The Trials of Nikki Hill

by Christopher Darden; Dick Lochte

  “Imagine that uptight Sister Mumphrey dissin’ my tits like that,” Angie was saying.

  “I think it was your outfit she was dissin’,” Nikki said.

  “Yeah.” Angie grinned. “Not even Sister’s gonna find fault with these tits. And they’re not even my best asset.”

  Esther gave her a polite but fleeting smile and turned to Nikki. “Sister seems to have a habit of riling folks,” she said.

  “Some people are like that.”

  “You know, when I was reading about you today, I got to wondering: You gonna be running for district attorney one of these days?”

  “I don’t suppose I’d turn the job down.”

  “I don’t suppose, either. The newspaper said you graduated top of your class. You could have started out with one of the big law firms at a very nice salary. Especially since you’d have helped satisfy two quota categories. Instead, you became a prosecutor. Why would a bright young woman do that, politics not be on your mind?”

  Nikki had known Esther for about two years, ever since the initial meeting of the Mavens, and while she had the real estate saleswoman to thank for her home in Ladera Heights, they weren’t tight friends. Until that moment, they’d never discussed anything more personal than closing costs and interest rates. Nikki didn’t feel like changing that status just because a newspaper article had turned her into a semipublic figure.

  “Prosecuting may be a nasty job,” she said, trying to keep it light. “But somebody’s got to do it.”

  “C’mon now, girl. I’m bein’ serious. Why’s prosecutin’ people turn you on?” Esther demanded.

  Nikki had never been a fan of introspection, mainly because her brief attempts at it had been too painful. Even as a little girl, she’d wanted to pursue a career in law enforcement. Behind the surface reasons—a belief in the justice system, a desire to aid in the war against crime—was a stronger, very personal motivation involving her feelings toward her father, which her innate sense of self-protection warned her not to confront. She surely was not going to poke around inside her psyche just to satisfy the curiosity of some pushy acquaintance.

  “You have the opportunity,” Esther said, “to become a leader of the African-American community—”

  “Don’t tell me about my opportunities.” Though Nikki unleashed just a small part of her anger, it was enough to quiet the room. The other Mavens had stopped eating and were staring at her.

  “The culture needs some strong black female leadership,” Esther said.

  Nikki teetered on the edge of giving Esther the same suggestion she’d offered Sister Mumphrey. Instead, she said, “You’re right. The culture doesn’t give a damn for women and even less for black women. So, sure, having black women in positions of power is an important thing. But that’s not the role I picked for myself. I just ain’t that grand, baby. If I can make this city one killer or rapist or child molester safer, that’s good enough for me. Hell, Esther, maybe I just like putting folks in jail.”

  Before the real estate agent could press her further, she stood up and carried her plate into the kitchen. She stayed there, chatting with Juanita and Victoria Allard, until they were interrupted by the club treasurer, Lois Needham, a tiny woman with a squeaky voice who had been called “Mousie” most of her thirty-five years. She slapped the leather-case notepad she was carrying and said, “C’mon, ladies. Time to talk money.”

  It was a typical session, beginning with Mousie’s report, which, owing to the market’s upturn, was good news. This was followed by discussions of weight gain and loss, a new pill for clearer thought, and men, none of which had anything to do with their portfolio. Four of the Mavens had serious suggestions about stocks they’d been watching and these were voted on quickly and efficiently in between more talk about men, problems with offspring, job complaints, and current movies.

  The meeting broke up at a little after ten.

  “You got an edge to you tonight, girl,” Loreen said to Nikki as they left Juanita’s building. “What’s up?”

  “People shaking my tree. Esther telling me how to lead my life.”

  “She should talk. Missy No-Money-Down.”

  “Sister Mumphrey feels she has to stick her big nose into my family situation.”

  “That’s Sister’s way,” Loreen said as they arrived at her aqua BMW. “She’s got no life of her own. She’d love to think she’d been on your mind all evening.”

  “Not her. My father.”

