Mitigating Circumstances

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Let’s eat, okay? I won’t pick on you and you don’t pick on me. Deal?”

  Finally a hint of a smile appeared on Shana’s face. “Is that like me pulling your hair?”

  As they walked into the restaurant, Lily put her arm around her and took a handful of her hair in her hand but didn’t do anything more than hold it. “You’re one up on me on that. I just might collect one of these days.”

  “You’re something, Mom, you know,” she said, turning her bright blue eyes to Lily’s face. “You’re about the best friend I have right now.”

  “Then you’re going to eat, right?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll eat. We’ll see who can eat the most. You’re pretty skinny yourself.” Shana was smiling as she reached for Lily’s skirt and put her fingers inside the waistband, feeling the loose fabric.

  At the police station, Margie Thomas took Shana in to view the men in the lineup first and Lily sat outside, nervously crossing and recrossing her legs, unable to sit still. Recognizing one of the detectives handling the McDonald-Lopez case walking by, she snagged him and asked if there were any recent developments. Arnold Cross was young, no more than his late twenties, and had probably just made detective. He had that fresh-scrubbed, blond, starched, wet-behind-the-ears look.

  “I had a long talk with Carmen’s brother the other day, and he did admit that she was in with a very bad crowd before she transferred to Ventura High, but he couldn’t give us any names. Hell, the kid’s only twelve.” Cross looked at her and started to say something but stopped.

  Lily realized that he must be aware that her own thirteen-year-old daughter had been raped, the very reason she was at the precinct house. Excusing herself, Lily went to the water fountain at the back of the room and reached in her purse for another Valium. She felt the man’s eyes on her back and hoped he couldn’t see her tossing the pill down her throat. When she returned, Shana and Margie were walking toward her. The younger detective had taken the cue and left.

  “We’re all done. Now it’s your turn,” Margie said, then turned to Shana. “Get yourself a cold drink or something if you want. It won’t take long.”

  “Mom, give me the keys to the car. I’ll wait there. I can start working on some of my homework.”

  Lily desperately wanted to know what had transpired inside that room, yet she knew she was forbidden to ask until it was over. She tried to read Shana’s eyes, searching for something, but she appeared remarkably composed, calmer now than before. If she had just seen the man who actually raped her, would she be this composed? It must have been exactly as she’d thought from the start—that once she saw him in person, she’d know it wasn’t him. She started to follow Margie, who was already headed toward the room with the two-way glass where they conducted the lineups.

  “Give me the keys, Mom,” Shana asked again.

  “Here,” Lily said, handing over her purse. “They’re in the bottom somewhere.”

  Looking at the men assembled, it took only seconds before she saw him. Then she could look at no one else. The lights were low in the viewing room, and Margie sat without speaking. “Tell them to turn sideways,” Lily told the detective, and listened as she spoke to the men from a microphone. She walked to the glass and placed her palms on it, staring at his profile. He looked older than in the mug shot. “Was the photo of number three that we saw the other day recent?”

  “I thought it was because he was just in jail on a parole violation, but it wasn’t. It was five years old, from an old booking. Someone forgot to put the new one in the file.”

  “Tell them to bend down like they’re tying their shoes or something,” Lily asked, and the woman detective complied.

  Finally she left the window and collapsed in the seat, her head in her hands. In the past, every time she’d recalled the rape, the face of Bobby Hernandez had appeared instantly. Her mind was reeling like a boat about to capsize. The man in the room below was more than a face in a mug shot; he was a presence and that presence reached through the glass and seized her with fear. Could it be possible that she murdered the wrong man? She raised her eyes again and looked at him. She could taste the crusty knife in her mouth. It was him! Shana had been correct. Then the boat tipped again and she saw Hernandez. Like a form of denial, she was battling her own will. There was still a thread of doubt. If she could only see Hernandez again, in person, then she might know. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it. Hernandez would never be seen in person again. She’d made sure of that.

