She was helpin’ me go for my GED so I could get into community college, then a four-year for my MBA. No way was I goin’ to fu—uh, screw that up.”
“So you kidnapped a DA,” I said, “in order to explain that?”
His brow wrinkled in consternation. “What was I gonna do? Walk into the cop shop, tell ’em I didn’t rape that girl? What you think they gonna say? ‘Oh, sorry, man, have a nice day’? You and I both know it don’t work like that.”
I looked at him, my eyes narrowed. He twisted around to face me full on and continued.
“They throw me in the slammer first, ax questions later. Then I sit there and rot while they drag their feet checkin’ out my story. Meantime, someone else moves in on my turf. Or I get shanked by some Peckerwood or Crip in the joint.” He paused, giving me time to absorb the intricacies of his dilemma.
I said nothing, but I privately figured he was “prally” right.
“ ’Sides, I had to try and get to you and ’splain somehow, ’cuz, see, I got nuthin’ to lose,” he said, loosening himself from the binds of grammar in his desire to explain. “Long as you guys keep thinkin’ I did it, I’m on the run. Can’t do nuthin’ ’cept hide. Tha’s no life. I figure I take this one shot with you. It don’t work, I fly south. Least in Baja, life’s cheaper.”
I could understand the logic. What I didn’t understand was why I should believe he didn’t rape Susan Densmore.
“And I’m supposed to just take your word that you didn’t do it, because—?”
“No.” He frowned, thinking. “What you want me to do?”
The gun that was still firmly planted in my neck did not exactly inspire a spirit of cooperation. “For starters, you could tell your buddies here to stand down.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Manny, back off the piece.”
Manny, for whom no deodorant was any match, obediently removed the gun. It felt good enough to put me in a bargaining mood. Trying to ignore the smell of overactive sweat glands from my seatmates, I considered my options. They’d banged me up some and scared the shit out of me, but I couldn’t argue with Luis’s take on things. And if he really hadn’t raped Susan, then I wanted to move on and find out who did. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had a lot to gain from this bizarre collaboration. Strange times call for strange measures. I was ready to drive this deal home.
“You’ll take a DNA test and a poly,” I said. “Those come up clean, we’ll forget about… this.” I looked at the creeps flanking me. “If not, your ass is mine.”
“It’ll be a clean test, no funny stuff, right?”
“You see me laughing?”
He looked at me closely, then slowly nodded. “Okay.” After a pause, he added, “But when I pass and whatever, I walk out of there, right?”
“I’ll walk you out myself,” I promised.
“Deal,” he said as he reached out between the front seats to shake my hand.
“Not yet.” I shook my head. “You messed up my car, cost me for four new tires, and shot at me. I want the assholes who did all that or it’s no deal.”
Luis looked at me quizzically, then stared at my escorts. They shrugged at him and looked at each other, then back at Luis. “Nobody fired no—’scuse me—any shots at you,” he said. Then, focusing on what was obviously the most important event to him, he asked, “No shit, they effed up your ride?”
“One of your pendejos tagged and dragged my car so bad it looks like a raggedy soup can. Then some of them followed me and my detective to Marsden High and took shots at us,” I said, my tone getting crankier by the second.
This time, I had to admit, the looks of shock on all their faces were fairly convincing.
“Marsden High? What’d we be doin’ there?” Luis asked, looking honestly puzzled. He shook his head emphatically, then leaned toward me. “Come on, Ms. Knight, you know how it works. No one makes a big move like messin’ with a DA or a cop ’less I call the shot. And I din’t—I didn’t— give a green light on that shit,” Luis said heatedly, ending on a note of disgust. He shook his head. “That kinda craziness screws it up for all of us. Some dumbass messes with a cop or a DA, next thing you know, they’re up our asses twenty-four/seven and we can’t do no bizness.”
“And banging’s all about business?” I said, skeptical but mildly amused.
Luis nodded seriously. “Some cabrones out there’re just plain loco, crimin’ alla time, just gettin’ in trouble for no reason. Don’ accomplish nuthin’. That stupid shit gets you nowhere. Tha’s not me. It’s ’bout makin’ the money,” he said matter-of-factly. “And familia.”
I paused, thinking. I wasn’t quite as confident as Luis that none of his minions had gone rogue, but if I asked him to check in with his homies, I knew that would only make him lose face. And besides, if he came up clean for the rape, there’d have been no reason for the Sevens to stick their necks out to get to me or Bailey.
