But, as you can see – Jim, why don’t you let our viewers see some of the banners and signs here. OK, there we go. Cameraman Jim Deaver helping us out here. That one says, as you can see, ‘Keep our rules or get off our land!’ And here’s another one. Jim, you got that? ‘Chinese troops out!’ That’s a very direct message. And some of these slogans, Dana, undeniably aggressive. Earlier I saw one that said, very starkly: ‘You kill an American woman, an American man will come kill you.’
Sorry, Dana, I missed that. Can you repeat the question? Absolutely, Dana. That’s right. Appearances can be deceptive. It looks like a kind of prayer vigil, but the message coming from here is pretty robust. Some would say hostile. You can probably hear some singing, not far from me. They’re singing that old folk song, kind of a sweet and gentle song. But instead of saying, ‘This land is your land’, they’re stressing that ‘This land is our land.’ That’s the change they’ve made and that, in a way, is the message they want to send out from here.
Yes, Dana, that’s right. The organizers originally wanted to protest on the sidewalk directly in front of the head office of the LAPD, right here in downtown. But, perhaps no surprise, the police did not allow that request. They refused it, pushing the organizers over here, a block away, in City Hall Park. And some of those organizers are no doubt very relieved things turned out that way. There’d have been no room at all if they’d stuck to LAPD headquarters. Not much room here, I gotta tell ya …
OK, Dana, let me give our viewers some of the background. We can’t really speak about ‘organizers’ in the usual, conventional way. This was a pretty spontaneous event, I’d say. But yes, it began with a call issued on Weibo by Mario Padilla of Boyle Heights. Now, he’s the brother of Rosario Padilla, who was found dead in the area some three weeks ago. Initially police reported that as a straight drug overdose, but you’ll know – and here at KTLA we’re being very careful on the details of this – but you’ll know that Padilla was named in a story that began on the LA Times website, later taken down, suggesting that she and two other women might be the victims of a serial killer at large in the city. And the story, which I stress KTLA has not confirmed and cannot verify, suggested the culprit could be somehow connected with the garrison stationed at Terminal Island.
Mario Padilla, brother of the first victim named in this highly controversial story, used social media earlier today to spread word of the story – and issued a call for others to join him in a demonstration. That went viral and you can see the result all around us. Police sources telling KTLA the crowd here is already at least two thousand, but organizers saying it’s many, many more.
OK, KTLA cameraman Jim Deaver is signalling for me to get moving now – this is all pretty much happening on the hoof here – because I think the main speech is about to get started. So let’s get right to the front, here we go. OK, just need to squeeze in right here. And yes, as many of us predicted, the main address is going to come from Mario Padilla himself. He’s standing on what looks like an orange crate and someone’s handed him a bullhorn. He’s got a bullhorn in one hand, and he’s holding a candle in the other. Let’s listen in.
‘… for coming. I can’t believe it. Really. And I know this would have meant so much to Rosie. And I guess to Eveline Plaats and to Abigail Webb, too. We’re here above all to remember them. That’s why I suggested we all bring a candle here tonight. To keep their memory alive.
‘They were beautiful young women who, we believe, did not die because of something they did, but because of what somebody did to them. Now I’m not saying we know who that person is, who did these things. We call on the police to find that person. That’s all we ask. The LAPD need to investigate these crimes!
‘Thank you. Thank you.’
This land is our land, this land is my land.
‘Thank you very much. OK. Thank you. What we say is we want the truth! We want to get to the bottom of who did this to our families! And that means the police reopening the case of my sister and of Eveline Plaats and hunting down the killer of Abigail Webb. And not just these crimes. You go back through the record of the last few years, just take a look as I have, and you’ll see – there’s a whole lot of crimes that were traced to this place, this base, that were never punished, suspects never arrested, charges never brought. So we want those cases reopened as well.’
This land is our land, this land is my land.
