Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  “I do most work at night. Many times, I work all night, but—”

  Her nose wrinkled as she looked around her with disdain, then she reluctantly said, “It’s not a problem.”

  I guessed police stations weren’t her cuppa.

  “And I’ll need you to document every step you take,” I said.

  She sighed. “That will slow me down.”

  “Dictate it into a micro recorder while you’re working,” Graden said.

  Parkova made a face. “Fine. What I’m looking for?”

  “All activity on the day of the kidnapping.” I gave her the date. The less she knew about the case, the less she could be accused of fabricating evidence. “I especially need to know about any activity between this laptop and Russell Antonovich’s laptop or phone.”

  “Then I need this Russell’s machine.”

  “Will his smart phone do?”

  “It gets e-mail? Yes.”

  Bailey said, “I’ll get it to you.” She’d taken it from Russell the first time we went to the house, and she’d held on to it.

  “Do it tonight.” She turned back to Graden. “Take me to workroom.”

  Graden went to the door and called to one of the officers to give our newly hired expert a room. The officer gestured for her to follow him, and M. Parkova marched out, laptop under her arm.

  “Did she do any time?” Bailey asked.

  Graden nodded. “Three years in Terminal Island.”

  A federal prison in San Pedro. I’d just recruited the ex-con head of an international cybergang. Go team.

  73

  Graden asked me if I wanted to do dinner, but I was too keyed up to be decent company. I’d been so excited about a possible break in the case that I hadn’t stopped to think about the fact that hiring Parkova was the one thing I’d done so far that could get me thrown out of the DA’s office—and sully my name forever. It was an act of insurbordination of high magnitude to hire an ex-felon hacker without prior approval. If I lost the case, there was no doubt about it, I’d be fired on the spot. Vanderhorn not only wouldn’t hesitate, he’d relish the opportunity. But I was in it now, no going back. So I took my anxious self back to the hotel.

  Too beat to deal with parking, I pulled up to the valet stand and tossed Rafi, the valet, my keys. The rare event brought a surprised smile to his face. The hotel elevator was packed, but I didn’t want to wait for another one, so I squeezed in and held my breath. Toni once told me that breathing the air in those close quarters was a surefire way to get sick. Ever since, I reflexively stop breathing every time there’re more than two people in an elevator. When I got off, I took a big gulp of air.

  I headed down the hallway that led to my room, thinking about how I’d handle the Gelfer debacle in closing arguments. Just the thought of having to talk to the jury about it made my stomach churn.

  Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice called out behind me. “Hey! Rachel!”

  I turned to see the grinning face of a deeply tanned young man in his twenties wearing sunglasses on top of his head. A cameraman was standing off to his right. They quickly moved toward me, backing me into the wall, and in the next second, a blinding spotlight snapped on.

  “I just wanted to ask you, how do you feel after today’s disaster? Are you ready to throw in the towel?” He thrust a microphone under my nose.

  Without conscious thought, I slapped the microphone out of his hand, shoved him as hard as I could, and ran down the hall to my door.

  “Hey, come on!” he called out. They followed me down the hall. “We just want your reaction! What’re you so afraid of?”

  I scrambled into my room as quickly as possible, my heart beating so fast I couldn’t catch my breath. I threw the dead bolt, slid in the security chain, and grabbed the hotel phone. “Get someone up here, fast! There’s some lunatic in the hallway with a camera!”

  Fortunately Gregor, head of security, was on duty. “Lock your door. I’ll have someone up there right away, Rachel. Shall I call the police? Or would you rather do it?”

  Finally able to draw a full breath, I thought a moment. “I’ll take care of that end. Thanks, Gregor.”

  After I hung up, I listened for a moment. I thought I could still hear voices out in the hallway, but I couldn’t tell if it was the same two jerks who’d accosted me. Two minutes later I heard Gregor’s booming voice. “Are you a guest in this hotel?” A murmured voice responded, then Gregor, in a tone with enough menace to scare off any conscious biped, said, “Then I suggest you both leave immediately. And don’t you ever let me find you on a guest floor again! Got it?”

