by Marcia Clark
A weird time gap. “Was Alicia home when you first saw him in front of the building?”
He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and stared off for a moment. “Hadn’t thought of that before, but now that you mention it, no. She wasn’t. I saw him go upstairs, and then five or ten minutes later, I saw her head toward the stairs.”
So Crew Cut might’ve been waiting for her. “Do you remember what time that was?”
Oliver shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Kinda late in the afternoon. Maybe around four or so.”
Alex asked, “Did you see him leave?”
He shook his head. “But I heard him. Wasn’t that long after Alicia got home—maybe a few minutes after—he went clomping back down the stairs.” He saw me about to ask the next question and cut me off. “Not saying it was him a hundred percent. But I know who lives upstairs, and no one walks that heavy.”
I pushed to see if he’d hold firm. “Could’ve been someone else’s boyfriend.”
He shrugged. “Could be. Just don’t think so.”
Oliver Chalmers was going to make a great witness if things got that far. “Did you see Alicia again that day?”
His expression saddened. “I got tired, took a nap, but I know she went out after that guy left, ’cause I heard her come home later that night. I recognized her step.”
It occurred to me that Oliver might be helpful on another tack. The “he needed killing” tack. “Was there a guy who visited Alicia during the past month or so?”
He squinted at me again. “You mean that skinny one with the big mouth?”
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. “I think so.” I pulled up Roan’s photo on my phone and showed it to him. “Does that look like the guy?”
Oliver made a stink face. “Yep. That’s the one.”
I liked where this was going. “Did you have a run-in with him?”
He stuck out his chin. “I sure did. He was standing outside her door and yelling and screaming. Using all kinds of rough language. I wouldn’t have it. I came out and told him to stop. He yelled at me, called me names, then he kicked a hole in the door.” Oliver snorted. “A bully and a punk, if you ask me.”
“Was that the only time you heard him yelling at Alicia?”
“I heard him hollering at her a few other times, but those times he was inside her apartment.”
This was perfect. I went back to Crew Cut. “You said you heard the burly guy leave the building. But you didn’t notice how long after that Alicia left?”
He sighed. “I didn’t see her go. Only reason I know she did leave was because I saw her come home later that night.” Oliver paused and dropped his gaze. “Never did see her again, though. Terrible what happened to her. Just don’t see why anyone would do a thing like that—least not to someone like her.”
I had no answer for him. And after a few more minutes, it was clear Oliver was out of answers, too.
We thanked him and moved on to other neighbors. The two downstairs apartments at the back of the building were occupied by male students, all of whom knew Alicia, all of whom were clearly upset by her death, but none of them had seen or heard Crew Cut or Alicia that day. Not surprising given the fact that they were behind the stairway and had no view of the front of the building. And the cops had checked their alibis and cleared all of them as potential suspects.
A young Mexican couple occupied the apartment at the front, across from Oliver Chalmers. Oliver had said they pretty much kept to themselves and were almost never around. “Those guys work all day and all night.”
When we went to their door, Alex sniffed. “Someone’s home. I smell cooking, might be mole sauce.”
I knocked, and a young woman in her twenties with long black hair pulled into a high ponytail answered the door. I introduced Alex and myself and began to ask her if she’d seen Crew Cut, but her expression told me she was having a hard time understanding me. I let Alex take over. He asked her in Spanish if she’d been home on the day in question. She said she and her husband had been at work and didn’t get home until after nine. They’d never seen Crew Cut, and they hadn’t seen anything suspicious on the night Alicia got killed. The woman made the sign of the cross and said it was a tragedy what had happened.
We headed upstairs. Alicia’s apartment was on the left, at the end of a short, open hallway, and it faced the front of the building. Crime-scene tape still crisscrossed the front door. That surprised me. It’d been a good ten days since her death. Usually, the cops release a scene within a week. I wondered whether that meant anything or whether there was just no push from the property owner to release the crime scene. The latter seemed likely. I doubted there’d be any big demand for the apartment where a young student had just been murdered.
