by Marcia Clark
I decided that if I hadn’t heard from Dale by the time we finished with the professor, I’d tell Alex to stop at the PAB and go see Dale in person.
We managed to get to the professor’s office a few minutes early. I knocked on the door, and a deep voice inside told us to come in. Professor Barth Foley wasn’t exactly who I’d pictured him to be—but he was close. Thick brown hair long enough to curl down his neck in the back, a sexy smile, and brown eyes that crinkled at the corners under bushy eyebrows. I’d expected a pierced ear, a leather bracelet, and maybe a tasteful tattoo, but no. He did, however, wear a chain bracelet, visible because his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned and somewhat muscled forearms. A young woman sat in the chair in front of his desk. As she turned to give us an annoyed look, I saw that she was pretty—of course she was.
For some reason, her annoyance amused me. I gave Professor Barth an extra-warm smile. “Sorry, I know we’re early. Want us to wait outside?”
He returned my smile, and I enjoyed the likelihood that that probably irritated her even more. “No, no. We were just wrapping up.” He told her, “I think you can take it from there, Meredith. If you have any other questions, you know where to find me.”
She said she did, thanked him, then left—but not before throwing a bitchy look at Alex and me. I gave her a saccharine-sweet smile, and we moved to the chairs in front of his desk.
He called out to her, “Would you close the door, please?”
I couldn’t resist. I turned around and smiled. “Thanks.”
Meredith shot me a death glare as she closed the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
He offered us coffee from the pot on the table behind him, but we declined. And when I called him Professor Foley, he flashed me a smile with a little extra wattage and said, “Call me Barth.”
I’d give him this much, he was true to type. I didn’t need to give Alex a sign for him to know that this witness was mine. “I hear Alicia was in your class.”
The smile faded. “She was.” His eyes strayed off. “I can’t believe she’s . . . gone.”
I told him no one could. “And there doesn’t seem to be anyone besides Roan who had an ax to grind with her.”
Barth looked sad and . . . what else? He seemed troubled. “No, that’s true. Everyone liked Alicia.” He met my gaze. “Roan was in my class, too.”
I hadn’t known that. “What did you think of him?”
Barth’s mouth twisted. “Honestly? He was a bright kid, but there was something . . . odd about him. It seemed to me that he was a little tightly corked, like ‘contents under pressure.’ I didn’t really see what he and Alicia had in common.”
There was a little twinge in his voice. I thought I knew why. “What did you think of her?”
His face brightened. “She was like a little diamond, beautiful in every way. And she was smart, had a deep understanding of the filmic arts.”
And of Professor Barth, I suspected. “When was the last time you saw her?”
Barth knitted his brows. “I guess it was a couple of days before she . . . died.”
“Was that in class? Or after?”
“Both. She stayed after class to talk about the film we were studying, Bicycle Thieves.”
I wondered whether she’d told him about her plan to break up with Roan. “How was she? Did anything seem to be bothering her?”
Barth stared off to my left again. “I didn’t notice anything in particular at the time, just that she seemed a little . . . anxious. But now, in hindsight, I’d say it was more than just anxious. She seemed . . . agitated.”
I decided to push a little harder. “Did you know if there was some problem between her and Roan?”
He rubbed the arms of his chair. “I . . . Uh, no.”
He was clearly uncomfortable. I sat in silence for a beat to let his discomfort grow. “Where did you see her after class? Was it here? Or did you go somewhere?”
Barth took a deep breath, then met my gaze. “Is this confidential?”
He’d broken down more easily than I’d expected. I did the usual lawyer thing to put him at ease. “Give me a dollar.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and handed me the money. “Consider me retained. You’re covered.” I tilted my head toward Alex. “And he’s my investigator, so he’s covered by the privilege, too.”
Barth expelled a long breath. “We were kind of dating. It hadn’t been long. Just a couple of lunches, plus one dinner—after I’d given a special night lecture for a seminar series on Depression Era films in Europe.”
