“What are you saying?” Carrie shouted, jumping out of her chair. “You’ve just given them a motive.”
“I want him to know the truth,” Rachel told her, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand. “Don’t you think some of the things I said on television would provide them with a motive? You saw the tape this morning, Carrie. Think about it.”
Carrie tried to wrestle the phone away from her sister. “You’re a fool,” she said. “Don’t you realize this man is a prosecutor?”
Atwater was appalled. “Cummings attacked you? Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”
Rachel leaned her forehead against the wall. “Grant threatened to rape Tracy if I reported it,” she said, trembling as she remembered that night. “He demanded that I go to Sergeant Miller the next morning and recant my earlier statement. He had someone bug my house, Mike. I found a monitoring device inside my phone, another one in a planter. He said if he found out I was talking to anyone other than my kids, he would come after my daughter.”
“Do you still have these monitoring devices?”
“I guess so,” Rachel told him. “I’ll have to figure out where I put them, though.”
“Stay put,” Atwater said. “I’ll send one of our investigators over right now. Were you injured?” He remembered the dark shadows he had seen under her robe the previous day.
“Yes,” Rachel said, touching a tender spot near her ribs. With the pain came a new wave of doubt. “It doesn’t matter, though. Grant has an alibi. No one will believe me.”
“My person will escort you to the hospital,” he said, his prosecutor’s expertise kicking in. “I want them to document any injuries you sustained. Do you still have the clothes you were wearing? Was there any exchange of blood? If so, we might be able to identify Cummings as the assailant through DNA testing.”
“No blood,” she said. “Besides, I’ve already washed the clothes I was wearing.”
“Rachel, how could you do that? You not only withheld the truth from me,” Atwater exclaimed, “you destroyed all the evidence. Damn it to hell, woman, don’t you know what you’ve done? This is a nightmare, a frigging disaster.” He stopped speaking, trying to calm himself. “Turn the clothes over to my investigator. Maybe there’s still some hairs on them or some other type of forensic evidence.”
“Okay,” Rachel said.
“First thing in the morning,” he added, “I’ll come over and take down a full statement.” Something else came to mind. “One of your neighbors claims they saw you driving off in the Pathfinder around the time Grant was shot. Were you in the house the entire night or was that a lie?”
“I was home when Grant was shot,” she answered, her voice shaking. “I-I drove past the station earlier, Mike, but I swear I didn’t shoot him.”
“You what?”
“Since Grant demanded that I report to Nick Miller the next day and retract my statement,” Rachel explained, “I knew I had to get down there around six or the sergeant would have already left for the day. All I did was drive past the station. I didn’t stop. I didn’t go inside. Once I realized I couldn’t do what Grant wanted, I drove around a few more minutes, then came back to the house.”
The line fell silent. “It doesn’t look good, Rachel,” Atwater said. “What you’ve basically told me is that the man beat you and tried to force you to orally copulate him only hours before someone plugged him with a bullet. With an eyewitness who can place you in the locker room and Grant’s statement that you were the shooter, coupled with the motive you’ve just provided, a conviction is looking more likely. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
Rachel had already thought it through. “Someone is trying to frame me. It has to be one of the men, don’t you see? No one else would have access to the locker room. All the doors to the building are locked at that time of the day. The only way to get inside is to use a key.” She related her suspicions that Grant had used an accomplice, another officer who had burglarized her home and set up the monitoring devices. “Can your investigator lift prints?” she asked, thinking of the glass in the broken window.
“No,” he said, “but I’ll send someone who can.”
“As long as they don’t work for the PD.”
“You’ve placed me in a terrible position,” Atwater said. “You should never have told me these things, Rachel. I’m not your attorney. As a prosecutor, I can’t withhold information made during a spontaneous admission. At present, you’re the primary suspect, the only one with a reason to harm this man.”
“I’ve told you the truth,” Rachel said calmly. “Whatever happens, I’ll have to deal with it.”
The attorney told her he would talk to her the following day and disconnected. Pacing his office, he thought she was a foolish, impulsive woman, too naive to comprehend the game. In her mind, it was about guilt or innocence, right versus wrong. She didn’t understand that criminal proceedings were basically a battle of wits and finesse, that half the things said under oath were lies, that no one gave a rat’s ass about the truth these days. He slammed his fist down on his desk, causing ajar of jelly beans to tumble to the floor.
He glanced at his watch. Ringwald had already left for the day. At least, Atwater thought, he would have the night to sort through his thoughts before he was forced to tell Ringwald about the beating in the orange grove. Shoving all the papers on his desk into his briefcase, the attorney snapped it shut and walked out of the office.
“Is that it?” Rachel said, getting up off the examining table in the emergency room at Presbyterian Hospital. The investigator Atwater had sent was waiting outside the room.
“That’s it,” the young doctor said, ripping off his rubber gloves and tossing them in the trash can. “Those bruises on your torso are pretty severe. I thought you might have suffered internal injuries, but nothing showed up on the X rays. Stay in bed for the rest of the week, give your body a chance to heal. Do you need anything for pain?”
“No,” Rachel said. Grant Cummings was in the same hospital. Even though he was incapacitated, the thought that he was only a few floors away was unnerving.
