Bad Intent
Page 30
Mike was there, in suit and tie, sitting in the back row with Hector. When they saw me, they did some negotiating with their neighbors to clear a seat for me between them.
I slid my hand under Mike’s elbow. “Are you allowed to be here?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Boy, and I thought I was having a bad day.”
He squeezed my hand. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s two of us.”
The defense entered the court, Jennifer Miller in the same suit she had been wearing earlier that morning, a bit wrinkled in the lap, makeup faded, hair in need of a comb. I glanced up at Hector. “Did you at least give her enough time to go to the bathroom before she had to be here?”
All innocence, he said, “Guess I forgot.”
The district attorney came in and took a seat behind the defense table. After him came the media crowd from the hall, stumbling around the news pool’s camera emplacement in the middle of the aisle to get to the last available seats. I did not see Leroy Burgess come into the room.
Finally, Charles Conklin was led in by the bailiff.
Though I had seen his old booking pictures many times, I would never have recognized him on the street. Conklin was prison-yard buff, huge arms and shoulders, and tiny, undeveloped legs. He seemed uncomfortable in his new clothes. The sport coat fit tight, his slacks were too big in the waist and too long. His dress shirt was buttoned up to the neck, but someone had forgotten to get him a tie.
I thought that Conklin had a very strong sense of his star status. He waved to the crowd, preened for Jennifer, gave Marovich a complicated two-handed handshake.
The judge, a distinguished-looking senior, came in from chambers carrying a thick notebook identical to the one in front of Jennifer. After the bailiff announced the opening of the session, the judge asked Jennifer to state her case.
“From the beginning,” she said in a sweet, cultured voice, reading from notes placed on a lectern, “the police investigators grossly manipulated the case against Charles Pinkerton Conklin. They threatened the children who witnessed the killing of Officer Johnson, forced them to identify my client. They withheld evidence from the defense. They made a mockery of the system of justice they swore to uphold.”
She went over the case witness by witness, reading into the record the new affidavit signed by Hanna, but saying only, “Your Honor, the second child witness also signed a revision of her original testimony.”
I looked around for LaShonda, saw her shake her head and whisper to her neighbor, James Shabazz. What Jennifer had said was true in its words, but not in its intent. And so she went, point by point through the case, skating the edge of truth.
With every point, Mike grew angrier. When his name was brought into the proceedings, Hector reached behind me to grip Mike’s shoulder. Mike set his jaw, gripped my hand so hard it throbbed.
The district attorney was called to give his expert analysis. I swear he was staring at me during his testimony describing a flawed investigation and a flawed prosecution. He laid the heaviest blame on the police, neglecting to mention that he had been part of the original prosecution team. Mea culpa for believing the police, was how I read him.
There was no opportunity for rebuttal. The police were not called. Mike was not asked to explain his procedures, or to answer the charges placed against him.
LaShonda, the surviving witness, wasn’t even mentioned by name.
No one said anything about the man who had been killed. I imagined Marovich explaining that lacuna, “The loss of a man’s life was not germane to the issues here.”
The testimony lasted barely an hour before Jennifer, in tones that were almost weepy, closed. “Your Honor, Charles Conklin is an innocent man. He was an innocent man fourteen years ago when he was sentenced to life in prison because of a deeply flawed trial. We ask the court at this time to grant our writ of habeas corpus and release this man from custody.”
Jennifer sat down and the judge took out his own set of notes. The entire hearing had been only a formality, because he obviously had his decision prepared in advance.
After scolding the police for their misbehavior, the judge faced Conklin.
Conklin was scared. He had sweated through his new coat. He shook, he dabbed at his eyes with a large handkerchief. He did not face the judge, did not look over at Jennifer.
“Mr. Conklin,” the judge said, “on behalf of the state of California, I apologize to you for the gross injustice that has been done. No legal cause exists for your continued imprisonment. Your writ of habeas corpus is granted. The defendant is ordered released directly from this courtroom. You are a free man.”
I got up with Mike and slipped out the back door. Jack Riley ran out after us, dragging a cameraman with him.
“Detective Flint, will you give us a statement?”
“Damn right,” Mike said. I was afraid he was winding up to deliver a scorcher that might embarrass him later, but his statement was both brief and controlled.
“I stand by my original investigation. I absolutely believe that he’s guilty. All this hearing did was throw out the first verdict on a technicality, it didn’t declare Conklin to be innocent. Far from it. There is no statute of limitations on murder. The man should be retried. That is the proper procedure in a case of procedural error.”
Mike walked away toward the elevator as the courtroom began to spill into the hall, every significant player trailing a camera crew. As the din rose, Jack pulled me closer.
“Listen, Annie Oakley,” he said, “Lana wants to do a special about last night’s shooting. But not here. Meet me at the studio before five.”
“I’ll try.”
The D.A. walked by, distracted Jack. “Gotta go,” he said.
This time, I grabbed him. “Innocent man freed is a tempting story, but don’t get suckered into it. Go over and talk to LaShonda about the contents of her affidavit. She’ll help you see what’s screwy.”