I was about to ask whether they’d slept together, but then I realized it didn’t matter. What mattered was what people knew. “Did Roan know you were seeing her?”
Barth clasped his hands together, his forearms still on the chair. “I d-don’t think so. I certainly never told him.”
But he looked awfully edgy. Something else was bothering him. “What would’ve happened to you if the dean had found out you were dating a student?”
Barth sighed heavily. “I would’ve been fired.” A look of alarm crossed his face. “You said this was privileged.”
I held up my hands. “It is. You have nothing to worry about.” At least not from me. If someone else found out, Barth was on his own. “Did Alicia tell you about the nude selfies she’d sent to Roan?”
His eyes bounced away, and he shifted in his seat. “No. I only found out about that after she . . . died.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he did that to her. I didn’t have a great feeling about Roan, but I never would’ve thought he’d do something as ugly as that.”
He seemed genuinely upset, but there was something off here. “Can you tell me where you were the night Alicia died?”
Barth looked distracted. He ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah. I was at a writer’s roundtable here at the university. Didn’t hear about her . . . her death until the next morning.”
Alex’s phone dinged. I turned to look at him, startled. We always turn off our phones during interviews. He lifted his hands and shrugged. “Sorry! I need to go take this. Meet you at the car?”
I nodded and waved him off. “Go. I can wrap up.” I saw by Alex’s expression that he was purposely giving me some “alone time” with the professor. A very good move.
Barth seemed to visibly relax the moment the door closed behind Alex. “I don’t want you to hear this from someone else. I’m not proud of it, but the night Alicia died, I was with a . . . a colleague.”
I put it bluntly. “You mean you were having sex with a woman.” He nodded. This man was a total hound. He seemed to feel a little guilty about it, but I didn’t think that’s what was bothering him. I took a shot at another possibility. “Did you know that Roan had posted revenge porn before?”
Barth’s face reddened, then he nodded. “I was talking to a group of students after class about Juliet of the Spirits, a Fellini film—”
“I’m familiar with it.”
He nodded. “And about how after her husband cheated on her, Juliet engaged in a number of . . . ah, unusual sexual activities. I called it a journey of self-discovery, but one of the girls said it sounded more like payback. After the group broke up, Roan bragged to me privately about how he’d given his girlfriend the ultimate payback after she broke up with him.”
The reason for his edginess—or at least a part of the reason—became clear. “So he told you he’d revenge porned a girlfriend in the past, but you never told Alicia.”
Barth shook his head, his expression guilty. “I should have told her. But I was afraid she’d think I was just being jealous, trying to break them up.” After a moment he added, “And I worried that maybe Roan had found out about us, and that’s why he posted Alicia’s photos.”
I thought that last part was strange. “Why? According to Alicia’s friends, he posted the photos right after she broke up with him. Seems like that would be the more obvious motive.” I peered at Barth. “Unless you have reason to believe Roan did fi
nd out about you and Alicia.”
He stared down at his desk. “No, as far as I knew, Roan never found out.”
Then why did Barth seem so frazzled? “Did you see Roan after Alicia died?” He shook his head. “Did you see him shortly before her death?”
“I saw him in class a day or so before.”
“Did he seem depressed? Distracted?”
Barth frowned. “Not that I remember. But I didn’t have any personal contact with him outside of class in the last few days.” He spread his hands. “Like I said, Roan had his issues. At times it seemed like a cloud of anger swirled around him for no discernible reason. At least none that I could see. But those last few days I don’t remember seeing anything particularly unusual about him.”
I still got the feeling there was something else going on with the professor, but I couldn’t seem to get at what it was. So I asked my last question. “Did you have a class on November seventh?”
Barth’s brows furrowed. “The seventh? Was that Friday?” I nodded. “Just in the afternoon.”
“What about that night? Did you have any meetings or a date?”
Recognition made his face sag. That was the night of Roan’s death. “No. I stayed home. Alone. But why are you asking about him? I thought he committed suicide.”