A Vietnamese family lived in one of the rear-facing apartments. The father was at work, and the mother spoke no English, but her twelve-year-old daughter did, and she agreed to translate. I asked whether anyone in the apartment had seen Alicia the day she died.
Chinh, the little girl, said she had not; she had been at a friend’s house that day. But when she posed the question to her mother, the older woman gave a long answer. Chinh translated. “My mother says that she saw Alicia leave the building that night, after the bad man came. She says Alicia looked very upset.”
The bad man—another sighting of Crew Cut? Or someone else? “Can she describe the man? And tell us what he did that made her think he was bad?”
Chinh posed the questions, and her mother gave another lengthy answer. “The man was big”—she held her hands about two feet apart to show he was wide—“and he had very short hair. My mother says he didn’t really do anything bad. She just didn’t like his . . . his vibe.”
That was Crew Cut. It had to be. I looked from the very traditional mother to the daughter. “She said ‘vibe’?”
Chinh sighed. “No. But that’s what she meant. Some words just don’t translate.”
Point taken. “Was the bad man gone by the time Alicia left?”
Chinh translated my question again, and her mother responded. Chinh asked her what I assumed were a few clarifying questions, then turned back to me. “She doesn’t know, but she heard the door open and close, and then about an hour later, she saw Alicia leave. So she thinks probably he was gone.”
That meant Crew Cut might actually have gotten inside Alicia’s apartment. “Would your mother recognize him if she saw him again?”
Chinh posed the question. This time, I didn’t need Chinh to translate the answer. The mother nodded emphatically. This mother would come in handy if we could find him.
I bumped around with a few more questions, hoping for more details on the comings and goings around Alicia’s apartment, but the mother had gone to bed shortly after Alicia left.
Chinh confirmed it. “We all get up real early and go to bed early. Even me.” She looked a little embarrassed. “I think it must be genetic or something.”
We talked for a few more minutes, then thanked Chinh and her mother and headed to the other rear-facing apartment upstairs, where four more male students lived.
I started to knock, but Alex held up a hand as he looked at his phone. “These guys were all down in Palm Springs at the time of the murder.”
I’d seen that in the police report. “Since when do we take the cops’ word for it?”
He gave me an impatient look. “Since I checked their alibis. They weren’t here.”
Oh. “Then maybe you can save us some more time. Anything you want to share about our next and last stop?” The last of the units was the other front-facing apartment across the stairway from Alicia’s apartment. Four female students shared the two-bedroom space.
Alex scrolled through his phone again. “Three of them were down in Palm Springs.”
I sighed. “Let me guess: they were with the guys in 2C.”
Alex smirked. “I’m sure they were studying for midterms. The only one home was Bethany.” He glanced at his phone again. “
Bethany Archer.”
It turned out Bethany, a tall, model-thin African American student, was the one I’d heard about on the news, the one who’d also seen Crew Cut—and saw Alicia leave the apartment later that evening. Bethany was sure Alicia left “two or three hours” after she noticed Crew Cut on the landing near Alicia’s apartment.
But that’s all she could tell us. She couldn’t say whether he got inside Alicia’s apartment or, if he did, when he finally left. Nor could she say when Alicia came home.
Bethany looked apologetic. “I was on the phone having a major fight with my boyfriend—he was being such a dick. So I decided to hell with it, I’m outta here, and I went down to Palm Springs. All I know is, I saw Alicia leaving as I was locking up, and I didn’t see the guy anywhere around.”
We chatted with Bethany about what she knew of Alicia—which wasn’t much beyond the fact that she’d thought Alicia’s boyfriend was “fire”—until she learned he’d probably killed her.
After a few minutes, I had to call it quits. As we left the building, I called Michelle. “We’re on our way back. How’s it going? Any new clients? Preferably rich ones who insist on paying cash?”
