by Lee Goldberg
Macklin looked into Mordente's eyes. He didn't expect any compassion from her and wasn't getting any. Her eyes were as cold as before. He simply wanted her to understand what he had only just begun to realize—that what he was doing on the streets was worth sacrificing himself and, yes, perhaps those he loved for.
"You killed others, too," she said.
"Psychos. They raped and killed children and filmed it for profit. I stopped them. It was the right thing to do."
"I was beginning to believe that, too," she shot back, her lower lip trembling with rage. "I really wanted to believe that. But tonight you went too far. You murdered a fifteen-year-old kid. A child. I let you go and you murdered a kid and reveled in the bloodshed."
Macklin shook his head, his brow wrinkled with confusion. "What?"
"I had that picture of you three weeks ago," she continued, talking to herself now, looking at him without seeing him. "If I had acted on it then, maybe three people would be alive tonight. But I can make damn sure you don't kill anyone else. Tomorrow I write the story that puts you away."
"I didn't kill anyone tonight," Macklin said. Her head snapped up and she glared at him through narrow eyes. "I've been here, waxing my car."
"Christ, Macklin, when does the lying stop, huh?"
"Look, I have nothing to gain by lying now," Macklin said, keeping his voice steady. "I'm telling you I've been here all night."
Mordente ignored his protest and turned her back to him. "You're finished, Macklin."
"So you're going to leave now and write your article," Macklin said. "Tie me up and hang me out to dry."
"You got it," she said.
"Tell me, Jessie, how are you going to explain the last three weeks?"
She slowly turned around to face him again.
"How are you going to write your way out of knowing the truth and keeping it quiet for so long?" Macklin continued. "How are you going to describe the night we made love?"
"You're inhuman," she hissed.
Macklin shrugged. "I'm innocent of the killing tonight. Give me seventy-two hours and I'll prove it."
"No," she said, her eyes narrow and furious. "You'll run."
"Where could I go?" he replied. "If you write your story, you will stop me. But you will also crush my family. For their sake, not mine, give me a chance to prove my innocence. Three days, that's all I ask. If I don't find the impostor, I'll turn myself in to you and tell all." He paused. "Almost all. I won't say a word about our ever meeting before and that you've known the truth for three weeks. Your exposé will appear ethically and journalistically sound, and you might still have a career afterwards."
"All right," she muttered through tight lips. "Seventy-two hours." Her voice rose sharply into a shout that slapped him. "A second more and I'll destroy you, Brett Macklin, I promise you that." She turned and stormed into the house.
He listened to her stomping though the house, and then, a moment later, he heard his front door slam shut.
Macklin slumped against his car and sighed. He had three days to save his life. Who was the impostor? Was he just a vigilante or was there more to it? Where could he find him? The only place he could think to begin his search was where it all began—the dark alleys and grimy, forgotten streets of South Central Los Angeles. The urban jungle.
The crack of splintering wood broke into Macklin's thoughts. He whipped his head around and saw the back door of the garage burst open and slap against the wall. A police officer, his legs spread out and his gun braced in both hands, stood framed in the doorway.
Macklin shifted his gaze and saw another officer, in his crisp blue suit and hat, standing where Mordente had stood just a few minutes ago. The muzzle of the officer's gun was right in front of Macklin's face.
"You so much as twitch, Macklin," said the cop behind him, "and we'll give you a couple extra assholes."
# # # # # #
It was after midnight when Macklin pulled open the glass door and stepped into the darkened hallway of the superior court, the two cops behind him with their guns out.
Their footfalls echoed eerily through the empty, gray-tile corridors as they walked in measured steps towards the last courtroom door. The tall oak door was about a half inch ajar when they approached to it. Pushing it open slowly, Macklin saw the room was lit only by the moon glow spilling in through the windows and a tiny reading lamp on the judge's bench.
Ex–superior court judge Harlan Fitz sat behind the bench. He wore a white polo shirt with a red sweater tied around his neck by its sleeves. When Macklin entered, Fitz leaned forward on his elbows, his hands supporting his head and flattening his puffy cheeks, which rolled up against his eyes and gave them an Asian slant.