I looked into his eyes. “Some questions have been raised. I’d advise you to stick around if you don’t want to raise any more of them.”
I reassured Barth that his affair with Alicia would remain a secret between us and told him that there was nothing else for him to worry about. His failure to tell Alicia that Roan had revenge porned another girl didn’t make him liable for anything. “And your reasons for not telling her make sense. Don’t worry about it.”
For now. I knew he was holding out on me about something. Whether it had to do with Roan’s death was another matter. But I was going to find out. One way or another.
I met Alex at the car, and as he drove us back to the office, I filled him in on my interview with Professor Barth—and my sense that he was holding out on us.
Alex got that determined look I knew so well. “I’ll check him out. If there’s something there, I’ll find it.”
I almost felt sorry for poor old Barth.
We were just ten minutes away from the office when Michy called to tell me I had a visitor. I stopped breathing for a second—was it one of Cabazon’s men?—and then she told me it was Dale. When we got in, I let Dale and Alex chat for a few minutes, then tapped my wrist. “Ticktock, boys. I’ve got prosecutors to shred.” Dale and Alex exchanged an amused look. I waved a finger between the two of them. “And don’t do that ‘isn’t she cute’ thing. It’s nauseating.”
Michy smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.
Dale held up his hands in mock surrender, but Alex gave a disapproving tsk as he headed for his office. As I led the way into my office, I said loudly, “So what popped you out of your cage?”
Dale gestured to the door, and I nodded. He closed it and sat down in one of the chairs in front of my desk. I took the chair next to him and spoke in a low voice. “What do you have?”
Dale kept his voice low, too. “Actually, I have two things. First, the coroner put out a tox report on Alicia Hutchins. They found low levels of Oxy in her blood.”
“Not enough to kill her.” He shook his head. I thought, But probably enough to party on.
Dale sighed. “I don’t think it means much. Just more proof that she was really enjoying her freedom—as kids do.”
In and of itself, Dale was right: this news wasn’t shocking; a lot of kids did oxy—and much more—just for fun. But it was a step further than I’d thought she’d gone, a small fissure in the persona I’d come to know as Alicia. I filed it away for future consideration. “Thanks for that.” But he could’ve told me that on the phone. “I’m guessing the second thing has to do with Tracy Gopeck.”
He nodded. “I checked out the reports on the Maldonado murder. The victim was a shot caller for the Playboy Rollin’ 60s.”
“That’s what Cabazon said. But he didn’t think this was a gang thing. You disagree?”
Dale shrugged. “Not necessarily. Maldonado got stopped with some members of the Guttah Gunz gang when he was seventeen, and they used to be rivals of the Playboys. But I hear they haven’t been beefing for a while now.”
“As far as you know.” These gangs changed direction when the wind blew. “It’s not like we’re talking about ExxonMobil and Goldman Sachs.” I hadn’t considered the gang angle, since Cabazon seemed so sure it wasn’t about that. But now, I put that possibility back in play. “Does Tracy show up in any gang files?”
“No,” Dale said. “But remember, nothing shows up on her at all. So it’s a toss-up whether the murder is gang-related. Here’s the main thing I came to tell you: the first crime-scene report—not the one Cabazon had, which, by the way, was prepared by a couple of unis in Rampart Division—mentions one civilian witness. It had to be Tracy, but her name was blacked out. That tells me she’s most likely in protective custody. But LAPD must’ve handed it off, because the reports don’t show that any of our detectives were assigned to it. The problem is, I couldn’t find any information on who they handed off the case to, and I can’t dig around too much without someone noticing.”
“How come they blacked out her name in that first report but not the one Cabazon gave me?”
Dale said, “Because I’m guessing the one Cabazon gave you came from Jorge Maldonado’s lawyer.”
Diego Ferrara. “If so, then Cabazon must’ve hired him.”
Dale nodded. “So we’d better find out fast whether that’s true, because if so, we’ve got competition.”