Michelle sounded upset. “I was just about to call you. The rich one you already have is going to have a fit when he sees this. I’m sending you the link right now.”
I looked at the link. “Oh hell.”
“Exactly.”
THIRTEEN
As soon as we got into the car, I played the link. As I’d feared, Audrey Sutton had fired back. And no more impromptu appearances on the front lawn for Audrey. This time she was in a studio, with full makeup, and seated across from a fawning reporter I didn’t recognize. I noticed a piece of paper was in her lap. A speech? If so, she wasn’t reading from it now.
Audrey spoke straight to the reporter, and, curried and coiffed though she was, her anger came off her in waves. “Money has nothing to do with it! But it figures that a man who raised the kind of daughter who sends nude selfies would think that.”
The reporter baited her. “But didn’t your son post those photos on the porn website?”
Audrey almost came out of her seat. “He most certainly did not! Roan would never have done such a thing. That girl was obviously nothing but a little slut. Who knows how many boys she was seeing? Or how many she sent dirty photos to? That’s who killed her, one of those guys. Not Roan! Not my son!” She paused to take a breath, then spoke with a bloody intensity. “That monster, Graham Hutchins, came to a snap judgment based on no evidence whatsoever and killed him!”
The reporter’s voice oozed feigned sympathy. “Audrey, do you have something you want to say to the city officials and coroner’s office?”
She tried to rein it in, but her hands were shaking. She folded them in her lap. “Roan did not commit suicide. But since the county coroner is too incompetent to figure that out, I’ve hired a private pathologist to examine my . . . my . . . son’s body.” Audrey’s voice caught, and she had to stop to collect herself. Then she picked up the piece of paper that was in her lap and began to read.
“I have stood by and watched as the coroner and the police drag their feet and refuse to do their jobs, just because the killer is a wealthy, influential lawyer. I know my son did not kill Alicia. And Roan would never have committed suicide. Graham Hutchins is a murderer, and I will not rest until I see him behind bars. That is why I have hired Dr. Cecil Mortimer, a nationally renowned private pathologist. I have every faith that Dr. Mortimer will arrive at the truth, and that the truth will finally bring Graham Hutchins to justice. I want to thank the kind and generous people who have sent in the donations that made this possible.” She put down the paper and looked at the reporter. Her cheeks were flushed, and her voice shook as she said, “I know Dr. Mortimer is going to find that Roan was murdered, and when he does, I want the police to finally do their job and arrest Graham Hutchins!”
The link ended on the image of Audrey’s furious face. I’d thought she might retaliate, but this was even worse than I’d expected. I’d been looking for alternative suspects to prepare for the remote possibility that Roan’s death might get classified as a homicide. But deep down, I’d been fairly confident that wouldn’t happen, that the coroner would ultimately reach the conclusion that it was a suicide.
Now, all bets were off. I didn’t know anything about Dr. Cecil Mortimer, but I did know something about privately retained experts. They tended to lick the hand that fed them. A private pathologist would do backflips to find a way to claim Roan was murdered just so he could grab his big media moment—and probably make some pretty nice dough.
And that would put added pressure on the county coroner. If there was any gray area in his findings, an outside expert’s contrary opinion might just be the extra nudge that would push him into changing his opinion and declaring Roan’s death a homicide. I slumped down in my seat. “This could be a real disaster.”
Alex looked perplexed. “I know Audrey’s paying him and all. But couldn’t this Dr. Mortimer wind up agreeing that it was a suicide?”
“In a perfect world, where all private experts are ethical—and clouds rain M&M’s and Colin Farrell’s begging me for a date.”
Alex sighed and nodded. “I’ll check him out.”
We headed back to the office. When we got in, the phone was ringing, and Michelle looked harried. “Reporters have been calling nonstop. They want a comment on Audrey Sutton’s interview and her hiring that private pathologist.”
