“And so we have gridlock,” Commissioner Khachatoorian said. “I’m going to split the baby and make it five hundred thousand. Anything else? No? Good.” He hurried off the bench as if he had to go to the bathroom.
Marty said, “Hang in there, pal.”
“What else have I got to do?” I said.
Nothing except take the ride back to county, jangling shackles and all.
83
THE BOND, SECURED by my real property, was posted at ten the next morning, Tuesday, and I was back on the street by noon. In Marty Latourette’s Mercedes. Silver of course.
His assistant sat in the back, taking notes.
“Let’s go over the time line,” Marty said, “and assume the worst. According to the police report they’ve got the blood on Miss Westerbrook’s blouse, which is yours.”
“Of course. They wouldn’t use Rudy’s.”
“And you got the scratch on your neck on Wednesday evening?”
“Yes.”
“So Channing Westerbrook gets a little of your blood on her blouse.”
“How bad is this?”
“Blood is a complex puppy and a lot more fickle than we think. Unless you leave a big splotch on the floor.”
“So what’s that mean?”
Marty turned his head slightly and spoke behind him. “Gabe, give Matsumoto a call. Set up a meeting.” Then to me: “Serologist, testified for me before. He’ll have Rocha tied up in little knots.”
That was good. I wanted her in knots. And from the Blumberg case I knew the value of good expert testimony. Like most of America, I was all over the O. J. Simpson murder case, when Barry Scheck, the DNA expert, beat a poor technician named Fung like a bongo drum. It had an effect.
“Oh, and another thing,” Marty said. “You will not say anything to anybody about the case, okay? I don’t want you pulling a Scott Peterson on me. You remember that?”
I did. Peterson, accused of murdering his pregnant wife and unborn child, thought he could go on national TV with Diane Sawyer and make a case for himself. He muffed it badly. It was the eyes. You could tell he was lying just by watching his eyes.
“No, I want to keep things quiet,” I said.
“Good. I love a quiet client. We’re going to get along just fine. Anything you need?”
“Some answers,” I said. “Who’s your investigator?”
“Murray Jones. He’s good. Very good.”
“He’s going to have to be.”
“And don’t worry so much. What’s the worst that could happen? This goes to a jury? That’s where I shine.”
84
FRAN SNIFFLED AS she made me dinner. I watched the news. Of course, I popped up on KTLA, Channing’s station. They had an “investigative reporter” giving updates, and they kept replaying the picture of me tromping into the arraignment court in my orange scrubs. Orange shouts guilty. And that’s what KTLA wanted to show the jury pool every night.
So when I drove to the office the next morning, as if nothing was changed, I knew I was stuffing my head in the ground.
Two news crews were waiting at the entrance to the parking garage. As soon as I pulled in I was recognized and up came the cameras and mikes. Nobody ever looks good not talking to a reporter. It was once Geraldo’s greatest weapon, as he’d chase people down the street shouting questions.
Even as I swiped my security card and got into the garage, I knew the news would have a nice set of pictures for the evening broadcast.
The office I entered was not the same one I left. It was cold. I could almost feel the ice forming on the walls. The looks were of the dead man walking variety.
I didn’t have to be told that McDonough wanted to see me. But Kim told me anyway with red-rimmed eyes. I kissed her cheek and told her I was like a cat and always landed on my feet, but I didn’t get a smile out of her.
The first words out of McDonough’s mouth were, “I’m sorry.”
“Would it help if I told you I’m not guilty?”
“No.”
“Hey, that’s just great, Pierce. I’m glad the presumption of innocence is honored at good old Gunther, McDonough.”
“Sarcasm isn’t going to help you, Ty.”
“Is anything?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah. There’s another great trait, Pierce. Your open-mindedness, your—”
“Insults won’t help either.”
“Call somebody who cares.” I stood and picked up his phone and held it out to him. He shook his head, like someone witnessing the mental decline of a beloved family member. He wasn’t that far off.
“Put that down and end this like a professional,” McDonough said.
I slammed the phone down. “Don’t hand me that. I don’t want anything to do with your kind of professionalism. You don’t care who you get in bed with, Pierce, as long as it doesn’t tarnish your reputation on the cigar and martini circuit—”
“Enough—”
“You called me in here to can me. You’re going to hear what I have to say. Thank you. Yeah, thanks. Because I might not have left on my own, but now I see it’s the only thing I could have done that would have saved me. If I stayed here, I’d end up like you. I’d end up compromising just to keep my position in life. I wouldn’t take any more risks. And I’d be working for things that don’t really matter much. I can’t do that anymore. I don’t see things the same and I don’t want to. So thanks, Pierce. This works out best for both of us.”
I turned to walk out with a grand theatrical style and bumped into a chair.
