Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  “Apparently you’ve become a featured attraction.” Eric held out a newspaper. “I’m so sorry, Rachel.”

  As I took the paper from him, I saw that it was the National Inquisitor. With my mug plastered almost life-sized on the front page. Splashed above it was the headline “Powers Prosecutor’s Personal Tragedy.” Below that was the subheading “Sister Romy Abducted at Age Eleven.” The office spun around me like a Tilt-a-Whirl. I sank into a chair in front of Eric’s desk and tried to absorb it all.

  Melia twisted her fingers together and spoke in a pleading voice. “I didn’t buy this at the stand. It came in the mail and when I picked it up in the mail room I didn’t really look at it till I got back to my desk…”

  I waved her off. “It’s okay, Melia.”

  “The whole thing with your sister! How come you never told anybody?” she asked.

  I shook my head and tried to make the room stop spinning.

  “Melia, give us a minute,” Eric said. He stood up, leaned across the desk, and took the paper from my frozen hands. “I’ll keep this for now, if you don’t mind.”

  After Melia left, Eric sat back down. “It wasn’t until I saw this article that I realized how private you are. I tried to think back over all the time I’ve known you, and I couldn’t recall one time when you ever made mention of anything about your personal life before you joined the office.”

  I stared at the corner where Eric’s briefcase lay, unable to make my voice work.

  “I only say all this so you’ll know that I have some appreciation for how particularly painful this must be. I don’t know how to make this better and I can’t make it go away. I can’t even make it stop. This is a major tabloid, and if they put you on the front page, that means they think you’ll sell papers. So there’s probably more to come. The only way to get them to lose interest is for you to let go of the case. What I’m saying is, if you want off—”

  “No!” I swallowed to push down the awful queasiness in my stomach. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

  Eric looked at me, concerned. “You sure?”

  “Completely.” I started to stand up, then something occurred to me. “Do you think the defense did this? To rattle me?”

  “If they did, they’re pretty stupid. This”—he pointed to the paper—“is a favor. It’s going to make you extremely sympathetic. Ian has the glitz of celebrity, with all those actors and that big director on his side, but this kind of personal tragedy grabs the public like no other.”

  “So you’re telling me this…nightmare…is good news.” I shook my head. Un-friggin’-believable.

  “Yes.”

  But, of course, he was right. I’d have realized it sooner if I hadn’t just had my bell rung. It was exactly why we always struggled in trial to get out personal details about the murder victims. Because it humanized them, made them sympathetic. I can’t lie: knowing that the whole world was learning about my past made me physically ill. Humanizing or not, I’d have preferred to remain an anonymous cog in the machine, just another faceless prosecutor. But there was no way to put this genie back in the bottle.

  I got up and walked to the door. “Oh, and would you mind…?” I pointed to the paper.

  “Sure, of course.” He held it out to me.

  “No. I mean, would you mind burning it?”

  Eric laughed. “It’d be my pleasure.”

  59

  Bailey was livid. “I’m going to get that reporter’s license plate and tell every cop in town to tag his worthless ass if he so much as uses the wrong blinker,” she growled.

  I sighed. “And then he’ll write a story about how he’s been targeted by the LAPD ever since—”

  “Let him!”

  Toni was equally outraged, but she too pointed out the upside. “You wanted to turn the tide of public opinion? Well, this’ll do it. And a heck of a lot faster than evidence.”

  Graden had called as soon as he heard about the story. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. I know how much you hate this. I can put some security on you. Have a couple of guys with you if you decide to walk to court—”

  “God forbid. Thank you, Graden. Really. But I’m sure I don’t need bodyguards.”

  Graden sighed. “I figured you’d say that. So just make me one promise: if anyone bothers you or so much as looks at you funny, you’ll tell me about it.”

  “I’m sure no one—”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Dinner’s at seven thirty.”

