‘Nonetheless, that’s one of the things the cops will use against him. And, of course, his fingerprints are all over the arrow.’
‘Because he pulled it out when he found her on the floor,’ Angie volunteered.
‘Well, no. He tried to, but it was … in a little too deep, he says.’ I bit my lower lip.
‘Ewwww …’
‘Exactly.’ I looked around and wondered if you could hire someone to come in and unpack for you. I’d moved out here specifically to get away from the criminal justice system, but now I had a murder case on my hands, and I’d have less than the no time to organize my apartment than I had when I woke up … yesterday morning. Wasn’t that a week ago, at least? If I closed my eyes, I’d be asleep until Wednesday. Unless today was Wednesday. I couldn’t remember.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Angie asked. ‘You have to get him out, Sandy. You have to.’
‘Take it easy, Ang. The judge probably won’t consider him a flight risk. And they’re getting sort of used to the whole “celebrity murder” thing out here. It seems like they have one every couple of weeks.’
‘You don’t understand, Sandy. Patrick McNabb can’t go to jail. You have a huge responsibility here. Don’t take it lightly.’
I was touched that my friend was taking my burden so seriously. ‘I don’t know what to say, Ang,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Do better than your best,’ Angie answered in a no-nonsense tone. ‘He has to be out of jail and back on that soundstage today. Understand? Arthur Kirkland’s girlfriend is cheating on him, and if he finds out the wrong way, he might kill her!’
I could see this was going to be a very long day. Week. Possibly decade.
‘Your concern is touching,’ I said. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I can’t believe you’re on this case!’ Angie sounded positively giddy. I sat down on the bar stool and wondered if I could find a low-fat bran muffin with caffeine in it. It seemed unlikely. ‘Look, I know you have to keep certain things private, but I just have to ask …’
I closed my eyes in grim anticipation.
‘What?’
Angie’s voice took on a hushed, conspiratorial tone. ‘Sandy, was she, you know, scalped, too?’
SIX
Patrick McNabb was arraigned in the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center at ten that morning, amid a media circus surpassed only by all the other media circuses that had taken place in Southern California when a celebrity found him/her/themself in trouble with the law. After all, McNabb was only a television star, not a movie star, and he’d been a leading actor for only a year. It wasn’t like somebody really important had been arrested for murder.
Still, the tumult surrounding the courthouse was more than enough for my taste. Barely in town for two weeks, I was now on speed dial from every news producer, reporter, and editor in town (and many from New York and London, as well as two from Tokyo). Interview requests were coming into my office at the rate of six per hour. I hadn’t bothered to have my home phone number – yeah, I’m an old-fashioned girl and I have a landline, because it just sounds better – unlisted, but because I was new to the area, it wasn’t yet in the printed version of the current directory (if anybody still looks at those). Producers, editors, and reporters had to actually call Information and ask for a new listing to get the number. Unsurprisingly, the answering machine’s computer chip was full, and the phone was ringing off the hook day and night (which had been a grand total of eight hours so far). I didn’t know which particular god had kept my cell number secret, but I resolved to take up their religion as soon as I found out.
The reporters swarmed all over my car when I drove to the (thankfully) underground parking lot at the courthouse, screaming questions: ‘Ms Moss! Ms Moss! Did Patrick mean to kill her?’
‘Was he just showing Patsy his bow?’
‘Are you romantically involved with Patrick?’
‘Will he plead insanity?’
The question I really wanted answered was, ‘How did they find out which car was mine?’
This was not what I’d signed up for, I thought as I got into the elevator at the parking level. I’d told that to Junius Bach himself when he’d called this morning at seven, just at the moment I believed I might catch an hour or two of sleep. And if Bach wasn’t peeved at me enough for the screw-up at the meeting yesterday, now he seemed to hold me somehow responsible for Patrick McNabb’s arrest, as if Patsy would still be alive if only I’d kept my mouth shut at the conference.
