He’s feeling supremely self-satisfied. This is a defining moment in his career. That it should occur when opposing Luke Garrison only makes it juicier.
Judge Ewing looks to Luke. “Are you going to file a motion for a mistrial?”
Ewing himself had watched the doings from his office window. Like the prosecution, he too has done a quick check on what ramifications Lancaster’s public address might have on any legal positions either the defense or, much less likely, the prosecution might take. He’s found nothing.
“I’d like to file a motion, Your Honor, but I need to do some research on it first, to find out where I stand. If I have standing, which right now I don’t know,” Luke admits candidly, “I certainly don’t want to have to give my closing today. Because frankly, I don’t have one now.”
“Your honor, I have to object—” Logan begins.
“Shut up, Ray!” Ewing barks impatiently. “Whether or not you knew it was coming, this incident reeks of unprofessional and tawdry behavior.” He turns to Luke and De La Guerra. “I’m going to dismiss the jury until tomorrow morning. I want you to come back into my courtroom by a quarter to five this afternoon and tell me, if you can, what you’re going to do. We’re in trial—I’m not going to stop it. Unless you can convince me, with clear legal precedent, that Doug Lancaster’s actions today are grounds to grant a motion for mistrial, we’re forging ahead. You show me, or this trial goes to the jury for their deliberations by the end of the day tomorrow.”
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay …Luke and Riva, shoes off, his suit pants rolled up to the knees, walk along the water’s edge at Butterfly Beach. The tide is way out, almost a hundred yards. Hand in hand, they walk past Channel Drive and the Biltmore Hotel, away from the afternoon western sun. The damp sand crunches under their steps. Her footprints, normally highly arched, are now, because of her pregnancy, completely flat, no definition except the toe marks.
“Luke …”
“It’s okay. It isn’t over.”
She marvels at his stoicism. This man she loves so dearly has just had the rug pulled out from under him, his entire defense ripped to shreds. And before this latest, almost inevitable catastrophe, Luke has, during the course of their sojourn here in enemy territory, been shot at, discovered that his client is a liar and a child abuser, reencountered his ex-wife with all the psychology and emotion attendant on that, had to process the enmity of the members of his former staff and handle the overall hostility coming his way from the city at large, and, to top all that off, been sucked into the maelstrom of a situation that appeared pristine and pure on the outside but was actually dirty to the core.
“What are you going to do?” She can’t help but ask him, even though she knows he’s thinking, he doesn’t want to talk. This walk on the beach was his idea—he wanted to make sure he was calm and that his mind was clear before taking his next step.
He stops, glances up at the sun. “I need to give Judge Ewing an answer in two hours,” he says elliptically, avoiding her question. Picking up a piece of beach glass made smooth by countless caressings from the surf, he skims it across the shallow tendrils of the shore-lapping waves. “And while I’m figuring out what that’s going to be, I want you to check on one more thing for me. We may have overlooked something, and if we did, there’s still some hope.” He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “This much, or less. But right now, it’s all we’ve got.”
He’s in the middle of typing his brief when Riva opens the door to the motel room that’s eight blocks from the courthouse. She rented the room under a false name days ago, for them to work in; he doesn’t want the press bulldogging him at his office, checking to see what he’s doing or who he could be seeing. So far, he’s managed to elude them.
“Is she here?” he asks, fingers frozen over the keyboard.
Her smile is wide, open, and full of relief. “She’s here.” She turns, addresses the unseen woman standing behind her. “Come in, Mrs. Gonzalez.”
Maria Gonzalez, eyes darting everywhere but on his face, edges into the small chamber. As soon as she’s crossed the threshold, Riva pulls the door shut behind them. The curtains are drawn tight against the afternoon sun and any prying eyes.
Luke stands, comes from behind his makeshift desk. “Thanks for coming in,” he tells her. “I can’t tell you how good it is for you to do this.”
The woman is trembling. “I’m scared to death,” she admits.
“No reason to be,” he says reassuringly. “You haven’t done anything wrong, you have nothing to be ashamed about.”