‘OK. Thanks. Thank you so much. Now a moment ago, I mentioned Abigail Webb. Now I want to say something about her sister, the journalist Madison Webb. Without her – that’s right, yes. I applaud with you. I do. She’s not here, but let’s show the LA Times what we think of Madison Webb and how much we respect what she did today … Yes, thank you. She was the one who blew the whistle on what’s going on. She wants to get to the truth!
‘Now, it may turn out that these murders – my sister and the other women – were done by a citizen of the United States of America. OK, if that’s how it turns out, then let’s catch that person and bring them to trial. That’s how our system always worked in the past and that’s how it’s meant to work.’
USA! USA! USA!
‘OK. OK. But let’s say someone else did this. Let’s say the article, which the LA Times took down because they were too cowardly to publish, let’s say that article was right and the killer is someone in that base. You know what? We can’t do anything about that! The people on that base, in the garrison, are not subject to American law. They’re subject only to Chinese law. It’s the same in San Diego and San Francisco and the rest of the Pearls. That’s what it says in the Treaty. I’m a law student and I’ve read it. But it’s not fair and it’s not right. That’s what’s got to change!
‘So this is what we want. We want the police to find the truth about these women. They are our sisters and daughters and friends. They deserve justice. And we demand that that search has to find the truth, wherever it may lie. Even if the politicians don’t like what it says. Because the law should apply to everyone. That’s what we demand. Justice for Rosario and Eveline and Abigail!’
USA! USA! USA!
They had agreed to meet somewhere discreet: the parking lot would make sense. Madison had assumed he would give her precise co-ordinates by text once she got closer, but all her messages went unanswered. Now that she was here she could guess at the problem. Leo was inside some concrete-lined press room surrounded by ten thousand reporters and their cellphones and none of them had signal. It always happened in a cluster-fuck situation: too much pressure on the network. The usual solution was email, which would work so long as there was a wifi connection – except she knew that the last thing Leo needed was an email from her stored on the official City of Los Angeles system. Even texts were risky. It meant she would have to do what she so desperately had wanted to avoid.
She followed the signage indicating the debate venue – billed by the host TV network as ‘The Showdown’ – and walked through the lobby of the UCLA lecture theatre where Richard Berger and Elena Sigurdsson would confront each other in just over six hours’ time.
She tried to ignore what her peripheral vision suggested were familiar members of the LA press corps who, if she made the mistake of making eye contact, would soon be over here, feigning condolence and angling for the lowdown on what had happened to her story. In the corner to her left, munching a burrito, she could see Burke’s predecessor as news editor – a man the other women in the office had warned her about when she first arrived. The last thing she needed now was him pawing over her, oozing fake sympathy.
So she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the accreditation desk, locking onto one of the clutch of twentysomething women who were signing in journalists, handing them passes.
‘Hello there! Can I have your name and organization?’ She was young, blonde and, though dressed in a suitably sexless black pant-suit, the perkiness of that greeting popped an instant question into Madison’s mind: was this woman sleeping with Leo? Maddy had no grounds for thinking it, n
o grounds besides Leo’s personality and past behaviour, that is. He might never have met this woman, who probably worked for the university rather than the Berger campaign. But still her manner, the whiteness of her teeth and the trim outline of her shape had Madison thinking of it.
She had not been like this when they were together. She had not been obsessively possessive or jealous. They had had other problems. But here now, and in the Mail Room three nights ago, she had found herself feeling it. In some way she barely understood, she did not wholly dislike the feeling. It was an emotion normal people might have.
Madison explained that she had arranged to meet Leo Harris and watched as the woman went off to pass a message to him. This was another unfamiliar situation. Waiting for a drop from Leo. Other reporters had done it, usually at tourist destinations – Hollywood or Santa Monica pier – complying with Leo’s rule that the best hiding place was in plain sight. But not Maddy. When they were together, he had never been much of a source. Part of it was practical: she did not cover politics, so there was a limit to how much use each could be to the other. There was more to it than that though. It was not quite a principle; certainly, neither was high-minded enough to use such a word. Rather it was a sense, never articulated, that they’d have a better shot together without letting work intrude. Still, she was not above asking him for an occasional steer from the mayor’s office if a criminal case ever rose to that level. And he was not above giving it.
