Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  My stomach lurched. We were hosed. But the judge continued. “At least not for the GPS. As for the search…” She leaned back and stared out the window with narrowed eyes. “Well, I never dodged a tough call before and I’m not about to start now.” Judge Moss picked up the warrant. “Detective Keller, raise your right hand.” I quietly let go of the breath I’d been holding. We had our warrant.

  37

  Bailey’d had a team standing by, so the minute Judge Moss signed, she called to give them the go-ahead and we flew out of the courthouse. Graden had said he’d meet us there. When you toss a pad belonging to a whale like Powers, it’s good to have the brass on hand. Not only can they deal with the inevitable outraged threats of retaliation, but by watching the search, they can swear to whomever—be it judge, jury, or management—that everything was done by the book. The thought of getting to put Graden on the witness stand made me smile.

  Powers lived in Bel Air, not far from Russell, but their manses were a study in contrasts: whereas Russell’s was an ivy-covered Tudor that had a traditional feeling, Ian’s was ultramodern, concrete gray, all straight lines and right angles with varied rooftops and slanted skylights and lots and lots of glass.

  We made a ruse call to the housekeeper saying that we had a package to deliver so she’d open the gates without any nasty confrontations. The house was set back so far from the street, she’d have to check the surveillance camera to see that we weren’t UPS. I was banking on her not bothering since it was mid-morning, a typical delivery time. And I was right. The gate swung open and we drove through.

  A large outer door stood open, giving entrance to an enclosed courtyard with a retractable glass ceiling. It was halfway open right now, but I imagined they’d close it when the sun got a little higher in the sky.

  A squat Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door. When she saw the contingent of cops behind Bailey and me, she glared at us. “What do you want?” she said, her tone both surly and condescending. It was a rather surprising degree of belligerence in the face of all those uniforms. Bailey raised an eyebrow, introduced us in a steely voice that would’ve given Muhammad Ali some pause, and showed her the search warrant.

  She looked at it with suspicious eyes. “You can’t come in,” she said. “Mr. Powers isn’t home.”

  “He doesn’t have to be here. We’ll leave him a copy of the warrant. Now if you don’t mind, Ms.…?”

  “Vasquez.” But she did mind. She folded her arms and said, “Mr. Powers says no one can come in when he’s not home unless he tells me in advance.”

  “Ms. Vasquez, no one has the right to refuse to let us execute a search warrant. Please step aside. Then go ahead and call Mr. Powers and tell him we’re here.” With that, Bailey stepped forward and closed the gap, leaving Ms. Vasquez with the choice of either backing up or getting knocked flat. She very reluctantly—but wisely—chose the former option, scurrying away, presumably to call her boss, and Bailey and I stepped inside, the unis on our heels.

  The front door led into a wide foyer, which opened into a great room. It had “interior designer” written all over it—but unlike Russell’s, this decorating maven was a minimalist: sparse, simple furniture, with lots of windows and skylights, cool gray walls, and bamboo floors covered by thick Gabbeh rugs that provided striking spots of rich, earthy rusts, browns, and oranges. It was a little stark, but it had an austere appeal.

  Bailey dispatched teams of three for each of the bigger rooms, which included an immense kitchen with two refrigerators, three ovens, and three dishwashers. Boyfriend must do some serious entertaining. Bailey and I took the study because it’d pose the gnarliest legal questions about what we were allowed to paw through. Especially since I’d written the “items to be seized” part of the warrant as broadly as I dared. I’ve learned from hard experience that when it comes to warrants, less is not more. Limit yourself too much and you can leave critical evidence behind. And of course, evidence left behind is evidence we’ll never have the chance to get again. So I always try to think ahead to what might become important, even if it isn’t obvious at the moment. But I also had to be careful. Ian was likely to have legal documents that had no bearing on our case, so I wanted to make sure nothing got touched that would get anyone’s hands slapped later.

