by Marcia Clark
I started to ask what she wanted to talk about, but he was lost in a world of pain. Assuming Sandy had told him, I doubted he’d be able to remember. “I’ll give her a call. You take it easy. I’ll check in on you tomorrow. Okay?” He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. I squeezed his shoulder and called out to the guard.
FIFTY-EIGHT
I called Sandy from the car. When she answered, I told her I’d just seen Graham. “The sooner he gets out, the better. Are you having trouble getting a bail bondsman? I can put you in touch with someone who’ll have him home in two hours.” Tomas was that good.
There was a hitch in her voice as she said, “Thank you, but I already have someone. He says he’ll have Graham home tonight.” Her voice wobbled. “I—I need to show you something.”
Her tone was fraught but also urgent. “Tonight?”
She exhaled. “Yes. I—I just got it a couple of days ago, and I think you should see it.”
I drove to Sandy’s house. She did indeed have something important to show me.
I spent the drive home and most of the night thinking about what it meant—and what to do with it.
The next morning, as I was getting ready to leave for the office, Dale called. I held my breath as I picked up the phone. This had to be about Tracy and the DNA results on the hair found near the burn victim. “Is it . . . her?” I knew better than to say the name Tracy.
Dale paused, then exhaled sharply. “Yes.”
I sank down on the couch. “Oh God.” I felt sick to my stomach.
“Sam, listen to me. We did all we could.”
But I couldn’t hear that right now. Tears slid down my face. “If I hadn’t had that dumb idea to—”
He cut me off. “No, stop it. You can’t blame yourself. Look, I have to get to work right now, but I can come over tonight if you want.”
I didn’t know what the day would hold or when I’d get home. I had a full day ahead on Graham’s case. And I wasn’t sure I’d want company. “Thanks, but not tonight. Maybe tomorrow or . . . this weekend.”
Dale sighed. “Okay.” He said he’d call me tonight anyway, just to check in. “Oh, and I don’t know if you heard, but Davey Moser fired his public defender.”
It took a moment for the remark to penetrate my haze of guilt and misery. “Is he hiring someone else?” I assumed it wouldn’t be a public defender or court-appointed counsel. His mother had the money to afford private counsel.
“I’d assume so. But I haven’t heard any names being thrown around.”
I thanked him for the intel, and we ended the call with a promise to connect in person that weekend.
I headed downtown to the county morgue to talk to Dr. Sathyagananda, AKA Dr. Sat, the pathologist who’d conducted the autopsy on Roan. He was a good two inches shorter than me and at least two feet wider, with glasses as thick as the bottom of an old Coke bottle and a comb-over that consisted of about three long strands that stretched from one ear to the other.
His tiny office was packed to the ceiling with books, notepads, papers, and diagrams. I had to clear a pile of stuff off one of the two chairs to find a seat. When I got settled, I asked, “Is it possible that Roan could appear to have been dead by the time the rope was placed around his neck?”
Dr. Sat steepled his fingers above his chest. He had the singsong voice typical among East Indians. “Most certainly. Strangulation would cause unconsciousness within twenty to forty seconds. Death can occur in as little as two minutes.”
“Then if someone had been strangled for, say, a minute to a minute and a half, he would appear to be dead?”
He shrugged. “Or he might even be dead. The amount of time it takes any particular individual to succumb can vary. But certainly he would be very close to death.”
I consulted the report. “You say there was still a small amount of blood pressure when Roan was hung. Is that why you concluded he might’ve still been alive? And could that mean it was a suicide?”
Dr. Sat pushed up his glasses to rub his eyes. “Yes, could be. The toxicology report showed that he had a very high level of OxyContin in his blood. Not enough to be lethal but certainly enough to significantly lower his blood pressure. So even though the bleeding into the tissues showed low, perimortem-level blood pressure, that did not rule out a suicide. But it could also mean someone strangled him and then hung him.”
