Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script

by Lee Goldberg

  Steve joined his father in the bedroom. "Yikes. This is one scary lady. The ultimate date from hell."

  "Maybe she was," Mark said. "For Titus Carville."

  "You think she killed Titus?"

  Mark shrugged. "Seeing this, I'm surprised Cleve and Titus survived as long as they did."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Assistant District Attorney Karen Cross returned from Lacey McClure's bail hearing to find Steve Sloan waiting in her office, her tiny TV set on and tuned to one of the local stations for the evening news.

  Teetering stacks of bulging files covered every available surface in her office, including the guest chairs. Steve had moved one of the piles off one of the chairs and set it on the floor, braced against her desk, so he'd have a place to sit.

  The sight of the stack on the floor unnerved her, and Steve sensed it.

  "Did I just screw up some incredibly complex filing sys tem?" he asked.

  "It's not complex," she said, "It's idiosyncratic."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means the files are organized by geography and chronology," she said. "It's a system I could never explain.

  It's a combination of sight, memory, and familiarity. Even the height of the pile tells me something. Move a couple of stacks, though, and the whole system crumbles into anarchy."

  "All I moved was the stack on this seat," Steve said. "I promise I'll put it back. I'd swear on a stack of Bibles, but I'd be afraid to move them."

  "What are you doing here, Detective?"

  "I came to tell you that Moira Cole is a nutcase who'd slit her own throat for Lacey McClure, but other than that, I didn't find out anything at her house," Steve said, jacking up the volume on the TV just as Karen Cross herself appeared on camera, outside the courthouse.

  Karen stood behind Steve's chair, watching herself being surrounded by reporters thrusting microphones in her face.

  "We have charged Lacey McClure with two counts each of murder and conspiracy in the shooting deaths of her husband Cleve Kershaw and his lover, Amy Butler," Karen Cross told the reporters. "Additionally, we have charged Moira Cole with conspiracy to commit murder. Due to the heinous nature of these crimes, bail was denied and the defendants will remain in custody pending the outcome of a preliminary hearing. Thank you."

  And with that, Karen walked away from the reporters, refusing to answer any of the dozens of questions they shouted in her wake.

  Steve looked over his shoulder at her. "Don't like talking to reporters much, do you?"

  "I don't try my cases in the media," she said.

  "He does." Steve motioned to the television, where the reporters could be seen surrounding Arthur Tyrell as he appeared on the steps.

  There was no swagger in Tyrell's step, no smile on his face. His expression was one of barely controlled outrage, his cheeks red, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set tight, as he made his statement to the reporters.

  "What has happened to Lacey McClure is reprehensible and unconscionable. She was brutalized by organized-crime figures who murdered her husband because she wouldn't let them use her movies to launder their blood money. And she was brutalized again by the LAPD homicide detective as signed to the case, who betrayed her and the public trust for personal and professional gain," Tyrell said. "Lacey McClure isn't a murderer. She's the victim of a blatant and inept police conspiracy. The fact that she is sitting in jail today is a travesty of justice that makes me physically ill."

  "You aren't the only one feeling sick, buddy." Steve said to the TV.

  A reporter shouted out a question to Tyrell. "What about the stuntwoman?"

  Tyrell grimaced, as if he'd just tasted something sour.

  "Moira Cole is an innocent victim of this far-reaching conspiracy, who is resisting relentless attempts by the police to coerce her into making false statements against Lacey McClure. What this poor young woman has endured at the hands of one corrupt detective is utterly despicable."

  "He can't be serious," Steve said.

  Karen picked up the remote and turned off the TV. "He's demanding a preliminary hearing as soon as possible."

  "The evidence against her is overwhelming," Steve said. "You'd think he'd take all the time he could get to prepare a defense."

  "You just heard his defense," Karen said, taking a seat behind her desk.

  "He's going to attack me instead of the evidence."