  Given the rest of the house, I’d expected a glass and chrome affair for a desk, but instead this was a traditional kind of study: a heavy-looking mahogany desk with a big leather lawyer’s chair behind it and two cushy upholstered armchairs positioned in front of it. An antique wooden filing cabinet stood in the corner behind the desk, and the walls were covered with framed posters of the movies he and Russell had produced over the years. There were quite a few.

  “Don’t see any Oscars, Emmys, or Golden Globes,” Bailey said.

  “Maybe he keeps his statuary in the bathroom.”

  “Knowing him, more likely in the bedroom.” Bailey and I shared a smirk.

  We were just about to get down to work when a commotion at the front door made us stop and listen. A husky female voice was demanding to know what was going on. I leaned out into the hallway and saw a stunning brunette with waist-length hair in a flowing, nearly sheer tunic-length dress and five-inch heels standing in the foyer, a Neiman Marcus shopping bag on her arm.

  “Isn’t it kind of early for a Neiman’s run?” I asked Bailey.

  “Yes, that does seem to be the question on everyone’s mind.” She nodded toward the officers, who were openly enjoying the view.

  “Mrs. Powers—?”

  “Or a much-respected girlfriend,” Bailey said.

  “Shall I see if she’s free for lunch?” We’d need to interview her pretty quick if Ian wound up in handcuffs. I figured we might as well take a shot at her now since she was here.

  “Let the unis get her info for now. We can talk to her later when we’ve got something to work with.”

  “Do the guys know how you’re always looking out for them?”

  “You’ve seen how fast I pull together search teams,” Bailey replied.

  I nodded. “Point taken.”

  We got down to work. I started with the filing cabinets, where I was most likely to find the sensitive legal papers. But there wasn’t much there: contracts, old divorce documents—apparently Ian had a “prior”—and some official-looking correspondence with agents, but nothing that appeared to be sensitive, or even current. He’d probably gone paperless—the way of the world.

  Bailey had pulled off all removable cushions on the chairs and sofa and leafed through every book on the shelves by the time I’d finished with the filing cabinet. We turned our attention to the desk. She took the left side, I took the right. Other than office supplies and paperweights, the most interesting thing I found was a photograph of a voluptuous copper-haired beauty in an evening gown. But she looked nothing like the slender brunette we’d seen in the entryway and in the photos that were dotted around the house.

  “Something on the side?” I said, holding it up for Bailey to see. Just as she reached for it, I saw writing on the back. To my darling son, the best manager Hollywood has ever seen. XOXO, Mom.

  Bailey took the photo and read the back. “Let’s hope he isn’t keeping his mother on the side.”

  “Gagging now.”

  I moved on to the bottom-right drawer. But when I pulled the handle, it wouldn’t budge. I pulled again; no luck.

  “This one’s locked.” Bailey and I exchanged a look. She gave it a yank, confirmed what I’d said, and called out to the other officers to bring in the tools.

  Four minutes later, the drawer was open. And there, under a few issues of Hollywood Reporter, was a laptop computer. Bailey lifted it out. “It’s not totally suspicious that he locked it up.”

  “He’s probably got just as many hot-and-cold running assistants as Russell. A lot of prying eyes,” I said. “Though you’d think a password would be enough security in your own home.”

  Bailey shrugged. “He might jus
t be paranoid.”

  “True.”

  “But it might be more than that. If we take it, it could buy us a lot of trouble…” And yet, if we didn’t, we might regret it. Bitterly. “Your call, Counselor,” she said.

  I’d included my standard phrase in the description of things we were allowed to seize: “All items whether electronic or written that might reasonably contain information or writings relevant to the crimes of…,” in this case, kidnapping and murder. The only real problem with seizing the computer was that we might run into privileged material. A manager doesn’t have a legally recognized privilege. But if we uncovered any communications with his lawyer that involved this case, it’d be trouble. On the other hand, if we left it here…

  “Yeah. Take it. It’s covered.” I’d figure out how to handle any privilege issues later. The first priority was to get the evidence.