  Graden’s house was in Pacific Palisades. If you don’t live in Southern California, you probably haven’t heard of the Palisades. Bel Air, Beverly Hills, Malibu—those are the big-name hoods. But as far as I’m concerned, they can’t compete with the Palisades. Spread across the hills and cliffs above the Pacific Ocean, it offers sweeping views, clean air, and perfect weather with none of the traffic, noise, fog, or hassle that comes with beach living.

  He had the same security gate setup that Russell and Ian had, but the driveway was a long stretch of road that led straight uphill and opened onto a beautiful expanse of lawn decorated with cherry trees and impressive abstract pieces of iron sculpture.

  The house itself was a mix of modern and traditional with large, unadorned windows that gave it a light, airy feel. All that glass might have been a bad idea anywhere else, but isolated the way it was on the top of that hill, privacy was guaranteed. As I got out of the car, the scream of seagulls, the warmth of the twilight sun, and the fresh salty air made me stop and take a deep breath. The jagged shards inside my chest that I hadn’t even been aware of began to melt and my steps slowed as I enjoyed the rare feeling of peace.

  I could hear voices coming from the backyard and saw that Graden had left the front door open for me. I walked into an expansive living room that seemed to float over the edge of a cliff. Two of the walls were glass, and gave a panoramic view of the ocean as well as the hills. It made me a little light-headed. I’d been curious to see Graden’s home. What a man does with his personal space can tell you a lot about him. For instance, a trapeze in the bedroom, or a wide array of photographs—all of his mother—would be good to know. So I took a moment to look around. Even at first glance, there was a personal feel to it that told me Graden had picked every piece himself. And that he clearly didn’t believe in clutter. There were just a few big pieces: a sectional couch, a divan, a large square marble and glass coffee table, all in shades of ivory—either a brave choice or a show of supreme confidence in his housekeeper. But the quirky, whimsical art—I spotted a Mark Ryden oil and an original Naoto Hattori—and luscious, exotically embroidered throws and pillows were a perfect counterpoint. The result was a space that was comfortable, fun, and inviting. It made me smile.

  But I didn’t try to picture myself living there. Okay, well, maybe I did. Just for a second.

  I walked out onto the patio and saw Graden at the grill, spatula in hand. Whatever he was cooking, it smelled delicious. Jeez. All that and pretty too. My stomach gave an embarrassingly loud grumble and I put my hand over it to muffle the sound. Devon and his girlfriend, who were admiring the ocean view, drinks in hand, waved to me. Graden turned to me and smiled widely. “Rachel,” he said as he gave me a long, warm hug. “How’re you doing?” he whispered.

  “Better now.”

  I had a wonderful time.

  Devon’s girlfriend—an archaeologist—was fun, charming, and whip smart, and Graden made a salmon on the barbecue that was heavenly. But other than that one, too brief evening, I worked through the weekend. We had a pretrial motion set for Monday morning and the defense hadn’t filed any written motions. That meant they were going to ambush me in court. I had to be ready for anything.

  Monday morning, unable to bear the sound of my cell phone ringing all the way to work, I put it on vibrate. But my phone continued to rattle against my desk as it vibrated with new calls. I wrapped it in a cardigan I kept in the office to shut it up. Declan came in, dressed to the nines—w
hich I’d come to realize was business as usual for him—armed with his files and all fired up. “How come they haven’t filed a motion to suppress on the laptop?” he asked.

  “No reason to. We haven’t found anything. But I should check in with the head of computer crimes—”

  “Cliff Meisner, right. I remember you said he was going over the laptop to see if there’s any information we can use.”

  “Yeah. If it’s still a ‘no go’ it’ll be time to cut bait.”

  Declan opened a file and scanned it. “I got all the cell phone people lined up, and I’m working on the maps that show the cell sites accessed by each of the phones.”

  “Great. And you’ve got the DVDs of all the crime scene photos from Bailey?”

  “In my office.”

  “We’ll have to do a run-through to make sure everything’s clear and plays smoothly before we get to trial.”