“One more thing,” I said. I had a single last piece of business to do with him right now. It was a big one. And now, when I had his full attention and real leverage, was the time to spring it.
“Yeah?” he said warily.
“We’ve got one of your baby gangsters in custody right now—”
Luis looked at his homies again; they looked back at him blankly. I got the feeling they looked that way a lot.
“You haven’t heard?”
Luis shook his head, his expression dark. “Who you talkin’ about?”
“Hector Amaya.”
Luis turned to the other two. “Sabes algo?” (You know anything?)
The other two shook their heads, their expressions shocked. “Nada.”
“What’s he busted for?” Luis asked.
“Burglary,” I replied.
He nodded. His reaction, or lack thereof, told me that this was an approved activity. So as far as he was concerned, it was no harm, no foul. Time to see what he did with the rest of the information.
I continued, “About three blocks from Susan’s house.”
Luis frowned, and his demeanor suddenly went white-hot. “What the—?” His nostrils flared as he turned an accusatory look on the two bangers next to me.
This time, one of them found the power of speech. “I din’ hear nuthin’ ’bout this, I swear.”
“Me neither,” said Manny.
“This doesn’t help your case any,” I pointed out.
Luis nodded, his fury palpable. “Looks like shit,” he agreed. “I din’t have nuthin’ to do with it.” He took in my skeptical expression. “You don’ believe me, I get it. But how’m I s’posed to prove it?”
I leaned back and looked at Luis for a moment. “I’ll tell you how. Hector dummied up and asked for a lawyer. You get him to talk to me. We’ll see where it goes from there.”
Luis turned sideways and stared out the passenger window as he cracked his knuckles. For the first time, I noticed he was probably over six feet and fairly buffed. The loud cracks coming from his hands told me he’d used them for more than just picking locks. Still staring out the window, his expression grim, he said, “You’re going to have to get me in to see him. He’s not gonna talk ’less he hears from me in person, an’ he can’t talk on the phone.”
I nodded. Jail calls were routinely taped and monitored… and used in trial, as more than one defendant had learned the hard way.
Luis nodded solemnly. “He’ll talk to you. Count on it.”
I felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for the baby gangster. And now I understood why he’d asked for a lawyer. If Luis was telling the truth and he’d pulled this job on his own in an unapproved territory, he was in big trouble. The best thing he could do was suck it up, do the time, and hope the powers that be—i.e., Luis Revelo—would cool off in the interim. But if he talked to the cops, he’d be branded a snitch, adding insult to injury. He’d lose gang backing for all time. That would mean he’d not
only have to worry about getting shanked by rival gangs in prison, but he’d be at risk from his own people as well. Talk about a death warrant.
“You won’t be alone with him, so don’t think you’re going to take care of some of your own business on my watch,” I warned. Though Luis didn’t seem the type who was dumb enough to shank Hector during a visit, I didn’t want to take any chances.
Luis looked at me and sighed. “Lady, please. I got enough troubles without that shit. You don’t think I know it?” He shook his head. “But how you gonna do it without getting my ass busted? I’m on probation. I’m not allowed to visit nobody in jail.”
I thought for a moment. “You got a decent suit?”
He looked insulted—as though I’d asked him if he knew how to fence a diamond bracelet. Luis tilted his head, looked down his nose, and said, “What you think we wear to funerals, lady?”
30
Manny’s sweat glands had gone nuclear after Luis found out about the baby gangster’s burglary, and the smell was gagging me, so I called shotgun for the ride back to the Biltmore. Luis was amused by a DA who called shotgun, so it was a win-win move. Just ten minutes later, he stopped across the street from the hotel and turned to Manny. “Give the lady back her piece.”
Manny passed me my purse, then handed over the gun in a smooth, practiced move that kept it below window level. “Nice gun,” he said as he eyed it covetously.
I slid Manny a warning look, snatched the gun out of his hand, and protectively slipped it back into my purse. Luis and I settled on our next time and place. I got out and patted the roof of the car, and Luis zoomed off.
I headed for the hotel, feeling like the ground was tilting under my feet. Angel, the doorman, smiled, then looked at me closely. “You okay, Rachel?”
“I’m good. Just a little tired,” I said, on autopilot. My body moved toward the bar before my brain could register where it was going. Muscle memory.
