At records, he yelled at the dark-haired, chubby girl he despised, “You got any colored pencils?”
“No, I don’t have any colored pencils,” she said sarcastically.
“You got one of those little pencils that you use on your mouth? You know what I mean. My wife has one and you make a mouth first and then fill it in with lipstick.”
She reached for her big black purse and removed a smaller plastic bag, holding up a reddish pencil in the air like a prize. “Is this what you mean?” she asked.
“Give it to me.”
“Why should I give it to you?” she said, her nose in the air. “You’ve never done shit for me. Not only that but this little pencil cost me about three dollars. You got three bucks and you can have it,” she said, smiling now, thinking it was a game, like a scavenger hunt.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fiver, slapping it on the counter. “Keep the change. Buy yourself some diet pills or something. Just give me the fucking thing, okay?”
Back in his office, he outlined the lips on the composite drawing, making them a little larger. The squad room had been empty, but now one of the detectives walked by on the way to his desk, a day-shifter working overtime. “You coloring now, Cunningham? That’s what you do all night down here, huh? What is it, a little porno coloring book you got there?”
When he got no rise out of the detective, the other man went to his desk and started writing. Once the outline was drawn, Cunningham filled in the lips with the red pencil and stood up, looking at his handiwork. “That’s it,” he said, pacing up and down in front of his desk, stopping to look at the drawing and then too agitated to return to his chair. “That’s it.”
Grabbing all the files, he told the other detective, “I’m outta here. Do me a favor and tell dispatch that if anything comes in for homicide, they’ll have to call me at home. I’m on sick leave.”
On the way home, he pulled into a Stop ‘n’ Go and just parked, sitting in his car, watching people wander in and come out. His head was splitting, the pain like a vise now. Intending to go home and take some aspirin, maybe eat something, he was instead contemplating buying a six-pack of beer and driving somewhere to guzzle it down alone. It was still early, only eight-thirty, and the kids would drive him crazy if he went home. Seeing himself on the ten o’clock news meant nothing now. If his suspicions were accurate, this Hernandez story was big enough to go national, even a full fifteen-minute segment on one of those crime shows like Hard Copy. He opted for the six-pack and headed for the beach.
He parked the car on a remote area of the beach, near the sewage-treatment plant. It was an area where bodies frequently washed up on the shore: dead surfers, boaters, victims of homicides dumped into the ocean. The currents from miles away carried their lifeless bodies and placed them on the sand right next to the treatment plant, the sea regurgitating something noxious that was not its own and placing it where human waste was recycled.
By the time he popped the can on the third beer, his headache was receding. He had left Omaha for more reasons than the cold, and memories were flooding his mind.
While still assigned to patrol, Cunningham and his partner had been dispatched to a burglary in progress in a local grocery store and pharmacy. They had called for backup, seeing one of the rear windows broken and thinking they heard noises inside the building. His partner had taken up a position at the rear of the building, while Cunningham covered the front. Before the backup unit arrived, he heard glass shattering, gunfire, and then his partner’s voice screaming on the portable radio for an ambulance as he ran for the back of the building. On the ground, bleeding from an enormous head wound, was a young boy.
His partner was bent over him. “It’s a sock…a sock,” he said, his voice and eyes indicating that he was on the verge of hysteria.
Cunningham pushed him aside and started C.P.R. on the boy. Pressing up and down on his chest, he looked at the concrete next to him and saw the spongy tissue in the pool of blood and knew that he was looking at the boy’s brain, blown out the side of his head. Attempting further resuscitation was a waste of time. He stopped and wiped his bloody hands on his uniform pants.
“I thought it was a gun…do you hear me…?”
The man grabbed Cunningham’s shirt with both hands. Sirens were wailing in the distance, getting closer by the second. “He came through the window…I saw something white in his hand…I thought it was a pearl-handled revolver. I fired. I didn’t know he was a kid…I didn’t know.”