‘I’m not a criminal attorney any more,’ I told Bach, right after he informed me that he was agreeing to McNabb’s wishes and making me the lead attorney on the case. ‘And I’ve never been a defense attorney in my life. You expect me to walk into a courtroom in a state where I’ve never practiced and defend a famous actor in a murder trial?’
‘That is precisely what I expect you to do,’ Bach responded. He sounded, at seven in the morning, as if he’d just played a game of squash after a relaxing massage and a very expensive pedicure. It was funny what you could hear in a voice. ‘Our client has specifically requested your counsel, and as his law firm, we are going to provide what he requests.’
‘But, Mr Bach—’
I didn’t get the chance. ‘Ms Moss, I’m not any happier about the situation than you are. Perhaps less. But when a client who pays a retainer as large as Mr McNabb requests a service from our firm, and specifies an attorney from our firm to provide that service, we provide it. Are there any questions?’
Beyond ‘how did they find out which car is mine?’ Yes, I had hundreds of questions, and most of them involved exactly how I’d defend a man I thought probably murdered his wife over a pair of shoes too small for his own feet. As I got off the elevator (and into the swarm of reporters stationed there – did they employ reporters to cover anything else?), I was mostly wondering if I could convince McNabb to hire himself a lawyer who actually knew what they were doing.
After considering very seriously the idea of having ‘NO COMMENT’ tattooed on my forehead to cut down on having to say it, I wandered around the hall I’d never seen before, looking for Courtroom #4, where the arraignment would take place (evidently, it was the largest of the courtrooms, and could accommodate the press and a few helpful fans, whose ‘Free Arthur Kirkland!’ T-shirts ignored McNabb’s real name). A reporter finally gave me directions to the courtroom, but not before he tried, unsuccessfully, to wrangle an exclusive interview (with McNabb, not me).
I thought I’d find refuge in the courtroom, but it was already filled with press (what if there’s a disaster in Washington today – will anyone be available to report it?) and sorrowful fans (Marry Me, Pat! You’re Single Again!). Between my overall fatigue and the delay in finding a. the courthouse and b. the courtroom, I’d barely managed to scramble into my seat at the defense table and open my briefcase when the bailiff opened the door and entered the courtroom, signaling the judge’s imminent arrival.
Just as I stood on hearing ‘all rise,’ my peripheral vision caught Evan sidling up beside me at the second chair. We sat as the judge, the Honorable Henry T. Fleming, said, ‘Be seated.’
‘What are you doing here?’ I hissed to Evan as the bailiff opened the door for McNabb, who looked unshaven and sleep-deprived.
‘Bach told me to come and give you whatever help you needed,’ he told me. ‘I know I’m not an attorney, but I can do the research. I’m at your disposal.’
Smiling as diplomatically as I could, I felt conflicted. It was nice to have a friendly face next to me, but that’s all he was – a friendly face. A real lawyer, preferably one with criminal defense experience, would have been far more welcome.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Welcome aboard.’
McNabb was led to the table, and sat next to me, giving Evan a glance I thought might have been hostile. ‘All we have to do is plead, and I get out of here, right?’ he asked.
‘It’s nice to see you, too, Patrick,’ I scol
ded him. ‘So long as there are no complications, yes.’
The bailiff called the case number, and the prosecutor and I agreed we were present in the courtroom. The judge asked for the plea, and I tried very hard to look convincing, and convinced, when I said, ‘not guilty.’
I added, ‘Your Honor, given Mr McNabb’s record and his very high public profile, we feel he presents no flight risk, and request his release on bail.’
The elected district attorney, M. Harrison Brady, was so tall he might once have played for the Lakers. At a later date, I was to hear the rumor, supposedly circulating in the L.A. criminal justice system, that the ‘M’ stood for ‘Man, He’s Tall.’ He rose to his full height, which took a while, and let his deep baritone envelop the room.
‘Judge, the state objects to bail,’ he said. ‘This is a homicide, and we are very close to Mexico – it’s easy for someone to leave the country by car in a very short time.’