  “Wouldn’t want to come off looking like we had third-rate production values,” Declan said with a smile.

  I chuckled. “Your dad would kill you.”

  Declan suddenly looked away. “Well, probably. But not for that.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. I wasn’t going to pry. If he wanted me to know more, he’d tell me in his own time. A knock on the door offered what was probably a welcome interruption.

  “Come in,” I said.

  A UPS man opened the door. “Could you hold this?” he asked Declan. As Declan held the door open, the man turned back to the hallway, then brought in one of the biggest floral arrangements I’d ever seen.

  “Whoa! Are you sure you came to the right office?” I asked.

  “Rachel Knight? That’s your nameplate next to the door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’ve got the right place.”

  The man set the basket down on my desk and it was so huge, I couldn’t see over it. “Uh, I don’t think this is going to work.” But my voice was muffled by the foliage.

  “What?” the man asked.

  I stood up. “Would you mind putting it over here?” I gestured to the table on my right, then saw that it was covered with files and books. I quickly stacked them on top of each other to make room. He moved the basket. “Thanks.”

  “Not done yet,” he said. He brought another arrangement, this time in a metal bowl. Then another one in a large vase. By the time he was through, my office looked like a funeral parlor. And I couldn’t see out my window.

  Declan pulled a card off one of the arrangements and read, “‘We know your sister is out there somewhere and we’re praying for her.’” He started to smile, then saw my sour expression and pulled a straight face. “Sorry, you’re right. This is terrible.”

  I shook my head.

  He smiled. “It’s very sweet, and it’s very good news for us, so stop being such a…”

  “Yes?”

  “Just stop.”

  The press was out in full force this morning, the roped-off area packed so tightly there was no visible space between the bodies. As we passed them on the way to the courtroom, the cameramen almost fell over the rope trying to take my picture.

  The courtroom was packed too, but not with friends or family. Nothing of real substance was scheduled to happen today. The people crowding the spectator gallery were just here to see the stars of the show.

  We’d drawn Judge Osterman for the trial. He was relatively new to the downtown bench, so I didn’t know him. J.D. took himself out of the running because we were personal friends and he didn’t want any questions raised in a case this big, but I’d hoped we might get Judge Lavinia Moss. Unfortunately, the presiding judge had felt that since Judge Moss had signed the search warrant, it’d be wiser to give the case to someone else. I’d asked Toni and J.D. what they thought of Osterman, but they hadn’t had any information for me either. He was too new.

  Judge Osterman had a runner’s lean build and a spare, ascetic look, enhanced by his habit of pursing his lips. His blue eyes bulged slightly and he combed his thin hair straight back. Overall, he gave the appearance of someone who was cerebral and maybe a little compulsive. One look at his chambers confirmed it. His desk was immaculate, all books were ordered properly in the bookcases, and all pens and pencils were tucked neatly into a leather holder that matched his desk pad. I saw no family photographs of any kind. Ordinarily I’d assume that was because he hadn’t had a chance to fully move in, but in Osterman’s case, I had a feeling this was fully moved in. I should set him and Dorian up on a date.

  When I got to court, he’d already taken the bench.

  “Ms. Knight, I’m aware that I came out a few minutes early, but that doesn’t excuse you for being ten minutes late.”

  “I’m very sorry, Your Honor. We had an unexpected…arrival at the office that delayed us. It won’t happen again.” I wasn’t about to tell him we were held up by a bunch of flowers.

  “See that it doesn’t. And that goes for all of you. I won’t hesitate to impose fines. I will not have my staff or the jury waiting for attorneys. Now, speaking of juries, we should set the date for the start of jury selection. Tricia, what’s the sixty-day date?”

  Terry moved quickly to the lectern. “Excuse me, Your Honor, but the defense is requesting a start date within the next three weeks.”