  "It's not that simple. He's trying to frame the parameters of public debate. Now every discussion about the case will start first with the notion of police corruption rather than with the evidence," Karen said. "Pretty soon that's how everybody will think of the case. Tyrell hopes by the time we get into the courtroom, we will be forced to concentrate our efforts on defending your integrity instead of the integrity of the evidence."

  "Aren't they inextricably linked?" Steve asked.

  "If the evidence is strong, it doesn't matter whether you're a lying, inept, corrupt scumbag," she said. "The evidence will speak for itself."

  "If it's not drowned out by all the noise he's going to be making about me and the department," Steve said.

  "I'm not going to give him the chance," she said. "If it's an immediate hearing he wants, that's what he's going to get. I won't take the full ten days allowed by law. I'll get him in the courtroom tomorrow if I can and kill the negative debate before it starts."

  Steve tried to imagine the courtroom matchup between the frail looking half-Asian-half Caucasian woman and the stocky, aggressive lawyer. Would Tyrell steamroll right over her? Or was her frailty an asset that would lead Tyrell to underestimate her tenacity and strength?

  "You must be feeling pretty confident about the evidence if you're willing to give up your prep time, too." Steve said.

  "I'm calling his bluff," she said. "Once the judge rules that there's sufficient evidence to support our charges, Tyrell will have to scramble for a new defense in time for the trial."

  "Tyrell is taking a big risk," he said.

  "Not really."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "Simple," she said. "His clients can't be any worse off than they already are."

  After the impromptu press conference, Arthur Tyrell stopped by Ruth's Chris Steak House in Beverly Hills for the biggest rib eye on the menu and two side orders of mashed potatoes swimming in butter.

  From his seat in a dark booth in the corner, he could see the TV set in the bar, which was tuned to the news. He could see himself onscreen, and although he couldn't hear what was being said, he could see how his attack against Steve Sloan was playing with the crowd of businessmen. They were watching the TV in rapt attention, unconsciously nodding in agreement with Tyrell's words.

  Lacey McClure wasn't some crack whore or sociopathic gang member. She was a beautiful movie star. A heroine who battled crime in black leather. Nobody wanted her to be guilty. Whether they knew it or not, they desperately wanted her life to play out like one of her movies. So the Mob had to be the killers and the police had to be wrong.

  They wanted a happy ending.

  So did Tyrell. He ordered a slice of carmelized banana cream pie and imagined what the beleaguered ADA's reaction was going to be to his comments on TV She'd want to call his bluff, to go immediately to the preliminary hearing to keep him from dragging Steve Sloan and the LAPD through the mud for days.

  He smiled to himself. She'd be so busy preparing for his assault on Steve Sloan that she wouldn't be thinking about his real target, about the biggest weakness in her case.

  Tyrell finished up his dinner, left a generous tip, and walked back to his office. When he stepped out of the elevator, he saw two people in the wood-paneled lobby—the receptionist and a young man with a large briefcase on his lap.

  The receptionist smiled at Tyrell and motioned him over with a nod of her head. "Good evening, Mr. Tyrell."

  "Marcia," he said.

  "That gentleman has been waiting for you for the last two hours," she said.

  "What does he
want?"

  "He said he'd like to talk to you about some doctor named Sloan," she replied.

  Intrigued, Tyrell glanced over at the man, who was obviously aware that he was being discussed. Even so, the man remained in his seat, showing neither eagerness or anxiety. He seemed completely relaxed.

  "Thank you, Marcia," Tyrell said, then strode over to the man with the briefcase and offered his hand. "I'm Arthur Tyrell. What can I do for you?"

  The man rose and shook the lawyer's hand. "It's what we can do for each other, Mr. Tyrell."

  The man opened his briefcase and handed Tyrell a thick file, bound with rubber bands to hold all the papers in place. "There are a few facts I've compiled on Dr. Mark Sloan and his activities at Community General Hospital over the years. I thought you might find it interesting—particularly his relationship to the adjunct county medical examiner and his free access to her lab, her files, and the corpses she examines."