Cunningham looked at the kid’s right hand and saw that he’d wrapped a white sports sock around his fist to prevent cutting himself when he smashed out the window.
His partner reached into his boot and pulled out a .22 pistol wrapped in plastic—what they called a throwaway—an unregistered, clean weapon. Many officers carried them for situations just like this one—in case they mistakenly shot an unarmed suspect. Cunningham stood speechless as the man leaned down and removed the sock from the boy’s right hand. Holding the blood-spattered sock, he placed the gun into the lifeless hand and then let it fall to the ground.
“I’ve got to know you’re with me,” the officer pleaded, the ambulance and other units converging on the scene. “I’ve got five kids, for chrissake. I’m supposed to make sergeant next month.”
It turned out the boy was a fourteen-year-old runaway, a victim of child abuse living on the streets. He had entered the grocery and pharmacy not for drugs or money, but for food. His partner made sergeant the following month; Cunningham made detective. When the same man worked his way up to deputy chief, Cunningham left the department.
He popped the can on the last of the six-pack and looked out over the darkened beach, illuminated only by the lights from the treatment plant and what little moonlight managed to break through the foggy night.
He searched the stretch of sand, thinking idly that he might find a body there. What would he do if someone raped his daughter and he not only knew who had committed the crime, but had access to their address? Would he let the process of law deal out punishment, whatever it might amount to, or would he allow the beast of outrage and fury lead him to take matters into his own hands? Lily Forrester was a good woman, a dedicated and hardworking prosecutor. She was a mother. His partner all those years ago had been a good man too, and a father. But Cunningham had hated him for placing that gun in the dead boy’s hand—and hated himself for collaborating on his story—a lie that was forever attached to the poor boy’s memory.
Bobby Hernandez had been one of God’s defects, he told himself. He’d been a killer and a rapist—a violent and deadly being who stalked his prey like an animal. He thought with repulsion of the unspeakable acts committed against Carmen Lopez, a girl who had managed to rise above the crime-infested neighborhood she had grown up in, who had been in line for a scholarship and a decent life. Her boyfriend, Peter McDonald, had never received so much as a citation in his short life. Although he couldn’t yet prove that Hernandez had been involved in that crime, his gut instinct told him that he had.
He hadn’t seen Lillian Forrester in person for maybe six weeks, but her image was clear in his mind. She wasn’t one of those attorneys who pranced around the courtroom, in love with the sound of her own voice, eager for convictions because they were wins, feathers in her cap. He remembered her harried face during the last homicide he had worked and she had prosecuted, her somewhat wrinkled suit, her red hair escaping and falling across her forehead. She lived for the job; it consumed her. They were alike, a kinship born of conviction.
Killing the last beer, he drove home.
CHAPTER 32
Lily and Shana were on their way home from the Ventura Police Department after both signing statements to the effect that Marco Curazon, an American-born Cuban, was to the best of their knowledge the man who had perpetrated the crimes of which they were both victims. He had a prior offense for burglary, an extensive juvenile record, and had been sentenced to prison five years before for r
ape. By failing to maintain employment, he had violated the terms of his parole and had served five days in county jail in April.
He had been released the evening of the rape. Margie Thomas had informed Lily that evidence obtained from the medical—legal exam conducted at Pleasant Valley Hospital on Shana had contained several hair follicles recovered from her pubic area, and these would be examined against hairs which they would eventually obtain from Curazon. Prior to signing the statement, Lily had asked that he be returned to the lineup and asked to read the words “taste the blood of a whore” from a piece of paper while she listened from the viewing room. Shana remained outside.
There would be a bail hearing the following day, but even if the court did set bail, the mans parole agent had indicated that he would place a hold on Curazon preventing his release. With his prior conviction, which could be pled as an enhancement, extra time for violation of parole, and the current offenses, his prison term if convicted could add up to almost twenty years. Lily didn’t feel the need to advise Shana that he would only serve ten of these years. She wanted the child to be free from fear.