Leo was coming closer, eyes down, staring at his phone. She felt an unexpected pleasure at seeing him, a reminder of the very different charge she would feel when they first dated. Back then, it consisted chiefly of anticipation of what was to follow: fizzing conversation and sex. Now the pleasure she felt was quieter: the prospect of consolation, of speaking to someone she knew well, of spending a few moments with someone who might help.
When he looked up to see her, he gave her a quick hug then gestured for her to follow him towards a coffee cart stationed in the lobby, in the process passing her a magazine, almost absent-mindedly, with so little ceremony she barely noticed it herself. But she felt immediately the weight of stiff card within its pages, holding onto it while they waited behind the journalists, politicos and assorted hangers-on lining up for a shot of caffeine.
At intervals, they’d be interrupted, as colleagues, contacts and rivals came over to exchange gossip or wish his candidate good luck. She couldn’t tell if Leo was relieved that there was no real chance for the two of them to talk or frustrated. Just once their eyes met, Leo looking deep into her with an expression of such tenderness, she had to look away. His eyes spoke of sadness at her situation, but also of regret and even shame. It startled her.
The interruptions continued. At one point, Leo made a show of groaning as he was approached by a big, ruddy-faced man in middle age. Leo offered up his palms in surrender.
‘I’m sorry, Ted. I know, I know: I owe you a call.’ He turned to Madison. ‘Do you know each other? Madison, this is our sworn enemy, Republican legend and state chairman Ted Norman. Ted, this is the journalist Madison Webb.’
At that, Norman’s smile dropped and he extended a firm hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Webb. On behalf of the volunteer members of the Republican party of California, I offer you condolences on your loss. I know what it is to lose someone too young,’ he said, shaking his head at the tragedy of it all. The synapses were working slowly, but eventually Maddy made the connection: she had come across this man’s name in her first sweep of overdose stories online. He’d lost his daughter. Maddy took his hand and held it a second longer than she needed to, the two of them sharing the kinship of the bereaved.
‘I also want to offer my congratulations on the journalism you’re doing,’ Norman went on. Maddy nodded her gratitude, wondering if the redness around the rims of this man’s eyes had appeared just now or was a permanent function of his complexion. Or had it only been there since his daughter died, a tattoo of grief that would soon be etched on Maddy’s own face? ‘That story you did took guts. Too bad the LA Times doesn’t have the guts to stand by you. There was a time when an American newspaper would have been proud—’
‘Don’t get started, Ted,’ Leo said. ‘You need to save some energy for tonight.’ Moving to wind up, Leo added, ‘And I haven’t forgotten your call. I’ll get back to you.’
‘I can explain it right now, it’s real simple.’ Norman turned towards Madison. ‘Are we off the record?’ She nodded her acceptance and he continued. ‘I wanted to offer the mayor my help.’
Leo smiled. ‘You want to help the mayor? Now what kind of “help” would that be, Ted?’
‘You’re too cynical, you know that? That’s the trouble with all you Democrats. You think we’re all like you, calculating and scheming. I’m serious. You know I have a software business, tracking technology and all that. I’m offering to put that at the disposal of the LAPD – free of charge – to find this killer.’
Leo moved his eyebrows into a gently quizzical expression. It said, What’s the catch? Or even, What’s in it for you?
Norman understood the unspoken question. ‘I’m not looking for anything, no publicity, nothing. Not even from this young lady.’ He gave his head an avuncular tilt towards Madison. ‘That’s why I approached you, Leo. I’m happy doing this privately. Whatever helps the investigation.’
‘Have you discussed this with Doran?’
‘No. Like I said, this is not some political ploy. I don’t want you to look bad by saying no. I want you to say yes.’
Madison watched Leo scanning the older man’s face, still looking for the trick he was missing. Eventually he said, ‘OK, Ted. Thank you. I’ll put you in touch with the relevant folks.’