  Bailey changed gloves and gingerly pulled the laptop out of the drawer, then slid it into a paper bag. “You do the idiot check to make sure we didn’t miss anything in here. I’m going to make sure they got Ian’s hairbrush, toothbrush, and all that jazz.”

  “That jazz” would provide the exemplars Dorian and Tim Gelfer, our DNA expert, could use to determine whether hairs and any other bodily fluids that’d been seized matched Ian Powers. As I picked up the bag containing the laptop, I heard loud male voices coming from the front of the house.

  Bailey pointed to the computer. “Make sure you get that tagged and logged.”

  Then she walked off. And left me there, holding the bag.

  38

  I moved toward the front of the house where the evidence officer was stationed just as Ian Powers shouted, “I have the right to have my lawyer examine the warrant first! You can’t just barge into my house this way!”

  “You do not have the right to have your lawyer review the warrant first, Mr. Powers,” Graden replied, his voice low and steady. If Powers thought he could throw his weight around with Graden, he was about to find out just how sadly mistaken he was. When I reached the front of the house, I saw that Graden was holding a copy of the search warrant and Powers was leaning toward him, neck muscles strained and bulging, chin jutting out, as though daring Graden to hit him.

  Graden looked calm as the clear blue water in Ian’s infinity pool. Good news for Powers, because one punch from Graden would’ve ruined his close-ups for the next few months. Graden acknowledged me with a brief nod, then turned back to Powers. “I can assure you that there will be no damage to your—”

  “I’m calling my lawyer!”

  Graden replied with calm indifference, “Be my guest.”

  Ian pulled out his cell phone and gave it the command to call his lawyer. I deliberately turned my back to him and started to hand the bag containing the laptop to the evidence officer. But then I thought better of it and stopped. If there was incriminating evidence on this laptop, Ian would go ballistic, and his lawyer would come running even faster. I could be dragged into court before I ever had the chance to see what I had. I motioned to the officer to join me outside and hugged the bag to my body to hide it from Ian as I made my way around him. Fortunately he was distracted, yelling at his lawyer. I had to get out of here fast, while I still could. When we stepped out into the courtyard, I explained the problem to the evidence officer. “So could you log it in and let me take it back to the station right now?”

  “You’ve got to have an officer with you for chain of custody. I can’t just let—”

  “Bailey Keller can vouch for—”

  “What’s the issue here?” Graden asked.

  “Walk me to the car.”

  I explained the situation and Graden pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Send Keller out here ASAP.” He moved to my right, putting his body between me and the house to block Ian’s view. “If this turns out to be your guy—”

  “I know, it’s gonna be hell—”

  At that moment, a customized, chauffeur-driven black Mercedes roared up to the gate. Ian’s lawyer. It had to be.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. I turned my back to the gate. “Graden, where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have one. I hitched a ride with one of the unis.”

  Damn it. Where the hell was Bailey? The gates swung open and the car came roaring up the driveway. Graden walked toward it slowly, making it look casual. I turned my back to the car and moved further up the drive, forcing myself not to look back or move too fast. I heard Graden introduce himself and the lawyer demand to see the warrant and his ID. I hoped that would keep him busy for a while, but before Graden could answer, he asked, “And who’s that woman over there?”

  Being the only woman in the immediate area who wasn’t in uniform, I stuck out. If the lawyer saw me with Ian’s laptop, he’d start screaming about privileged material and demand an immediate hearing. If he got the right judge, he could tie us up in court for weeks. My back was to him, but I tilted my head enough to see out of the corner of my eye. The lawyer had started toward me. There was no place to hide, and I couldn’t just run. Could I? Fortunately I didn’t have to answer that question, because at that moment I heard Bailey introduce herself. “And your name is?” she asked him.

  “Stanford Trinity, Mr. Powers’s lawyer—”

  “You planning to represent Jack Averly too?”