  Tyrell took a seat beside the man, pulled off the rubber bands, and opened the file on the glass-topped coffee table. He browsed through it quickly. It was apparent to Tyrell after only seeing a few documents that he'd just been handed a treasure chest. There had to be a catch, which he imagined was in the high five figures, minimum.

  "I take it you're expecting some kind of financial consideration in return for this information."

  "Not at all, Mr. Tyrell," the man said. "Consider it a gift. No strings attached. Just don't ever say where you got it."

  Arthur Tyrell stood and gave the man his biggest, warmest smile. "Please, call me Arthur. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I didn't get your name."

  "Noah Dent, chief administrator of Community General. Hospital. But you may call me Noah."

  Tyrell studied his gift horse for a moment, wondering what his true motives were. "Do you like brandy, Noah?"

  "I do, Arthur."

  "Excellent." Tyrell picked up the large file and led Dent towards his office. "Then let's open a bottle and talk some more about Dr. Sloan, shall we?"

  On his way back home, Steve stopped at BBQ Bob's to catch up on business and walked into a mini-crisis. One of the cooks had called in sick and they were short a waitress, who'd abruptly quit without any notice.

  Steve was immediately pressed into service as a waiter. He tied on an apron and began taking orders and serving meals. There was a big crowd, all of them hungry and impatient. They kept him on his feet, running back and forth between the kitchen and the tables. As exhausting as it was, it was a welcome diversion. He didn't think about the case, or Lacey McClure, even once.

  But the respite was broken as soon as the dinner crowd waned, and Steve took a moment behind the counter to get himself a Coke. There was a man in a suit, tie loosened at the collar, sitting on a bar stool with a ready smile.

  "Must be a lot of work running this place," the man said to Steve.

  "It's a lot of work running anything," Steve said.

  "Bet it would be a lot easier if you had a million dollars," the man said.

  "Everything would be easier with a million dollars," Steve replied.

  The man reached into his jacket, took out a check, and set it on the counter.

  "Life just got easier," the man said.

  Steve glanced at the check. It was from Toffler & Templeton and it was made out to him for one million dollars. He'd heard of the venerable publisher, of course. Anyone who'd ever walked into a bookstore in the last sixty years knew their ubiquitous logo: two "T"s separated by an elegant quill as an ampersand.

  "I'm Mitch Stein, senior editor of Toffler & Templeton's true-crime imprint," Stein said, offering his hand. "We'd like to hear your story."

  "My life isn't really that interesting."

  "It became interesting when you arrested Lacey McClure for murder," Stein said. "We'll pair you up with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Andy Andrews to create the definitive account of your investigation."

  Steve set his Coke down on the check, using it as a coaster. "I'm not interested."

  "You don't have to do a thing except talk." Stein looked down as the ring of moisture beneath the glass widened, the absorption heading for the red ink of the inscribed amount and signature.

  "If I participate in the writing of this book, my career is over," Steve said.

  "No offense, but your career is already over," Stein said quickly, racing the absorption, hoping to change Steve's mind before the ink smeared, voiding the check. "You're going to need this money to live on."

  "I'll live," Steve said.

  "Wouldn't you prefer to live well?" Stein asked.

  "I've still got to live with myself," Steve said, walking away.

  Stein glanced down at the check. It was wet. The moisture from the glass had smeared the red ink. What was once a million dollars now looked like drops of fresh blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Superior Court Judge Aurelio Rojas stared down from the bench at his crowded courtroom with weariness and disapproval, as if the very presence of the people before him was a disappointment. The only thing that would have pleased him was greeting an empty courtroom, which would prove that at least one day had gone by without a lawless act being committed that demanded his judgment.

  But that day was never going to come, and, rather than accept it, he wore a permanent expression of glum disdain and chronic displeasure. If his expression was an accurate reflection of his attitude, then it probably boded well for the prosecution. It was the only edge the prosecution appeared to have, since they were clearly outmatched in sheer star power by the expertly coiffed and outfitted group at the defense table.