85
KIM BROUGHT ME a few boxes so I could clean out my office. It wasn’t the easiest task I ever performed. McDonough had the office security guard and our IT guy standing in there, preventing me from taking the computer or CDs or anything like that.
Al helped me lug the boxes to my car. It took an hour to get everything loaded up.
And then we were there, in the garage, and all that was left for me to do was get in the car and go.
“Call me,” Al said.
I nodded. And then he had his arms around me, pounding my back.
When we broke I said, “Let me keep your gun awhile.”
“That’s the sweetest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”
“Okay?”
86
SO I WAS sprung. From jail. From Gunther, McDonough. Damaged goods.
But there was an odd sense of freedom. Like I really wasn’t going to miss the firm. Or even practicing law. At least their kind of law.
What was that barf-inducing quote they had in the sixties? Something about if you love something, let it go and if it doesn’t come back it was never yours? They were always coming up with stuff like that back then.
But now, heading out of the garage, ignoring the press, I sort of felt that way. The law as practiced by Gunther, McDonough was flying away, and I wasn’t trying to get it back. Didn’t want it back. It didn’t seem all that important anymore.
I called Latourette’s office from the car and was put through to Gabrielle. She said she was glad I called and could I meet with their investigator in the afternoon. I told her I didn’t exactly have a full plate of social obligations. She laughed and said maybe the two of us could remedy that sometime.
Newly sprung and hit on.
I told myself to let it go, and if it came back, duck.
87
I SPENT HALF a day recovering as much stuff as I could from the remains of my home. Technically it was red tagged, and I shouldn’t have been in there alone. Technically, I didn’t give a rip.
I unloaded the rented van at Fran’s house, half filling her small garage with the flotsam of my life. On a wall of the garage was a girl’s bike. Jacqueline’s no doubt. Pink, with faded tassels hanging from the handgrips. It had been here all these years, waiting, perhaps, for the grandchild Fran would never have.
When all that was done, I showered and dressed and joined Fran on the back porch. She was reclining on a
chaise lounge looking at the one tree in the middle of the modest lawn. I took a white plastic chair.
“Jacqueline used to sit out here for hours sometimes,” she said. “She liked to watch the weather. When it was cold, she’d put a blanket around herself and just sit, right here. Almost like she was looking for something.”
I imagined the little girl with the blanket around her.
“I want you to know something,” I said. “I want you to know I loved your daughter more than anything else in my life.”
Fran, looking straight ahead, nodded.
“Something else,” I said. “I want you to look in my eyes as I tell you this.”
She turned to me.
“I did not kill Channing Westerbrook—”
“I believe you, Ty.”
“—and I don’t want you to believe anything you hear on TV about this case.”
“I won’t.”
“We’re clear on that?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right, then another thing. We move on. We’ve mourned Jacqueline and that’s as it should be. But she would not have wanted us to stay there. So we won’t. We start tonight and we move on. Are you with me?”
She gave me a long look, her face showing the signs of what was going on inside. Thinking it over. Wondering if she could do this.
I took her hands in mine. “Okay?”
She nodded.
“And the first thing, I’m going to cook you a great big steak dinner with baked potatoes and peas and cherry pie for dessert.”
“Ty—”
“Because what they feed you at the jail isn’t on any food list known to man—”
“It’s late—”
“And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Whatever gave you the idea I wanted to say no?”
88
WITH SHADES AND a Dodgers cap on, I walked the aisles at Albertson’s and picked out the makings for dinner. A couple of healthy-looking T-bones for the main course. I even threw in a box of Cap’n Crunch for myself. As long as I had the prospect of permanent incarceration hovering over me, I was going to eat what I wanted when I wanted. For as long as it lasted.
A skinny, earnest-looking kid bagged the food. I got out of there with no one recognizing me, though the kid kept giving me the eye. Maybe he thought I was a Dodger out slumming.
Driving back to Fran’s I was starting to feel a little normal. For a minute or two it was like I was alive again, in the old way, everything good about to happen. I was going to cook a great dinner and share it with someone and tomorrow I’d get up and go about my business. Somewhere there’d be an office waiting for me because not to have me practice law would be a waste.
I think I actually whistled as I got out of the car and carried the shopping bags toward the front door. That stopped when somebody jumped me from behind.
The bags fell under me as I went down. A potato jammed me below the ribs. I lost breath, fought for air as two fists started in on the sides of my head. The guy was sitting on my back, working me.
I tried to breathe. It wasn’t easy with the weight on me. The guy muffled curses between breaths. I managed to get my hands to the sides of my head, trying to hang on.
The fists flew. I was barely breathing. I wheezed and sucked in grass and coughed. Then the weight on me lifted a little. I thought maybe the worst was over.
It wasn’t.
The hands pulled at my shirt and rolled me over on my back.