I wanted to punch the wall and scream. “Okay, here’s my friggin’ comment: I think it’s amazing that the woman who called an innocent murder victim a slut just publicly announced that she’d hired herself a real, pay-for-play whore. And by the way, if Alicia was such a slut, then what does that make her son?”
Michelle sighed. “I think we’ll just go with a ‘Could not be reached for comment’ for now.” She hit a key on her computer. “But Graham’s going crazy. He’s been calling every ten minutes. You need to talk him down.”
I could well imagine he was losing it. I would be, too. Even without knowing what Dr. Mortimer would find, just hearing that a private pathologist was coming into the case would make the public, AKA our jury pool, more suspicious of Graham. I went into my office and called him. He was both scared and fuming. “Who is this whore pathologist Mortimer? And how dare that woman talk about my daughter that way? I’m going to sue her for libel and take every last penny she’s got!”
I spoke as calmly as I could. “Which will probably amount to twelve dollars and fifty-two cents.” Alex had hacked into Roan’s school records. He was getting by on a combination of student loans and a partial scholarship. “And all you’ll do is keep this fight going. That’s the last thing we need right now. As for Mortimer, I’ve got Alex checking into him. But I think we should consider getting our own pathologist, see if we can get some more support for the suicide finding.” I knew Graham understood the value of battling experts. If we got someone good—and Graham could certainly afford to hire the best—it’d help to cast doubt on Mortimer’s conclusion if he concluded that Roan’s death was a homicide. “But we don’t have to do it right now. I doubt Mortimer’s going to move that fast.” Especially if he billed by the hour.
Graham’s anger had ebbed, and now his voice sounded ragged, worn. “That’s probably a good idea. But if we’ve got time, then let’s hold off for now. I know it’s crazy to think this guy will be honest . . .”
“It is, but there’s no harm in waiting to see what he says.” I needed to get back to our more immediate problem. “Look, Graham, about Audrey Sutton. I know it’s awful to have to hear what she’s saying. But we need to stay above it, let it die down. So turn off your TV, stay off your computer, and—”
He interrupted me. “Bella Hanberry wants us to do an interview.”
Bella was a local morning-show anchor who liked to do human-interest pieces. Ordinarily, I’d be fine with it. She was pretty low-key. But I couldn’t be
sure that she wouldn’t try to goad Graham into a slugfest over Audrey Sutton’s remarks.
I had to be careful how I handled this. Given the mood Graham was in, if I pushed back too hard, he might tell me to shove it. “I like Bella. That’s a great way to tell people who Alicia really was. But let’s give it a little bit of time, okay? You want people to focus on Alicia, not on what Audrey Sutton said.”
Graham took a little convincing. In true trial-lawyer fashion, he wanted to fire back right away, drown out what she’d said, and get in the last word. But I explained that it wouldn’t work that way. He’d just provoke an even bigger war—one that would do neither Alicia nor Graham any good. By the time we were done, he seemed to have accepted the wisdom of laying low. For now, at least.
It was six o’clock by the time we finished the call, and I had other cases to attend to. I finished my sentencing memo and did some more research on my motion to suppress a client’s confession.
The latter had looked promising at first: the cop had glossed over his right to have a lawyer appointed for him. But my client was a chatterbox who seemed to think the cop really meant it when he said my client was “basically a good guy.” He’d taken the bait and told the cop he was a good guy, too, and that’s why he’d agreed to talk to him—even though he knew his rights and knew he didn’t have to talk to the cop without a lawyer. The motion was basically DOA. I was performing triage on a corpse.
Michelle came in as I was trying to find some case authority to resurrect it. “It’s almost eight. You staying?”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. I definitely didn’t want to. “I’d better. I need to do some catching up.”
She put a hand on her hip. “Speaking of catching up, you need to get busy with your time sheets.”
I groaned. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” I have to submit time sheets to the county in order to bill for my court-appointed cases. But filling them out makes watching paint dry seem like a white knuckler.
Michelle folded her arms. “No, you won’t.”
