by Marcia Clark
The crawl at the bottom of the screen said, BREAKING NEWS. A reporter who was standing in front of a small house that had a USC banner in the front window said, “Just yesterday, Roan Sutton gave his third interview to the police, and they say there was no indication that his mental or emotional state was deteriorating. But they have no suspects at this time, and it appears—at least at this point—that Roan Sutton has indeed taken his own life.”
THREE
Alex came in a few minutes later and said he’d heard about Roan Sutton’s death on his way in. “You guys know why they’re thinking it might be a suicide?”
I nodded. “Stepped up on a chair and hung himself.” Roan lived in one of the old houses that’d been converted for student living. His room had access to the attic—and its exposed beams, the perfect spot for a hanging.
Alex frowned. “And the cops didn’t see any signs that he was—”
I cut him off. “Which means nothing to me. They weren’t worried about Roan Sutton’s emotional landscape. They were trying to solve a murder.” I picked up the remote and turned off the television.
Michelle shrugged. “For a change, I don’t blame them.”
Neither did I. At least not until the next bombshell landed—which happened the very next day. And this time, it landed right in my office.
I’d just finished my fifth cup of coffee of the morning and chewed through about half my onion bagel when Michelle buzzed me. “You available for a consult at eleven? You don’t have court.”
I checked the calendar on my phone to see if I’d set up any lunch dates. “I’m clear. What’s up?” I pulled off another piece of my bagel and popped it into my mouth.
“Graham Hutchins wants a meeting.”
I coughed as I nearly choked around the lump of bagel in my throat. “Hello? A little warning would’ve been nice. Did he say why?”
Michelle chuckled. “I couldn’t resist. But no, he didn’t. I’d guess he just wants to talk to you about how they’ll handle the investigation into Alicia’s murder now that Roan’s dead. But it’s good for you to mingle with people who actually have money. Get to know what that feels like.”
It was true. I didn’t do much of that—or, to be perfectly honest, any of that. Although I’d left the public defender’s office for private practice five years ago, the bulk of my work still came from court-appointed cases. The money was okay, but it’d never do much more than keep the lights on. The big money comes from well-heeled clients, and in the world of criminal law, you get those only by handling high-profile cases. I’d handled a few in the past—Dale’s case being one of them—and I’d gained a few paying customers, but I still wasn’t doing much more than keeping our noses above water. So it’d be nice if a millionaire corporate lawyer like Graham wanted to hire me—even if it was only for a basic consultation. If all went well, I’d not only make some money, he’d pass my name around to his rich friends.
And even if he didn’t want to hire me, even if he just wanted to ask me a few questions, that was fine. He’d been through hell. I’d be glad to help him out, gratis. I swallowed hard to force the rest of the bagel down my throat. “Sure, set it up.”
I was curious as all get-out, but I hate wasting time on “What if?” and “I wonder.” I spent the remaining time wrapping up a sentencing memo and reviewing a murder case I hoped to plead out—it was a gang-on-gang shooting, the kind of case prosecutors call “NHI.” No Human Involved. I thought I had a better than even chance of getting a manslaughter for my guy, because the victim had a longer rap sheet than my client. That’s the kind of thing that can really soften up a jury. So my pitch to the DA was going to be that the jury would probably give him manslaughter anyway—why let a trial cut into his drinking time?
I heard Michelle buzz Graham in at eleven o’clock on the dot. I went out to greet him. “Graham, I’m so sorry for your loss. Come on in.”
As we headed to my office, he said, “Thanks for squeezing me in on such short notice. I know how busy you are.” His smile was forced, and the misery in his eyes was heartrending.
Like so many big-time litigators, Graham had a look that was less classically handsome than it was warm and relatable. Six feet, medium build, his dirty-blond hair short on the sides and in back but dipped low across his forehead, which, combined with the freckles and warm brown eyes, gave him a guileless, country-boy charm. Top it all off with a gentle southern accent, and you have the very picture of juror appeal: nonthreatening to both male and female, the kind of guy you’d want to have a drink with, who’d be there to talk, listen, or, if need be, bail you out—and not judge.
