T-bar posts that had held crime scene tape were gone. She walked in circles with her flashlight sweeping the hard ground until she found it. When she brushed her hand along its rough surface, she picked up tiny splinters on the palm of her hand.
She called Lewis.
“I found what Cassandra Baca was lying on. That piece of plywood the locals put down to avoid walking over mud. Get a van out here. This thing’s too big for my car.”
Thornton’s deposition on tap tomorrow. Thornton had sued her and everyone on the Cody Geronimo case hoping to shake loose a settlement from the state’s Risk Management Division. She should get some sleep. But the rush of the fight on the mat stayed with her.
After the plywood board had been removed to SFPD’s evidence room, Aragon swung by Walmart and bought a self-stick easel pad flipchart. In her apartment she wrote down everything they had in each line of inquiry: Thornton/Diaz, Silva, Breskin, and a new column for Star Salazar. The sheets went onto windows, doors, refrigerator. She took down photos of her deceased parents, Javier and Serena and their kids to make room. Where she saw connections, she drew lines across walls. The place needed a painting anyway.
One of the things she saw was the need to know where Cassandra Baca went every time she was returned to the Pizza Hut by Montclaire. The place to start was finding the route she would have walked home. Montclaire said she’d tried following but lost Cassandra crossing a dark lot.
Aragon parked at the Pizza Hut and scanned the area for security cameras Tucker may have missed. She didn’t see any. She straightened her Springfield .40 caliber in the back of her belt. Then she set out.
She crossed busy Cerrillos, seeing Cassandra, drained and sore, a little drunk, rushing across the six lanes of headlights to the other side. She found what may have been the dark lot where Montclaire had lost her. On the other side was a fence topped with razor wire that didn’t make sense. It didn’t enclose anything. Following it to the left led to a residential street amid warehouses and small factories. To the right she came to a busy four-lane street.
Aragon consulted her GPS for the most direct route to the Baca house. It was along the busy street. Men in cars shouted out of windows at her, a woman alone where no one else walked this time of night. One car doubled back and slowed, close to the curb, four heads inside, now almost stopping.
“Get moving.” She held out her badge, in just enough light for them to see. Her other hand was under her shirt in the back, hand curled around her pistol.
Men she couldn’t see cursed. The car moved on, loud music trailing after it. Cassandra Baca wouldn’t have driven them off like that. There were still two miles along this road before the route home turned onto quieter streets. Cassandra did not get home this way.
Aragon returned to the dark lot and followed the fence into the neighborhood squeezed among industrial buildings. She reached the end and walked a narrow street without any street signs at intersections. She reached another high chain-link fence. Dogs snarled behind a locked gate. She shined her flashlight and saw teeth and gums. Beyond were trailers and small stucco houses crowded onto the same lot, nothing marking any property division between them.
She’d seen this place in daylight. Star Salazar lived here.
Sixteen
Thornton didn’t ask a single question relevant to her lawsuit. She used the courtroom deposition, held with Judge Diaz presiding, to ask where Lily Montclaire was.
“The witness will answer. Reread the question.”
Judge Diaz nodded at the stenographer, a heavy guy in a rumpled suit, purple Crocs over Argyle socks. He backed up, past Diaz’s ruling, Thornton’s argument, Fager’s objection. Fager, on a bring-down from Diaz, representing himself in his red jail jumpsuit.
The stenographer located the question: “Detective, do you know where Lily Montclaire is?”
Aragon scowled at the person who was supposed to be her attorney, a contract lawyer in a pants suit and flat shoes from Risk Management. She’d been doodling when Thornton veered off into Montclaire’s whereabouts. Aragon had told her ahead of time to object, shut the goddamn thing down if they got to Montclaire. This is discovery, the contract lawyer told her. Wide-ranging inquiry is the rule. We’ll have our turn.
She was still doodling. Fager, her only hope, was back in his seat.
“Yes,” Aragon answered. She had no choice.
