The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Rob’s demeanor changed as if by magic. He trotted up to give his daughter a fatherly embrace. “Hey, great to see you,” he said. “I’ve got it arranged for you to sit beside the director during shooting. Think you’ll like that?”

  Melanie wriggled in delight and threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Oh, Dad, I knew you would,” she said. Sharon relaxed, and offered Rob a pleasant smile.

  With Melanie ooh-ing and ah-ing in the Land Rover’s passenger seat, Sharon stood with Rob beside the driver’s door. Sharon said, “Don’t be in a hurry to drop her off in the morning. I suspect I might be burning the midnight oil tonight.”

  “How about seven o’clock?” Rob said.

  “That’s too early. Make it nine. Melanie won’t sleep until she wears herself out, and she’ll need her rest.”

  Sharon pinched her chin. “Oh. And no girlfriends, okay? It’s only for twenty-four hours; surely you can be celibate that long.”

  Rob jammed his sunglasses on his nose and testily opened the driver’s door. “Just this once, Muffin. Just this once.”

  “Hey, thanks, Dad,” Sharon said. “I just know you’re going to show your child the time of her life. I’m counting on it, in fact.” She patted Rob on the arm. “You’re a real he-man, Rob-oh.” Sharon winked. “No wonder all these macho guys around the country look up to you.”

  Darla wore dark sunglasses and a scarf on her head, Jacqueline Onassis style. Sharon said, “You’re a star, not a spy. Besides, no way will you need a disguise.”

  “It works sometimes in crowds. Shopping in the mall …” Darla’s suit was coal black with wide lapels.

  She wore a white starched blouse underneath. “You’re talking about situations where no one’s expecting to bump into you. This is different. Those media hounds at the criminal courts will merely go, ‘Hey, Joe, that’s her wearing the sunglasses.’ Then you’ll wind up with your picture all over, looking as if you’re in hiding. Lose the shades, kid. Put the scarf away.” Sharon stood with Darla just inside the front door. Gray and Yadaka waited outside in the limo with the motor running.

  Darla removed her glasses and reached for the knot on her scarf. “I’m a little nervous,” she said.

  Sharon offered what she hoped was a confident wink. “Seems there’s an epidemic of that. Relax, but caution is the better part of whatever. Up front, we’ll hit Mr. Breyer with immunity for you if you answer his questions. He’ll decline, but at least then everyone will be in their respective corners. I may as well get the opposing teams into the proper uniforms.”

  “I just want it all finished.” Darla slid the scarf from her neck and folded it over.

  ‘“That’s the goal.” Sharon looked down, then back up. “This won’t be easy, Darla, and I want you to prepare yourself that you could be facing a murder trial.”

  Darla poked the scarf down into her handbag. Her eyelashes fluttered uncertainly. Worry fleetingly crossed her face, then dissolved into a smile. “Why, that’s silly, Sharon.” she said.

  15

  Sharon thought that Preston Trigg looked a bit choked. “This your first media exposure?” she said. She leaned forward. “Up there to the left, Mr. Gray, please. Just stop underneath the catwalk.”

  They were cruising past the criminal courts, and the second-story catwalk Sharon was referring to connected the courthouse to the jail. Print and TV reporters were strung out up and down the block, milling around on the sidewalks and courthouse steps. Gray slowed, moved into the center lane, and activated his blinker.

  “Hmm?” Trigg said. He was seated by the backseat window, and had exchanged the cowboy outfit he’d worn yesterday for a conservative blue suit and slim striped tie. He’d trimmed his mustache. Sharon sat in the middle, with Darla on her other side.

  “The first time you’ve gotten any ink,” Sharon said.

  “Oh, no, alla time,” Trigg said. “Just a couple of weeks ago I had a guy, Willie Lynch, a whole string of burglaries out in Brentwood. Got my picture in the Times, pleading him out.”

  “Page one?” Sharon said.

  “Well, maybe in a later section,” Trigg said. “Back of the Metro, actually.” He looked through the back window. “Those people are all national, huh?”

  “Most of them,” Sharon said. “I think even a couple from London, one from Australia. This is good, Mr. Gray.” The limo stopped at the curb. Sharon gave Darla a reassuring pat on the arm, then returned her attention to Preston Trigg. “You know some people in there, don’t you?” She gestured with her head.

  Trigg followed her direction, looking toward the entry to the downtown L.A. County Jail. “In there?” he said.

