Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  Evelyn nodded. “You check that DA’s cell phone. I’m betting you’ll see there’s a call from Kit sometime that day setting the pickup spot.”

  I struggled to hide my emotions. My relief was mixed with profound sorrow. Jake would be cleared, but it was gut-wrenching to think that his act of kindness had led to his murder. And Evelyn’s story didn’t fully explain the nature of Jake’s involvement with Kit. Much as I hated the thought, I resigned myself to the possibility that I might never find out. With an effort, I put aside my feelings and pressed on.

  “But if Stayner didn’t know Jake was coming, then how did our man just happen to have a photo of Kit to plant on Jake?” I asked, my tone deliberately skeptical.

  “I told Carl to have Kit bring it with him. I wanted to have a look at it to see what tipped Kit off to the fact that we’d taken it at the clinic. If Kit could figure it out, so could someone else. I didn’t want any more blackmailers out there.”

  Other than you, I thought. Not surprisingly, the irony was lost on Evelyn. But I had what I needed. Now it was time for the endgame.

  “I’ll buy that,” I said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t prove Stayner killed them. Where were you that evening?”

  Evelyn made a show of thinking about the answer. “I believe I was at work. Matter of fact, I was at the Hollywood clinic.”

  “Till what time?” I asked.

  “I was the last to leave that night, and I seem to remember locking up around seven thirty,” she replied.

  It was a decent alibi. The murders were committed at 5:30. And it was a smart answer, because nobody punched time clocks at that clinic. So if Evelyn was alone, there was no one who could contradict her story. There was just one problem.

  “Stayner’s cell phone records put him in Santa Monica. Sixteen miles from the motel.” I paused to watch Evelyn’s reaction. She obligingly gave me one.

  “Doesn’t mean the phone was on him. He could’ve loaned it to somebody,” she said.

  “But he didn’t,” I replied. “We’ve got an intersection photo that shows him driving north on California Ave. At five thirty p.m. There is no way he could’ve been there if he’d just killed Kit and Jake. At that time of day, it would’ve taken him over an hour to get from downtown to Santa Monica.”

  Evelyn blanched so suddenly I thought she would faint. She stared at the table with sightless eyes as the shock of what I’d said sank in.

  “And there is also no way you’d know this much about the murders if you hadn’t done them yourself,” I concluded.

  Bailey wrapped it up. “Evelyn Durrell, you’re under arrest for the murders of Jake Pahlmeyer and Kit Chalmers.”

  And on that note, Bailey and I walked out.

  EPILOGUE

  I filed two counts of murder against Evelyn. We were still totting up the child-pornography charges. If the jury did the right thing, she’d get life without parole. As for Densmore, Bailey and I agreed there was no way he’d known anything about Jake’s and Kit’s murders or their possible link to his clinic. Much as he loved his daughter, he wouldn’t have pushed her case that hard if he’d known it would lead to proof that his clinic was being used to produce child pornography. As for Stayner’s murder, Densmore likely figured he’d never get caught—and he very nearly didn’t.

  I filed a few counts of child pornography and one count of first-degree murder with special circumstances against him, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the jury dumped the pornography counts and convicted him only of second-degree murder, or even manslaughter. Juries don’t mind vigilante parents, even when they’re egotistical control freaks. But even if the jury did cut him a break, Densmore would get to live with the knowledge that his “associations” were responsible for his daughter’s rape.

  The memory of Densmore’s arraignment was a painful one. The court had been crowded that morning, and the press had predictably shown up. I wanted to get it over with and get out of the limelight as soon as possible, but by the time the judge finally called my case, the reporters outnumbered the lawyers. I read the charges, and Densmore’s lawyer, a slick New York–looking guy I didn’t recognize, entered his not-guilty plea. We set a date for the preliminary hearing. The whole thing was over in minutes. I took my time packing up so I wouldn’t have to face the reporters. When I thought it was safe, I picked up my file and turned to go. There, in the audience, were Janet and Susan. They were talking—or rather listening—to Densmore’s lawyer.

  I’d walked down the aisle toward them, unsure of what to say. My heart ached for the pain they’d suffered and would continue to endure. When I drew near, they looked up and saw me. I stopped.

  “Susan, Janet. I’m so sorry,” I said.

  I wanted to tell them I’d never thought things would turn out this way, that I’d have changed it all if I could, that I’d had no choice but to do my job. But I could see there was no point. Susan had leaned away and deliberately looked down. Janet gave me a cool glare, then turned back to the lawyer. I left the courtroom.

  All Susan could see was that I’d destroyed her father. And she probably couldn’t stop thinking that it had all happened because she told her mother and father that she’d been raped. So she was blaming me, herself—everyone but Densmore. Maybe someday she’d be strong enough to blame the right person.