  More murmuring. Then Gregor shouted, “Move faster!” A moment later there was a knock at the door.

  “Rachel? It’s me. They’re gone.”

  I opened the door. Gregor’s solid rectangular frame filled the doorway. It was a reassuring sight. “Thank you so much. Those two just ambushed me.” Now, in hindsight, I realized there’d been no real danger, and I felt sheepish. “Sorry to sound the alarm like that. I guess I overreacted.”

  “Please, you were more than justified. No apology necessary. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Gregor. Thank you again.”

  “I’ll put extra security on your hallway from now on. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner—”

  “Maybe because you were thinking no one would be sleazy enough to hit me up where I live? Because I sure didn’t think of it.”

  Gregor apologized—unnecessarily. I told him to knock it off and thanked him again. When he left, I called Mario, who’d just been promoted to senior investigator for the downtown DA Investigators Unit. He’d worked on the case that involved Lilah. I told him what had happened.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. That same hallway?”

  Last year, one of Lilah’s henchmen had jumped me in that hallway. Beat me up badly enough to put me in the hospital. I had a feeling that might’ve had something to do with my overreaction to those creeps tonight.

  “Yeah. Seems to be my favorite meeting spot for assholes. What do you think I should do? Gregor says he’s going to keep a closer watch, so maybe that’s—”

  “Uh-uh. Not enough. I’ll have someone posted there for the duration. You want an escort to and from the courthouse?”

  “God, no. These guys aren’t trying to kill me.” I told him I already had secure parking at the courthouse. And Rafi wouldn’t let anyone get near my car at the hotel—he wouldn’t take the chance of forfeiting a tip.

  By the time I ended the call, I was feeling relatively normal. Exhausted, depressed, demoralized, but all things considered, that qualified as normal. One hot shower and a glass of wine later, I was in bed with a murder mystery. Three minutes later I was asleep with all the lights on. I woke up just long enough to turn them off. But I thrashed around all night, as one nightmare after another assaulted my subconscious. I woke up the next morning more tired than I’d been when I went to bed.

  74

  On Tuesday morning I forced myself to eat a real breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. I was going to need my energy. I found Mario himself standing guard in my hallway. “Nice,” he said, gesturing to my beige cotton suit and silk tank ensemble. Mario was the quintessential metrosexual. He always looked fantastic—hip, but understated.

  “Not too casual?” I asked.

  “You might consider accessorizing. A gold necklace would brighten things up a little.”

  “Good point.”

  I went back, found a simple chain, got the thumbs-up from Mario, and headed for my car. As I drove to the courthouse, I planned what I’d say to the judge about the defense team’s sleazy play in springing unknown witnesses on us at the eleventh hour. Bailey was in my office by the time I got there and she filled me in on what little she had.

  “Terry’s witnesses are all from Nevada, and none of them have rap sheets. They all seem to be hotel casino service-type workers—waitresses, maids, that type of thing.”

  “What
on earth?”

  “Great question.”

  By the time Declan and I walked into the courtroom, my temper was at full boil. The jury wasn’t in yet, but the gallery was packed with reporters. And it appeared as though the Ian side of the courtroom was even more crowded than usual. It figured. Especially now that it looked like he’d win, everyone wanted to show their undying loyalty. There even seemed to be more law clerks at the defense counsel table. They were multiplying like rabbits over there. I told Tricia, the clerk, that we had something to handle before the jury came out, and when Judge Osterman took the bench, I fired with both barrels.

  “The defense has insisted from day one that they had no witnesses to turn over. Now, at the last minute, they turn over a list of over forty witnesses, half of whom are experts they had to have contacted months ago. This is an outrageous flouting of the rules of discovery and an obvious effort to blindside the prosecution.”