Already standing, I felt like I should climb onto a chair to argue with Brady, but I fought the impulse. ‘Your Honor, a man as recognizable as Mr McNabb would be detained on any attempt to flee, and Your Honor can certainly confiscate his passport to avoid any such possibility.’
Fleming looked me over and was about to speak when Brady cut him off. ‘In addition, there is the defendant’s prior history of violence. The police went three times to the home of the defendant and the victim in response to domestic disturbance calls, and Mr Dunwoody … pardon me, Mr McNabb, was arrested on assault charges in London seven years ago.’
I did not spin and stare at my client, who hadn’t mentioned any of this, but it wasn’t without effort. Through slightly gritted teeth, I said, ‘Oh, come on, Your Honor. Seven years ago? In England? And a troubled marriage that required some help from the police? That was all before Mr McNabb became a celebrity, and therefore makes him all the less a candidate for flight at this time. Look at all the reporters in this room. There are twice as many outside the door, and more on the steps outside the building. His face will be on every news show in the country, and many around the world, tomorrow morning. Where would he go? And how would he get there undetected? Your Honor, Mr McNabb will not be going anywhere, because he is anxious to clear his name and see justice done in this courtroom. He has no intention of leaving the city, the county, the state, or the country. He wants to be here.’
Fleming took a moment to consider me – it seemed he was considering me, and not what I’d said, anyway, as he looked me up and down like he was deciding whether or not to buy me. ‘You haven’t been before this court before, have you, Ms’ – and he checked the sheet in front of him – ‘Moss?’
‘No, Your Honor. I moved to Los Angeles earlier this month.’
‘From where?’
From where? Now he wants my biography? ‘From New Jersey. I was an assistant county prosecutor for eight years.’ Maybe he was just checking my credentials. It felt like he’d be examining my fillings in a moment, but that was subjective.
‘New Jersey.’ Fleming nodded, as if that explained it. ‘Well, Ms Moss, I was inclined to comply with the district attorney’s request, but you made a strong argument. I hope you’re willing to back it up.’
‘Back it up? How, Your Honor?’ Did he expect me to take McNabb’s place in the cell while he walked around free?
‘I’ll set bail at one million dollars, but I want you to know, Ms Moss, I’m holding you responsible for your client. If he misses so much as one hearing date, I will find you in contempt of this court and throw you in jail. Is that clear?’
‘Clear, Your Honor.’ What kind of insane state is this? Do they want me to make sure he eats right and flosses every day, too? I’m his lawyer, not his mother!
‘Very well, then.’ A bang of the gavel. ‘One million dollars.’
The next few minutes were a carnival of reporters, questions, forms to fill out, questions, and then, just for a change of pace, a few more questions. But I managed to make it back to my car, and somehow, Patrick McNabb was seated next to me as we drove out of the garage and back into what was laughingly referred to out here as ‘The Real World.’
The reporters swarmed over the car, but McNabb simply said, ‘Don’t stop. They’ll get out of the way.’ That’s what happened, and eventually, we made it out to the street and away from the madhouse.
‘Well,’ Patrick breathed once we were safely ensconced in traffic. ‘That was brilliant!’
Perhaps I’d taken some of the madhouse with me.
SEVEN
‘Are you out of your mind?’
I didn’t think the question was at all inappropriate. We sat in my office, a tiny square in the center of Seaton Taylor’s space, a glorified cubicle with no window and an empty pot where a plant must once have stood. My second day on the job, and I had the world’s most famous murder defendant sitting across from my metal desk, staring at the blank walls.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Patrick told me. ‘I thought you did quite well. I mean, he threw something at you that you couldn’t possibly have expected …’
‘That’s the point!’ I was within millimeters of screaming. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the police calls, and the arrest in London seven years ago? Were you trying to spare me the unpleasant details of your past?’
Evan appeared in the doorway, having driven from the courthouse in his own car. ‘What did I miss?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know if I need anything, but right now, Mr McNabb and I need to have a private conference, OK?’
