Death Gets a Time-Out

by Ayelet Waldman

  “If? Is Jupiter considering a plea?”

  The lawyer leaned back as much as his basket-chair would allow. “It’s always a possibility.”

  Jupiter had insistently proclaimed his innocence to me, but I knew that it was possible that he would, nonetheless, plead guilty. Virtually everyone pleads guilty, especially if the prosecution has amassed significant physical evidence. The fact that Jupiter insisted he hadn’t committed the murder didn’t mean he’d necessarily be willing to risk a trial, especially one which could result in him getting the death penalty.

  “Have you talked to the prosecutor about a plea?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t ever approach them. I let them come to me.” He never approached them? I couldn’t help but think of all the times I’d groveled before the Assistant United States Attorneys, begging for a plea agreement that would spare my clients at least a couple of years. What would have happened if I’d adopted his approach and never went to them on bended knee? Would my clients have fared as well as his did? Or would the prosecutors have thrown the book at them, not even granting the minuscule adjustments that were the usual results of my suppliant beseeching?

  “In this case, even if the prosecutors do come to you, they’re not likely to do more than take death off the table. If they’re willing to consider a plea at all,” I said, probably more because I wanted him to know that I knew what I was talking about than because I thought he really cared about my opinions on his chances for a plea bargain.

  “Perhaps. It depends on the strength of our case.” He leaned back in his basket.

  “Has something come up?” I asked, hoping to hear that there was some exonerating evidence.

  “The judge granted our discovery motion, and yesterday we received the victim’s financial information, including bank statements.”

  “And?”

  “And there are some curious entries.”

  “Curious? How?”

  “Chloe made a series of large cash deposits during the few months before her death.”

  “How large?”

  “Two deposits of fifty thousand dollars apiece.”

  I whistled. That was large.

  “Who were the checks from?”

  “They were banker’s drafts drawn from a numbered account in a Latvian bank.”

  “Latvian?”

  “It’s the latest thing in offshore banking. We might be able to trace the account holder, but it will be a challenge.”

  “Is there any indication of who the money came from?”

  “Not so far. In his witness statement, Polaris Jones denies any knowledge of the deposits. One of my investigators is working on the case, but it would be helpful if, as you interview witnesses, you asked them about the deposits. You may be able to turn up something.”

  “No problem,” I said, glad he felt comfortable giving me an assignment. Perhaps Al and I would do such a great job on this case that we’d impress Wasserman. Maybe he’d hire us again, maybe even recommend us to other lawyers. Then we’d really be in business! I put the brakes on my overactive imagination, and said, “Polaris may know more about the deposits than he admits. We’ve heard some stories about him.” I told Wasserman what Jupiter had said about Polaris’s abusive behavior.

  “My client could be lying,” the lawyer said.

  “Maybe,” I said doubtfully.

  “Let me know what you find out.” He put his hands on his knees, readying himself to rise.

  “What about the issue of bail?” I asked.

  He paused and looked at me, frowning. “What about it?”

  “Jupiter is having a difficult time in jail, as I’m sure you know. I was wondering whether you’d planned on submitting another bail application?”

  Wasserman’s jaw tightened, and I had the sinking feeling that I’d squandered the goodwill I’d managed to acquire over the course of our meeting. “Our bail application was denied, as was our appeal. Frankly, I didn’t expect it to be granted. Jupiter has a history of drug use, and of residence in foreign countries. He has no home and no source of income other than his father. His ties to the community are tenuous at best.”

  I nodded and almost left it at that. Then I remembered Jupiter’s bitten nails and torn lips. “What about an inpatient drug treatment facility? Couldn’t you arrange to have him released to rehab?”

  Wasserman frowned again. “I’ll look into it.” He looked pointedly at his watch.

  “There’s just one more thing.” I told him about the death of Lilly’s mother. “She died in an accident of some kind. Polaris refused to provide details of it, but I’m going to try to find out what happened.”

  Wasserman shook his head. “Don’t bother. An accident thirty years ago doesn’t have anything to do with this case.”