Los Angeles mayor Jed Stocker stood in the center of the courtroom with a gun trained on Macklin. The mayor wore a crooked sneer and a gray three-piece suit, the vest unbuttoned and his tie loosened at the collar.
Shaw sat in the jury box, his legs crossed and resting on the wooden partition. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows, and his brown corduroy jacket was draped carelessly over the arm of the chair next to him. He acknowledged Macklin's presence with a quick, subdued glance. Macklin had grown up with Shaw and knew the glance meant that Shaw was trying to separate himself from Macklin. Not a good sign.
"Isn't this a bit melodramatic?" Macklin strode casually into the courtroom towards Stocker. The cops stood stoically in the doorway looking to Stocker for their next move.
"Just shut the fuck up, Macklin," Stocker barked. The mayor waved his gun at the cops and said, "I'll take it from here, boys." The cops nodded affirmatively and closed the door.
"Are those two monkeys really cops?" Macklin asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
"My cops, Macklin." Stocker met Macklin's gaze and held the gun steady. "They know who runs the city, they know who to listen to, and they know when not to ask questions." Stocker, Macklin mused, had never stopped being chief of police.
Macklin glanced past Stocker to Fitz. The judge wearily beckoned Macklin forward with a subtle, backwards toss of his head.
"If you'll listen to me for a second," Macklin began, "I can save us a lot of time. I—"
"No, Macklin, it's you who needs to listen," Stocker broke in, shaking his gun for emphasis. "You've lost control. You've become a psycho . . . a liability."
"I didn't kill anyone tonight, folks." Macklin cautiously sat on the edge of the prosecutor's table, careful not to spook Stocker, and rested his hands on his knees. "I don't even know what happened."
"We didn't say anything about killings," Fitz said in an accusatory tone.
Macklin dropped his eyes. He wasn't ready to tell them about Mordente yet. "I heard about them an hour ago. I can't say from whom right now. All I know is that three guys were killed and Mr. Jury is the prime suspect."
"Three black gang members were roughing up a couple of white kids who accidentally violated their turf," Stocker explained with a patronizing tone. "A guy toting a .357 stepped out of nowhere and gunned down the gang members."
"You think I did it," Macklin stated.
Stocker nodded. Shaw sat passively.
"What about you, Ronny—do you think I did it?"
Shaw shrugged. "I'm not sure."
"Then why the hell is this brainless creep pointing a gun at me?" Macklin yelled, looking directly at Stocker.
"You're out of control," Stocker hissed at him, "and that makes you a dangerous man."
"There are some extenuating circumstances," Shaw said. "The mayor left out the sadistic part. The killer went up the boy, called him a fucking nigger, and pumped three more bullets into him."
Macklin nodded.
"Everything he did up until that point sounds like your usual style," Shaw said, "except for that. Maybe you've just grown to like killing."
Macklin shook his head disbelievingly. "You're crazy."
"Our mental capabilities aren't in question here," Fitz said. "Yours are. What happened t
onight was a massacre. We can't let that happen again."
"Your problem, gentlemen, isn't with me. There's a sicko running around out there. He's the one that has to be stopped. We have to find out who he is and why he is killing people." Macklin stood up, crossing Stocker's path. "C'mon, look at this rationally for a moment. I was the one who insisted Judge Fitz become involved, remember? I'm the one who asked for a judicial review of my actions."
Macklin walked up to the jury bench and faced Shaw. "Mr. Jury was dead, Ronny. Why the hell would I resurrect him?"
"Yeah, and what about the death car you've been building in your garage?" Stocker said, a snide smile etching a crooked line across his face. "Is that a recreational vehicle or what?"
Macklin whirled around. "Before you shit through your mouth again, just remember you're the one who forced me into becoming Mr. Jury and you're not about to let me stop."
