Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  I scrunched back into a corner and, luckily, the push of the crowd forced him out before he could try again. By the time I got to the eighteenth floor, I was a nervous wreck. I dragged myself to Toni’s office. Please, oh, please be there, I prayed. Her door was closed, not a good sign. Ever the optimist, I knocked. “Hey, Tone, you there?”

  Two seconds later Toni opened the door, holding an eyelash curler up to one eye. She quickly pulled me in and closed the door.

  She released her eyelashes and looked me over. “Did you hitchhike from Iowa? What happened to you?”

  I told her of my short but eventful trip to the office. “Jeez, Rachel. Why don’t you have a key to the freight elevator?”

  Good question. The freight elevator had no public access. I should’ve thought of that long ago. Eric would be glad to get me a key. “I forgot, I’ll—”

  “Never mind. I’ll take care of it for you.” Toni shook her head and walked to the mirror she kept on the wall behind her desk. She put on her mascara as she spoke. “You need a blowout and some real makeup. The light in that courtroom will make you look like Morticia.” I admitted I didn’t know that. “How do you not know that?” she asked. I shrugged. “Okay, what do you have with you? You obviously can’t use my base or concealer.”

  I showed her what I had. A compact and lip gloss. “I’ve got foundation at home, but I don’t usually use it—”

  Toni shook her head. “Well, you’re going to use it now. It’s not just a vanity thing, Rache. Looks and credibility go hand in hand, especially for women. And your prospective jurors are watching. I’ll do what I can now, but we’re going to have a little hair, makeup, and wardrobe session this weekend. And you’re going to buy extras to keep in your office, okay? And one other thing: stop perspiring.”

  I nodded obediently and Toni went to work. Within fifteen minutes, she had me looking more polished than I’d ever have managed on my own. At eight twenty I called Declan and told him it was time to rock and roll.

  “Wow, you look great,” he said.

  “I can’t take any credit. It was all Toni.” He looked pretty great himself, in a single-breasted navy blue Hugo Boss suit and red-and-blue-striped tie. But his cheek was twitching and he was shifting from foot to foot. I started to warn him about the press, but he held up a hand to stop me. “I saw the picketers out front. I recognized the girl holding the NOT GUILTY sign from one of my dad’s films.”

  I looked at Declan with renewed appreciation. Not that I hadn’t already been impressed with his intelligence and hard work, but his unique insider knowledge was invaluable. “It helps to hear that.”

  “We’re playing the Hollywood game now, and that’s a game I’ve watched since birth. Nothing is real—and everything is real. What’s that line? ‘King Kong was only four feet tall—’”

  “‘But he still scared the crap out of everyone.’”

  “Only because they didn’t know. Once you know, it’s all over. So now you’re going to show them—”

  “That Ian is only four feet tall?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  When we walked down the hallway, I was grateful to see that the reporters were confined to a roped-off area, so we couldn’t be cornered or chased. The anchors and talking heads thrust out their microphones and shouted out questions: “What do you expect to happen today?” and “Who are your witnesses?” and “Have you heard any news on Jack Averly’s whereabouts?” I ignored them all.

  Every seat in the courtroom was taken, every bench filled to bursting with civilians and reporters who were squeezed together like human sardines. Raynie was in the back row of the middle section. She nodded, but seemed distracted and uninterested in talking. I’d spoken to her on the telephone a few times since Ian’s arrest, and although she’d been polite, her voice was controlled, her manner distant. But I understood. Ian had been like a member of the family for many years. In fact, I’d learned that he was closer to them than Hayley’s real uncle—Sheldon, who was Raynie’s brother. Like Russell, Raynie couldn’t believe Ian had killed her daughter, but unlike Russell, she didn’t seem to want to ignore the truth—if that’s what it was. She just wasn’t sure. I hoped that after today, she would be.

  Front and center on the defendant’s side of the courtroom sat Dani, Russell, and Ian’s girlfriend, Sacha. Dani looked sad and stressed, but Russell sat with a stiff-necked defiance that announced he was here to support his unjustly accused friend. They were surrounded by many others, who looked like Ian fans. The air was thick with the tension that builds before a prizefight. Terry and Don were conferring on their side of counsel table, and two young law clerks were nervously standing behind them. All of them moved with the self-conscious awareness of actors on a stage.

  Bailey came in carrying poster board exhibits, blowups of the relevant phone records, and, most important, the texts between Hayley and Brian, and their killer—Ian. None of this would normally be done for a preliminary hearing. But I had a public to impress, and I needed to make my evidence dramatic enough to entice the news into spinning something for our side.

  “Do you have the DVD?” I asked.

  Bailey pulled it out of her pocket. “Good to go.”

  The bailiff escorted Ian out of the lockup, and he emerged looking like he’d stepped out of a magazine. Expensive dark navy suit and tasteful tie, hair perfectly combed, he smiled and waved to Dani and Russell, Sacha, and his many supporters.

  “We’ve got to persuade Janice to show up for trial,” I whispered to Bailey. “Someone has to be here to remind everyone that Brian was a real human being before this asshole slit his throat.”

  “She’ll be here. This was just a little too last-minute for her to pull it off.”

