by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Thirty Six
It was Memorial Day, early summer 2013, and an exceptionally warm one—even at Lake Arrowhead, which typically boasted temperate weather in the summer months. I had talked Norrah into splurging on a boat, a smallish used one, and we liked to take it out on the lake on my days off. We dropped anchor in a cove that was almost always vacant, a deeply recessed narrow cove environed by tall pines which provided shade. We were sipping lemonade, eating sandwiches, being in love when my phone rang. It was my brother-by-another-mother Aaron calling. Always a pleasant surprise.
“Hello-hello, mijo,” I said spiritedly. “Que paso?”
“Turn the news on,” he said.
“Can’t, I’m on the lake. What’s up?” I turned it on speaker-phone so Norrah could hear.
“Does the name Edward Berg mean anything to you?”
“Edward Berg,” I mused.
“Yeah, I know that name,” Norrah said.
“Oh hey, Norrah,” Aaron said distractedly.
“Oh yeah, Edward Berg,” I remembered. “He is one of the twenty-three.”
“Yes. If you were watching CNN you’d see him being escorted to jail. In Idaho.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m just sick to death,” Aaron said. “Really, I am.”
“What’s up?” Norrah said impatiently.
“He’s suspected of murder. There are a couple of dead girls.”
“Oh no…” I muttered.
“He abducted college kids, an eighteen and nineteen year old. They haven’t released their names or pictures yet, till they contact their families. My lord, Jay…” He breathed heavily. “Someone called the cops having seen him pulling wrapped parcels out of his trunk shaped like people. The cops got there just after he dug a hole to bury them in. They were students at Boise State University. He moved there, apparently.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.
“It’s all my fault,” Aaron said and there was emotion in his voice. Enough emotion to surmise that he meant it; it wasn’t just one of those things that people tend to say but not mean.
“Don’t say that,” Norrah consoled.
“Yeah, that ain’t true, man,” I said.
He sobbed, which unsettled me further. We didn’t say anything.
“Guys,” Aaron said, “Edward was the only kid who I didn’t see that Sunday following Valentine’s Day. I’m sure of it. I can’t help but think, if I had arranged to meet up with him, that he’d not have done what he did.”
“That’s absurd,” I said. “It isn’t your fault those girls died. Just as you can’t blame Smith and Wesson when one of their guns is used to blow someone’s head off.”
“Still,” he said, and sobbed again, making him sound like a child instead of a grown man and pastor. “I don’t know how I know it, but I do, that it wouldn’t have happened if only I’d have met with him that night. His name was on my list, too, I just missed it. I was tired. And I made marks on the list for each cross I handed out. I didn’t think about how I gave one to Brittney’s roommate Claire, who wasn’t one of the twenty-three, so I missed one. I’m so stupid! You told me yourself that those kids stopped having nightmares following being given those charm necklaces. They were charmed all right, a gift from God. Edward Berg never got one. I never”—sob—“got to tell him about God.”
“I understand how you feel, but you’re wrong about him. He’d have done it anyway, I’m sure. Is there anything we can do for you? We’ll come up and see you if you’d like. I can take a sick day or two.”
“No,” he said softly, sniffled. “I’ll be fine.”
“Honey,” I said to Norrah, “let’s get going, back home. I want to watch the news.”
Sitting in the driver’s seat, she started the engine and turned the boat around.
“Poor Norrah,” Aaron said to me.
“Why poor Norrah?”
“What’s that?” Norrah said to me. The sound of the motor and wind of passage precluded her from hearing the conversation. I shook my head dismissively at her.
“They’re showing her picture and stock footage of Valentine’s Day,” Aaron said. “It’s known that Edward was one of the missing twenty-three. It’s brought attention back to the story all over again.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“You know how the news is, anything to get ratings. The mystery of the twenty-three was never solved. I bet the story will never fully go away. Especially when something like this happens. I’m getting another call… it’s… Taylor. I’ll let you go. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, buddy. I feel horrible for you. And for the families of those girls. Please try not to take responsibility for what happened.”
“Too late.”
He ended the call.
