Try Fear

by James Scott Bell

  “Does this mean you might have another suspect?”

  “Not at all. It means I’m following up on something that needs following up on. If any exculpatory evidence comes up, it’ll be filtered through Radavich.”

  “Some filter.”

  “What else can you tell me about Morgan Barstler?”

  “Not much,” I said. “But he did tell me Carl was involved for a while with an actor named Tim Larchmont. Who I talked to.”

  Zebker raised his eyebrow.

  “I’m investigating this thing, too,” I said.

  “Go on.”

  “I think you should follow up with Larchmont and this Sonny Moon guy. Find out where they all were before and after the killing.”

  “In other words, you want me to help get your client off, after I’ve testified against him.”

  “I want the truth, just like you do,” I said. “Can we agree on that?”

  “With that I’ll agree.”

  “Then what can you tell me about Barstler and how he bought it?”

  “Close-range gunshot to the face.”

  “You have a theory?”

  Zebker shrugged. “Working on it.”

  “You want me to work on it with you?”

  He smiled, shook his head. I knew he wouldn’t bite. I was, after all, rep-ping the guy Zebker thought did it. He wasn’t going to give me any more information.

  “Someday, Detective, I’m going to toss you a very important piece of evidence, and I hope you’ll remember how you treated me.”

  “I’ll remember,” he said.

  74

  IT WAS GETTING late and I was out this way, so I decided to drop in on Nick Molina. The printout B-2 had handed me gave an address in South Los Angeles, a section of the city not too far from downtown.

  His house was on a tree-lined street that would have been fashionable about a hundred and five years ago. Now the sidewalks were cracked and chain-link fences guarded spare lawns.

  Molina’s place was one without a fence. The house was a faded blue clapboard. A Ford pickup was in the driveway. I walked to the screen door and knocked.

  Movement inside the house, then someone peeped out the small square window in the door.

  I thought I saw one eye narrow in the glass.

  “Nick?” I said.

  The door whipped open, keeping a mesh of screen between us. “What are you doing here? How’d you…?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “You can’t just come here!”

  “Nick…”

  “You don’t got a right to call me Nick. What’d you do, follow me around? What gives you—”

  “I just want to talk. Ten minutes.” I looked over his shoulder and saw a clock on a wall next to a crucifix. Onion smell drifted out and TV light flashed.

  “I told you, I got nothing,” Molina said.

  “You mean you won’t tell me, right?”

  “So what? I don’t got to talk to you. They…” He shut his lips like a trap.

  “They what?” I said. “Who’s they?”

  “Listen, this is it. I’m sorry what happened to Carl.”

  “So you don’t think he killed himself.”

  “I didn’t say nothin’ about nothin’. Now don’t you come here no more.”

  He slammed the door.

  I waited a couple of seconds, then knocked again. “Nick, you’ve got a duty here. Anything you say to me is confidential, okay? I just want to know what happened. Nick? I know you know more. You can tell me—”

  The door swung open. What peeped out this time was a revolver in the hand of Nick Molina.

  “You’re trespassing,” he said.

  “So are you,” I said.

  He looked confused, then mad.

  I said, “You’re trespassing on the sacred ground of Jesus. You have him on your wall. You have Jesus on your wall and right here in front of him you’re refusing to help one of the least of these, a man in jail who should not be there. How can you do that?”

  “Shut up and get off my property. I’ll shoot you.”

  “What would Jesus say about that?”

  He slammed the door again. Maybe he’d talk it over with his Savior. And I hoped he’d get an answer, because I needed a witness.

  75

  WHICH IS WHY, the next day, I drove out to La Cañada Flintridge with Sister Mary. It’s a quiet little burg between the San Gabriel Mountain Range and the Angeles National Forest, about a Frisbee toss from Pasadena.

  The shooting range was in the foothills, up a mountain road. We drove up a winding drive and parked in front of the office. As we did, the radio was just starting “I Will” by the Beatles. Sister Mary surprised me by saying she wanted to hear it, it was her favorite song, and would I leave the keys?

  I got the distinct impression she wanted to listen to the song alone. Odd choice, I thought, for a nun. A song about romantic love. About loving someone forever, in fact. But I didn’t analyze the moment. I also didn’t want to listen, because the only woman that song applied to, for me, was dead. The only woman I had ever been prepared to say I will to. The song would be a hot stake in my gut. I didn’t know if I even had another I will in me.

  Or ever even wanted one, for all it gave you. I left the radio on for her and went into the office alone.

  Inside the wood-paneled mobile was a little store full of shooting accessories. Holsters, gun cases, ammo. And a desk for check-in. Behind the desk was a man with an ample paunch and a scarlet USC Trojans T-shirt.

  “Help you?” he said.

  “Name’s Buchanan. I’m a lawyer and—”

  “That’s all right, sir, we take all kinds here. No discrimination, that’s my motto.”