  “Honey,” her friend said, taking her hands, “I got a shooting pain in my heart over what you been through. Never knowing your mama. Having your daddy turn his back on you, like it was some fault of yours she died, instead of God’s will. With all that, it made you a stronger woman than you might have been.”

  “Whatever doesn’t drive you crazy or put you under makes you a better person,” Nikki said, “that the idea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you been spending too much time under the hair dryer.”

  “You talking about Phil the hair dryer, or ’Toine the hair dryer?”

  Nikki shook her head and smiled. “You’re impossible.” Then she hugged her friend.

  “You gonna be okay?” Loreen asked.

  “I’m fine,” Nikki said. “Just need a little sleep.”

  “If sleep doesn’t come and you want to talk, call me.”

  Nikki thanked her and headed away. She’d almost reached her car when Loreen passed by, tapping the BMW’s horn and waving. Nikki unlocked her door and slipped behind the wheel. She started the car and drove away, thinking about the last time she’d had a conversation with her father.

  It had been just after her grandmother’s funeral. He had called her at work to thank her for taking care of the arrangements. She had been surprised when he went on to question her about the man she’d been with at the church. Feeling surprisingly girlish, she’d started to tell him about Tony Black. He’d interrupted her midsentence. “Sorry, but I gotta cut this short. Tricia has to use the phone.”

  When Blackie died, there had been no appearance at the funeral and no phone call. Just a Hallmark condolence card signed “from William and Patricia Hill.”

  Nikki was so busy reliving painful memories she didn’t notice the sedan that followed her from Playa Del Rey, zooming past as she turned into her drive.

  FIFTEEN

  In the community of Manhattan Beach, not far from Ladera Heights, there exists a park built around a five-story mountain of sand. Nikki made a practice of climbing its difficult surface at least three days a week.

  Her time of choice for the workout was sunrise, when the temperature was tolerable and she didn’t have to worry about some novice climber suddenly turning into a gasping and moaning roadblock directly in her path. The morning after the Mavens meeting, for no particular reason, she pushed herself for one more climb than usual and hit the top just as the sun was balanced on the eastern skyline. She was breathing heavily; her leg muscles were burning but she felt good. Alive. Love those endorphins!

  Bird, who was not allowed on the sand, had long ago settled for using the wooden stairwell to keep pace with his mistress. He rested beside her, panting not from the climb but to cool off his body.

  As she did her stretching and bending, Nikki became aware of two young brothers watching her. They had the

  loose-limbed appearance of athletes and were wearing Nike gear that looked like it had arrived from the factory that morning. The shorter of the two approached her, drawing back as Bird leaped to attention.

  “Hi,” he said to Nikki, keeping his distance from the dog. “My name is Charles.”

  She paused in the middle of a stretch. “Sit, Bird,” she said. She looked at the young man, saying nothing to him, waiting to hear his pitch. He surprised her by saying, “My friend finds you very attractive.”

  She looked over at the other young man, who was grinning at her. “Cat got his tongue?” she asked.

  “He’s sorta shy. Prefers it if I brea
k the ice.”

  It’s a complicated old world, she thought, and it isn’t getting any simpler. “Better get yourself a new pick, because this ice is definitely not broken,” she said. “In fact, it’s getting frostier by the minute.” She continued her stretches, plainly ignoring him.

  He mentioned his friend’s name, which was the same as a legendary baseball player. “You’ve probably heard of his father.”

  Nikki undid the towel that was tied around her waist and began dabbing at the perspiration on her face. She said nothing.

  “He’d like you to have dinner with him tonight,” Charles told her.

  “Not with him or his father. Tell him he might get better results next time if he did his own asking.” Bird was picking up her annoyance. He emitted a rumbling low growl.

  Charles glanced at the dog and lost just a bit of his confidence. “Name the place,” he said to Nikki. “The new Spago. The Shark Bar.”

  “You got wax in your ears?” she asked.

  Charles waved a dismissive hand and turned away, swaggering toward his friend. “Forget it,” he called out. “Dykesville. Probably gets it on with the dawg.”