“I lied,” she whimpers, sitting in the chair he slides under her. “In court.”
“Naw.” He shakes his head dismissively. “You didn’t lie.” He sits on the edge of the desk, looking at her friendly-like. With a slight motion of his head, he cues Riva, who crosses behind Maria to a small, low credenza on which there is a tape machine. Silently, she presses it on. “You answered all the questions anybody asked you. You just weren’t asked all the right questions, that’s all. That’s not your fault, that’s mine.” He leans forward, touching her on the fabric of her sleeve. “Now I’m going to ask what I hope are the rest of the right questions, so we can get straight with this whole thing, once and for all.”
Outside the courthouse, the press corps, print and television, hang around in small clusters, idly yakking with each other. Speculation runs rife. One rumor going around is that Joe Allison is going to change his plea to guilty in exchange for a promise of life without parole instead of the death penalty. Another is that there’s going to be a mistrial. There’s even some talk that Luke Garrison, having gotten his ass kicked from here to Ventura County, is trying to finagle his way off the case.
No one’s leaving. Something is going to be decided by the close of the court day, and they all want to know what it is. They already have their lead story: Doug Lancaster’s admission of where he was, and the fallout from it, both personally and how it will affect the outcome of this trial. But the press buzzards are hoping for a two-fer, another sensational revelation that will elevate this to the kind of cheap mythical status that a voracious tabloid-driven, gossip-hungry public has come to expect.
Checking of watches. Four-thirty. The court’s day ends at five. Whatever’s going to happen, it’s going to happen pretty damn pronto. Where is Garrison? No one knows.
In the confines of his office, Ray Logan paces. Something’s got to give. He hopes Luke doesn’t come in with some whacked-out mistrial notion. There are none, none that his staff has come up with. And not only his people—the state attorney general has had his own appellate staff researching this madly, dozens of lawyers in Sacramento poring over every law book and statute known to be current, looking for any needle in a haystack. So far, with less than half an hour to go before Luke has to make his appeal, they haven’t found one.
Time is running out on the defense. Logan wants it to run out faster.
Riva, checking the door to make sure no one is around, hustles Maria Gonzalez outside to her car, where she’ll drive her home.
Luke is finished. He prints out his motion, only a few pages. He’s already prepared the subpoenas. One was handed to Maria Gonzalez before she left. The other will be served as soon as Judge Ewing approves his motion.
If the judge approves it. That’s the entire ball game, right there. A betting man wouldn’t take that bet: Ewing has never gone for a motion like his, he looked it up. But he has nowhere else to go. He’s out of options. Squaring his shoulders, shrugging into his suit coat, he leaves the sanctity of the motel room, briefcase and computer in hand.
Circling the far side of the courthouse, coming from the opposite direction from where his office at the law school is located (which he correctly figures is the direction all the reporters will be watching), he drives into the basement entrance of the courthouse garage, which is usually reserved for jail vehicles, but which he’s been given special dispensation to use, to stay away from the press. J
udge Ewing’s orders.
Inside the judge’s little private room, the air conditioner is going full blast. It’s a west-facing room, it catches the afternoon sun. The judge doesn’t use it much; he sometimes eats lunch there, or works at his desk when the court day is done. Now he sits and waits.
The telephone rings on his desk. Instinctively, he looks at the old Ingersoll clock on the wall, his father’s old clock, the one that hung behind the counter in his parents’ feed store in the Santa Ynez Valley. Ten to five. Listening, then: “Notify the district attorney and tell him we’re ready.”
Wordlessly, Luke hands a copy of his motion to Judge Ewing, another to Ray Logan. They open the envelopes simultaneously. Ewing, reading the cover heading, looks up in disbelief. “Motion to reopen? Luke, what is this? I can’t …”
Ray Logan, incensed, throws his copy across the room. “This is amateur night in Dixie, Your Honor,” he bellows. “There’s got to be a limit to how far we can be pushed. This is absolute crap!”