  But one good and unexpected thing had come out of the arraignment. The next day, after it had aired on all the news channels, Olive Horner, Kit’s foster mother, called.

  “Got somethin’ you’re gonna want to hear,” she’d begun.

  “Do you want me to come out and see you?” I offered, curious.

  “Nah,” she replied.

  I heard the muted sounds of a television in the background but no baby cries. I guessed the little one had been adopted after all.

  Olive continued. “I got this fifteen-year-old, Adam, just came to me recently. One day he sees the picture of Kit I keep in my wallet. Says he knew Kit. Did time with him in the hall.” Olive paused, and I heard a muffled voice that sounded like Janzy’s come from somewhere in the room. Olive said, “Just a minute, okay?”

  The phone banged as it landed on a hard surface, and I waited, somewhat impatiently. Where was this going?

  A few minutes later, Olive returned. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. So Adam knew Kit,” I prompted.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Then, yesterday, me and Adam were watching you in court and the news showed Jake’s picture.”

  Jake. I sat down, the phone pressed tightly against my ear, and braced myself.

  Olive continued as I rubbed my suddenly painfully throbbing temples. “Adam knew Jake. Said a bunch of the kids in the hall knew him. Jake would talk to ’em about how school was important, ’bout stayin’ out of trouble, respectin’ themselves. He’d bring ’em clothes, books. Even got some of ’em tutors so they could get their GED.”

  “So Jake was—,” I began, my voice shaky.

  “A kinda guardian angel, from what I hear,” Olive said. “Knew he was your friend. Figured you’d like to hear that.”

  “Olive, I can’t tell you what this means to me,” I said, trying to rein in my emotions.

  I literally couldn’t tell her. Olive didn’t really know of the suspicions that had been raised about Jake and Kit.

  Relief mixed with painful remorse for ever having doubted Jake moved me to tears, and I let them roll down my cheeks unchecked. With an effort, I steadied my voice enough to ask, “Do you think Adam would mind talking to someone else about Jake?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Olive replied.

  I immediately placed a call to Jennifer, who’d broken down completely when I told her the story. When she recovered, I suggested that she might like to hear the tale in person, and she’d readily agreed. I arranged for her to meet Adam for lunch—my treat.

  Now, weeks later, I was finally feeling like I’d recovered from my bout with Evelyn. And the obvious bumps and bruises had receded enough to let me put away th
e heavy concealer.

  Graden had suggested that since I’d managed to close my case and his, maybe I could let him buy me dinner. I decided I could. Then we thought we’d make it a party. So tonight all of us were gathering at the Rooftop Bar above the Standard Hotel for a big celebration dinner.

  Graden was going to pick up Toni, Bailey, and me at the Biltmore at 7:30. J.D. and Drew would meet us at the bar. It was only 6:30, so I had time to kill. I called Toni and Bailey and asked if they felt like coming by early to have a drink before Graden got there. They both said yes before I finished the sentence.

  By quarter to seven, Bailey called me from the downstairs bar.

  Bailey, Toni, and my martini were ready and waiting when I arrived.

  “I figure you’ve earned that, after that textbook takedown of Evelyn Durrell,” Bailey said with a smirk.

  I sipped my martini and tried to ignore her.

  “What do you call that move anyway?” she teased.

  Toni laughed hard. Too hard. “What were you trying to do? Make her surrender out of pity?” she asked.

  I shot her a look, then turned to Bailey.

  “You’re already going to be feasting on this for months. If I answer that question, I’ll only be feeding the beast. No, gracias.”

  “It was a flying tackle, wasn’t it?” Bailey grinned.

  I sipped my martini and ignored her.

  “At least you didn’t nail a parking meter,” she said.

  I ignored her some more.

  Instead I turned to Toni, resplendent in her long sparkling scarf and an armful of glittering bracelets.

  “Putting it on for His Honor,” I said. “Go, Toni.”

  “I couldn’t stand it anymore,” she said. “I just had to break out and enjoy myself tonight after wearing all those dull, disgusting suits for the past several weeks.”

  Nothing Toni wore was ever dull or disgusting, but it was pointless to argue.

  “I meant to tell you,” Bailey said to me. “I’ve got a bodywork guy who said he could give you a deal on your car. I promised to send him some pictures so we could get an estimate. What time is it?”

  I looked at my cell phone. “Seven o’clock. We’ve got time if you want to do it now.”

  “Yeah, let’s go confront the carnage.”

  “Let me just suck this up real fast. I think I’m going to need the anesthesia before I see that mess again.” I took a long sip of my drink.