Her emotions numbed by the Valium, Lily was floating in a sea of disbelief and shock. The only solace she could find was in the knowledge that Hernandez had murdered the prostitute. She needed more. She needed to know that he was involved in the McDonald-Lopez massacre. Then the death penalty she had wrongfully imposed would be less barbaric. And she still wasn’t fully convinced that Curazon was the rapist, but this time she was going to let law enforcement and the courts determine his guilt. This time there was no rage—the only emotion he had generated as she had stood and watched him through the one-way glass was disgust.
Coming up from her thoughts, she noticed they were passing the government center. “Want to stop at my office and see the new building?” she asked Shana. “I won’t be more than a few minutes. I left early today and I should check on a few things.”
“I don’t mind, but I have to do my history.”
“Take your history book and notebook, and you can work at one of the desks outside my office while I make a few calls. I’ll call your father and tell him we’ll be late.”
“I already called him from the station and told him the guy’s in jail,” Shana said, a look of relief on her face. “I just wanted him to know.” She turned and looked at Lily.
Almost eight o’clock, the parking lot was deserted except for a few cars scattered throughout the huge space. Right in front of the doors to the Hall of Justice, where Lily was headed, was a white BMW exactly like Richard’s. As she got closer, she recognized the plate and knew it was his. She started to turn around and leave; she was seconds late. He had seen her and was waving as he exited the glass doors.
“Who’s that?” Shana said.
“That’s a man who works with me in my department. He was the chief before I got the post, and they kept him on to help me.” Richard was walking toward the car as Lily and Shana opened the doors. He had a big smile on his face and didn’t bat an eye when he saw Lily wasn’t alone.
“You have to be Shana?” he said, extending his hand as he would to an adult. “I’ve heard so much about you from your mother, and of course, I see your picture on her desk every day.”
Lily introduced him. “Shana, this is Richard Fowler.” She then turned and seeing a young man behind the wheel of the BMW, she realized that it must be Richard’s son. Even though the windows of the car were rolled up, the car seemed to be vibrating from the deafening stereo inside. Lily felt self-conscious and tried to push her hair off her face and pull her shoulders back. When she had first seen the BMW, she had visualized him walking out of the building with the young blond DA.
Richard spoke directly to Shana. “Stay there a minute, but put your hands over your ears before I open the door or you’ll be sorry. I want you both to meet my son.” He then turned to Lily. “I left my wallet in the office and we’re out foraging for food. Can’t get too far on five dollars. Wait…I’ll get Greg.”
An enormous blast of what sounded like rap music struck their ears and then was silenced. A handsome young man started walking toward them. He had his father’s dark eyes, but his hair was blond and hung down his back like a rock star’s—silky and sun-streaked, as well cared for as a girl’s. The way he moved, the long, fluid strides, was definitely a trait inherited from his father, as were the rakish grin and confidence.
“Greg, this is Lily Forrester, the D.A. who took my position, and this lovely girl is her daughter, Shana.”
Tossing her full head of hair to one side of her face, Shana peeked up at him in such a way that her eyelashes looked like they were going to stick to her lids. A slight tinge of pink spread across her face, but she managed to produce a smile unlike any her mother had ever seen. Lily knew she was nervous; she also knew she was taken with Greg.
Richard started to take a few steps toward his car, and Lily toward the doors to the building. “See you tomorrow,” he said. They both then stopped and stared at their children and then back at each other. Greg and Shana were in their own little world.
“Where do you go to school?” Greg asked, leaning over the top of Lily’s Honda.
“Next year I’m going to Ventura High. Right now I’m still in Camarillo. I hate it.” Shana pushed one hip out and also leaned against the car.
“Radical. I’ll be a senior there next year. Ever go to the beach around here?” he asked, flipping his hair with both hands.
Richard’s expression darkened, but Lily was pleased.