  Removing her glasses, she reached down for her purse to look at the mug shot she’d brought from the office. Her fingers brushed against the carpet, then her palm. Shana had her purse. Her purse had the mug shot of Hernandez in it. Leaping from the seat, she rushed to the door, Margie right on her heels.

  “Come back,” the detective yelled, thinking she was having another panic attack. “We have to finish this and then you can leave.”

  Lily was out the door and actually running through the squad room, passing the records bureau, where every head turned, as she slammed through the double doors to the lobby. Her breath coming hard and fast, she bent down and held her stomach just as Margie caught up with her before she was out of the building.

  “Please,” the detective said, also gasping from chasing Lily, “I have to know if you’ve seen enough.” Her dark eyes were full of annoyance. “My God, you’re a D.A. Get a grip.” Once she had said it, her eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry, okay? That was a low-down thing to say, but I’m only trying to do my job.” Her Elizabeth Taylor lavender eyes looked worn and tired, garish; there were beads of perspiration on her forehead beneath her jet black bangs.

  “It’s number three,” Lily snapped at her, refusing her apology, knowing she was making her feel like shit. “I’m going to get Shana, and we’ll come back and give you a statement.” The woman had her hand on Lily’s arm, and Lily jerked it away. “I’m only doing my job too. It’s my daughter.” With that, Lily turned and walked out of the station.

  She went directly to the passenger side of the Honda and tried to open the door. It was locked. Shana saw her and rolled down the window. In her hands was the small picture of Hernandez.

  “Who is this?” she demanded, no longer composed, her eyes wild with confusion.

  “It’s just an old defendant in a case at the office. Someone gave it to me, thinking he looked like the man I described. Its nothing.” Lily reached inside the car and tried to take the photo from Shana’s hands. The girl held it away where Lily couldn’t reach it.

  “No! It looks just like him. I want him brought in for a lineup. I thought it was the guy in there—number three—I was so sure. But now…”

  “Shana, please give me the picture. You were right. I picked number three too. This other guy isn’t the guy.” Lily tried to still her racing heart by taking several slow, deep breaths, hoping the Valium was kicking in, willing herself not to think of all the ramifications of what was happening. She had to stop it now. “He’s dead. It was a mistake. I just found out.”

  “What do you mean, he’s dead? Does Margie know about him?”

  “The man who gave me the photo didn’t know that he’d been killed. He was killed in a gang shooting or something a long time ago, months before the rape. He means nothing to Margie or to anyone now. I told her we’d come right in and make a statement. She’s waiting.”

  “Everyone looks alike. Maybe that guy isn’t the one either.” Tears started falling from her eyes.

  Lily pulled the latch on the door and opened it, reaching in to Shana, leaning down beside the car. “Honey, we’re not the judge and jury. All we’re doing is telling the truth—that the man in there appears to be the man who attacked us—nothing more. Once I learned this man in the picture was dead, I just forgot to put the picture back.” Shana let her remove it from her hands. His name was printed at the bottom of the photo.

  “Get my purse and we’ll go in, and then we can go home and try to put this out of our mi
nds. Okay?”

  Once the photo was back in her purse and she and Shana were walking back to the building, she said, “Don’t mention this to Margie. We’ll all be confused and it will be a waste of time. I wasn’t supposed to take this photo from the office and I’ll get in trouble.”

  Shana looked at her mother only a moment, but her expression was one of disbelief. “I won’t tell Margie,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t even look that much like him anyway. His face was thinner and he was uglier, meaner-looking. He had pimples like the man I saw in there. That’s the man.”

  As they entered the lobby and Lily started to ask the girl at the front desk to page Detective Thomas, Shana made one last statement: “I wish this guy was dead too.”

