by Marcia Clark
The moment I realized where I was headed, I began to imagine Drew’s warm, welcoming smile and the cool bite of a Ketel One martini flowing over my tongue and down my throat. Feeling as though I were walking through space, I crossed the last few feet to the bar and savored the solidity of the polished wooden door under my hand as I pushed through. The sounds of the lobby behind me shut off as though I’d stepped through an air lock. I enjoyed the hush for a moment, then turned and looked for Drew.
I saw with relief that he was there, talking intently to someone seated at the bar. The movement of the door caught his eye, and when he looked up, I was surprised to see the expression of shock, and then anger, cross his face. The object of his attention turned around. Bailey. Her drawn, tight-lipped face stopped me in my tracks.
In all the…“confusion,” as Clint Eastwood would put it, I’d forgotten that the whole debacle had happened because I’d broken my promise not to leave the office without her. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been off the radar, but I could see from her expression that it’d been long enough to put her through hell.
I wished I could’ve delayed this confrontation until I had my sense of gravity back, but unless I turned and ran, I had no choice but to get this over with now. I sat on the bar stool and held up my hand. “I’m sorry, I know I screwed up. Something weird happened. But let me have a martini before we get into it. Please.”
Either my appearance or my tone of voice let them know that it was serious, because Drew went to fix my drink while Bailey exhaled without saying anything and studied my profile. I sat facing forward, saying nothing. I’d just realized my hands were shaking and I didn’t trust my voice not to crack, so I sat silently. Drew brought me the martini, and it took all my attention to make my shaky hand lift the glass. I felt some of the drink slide over my fingers before I could get it to my mouth and take a long sip. Once I got it there, the cool drink worked its magic, and as it slid down my throat, I felt the warm, familiar buzz spread through my chest and crawl up the back of my head.
My ragged nerves now somewhat under control, I took a deep breath and told the whole story. When I finished, Bailey picked up her untouched Patrón Silver on the rocks and drained it in one gulp. Drew poured himself a shot of Glenlivet and did the same.
He reached out and took my hand in both of his. “Promise me you won’t be that big an idiot again,” he said, looking deeply into my eyes.
I nodded wordlessly, feeling myself starting to choke up.
“Jesus,” Bailey said as she looked at me, swallowed, looked away, and shook her head. Then she grabbed me by the shoulder in a grip so strong I winced. “I want to hear you say it,” she said as she stared into my eyes.
“I promise.”
She continued to hold my gaze for another moment, then released my shoulder and looked away, maybe picturing my near miss with an untimely demise. Or maybe thinking, after what I’d put her through, it wouldn’t have been so untimely.
Uncomfortable at being the focus of concern and desperate to put the experience behind me, I shifted gears. “The upside is that we can probably rule out the Sevens as our personal problem. And I think Luis can actually be useful to us.”
“Being useful to anyone would be a refreshing change for them,” Bailey replied dryly. She gave me a look that said she knew why I’d changed the subject and that she was also going to let me get away with it.
Grateful, I asked Drew to pour us another round.
He patted my hand and moved off to get our drinks.
I turned back to Bailey and laid out my plan for getting Luis into the jail to squeeze some information out of the baby gangster.
Bailey thought it over, then replied, “It’s worth a shot.”
“Of course, the downside of finding out that our problem isn’t the Sevens is that we have no idea who’s been coming after us,” I said.
I reached for the silver condiment tower and grabbed a handful of raw almonds. Suddenly my stomach had realized I wasn’t dead after all, and it woke up with a vengeance, grumbling thunderously.
“Not ‘us,’ Knight. You. And, actually, we might,” Bailey said as she grabbed some of the kalamata olives from the bowl on the lower tier of the tower. “We should order. I’m starving.”
“Wait. We might?” I asked.
But Bailey was signaling to the waiter. She ordered a filet mignon and steamed broccoli. I got a filet of my own and a spinach salad.
