The Competition

by Marcia Clark

  “Get some rest, Knight. It’s only going to get crazier.”

  “We don’t have any interviews scheduled for tomorrow, do we?” Bailey shook her head. “Then I’ll have to check in at the office.” I got out of the car and patted the roof. “But call me if anything’s shaking.”

  Bailey nodded and drove off. Angel pulled open the door for me. “Long day, Ms. Knight? You look tired.”

  “Very, very long day, Angel.”

  He wished me good night. I wished I could’ve had one. I fell asleep like someone knocked me on the head with a club, but nightmares with children crying and a stalker with a high-pitched laugh kept me thrashing most of the night.

  When my hotel phone rang, I groped for the clock, sure it was three a.m. It was seven thirty. And only two people ever called me on that phone. I knew who it wasn’t: Graden wouldn’t dare call me at that indecent hour.

  I picked up the phone. “What is it, Keller?”

  “Morning, Ms. Daisy.”

  “I know you think that’s funny—”

  “Want to talk to a witness?”

  I sat up. “Who?”

  “Just get down here.”

  The Police Administration Building is walking distance from the Biltmore, and the streets between them are filled with churro stands. I love churros so much it’s embarrassing. Just the smell of the hot cinnamon makes my mouth water. I picked up four and ate one on the way, congratulating myself on my restraint.

  Bailey was on the phone. I put two down in front of her, and she smiled her thanks. I got my coffee and sat down at an empty desk to savor my remaining churro, careful not to get the sugar and cinnamon all over me. But when Bailey ended her call, she reached out and dusted off my chin. Oh, well.

  “We’ve got a kid coming in who says—” Bailey stopped as a woman in a long gray wool coat led a tall, rumpled-looking young guy toward us. Bailey stood up. “Mrs. Ester?”

  “Hello, Detective,” she said. “I thought it’d be easier for you if I brought Jeremy in instead of having you out to the house.”

  “That was very kind of you,” Bailey said. She introduced me and we all shook hands.

  “Please call me Amy.”

  “Amy, why don’t you and Jeremy follow me,” Bailey said. Every pair of eyes in the bull pen watched as we headed to the interview room.

  We might not ordinarily do a witness interview in private, but we were keeping everything about this case as much under lock and key as possible. The chief had tried to appease the press by giving updates, but he couldn’t say much without compromising the investigation, so the updates basically consisted of “we’re following up on leads.” The press wasn’t fooled. They hounded him and complained—in person and in print—about the lack of progress. So the mood at the station was tense.

  Jeremy was an earnest-looking kid. Tall, with tight blonde curls—like his mom—and well-spoken. My guess that he was a basketball player panned out: he was a power forward on the Fairmont varsity team. In his spare time he worked as a bagger at the local grocery store. He hadn’t been in the gym at the time of the shooting. But he had seen something he thought might be important. He started by apologizing.

  “I know I should’ve told you guys about this right away, but I was freaked out.”

  His mother pursed her lips. “He didn’t even tell me until this morning, or I would’ve dragged him in right when it happened. Gave me some cockamamy story at first about a drunk driver.”

  Jeremy hung his head like a puppy who’d peed on the carpet.

  “So this happened when?” I asked.

  “Monday,” he said.

  It was Thursday. Had it only been three days since the shooting? It was hard to believe. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters. Tell us what happened.”

  He spoke in a rapid, shaky voice. “I was late to school. My car battery died, and mom had already left for work so I had to wait for AAA to come and give me a jump.”

  “About what time did you get on the road?” Bailey asked.

  “AAA didn’t get to me until after eleven. So, maybe eleven thirty? And I was just a couple of blocks away from school when this car comes around the corner. Heads straight for me, just like, flying. I thought I was dead. I yanked the wheel to the right just in time. He sideswiped me pretty bad. But he just kept on going, seemed like ninety miles an hour.” Jeremy rubbed his palms on his thighs as he relived the moment.

  “Can you describe the car?” Bailey asked.