  CHAPTER 31

  It was five o’clock and Cunningham wanted to leave in a few minutes and get home before the local news came on. He always enjoyed seeing himself on television, knowing how it impressed Sharon and the kids. He didn’t earn enough money to give them all the things they wanted, but he knew they were proud of him, and times like this when they saw him on television were the best times of all. After the row the other day with Tommy over the marijuana cigarette Sharon had found in his room, he’d also made himself a promise to spend more time at home.

  Nothing new had turned up on the surveillance of Manny Hernandez. Fowler had called and informed him of the search warrant, having it delivered to the station, ready to be executed. His captain also called him and indicated that he simply did not have the manpower to continue the surveillance for more than twenty-four hours, particularly since the original matter was outside their jurisdiction. Cunningham crossed his fingers that once Manny heard the news of his brother’s involvement in the Barnes homicide, he would dump the gun if he actually had it, and they could arrest him on the spot, evidence in hand. If this went down, he would buy himself a new pair of shoes for sure. He’d be a righteous star in everyone’s eyes and maybe even get another interview on television.

  On his way out, he passed Melissa, headed in his direction, her hands full of computer printouts. “You got something for me, babe, or are you going to finally take me up on that chicken-fried steak?”

  His comment was ignored. “I have something, but who knows what it is? Thought I’d run it by you anyway.”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  A uniformed officer passed them in the hall. He stopped and patted Cunningham on the back. “Good work on that case, buddy,” he said. He then squeezed by them and kept walking.

  Melissa had the stack of papers held against her chest. He wasn’t allowed to enter the records section where she worked, so she stated: “Do you have time to go back to your office? I need to spread this out to show you where we stand.”

  It sounded interesting. Enough that he thought he could always catch himself on the ten o’clock news if he missed the six. “Follow me…my dear. I always have time for you.”

  The squad room was empty and he landed in his chair hard, causing it to squeak and slide under his weight. Melissa sat in the chair next to him and leaned over, placing the papers on his desk. He reached out to pick up the printouts, and she knocked his hand away as with a child reaching into a cookie jar. “Stop that,” she said, “you’ll mess everything up.”

  “Wow,” he said, “aren’t you a bossy little thing?”

  “Okay, this is the plate the witness copied: EB0822. Playing around, I ran all these plates and came back with red compact cars and registered owners in the area.”

  “Keep going,” Cunningham said, “you got my full attention.”

  “Well, I’ve narrowed it down to about ten, as you can see. I thought I’d let you look at the names and addresses first, and see which ones you want to exclude. Then I’ll run the owners for wants and warrants and criminal history.” She got up to leave.

  “Come on, Melissa,” he said, “just run them all.”

  Her face was tense and she coughed. “I’m leaving now for the day. They just took my father to the hospital and it doesn’t look good.”

  He felt for her. For years she had been saddled with the burden of caring for her father’s needs, and every day she got more emaciated. Possibly this time he would die and she could finally go on with her life. “I’m sorry, doll. Thanks. I’ll look everything over and let you know.”

  He watched her make her way out of the office, and then began studying the papers in front of him. As he began reading, he didn’t recognize any of the names, so that left out the possibility of the killer being a known offender in the area. Then he came to the eighth name on the list and froze, staring at it. The plate was close, FP0322. It could have easily been misread for the real plate, EB0822. But it was registered to John and Lillian Forrester. “Shit,” he said, laughing. Of all the names to pop up, it would be hers. The plate was restricted. Because Lily was a district attorney, the Department of Motor Vehicles didn’t list her address on the registration in order to prevent some nut she’d prosecuted from walking into their office and filling out a form and getting her address. Just for the fun of it, he called the computer room and had them run her driver’s license, curious as to where she lived. They said they’d call him back in a few minutes, and he sat there thinking about her, her face appearing in his mind.

  He’d worked with Forrester numerous times in the past and thought highly of her, a lot more so than he did for her associates. He considered most of the attorneys in the D. A.‘s office to be pompous legal eagles more concerned with their conviction records than what actually happened to the people involved in the cases they prosecuted. But Lily was tenacious, hardworking, and genuinely concerned with the outcome of every single case that came across her desk. In many ways they were alike. Once she sank her teeth into a case, she was like a dog with a bone. There was no way it was going to get away from her if she could help it. The phone rang; it was the computer room.