Once she put her clothes back on, she stepped outside, where the DA’s investigator was waiting. Paul Firestone was a tall man in his early thirties with blotchy skin and a prominent nose. He had arrived at her house with a criminologist employed by the county crime lab. Leaving the expert to search for fingerprints and other evidence, he had escorted her to the hospital. “I have to wait until the doctor hands over the evidence,” he said.
“What evidence?” Rachel said. “There isn’t any evidence outside of the bruises.”
“We need to document them,” he said. “We’ll use the examination room. I brought a Polaroid camera with me.”
Firestone led her back inside, said a few words to the doctor, then waited until the physician had walked out. “I’m sorry,” he told Rachel, “but I’ll have to ask you to take off your blouse.”
She hoisted herself onto the table, staring straight into his eyes without blinking as she undid the buttons on her shirt for the second time and slipped it off her shoulders. From her shoulder blades to her knees, she was covered in ugly bruises, some a deep purple, some so dark her skin appeared black.
“If you don’t mind,” Firestone said, “could you please stand over by the wall there? I want to show the contrast against the white paint. I feel terrible asking you this, but could you please remove your bra? I see some bruises around your breasts.”
Rachel did as he said. The plaster was cold against her bare back. Firestone asked her to raise her arms out to her sides. The shutter on the Polaroid clicked. She remembered Nathan Richardson sitting her in the chair, the china doll propped up beside her, the camera clicking relentlessly. She suddenly panicked, wrapping her arms around herself. “I can’t do this.”
“I’m sorry,” the investigator said. “If we don’t document these injuries—”
“I know. Just give me a minute.”
Rachel backed up to the wall again, her hands stretched out. She felt as if she were facing a firing squad.
“Turn around, please,” Firestone said. “I need to get some shots of your back. Pull your pants down past your buttocks.”
Rachel faced the wall, her fingers trembling on the zipper of her jeans. Sliding her underwear down with her pants, she stood still until the camera stopped clicking. “Can I turn around now?”
“Yes,” the investigator said. “I’ll wait outside until you get dressed.”
Rachel and Paul Firestone headed to his county car in the hospital parking lot. The sky was dark, the stars hidden behind a thick layer of smog, the air sticky and warm. A red Camaro was pulling out onto the street, but the driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt in the middle of the roadway. Carol Hitchcock had been on her way home to get a change of clothing. Seeing Rachel, she left the engine running in her car and leapt out.
“I thought that was you,” she yelled. “Grant is paralyzed because of you. He’ll never walk again. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be allowed to step foot on the hospital grounds after what you’ve done to this man.”
Firestone stepped in between the two women, placing an arm across Hitchcock’s chest. “Go to the car,” he told Rachel, but she didn’t move.
“I could arrest you right now for probable cause,” Carol shouted.
“You’re not going to arrest anyone,” the investigator told her. “Go to the car. Officer Simmons. Let me handle this woman.”
“I’m a cop,” Carol said, fishing her badge out of her purse and shoving it in his face. “I have firsthand information that this woman shot Grant Cummings. I’m fully within the law by placing her under arrest. Captain Madison assured me the DA’s office is cutting an arrest warrant, but I can take her into custody right now on probable cause.”
“I’m here because he attacked me, Carol,” Rachel said, refusing to leave. “The night he asked you to cover for him at the hardware store, he jumped me in the orange grove by my house and beat me senseless. He tried to force me to orally copulate him. He even threatened to come back and rape my daughter.”
“He did not,” the woman spat at her. “You just got smashed and made an ass of yourself at the watch party. Why don’t you admit it? We know you shot Grant. Ratso saw you leaving the locker room. He saw you with the damn gun in your hand. Why do you have to persist with this stupid rape shit?”
“I’m not referring to what happened at the watch party,” Rachel said. “I’m talking about Saturday night when he asked you to provide an alibi for him. Did you think Grant simply dropped by to have a conversation with me? I don’t know what kind of story he told you, but his intent was to beat me into submission. If I didn’t recant my statement, he threatened to come back and rape my daughter.”
Carol pressed against Firestone’s arm. “You’re lying,” she said. “Grant was going to marry me. Now he’ll spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”
“Did Townsend plant the bugs in my house or did Ratso do it?”
“What bugs?” Carol exclaimed, thinking she was talking about insects. “You’re insane. You should be in a mental institution.”
“Grant beats you, doesn’t he?” Rachel said, her speech rapid-fire. “I remember the day last summer when you came to work in your winter uniform. You wore long sleeves so you could cover up the bruises. You’re a strong woman, Carol. Walk away while you still can. Grant might be paralyzed, but he still has fists.”
Carol Hitchcock’s mouth fell open. “I-I don’t have to listen to this garbage,” she stammered.
Rachel lifted her blouse and exposed the ugly bruises on her torso. “Do you still think I’m making this up?”