Luke crosses the room and retrieves Logan’s copy of his affidavit. He holds it out to his opponent. “I think you should read it,” he says softly. “I put a lot of work into this. Humor me, okay? Just read it. Then you can toss it.” He’s smiling as he holds out the document.
Ewing has been reading it. He looks up at Luke. “The housekeeper will swear to this?” he asks, his voice quavering.
“Yes, Your Honor. She says she will.”
Ewing reads further. Glancing up for a moment to Logan, he says, “You better read this, Ray.”
Logan, alarmed by the tone of the judge’s voice, snatches the document from Luke’s hand and looks at it. He reads a few lines, then looks at Luke in alarm. “Where’s this coming from?”
“Keep reading.”
Ewing has finished. He lays the papers on his desk. “This is explosive material.”
“I know, sir.”
“It’s awfully late in the day, Luke.”
“A man’s life is at stake, Your Honor. That supersedes anyone’s schedule.”
Logan, having finished, puts his copy down. His face is ashen. “This is horrible, if true,” he laments.
Ewing looks at the district attorney. “Are you going to oppose this motion?” he asks gravely.
Logan’s mouth flops open, like a fish caught on a hook. “I …” He sits down, buries his head in his hands. Then, looking up, he gives in. “No, Your Honor. In the interests of justice, I can’t.”
Ewing nods. He stands, buzzes his clerk and the bailiff to come in. They’ve been outside, waiting patiently.
The woman stands in the doorway, pencil and pad in hand. The bailiff is one step behind her.
“The defense has filed a motion to reopen, which I am granting,” he tells them. “Type it up and distribute it. Make sure the jurors are contacted as soon as possible.” He turns to Luke. “Are you going to issue subpoenas?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor. Our key witness is definitely going to be hostile. We’ve already served the housekeeper, Maria Gonzalez. I’ve got somebody standing by with my other one.”
The deputy whistles. “First time I’ve ever seen this happen, Judge.”
Another nod from the judge. “First for me, too.” He scoops his coat from the rack. “I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning, gentlemen.” On his way out, he stops and turns back to Luke and Logan. “I’m issuing a gag order on this until tomorrow morning. No talking to the press about reopening the case. It’s going to be tough enough once they find out. I, for one, would like one night of relative peace before they start to tear us all apart.”
Sheriff Williams, seeing Luke leaving, pulls him aside. “What’s going on?” he asks anxiously.
“I can’t discuss anything,” Luke tells him. “We’re under a tight gag order.”
“I know. Even Ray Logan won’t tell me.” He’s bent out of shape from this, and isn’t making a good job of not showing it.
“He’s bound by the judge’s ruling, same as anyone. Don’t worry.” He claps Williams on the back, hail fellow. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The sheriff nods unhappily. He hates being out of the loop, like he isn’t as important as some of the other players. “By the way. We’re pulling your surveillance.”
“Oh?”
“There’s no threat anymore. Doug was our prime suspect.”
“Sure, I understand. I appreciate all you’ve done.”
Williams stares at him. “Stay low to the ground the next few days. No one’s after you anymore.” He offers his hand. “Good luck tomorrow. Whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Thanks. You too.”
“He’s pulling your protection?” Riva’s nonplussed. “Now?”
“They don’t feel there’s a threat anymore. They’re trying to save a buck.”
“They’re fools.”
“He may be right.” He pauses. With some foreboding: “Then again, he might be wrong.”
“Don’t go anywhere by yourself, especially at night,” she cautions, as much for herself as for him.
They’re in their house. She’s started packing up—there are boxes scattered around the floors, she buys groceries day-to-day now.
“I’m staying put tonight. Right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She has the truck keys in her hand, her daypack slung over her shoulder, heading for the door. “Where’re you going?” he asks, looking up from his work.
“Haagen-Dazs. I’ve got a craving for strawberry ice cream. I may stop at the market and get some pickles, too.”
“I thought that was an old wives’ tale.”
“Even cliches were fresh once.”
“Don’t be long getting back. I worry about you.” He touches her swelling stomach. “And Junior.”