"It didn't take a helluva lot of force, Mack," Shaw said. "And you can stop anytime you want. Let's not kid each other. You want to be Mr. Jury. I realized that a long time ago. So don't act so goddamn self-righteous."
Macklin sighed wearily. "We're just going around in circles. I didn't kill them. Granted, it was the sort of situation I might have stepped into and cleaned up, but I certainly wouldn't slaughter a defenseless kid."
He turned back to Shaw. "And I wouldn't call him a fucking nigger. We all know I'm not a racist. Besides, if I had become a blood-crazed lunatic, I don't think I'd be here now arguing with you."
"Unless you were afraid we'd stop you from having your grisly fun," Stocker said.
"Stocker, I'd shine the toe of my shoe with your scrotum right now if I didn't think that would support your stupid allegations."
"That's enough," Fitz declared. "Put that gun away, Stocker."
Stocker hesitated, glaring at Macklin.
"Now," Fitz said again.
Stocker reluctantly slid the gun into his waistband.
"I think Macklin deserves the benefit of the doubt," Fitz said.
At least someone believes me, Macklin thought.
Shaw chuckled derisively. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. You're all ignoring the implications of this. Can't you see what this vigilante lunacy has finally come to? If Mack didn't do it tonight, someone else did. Other people may jump on the meat wagon, too. The Mr. Jury we created has become the justification psychos need to butcher people."
"Don't dump those bodies on my doorstep. Don't blame me for the actions of crackpots and psychos," Macklin said. "They don't need any justification for their actions. They could use Mr. Jury or Jesus—it makes no difference."
"Where do you draw the line between good murder and bad murder? You're both killing people," Shaw responded.
"That's like asking what's the difference between Hitler's Nazis and the soldiers who hit the beaches at Normandy, for Christ's sake," Macklin said. "In this country we have a system of law, we don't have a system of justice. Violent crime is running rampant in this city, and I'm doing something about it. Every day that these murderers roam the streets, your family and mine are in danger. I've never killed an innocent person."
"Yet," Shaw said.
"That's all irrelevant right now, gentlemen," Fitz said solemnly. "We've got a sadistic killer on our hands calling himself Mr. Jury."
"And while we're in here sitting on our asses, he's still on the streets." Macklin approached the judge's bench, feeling Stocker's insolent glare against his back. "I'd like to do something about it."
Fitz didn't hesitate. "Get him."
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, May 19, 11:53 a.m.
The single-story, white, wood-frame house sat on a granite point overlooking the shimmering blue lake. The aluminum, triangular roof reflected the sun's rays, beaming down from a cloudless sky, into Jessica Mordente's eyes as her car bounced along the fifty yards of unpaved roadway leading to the house.
A tall guard tower flanked each side of the cyclone gate in front of her, the only opening in the two parallel, electrified fences that circled the tree-lined mile around the private lake. A single man, a rifle slung over his shoulder, stood like a life-size plastic GI Joe doll in each of the two thirty-foot-tall stations. In the gap between the fences, expressionless men in brown fatigues walked at a marchlike clip and, like the dogs at their sides, seemed to snarl instead of breathe. The guards probably lifted their legs to pee, too, she thought.
The gate in front of her parted just wide enough to let one of the guards pass through. She slowed her Mazda RX-7 to a stop and rolled down her window.
The guard had a long snout and a butch salt-and-pepper crew cut. He licked his lips with his pink tongue as he rounded the front of her car. She wondered if she'd have to offer him a doggie treat to get him to speak. She'd rather ask him to roll over and play dead and just let her drive through.
"My name's Jessica Mordente," she said, all smiles. "I have an appointment to interview Anton Damon."
The guard grunted, which was a more literate response than Mordente had expected, and walked leisurely to the gate again. He picked up a military-issue walkie-talkie and spoke into it. She saw him nod at the men in the guard tower.
The gate swept open towards her with an electric whine. She drove forward. The guard immediately raised his hand, palm out, and she stopped. She watched as a fourth guard emerged from behind one of the towers and walked to her car with the snout-faced man.