From Jack’s reaction, I must have been babbling. “Maggie, you had your say last Friday. This is Monday. Conklin is Monday’s story.”
“Whore,” I said.
“Ratings,” he said.
He trotted off to join the mob swarming around Jennifer and Conklin. As I walked away, I heard Jack’s distinctive voice, “Congratulations, Mr. Conklin. How does it feel to be a free man?”
Chapter 33
Los Angeles (WP)
Police investigating the shocking, violent death of Roderick J. O’Leary, director of the re-election campaign for District Attorney Baron Marovich, late Sunday night in the exclusive Hancock Park section of the city, have uncovered evidence that suggests the shooting may have been a tragic accident.
Documentary filmmaker Maggie MacGowen, who fired the fatal shot, may have been startled by O’Leary, who was known to her, and mistaken him for a stalker. Police records show that during the past week MacGowen had complained that a man identified as George Schwartz had been stalking and harassing her. On several occasions she photographed Schwartz in her proximity, hoping to discourage him. After a minor collision, when Schwartz rear-ended her vehicle, MacGowen had him arrested by South Pasadena police.
Police arrest records identify Schwartz as a county worker currently on personal-necessity leave for undisclosed reasons. He was described by co-workers as a quiet man who lives alone. Schwartz was not available for comment.
According to sources, MacGowen was driving a friend to her home on Hudson Street near the Wilshire Country Club late Sunday night. A witness reported that O’Leary, who was armed, opened the door of MacGowens parked car, perhaps frightening her. MacGowen drew her own weapon and shot O’Leary, fatally wounding him. O’Leary died at the scene before paramedics arrived. No charges have been filed.
In recent years, there has been an increase in the number of violent attacks on celebrities by obsessed fans. It is not known when Schwartz first became interested in MacGowen, or whether they were acquainted. Th
rough a spokesman, MacGowen said only, “It would not be appropriate at this time for me to comment.”
There was more, most of it looked to be a recap of Roddy’s career in politics, but I didn’t bother to read it. I threw the paper into the nearest trashcan. Then I went right back and retrieved it. The outline of the article had a familiar ring. For damn sure, no one from any news medium had contacted me about the shooting. And Marovich got scant mention.
A black stretch limo swept away from the curb in front of the courthouse, carrying Conklin and his defense team to a victory party at the Biltmore Hotel. It was half-past four, coming up on happy hour, I thought. I also thought I wanted to see just how happy people were going to be at the Biltmore party.
The hotel was only five blocks from the courts, straight down Grand Avenue. I walked it. It was rush hour. Traffic was so heavy I had to do a little window shopping now and then to keep from beating the limo to the hotel.
Inside the hotel, I followed a train of news people up the massive central stairs to the ballroom. My party invitation was the camera I took from my bag and an extension cord I had picked up off the floor.
In the ballroom, there were more news people than civilian guests. But then, I wondered—and not without some bitterness—how many friends would a man have when he’d been in jail as long as Conklin? And when his offspring were themselves in jail, well, who was left to help you celebrate except his Dr. Frankenstein and the news whores? Me among them.
There was a sumptuous buffet set up along one side. My always ravenous colleagues had queued up for mini soft tacos and sizzling fajitas. Thirsty after my walk, I bypassed the food and headed for the bar.
James Shabazz and Etta were there. James, carrying a fruit kabob in one hand and a soda water in the other, kept me company while I waited in line. “I’m surprised to see you here, Miss MacGowen.”
“I hate to miss a party. This looks like a good one.”
“The man has something to celebrate.”
“Indeed.” I ordered a scotch on the rocks, changed my mind and had a glass of wine. “You know Pinkie better probably than anyone here. How long do you think he can stay out of the slam this time?”
“How long?” James gazed across the room to where Conklin was holding forth in front of a rank of cameras. The innocent man had an arm around Jennifer’s slim waist. She was smiling, making a show of listening to him, but her body language betrayed her revulsion. “How long depends on how closely they watch over him. My estimate is, they’ll him clean long enough to get through his suit against the police department. After that? He’ll stay clean until his money is gone.”
“He’s friendly with you?”
“Seems to be.”
“How would you feel about setting up an interview for me?”
“For what purpose?”
“The film. I’ve taped his son and mother-in-law, about half his neighborhood, it seems. I think he deserves equal time.”
James studied me for an uncomfortable moment before he decided. He raised his soda water to me. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Baron Marovich came in without entourage. Almost by stealth, he walked up to Conklin, shook his hand, mugged with him for the cameras for less than a minute. I watched him bow his head to whisper something to Jennifer, I saw her blanch. She recovered her poise quickly when someone called her name, turned her attention again to the barrage of questions.
“Will Mr. Conklin file suit against the city? Where does he plan to live? What is the first thing he plans to do as a free man?”
The way Conklin kept eyeing Jennifer, I thought the answer to that last question was damned obvious.
With no more fuss than the waiters who moved through the crowd clearing away dirty dishes, Marovich cleared himself away through the service doors.