Looking up, I saw only an outline. The sky above it was full of stars. Maybe some of them were behind my eyes.
The hands went around my neck.
Now I really couldn’t breathe.
The guy said, “If they don’t do it, I will.”
I couldn’t ask him who “they” were, or what they were going to do. My head was losing oxygen. All I could do was flail my legs. The guy on me didn’t budge.
Then I knew he wasn’t going to wait for them. He was going to do the job himself, and the job was death.
Still kicking out with my legs I managed to get my right hand into my pants pocket. Then I played possum. I went completely limp. I wasn’t far from being limp for real and for good.
For a second I didn’t think it was going to work. The thumbs kept pressure on my windpipe. Looking back, I think I had maybe ten seconds of life left in me.
The countdown started.
Eight . . . seven . . . six . . .
His grip started to loosen.
. . . five . . . four . . .
The thumbs came off.
My hand came out. In it was my cell phone. It was the old Danny Sullivan trick to take the give out of the fingers. In one motion I pulled my shoulder back and shot the fist up. Caught him flush on the chin.
I rolled away, gasping for air, got to my knees.
The guy was on his side, groaning.
I crawled to him. Gave him another shot to the side of the face.
For a minute I watched him as my lungs got back to working order.
With the air came the rage. I got up ready to kill him. I’d do it by kicking or maybe with a loose brick if I could find one.
I stood over him and lined up his face.
Then the light went on. The porch light.
Fran stuck her head out. “Ty?” Then she said, “My God, what’s happened?”
The light was enough to see the guy’s face. He looked familiar. I didn’t place him at first. Then it hit me.
“Open the door, Fran,” I said. “I’m bringing him inside.”
Channing’s cameraman looked like he’d had his brains scrambled. I managed to plop him on the big blue chair in the living room.
“Shall I call the police?” Fran asked.
“Not yet,” I said. I went to Jacqueline’s room and got Al’s gun, which I’d stashed under the bed. When I got back to the living room, Muscles was groaning, his eyes rolling around a little.
“What’s that?” Fran said, looking at the gun.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s registered. Just not to me.”
“What are you going to—”
“Fran, let me talk to him alone.”
“You’re not going to shoot him, are you?”
“Do I look like Clint Eastwood?”
“Please—”
“A few minutes. Please.”
Fran nodded tentatively, then left.
I looked at the guy I called Muscles. He seemed aware now. When I held up the gun he came around even more.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” I said.
He said nothing.
“You come near me again and I’ll do something inhuman and ugly and painful, and your body will make the evening news. Only you won’t be filming it. I have a witness who saw you here, waiting for me, trying to kill me. Self-defense won’t be hard to prove.”
“Just wanted to—”
“Shut up. You’re going to listen. I didn’t kill Channing. There’s somebody setting me up for it. You’ve got the wrong guy. Okay, I understand your devotion. Commendable. But wrong, and you’re stupid to do something like this.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you’re still breathing.”
He thought about it.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Greg.”
“Greg what?”
“Beck.”
“So what do we do now, Greg? Want me to call the cops?”
“No.”
“You need some ice for your face?”
“What’d you hit me with?”
“Does it matter?”
He rubbed the side of his face.
“Hang on,” I said. I called to Fran and had her fill a Ziploc with ice and give it to Beck.
“Go on home,” I said. “Just know that I want to find out who did Channing as much as you. More.”
But I don’t think he believed me.
89
NEXT MORNING I left the house early. It wa
s almost like I had to hit commuter traffic in order to stay in the flow of existence. If I didn’t get up and get out and do something I’d be conceding defeat. I’d be waiting for the next attack.
But out here in the city people were eagerly planning my demise, legally or otherwise.
Greg Beck. Would I have to worry about him? Probably. He’d heal up and start thinking about last night and get mad again. If I was acquitted, he’d still be there to dispense his own brand of justice.
If I got acquitted.
I took the 405 to Sunset, and Sunset to La Cienega. Found a meter on the street. That was a good omen in L.A.
When I walked into the lobby of Channing’s apartment building, the security guy almost jumped out of his blazer. For a second it looked like his mouth was trying to move but wouldn’t.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m not armed and dangerous.”
His mouth still wouldn’t work. Then his head took over, and he put on his security guard frown. He stood a little taller behind the horseshoe-shaped console. He made sure I could see the badge pinned to his left coat pocket, a badge that meant absolutely nothing.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“Why is that? You don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Sir, you’ll have to leave.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Please leave sir.”
“Pete. Is that your name?”
He picked up a phone and stuck it to his ear.
“Okay, I’ll call you Pete,” I said. “Pete, you’re withholding evidence, and that’s a crime.”
Pete lowered the phone. “What are you talking about?”
“You know who I am.”
“Yeah I do. And—”
Try Dying Page 21