Carol placed her hand over her mouth, then spun around and jogged back to her car.
c h a p t e r
TWENTY-EIGHT
After Rachel returned from the hospital, Carrie suggested she spend the night in a local hotel and surrender to the authorities the following morning. She knew if they came for Rachel that evening, her sister would have to spend the night in a jail cell. A prisoner could not be released until he or she was arraigned in front of a judge and bail was set. Since Carrie knew she would have to come up with Rachel’s bail money as well, she wanted to buy time so she could make arrangements for a transfer of funds from her bank in San Francisco. The two women were sipping sodas at the kitchen table.
“Is this fat Coke?” Carrie asked.
“What does that mean?”
“You know, not diet.”
“You won’t even drink a regular Coke anymore?” Rachel asked, concerned that her sister was going overboard with the dieting. At five-seven, she was three inches taller than Rachel and weighed almost twenty pounds less.
Carrie frowned. “Why should I drink something that’s loaded with calories?”
“You’re terribly thin,” Rachel said, squinting at her. “And I liked your hair better when it was brown.”
“Hey,” Carrie said, “a woman’s got to keep up her appearance if she wants to snag a man. Guys in their forties don’t date forty-year-old women, Rach. They want girls in their twenties. That leaves me with the old farts in their sixties.”
“Why would you want a man who is attracted to you only because of your appearance?” Rachel asked, plucking an orange out of the bowl on the table. “Besides, you make a good living. You don’t need a man to support you.”
“When Phil and I first separated, I thought it might be fun to be single again,” Carrie said. “I had my work, and Brent and I were very close. When he moved out to go to college, everything came crashing down on me.” She stopped and rubbed her eyes. “I get depressed sometimes. Every time I look in the mirror, I see another wrinkle. Pretty soon, no man will want me.”
“I doubt that,” Rachel said, walking over and touching her shoulder. She had thought Carrie’s fixation with her appearance was mere vanity, but she had been wrong. Her sister seemed insecure, and the bouts of depression she had mentioned were troubling. “You’re smart, beautiful, outgoing,” she told her. “Look at all you’ve accomplished in life. Besides, you’ll be gorgeous even when you’re sixty.”
“Thanks,” Carrie said, placing her hand on top of Rachel’s. “I didn’t come here to talk about my problems.”
Rachel glanced at her watch. Would a marshal ring her doorbell any minute with an arrest warrant? She went to the wall phone to call Lucy. “I need to borrow your car,” she said. “I know the PD has me under surveillance, because I spotted one of the undercover officers parked down the street.”
“Glen had to work the late shift tonight,” her neighbor said. “What if I need to go somewhere?”
“You can use the Pathfinder,” Rachel told her. “I’ll leave the keys on the floorboard. Is your car in the garage?”
“Yes,” Lucy said.
“I’ll come through the back door,” Rachel said, replacing the phone in the cradle. “I don’t know if I should do this,” she told her sister, returning to the kitchen table.
“Why?” Carrie said.
“They’re going to arrest me eventually. Why shouldn’t I let them take me now?”
“You’re not going to go to jail,” Carrie said. Walking to the sink, she poured out her soda and filled the glass with water. “You have a witness who will testify as to your whereabouts at the time of the crime.”
“I refuse to let Tracy testify,” Rachel said. “She’s lying, Carrie. They’ll rip her to shreds on the stand.”
“Your concerns are unfounded,” Carrie told her. “Tracy’s testimony will be fairly simple. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I don’t think they can trip her up.”
Rachel tensed, locking her arms over her chest. “I’m not going to allow my daughter to perjure herself.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Carrie said, turning around to face her. “They have both the victim and an additional witness who will swear you shot this man. Two of the most import
ant elements in proving a criminal case are motive and opportunity. Since you told Atwater that Cummings had beaten you the night before he was shot, they know you had ample motive. If Tracy’s testimony can keep them from establishing opportunity, you might still have a chance to be cleared.”
“You’ve changed,” Rachel said, peeling the orange and dividing it into quarters. “Wasn’t it you who always told me how important it was to be honest? When I stole that candy bar from the market, you marched me over to the manager and made me confess. I wet my pants, remember? I was certain they were going to take me to jail.”
“You were only seven years old,” Carrie said, smiling at the memory. “I knew they wouldn’t do anything to you. I only wanted to teach you a lesson.”
The phone rang and Carrie answered it, then handed the phone to her sister. “The tryouts were great. Mom,” Tracy said. “Sheila thinks we’re both going to make it. The judges loved our routine, and we didn’t make one mistake.”
Rachel smiled proudly at this news. “Are they going to announce the winners tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Tracy said. “They’re going to make us wait until fifth period, though.”
“Can you stay at Sheila’s another night?” Rachel asked, hoping she would be out of jail by the following afternoon.
Tracy whispered something to her friend, then came back on the line. “Sheila says it’s fine.”
After she had hung up, Rachel stood next to her sister at the kitchen counter and gazed out the window into the yard. After some time had passed, she said, “Do you still see Phil?”
“God, no,” Carrie said, a scowl on her face.
“Why did you guys split up?” she asked. “You never told me much about it.”
“It was bad, Rachel,” Carrie said. “Phil was having an affair. I came home from a business trip and found his girlfriend in our apartment. I guess the bastard was too cheap to rent a motel room.”
Abuse of Power Page 27