I gulped my drink, gave James’s arm a squeeze, and slipped out the same way.
I caught up with Marovich waiting for the freight elevator in a back hallway. When he saw me, he laughed in a sad, resigned sort of way. The hair was still perfect, but he looked exhausted, pale eyes nearly transparent, deep dark circles below them.
“You,” he said. “Everywhere I look—you.”
“I hoped we could talk.”
“I need a drink,” he sighed. “What do you say?”
“Fine, as long as it’s in a public place and we drink out of the same bottle.”
Like Jennifer, he blanched. “I had nothing to do with doping Guido Patrini. I know you’ll have some difficulty believing me at this point, but I had nothing to do with the Kelsey situation.”
“Situation?” I asked.
“Drinks first,” he said.
We went down to the elegant lobby bar.
While the waiter waited, Marovich asked me, “Do you like champagne?”
“For celebrations.”
“Then, it’s champagne.”
I said, “You can’t expect me to celebrate what just happened in court.”
“No,” he said. “This is my very own party.”
We had icy Dom Perignon in crystal flutes, and tiny canapes. The background music was vintage Ray Charles. The setting was perfect for an auspicious occasion. And clearly, this was an occasion. I just didn’t know what it was about. Marovich watched the bubbles rise in his glass and then he tipped its rim to mine.
“What are we celebrating?” I asked.
“The end.”
“But it isn’t over. Lawsuit, book deal, movie rights—it’s just beginning.”
“Not for me.” He pulled a folded sheet from his inside pocket and handed it to me. “My office issued this statement at five o’clock this afternoon.”
My watch said ten after.
The single sheet was heavy bond, the district attorney’s letterhead. Over Marovich’s signature, I read, “I have worked for the city and county of Los Angeles for the last eighteen years, fortunate all that time to be able to perform work that I love.
So it is with some sadness, but no regret, that I announce my decision to withdraw from the race for district attorney.
“I do not have the heart to wage the brutal, personal, negative campaign that it would be necessary to wage to prevail over my opponent. I have closed my campaign offices and ordered my staff to immediately cease all campaign activities.
“At this time, it is my intention to retire from public office to spend more time with my family. I wish Godspeed to my opponent.”
No mention of the untimely demise of Roddy O’Leary in the announcement. I asked, “Why?”
“You just read why.”
I handed back his bombshell. “I also read today that I’ve been pursued by a deranged stalker, so don’t push any more fiction on me. What happened? You have a talk with Jesus?”
“I had a meeting all right. But it wasn’t with Jesus.” He flicked the caviar garnish off a canape before he ate it. “Campaign staff pow-wow. I can’t win. It’s as simple as that.”
“You still have five weeks to pull off a miracle.”
“I’m out of the miracle business.” Marovich finished off his glass in a long swallow, moved forward in a chummy posture. “I had nothing to do with what happened last night, Maggie. I fired Roddy yesterday.”
I said, “Uh huh,” as in, liar.
“I did. Hardest scene I ever went through. ‘Everything I’ve done for you,’ he says. ‘Conklin will pull up the polls,’ he says, `get the momentum going again.’ Couldn’t take it anymore. I fired his ass.”
“About time,” I said, and refilled Marovich’s glass for him.
“Had to do it.” A black, sardonic laugh. “He was going to be indicted, anyway. I knew you wouldn’t leave him alone until you had him up for murder. I cut my losses.”
“Better hope you did it in time. Why are you talking to me, anyway? Aren’t you afraid how I might use what you say?”
Suddenly he looked old rather than exhausted, his star luster fading. When he spoke, there was sad resignation in his voice.
“Three people are dead.”
Eyes evasive, he said, “Roddy ran amok.”
“He’s dead, so he’s taking the whole rap?” I felt sick.
“Police have found evidence linking him to two killings, Hanna Rhodes and Jerry Kelsey.”
“We a know about the immutability of evidence, though, don’t we?” I meant to be sarcastic, but there was a catch in my throat that made it sound bitter, injured. “For a long time, I tried to figure out why, in the middle of the political fight of your life, you would resurrect an old case that was such a potential bomb. Finally, it came to me.”
“Drink up,” he said.
“Remember the story about the peasant’s daughter who had to spin straw into gold or the king would kill her, kill her father, too?”
“What?” Off guard and wary.
“That’s what happened to you, isn’t it? You had to turn a disaster into political gold, or die.”
“You’re telling me a fairy story?”
“There are great moral lessons in those stories. That’s why we read them to our kids, you know.” I filled his glass again. “So, this peasant girl lies and cheats, trades her firstborn to get some elf to do the actual work for her and save her neck. Then, as her reward, the king marries her. The reward for the elf? She gets him killed.”
“What’s the moral? Cheaters prosper?”
“Hell no. She made her bed, she had to lie in it ever after—I’m not sure about the happily part. Every night, she had to fuck this greedy king who had held a death sentence over her.” I smiled up at Marovich then. “I think she got her punishment, don’t you? She couldn’t divorce the king. You can’t divorce this mess by resigning from the race or putting everything on Roddy’s ticket.”