  “Well, sure. Guards, probation people…”

  “Oh, yeah, deal with them alla time,” Trigg said. “I thought you meant prisoners. I know some of them, too.”

  Sharon gave Darla a broad wink. She said to Trigg, “Just county employees. Now, here’s what we want you to do.”

  Preston Trigg came out of the jail, jogging briskly. His tie flapped in the wind. He came up by the limo and opened the door on Darla’s side. “Got it set up,” he said, beaming as if he’d just arranged an audience with the queen.

  “Good.” Sharon squeezed Darla’s upper arm. “Hustle, kid. Will do us no good if those media hounds across the way spot you.”

  Darla smiled bravely, though her lower jaw was tense, then got out and led Trigg across the sidewalk with wind whipping her skirt around her calves. Sharon allowed the actress and lawyer to lead her by ten steps or so, then snatched up her briefcase, got out and slammed the door, and hurried into the jail behind the pair.

  Two uniformed deputies led Sharon, Darla, and Preston Trigg through the catwalk from the jail into the Criminal Courts Building. Heard behind them, cheers and wolf whistles sounded from one of the cell blocks they’d passed along the way. One deputy was a burly white man, and the other was a slim Hispanic woman. Both were young, in their twenties, and both shot surreptitious glances over their shoulders. Sharon’s briefcase bumped her outer thigh as she hustled along. The corridor ahead had a tiled floor, and the walls were unfinished concrete.

  Sharon was saying to Preston Trigg, “One big town, another big town, all the same. Through the hoosegow is the only sure way to go to court without running into the press.”

  “Don’t know why I never thought of it,” Trigg said, shaking his head in admiration.

  They reached the building proper, entering an area with sprayed-on walls and acoustical ceiling tiles. The deputies led the way into an open elevator; Trigg, Darla, and Sharon stood to the rear. In one back corner of the car was a floor-to-ceiling cage, a contraption used for transporting unruly prisoners. “Guess we’re the first willing passengers this buggy’s had in a while,” Sharon said. Darla stood with her arms folded, looking vacantly ahead

  As the car started upward, the male deputy said softly to the female, “Hope we don’t get in a crack over this.”

  Sharon leaned over and whispered in Darla’s ear. The actress nodded. Sharon’s weight lurched upward as the elevator halted at its designated floor. The doors rumbled open.

  Sharon stepped quickly around Preston Trigg and stood between the two deputies. She smiled, first at the woman and then the man. “We can’t tell you how much we appreciate this,” Sharon said. “Listen, you guys want autographs? I have pen and paper in here.” She thumped her briefcase. “Miss Cowan has time, if it’s something you’re interested in.”

  “I agree with you it’s ridiculous,” Sharon said in a whisper. “You’d just have to know Milton Breyer.” She and Preston Trigg hurried down a corridor with Darla several strides in front of them, out of earshot. “We’ve got plenty of hardasses with L.A. County,” Trigg said. “But no way would even one of those guys have this lady arrested without first giving her a chance to turn herself in.”

  “Milton will,” Sharon said. �
��Count on it. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t have a warrant in his pocket. This questioning session won’t go very far because we’re going to ask for a grant of immunity before Darla says a word to them. I’m thinking this will be over in five minutes or so. When it’s over, look for a couple of arresting officers to appear out of the woodwork. I’d only had a suspicion this would happen before last night, but the FBI finding that gun at the house cinches it.”

  Trigg nodded toward Darla’s back. “Does she know?”

  Sharon grimly shook her head. “It was a tough call, but no. I don’t see how she could be more upset than she already is, but I didn’t tell her. You be available for an extradition hearing? I’m thinking tomorrow.”

  “I’m yours as long as my fee holds out. Which, hey, ten grand, that could be quite some time.” Trigg raised his voice. “Slow up, Miss Cowan. It’s right through here.” Trigg led the way. They went through a small office with a desk and chairs, and entered a courtroom from behind the judge’s bench. The spectators section was empty. Close to the front, a jail trustee operated a vacuum cleaner. He didn’t look up.

  Trigg pointed to his left. “This judge is on vacation,” he said. “We’re set up in his conference room.”

  Sharon nodded. “After you, Pres,” she said. Then she hung back, waiting while Trigg ushered Darla through the door. Darla’s posture was confident and erect, but she threw Sharon a worried glance over her shoulder. Sharon chewed her lower lip for an instant, blinked back a tear of pity, and carried her briefcase inside.