Meaning, Cabazon would’ve ordered Diego Ferrara to look for Tracy, too. More pressure. Just what we needed.
I wondered why there was no record that showed who’d taken over the case. “This seems awfully hush-hush—don’t you think?”
“It does,” Dale said. “But I can’t say whether it’s really so hush-hush or I just didn’t know where to look to find the paperwork.”
And he couldn’t bounce around too much or someone would notice. Finding this girl was going to be even harder than I’d thought. “I’ll talk to the lawyer, find out if Cabazon hired him, and see if I can get him to tell me who’s handling the case.”
Dale looked pessimistic. “Assuming he knows.”
True. If it really was a big secret, Diego might not know who got the case after LAPD handed it off, either. “Then let’s assume he doesn’t. If he only knows about the LAPD officers, will you be able to ask them who they handed off the case to?”
Dale’s expression was strained. “It’d be risky. But if there’s no other way . . . I guess so. I just hate to create a trail.”
One that would lead to us getting busted by the cops and killed by Cabazon.
Perfect.
TWENTY-SIX
After Dale left, I did some research on Maldonado’s lawyer. If Diego Ferrara had been privately retained, odds were that Cabazon had hired him, because Maldonado didn’t have much money. My quick Internet search showed that Maldonado was just twenty-six years old, had no college degree, and worked as a bouncer at Sound Nightclub. That didn’t add up to someone who could afford to pay even a low-rent lawyer for a murder case. So either Cabazon was footing the bill or the court had appointed Ferrara.
I accessed the state bar website and saw that Ferrara was thirty-seven years old and a sole practitioner. And according to his website, he did more immigration and low-level civil law—like landlord-tenant, divorce, and workman’s comp—than criminal law. That was not someone who had the chops to handle a murder trial. Or, for that matter, someone who could afford the fairly ritzy office suite he occupied in Century City. So either Diego had another source of income, or someone else, like Cabazon, was bankrolling him. The fact that he did immigration law tipped the balance in favor of Cabazon.
But I couldn’t afford to guess wrong on this one. I
had to know for sure, which meant I’d need to meet him face-to-face. And that meant I’d need a good cover story—one that would make him comfortable enough to talk about the case but not raise any suspicions about my motives. Because if he was on Cabazon’s payroll and he got suspicious, the first person he’d tell would be Cabazon. I had to tread lightly.
As I gazed at his website photo—he was handsome in a semisleazy, low-class lawyer-y way, with slicked-back hair, a big oily smile, and a trim mustache—I had the beginnings of an idea. But it wouldn’t work if I went straight at him. I pulled up his Facebook page and asked to be his “friend” using the dummy account (that showed it belonged to a hot blonde) Alex had set up for me. An hour later, I was in. I scrolled through his postings and saw that he was planning to attend an office holiday party being thrown tomorrow night by Westerly, Farrel, and Goring—a huge civil litigation firm in his building. It’d be perfect if I could “bump into” Diego there. The only problem was, I didn’t have an invitation.
If I could find one on the web, I could probably make a good-enough copy to slide by. But after an hour of scouring the Internet, I had to give up. I cast around in my memory for someone who might have an “in” at the firm, but I’d never had the slightest interest in civil litigation—or the lawyers who practiced it. I was hosed.
But wait. I sat up in my seat as I realized I did have an “in.” Michy’s boyfriend, Brad, was a slave at a huge corporate firm. I couldn’t tell Michy the truth about why I needed the invite, and I hated the idea of scamming her, but for her sake, I couldn’t let her near anything related to Cabazon. And this was a life-or-death situation. I apologized to her in my head even as I dreamed up the lie I was going to tell her.
I went out and sat on the edge of her desk. She was cleaning up one of my motions. Without even a pause to look up, she asked, “What’s going on?”
“I want to see if I can cozy up to a civil litigation firm and get some white-collar work.”
Michy stopped typing and stared at me. “That is the best business idea you’ve ever had.” She gave me a suspicious look. “So I have a hard time believing it.”