We went into my office, and I closed the door. “Coffee? Water?” I gestured to the coffeemaker and small refrigerator on a table against the wall.
Graham sat down in front of my desk and shook his head. He dropped even the pretense of a smile. His features were slack, shell-shocked.
I decided it might be best for me to take the lead. “I can’t begin to imagine what you must be going through. How can I help?”
“I think . . .” He stopped and took a long breath. “I think the police are considering the possibility that I killed Roan.”
That made no sense. “But I thought they said it was a suicide.”
He stared off, his voice weak. “They said the autopsy hasn’t been done yet, so they have to consider all possibilities.” He looked back at me. “And they said that means I have to be prepared for all possibilities.”
I couldn’t blame the cops. He had the best motive imaginable. “Did they ask where you were the night Roan died?” He nodded again. “Where were you?”
His expression turned bleak. “At home with Sandy.” I sighed, and he spread his hands. “I know. How convenient—my wife is my alibi. But it’s the truth.”
It was an entirely plausible alibi—not airtight by any means, but the kind most people, innocent people, often have. I frowned. “Does someone say otherwise?”
He nodded. “According to the police, a neighbor saw a man who looked a lot like me knocking on Roan’s door that evening.”
Graham’s perfectly normal alibi suddenly seemed a lot less convincing. “But that couldn’t have been you.” I leaned back and studied his reaction. It was more to gauge how he’d lie rather than if he’d lie. I pretty much assume all my clients are guilty. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m right. Not that it matters. I’m here to fight for them regardless. But it’s good not to have any illusions. I can’t do a good job if I go around kidding myself about who I’m representing.
Graham rubbed his cheeks, then dropped his hands into his lap, his expression frazzled. “I . . . Well, it could have been me. I did go to Roan’s house that night. I just wanted to get him to take down those goddamn photos.” He sighed.
Damn. Just as I’d feared. “What happened?”
Graham stared out the window behind me. “Nothing. I knocked on his door, but he never answered.”
“You had no contact with him, then?” Graham shook his head. “And you never got inside his house?”
His gaze stayed fixed on the scene outside my window—which was basically the wall of the building next to us. “No.”
I wasn’t sure whether I believed him. But if ever a guy needed killing, it was Roan. I’d be happy to do whatever I could to get Graham off. “I expect the autopsy will confirm it was suicide and clear you. But even if it doesn’t, even if there’s a doubt, the crime-scene evidence should eliminate you—unless you were at his house some other time?” Graham shook his head. “Tell me what you did that day. Did you go to work?”
“Yeah, for a little while. But I went home around four p.m. We were making . . . funeral arrangements for . . .”
For Alicia, his only child. That was one of the saddest lines I’d ever heard. “Did you go out after that?”
This time there was no hesitation. “Once. I went to the CVS to buy Advil for Sandy around nine p.m., but I went straight home.”
The fact that Gra
ham didn’t hesitate before answering told me the cops had already covered this ground. I got the location of the store from him. Unfortunately, he’d paid in cash. But maybe Alex could find a cashier who’d remember seeing Graham. It wasn’t exactly a great alibi—or even a good one—but it was what we had. And it’d give us the kind of mundane detail that would humanize Graham with the jury. Yes, I was already planning for trial. I start the moment a client sits down in my office, and I don’t stop until he either walks out of court or gets on the bus to state prison.
I didn’t necessarily think Graham’s case would ever make it to court. Roan’s death looked like a classic suicide to me. And even if they ultimately proved otherwise—which seemed like a long shot—unless the cops came up with something that tied Graham to the crime scene, he was probably in the clear. As for that neighbor, when I got done grilling her, there’d be nothing left of her to bury.