  In the conference room was a long, polished table with seating for ten. At the head of the table sat Milton Breyer, with Stan Green on his right, and Sharon nearly laughed out loud. Breyer’s hair was extra dark, the Grecian Formula working overtime, and he wore a light yellow Hollywood Boulevard suit. Sunglasses were folded and poked into the Dallas prosecutor’s breast pocket. God, Sharon thought, all he needs isvan open-necked shirt and a medallion on a chain. Maybe a pinkie ring to complete the outlandish getup. Stan Green’s outfit was even worse than Breyer’s. The detective had on an open-necked shirt—but no medallion dangling below his throat—which was bright green, its collar folded out over the collar of a pale blue sports coat. Sunglasses were in his pocket as well, with one earpiece sticking out and down. Sharon considered asking this duo if she could audition for a part in their next production, then changed her mind.

  A third man was at the table, and this guy seemed fairly normal. He had dark hair, brows, and eyes, was dressed in a lightweight navy blue suit, and looked a bit embarrassed at the company he was keeping. The stranger regarded Preston Trigg. “Short-time,” the stranger said with a faint Hispanic accent. “What are you doing here?”

  “Representing Darla Cowan.” Trigg extended a palm-up hand in Darla’s direction.

  “You’re kidding me,” the stranger said. “Short-time Trigg on a major case? How did you fall into that?”

  Trigg laughed nervously and said to Sharon from the side of his mouth, “Short-time, that’s … well, I handle a lot of plea bargains, you know?”

  “I think I could have figured that out eventually,”

  Sharon said. “Darla Cowan, meet Mr. Breyer and Mr. Green from Dallas, and …” She looked a question at the stranger.

  He lifted a hand in greeting. “Harold Cuellar, Assistant L.A. County District Attorney. I’m just squiring these guys around.” He started to rise.

  “Keep your seat, sir,” Sharon said. “I’m Sharon Hays, no need to be formal.” Her gaze fell on a plumpish woman seated at a small metal table off to one side, near the Mr. Coffee. A shorthand typewriter was on the table in front of her. Sharon walked over. “And I suppose you’re the court reporter we asked for?” The woman smiled, nodded, and handed Sharon a business card.

  “That’s the first problem here,” Breyer said. “What’s the reporter for?”

  Sharon blinked. “Why, to record questions and answers. What do court reporters normally do?”

  Breyer turned to Cuellar, searching for an ally. “That legal in this state, Harold? We’re interviewing a witness here.”

  Cuellar gave a hands-up shrug. “Not done very often. But it is. She has that right. Your alternative is not to question her.”

  “Okay,” Breyer said, “then here’s question two, Miss Hays. Are you the lady’s lawyer?” He pointed at Trigg. “Or is this guy?”

  Trigg looked as if he was about to speak, then closed his mouth, obviously nervous and more than a little intimidated.

  Sharon stepped forward as Darla had a seat at the table and folded her hands. She fixed Breyer with a glare which could melt cobalt. “I’d think you would have asked that question before you popped off to the media,” she said. “But now that you’ve asked, Mr. Trigg’s representing Darla in California. I’m representing Miss Cowan’s interests in Texas, and in this meeting I’m Mr. Trigg’s co-counsel. That clear enough?”

  “I’m just establishing rules. Parameters.”

  “Okay,” Sharon said, “so I’m second banana and he’s first.”

  Breyer touched his fingertips together. “Always glad to have you, Miss Hays.”

  “You may not be in a minute.” Sharon looked to her right. “Mr. Trigg?”

  He seemed a bit out of breath. “Yes, uh, there’s a matter of a few grants we’re seeking.” Breyer pyramided his fingers. “Grants?”

  “Yes, well…” Trigg seemed helpless, out of his element.

  Sharon sat forward. “What you may be trying to say, Pres, is that Miss Cowan has nothing to say without a grant of immunity from Dallas County.”

  “Yeah,” Trigg said. “Right. That’s what I’m saying.”

  Breyer waved a hand, as if immunity were a non­issue. “Why would that be necessary? No one’s accused this lady of anything. Yet.”

  Trigg stammered, at a loss for words.