“I’ll be fine. You worry about you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
No protection. That’s not good. She needs to know where Nicole Rogers is.
She goes into the bedroom to get a sweater. Making sure Luke isn’t eavesdropping, she gets in touch with her technician friend. Nicole’s Pathfinder is on the move, even as they speak. He gives her some streets to coordinate by, and wishes her luck.
Jumping into the truck, she barrels down the narrow, dark road. Please don’t let this be happening, she’s praying.
The woman pulls into the Von’s shopping center parking lot on Coast Village Road. Her pharmacy is there. Since this trial started she’s been on medication, Prozac, a heavy daily dose. Her prescription’s run out, and she needs it refilled, right now.
The druggist hands her the container. She twists the top off, takes out a couple of pills, dry-swallows them. Feeling better, even before it actually takes effect, she walks back out to her car.
As she’s unlocking the door, a man approaches her. He’s holding a large legal-sized envelope in his hand. “Hello,” he says cordially. But he isn’t smiling.
She starts to shrink away from him, but he’s got her pressed up against the door of her vehicle. “What do you—?” she starts to ask.
He hands her the papers, literally forces her to take them. “You have been officially served,” he tells her. He turns on his heel and walks away.
She opens the envelope. She knows what it is before she reads the first line, but the dread and terror grab her by the throat anyway. “You are hereby …”
She crushes the subpoena in her hand, her heart pounding. No way is she going to testify, expose herself, be made an object of ridicule and hatred. Joe Allison had made it clear that their lives were going in separate directions. Now he’s reaching out for her, from his jail cell. To help him, be there for him. What a bastard.
Trembling, she manages to drive home, pour herself a drink, turn on the television. Doug Lancaster’s press conference is being replayed on all the channels, not only his own. She watches in fascination, horror, and revulsion as he reveals his secret life. What kind of man would do that to his family, keep something so important a secret? She
feels for Doug, because he’s lost his daughter, but otherwise she couldn’t care less about him and his problems, including his retarded bastard son. He’s a man with a massive ego, full of himself. And that woman with him, his “former” mistress. Had he stopped their affair after she gave birth to a retard, or when she had gotten married? Everyone who knew Doug knew of his promiscuity. He wouldn’t stop seeing that woman unless she stopped him, and it was obvious, from her appearing with him, that she hadn’t. A woman doesn’t put her marriage, or any deep relationship, in jeopardy unless she’s in love. Which she knows, all too well.
It has all gone too far. It has to end.
The sun is almost down as Riva drives to the location where the Lo-Jack had indicated Nicole Rogers’s Pathfinder should be. And there it is, parked in the upper Village parking lot. She puts her hand on the hood—it’s still warm. It hasn’t been here long.
Nicole is easy to find. She’s seated on the outside veranda of Pane e Vino, a popular and expensive Italian restaurant. Sitting opposite her is Stan Tallow, a senior partner in Nicole’s law firm.
Riva edges closer. She doesn’t want Nicole to see her.
Nicole and Tallow seem to be enjoying each other’s company. Her hand on his, eyes on his face as she listens attentively to what he’s saying. Riva catches snatches of the conversation: something about county zoning ordinances.
A waiter is at their table now, bringing them drinks, taking their dinner orders.
Nicole isn’t going anywhere, Riva thinks with relief, except maybe to bed with her firm’s rainmaker. For tonight, at least, she can rest easy.
Now the night has set in. The woman stands on the ridge across the canyon from Luke Garrison’s rented house, sighting it through the high-powered telescopic lens attached to the rifle with which she terrorized the defense attorney at the ranch up north. She only comes here when it’s night, when she can hide under cover of darkness. Through the infrared lens she sees him, sitting at the dining table in full view. He’s alone in the house. The woman who lives with him isn’t around.
His police guard is gone too. It was mentioned on the news, in passing: the sheriff had pulled his men from their surveillance. The county couldn’t continue to keep their vigil up, it was costing the taxpayers too much money. And besides, the incident is well in the past now. Luke Garrison doesn’t need the protection anymore.
The Disappearance Page 45