While the pair exchanged a last few nuggets of smalltalk, Madison let her hands distract her. She probed the edition of The Economist Leo had given her, establishing that wedged inside was a manila wallet. She stepped away from the coffee line, her back to the people in it and pulled out the contents of the file. She then lodged the papers back inside The Economist, so that she could read them and look as if she were simply flicking through a magazine.
When Leo joined her, two Americanos in his hand, she said, ‘Where did this come from?’
He smiled, looked around and said, ‘You remember the rules, Webb. You don’t get to ask that. The only thing you need to know is, is it genuine?’
‘And is it?’
He took a sip of coffee. ‘It is. That’s official LAPD documentation.’
‘And whoever gave it to you—’
‘Maddy.’
She dropped it, letting the obvious fact remain unspoken: that the Chief of Police was the direct and personal appointee of the mayor.
She assessed the wad of papers, felt its weight. It was thinner than she had expected. That meant that either Mario Padilla’s instinct had been right and the LAPD had not pursued his sister’s case very hard – plausible given Rosario’s low ranking on the Los Angeles social hierarchy – or that what Leo had handed her just now amounted only to a selection of papers from the original dossier. The mere possibility of which was sufficient to make her pre-emptively angry, an emotion that always served as a set of jump leads when she was exhausted, sending ten thousand volts of electricity direct into her nervous system.
She scanned the first page, a bald statement of the known facts of the case: date and time of death, coroner’s remarks, name of next of kin.
‘Leo, there’s nothing classified about this. This is all in the public—’
‘Patience, Madison, patience. Keep reading.’
She turned to the next few pages. An exchange with the district attorney’s office about whether there were ‘circumstances likely to lead to criminal prosecution’. More internal LAPD correspondence culminating in a request from the spokesperson’s office that they be allowed to brief the media that ‘police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the death of Rosario Padilla’. The next page showed the homici
de department signing off the request. Maddy opened out her hands in protest at Leo, only to be greeted by the same smile, delivered without eye contact while he continued to survey the political chatterers around them. ‘Keep reading, Maddy.’
She turned the page to see a document that surprised her. It was a witness statement form, similar to ones she had seen in dozens of cases. But there were two details so odd, she read them twice to be sure that, in her sleep-deprived state, she wasn’t seeing things. (It would not have been the first time.) The name at the top of the statement was Rosario Padilla. Except her name was entered not in the field reserved for the subject of the case, but in the line marked ‘Witness’. And the date was not from this or last month, but nearly a year ago.
Maddy glanced up at Leo, who gave a smug lift of the eyebrows. I told you it was good.
She quickly ran her eye over the text, taking in the gist of it. Certain sentences stopped her:
At the beginning of this month, the messages became more frequent. On March 11 he sent me 118 texts, most of them of a sexual nature. He says what he wants to do to me, what he wants me to do to him. I called the phone company and they say they are taking action but nothing happened …
In the last week, I have begun to get really frightened. The texts and weibs are beginning to get violent. One message said he was watching me all the time. He knows when I go to work and when I come home. He watches me and does things to himself. He says one day he will have me for real, he won’t have to imagine what it’s like. I have tried everything, but the phone company now says the phone number that sent these messages ‘does not exist’ …
Maddy turned the page, seeing what she guessed was a printout of the offending messages Rosario had received and submitted to the police. Judging by the timespan, just a few hours, this was a mere sample, even though it filled three pages.
You visit the dry cleaners just now. I saw you drop off your stuff. Why you need to get your skirt cleaned, Rosie? Had it got stained from your wet pussy? I like imagining that. I’m going to go jerk off now. I know that makes you wet … Why do you not look my way today, Rosie? You know I was watching you, so why not a little wave? Or maybe a kiss from those lips, made to give me blowjob?… Just one little reply … I don’t care if you don’t want it, we’re going to do it anyway. I’m stronger than you, Rosie … If you don’t like it, that’s just going to make me harder. I like it dry. And remember, no one will be able to hear you scream when you have my dick in your mouth …
The 3rd Woman Page 22