  The judge scanned the witness list as I spoke, then he looked at the defense side of counsel table. “Defense? This does look like a rather extensive list. It’s hard to believe you just contacted all these people—and, as Ms. Knight points out, especially all these experts—the night before the People rested.”

  Terry stood up.

  “As the court is well aware, we don’t have to turn over any names unless we intend to call them, and we weren’t sure we’d be calling anyone. We only made that decision the night before last.”

  “I see,” the judge said. “Well, then I’ll have to accept your representation as an officer of the court—”

  What? I lost it. My body rigid with anger, I fought to keep my voice from rising. “There most certainly is something you can do, Your Honor. Discovery laws were enacted to address exactly this kind of shell game. You have the power to prohibit the defense from calling those witnesses altogether. Or you can tell the jury that the defense improperly withheld their names. There is no reason to believe this…ridiculous story that they didn’t know whether they were going to call these witnesses. In fact, I just learned from my investigating officer that ten of them are from out of state. The defense had to have made arrangements to bring them out here long before this. There is no way, none, that all these witnesses were just a last-minute idea!”

  I heard myself in those last few seconds and saw by Declan’s expression that I’d gotten much hotter than I’d intended. When I stopped speaking, it was so quiet I could hear the squeak of the bailiff’s Sam Browne belt across the courtroom.

  The judge glared at me. “First of all, Ms. Knight, you can tone down the rhetoric. I’m not prepared to find that the defense deliberately withheld anything. They may very well have thought they might not present any affirmative defense and only changed their minds at the last minute—”

  “But Your Honor, every single one of these witnesses required advance notice and extensive—”

  “Do not interrupt me, Counsel! There’ll be no sanctions. Now, unless there’s anything else we have to take up—”

  “There is,” I said, cutting off the judge and too angry to care. “I’ll need a recess to prepare for cross for each and every witness.”

  The judge narrowed his eyes at me. “We’ll see, Ms. Knight. I’m not inclined to waste this jury’s time—”

  “I wouldn’t be asking for any if the defense hadn’t deliberately hidden their discovery—”

  “I warned you once not to interrupt me, Ms. Knight.” The judge gave me a furious look. “Do it a third time and I just may hold you in contempt. I can’t make myself any clearer than that. This is not a game of tit for tat. Just because the defense didn’t turn over discovery soon enough for your taste doesn’t mean you have the right to exact your idea of payback.”

  Payback? Was he insane? “This isn’t about payback, Your Honor. It’s about the People’s right to a fair trial. If we can’t subject defense witnesses to the same scrutiny our witnesses get, the jury won’t have an accurate picture of the evidence. And that means we can’t get a fair verdict.”

  “That was a very pretty speech, and completely unnecessary. The People will get their fair trial. You can ask for more time whenever you like, Counsel. But whether you get it or not will be up to me.” He turned to the bailiff. “Let’s have the jury.”

  I sat down and tried to get my temper under control. It wouldn’t do to let the jury see me like this. The press was already a lost cause. They’d have a field day with “Courtroom Fireworks as Judge Threatens Prosecutor with Contempt!” I wondered for the hundredth time whether the jury was obeying the admonition not to read or watch any news about the trial. If they were, they’d be the first.

  But it wasn’t just about needing time to prepare for cross—though that was reason enough. I also had to give Parkova the chance to dig into Ian’s laptop. This fight with Judge Osterman had shown me it was going to be an uphill battle all the way. One I might very well lose.

  75

  Terry gave an opening statement that was as effective as it was brief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m a ‘show me’ kind of person. So I’d rather show you than talk at you. After all, as the judge told you, what I say”—Terry pointedly turned her body to include me—“what any of the lawyers say, isn’t evidence.” She pointed to the witness stand. “Only what comes from that chair up there is. And now you know there’s a good reason for that rule.” She half turned toward me again and pointed. “This prosecutor told you she would present DNA evidence that would conclusively prove my client’s blood was on the trunk of Brian Maher’s car. But as you’ve now seen—”

  I couldn’t restrain myself. I jumped up. “Objection! Counsel is arguing, not giving an opening—”

  “Sustained,” Judge Osterman said in an icy tone that made it clear he didn’t like having to rule in my favor. “Ms. Fisk, please save the argument for later and get on with what you intend to prove.”