  “It might,” I insisted. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe she was murdered.”

  He shrugged. “Even so. Jupiter was a child when that happened. Chloe wasn’t even born yet. It’s irrelevant. Don’t waste your time, or our client’s money.” I began to protest, but he silenced me with a raised hand. “It’s a waste of time, Ms. Applebaum.”

  “But it might shed some light on the motive for Chloe’s murder!”

  “I doubt it. Now, if that’s all, I have a court appearance that I must prepare for.”

  He hoisted himself up out of his basket chair, making the awkward maneuver look easy, and waited for me to follow. I gathered my things together, fuming over his refusal to consider the possibility that there might be something worth looking into in Mexico. Suddenly, it dawned on me why he didn’t care: He was convinced of his client’s guilt. He was looking only for evidence, like the bank deposits, that would muddy the waters. If he could find enough dirt on Chloe to make the prosecutor worry that a jury would find her unsympathetic, Wasserman would be able to convince them to offer Jupiter a plea. Jupiter would plead guilty, he’d get a sentence of something less than death, and Wasserman would be seen as the white knight who plucked victory from the jaws of defeat.

  And it was entirely possible that that was the best outcome for Jupiter. Unless it was true that he hadn’t harmed his stepmother. If he was really innocent, then any sentence was too long. I realized at that moment that I might be the only person who was willing to believe Jupiter’s protestations of innocence. Unless, of course, Lilly believed him, too. I hoped she did, since she was the one signing the checks.

  Wasserman opened the door of his office for me, and as I followed him out to the reception area, he said, “I’ll have my associate Valerie show you the bank records . . .” His voice trailed off when he saw Ruby lying on the couch with her head hanging over the side, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. It might have been his own receptionist who was the cause of his consternation, however. She was similarly draped over her desk, mouth agape. Her tongue had a grommet through it. She stood up when she saw us, which involved rolling off the desk and landing with a thud that made Ruby burst into gales of laughter.

  “I had some childcare problems,” I said.

  Wasserman shocked me by smiling warmly at my daughter. “Don’t worry about it. I have four of my own.”

  “Four?”

  “Four-year-old twins, and two daughters about your age.”

  “I’m betting you never have to bring them to work.”

  He laughed. “Only my oldest.” He pointed to the sign over the receptionist’s desk. I read the words WASSERMAN, HARRIS, ROTHMAN & WASSERMAN. The first name was about twice the size of the other three. “Susan is a partner in the firm.”

  My age and already a partner. In her father’s firm—but still.

  Ruby was perfectly content to amuse herself with the receptionist, who turned out to possess the unlikely name of Tiffany. Being saddled with that Dynasty-vintage name was surely what had inspired her adoption of the skateboard punk aesthetic. As I made my way to Valerie’s office, I thought about Ruby all grown up. Would she set off metal detectors? Or did something worse await me? I tri
ed to imagine a fashion less appealing than staples through your tongue. Chopping off parts of your body in a kind of voluntary amputation like a Western Yakuza? I shuddered at the thought.

  Valerie was busy at her computer when I knocked on her door. She waved me in without looking up. I leaned against the door jam to wait for her to finish typing and tried not to be too obvious as I looked her up and down. I was impressed by her carefully tousled hair. I’d once attempted a haircut like that, sure that it was the answer to my blow-dryer phobia and morning time-crunch. It turns out, however, that it takes hours to achieve that precise level of nonchalance. I was lucky if had time to put pants on in the morning, let alone painstakingly put my hair into precise disarray.

  Finally, Valerie looked up and caught me peeking at her shoes. “Please have a seat,” she said coldly, and I jerked my head up from where I had bent it, trying to see under her desk. Whatever warmth had been engendered by our shared experience in the jailhouse bathroom had dissipated. Conscious that I was doing so just to crack the young woman’s frosty veneer, I smiled brightly and said, “So, it turns out that I’m pregnant after all!”

  Her face lit up instantly. “Really?” Her voice was suddenly warm and welcoming. “How far along are you?”