Thornton covered the distance from counsel table, eyes locked on Aragon’s.
“Where is she?”
“In a safe place.”
Thornton folded her arms. “Where precisely, using an address, a geographical location, would that be?”
“In the mountains east of here.”
“The mountains ‘east of here’ run from Colorado to Mexico. Is she alone?”
“She might be on a mule. Is that alone?”
“She’s on a mule.”
“Is that a question?”
Aragon raised her eyebrows at Fager. Come on, object. Make a speech. Something. What was he doing? Pulling papers out of an accordion file.
“Stop dancing around, detective,” Judge Diaz. “Tell us precisely where Lily Montclaire is or I will hold you in contempt. You’ll get to wear the women’s counterpart of Mr. Fager’s attire.”
“She was at the Loco Lobo Outfitters ranch, outside Pecos. I don’t know any street address. It’s hard to get there.”
“I can find it,” Thornton said. “That concludes my questioning for now. This deposition remains open while I confirm Detective Aragon’s information.”
“Excuse me.” Fager held sheets of paper ripped off a yellow legal pad. “Other parties have the right to examine the witness.”
Diaz ruled by waving for him to proceed. He pushed up the sleeves of his red jumpsuit and came forward.
“Detective Aragon, you and I spoke about your investigation into my wife’s murder, is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Did you at any time instruct me to take any specific action against Cody Geronimo?”
“No.”
“Did you at any time direct me to enter onto his property?”
“No.”
“Was I in any manner acting as your agent?”
“No.”
“Who is E. Benny Silva?”
Diaz knocked over her glass. Water flowed across the bench into the witness dock. She rose out of her chair, slapping the front of her robe.
“Counsel, in chambers.” Aragon’s lawyer stood up. “Not you,” Diaz said.
“But I’m counsel of record in this case.”
“This is another matter. Just those two.” Diaz pointed at Fager and Thornton before she disappeared through the door behind the bench. They looked at each other, then followed Diaz while Aragon’s lawyer rushed into the hallway, digging her cell out of her purse and shouting, “I’m calling my supervisor.”
Aragon helped the bailiff sop up the flood, using the tissues always there on a rail near the witness chair. It wasn’t water. She licked a finger. The judge had filled her glass with vodka.
The bailiff saw her do that and shrugged. “She stays awake, at least. I had a judge, he’d doze off, his mouth open. This old lawyer would wave a hand in front of his face, snap his fingers. Yo, judge, you in there? The judge would sit bolt upright. ‘Overruled!’ he’d shout every time. ‘Next question.’ I had to make sure he only signed orders first thing in the morning, before the drawer with the bottle stayed open. You could put findings of fact in front of him, up is down, red is blue, he’d sign it you caught him at five.”
With a tissue, Aragon picked up the overturned glass and dropped her hand to her side, below the rail. She set the glass out of sight on her chair. When the bailiff bent to drop wet tissues in a can, the glass went into the purse she’d carried over her shoulder to the stand.
The door to D
iaz’s chambers opened. Only Fager came out, shuffling along, trying to keep the loose plastic slippers on his feet. He’d gone in with pages from a legal pad and come out empty-handed.
“You’re deposition is over,” he said. “They’ve had their fun.”
The stenographer was packing up.
“What happened back there?” Aragon asked.
“Diaz wanted to know how I knew about Benny Silva. I said I didn’t, that’s why I was asking. I told her Thornton’s been calling the jail, asking around. I asked about Silva’s new trial motion growing moss in Diaz’s in-basket. Thornton told her, ‘Judy, drop it.’ Diaz didn’t. Wanted to know what I knew about the new trial motion, had I talked to Benny Silva, was he a client? I reminded her I’m disbarred, then asked why she was so worked up. Thornton had her hands on Diaz’s shoulders, Diaz’s eyes bugging out at me. Made me glad I’d gone fishing with the Silva thing. I caught something big. That’s when Diaz said the deposition was in recess and get my ass back to the Santa Fe Country Club.”