  “A white Corolla. Looked kind of new. Or…maybe just in good shape.”

  Not so much anymore.

  “Where’s your car now?” Bailey asked.

  “Here. I thought you’d want to see it.”

  Smart boy.

  “By any chance were you able to see who was driving the car?” I asked.

  Jeremy pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No. I think they were wearing black ski masks, the kind that go over your whole head.”

  “They?” I asked. “There was someone in the passenger seat?”

  “Yeah. That I’m sure about. There was definitely someone in the passenger seat.”

  “Did you happen to see the license plate?” Bailey asked.

  “I only remember the first part. I wrote it down. It was 4JHQ.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that’s all I could get.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “You did great.”

  Jeremy had gotten only half the numbers, but it was enough. That was Logan’s car.

  33

  Bailey got a crime scene tech to come out and take photos and scrapings from the paint transfers on Jeremy’s car. Once we found Logan’s car, we’d be able to confirm that it matched. “There’s no way Logan can hide that kind of body damage,” she said, after Jeremy and his mom had left.

  “At least it’ll give the chief something to tell the press. I just don’t get why no one’s spotted it by now.” They’d put out the alert on Logan’s car the moment we had confirmation that he was one of the shooters, but so far, it hadn’t turned up. Maybe the description of the body damage would do the trick.

  “Me either,” Bailey said. “Even if they’ve ditched it, I would’ve expected someone to spot it by now.”

  “Or spot him.”

  Bailey shook her head. Logan’s photo and all identifying information had gone national, and every source—cell phone, bank account, gas card, you name it—was being tracked. Nothing.

  “But thanks to Jeremy, we know one thing for sure,” Bailey said. “We’ve got two shooters out there.”

  “Right. So now there are two killers we can’t find. And one of them isn’t even ID’d yet. Terrific.” I shook my head. “How’re we doing on Shane? Do we have his military records yet?”

  “Yep. And they show he’s been to the VA clinic in Westwood, so we got their records. But they’re not fully computerized, so we’ve got a ream of paper to go through, and none of it’s organized. I’ve got unis working on it.” Bailey looked at her watch. “We should head out to Camarillo.” The tree service where Shane worked was next up on our agenda. “I sent a couple of detectives to check the place out. They’re sitting on it for us, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I want to get out there and talk to the boss man, see if he can give us anything.”

  “Okay, but first I’ve got to check in at the office.”

  “Want me to pick you up? We really have to move.”

  “No, but I’ll be back here in less than an hour. I promise.”

  I pulled on my coat and scarf and headed to the courthouse at a fast trot. I passed by Toni’s office on the way to mine, but the door was closed. She was probably in court. I unlocked my door and dropped my purse on the chair in front of my desk. Home sweet home. Everything was as I’d left it on Tuesday morning—except for the thin layer of dust A file I’d been reviewing on Monday still lay open on my side table. Even the air felt the same. I took off my coat and scarf and draped them over my chair—a majestic judge’s chair that I’d found abandoned
in the hallway one night. I sat down and exhaled. It was a tiny office, but it was my sanctuary. And it boasted an awesome view of Los Angeles, something I would never take for granted.

  But I didn’t have time to sit and enjoy the solitude, so I picked up my office phone to check for messages. There were eighty-seven. Eighty of them were from the media. You’d think they’d have gotten the hint that I wasn’t talking by now. The rest were routine business. “Hi, Rachel, it’s Zack—Zack Meyer on the Valenzuela case. Just a heads-up: I’m going to ask for a continuance. Hope that’s okay with you.” Beep. I made a note and deleted the message. It wouldn’t matter if it was okay with me. It was Zack’s first request for more time, and the judges loved him. The other four were all variations on the same theme. It surprised me how little I’d missed. I’d expected to be bombarded. I kept forgetting it had only been three days. It felt like three months.