We watched the Monday evening news unremittingly till midnight. Little was known about what happened, but there were several theories from newscasters, all baseless and some far-reaching. Gone are the days when reporters report the facts and not opinions. Detectives probably knew a thing or two already, but they would be keeping a lot to themselves while the investigation ran its course. It was during that eleven o’clock hour that a new development broke, and that was Edward Berg didn’t live in the area, didn’t even live in Idaho. He rented an apartment in Redlands—a couple blocks from U of R—had pre-registered for classes that fall, according to an unnamed source. What he was doing nine-hundred miles away from home was anyone’s guess. The car he was using wasn’t his own but a Hertz rental out of Boise Airport; there was no record of him having flown. That was fuel for more theories. Fake I.D., perhaps; premeditated murder. There were no known connections between Edward and the two dead girls.
I called in sick the next day (calling in sick the Tuesday after a holiday Monday?—yeah, they really believe you’re ill and not just hung-over) to do some research on the computer, with Norrah at my side giving me ideas before getting ready to drive down the hill to school. I learned the name of Edward Berg’s newly hired defense attorney, James Rothstein. He took the case pro bono. Any lawyer would take the case just for the free publicity. His office was in a Los Angeles high-rise, probably on the top floor and floored with marble. I made a phone call to the firm and was greeted by a lady who sounded exhausted (I doubt that I was the first person to call that hour, or even that minute). “Rothstein, Parker and Montoya,” she said. I heard the phone ringing in the background. I was put on hold twice before I was able to get more than a word in.
“I need to speak to James Rothstein,” I said. “Please.”
“He’s not in. I can take a message or transfer you to his voicemail if you prefer.”
“My name is Jay Davis. My girlfriend is Norrah Peterson. Ring any bells?”
“Sure it does. Would you like me to transfer you to Mr. Rothstein’s voicemail?”
“No, I wish to speak to him directly. It would benefit your firm, trust me.”
She considered it a moment before putting me on hold, undoubtedly to confer with Rothstein. A moment later a man clicked out of hold and said “James Rothstein here.”
“James, this is Jay Davis. I was the only one present when the missing twenty-three returned, other than Norrah.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the story and its details. What can I do for you?”
“How would your office like to handle the legal issues of my upcoming book? A tell-all account of what happened, written by me, Brittney Hayes, and Aaron Mendelssohn?”
“Entertainment law is not in the scope of our purview here. We mostly do criminal defense, a little prosecution on rare occasions. However, we are partnered with Banning and Handel, who do dabble in entertainment matters. You have my attention, Mr. Davis. Continue.”
“This book is going to make quite a bit of money. Wouldn’t you agree? Draw lots of attention?”
“I have little doubt that it will. In fact, you can expect to have a sale f
rom myself.”
“The phrase scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours comes to mind,” I baited.
“Still listening.”
“I’d like to sit in on the meeting between you and Edward Berg. Have you met with him yet?”
“I’ve only spoken with him over the phone. I’m flying out of L.A.X. tomorrow to meet with him. Why do you wish to do this, Mr. Davis?”
“Call me Jay. I’m writing a novel, that’s why. This fits into my story.”
“Does it? The only connection I can think of is that my client was in attendance at the party. How does that fit into your novel?”
“I don’t know yet, but it does. It shouldn’t matter to you why, it should only matter that you stand to make a great deal of money by taking me up on my offer. You can represent Norrah and me on any number of issues from now on. I want to repay the favor.”
I heard him inhale through his nose, then a finger-nail rapping on a wooden desk.
“There are legal ramifications of my client conferring with someone who can persuade the minds of potential jurors via novel.”
“Granted, but the novel won’t be published until after the trial is over. I’ll submit to any kind of contracts you wish.”
“I suppose that would be fine. I’ll have a paralegal from Banning and Handel fax over a contract after you give her some information. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.”
“My flight leaves tomorrow morning at ten minutes past seven, returning mid-afternoon. I’ll arrange a ticket for you on that same flight. You have to understand that my client’s wishes come first. If he says he doesn’t want you present during our meeting, I have to respect that.”
“I understand. But couldn’t we lie to him, say that I’m an attorney?”
“Yes, that is an option. But if he recognizes you and wishes for you to leave, you must hold up to your end of the bargain. It will be contracted, so…”
“So you’ll sue me if I pull out. Got it.”
“Stay on the line, I’m transferring you over.”