  “Good motto,” I said. “I’m not here to do any shooting. I’m here to ask a couple of questions.”

  USC Boy frowned. “If these are questions that have legal ramifications, then you should talk to our attorney.”

  “I just want to talk to somebody who was working here when my client came up and did some shooting with his brother. He could only remember that it was a woman, and she has tattoos on her right arm.”

  He paused, then shook his head. “Nobody here like that.”

  “You wouldn’t just be playing around now, would you? I look like I went to UCLA or something?”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, but I love all mankind.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, I belong to them, and they to me, and we can never be alien to each other, even if you like USC. So let me talk to the woman, huh?”

  “What woman?”

  “Friend, listen, it’s only facts I’m after. Crucial facts. They affect a man’s life.”

  “You know, I once talked to a lawyer and got my can shot off. In a manner of speaking. It was during my divorce. I tried to be honest and I got killed for it, so why don’t you just pack up and—”

  The door opened and Sister Mary walked in. I thought of this as just a distraction, but then the guy behind the counter said, “Welcome, Sister. This is a first.”

  “How do you do?” she said. “I’m Sister Mary Veritas of St. Monica’s.”

  “Cool!” He said. “I’ve been up there for a retreat with some men from our church.”

  Church?

  “Oh?” Sister Mary said. “Which one is that?”

  “St. Sebastian.”

  “Monsignor Murphy, is he still there?”

  “Yeah! You know him?”

  “We’ve met a couple of times.”

  “Well, I am so happy to have you here,” the guy said. “Are you here to do some shooting?”

  I looked back and forth between them.

  “Not today,” Sister Mary said, “though I’d really like to learn sometime.”

  “You’re very wise,” USC said. “The way hate crimes are these days. It would be my great pleasure to offer you lessons, gratis, anytime you like.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  I said, “Are w
e almost finished here?”

  USC flashed a look. “You, you can go now.”

  “He’s with me,” Sister Mary said.

  “He is?”

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” she said.

  “He says he’s a lawyer.”

  “Even harder to believe, huh?”

  Sister Mary and the guy shared a laugh. Then the nun said, “We’re defending a man accused of murder, and it’s very important to establish that he was here on a certain date, and our client said that a woman who works here with tattoos on her arm—”

  “Christa,” the guy said.

  I just stared at him.

  “Is she here?” Sister Mary said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Up on number two. I’ll give her a call.”

  76

  CHRISTA DID HAVE tats, a floral arrangement with a gun motif, and hair just like Eric said she had. She was wearing a red T-shirt over a compact figure, denim cut-offs, and mid-calf black lace-up boots. She looked like she expected trouble and was ready to give it back.

  She looked at Sister Mary. “What’d I do now?” she said with a forced smile. “Am I in trouble with God?”

  “No trouble,” I said. “My name’s Buchanan and this is Sister Mary Veritas, my associate.”

  Christa looked at USC. He shrugged.

  “It’s not an ordinary pairing,” I said, “but whoever thought Martin and Lewis would get together.”

  “Who?” Christa said.

  USC said, “You don’t know Martin and Lewis?”

  “No, should I?”

  “They don’t teach these kids history anymore,” USC said to me. To Christa he said, “They were big explorers back in the old days.”

  There was a pause in the room as education took a turn for the worse. I decided not to correct the record.

  I said, “I wonder if you could take a look at this photo and tell me if you recognize this guy.”

  I showed her the picture of Eric that Kate gave me.

  “He looks familiar,” Christa said.

  “He’s a big guy,” I said. “Six-five and wide. He would have been with his brother, same size.”

  “Oh yeah! I got it now. They were big all right. I remember thinking you’d need an elephant gun to take ’em down.”

  “Do you remember when this was?”

  She looked up, as if trying to remember. “I don’t know. Couple months ago, maybe.”

  “This would have been around the end of January. His name is Eric Richess, his brother’s name was Carl.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Bummer. How?”

  “Would you have a sign-in book or some sort of record?”

  Christa put a hand on her hip. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m representing Eric Richess. He’s on trial. And I need to confirm he and his brother were here.”

  “So wait a second. Your guy killed his own brother?”

  I shook my head. “He’s accused, that’s all, and I’m looking for the truth. And you can help me.”

  USC said, “Let’s check the records.”

  Christa shot him a nine-millimeter look.

  USC spread his arms in a What’s wrong? gesture.

  “Will I have to testify?” Christa said.

  “I’d like you to,” I said.

  “Cool! Will it be on TV?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Will there be one of those guys who draws the pictures?”

  “You never know.”

  “Close enough,” she said. “Okay, Andy, let’s check the records.”

  They did. The records were in a black binder, loose-leaf. She opened the January tab and I looked at the ledger of names with them. She found it. Carl Richess had signed in and paid for two on Friday, January 23, at eleven-twenty a.m.

  It was confirmed. I almost did a dance.

  I requested the page so I could make a copy, and promised to return it that same day.