  My in-box only had a couple of new motions. One was a routine discovery motion, the other was a motion to let a defendant use the jail law library—where he’d learn just enough to drive his lawyer crazy. I’d be glad to go along with that one. I filed them and made a note of the dates on my calendar, then headed back to the station. Bailey was at her desk, doing paperwork, her least favorite thing in the world. She looked surprised when she saw me. “That was fast.”

  “Told ya. So, Camarillo?”

  Bailey stood up. “Yep.” We were about to step into the elevator when Graden called out to us. “Hang on, guys. Can you give me a minute?” We went back to his office. He closed the door and perched on the edge of his desk. “We got a hit on the Army-Navy surplus store in Van Nuys. The cashier remembers selling two camouflage jackets in about the right sizes to a couple of guys—”

  “Do they have surveillance footage?” Bailey asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. It’s a small operation. And we got a description from the cashier, but it’s pretty vague.” He picked up a report and read. “One tall guy with longish hair, one shorter guy, no further description. The shorter guy paid for both coats in cash.”

  “We’ll get out there and talk to him,” Bailey said.

  “Do it fast. The tabloids are everywhere now that we’re giving press conferences.”

  “Good,” I said. “Maybe they can figure out who the second shooter is while they’re at it.”

  “Just give them a minute, they will,” he said.

  “You mean they’ll dig up some crank who says it’s all an FBI conspiracy,” Bailey said.

  Graden nodded. “Yeah, the tabs will have it all figured out for us. That’s why we’re going to start putting a little more substance in the press releases. Better to get out in front of it and at least try to give the public the truth. So lock down all the statements you can—before your witnesses get contaminated by tabloid bullshit.”

  Because the more a defense lawyer can show that witnesses could have been influenced by what they saw on TV or read somewhere, the less a jury will trust their testimony.

  Graden handed Bailey the report, and we headed for the door. “Oh, and one more thing,” Graden said. “If you two get finished in time for dinner, let me know. It’s on me.”

  “Depends,” I said. “Where?”

  “So this is where we’re at now? Bribery? What happened to the joy of good company?”

  “Who says they’re mutually exclusive?” I asked.

  “I had to fall for a lawyer.” Graden shook his head. “Fine. Pacific Dining Car.”

  Bailey nodded. “Sounds good.”

  “You’re on.”

  34

  We hit the Army-Navy surplus store first. The cashier—Eddie Hemmings—was a short, skinny guy with sharp features. We’d hoped to dredge up at least a little more information than we already had, but no dice. Before we left, I warned him about the media. “I can’t stop you from talking to the press, but I can say that if you do, you’ll damage your credibility as a witness. And believe me, whatever they promise to do for you, they’ll forget it about ten seconds after they get your statement.”

  I could see him weighing his options even as I spoke. But when I finished, he nodded amiably. “Got ya. No problem. I’ll keep it on the down-low.”

  We hurried out to the car, and Bailey headed for the 101 north. “A fin says he talks to the press by noon tomorrow,” Bailey said.

  “So little faith in your fellow man.” I shook my head. “A twenty says he’s on camera before we make it to Camarillo.”

  Bailey groaned. “Never mind. I fold.”

  We rolled onto the lot of Camarillo Tree Cutters just before noon. I’d heard the loud metallic growl of a chain saw as soon as we pulled onto the street, and the smell of cut lumber filled the air. It was a huge lot that had piles of cut wood at the front and hundreds of felled trees waiting to be cut behind them. The workers I could see all seemed to be Hispanic. I pointed to a small hut on the right that had a sign over the door, OFFICE. Bailey parked in front of it.

  We knocked but got no answer. Bailey tried the door and found it was open, so we walked in. Calling it an office was a stretch. It was a small room with a window that afforded a view of the lot. A couple of folding chairs were in front of a table piled high with invoices. An old Mac desktop computer sat on a short metal filing cabinet to the left of the table, a green cursor blinking on a black screen. Everything was covered in a thick layer of sawdust. The air was so filled with the stuff, I coughed when we stepped inside. A toilet flushed, and a door on the right side of the room opened. And out stepped Paul Bunyan.