  “Okay if I meet you all out front?” Toni asked, gesturing to her four-inch-heeled strappy sandals. “I don’t really need to do any more walking than necessary in these.”

  “Meet us in five, Scarlett,” Bailey said.

  We took the elevator down to the parking lot. But when I got to my space, it was empty. I turned, disoriented, and looked around the cavernous lot.

  “What the hell?” I said, perplexed.

  “When was the last time you checked on your car?”

  “Not since it happened,” I admitted. “Maybe I’ve got the wrong spot,” I suggested.

  But after we’d combed the entire floor, I admitted defeat.

  Demoralized, frustrated, and furious, I stomped out of the garage.

  “Your insurance will cover it, Knight,” Bailey said. “Besides, it looked like hell.”

  “But I had stuff in it. CDs, pictures. Damn it!” I said. “Where the hell is Rafi?”

  I continued stomping all the way up the ramp, Bailey beside me. When we got to the valet stand, Toni joined us. “You won’t friggin’ believe this,” I told her. “Someone jacked my car!” Toni was about to reply when we got distracted by the thumping bass of a loud stereo coming from somewhere up the street.

  A midnight-blue car, blasting rap music, was slowly bumping and bouncing its way down Grand Avenue toward the hotel driveway. A hand came out of the passenger window and waved, followed by the grinning face of Luis Revelo. The car came to a stop in front of me.

  “Hola, Ms. Prosecutor,” Luis said.

  “Luis? What’re you doing here?” I was still pissed off but also surprised and pleased to see him.

  “What’s it look like I’m doin’, man? I’m returnin’ your ride.”

  I frowned, then looked at the car again. My car! Only—not.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m mos’ definitely not kiddin’ you.” Luis got out of the car and motioned for the driver to step out. “Get in, man. You got everythin’ in here. Not like before. I hooked you up with sound—”

  “I heard.” I laughed.

  Bailey and Toni were smiling. “Go on, get in.”

  “You guys knew,” I said.

  They nodded. “From what Luis told me, you’re gonna love it,” Bailey said.

  Luis held the door as I walked around to the driver’s side, then closed it gallantly. I started to thank him, but he’d already sprinted across the street. He had business to attend to. The less I knew about that, the better.

  I gestured for Toni and Bailey to get in and handed my cell phone to Bailey. “Call Graden,” I said. “Tell him I’m driving tonight.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would never have happened without the advice, support, and fortitude of Cathy LePard—a brilliant writer, a beautiful person, and my personal savior. My love, gratitude, and appreciation are boundless. You are a god/goddess-send.

  Hard work takes you only so far; at some point you also need a little luck. I had the enormous fortune to find the best agent in the world: Dan Conaway, whose genius took the book to the next level, and whose charm, wit, and warmth made the process not only educational but a lot of damn fun. And here’s to Stephen Barr, the marvelous, indefatigable assistant who was always a joy. What a team! I couldn’t love you more.

  To executive editor par excellence Judy Clain and publisher Michael Pietsch: my boundless and eternal thanks from the bottom of my heart for believing in this book—I’m so honored and thrilled to be with you, it almost leaves me speechless. And as if that weren’t enough, working with you has been an unmitigated pleasure. You are the gold standard, truly. Special thanks to fantastic, hardworking editorial assistant Nathan Rostron, who kept the wheels turning smoothly. And kudos to senior copyeditor Karen Landry—what a great job! Thank you!

  And my thanks to Marillyn Holmes, whose sharp eyes miss nothing.

  My profound thanks to all of the wonderful folks at Mulholland Books—your smarts, creativity, and sheer resourcefulness are a wonder. I have had so much fun working with you! What a great and rare gift you are!

  I want to specially thank my dear friend Lynn Reed Baragona for making the connections that set it all in motion—somehow, Lynn, you’re always there at the critical moment. The magic of friendship never ceases to amaze me. You’re simply terrific.

  My great thanks also go out to Katharine Weber. Your advice, help, and insight were key to getting this book out into the world, and I’ve so enjoyed our time together. Thank you!

  To Hynndie Wali, dear friend, who listened generously, suggested wisely, and in general put up with my ruminations beyond the call of duty. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I can promise that the drinks are on me! Thank you, girlfriend, for always being there in so many ways.

  Contents

  Front Cover Image

  Welcome

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24
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  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Marcia Clark is a former Los Angeles deputy district attorney who was the lead prosecutor on the O. J. Simpson murder case. She cowrote a bestselling nonfiction book about the trial, Without a Doubt, and is a frequent media commentator and columnist on legal issues. She lives in Los Angeles.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Marcia Clark

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Mulholland Books / Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

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  First eBook Edition: April 2011

  Mulholland Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Mulholland Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.