  “My plans are none of your concern, Detective. Now let me see that warrant.”

  Graden interceded. “Come with me, Mr. Trinity.”

  I didn’t hear a response, so I waited until I heard their footsteps in the courtyard before turning around. Then I silently motioned to Bailey and mouthed, “Get over here.” She spread her arms out questioningly. “What?”

  I waved at her with urgency and she finally trotted over to me. “Get me out of here. Now!”

  She gave me a puzzled look, but hurried to get the car. When we drove off the compound and I could let myself exhale, I explained why I’d been in such a hurry to get out of there. It felt good to finally put the laptop down on the seat. I’d been holding it so tightly, it’d made dents in my chest and stomach.

  Bailey had a little grin on her face. “Wouldn’t it be a riot if all it had on it was Angry Birds?”

  “No. What took you so long?”

  “Got a call from Abe Furtoni back in New York. Our boy Averly just lawyered up.”

  “Let me guess: a high-priced white-collar firm.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that’s why you just asked Ian’s lawyer if he was representing Jack too.”

  “And did you notice? He didn’t ask me ‘Jack who?’”

  “Did Abe know whether Jack Averly got hold of a cell phone?”

  “He didn’t give Averly a chance. They stuck him in solitary right after we left New York. Averly must’ve gotten desperate, because he finally used the company phone this morning.”

  “And called Ian?” I asked.

  “Don’t know yet. But Abe only got the call from Jack Averly’s lawyer a few minutes ago—”

  “So Ian got a lawyer for Averly about the same time he called a lawyer for himself.”

  “Way it looks to me.”

  Any doubts we may’ve had about that conclusion were resolved seconds later. My cell phone played “Dirty Work” by Steely Dan—the ringtone for my boss Eric’s number. It was Melia.

  “Hi, Rachel. Everything okay?”

  The ridiculously cheery yet familiar tone was still jarring. I fervently hoped this would wear off soon. “Everything’s great, Melia. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a call from a lawyer in New York. Want me to patch him through?”

  “Who is it?” Never before has Melia offered to put a call through to me when I’m in the field. Not unless it’s Eric or Vanderhorn.

  “Beldon Castleman.”

  It was a little depressing to know that Melia could really do the job when she wanted to. “Thanks, Melia. Put him through.”

  “Okay. Have a great day, Rachel.”

  With the next click,
I was on with Beldon Castleman, Esquire. He explained in clipped, wannabe British tones that he was handling Jack Averly only as long as he was in New York, as a favor for Donald Wagmeister. “I don’t know if you’ve crossed swords with Don before—”

  “I know Don.” Not because we’d “crossed swords” but because everyone knew Don. He was one of the most high-priced criminal lawyers in Los Angeles.

  “We don’t intend to fight extradition, and we’ll be asking for the earliest court date available for arraignment when he gets back to Los Angeles.”

  “Not a problem, Beldon. But in the interest of fair notice, you might tell Don that if he intends to try and cop a fast plea to the receiving stolen property count, we’ll be adding more charges by the time Averly gets back here.”

  A long-standing legal rule requires the prosecution to file all charges related to a single event at once if they have evidence to prove all the charges. The point being to prevent successive, harassing prosecutions. So if the DDA goofed and only filed the lesser charge, a defense attorney could run in, get his client to plead to the lesser crime, and preclude the prosecutor from ever bringing the heavier charges. I was telling Beldon not to plan on that happening here.

  “Such as?”

  I said nothing. No sense showing my hand before I was sure.

  “That’s fine, I’ll let Don know. And in the meantime, I’ve left my number with your secretary if you should need to reach me for any reason.”

  When I ended the call, Bailey asked, “How’d he sound when you said you’d be adding charges?”

  “Like he could care less.” I paused. “He might’ve been bluffing.”

  “Maybe. But if he wasn’t—”

  “They’ve already got their strategy ready.”

  Bailey nodded. “What the hell are they cooking up?”

  “Good question.”