  “Ms. Fisk, this is a life without parole case. There is a great deal of evidence, based on what I’ve seen thus far, and the juror questionnaires will take at least a week to read. Are you sure you can be ready in so short a time?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

  “People?” he asked.

  Damn her. It’s always easier for the defense to give an early start date, because they don’t have to go first, and they don’t have to present any evidence at all. I would’ve preferred a little lead time, if only to make sure there was nothing more that could be done, but that was a luxury I’d have to forgo.

  “We can do it, Your Honor. But we’re still testing evidence that was seized from the houses and cars of Mr. Averly and Mr. Powers, and we won’t have all our results in before trial starts. So as long as the defense is willing to go without having all the results, I’m fine with it.”

  “She’s right, Ms. Fisk,” the judge said. “You won’t be heard to complain about not having enough time to retest or prepare for evidence that comes in during the trial if you insist on going that soon.”

  “Understood,” Terry said.

  “And, Your Honor, the People have filed a discovery request on the defense,” I said. “We haven’t received anything as of today.”

  “Defense?” the judge asked. “You have an obligation to turn over your witness list and any evidence you intend to introduce.”

  Terry stepped away and gave Wagmeister the lectern. “We’re working on it, Your Honor,” Wagmeister said. “As of this moment, we don’t know who our witnesses will be and there is no evidence to turn over.”

  Defense 101. They get around the rule that requires them to turn over a witness list by not making one, and they avoid turning over witness statements by never putting anything in writing. So much for reciprocal discovery.

  Terry moved back to the lectern. “I’d like to be heard on another matter.”

  The judge nodded. “Proceed.”

  “I’m not asking for a gag order, but I do think it’s inappropriate for the prosecution to be telling their life stories to tabloid magazines to garner sympathy with the public, and, of course, the jury pool.”

  It was a sleazy low blow. But if it had to be done at all, it should be in chambers, not out in open court, where the press could eat it up.

  I should’ve kept my cool, but I was too furious. “That is absolutely outrageous, Your Honor! No one on the prosecution side has spoken to any tabloid reporter. Nor would any of us tell personal stories of any kind to anyone, for any reason!”

  Terry squared her shoulders and jutted her chin out. “I wonder what Andrew Chatham would say to that?”

  “Enough,” t
he judge declared. “I will not have exchanges between the lawyers like this. Ms. Fisk, if any prosecutor makes comments about the case or any of the lawyers, you have reason to bring it to my attention. But I will not waste court time listening to complaints about the publication of someone’s life story. If Ms. Knight saw fit to share that with a reporter, it will be her problem to deal with. Not mine.” The judge fixed each of us with a stern glare. “Now, do we have any legal business to address?”

  We both said there was nothing further. The judge set a pretrial date to discuss jury questionnaires and set the trial date three weeks out.

  I said nothing until Declan and I were back in my office with the door closed.

  “That friggin’ sleaze!” I said as I swatted a flower out of the way and sat down. “And that nasty little shit Chatham!”

  “You said he didn’t write the article about you, though.”

  “His name wasn’t on it, but he must’ve told Terry he ‘talked’ to me—”

  “But all you said was ‘No comment.’”

  “He didn’t have to tell her that—”

  A knock on the door interrupted my flow.

  “Rachel? You need to come out here.”

  It was Melia. I nodded to Declan and he opened the door.

  “What is it, Melia?”

  “You need to see this.” She gestured for us to follow and ran back down the hall toward Eric’s office.

  She turned on the television. “I recorded it,” Melia said. She replayed the footage for us.

  Terry was standing on the courthouse steps, encircled by reporters. “Of course the prosecution leaked that story to the Inquisitor. They know the public thinks they have no case, so they’re trying to win everyone over. This is a completely transparent ploy.”

  A reporter asked excitedly, “Then you think she made the story up? That it’s all a lie?”

  “No. But putting out a story like this only shows that Rachel Knight’s desperate, and she’ll stop at nothing to win this case.”