  “Almost eight weeks. How about you?”

  “Nine. We’re so close!”

  “But you don’t look like you’ve even gained an ounce.” It wasn’t merely a venal compliment designed to soften her up.

  “Thanks. I’m really working on it. I’m going to the gym every morning, and I’m following a strict high-protein diet.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to keep her eyes from glancing at my obvious belly. That morning I’d pushed every piece of clothing that buttoned or snapped to the back of my closet. I was already deep into elastic waist territory.

  “I should try that,” I said. “But French fries and ice cream seem to be the only things that keep me from throwing up.”

  She sighed sympathetically. “Isn’t it awful? My doctor says he can prescribe something for it, but I’m afraid to take anything that might hurt the baby. I don’t even drink coffee.”

  I thought guiltily of the glass of red wine I’d allowed myself at dinner the evening before. Maybe I should cut that out. But coffee. How could I live without coffee?

  “Raoul asked me to show you the Jones discovery,” Valerie continued, pushing a thick stack of papers across the table. “It’s mostly nothing, but there are a few curious things. Did he tell you about the bank deposits?”

  I nodded and leafed through the first couple of pages.

  “I had my secretary make you copies,” she said.

  I put the papers into my bag.

  “I’m glad you’re pregnant,” she said. “I don’t really know anyone else who is. I’m the first one of all my girlfriends. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about it.” She blushed then, as if she were surprised at herself for confiding in me.

  “It’s nice for me, too. It’s always fun to complain to someone who can really sympathize,” I said, and I meant it. I love talking to other pregnant women, or women with kids. If I ever stopped to consider that I was actively enjoying an entirely unironic conversation about the relative merits of Huggies versus Pampers, I might have bemoaned my lost intellectual life, but honestly, who has the energy for that kind of self-analysis? I’m too busy swapping intimate details about my weight, sex life, and my children’s bowel movements with total strangers I meet in the playground. It’s one of the beauties of being female. The only damper on all this confidence sharing is the sport of competitive mothering in which all too many women engage. Nothing can ruin a good hen party like hearing about someone’s recipe for sugar-free spelt cookies shaped like letters of the alphabet.

  Eleven

  LILLY lived in Benedict Canyon, the site of the most notorious of the Manson murders. Driving up the winding road through the lush trees and beautiful villas always sent a shiver up my spine, as though the evil that had momentarily ruined the peace of the bucolic canyon had left behind a trace that was almost, but not quite, palpable.

  Like most movie stars famous enough to have their own corps of fans and stalkers, Lilly lived behind a massive, electronic gate. Because we weren’t expected, it took her people a while to let Ruby and me in. When the gates finally rolled silently open, I drove up the long driveway and up to the house, a Craftsman bungalow modeled on the Greene & Greene houses sprinkled throughout California. The house was massive, with huge, exposed oak rafters, wide eaves, and a low-pitched roof. It managed, despite its size, to look welcoming, probably because of the kids’ paraphernalia jumbled on the square-columned porch running the length of the front of the house. Ruby had fallen asleep in the car, so I hoisted her into my arms and carried her up the steps of the porch, picking my way carefully over the bicycles, roller blades, scooters, piles of sand toys, and miniature rakes and shovels. The door was flung open by one of Lilly’s twins.

  “Hey, Amber,” I said.

  “I’m Jade,” she replied. “Is Ruby sleeping?”

  “No. She’s been put under a spell by a wicked witch.”

  The eight-year-old rolled her eyes to let me know that she was much too mature for that kind of silliness. “Call me when she wakes up.” She hollered over her shoulder, “Mom! Juliet and Ruby are here. But Ruby’s sleeping. I’m going for a scooter ride.” She picked up a bicycle helmet, strapped it under her chin, and zipped off across the porch on her scooter.

  “Where’s Amber?” I called after her.

  “On a time-out,” she yelled, and humped the scooter down the steps.