I thought about how long Davey had been alone with Roan. “But if Roan was high on Oxy, it wouldn’t have taken much to strangle him, right? Wouldn’t he have passed out a lot faster?”
Dr. Sat shrugged. “Maybe. It would depend on his tolerance for the drug. I don’t know how long he was a user, or how much he regularly used.”
I needed more. “Were there any wounds that could only have been caused by strangulation? As opposed to hanging?”
He gave a grunt of irritation. “Arguably, yes. But I don’t argue, because I am not a lawyer. I’m a doctor. If my findings do not justify a firm conclusion either way, I say it is inconclusive.” He waved a hand at me. “I let you people fight it out in court.”
It was time for the money question. “Would Roan have survived if he had not been hung?”
Dr. Sat frowned and pursed his lips. It made him look a lot like Yoda. “Very unlikely. He was very nearly dead—might even have just expired by the time he was hung.”
Graham would be relieved to hear this. But it didn’t solve the core problem: I had no corroboration for his claim that he hadn’t been involved in strangling Roan. All I had was Graham’s word for it.
I thanked Dr. Sat for his time and went back to my car. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I thought about what Sandy had given me. I called Frank Levy. This time he answered—with a very uncordial, “Yeah?”
I really ought to block my name from the caller ID. “I hear you got fired. True or false?”
He sounded irritated. “True. And no, he doesn’t have anyone else on deck yet. So if you want to bug the shit out of his next lawyer, you’ll have to wait.”
That was a little surprising. Defendants usually don’t fire a lawyer until they’ve got a replacement. “But he plans to?”
A horn blasted in the background. Frank spoke sarcastically. “For some reason, he didn’t see fit to share his plans with me.”
He ended the call. I stared at the phone and sighed. “Dude, it’s not my fault he dumped you.”
But this was my opening. It might be my best—and only—chance to talk to Davey. I drove to the Twin Towers jail, showed my bar card, and said I needed an attorney visit with Davey Moser. He could definitely refuse to allow it, so I added, “Please tell him I’ve got something to show him. Something he’ll want to see.”
Half an hour later, I followed a jail deputy up to the attorney room and chose the first partitioned seat in the row. It took another fifteen minutes for them to bring Davey out. As I gazed at him through the glass, I saw that his eyes, underlined by dark circles, had a haunted look. He frowned at me as he sat down. A deputy led another inmate to a cubicle farther down the row, and as they passed behind him, he jerked around in his seat and watched until they were several feet away.
I picked up the phone, and he did the same. “How’re you doing, Davey?”
He glowered at me. “What do you want to show me?”
I ignored the question. First, I needed to make sure this meeting was legal. “Have you hired another lawyer yet?”
He shook his head. “But my mom’s looking for someone.” His expression was grim. “So what is it? What do you want to show me?”
I was in the clear. I pulled the notebook Sandy had given me out of my briefcase. It was leather-bound and embossed with Alicia’s name in gold lettering. Sandy had given it to her for her fifteenth birthday, after Alicia had said she was thinking of becoming a writer. She’d been writing in it ever since. I held it up so he could see it. “Do you recognize this?” I was careful to hold it by the edges, so I wouldn’t smear any prints.
; A sad look crossed his face. “Yeah, I remember seeing that in Alicia’s backpack. She carried it with her everywhere.”
I nodded and turned to the last page. Alicia had been one of those left-handers who took pains to make her writing legible. Hers was downright pretty. I held the notebook up to the glass. “This was her last entry. Can you read it?”
Davey didn’t answer. He stared at the page as though he wanted to devour it; his expression burned with a palpable intensity. I watched his face as he read the words I remembered verbatim.
My body is . . . everywhere. For all the sick, twisted freaks in the world to see. I keep imagining their eyes on me, their ugly, sweaty hands on me . . . I can’t stand it.
And the stink of that asshole’s breath in my face. His filthy hands on my body . . . The horrible things he said to me. And more will come. This will never end. I’m so scared.
But worse, I’m ruined now. There’s nothing left of me—at least, nothing I can stand to be.