Still, it never hurts to be prepared. So I asked him my stock final question: “Can you think of anything else that might look bad for you?” It’s a way of getting a client to come clean without sounding like I’m accusing him of lying.
“Anything else . . . ? No. No, I can’t.” He blinked away sudden tears. “I just feel like . . . like maybe this is all my fault. When I heard about the photos, I thought, ‘Who is she? My Alicia would never take . . . pictures like that.’ But then I realized that going away to college was her first real chance at freedom. She probably was going a little crazy.” Graham swallowed. “The more I thought about it, the more I finally saw what a tight leash we’d kept her on.” His hands were squeezing his knees, and now he stared down at them. “We just wanted the best for her, wanted to make sure she was set up for success and didn’t get into trouble like so many kids do. But now, looking back on her life, I wonder if . . . if we pushed her too hard, for too long.”
It was one hell of a self-aware—and brave—admission. I had a feeling he was right, but there was no point agreeing with him. “I don’t have kids, but I’ve handled a lot of cases with young adults. From what I’ve seen, they all go a little crazy at first when they leave the nest. I don’t think you should beat yourself up.”
When he met my gaze, his eyes were troubled. “What I can’t understand is why she sent him those photos. Why didn’t she realize he might use them to hurt her?”
I sighed. “Because she was young and naive. She trusted him. Just like all the other girls who learned the hard way that you can trust someone who doesn’t deserve to be trusted.”
Graham shook his head. He was the picture of despair. “So this kind of thing has happened before?”
I nodded. “Most definitely, and it’s getting more and more common.”
“I had no idea.” Graham’s expression was stunned. “What world was I living in?”
I looked at him with sympathy. “Clearly a much nicer one than the rest of us.”
FOUR
I convened the troops after Graham left and brought them up to speed. Alex sprawled on the couch. He had the happy-dozy look of someone who was sleep-deprived for all the right reasons. I shook my head. “Seriously, how late was it by the time you guys called it quits for the night?”
Alex shot me an annoyed look. “For your information, we were talking. FYI, men do like to do that.”
Not in my experience, but whatever. “The coroner is probably going to conclude that Roan Sutton was a straight-up suicide. But Graham’s paying us to prepare for the worst, so we have to figure out who else might’ve killed the guy.”
Michelle smiled. “And for the record, he’s paying us well.” She looked around the office. “Might be time to think about . . . I was about to say redecorating. But since we never decorated to begin with . . .” She raised an eyebrow at me.
I sat up. “What? The place looks great.” At least, it did compared with our old office in the heart of Van Nuys gang territory. The chairs in front of my desk even matched. And most important of all, I had a couch.
Michelle folded her arms. “The place looks like nothing. Nothing on the walls but a law-school diploma, no chairs in the reception area—otherwise known as my office—no plants anywhere, and the carpeting looks like shit. You want to make money, you’ve got to look like money. We look like a Goodwill store—that’s going out of business.”
I turned to Alex for support, but he shrugged. “She’s right. We definitely could use an upgrade.”
I was outvoted. “Fine. As long as you think we can afford it.” Michelle handled the business end of things, and letting her do it was one of the smartest moves I’d ever made. Money and I have never kept close company for long. “Back to the case. If it turns out to be murder, Graham’s going to be number one on the cops’ hit parade of suspects.”
Michelle’s eyes sparked with anger. “But who could blame him? I mean, the asshole killed his daughter. And posted those photos. Fuck Roan Sutton.”
No argument there. “Theoretically, the jury will feel the same way. Assuming there’s proof Roan killed Alicia. But that gets Graham a manslaughter at best. He’ll probably still do prison time and lose his practice. What we need to do is make sure this case never sees the inside of a courtroom.”
Alex saw where I was going. “By finding an even better suspect.”
“Exactly.” And that was the problem. “I never like to assume, but I think in this case it’s safe to say Alicia’s murder and Roan’s death are connected. The cops are going to opt for the easy route and pin Alicia’s murder on Roan. Stand by for some really sloppy work on that score.”