What she was seeing was a hint of the magic, the old Shana. She didn’t want it to stop. Now was the perfect time for the child to resume her life.
“Rich, I have a case I have to check on. I could use your advice.” She turned to the two young people. “Do you guys want to talk for a few minutes while we run upstairs? It won’t take more than ten minutes max.”
“No problem,” Greg said eagerly. “I just ate some burgers a few hours ago.”
Richard looked at Lily, puzzled, but followed her into the complex. In the elevator, he questioned her. “What case are you talking about? McDonald-Lopez? Nothing new.” His brows were furrowed with concern. “You know, I haven’t told you much about Greg. He’s quite the man with the girls.”
“I noticed,” Lily said. “Like father, like son.”
“To be frank, I would rather they got to know each other once our relationship is out in the open. I don’t want Greg putting the make on her.” He grimaced. “Christ, he will. She’s a beautiful girl. Looks just like you. I mean just like you.”
At the floor, they needed a key to get in. “Got your key?” Lily said, replaying his last statement about their “relationship.” She had him jumping in and out of bed with every available woman at the office, and he was still talking about their relationship. “I think I’m going to get one of those key chains that fastens to your belt.”
Richard fished out his key, but kept glancing back at the elevator. “I’m going back down. Do you mind?” He was nervous, rubbing his finger back and forth over his chin.
“Please, you’re being silly. Shana needs this desperately. This is the first time since everything has happened that I’ve seen her come alive. So what if they flirt a little?”
“What did you come here for anyway that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
Her intention had been to call the jail and find out exactly what time Hernandez had been released on the night of the rape, something she should have done long ago. Now that Richard was there, she hesitated, unable to find a valid excuse for her actions. “Let’s go,” she said. “Shana has homework.”
In the elevator, he tried to corner her, but she slipped away, ducking under his arm. “The kids could be standing there when the door opens,” she said.
“That’s just the point. I want them to know we love each other. I want us all to be a family someday. That’s what I dream about all the time. You’d never believe all the dreams I have. I’ve even thoug
ht about us opening our own law firm.” The elevator doors closed.
Lily felt warmth course through her veins, wondering if she was reacting to Richard’s words or the Valium. Opening her purse to reach for her car keys, she saw the mug shot of Hernandez and quickly closed the purse. It was the Valium. Dreams were for people who had not stepped over the line, who had not made a grave error.
Richard was holding the elevator doors open; they kept trying to close and were emitting a horrendous noise that echoed in Lily’s ears. She was leaning against the back of the elevator, unable to move.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He then slapped his forehead with his hand. “You went for the lineup tonight, didn’t you? God, how could I forget? I was so preoccupied today and then Greg came over…What happened?”
She ignored him and walked from the elevator, looking through the glass to the parking lot. The kids were no longer standing there, and Lily began to panic. “Where are they? My God, where did they go? I shouldn’t have let her stay down here.”
Richard walked behind her and smiled. “They’re in the car, Mom. Probably listening to tapes. I thought you were the one that thought this was such a good idea.”
They both hit the double doors at the same time. “Remember, I did warn you about Greg. I wouldn’t trust that boy five minutes with my thirteen-year-old daughter,” he said.
“She’ll be fourteen in two months, but I get the picture. Send her to the car and I’ll see you in the morning.” She then added, “We both picked the same man. He’s in custody. I’ll fill you in later.”
Shana jumped into the car and waved to Greg out the window as they drove off. “He’s so rad, Mom,” she said, pulling the visor down and trying to see how she looked even though it was dark. “He’s gorgeous…totally gorgeous. He’s a surfer. He wants to take me to the beach someday. I can’t believe it…a senior. Wait till I tell Charlotte and Sally. He looks just like one of the Nelson twins. Jeez.” The words were spilling out in youthful enthusiasm. “I’ve gotta get a tan.”
Mitigating Circumstances Page 26