Sheriff’s deputies came into the room and stood behind Fager.
“‘I have something for Ms. Thornton before I go,’ I told Diaz. I gave Marcy copies of disciplinary complaints filed by nine of her clients, friends I’ve made in jail. I’d give you copies, but disciplinary proceedings are confidential. Okay, I’m ready, don’t rush me.”
The deputies pulled his arms behind his back, cuffs jangling as they snapped one wrist.
“The stuff on my table over there,” Fager said. “Take care of it for me. These boys are in a hurry to hustle me back to Club Med.”
At Fager’s table, she saw a legal pad with words addressed to her: Det. Aragon, Enjoy.
Loose papers were slotted into pages of the legal pad. She pulled out copies of neatly handwritten documents, each headed Disciplinary Complaint, each accusing Marcy Thornton, each signed with a name followed by a prisoner identification number.
She took the glass from Thornton’s table before following the deputies and Fager out of the courtroom.
Marcy Thornton sat across the coffee table in Diaz’s chambers, Judy on the sofa, twisting long black hair round her fingers.
“Now the police will look into Benny Silva. Fager’s always talking with them,” Diaz said, eyes not really focused on anything. “I shouldn’t have dragged things out.” Was that a moan? “I got her killed.”
“Stop,” Thornton said. “Better. That’s my girl.”
“I should resign. Then they won’t have any reason to blackmail me. I’ll go to the police, tell them about the blackmail. We didn’t know she was lying to us about her age. I admit what happened, take my licks, get on with life. We can practice law together. Civil rights, criminal defense.” She tried a smile. It didn’t hold. “It would be great.”
“How many trials have you done?”
“Hundreds.”
“As a lawyer, from start to finish, bringing clients in the door, investigating facts, on your feet examining witnesses? Lining up experts, digging through raw documents? Fighting idiot judges?”
“I went on the bench right out of law school. You know that.”
“Keep your day job,” Thornton said. “You quit and we have no leverage. That pending motion means Silva needs you with a gavel in your hand. He doesn’t get his nine mil, that could make him crazy. He could send the video to reporters. He could put us in one of his dumpsters. Money does that to people. Take it from someone who hears the stories behind closed doors. But there is something you can do. Look at this.” She tossed Fager’s yellow pages onto the sofa. “Payback. One bitter loser, no problem. But he’s got nine and he’s only been at the prison a couple days. He’s there much longer, I’ll be buried.”
“But you’re a hell of a lawyer, Marcy. You knock yourself out for your clients. I’ve had a front row seat.”
“Two-tiered pricing, two-tiered service. I can’t give every client my Johnny Cochrane tap dance. I have to make adjustments, allocate scarce resources. These guys being guilty is the best defense to a malpractice claim. What are the damages? Hell, they did it, they deserve jail. But a coordinated onslaught of disciplinary complaints, that goes to my conduct. Nothing to do with what scumbags these men are.”
“What can I do? I need you helping me with Silva, not getting eaten alive in disciplinary hearings.” Diaz twisted hair around a finger. “I had another e-mail from him. It was a photo of the front of my house. I didn’t sleep last night. I haven’t slept since I saw the photo of Andrea.”
“You haven’t been sober much, either. You’ve been drinking today.”
“Only water. And coffee.
“Sure. Give Walter Fager a get-out-of-jail-free card, you want to do something useful.”
“Turn him loose?”
“Just get him out of there.”
At your service, Marcy.
I thought I was the one who issued orders. Just get him out of there. Like, don’t screw up anything else, Judy. Because you have “The Honorable” in front of your name, don’t think you know what the hell you’re doing.
What I had to do—Judy Diaz wanting to see herself standing, shaking a finger at Thornton—to get to be chief judge, sucking up to the old boys, waiting for them go senior status or drop dead at the their desks. Earning favors in ways I don’t want to talk about. Watching you and other classmates post pictures of second homes in Baja, condos in Telluride on your Facebook pages, each of you pulling down more in a good month more than I make in a year.