You stole my life, Roan. You destroyed me. You killed me. And if I’m lucky, if this goes right, that’s what everyone’s going to think.
Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry. I know this will be bad for you. But the daughter you had is gone, and she’ll never be back. I hope you understand. It’s better for everyone this way. I love you forever and always.
Alicia
I watched as Davey’s face drained to a pale white. Sweat broke out on his forehead. I saw his lips move as he read the final words. I spoke quietly. “So you see, Davey, you actually killed Alicia.”
He stared at me, his face wooden. He was so still, he didn’t even seem to be breathing. “Then Roan didn’t kill . . . she . . . she . . .”
I nodded. “She committed suicide.” I gave him a direct look. “Because of you.”
No one ever suspected that Alicia might’ve been the one who committed suicide. Probably because there was no information to go on. The investigation into Alicia’s death had been kept under wraps. Since it was widely believed to be obvious that Roan had killed her, and—unlike in Roan’s case—no one was pushing for a different conclusion, the coroner’s office had been able to delay the official report. I’d wondered about that delay, why it’d been taking so long. Now I knew.
Davey’s face crumpled like a Prius in a head-on collision. He began to sob. “No! It’s not true!” Not my Alicia!” He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “You couldn’t—you wouldn’t do that to me!” He dropped the phone and grabbed his head with both hands; then he turned and started to bang his head against the wall. His voice was muted but distinct as it came through the glass. “I did it for you! I just wanted to save you from him! You were supposed to be mine!” He dissolved into tears.
The deputy came running. I tried to catch his eye as I waited for him to get close enough to hear, then shouted into the phone so Davey would hear it. “You killed Roan, didn’t you? Because you thought he killed Alicia.”
But Davey wasn’t listening. The phone was still swinging from its cord as he leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, and sobbed. “Alicia, it was all for you. I paid him back . . . for you!”
I looked at the deputy to see if he’d registered what Davey had said. He met my gaze, gave me a brief nod, and pointed to the name tag on his chest. Then he tapped Davey on the shoulder. “Come on. Visit’s over.”
Davey had been lost in his fantasy dialogue with Alicia. Now he slowly sat up and looked around, disoriented. After a moment, tears still rolling down his face, he stood up, his shoulders slumped, head bent. There was an expression of unbearable pain on his face as the deputy led him away.
The entire room had fallen quiet. And as everyone in the room watched them go, I could still feel the damp, cloying weight of unhinged misery in the air. I had to take a few moments to regroup before heading back to my car. I reflected on the profound irony of that journal. The last thing Alicia had done before she died was mail it to Sandy and Graham. But she’d accidentally transposed two numbers of the address. It was delivered to the neighbors down the block, who’d been out of town. When they got back three days ago, they’d delivered it to Sandy.
Had Alicia addressed the envelope correctly, it would’ve arrived days before Roan was killed. And Alicia’s plan to get him convicted for her murder would’ve been thwarted. But because of that mistaken address, Alicia had won. In a bigger way than she’d ever hoped.
And Graham was safe. Between Davey’s confession and the coroner’s statement, Graham would be off the hook for murder. He’d get tagged for being an accessory after the fact, but given the circumstances, I was sure he wouldn’t do any time. So I’d won. But as I headed back to my car, I found little joy in it. Alicia was still dead—a tragic suicide—and now Graham’s and Sandy’s world would be filled with even more darkness and pain. And Davey’s conviction would change none of that.
And then there was Tracy . . . the thought of her tore at my heart.
My next stop was the PAB, to see Rusty and turn over Alicia’s journal. And, of course, to needle him about the fact that, once again, I’d solved his case for him. I wasn’t so sad that I couldn’t take a little satisfaction in that.
He made me wait in the reception area for more than twenty minutes. I swear he does it on purpose. He couldn’t always be that busy. When he walked out of the elevator, I stood where I was and made him come to me.
He put his hands on his hips. “Now what?”