  Something about the way Bailey said it made me do a double take. “Is something up with her?”

  Bailey looked around, then carefully turned her back to the spectators and whispered, “When I was trying to get hold of her so we could meet in New York, I spoke to her agent. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I think he was trying to tell me she’s agoraphobic.”

  I pulled up the memory of Janice at the St. Regis—her strange reaction when I’d mentioned flying out here for the trial. Now it all made sense. It was probably hard enough for her to make it to Manhattan. But traveling to an airport, taking a flight to unfamiliar territory, and on top of that having to deal with the stress of coming to court—it would all be far too much. I fought the sinking feeling that even the few supporters we had would never show up.

  At exactly eight thirty Judge Daglian took the bench. He called the case and asked us all to state our appearances for the record. After we’d given our names and the party we represented—Declan cleared his throat nervously before he was able to choke out his name—the judge got down to business.

  “Other than the stipulation to the coroner’s testimony, will the rest of the testimony be from live witnesses?”

  “It will, Your Honor,” I said.

  “You may call your first witness.”

  I started with Bailey, who interpreted the cell phone records. She pointed out the thirty-second call from one of Russell’s lesser-used cell phones to Ian Powers’s unlisted number just minutes after Russell got the first kidnap message from Hayley’s phone. I also had Bailey mention Powers’s call to Russell a couple of hours after the ransom note was sent, though I knew the defense would try to play it as evidence of his innocence: Why would Powers call to find out what was going on if he was the killer? But it could also play as Powers’s effort to look innocent. Especially since he hadn’t called sooner. I was hoping the defense would make the mistake of opening that door, so I could point that out.

  But they didn’t. Wagmeister played it safe and had Bailey concede that we had no proof of what Russell said when he called Ian. That there was no proof he told Ian about the kidnapping text. That since Russell was so paranoid he wouldn’t call the cops, it was very likely he was afraid to tell Ian. Bailey tersely conceded all th
at was possible. I countered on redirect by having Bailey repeat that Russell’s call showed there was a way for Ian to have known about the kidnapping early on.

  Next up was Dorian, who described the evidence she’d collected, and gave her opinion that the hairs on the passenger seat of Averly’s car came from Ian Powers.

  Wagmeister did what little cross there was to do: just routine questions about how the evidence was collected and preserved. The defense didn’t want to tip their hand just yet, and tangling with a strong, highly respected witness like Dorian would only make them look bad.

  My fingerprint expert, Leo Relinsky, said he’d found Ian’s print on the trunk of Brian’s car and inside Averly’s car, and Averly’s prints inside Brian’s car. This time Terry walked to the lectern.

  “Now, Mr. Relinsky, you can’t say when prints are left on an object, can you?”

  “No.”

  “So those prints you found could’ve been left days, weeks, even months or years before you collected them?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you’ve heard of cases in which prints were planted, haven’t you?”

  Leo frowned and pursed his lips. “I have heard of the very rare, bizarre case in which someone was able to lift a fingerprint with tape and place it somewhere. Mostly on television shows, but…yes.”

  “So your answer is yes.”

  He exhaled sharply. “Yes.”

  “Nothing further.”

  I didn’t think Terry would really go for something as cheesy as planting fingerprints, but the press loved that kind of conspiracy junk, so it would likely get her plenty of ink and airtime. When Terry returned to counsel table, Ian favored her with a superior, congratulatory smile. The more I saw this guy, the more I hated him. I hadn’t thought that was possible.

  I decided not to call my soil expert, Sterling Numan. I didn’t need it for the prelim and it’d just give the defense more to play with. I wanted to keep my case high and tight. So I cut straight to the chase and called Timothy Gelfer to give his conclusions about the blood on the trunk.

  “I compared the evidence blood found on the trunk of the car to the sample removed from Hayley Antonovich at autopsy and found her DNA profile present. But I also found another profile in the evidence blood, which indicated it was a mix. I received samples of blood from Jack Averly and Ian Powers—”

  “Not from Hayley’s mother or father?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

  “No. Because the profile did not share the requisite number of alleles with Hayley’s sample to have come from a parent.”

  “Whose profile did match the blood on the trunk of Brian’s car?”

  Random coughs and shuffling had been a constant undercurrent during the testimony up till now. Suddenly, a hush fell over the courtroom.

  “I determined that the other profile matched that of the defendant, Ian Powers.”

  “Nothing further.”

  Several reporters scurried out of the courtroom. Good. Chew on that.

  Terry stood again.

  “Mr. Gelfer, you can’t tell when the blood was placed on the trunk, can you?”

  “No.”

  “And you cannot say that Hayley’s blood was placed on the trunk at the same time as Mr. Powers’s blood, can you?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, Hayley’s blood could’ve been on that car for a month before Ian Powers’s blood landed there, correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Or vice versa: Ian Powers’s blood could have gotten there before—maybe a month before—Hayley’s fell there. Correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct. Though I think it would be very—”

  “Objection!” Terry said. “The witness has answered the question. Nonresponsive.”

  Gelfer had been about to hit a nerve. Terry didn’t want logic getting in the way of her theory.