  Christa looked skeptical, but USC said, “I think you can count on the Sister, Christa.”

  “Hey,” Christa said, “that sounds funny. Sister Christa. Think I’d make it as a nun?”

  USC smiled. “You’d last an hour.”

  She shot him another nine-millimeter look, then laughed.

  77

  “MAYBE I WOULD like to shoot,” Sister Mary said as we drove down from the hills.

  “I don’t know. A nun packing heat? You do enough with a ruler.”

  “I’m going to hurt you next time we play.”

  “Why should next time be any different?”

  There was a print shop just off the Angeles Crest Highway. We stopped to make a copy of the sign-in page, then drove the original back to the range.

  We left it with USC. Christa was out “kicking some butt,” he said. I did not ask.

  When we got back to St. Monica’s we went to the “war room,” which was a funny thing to call the little table in the library of St. Monica’s. But this was where we were going to do trial prep, and lay out strategy for the trial.

  I had a packet of discovery from Radavich that I spread out on the table. It included a witness list, police reports and lab reports, and a CD with digital photos of the scene taken by the SI team. Attached to one of the police reports was an itemization of the contents of Carl’s apartment. I slipped this over to Sister Mary and asked her to look through it.

  After an hour or so I said, “Your main job will be to watch the jury.”

  Sister Mary looked up from the papers in front of her. “Watch them do what?” she said.

  “Everything. From the moment the panel walks in, I want you looking at them. Do it casually. Don’t get caught. But notice what they’re reading, what their expressions convey. Get an overall impression.”

  “Shouldn’t you be watching them?”

  “They don’t like being studied by the lawyers. If they think a lawyer is sizing them up, they get suspicious. Even before the trial begins you’ve got a couple strikes against you. You blow your first impression, you can never get that back. You have to work harder just to get back to square one.”

  “So then how do you pick the jury?”

  “You don’t.”

  “What?”

  “You unpick a jury.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You have no control over the names that are called to sit in the box. That’s random. We can’t put people in, we can only get them out, using challenges. There are challenges for cause and peremptory challenges.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “If you can show some kind of bias, then you can challenge a juror for cause. If he’s made up his mind about the case already, or has some kind of prejudice where he can’t keep an open mind. That’s hard to show. There are other challenges for cause, but they’re rare. With peremptory challenges, you don’t usually have to give a reason.”

  “You can just kick off whoever you want?”

  “Almost. You can’t systematically exclude jurors based on race, gender, sexual preference, or religion. I couldn’t kick all the nuns off my jury, for example.”

  “And there are so many of them on juries these days.”

  “Then after we have a jury and start the trial, keep watching them. Watch how they react to the evidence. And especially when I’m cross-examining a witness, watch who they look at.”

  “What’s that do?”

  “It makes you the Crossometer.”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s what I call it,” I said. “It’s a gauge of what they’re thinking. Here’s how it works. If they’re looking at the witness, that means they’re really trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. If they’re looking at me, they’re wondering what I’m up to. If they’re looking at our client, that means they’re making up their minds he really did it.”

  “That works?”

  “It does. And it doesn’t cost a thing.”

  Sister M
ary held my eyes for a beat, then quickly looked down at the table. “Let’s talk about the inventory of Carl’s apartment.”

  “What about it? Something on there catch your eye?”

  “It’s what’s not on there. There’s no computer. Everybody has a computer now, don’t they?”

  I shrugged, then remembered something. “Morgan Barstler said he and Carl were in touch by e-mail. There’s no PDA or anything like that listed, is there?”

  Sister Mary looked at the report. “No.”

  “Good catch,” I said. “I’m really getting my money’s worth here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lawyers can spend tens of thousands of dollars on fancy jury consultants, but that’s just money down a hole. One sharp nun is all anybody needs.”

  She laughed. It was lilting and simple and pure. That transparency and ease made her face incredibly attractive just then. I knew that was not a good thing to be thinking. The emotion of working close in an intense situation—and there’s nothing more intense than a murder trial—had to be watched.

  Fortunately I could almost feel the eyes of Sister Hildegarde on me, ever watching, holding a rubber mallet.

  “Enough flattery,” I said. “Let’s get back to work.”

  We worked for another hour when I got a call from Sid, B-2’s computer whiz.

  78

  WE SNUCK HIM into the office. This was where Sister Mary handled a lot of the abbey business, being the nun computer expert. It’s also where Sister Hildegarde was liable to show up at any time, unannounced.

  But Sid installed the program and said it was triggered to send him an alert when it caught a whiff of our intruder.

  And then we’d see.

  It was all a holding pattern now. Like the way everything else in my life seemed frozen in time.

  I had to get some things moving.

  79

  THE NEXT DAY I drove over to the Ezzo Cement Company. It was on the back end of Brazil Street in Glendale, on the east side of the 5 Freeway, across from the Griffith Park Golf Courses.