  “You ready,” the girl said.

  “Shoot.”

  “The address is 1640 Overland, Camarillo. I ran her through records and we have her listed only as a victim in a rape that occurred in Ventura on April 29th of this year. I can have them fax you the report if you like.”

  He was speechless. This was a recent crime and she’d never mentioned a word, never missed a stride. He hadn’t even asked the girl to run records on her. He’d just been playing around, using his authority to feed his curiosity. A lot of the officers did that, calling and getting the address of some good-looking babe they saw driving down the street. They weren’t supposed to do it, but they still did.

  “Hey,” the girl said, “do you want the reports or not? I’ve got another officer on hold.”

  “Send them,” he said, “mark them homicide and put my name on them.” He replaced the receiver back on the hook and reached for the Hernandez file.

  He knew what he’d find; he just had to confirm it. There it was: Bobby Hernandez had been murdered the morning of April 30, the day after Lily had been raped. Lily drove a red compact car with a similar license plate, one close enough to be mistaken. The next item he removed with considerable trepidation: the composite drawing. Before even looking at it, he glanced around to make certain the other detectives had left. “Nah,” he said, looking at the face, “you’re out of your fucking mind, Cunningham.” Lily, as he remembered her, was actually fairly attractive. He sure wouldn’t throw her out of bed, he thought, and this guy in the picture was certainly not someone he’d want to wake up to in the morning.

  Just then the buzzer went off on the fax in the corner, and he went to retrieve the reports. He started reading them as they came out of the machine. “Good lord, her daughter was raped, her thirteen-year-old daughter.” He yanked the last sheet out and carried them all to his desk and started going through each page, committing every detail to memory. It all fit. Even the description they’d given of the rapist matched Hernandez perfectly. Mentally he was ready to reach for his pen and fill in the blanks in his little crossword puzzle, but he stopped
himself, hoping it was simply a coincidence. That itself went against the grain, for he’d never been a big believer in coincidence or half his cases would have never been put to bed. According to most of the people he arrested, it was always just a big coincidence.

  For the next hour, he sat at his desk, poring over the reports. Why on God’s green earth, he kept asking himself, would a district attorney not report a crime like this for over six hours? Her husband had additionally called the police and reported her missing after the rape. She had not returned to the house until an hour after Hernandez had been blown apart on his sidewalk. What car did her husband have the police looking for—none other than the red Honda. That evidently was her car and not her husband’s, which could have put the entire matter away and eased the throbbing pain Cunningham felt building in his temples. If her husband had been at home with the daughter with the red Honda in the garage, then…? No, he thought, that still would not erase all suspicion. The husband might have left while the child slept and shot Hernandez.

  He went back to the report again and found the time John Forrester had originally called the police in concern about his wife’s whereabouts, and the time the police had arrived at their home in Camarillo. Forrester might have called the report in on his missing wife from a pay phone, shot Hernandez, and then made it back to Camarillo in the eighteen-minute time span before the police actually arrived. It was possible, but he would be one stupid son of a bitch if it really went down that way, giving the police the description of the very car he was driving. Lily Forrester had driven up in that Honda, so he was getting way out in left field…or had she…had the officers really seen the car…any car?

  Had the two of them, John and Lily, conspired together after deciding to execute Hernandez?

  Linking the Forresters to Hernandez was a done deal. The Patricia Barnes matter had been handled under Lily’s supervision and the matter dismissed the day of the rape. Removing the composite drawing again, Cunningham let it sit on his desk, and with both hands he shoved the other papers aside so that only the drawing met his line of vision. He took a piece of paper and covered the upper section of the face, leaving only the nose, mouth, and chin. Then he turned it over on his desk and left.