  Bird looked at his mistress, waiting for a signal. “Be,” she said softly, and the dog leaped toward the walking man, teeth bared. Charles screamed and rushed to escape those fierce teeth, stumbling in the sand and colliding with his friend.

  “Bop!” Nikki shouted.

  Bird shifted immediately into docility a few feet away from the flailing boys. His owner smiled, not at the discomfort of the two jerks who were then rolling ass over elbow down the face of the dune, but at a memory triggered by the action commands. Who else but a jazz buff like Tony Black would have trained his guard dog to attack on the word “Be” and stop on the word “Bop”? Who else but a jazz buff like Tony would have named his dog Yardbird in the first place?

  As the frightened Charles and his shy friend beat a graceless retreat to the parking area below, Nikki welcomed Bird into her arms. “Good dog,” she said. “Good Bird.” Then she and the Bouvier made their separate descents, unaware of another young man who’d been following Nikki since the night before and was particularly fascinated by the big dog’s devotion to his mistress.

  SIXTEEN

  The majority of Nikki’s morning was spent at the Major Crimes section of the LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide division, going over the reports of Detectives Goodman and Morales. Lieutenant Foster Corben, the large, rawboned head of Major Crimes, had welcomed her with formal cordiality and assigned one of his detectives, a young white woman named Harriman, to assist her.

  This assistance consisted of locating an empty desk and then finding the materials Nikki specified. Detective Harriman was cooperative but distant. That was fine with Nikki. She needed information, not a new best friend.

  Just before noon Nikki’s cellular chirped. It was a clerk, telling her that Wise had called a meeting. She closed her notebook, capped her pen, and carried the reports and transcripts to Detective Harriman’s desk. The detective was on the phone. From the expression on her face and the way she protected the receiver, Nikki suspected it was a personal call. To a lover, perhaps. Or maybe just a snitch.

  She waited a beat, wanting to thank Harriman for her help, but the phone call didn’t seem near completion, so she just tapped the detective on the shoulder, mouthed the word “thanks,” and turned to go.

  That’s when she saw the man staring at her.

  He was at a desk across the room, tall and handsome with skin the color of dark caramel, wearing a blue-and-white-striped shirt, a solid blue tie, and dark gray silk slacks. He didn’t seem to care that he’d been caught staring. He grinned at her.

  She responded with a noncommittal smile.

  He looked vaguely familiar. An old schoolmate? Somebody she’d dated? Maybe he’d worked one of her cases?

  She shrugged it off and started toward the elevator. In her peripheral vision she saw him stand. Was he going to follow her?

  He was.

  Damn, she thought, do I know him or not?

  “Miss,” he called.

  She turned.

  “I’ve got something belongs to you,” he said. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew a black leather wallet. He took two dollars from it and held them out.

  She stared at the bills in his hand, frowning because she was getting the idea that maybe her leg was being pulled.

  “These are yours. And this is for the interest.” He added a third dollar.

  She looked from the money to him. “You some kind of lunatic?”

  “No ma’am. You generously loaned me some money. I’m just paying you back.”

  “I didn’t . . .” She was going to tell him she was certain she’d never loaned him any money. What stopped her was his sudden shift in appearance. His jaw dropped and became slack. His eyelids lowered to half-mast. His right shoulder dipped and a bend of his knees transformed him from an athletic man in his thirties to a shambling drifter of undetermined age.

  “Ol’ Juppy never fo’gets a face,” he said. “Or a debt.”

  She was stunned by the transformation. The sound of laughter broke the spell. Several of the detectives had been watching the performance. “Damn, Virgil,” one of them said, “that’s some smooth pick-up technique.”

  Nikki’s face was burning. She turned on her heel and continued on to the elevator.

  Virgil ran after her. “Hey, wait a minute. Really,” he called, “I didn’t mean to take your money. I was undercover and I didn’t know who might be watching.”

  She pressed the elevator button.