Drew put our drinks down in front of us. Then, a smile tugging at his mouth, he asked, “She really got you wearing a bulletproof?”
I turned to Bailey. “You had to tell him?”
She shrugged, and Drew chuckled softly as he moved off to the other end of the bar, where a waiter stood impatiently.
“You were about to say something about another suspect?”
Bailey nodded. “We were going to check out the security patrol in Susan’s hood, right? Well, I just got the records. One of the guys on duty that night missed three of his checkpoints.”
We’d noticed that the security patrol was the high-tech kind that required the guards to punch their codes into boxes at various points along the route throughout the neighborhood. The box recorded the date and time they checked in. The fact that a guard had missed three check-ins on that particular night was plenty suspicious.
“Did he go off the radar for the rest of the night?”
“Don’t know yet. But all three misses happened right around when Susan was raped,” Bailey replied.
“Hmph,” I said insightfully. “Sounds interesting. Is he still in pocket?”
“Far as I know.”
“We’ll be finding out for sure…?” I asked.
“Tomorrow. We’re going to drop in and pay him a casual visit.”
“Casual,” meaning unannounced.
The waiter approached with our food, and I watched with ravenous eyes as the steam rose tantalizingly from the plates in his hands.
“Rachel,” Bailey said with a serious expression.
I tore my gaze off the food with an effort and looked back at her.
“No more flying solo.”
“You don’t have to tell me again, Bailey,” I said with sincerity. “And I really am sorry.”
Bailey nodded. I meant it, and she knew it.
The mouthwatering smell of filet mignon dragged us both out of the heavy moment, and we tucked into our steaks without further comment. When I came up for air, I took another sip of my martini and was finally feeling relaxed enough to think about how differently I’d thought this night was going to end just an hour ago. This steak wouldn’t have tasted nearly as good if I’d been lying dead at the bottom of a ravine. I lifted my martini and drank to that.
31
The next morning, my aching ribs reminded me to plot a suitable revenge against Manny and his ham-handed buddy. I rolled out of bed gingerly and put on a robe. Then I called the office and told Melia I’d be out in the field on the Densmore case. I poured myself a cup of coffee and took it out onto the balcony to feel the day. The sky was gray and hazy, but the promise of sun and warmth was in the air. I inhaled and enjoyed the experience the way I never had before. There’s nothing like a brush with death to make you appreciate the simple act of breathing.
I pulled myself off that morbid thought and went back to the matter at hand: wardrobe. I was going to be in the county jail and out in a security-guard “shack” with Bailey, so I ruled out skirts and dresses and went with a tan light-wool pantsuit and cream-colored silk blouse. Being with Bailey meant I didn’t have to wear my vest, and just the thought of that made me feel lighter. I kicked the vest into the closet, packed my briefcase carefully with the rest of my outfit, and went downstairs.
Bailey was already idling in front of the hotel by the time I got there. I loaded myself into the passenger seat and we headed east toward the county jail on Bauchet Street. I attended to the final piece of my outfit as she drove.
“What do you think?” I asked her
when I finished.
She glanced at me, then turned back to the road. “I think you’re a weird-looking blonde,” she said, then smirked. “Which means you look like a typical defense attorney.”
My plan for meeting with the baby gangster and Luis Revelo required me to be disguised. Thus my artful blond wig and glasses. I didn’t have much business with the county jail, so I didn’t think people would see past the costume. But if anyone checked the records to find out who’d visited the little gangster—something I routinely did with all defendants—my name could not appear. Hector Amaya had “lawyered up.” No one in law enforcement could legally ask him anything at this point, so my being here was completely out of bounds. I couldn’t just hang back and send in Luis Revelo either. For one thing, he’d be acting as my proxy—just as bad as me going in myself; and for another, I didn’t know if I could trust Luis yet. Plus, trustworthy or not—and even if he could muscle Hector better than I—Luis wouldn’t know how to get what I needed out of the baby gangster. So Luis and I had to do this together. This significantly increased my legal jeopardy, because on top of the fact that I wasn’t allowed to question Hector, it wasn’t exactly kosher to bring in the shot-caller of the gang to strong-arm a junior banger. In fact, getting caught might well land me in the cell next to Hector’s. All in all, this was one hell of a perilous mission. So Bailey, who was more likely to be recognized, was going to wait safely outside during these proceedings.