  “Sustained. The question has been answered. Anything further, Counsel?”

  Terry asked the judge for a moment, then leaned down to whisper something to Wagmeister. I suspected this was just a delaying tactic to let her point sink in with the spectators. Ian watched his attorneys, his expression detached, as though they were tailors debating his trouser length.

  Finally, Terry straightened and said, “No, nothing further.”

  “People?” the judge asked.

  I stood for the one question I had for Gelfer. “Were you about to say something about the likelihood of two people leaving a blood smear on the exact same spot at different times?”

  Terry jumped to her feet and shouted, “Objection! Leading! And calls for speculation! Outside this witness’s expertise!”

  “Objection will be sustained. Would you like to try again, Ms. Knight?”

  I’d made my point. And it was a logical one, not a scientific one, so Gelfer really couldn’t speak to it anyway. “No thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Anything further for this witness?” the judge asked.

  “No, nothing further.”

  Terry said she had no re-cross.

  “Call your next witness,” the judge said.

  “Just the stipulation, Your Honor.” I read in the coroner’s conclusion that both victims had been stabbed to death. Terry stipulated, albeit through gritted teeth, and I turned to the judge. “The People rest.”

  Terry declined to call any witnesses and gave a brief pro forma argument to dismiss the charges. She couldn’t really justify making a big show of it, since she’d just offered to forgo the preliminary hearing altogether. And thankfully, the judge didn’t belabor the point by taking the matter under submission. “I find that there is sufficient cause to hold the defendant to answer for two counts of murder with the use of a deadly weapon, to wit, a knife. Shall we pick a pretrial date?”

  “That’s fine, Your Honor,” Terry said. “But we’ll need a trial date within the statutory sixty days. We’re not waiving time.”

  Predictable. The race was on.

  58

  I spent the next week talking to my witnesses, going over their testimony to make sure there’d be no bad surprises, and preparing them for the kinds of questions they’d get on cross-examination. Except for Dorian. She could handle herself against ten Terry Fisks. All at once. By Friday, I was feeling like things were pretty much under control. I even thought about taking one day off. And at that exact moment, Graden called. One of those rare instances of perfect timing.

  “Devon wants to bring his girlfriend over for a pool day. I thought I might throw steaks on the barbie. How’s that sound to you?”

  I’d only met Graden’s little brother a couple of times, though what I’d seen, I really liked. He was a softer, gentler, and shyer version of his older brother. But I’d never met Devon’s girlfriend. And I wasn’t bathing suit ready. With all this work, I hadn’t had the time to even think about getting a tan. Or finding some abs.

  Hearing my hesitation, Graden said, “If you can’t lose a whole day, you could just come for dinner.”

  I didn’t know whether he’d sensed my bathing suit anxiety, but regardless, I was relieved. “That’s fantastic—”

  A beeping told me I had a call waiting. It was Bailey. “Graden, can you hang on a sec? It’s Bailey—”

  “Go ahead and take it. We’ll work out the details later.”

  I took Bailey’s call. “What’s up?”

  “I’m having trouble getting Dominic’s subpoena served. Every time my uni goes out there, his people say he’s not home—”

  Dominic Rostoni, the skinhead boss who’d found Brian’s body. “The Nazi asshole is resisting service? I’m shocked to the core.”

  “Yeah, I may have to go out there and do it myself. Also, one of our cell phone record custodians is off on maternity leave. I don’t suppose you could get Fisk and company to stipulate to her? They can’t really be planning any big cross on the records.”

  I sighed. “They’re probably not, but I wouldn’t expect any stipulations from this bunch. If w
e put her on, they won’t bounce her around for long, but if we say we have a problem getting her, they’ll make a big deal of it. Just tell her that once she shows up, we’ll have her on and off the stand fast. Any more good news, sunshine?”

  “Brittany’s MIA.”

  “What are you talking about? The girl is filming right here in Hollywood.” I’d planned to call Brittany Caren as one of the witnesses who could describe the bitter feud between Russell and Tommy Maher. The last I’d heard, she was about to start shooting her next film with Russell, and for a change it was local.

  “Apparently, she had a screaming fit on the set and stormed out. No one’s heard from her since. They’re recasting her part.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Not long after we saw her, but I can’t really say the timing’s suspicious.”

  I had to agree. Having seen what a mess she was—and having heard about her reputation for walking off sets—even I had to admit that Brittany’s flameout was unlikely to be related to our meeting. And in all honesty, I hadn’t been thrilled about using her anyway. I had others who could describe the fight between Tommy and Russell who wouldn’t show up stoned. Probably. Or at least not visibly. Brittany’s disappearance was a surprise, but not a devastating one. The next one was.

  My office intercom buzzed. It was Eric. “Rachel, I need a minute. Can you come to my office?”

  When I got to his office, I saw that Melia’s desk was vacant, so I went to his door, which was uncharacteristically closed, and knocked. “Eric?”

  “Come in, Rachel.”

  I opened the door and saw Melia standing in front of Eric’s desk. She turned and gave me a beseeching look. Eric had a funny expression on his face too, as he told me to close the door. “What’s going on?”