  “Look, my name’s Virgil Sykes,” he said. “I know your name, Nicolette.”

  The elevator door opened. Several people got off, including an attractive African-American woman in black jeans and a Day-Glo T-shirt.

  Nikki stepped into the elevator.

  “Wait,” the man shouted.

  “Hi, Virgil, honey,” the woman in black jeans said in greeting.

  “Bye, Virgil, honey,” Nikki said as the elevator doors closed.

  She arrived at the meeting in Wise’s office to find the head deputy and Detectives Goodman and Morales all looking depressed.

  “What’s up, Ray?” she asked. “Your subscription to Hustler give out?”

  Wise was too down to respond in kind. “The results of Deschamps’s polygraph have come in,” he said. “The news is not good.”

  “When did we give him a polygraph?” she asked.

  “ We didn’t give it,” Wise said. “His frigging lawyer requested it.”

  “Bleed ’em and plead ’em? A polygraph?”

  “Mr. Deschamps has new counsel,” Wise said. “Jesse Fallon.”

  Nikki knew the name, of course. Fallon was a legend. “The black Melvin Belli” was how one of her law professors described him. “How in the sweet brown-eyed world did Deschamps get himself an attorney like Jesse Fallon?”

  The two detectives looked blank. Wise shrugged. “With all due respect,” he said acidly, “you don’t suppose it could have been the notoriety of the murder coupled with the color of Deschamps’s skin?”

  “Fallon’s never been interested in notoriety before,” she said. “He’s made his bones a hundred times over. I heard he was all but retired.”

  “What difference does it make?” Wise whined. “The old bastard’s involved and he’s whipping our ass. Let’s move on—to the progress our LAPD associates have been making.”

  More bad news. The detectives had just come from interrogating Dorothea Downs, the woman Deschamps claimed to have slept with the night of the murder. His alibi was firming up.

  Wise sighed. “Is the woman a whore?” he asked the detectives.

  “Whore?” Morales said. “Naw, she’s just a gal who likes the baby’s arm every now and then.”

  “She works for a boutique,” Goodman said. “Sells clothes.”

  “Don’t take me literally, detectives. I wasn’t asking if she hooked. When she gets
on the stand, what will the jury see? Will they see a woman of loose morals who can’t be trusted to tell the truth? Or will they see a nice, upstanding female with whom they can identify?”

  “She got dyed hair,” Morales said. “Orange like a Popsicle.”

  “Good,” Wise said.

  He was asking them more about Dorothea Downs when Walden called, requesting his immediate presence. “The detectives are here. Shall I bring them?”

  Evidently the answer was no, because when Wise replaced the phone he said, “Gentlemen, that wraps it up for now. Nikki, he wants us.”

  Nikki thought the two cops looked like they’d been given the day off. She wanted to catch them while they were in that mood, so she followed them into the hall. “Detectives,” she called, “could I ask you for a favor?”

  They turned to her.

  “I went through most of the files today at your office. But I’d like to take a look at your murder books on Madeleine Gray,” she said. “At your convenience, of course.”

  Goodman hesitated before replying. Each homicide detective maintains a murder book that is supposed to contain every bit of information that officer has collected and every event in which he or she has participated. Because of the myriad details that go into it, a murder book can in fact be a series of thick volumes. Often, these books are used by superiors to gauge a detective’s effectiveness.

  “It’s for my eyes only,” Nikki said. “The district attorney expects me to provide him with an overview of the case against Jamal Deschamps. It’d help if I could get an idea how the investigation has been progressing. All very informal. I won’t be quoting you or anything like that.”

  Morales shrugged. “I know you think I’m nuthin’ but a refried asshole, Nikki, but I’m here for you. Anything you need.”

  Said without his customary smirk or leer, the sincerity of his reply surprised her and threw her off balance. She felt she should make some gesture to indicate that his friendship was appreciated. But she couldn’t shake the belief that any display of warmth would be misinterpreted. So she offered him a tentative smile and turned to Goodman. “What about you, Ed?” she asked.