The Los Angeles County Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street was less than five miles south of the office buildings of downtown Los Angeles, but the imposing monstrosity of a building—the largest jail in the world—enveloped everything within a one-mile radius in a profound desolation that blocked out all normal civilization. We bumped over long-abandoned railroad tracks in the middle of the street and went under a bridged highway. As we climbed out onto Vignes, the concrete behemoth came into full view. Surrounded by walls and razor wire, the jail epitomized all of the ugly dehumanization of incarceration, and a sense of hopelessness hung over it like a permanent cloud. Across the street, seedy but brightly painted and lit signs for bail bondsmen crowded next to one another, shouting out colorful names: THE ACE OF BAIL, BAD BOY BAIL, DISCREET BAIL BONDS.
We drove past the jail, and I found Luis Revelo sitting in his car, parked on the side street I’d specified, the engine idling loudly. He’d dressed up as I’d instructed, but he looked miserable. Considering how he’d set up our last meeting, this didn’t bother me.
I got out, briefcase in hand, and knocked on the passenger window. He looked startled at first, until I said, “It’s me, Luis. Let me in.”
A slow smile spread across his face as he hit the unlock button. I got into the passenger seat, closed the door, and started to unpack his props. Luis tilted his head back to look at me out of the corner of his eye and said, “You look good like that. Kinda hot.”
I stared at him, then handed over his legal pad, file, and glasses. “Your name is Enrique Vasquez, and you’ve been my paralegal for three years.”
“I’m just a paralegal? Whyn’t you make me a lawyer?”
I stared at him again, and he shrugged. “I’m jus’ sayin’. You already go to all the trouble, may as well.”
“Just pull off the paralegal thing, and don’t get fancy, okay?”
He shrugged again. I opened the car door, and we both got out and headed for the jail.
Luis looked back at his car, his expression worried.
“Something happens to my ride, you gonna take care of it? I don’ trust this hood,” he said, looking around suspiciously.
“Focus, Luis. Eye on the ball here,” I said as I marched ahead of him. Luis reluctantly picked up his pace, and we advanced toward the gates of Mordor. I turned back just before we got to the entrance and saw that he was slouching along, hands in pockets in typical banger fashion.
“Take your hands out of your pockets, stand up straight, and try to act like you actually work for a living.”
Looking offended, Luis slowly complied, retorting, “I do work. I work all kinds of jobs.”
“Any of them semilegal?”
He gave me a wounded look, then shrugged again. “Pretty soon, all of ’em be legal. Why you think I was studying with Susan? Not gonna be doin’—doing,” he corrected himself, “this banger shit forever. ’S no kind of life, you know?”
I thought this was a pretty ironic conversation to be having on the steps of the county jail just before we lied our way into the attorney’s visiting room—so we could muscle a defendant who’d invoked his Fifth Amendment rights.
As I led the way to the lawyers’ window, the sounds of metal clanging and voices echoing off the hard floors and ceilings mingled with the smell of sweat, disinfectant, and stale air. I always tried to brace myself for the sensory overload of jail visits, but it was futile. Like a morgue, everything about the place assaulted eyes, ears, and nose… and stayed there for hours afterward. I reflexively drew shorter breaths to keep the tendrils of foul mists out of my system.
I stopped at the counter that held visiting forms and filled one out, then went over to the cage, where a heavyset, bored-looking female sheriff’s deputy sat behind bulletproof glass. I pushed down the trickle of nerves that fluttered up my back and covered with an elaborate show of arrogant impatience.