  Terry nodded. “I apologize, Your Honor. I got carried away.” But her smug tone implied she’d gotten all the mileage she wanted. I gritted my teeth to keep from saying what I thought of her. She turned back to the jury. “I really only need to tell you this: Ian Powers did not kill Hayley and Brian. I don’t have to make empty promises right now. I’m going to show you that Ian Powers is innocent. And then I’m going to show you who the real murderer is.”

  Short, sweet, and dramatic, and it had the desired effect. The jurors were energized, their expressions engaged and intrigued. Mine would’ve been too, except I was busy showing the jury I didn’t give a damn—and worrying about the bomb Terry was about to drop. She started, predictably, with the parade of experts.

  First up: Dr. Anthony Kandell, a DNA expert who thumped on the LAPD crime lab in general and Gelfer in particular for slipshod practices that ran the serious risk of incriminating an innocent man. My cross was simple.

  “You’re aware that Gelfer testified he did not make those mistakes on any actual cases, just on one of the blind tests administered to check lab procedures?”

  “Yes, but the fact that he—”

  I cut off the rest, which I knew would be a repeat of what he’d already said on direct: that Gelfer couldn’t be trusted about anything after having made such rookie mistakes on a lab test. “Objection, nonresponsive,” I said. “That called for a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ only.”

  Judge Osterman wavered for a moment, but probably because Terry had already hammered the point, he gave me this one. “Sustained.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” I turned back to Kandell. “And if Gelfer didn’t make those mistakes in this case, then his conclusion that the blood on the trunk was a mixture of the defendant’s and Hayley’s is correct, isn’t it?”

  “Well, but the problem is, we can’t assume he didn’t—”

  “Objection, Your Honor, again, nonresponsive—”

  I acted irritated, but the truth was, I didn’t mind. The more the witness sparred with me like this, the more it showed he wasn’t a neutral scientist, he was a defense a
dvocate—something I’d put to good use in closing arguments.

  “It is. Sustained. Please just answer the question.”

  The witness sighed. “Yes, assuming he didn’t make those mistakes, the conclusion would be correct.”

  “Nothing further.”

  The other experts only pointed out what I’d already conceded: the hair comparison couldn’t pinpoint Ian Powers as the source, it could only include him among the group with consistent characteristics, blah, blah, blah; and the soil analysis couldn’t prove when Averly’s car was on Boney Mountain.

  But I got to have a little fun with the defense print expert, Owen Poplar, the particularly obnoxious whore who didn’t just take shots at Leo Relinsky’s opinion—he also tried to imply that the prints found on the trunk of Brian’s car were planted. Poplar didn’t try to sell the planting theory too hard, so I decided to leave that subject for my rebuttal. What he did try to sell was that Leo was wrong when he declared that the prints matched Ian Powers’s. Knowing what was coming, I’d had Leo prepare separate blowups of the prints from the trunk and Ian’s exemplar. Now I flashed them up on the monitor. What had been an abstract concept during testimony was now splashed across the screens in sharp relief. The prints were so identical they were virtually indistinguishable.

  “Now, would you please point out the differences you were describing during your testimony for Ms. Fisk?”

  Poplar cleared his throat nervously. He obviously hadn’t been expecting this. Why, I have no idea. Eventually he pointed to a break in the ridge on the thumbprint found on the trunk. “If you look over here, you see that this break isn’t on Mr. Powers’s exemplar.”

  “I do see that. But isn’t it true that prints found at a crime scene, especially prints found on an item that’s been outdoors for some time, usually do have less detail than an exemplar?”

  “Not necessarily.”