  Their backs were to the spectators' gallery where Mark and Steve sat. Even so, the defense table radiated beauty, poise, wealth, power, and supreme self-confidence with such intensity that Mark felt like he should be wearing sunscreen.

  Lacey McClure was dressed in the same conservative suit she wore in her movie Thrill Kill when she played the housewife who takes on the Mob. She also wore the same look of moral outrage she displayed in the courtroom scenes when the killers of her cop husband were set free on a technicality. Her performance on this day wasn't so much for the benefit of the judge, who didn't seem to notice it, as for the cameras, which noticed everything.

  Her codefendant Moira Cole didn't have her idol's, admittedly limited, acting ability or natural charisma, but she did have her natural beauty, though with a harder edge. An attempt had been made to soften that edge and to deemphasize her resemblance to Lacey with a new haircut, makeup, and a sexier wardrobe that accentuated her femininity.

  Arthur Tyrell managed to look both respectful and utterly at ease, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his gold pen poised to take notes on his brand-new blank legal pad. There were no notes, files, or papers in front of him, which by itself conveyed his command of the facts, and projected strength.

  ADA Karen Cross sat at the prosecution table with several files stacked beside her, using the last few seconds before the hearing to scribble a couple more notes to herself on a pad seemingly already filled with writing. She looked like a student cramming at the last minute before a final exam and wore an off-the-rack suit that accentuated her frailness. Mark wondered if she, too, was affecting a pose, to look like the vulnerable underdog up against the aggressive, high- powered attorney. Then again, it wasn't so much a pose as a clear statement of the truth, even if she was consciously taking advantage of it.

  The truth was that Karen Cross already had a distinct advantage. The threshold of proof required to establish that there was enough evidence to go to trial was exceeding low. The defense rarely succeeded in getting the case dismissed.

  The gallery where Mark sat was filled to capacity with witnesses and reporters, who represented only a small fraction of the journalists who were camped outside the building. But no one was being deprived of the experience of watching the preliminary hearing unfold. The hearing was being broadcast live on Court TV from a single camera mounted above the j
ury box.

  Mark had no doubt the hearing would be covered with ridiculous significance and high drama by Court TV's team of legal pundits, despite the fact that there was little doubt what the outcome would be. The hearing would play like a dress rehearsal of the murder trial, a preview of the block buster entertainment event to come.

  Judge Rojas cleared his throat and looked directly at Tyrell, as if he were a child who might misbehave at any moment.

  "This is a preliminary hearing to determine if there is enough evidence to merit a trial," Rojas said, more for the benefit of the public than of the experienced attorneys in front of him. "It is not a trial, so save your histrionics for the jury. Is that clear?"

  Rojas didn't expect a verbal answer, but looked to the two attorneys to see the acknowledgement on their faces.

  "Are the People ready?" the judge asked.

  Karen Cross rose from her seat. "Yes, your honor."

  "Is the defense ready?" the judge asked.

  Arthur Tyrell glanced significantly at his clients, cleverly drawing everyone's attention to them, giving the two women a chance to shamelessly emote for the cameras, then he rose and faced the Judge. "Yes, Your Honor."

  "Proceed," the judge said, tipping his head to Karen.

  "Your Honor, the People call Officer Tony Blake to the stand."

  The uniformed cop, the first to respond to the murder scene, rose from his seat in the gallery, was sworn in, and took his place on the witness stand.

  Karen asked him some straightforward and perfunctory questions to establish that a crime had actually taken place, and where and when it had happened.

  Officer Blake set up a couple of key points Mark knew that the prosecutor would come back to later: that the police responded to a "shots fired" 911 call at four thirty p.m., and arrived at the scene to find Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler naked together in bed, shot to death.

  Karen sat down. Tyrell rose and strode casually up to the witness stand.