Evan looked like a hurt basset hound, but he walked away with a mumbled ‘OK.’ Patrick smirked after him.
‘Best to get rid of him,’ he said, looking at the departing Evan. ‘He’s a devious sort.’
‘He’s not even a little devious,’ I snarled at him. ‘I wasn’t sure if he was old enough to hear the kind of language I’m going to use with you.’
Patrick McNabb had the nerve to look surprised. ‘Me?’ he asked. ‘What did I do?’
‘What did you do? You left me out there to twist in the wind. Mr McNabb …’
‘Patrick.’
‘Mr McNabb, if you don’t tell me everything you know and everything I need to know, I won’t be able to mount an effective defense for you in court, and you’ll go to jail for a very, very long time. Is that clear?’
‘Look, Sandy. It just never occurred to me that any of that stuff would matter. I got into a shoving match with a guy in a pub a million lifetimes ago. Patsy used to call the cops every time I looked at her funny. I’m not a violent man, and I did not kill my wife.’
I stared at him a moment, trying to think of an adequate response. The man believed that saying something with enough conviction made it true. After all, it always worked on television.
‘We’re going to go over everything, Patrick – everything you’ve ever done that might even appear to be the slightest bit questionable. Because no matter how innocent it may be, you can take it to the bank that the D.A. will use it in court, and make you look like Jack the Ripper. So let’s have it all, now. Everything I need to know. Tell me truthfully why you went to Patsy’s house last night, and what happened after you got there.’
‘I told you. I felt bad about the argument, and—’
‘Come on, Patrick. You and I both know you didn’t feel at all badly about that. After Patsy left the conference room, you practically did the chicken dance, you were so charged up. So let’s have the real story, or I promise you, I’ll quit this case.’
Patrick McNabb closed his eyes and bowed his head. I thought for a moment he was going to start snoring any second. Honest to goodness, Angie, the man is a raving maniac. I don’t know what you saw in him to begin with.
Yes, you do. Look at those eyes. That hair. That cleft chin. You know exactly what I see in him, and you see it, too. Besides, he’s a wounded soul and you’re supposed to help him.
Stop it. You’re my imaginary version of my best friend. You’re no
t supposed to win arguments.
Patrick snapped me out of my reverie by opening his eyes and looking up, directly into my face.
‘All right. I went to the house to get Jimmy’s shoes. But I did let Patsy think I felt bad about the argument. The problem was, she’d been drinking a little, and we had another argument. A bigger one. I guess there wasn’t anyone to break us up this time, so we kept yelling things at each other. Is that what you want to hear?’
‘Only if it’s the truth.’
‘Then I’m going back to my original story. That was the truth.’
I could see where this was going. ‘OK. So things got out of hand. But I don’t see how that leads to the bow and arrow.’
Patrick looked astonished. ‘You think I did it?’ he whispered.
‘Well, wasn’t that what you were saying?’ OK, so maybe I couldn’t see where this was going.
Patrick stood up and turned his back to me. I thought his shoulders might be shaking a bit, and there was definitely a catch in his voice. ‘I thought you believed in me, Sandy. I thought you knew what kind of person I am. If you don’t …’ As his voice trailed off, the shoulder movement became more pronounced.
My hand went to my mouth. This kind of display was the last thing I’d expected. ‘Patrick, you have to understand. The way you were talking, the words you chose … I thought you were confessing to me. Please forgive me if I misconstrued.’
Patrick wheeled and faced me, beaming. ‘Right,’ he chirped. ‘I understand. Now, let’s get to work.’
My mouth opened and closed once or twice, but emitted remarkably little sound. When I finally found my voice, I heard it say, ‘But … but you … weren’t you …?’
‘It’s called acting, my love,’ he said. ‘Remember, I do that for a living.’
I shook my head, slowly, three times, but my brain was just as addled as before. ‘Then I can never believe anything you say.’
Inherit the Shoes Page 5