I pulled the journal—enclosed in a padded envelope—out of my briefcase and gave it to him as I told him what it was and how I’d gotten it. “How come you didn’t tell me the coroner was looking at Alicia as a suicide?”
He took the envelope. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t report to you?” I glared at him. Surprisingly, he relented. “Because they didn’t want to piss off your client and start a shit storm until they were a hundred percent sure. I’m guessing they’ll issue the report in a week or so.” He held up the envelope. “This’ll probably grease the wheels.”
I served him up the coup de grâce and told him I’d gotten Davey’s confession. “And I’ve got an independent witness.” I gave him the name of the deputy. I folded my arms and waited.
He gave me a hooded glare, then huffed a barely audible, “Thanks.”
I nodded. “Now go talk to Davey. I’ve softened him up enough so even you should be able to get a statement out of him. I’d rather not have to take the stand.”
A defense lawyer who testifies for the prosecution doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in the criminal community.
EPILOGUE
The case wrapped up quickly after that. Rusty took my advice and went to see Davey that afternoon. He gave a full, official confession.
I was sure it hadn’t taken much persuading. Davey had his issues. But he wasn’t a psychopath. The discovery that Roan hadn’t killed Alicia after all, that Davey himself had killed her with his insane machinations, had sapped him of all his strength. He had nothing left to live for.
On Thursday, as expected, the prosecutor agreed to let Graham plead guilty to being an accessory after the fact to Roan’s murder in exchange for straight probation. We’d have to negotiate with the state bar to keep him from being suspended, but all things considered, I liked our chances. It was about as good a resolution as could be expected.
With the distraction of the criminal case out of the way, Graham and Sandy would have to deal with the tragedy of Alicia’s loss and the knowledge of who and what Davey was. But at least they wouldn’t have to do it with Graham behind bars.
I went back to the office after taking the plea. The mood was upbeat, though tempered with sadness. I’d stopped to get us a six-pack of Coronas and Doritos. A post-win tradition. I’d even remembered to buy the limes.
Now, we all toasted. I raised my bottle. “To justice.” We all clinked.
Michy took a long pull. “Man, this was a weird case. A suicide that looked like a murder. A murder that looked like a suicide.” She shook her he
ad. “What did the coroner’s report say about Alicia?”
They’d finally issued it. As Rusty suspected, the discovery of Alicia’s journal had put it on a fast track. “Remember they found the knife in the tub, under her body?” Alex and Michy nodded. “So the first thing they noticed is that they were able to find her prints on the handle but only a partial of a foreign print. Not enough to even run through the database.”
Alex took a fistful of Doritos. “But the killer could’ve worn gloves, and since the knife was hers . . .”
“Exactly.” I squeezed the lime into my mouth and took a sip of beer. “And it made sense that the killer wouldn’t want to reach into the water to get it because Alicia was bleeding all over the place. The last thing he’d want to do is leave her apartment dripping bloody water. But what they didn’t find were any—”
“Defensive wounds, right?” Alex asked.
I nodded. “Nice.” He’d been studying up. “That was actually the first thing that bothered them.” Especially with a stabbing, the victim usually resists, which causes at least a few random cuts on the victim’s hands or arms. “The second thing was that the shape and angle of the wound didn’t match what they should’ve found if the cut had been inflicted by someone standing over her.”
Michy looked pained. “I get that she wanted to frame Roan, but . . . it’s such a horrible way to go.” She gave an involuntary shiver. “I can’t even imagine being able to do that.”
I had to agree. “I think she had a full-on breakdown.”
Alex wiped the chip dust off his hand with a napkin. “Just the fact that she expected her parents to keep it secret so Roan would go down for her murder shows you she was pretty far gone.” He stared at the floor and shook his head. “It’s all so horrible. That poor girl.”
I could see the sadness in his eyes. I nodded. “Alicia’s suicide was such an incredible tragedy. But Roan’s death is looking a lot different now, too, isn’t it?”