  Okay, not exactly, but close. He was well over six feet, and though he had a bit of a paunch, his arms and chest were solid muscle. And huge. When he saw us, he tugged down his T-shirt with one hand and pushed his wavy—though thinning—brown hair back with the other. “Uh, what can I help you ladies with?”

  Ladies. Again. But this time I didn’t mind. I was distracted by the feeling that we’d stepped into an Americana fairy tale. I pulled out my badge and did the introductions. “And you’re the owner here?”

  “Yeah. Isaiah Hamilton.”

  “You have an employee named Shane Dolan?” I asked.

  He half snorted. “I did. But he hasn’t shown up for the past four days.” Isaiah sat down and motioned for us to do the same. I took a swipe at the sawdust on one of the two metal folding chairs in front of his desk and tried not to think about what was going to be stuck to my pants.

  “When was the last time he came to work?” I asked.

  “Friday.”

  “And was he supposed to be here on Monday?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Didn’t even bother to call.” Isaiah shook his head. “Hate to lose him though. He in some kind of trouble?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Was he a good worker?” It’d be a surprise if he were, given what we’d heard about him.

  Isaiah shrugged. “Not the most energetic guy. But he spoke English, so I could use him to fill in for me on the phone. Take orders and such. The rest of my crew”—he jerked a thumb toward the workers outside—“are good guys, but they’re strictly Spanish-speaking.”

  “Did Shane ever have any visitors here?” I asked.

  Isaiah rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you could call her that. A girl used to come around a lot, but I haven’t seen her lately.”

  “Was that girl the only one?” Isaiah nodded. “Did you get her name?” I asked.

  Isaiah looked down at the cluttered desk and drummed his fingers on it. I couldn’t imagine how staring at that mess could help him remember anything except that a cleaning was overdue. Finally, he squinted at me. “Nancy. Nancy Findley. She called here about a hundred times.”

  Isaiah’s disapproving expression made me smile. “So she was a fan of Shane’s,” I said.

  “More like a stalker. Though why she was so hooked on him I have no idea. You ask me, the guy was a real case of arrested development.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “Had a hard time doing
what he was told. Didn’t matter what I asked him to do—even just to get here on time—he’d give me major-league attitude.”

  “Then you’d say he had issues with authority?”

  “Big time. But I kept him around because, well, you know…” He gestured to the office.

  But he hadn’t had those issues with Lock, the gun range owner. I suspected tree cutting didn’t have the same allure as the gun range. Go figure.

  “Did he ever talk to you about guns?” Bailey asked.

  Isaiah gave a short bark of a laugh. “Ho, yeah. Nonstop. Kept wanting to take me out to the range where he worked. And he was always trying to sell me one.”

  Sell? I leaned forward. “What kind of guns was he trying to sell?”

  “Handguns mostly. Thirty-eights, forty-fours. He did mention a rifle once, I think.”

  “What kind of rifle?” Bailey asked.

  Isaiah began drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Remington? Yeah, I believe that’s right.”

  “So not an assault rifle?” I asked.

  “No. They’re illegal, aren’t they?” I nodded. “Well, even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t let him sell those things to anyone around here. You ask me, they don’t belong in civilian hands.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “Are you into guns?”

  “Not at all.”

  Why would he be? He didn’t need a gun. He could just pick you up and throw you out the window. “So you don’t know whether the deals he offered were any good,” I said.

  “No. But Pedro might.” Isaiah stood up and walked over to the window. He cranked it open and yelled, “Hey, Pedro.”

  Pedro, a middle-aged Hispanic man in a denim jacket and cowboy boots, came in. Isaiah asked in fairly decent Spanish what Shane had offered him. He translated for us, though I pretty much got the gist of what Pedro had said. “Shane offered him a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight special. Pedro says it was like new—for two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “He showed Pedro the gun?” I asked.

  Pedro nodded and said, “Sí.”