Michelle sighed. “Well, Roan does seem like the obvious choice.”
He definitely was. “But that doesn’t take us anywhere good.” If Roan killed Alicia, then Graham came out on top as Suspect Number One in Roan’s death. “So we need to start by figuring out who else might’ve killed her. Then we’ll have to hope we can find a reason why that person—or someone close to that person—wanted to kill Roan.”
Alex stood up and stretched. “Great. For a minute there, I was worried you might be asking a little too much.” His tone was sarcastic. “The list of suspects for Alicia’s murder has got to be a mile long. I mean, who wouldn’t want to kill the little girl who’d just started undergrad and never even had a parking ticket?”
Alex can be such a smart-ass. “You checked her out already?”
“Yeah. She didn’t even have any asshole comments on her Facebook page.”
“It’s still up?” That surprised me.
He nodded. “Her friends wanted a place to write to one another about her. Kind of like a memorial.”
It was painful to hear, but I thought it was a nice idea—and probably therapeutic for the kids. Not to mention, helpful to us. “Did you get a bead on who her nearest and dearest were?”
“A bunch of kids from high school wrote on her page, but I figured we’d want to focus on the ones she was hanging with at USC, right?”
“For now. But keep everything you’ve got.” Because you never know. Someone in high school might’ve been holding a grudge. “Is there any way of identifying the pigs who clicked on her photos on that porn website?”
Michelle frowned. “But even if one of them killed her, why would that person kill Roan?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve got to look into it.” Anyone who might steer the cops away from Graham would be a welcome addition to the party. “Alex, what do you think? Can you do it?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek—a habit whenever he was mulling over a problem. “I think all those websites have tracking elements that transmit visitors’ data to third parties, like Google and Tumblr—”
Michelle looked surprised. “Even if people are browsing in incognito mode?”
Alex gave a mild snort. “Incognito mode doesn’t do anything to stop the tracking, which is where I hack in. And I already saw that this porn website shows what people clicked on. So I’m pretty sure I can get the IP addresses of the knuckle draggers who checked out Alicia. The pr
oblem’s going to be narrowing it down. We could be talking about thousands.”
I took a moment to think about that. “Except we’re not. We’re just looking for the one asshole who actually went to her place. So the computer search is secondary; what we really need are witnesses who can say they saw him hanging around—”
Michy interjected. “Assuming this guy exists.”
I gave her an exasperated look. “We’re looking for Some Other Dude—so yeah, I’m assuming.” SODDI—Some Other Dude Did It—is a timeworn defense. “That means it’s going to come down to the usual.” In the old days, they called it shoe leather. Door knocking the neighborhood, talking to witnesses. I used to think the Internet would make that obsolete, that it’d open a whole new—and faster—way to find out who, what, and where without leaving my desk. But it hasn’t so far, and maybe it never will. I think there’s just no substitute for the old-fashioned face-to-face, the What did you see on the night of . . . ?
Alex nodded. “I figured. Who do you want to start with? Alicia’s friends? Or the neighbors?”
I drummed my fingers on the desk. “Ideally the neighbors, but the cops will have gotten to them already, and I need to know what they said before we hit them up.” I thought for a moment. Graham was officially my client, but he wasn’t officially a suspect. Yet. So legally speaking, I had no right to get access to the witness statements. But, of course, I knew someone who did. “Let me see if I can snag a copy of the reports.”
“I already pulled the list of friends off her Facebook page. Let me get my iPad.” Alex—now energized and out of sleep mode—jumped up and headed to his office.
Michelle leaned in after he’d left. “So Alex is in love?”
“Seems so. With a Delta Airlines pilot.”
The phone rang, and Michelle stood up. “Duty calls. I assume you guys are heading out?”
I nodded as I powered down my computer. “I’ll call you from the road. If we get back in time, want to grab a bite?”
Michy nodded. “Definitely. Barney’s?”