Because of me. My rulings. Awarding top dollar for attorney fees, approving those cost petitions, denying motions to reduce jury awards so you could scoop your forty percent out of a bigger pot.
For you, Marcy, granting those motions to suppress, reducing bail, throwing out cases for speedy trial violations, granting discovery requests to grind the prosecution into the ground. Mistrials for the asking.
What I had to do to get the party’s nomination for that first run for the bench, the September after law school—Marcy, you never asked. It wasn’t the envelopes you handed over, cash from lawyers who wanted their support under wraps. You were upstairs in a courtesy lounge, having a time at the state convention. I was in the parking deck under the Eldorado with the man who was chief judge then, in his Lincoln Town Car, the corner away from the elevator, where it was dark.
I came upstairs, needing a drink bad. You took me round for introductions to lawyers from down south, never noticing I’d missed a button putting my shirt back on.
At your service, Marcy. You didn’t get those anonymous e-mails, the videos showing what I’ve become, what the world will see if I don’t sell the last scrap of my soul to keep it secret.
I got that girl killed, Lord forgive me.
I hear her laugh, her moans. Taste her. Smell her.
I see her lying dead on roses surrounded by garbage.
You brought her to me, Marcy. Into my house with a camera in her purse watching us, showing everything to men who now think they own me.
Never got out of that Towncar under the hotel. Damn, this bottle’s empty. I know there’s another around here. Fuck it. So I have a little vodka with my coffee.
Marcy, don’t tell me what to do. It’s all your fault.
“This must be Fager’s handwriting on the disciplinary complaints. It’s the same on every one of them. Hey, Judy, kiddo, you don’t need that.”
Plastic crackling and there she is opening a fresh bottle of Absolut, now filling a china tea cup.
“Doan tell mwat to do. Zure fault.”
What the hell? She must have been drunk on the bench, couldn’t have tied it on this quickly. Damn, she’s pouring another.
I’ve seen enough prisoners’ complaints not to take these things seriously. I’ll have to put in the hours to respond, but I can handle it. When I question these men it’ll be in a closed hearing. Fager won
’t be permitted in the room. He might be playing jailhouse lawyer now. Outside prison walls, he’s just a disbarred attorney.
But Judy, what is she saying, blaming me for not checking out Andrea, getting her into this, putting her head on the chopping block? Jesus, she can put it away. That bottle’s going down fast. Why didn’t I notice before?
“I should just go to the poleesh. Get them to take out Benny Shilva. I’d get us a deal, we’re helping. Providing material ashistance. I am the Chief fucking Judge.”
Men shuffling in restraints bitching about doing time for their crimes—that’s one thing. If I don’t blow the complaints out of the water, hell, I’ll get probation, have to report to a supervising attorney, nothing in my life really changing. We’ll probably talk cases over steaks and Zin at the Bull Ring.
A suspension at worst. Six months. A year, max. Finally a vacation.
But Judy. She could put us both in jail.
Seventeen
Abel called from the room with the televisions showing what the security cameras were seeing.
“That’s them coming in now. Junior and Star. She’s as nasty as he says.”
Benny Silva looked up from the documents his lawyer had sent over. Don’t tell me I don’t know garbage. I’m seeing it right here. This lawyer was already including “Nine Million Dollar Verdict!” in his TV ads and he wasn’t the one doing the hard work.
Benny went from his office and looked at the black and white image showing a trashed Jaguar, hood paint gone, plastic for one of the rear windows, pulling past the last gate, parking in the visitor slot. An unattractive, hell, an ugly young woman was driving. The sun sparkled on metal in her face when she got out of the car. Junior stood up from the passenger seat and winked at the camera.
She needs to wash her hair, Benny thought, cover those bony shoulders.
“Bring them around the back. I got the runner from my lawyer in the office, waiting for me to sign papers.”
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