"We have to search your car," the snout-faced man said.
Mordente had expected it, but that didn't make her any happier about it. She rose from the car, her purse slung over her shoulder. "Sure. While you're poking around in there, could you empty the ashtrays and vacuum a bit, too?"
The guard gave no indication that he had even heard her. "Your purse," he said.
She took off her purse and handed it to him. He unzipped it and dumped the contents out on her hood. Mordente lunged for two canisters of lipstick and a couple of tampons before they could roll off the sloping hood. When she straightened up, she saw that both guards had their guns out.
Mordente carefully set the lipstick and tampons on the hood and stepped back. "Take it easy, boys, I'm not going to gloss your lips and shove tampons down your throats."
The guards faced her motionlessly for a long moment and then holstered their guns. While the snout-faced man examined her microcassette recorder, wallet, creased reporter's notebook, and assorted crap, the other leaned into the passenger side of her car and clawed and sniffed around the interior. He tossed out a half-empty can of Pepsi Free and an Egg McMuffin canister.
Mordente sighed and turned her back to them, deciding she'd rather give the compound the once-over while they searched her car. The house was white with green trim and had a rustic, woodsy look about it that suggested it was built by hand by some dedicated woodsman fifty years ago. Then again, she thought, there are a lot of prefabricated tract homes that have the same woodsy look.
Take away the mongrel guards and the electric fences, and the grounds could be a summer camp or a cozy lakeside resort where families could relax and get away from the crush of urban life in smog-shrouded Los Angeles, which was down the mountain and sixty-five miles northwest. It seemed wrong that such a warm place was home for such a cold organization. This was White Wash Group territory, no dark-skinned inpiduals allowed.
"Hey," the guard snapped. She turned and saw him holding small metal detector. He jerked the detector to motion her towards him. Mordente shuffled to his side and he ran the metal detector over her body. At least he didn't try a strip search, she thought.
"All right, you can drive through," the guard said, clicking off the detector. "Slowly," he drawled.
Mordente shrugged and took her purse from him. To her surprise, everything had been neatly put away in her purse, tampons and all. She wondered if he had sharpened her pencils, too. Mordente got into her car and drove through the gate.
As she wound around to the front of the house, Damon emerged and
stood on the porch, right beside the short American flag that jutted in a jaunty salute from one of the green posts. Damon's wide hips and thin legs were held tight in a pair of blue Genera jeans, the front pockets bulging with what looked like marbles or something. His short-sleeve, cream-colored shirt had epaulets on the shoulders and was unbuttoned, following the loose strands of gray hair from his sun-pinkened chest to the diminutive asterisk-like navel in the center of his bloated belly. Twelve years of prison life had plumped him up like a Ball Park frank.
Mordente reached into her purse and clicked on the recorder. She pulled the purse strap over her shoulder, rose from the car, and immediately exuded her brand of reporter friendliness, not unlike the forced buoyancy of an airline stewardess. She was all smiles as she met him on the porch, which was covered with a fine layer of brittle pine needles.
"Expecting a war to break out?" Mordente asked, shaking his outstretched hand. His squeeze was tentative but firm, and he met her question with an amused smile. She noticed his teeth were bone white and perfectly straight. She was also uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her sweat-moistened cleavage, slightly exposed by the open collar of her white, short-sleeve blouse, and resisted the urge to cover herself with her hand.
"Depends on what you mean. Am I on the defensive from direct frontal assaults like the one you just mounted or from an armed offensive against those gates?" He grinned affably and shrugged as he stepped off the porch to her side. "I'd have to say both."
He slid his arm around her shoulder and led her around the house towards the lake. His arm felt like a heavy, damp hose draped around her neck. She knew he was sneaking sideways glances down the opening of her shirt.
"As you know, there are many people who are violently opposed to my earned freedom," he said. "The guards make me feel secure."
"But isn't all this weaponry a blatant violation of your parole?" she asked incredulously. The guards pacing along the sandy shore gave the two a wide berth as Damon led her to a small dock stretching out into the lake.