  Of all the lawyers in town, Sharon thought, we have to walk into this guy’s office. “Not officially accused,” she said, “but with what you’ve been spouting to the press, the public thinks Darla has one foot in the penitentiary. Miss Cowan wants all those innuendoes publicly retracted, so she can get over this and get on with her life. Otherwise, you can learn what she has to say when you call her to the witness stand.” Sharon leaned back. “At least that’s what I think Mr. Trigg’s advice is, to his client.”

  “Right,” Trigg said. “Yeah, right.”

  A young woman entered the room, walked up behind Cuellar, and tapped him on the shoulder. Cuellar turned. She whispered to him. Cuellar’s mouth curved in surprise. He motioned to her. She bent over, and Cuellar spoke softly but urgently into her ear.

  Breyer scowled at Sharon across the table. “You mean, as in written immunity?”

  “That’s exactly what Mr. Trigg means, Milt. He wants written immunity for his client and a public retraction of all the nonsense. You no givee, she no talkee.”

  “Yeah, right,” Preston Trigg said.

  “We don’t give anything in writing,” Breyer said. “You may not in Texas,” Sharon said. “Out here you may find it’s different.”

  “Yeah? What’s different about it?”

  Sharon gestured toward the California defense lawyer. “Man’s got a question, Mr. Trigg. Do you have an answer?”

  Trigg said, “Huh?”

  Sharon let go an exasperated sigh. “As in a motion or something?”

  “Yeah, right,” Trigg said, reaching into his inside coat pocket, producing a stapled sheath of papers, and tossing them over in front of Breyer. “A motion,” Trigg said. He looked at Sharon for approval. She looked away, rolling her eyes.

  Breyer quickly scanned the motion. “She can go in front of a judge?”

  Sharon spread her hands. “It’s Rome, Milton.”

  Breyer waved the motion at Cuellar. “Harold, is this…?”

  “Just a moment
.” Cuellar whispered something else to the young woman, who nodded and left the room. Cuellar turned to Breyer. “Is what what?”

  “This motion I’ve been handed. I want to know if it’s kosher under you’all’s laws out here.”

  “I don’t know what the motion is,” Cuellar said, “but I think it’s irrelevant.”

  Now Sharon was every bit as puzzled as Milton Breyer. Breyer said, “Why’s that?”

  “California, Texas, or on the moon,” Cuellar said, “I think when a suspect is formally charged, the suspect becomes entitled to Miranda before any questioning. Our sheriff now has a warrant to serve for Miss Cowan’s arrest.” As if on cue, two uniformed deputies entered and stood behind Cuellar with their arms folded.

  For just an instant it seemed that the room and its occupants were part of a stop-action photo. All faces turned to Darla as she looked up with a puzzled but terrified expression, blinking in disbelief as realization dawned on her. Sharon wondered, Why the phony buildup? They could have pulled their warrant on Darla the moment she’d entered, and apparently had planned to arrest her all along, so why the stall? The still-picture illusion dissolved as the deputies moved forward, dropped their warrant on the table, then stood on either side of Darla and instructed her to rise. As the actress woodenly complied, Sharon snatched up the warrant and scanned its conditions. Oh, sure, she thought. The gun.

  Apparently Breyer hadn’t been as certain of his probable cause as it had appeared; the FBI had hauled the pistol from the beach house to a ballistics lab in downtown L.A. —which, interestingly enough, already had samples of the shells and fragments found in David Spencer’s hotel room—and had kept the technicians jumping into the wee hours as the lab had done a comparison. The markings on the bullets had matched. No surprise there; Sharon had assumed that she was seeing the murder weapon ever since the federal man had carried the .38 out of the kitchen. With the time required to fax the ballistics info to Dallas, for Breyer’s cohorts in Texas to find a judge to sign the warrant, and for the warrant to return to L.A., the papers in Sharon’s hands were hot off the griddle. All of which explained why Breyer and his L.A. prosecutor friend had been tooling around with idle conversation. As the deputies cuffed Darla with a rasp of metal, Sharon thought suppression of evidence. There was an affidavit attached to the warrant. Steven Moretta, the lead FBI agent in the beach-house search, had sworn to the affidavit, and his search warrant had borne a federal magistrate’s signature. Federal rules regarding probable cause differed widely from state requirements, and there was an outside chance that the gun could be inadmissible in a Texas murder trial even though it could be used against Darla in a federal prosecution. More midnight oil at the law library, Sharon thought.