I spoke into the round metal grate: “Beatrice Danziger to see Hector Amaya. This is my paralegal, Enrique Vasquez. I’ll need an attorney room.” I’d been tight with the real Bea in law school. But she’d gone into family law and I joined the DA’s office, so we didn’t have much chance to see each other anymore. Still, we’d remained good friends. When I told her last night that I needed to borrow her ID for the day, she’d been amused and willing to help. Since she’d never practiced criminal law, there was no chance anyone here would recognize her ID, and with the blond wig, I could pass for her well enough. Lucky for Luis, his cousin Enrique was dually blessed with an uncanny resemblance to Luis and a remarkably clean record. Heart pounding with awareness of just how illegal this all was, I tried to cover by tossing Bea’s State Bar card and driver’s license into the metal chute with a cavalier flip of the wrist. Like I was annoyed at having to go through the empty formality.
The guard pulled the tray toward her, picked up the cards, and frowned as she looked down at my ID. I looked around as though I were bored to death while my imagination danced with pictures of myself being pushed against the wall and handcuffed. It’s not easy looking bored with thoughts like these, and I could feel heat rising off my scalp from the effort. She looked up at me, then down at the driver’s license, and I thought she could actually hear my heart beating.
“His ID?” she said as she slid mine back out in the chute and nodded at Luis.
I took a moment to let the blood find its way back to my brain, then nodded and gestured for Luis to put his license into the chute. Luis complied, and for some reason she didn’t frown this time. She briefly looked at the license, dropped it into the chute, and shoved it back out to him. Feeling a little miffed at how much less scrutiny he got, I missed the fact that she had said something to me.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ll have to wait. Attorney rooms are all busy right now.”
I nodded and sent my briefcase and Luis’s legal pad and file through the metal detector, then stepped to the door. When the deputies on the other side had finished having their way with my briefcase and gave the “okay” sign, she buzzed us through. The jail was huge but poorly equipped for private visits. I’d anticipated the wait because I knew there were only five attorney rooms. We stood against the wall and watched the row of visitors talk through the glass that separated them from the row of inmates. It was largely mundane stuff—whether they’d sent food/clothes/books/pictures, how the mom/girlfriend/wife/kids were doing, and the usual litany of complaints about their lawyers, who never saw them and just wanted them to cop a plea.
I tuned them out and thought about all
the effort Bailey and I’d gone to for this meeting. The jeopardy wasn’t just mine either. If it got out that Hector had a visit from a DA, he’d be dead within twenty-four hours. When it came to snitches, bangers had a policy of shanking first and asking questions later. I was going to be good and pissed if, after all this, the kid had nothing of interest to say. I vowed to beat it out of him with my bare hands if I had to.
A deep male voice boomed out and broke into my Dirty Harry reverie. “Attorney for Hector Amaya?”
I gestured for Luis to join me, and we moved toward the beefy sheriff’s deputy who was standing next to the row of attorney rooms.
“He’ll be in room five,” the deputy said as he motioned us to the last room in the row and held open the door on our side.
“Thanks,” I said as I entered and pulled out a chair.
“Take one more look at that briefcase, ma’am.”
It was interesting to see how the other half lived. He’d never have done that if I’d come here as a DA. I turned over my briefcase and he rifled through it for a while, then gave it back to me.
“How long you going to be?”
“About ten minutes, but it could be longer.”
“You’ve got an hour,” he said, then left and closed the door behind him.
I looked around at the glass walls that enclosed our little Cone of Silence. They were smudged and dirty with grime that had probably accumulated for the past ten years, and the air was even staler in this little enclosed cubicle. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but spending enough time in this filthy bubble could convince me otherwise. I spread out my file and legal pad on the badly banged-up metal table that was bolted to the floor and patted the chair next to me. “Take a load off, Luis.” Luis was standing, looking out at the waiting visitors, his expression fierce.
“Luis. Get a grip. You’re a paralegal, here to help with an interview. You’re not here to trip down memory lane.”
Luis slowly lowered his gaze and sat down, muttering to himself.