  The twins had their father’s thick black hair and dark eyes and their mother’s lanky body. They should have been beautiful; both Lilly and Archer were. But somehow when their parents’ features were put into the genetic slot machine, the girls had pulled the levers at all the wrong places. The pointed nose that contributed to Lilly’s gamine beauty looked ratlike when combined with Archer’s slightly weak chin. Worst of all, they’d missed out on both their father’s thickly lashed black eyes and their mother’s luminous blue. Theirs were a less spectacular hazel.

  But they were sweet girls, lively and friendly like their mother. They had always been nice to Ruby, including her in their games even though she was a couple of years younger. They’d even invited her to join their club—they called themselves the Jewels, and Ruby fit right in.

  I walked through the front door and found Lilly sitting in the inglenook by the fire blazing in the imposing fieldstone fireplace. My greeting froze in my throat when I saw Archer sitting on the seat across from her. Lilly and Archer had had an ugly divorce; one that had been played out more in the tabloids and on entertainment news television than in the courtroom. Lilly had spent hours raging to me about her incompetent lawyers who were unable to circumvent the community property laws that gave Archer half of the money she’d earned on her films. For a while she and Archer hadn’t even spoken, using assistants and drivers to transfer the girls from house to house.

  “Hi, Juliet,” Archer said.

  “Uh, hi,” I replied articulately.

  “Nice to see you, Juliet,” Lilly said. “Do you want to put Ruby to bed in the girls’ room?”

  “No, I’ll dump her on the couch. I’d just as soon she woke up. Otherwise she’ll be up all night.”

  “Amber will be done with her time-out in about three minutes,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to wake Ruby up for you.”

  I plopped Ruby down on the overstuffed, slip-covered couch, and she grumbled and buried her head in one of the many pillows.

  “What’s going on?” Lilly asked, obviously surprised to see me. We were friends, and I’d been to her house countless times, but I’d never before dropped by unannounced. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to Jupiter?”

  “No, no. He’s fine,” I said, looking over at Archer.

  “I know what’s going on. Lilly’s told me everything,” Arche
r said.

  I looked back at Lilly and she nodded. What was going on here? Why was Lilly’s ex-husband sitting so comfortably in her living room, and why had she confided in him the details of Jupiter’s case? I stifled my curiosity and said, “It’s not Jupiter. Although it does have to do with his case. Wasserman found some bank statements of Chloe’s. She deposited a hundred thousand dollars into her bank account over the course of the few months before she died.”

  I couldn’t swear it, but I thought I caught Lilly giving Archer a meaningful look.

  “That’s a lot of money,” he said, his voice neutral.

  “The checks were drawn off an anonymous offshore account,” I said.

  “Do they have any idea whose account it was?” Lilly asked.

  “Not yet.” I paused. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly. “I’m sure it’s just some CCU thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have secret bank accounts all over the world. The whole thing is just a huge scam. I’m sure Polaris is worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “To them a hundred thousand is nothing,” Archer agreed. “It’s probably just Chloe’s pin money.”

  Why were the two of them working so hard to convince me not to be concerned about the money? What did they know? I looked at Lilly, trying to figure out what was going on behind those clear blue eyes. But the woman is a brilliant actress, and all I saw was bland unconcern. “I’m sure Wasserman will check back and see if the deposits were unique or if Chloe regularly got large sums from those accounts,” I said. Then I pressed her. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about it?”

  “Of course not,” Lilly said firmly.

  “How is the rest of the investigation going?” Archer asked. I had the distinct impression that he was trying to change the subject.

  “It’s moving along. We’ve interviewed Jupiter and had an initial meeting with his father.”

  “Have you guys found what you need to keep Jupiter off death row?” he asked.

  “It’s not really a question of finding something in particular. It’s about amassing information so that we can present the jury with a sympathetic picture of a whole person, someone they can identify with in some way. We want them to get to know Jupiter, because if they do, it will be harder for them to kill him. We want every juror to think that but for the grace of circumstance, a difficult childhood, personal tragedy, Jupiter could be his son.” When I said the final word, my voice trailed off. I couldn’t help but think of that man whose son Jupiter was, who nonetheless seemed to want him dead.