15
Opening statements in the trial of David Storey were delayed while the attorneys argued over final motions behind closed doors with the judge. Bosch sat at the prosecution table and waited. He tried to clear his mind of all extraneous diversions, including his fruitless search for Annabelle Crowe the night before.
Finally, at ten forty-five, the attorneys came into the courtroom and moved to their respective tables. Then the defendant — today wearing a suit that looked like it would cover three deputies’ paychecks — was led into court from the holding cell and, at last, Judge Houghton took the bench.
It was time to begin and Bosch felt the tension in the courtroom ratchet up a considerable notch. Los Angeles had raised — or perhaps lowered — the criminal trial to the level of worldwide entertainment, but it was never seen that way by the players in the courtroom. They were playing for keeps and in this trial perhaps more than most there was a palpable sense of the enmity between the two opposing camps.
The judge instructed the deputy sheriff who acted as his bailiff to bring in the jury. Bosch stood with the others and turned and watched the jurors file in silently and take their seats. He thought he could see excitement in some of their faces. They had been waiting through two weeks of jury selection and motions for things to start. Bosch’s eyes rose above them to the two cameras mounted on the wall over the jury box. They gave a full view of the courtroom, except for the jury box.
After everyone was seated Houghton cleared his throat and leaned forward to the bench microphone while looking at the jurors.
“Ladies and gentlemen, how are you this morning?”
There was a murmured response and Houghton nodded.
“I apologize for the delay. Please remember that the justice system is in essence run by lawyers. As such it runs slowwwwwwly.”
There was polite laughter in the courtroom. Bosch noticed that the attorneys — prosecution and defense — dutifully joined in, a couple of them overdoing it. It had been his experience that while in open court a judge could not possibly tell a joke that the lawyers did not laugh at.
Bosch glanced to his left, past the defense table, and saw the other jury box was packed with members of the media. He recognized many of the reporters from television newscasts and press conferences in the past.
He scanned the rest of the courtroom and saw the public observation benches were densely packed with citizens, except for the row directly behind the defense table. There sat several people with ample room on either side who looked as if they’d spent the morning in a makeup trailer. Bosch assumed they were celebrities of some sort, but it wasn’t a realm he was familiar with and he could not identify any of them. He thought about leaning over to Janis Langwiser and asking but then thought better of it.
“We needed to clean up some last-minute details in my chambers,” the judge continued to the jury. “But now we’re ready to start. We’ll begin with opening statements and I need to caution you that these are not statements of fact but rather statements about what each side thinks the facts are and what they will endeavor to prove during the course of the trial. These statements are not to be considered by you to contain evidence. All of that comes later on. So listen closely but keep an open mind because a lot is still coming down the pipe. Now we’re going to start off with the prosecution and, as always, give the defendant the last word. Mr. Kretzler, you may begin.”
The lead prosecutor stood and moved to the lectern positioned between the two lawyers’ tables. He nodded to the jury and identified himself as Roger Kretzler, deputy district attorney assigned to the special crimes section. He was a tall and gaunt prosecutor with a reddish beard beneath short dark hair and rimless glasses. He was at least forty-five years old. Bosch thought of him as not particularly likable but nevertheless very capable at his job. And the fact that he was still in the trenches prosecuting cases when others his age had left for the higher-paying corporate or criminal defense worlds made him all the more admirable. Bosch suspected he had no home life. On nights before the trial when a question about the investigation had come up and Bosch would be paged, the callback number was always Kretzler’s office line — no matter how late it was.
Kretzler identified his co-prosecutor as Janis Langwiser, also of the special crimes unit, and the lead investigator as LAPD detective third grade Harry Bosch.
“I am going to make this short and sweet so all the sooner we will be able to get to the facts, as Judge Houghton has correctly pointed out. Ladies and gentlemen, the case you will hear in this courtroom certainly has the trappings of celebrity. It has event status written all over it. Yes, the defendant, David N. Storey, is a man of power and position in this community, in this celebrity-driven age we live in. But if you strip away the trappings of power and glitter from the facts — as I promise we will do over the next few days — what you have here is something as basic as it is all too common in our society. A simple case of murder.”
Kretzler paused for effect. Bosch checked the jury. All eyes were fastened on the prosecutor.
“The man you see seated at the defense table, David N. Storey, went out with a twenty-three-year-old woman named Jody Krementz on the evening of last October twelfth. And after an evening that included the premiere of his latest film and a reception, he took her to his home in the Hollywood Hills where they engaged in consensual sexual intercourse. I don’t believe you will find argument from the defense table about any of this. We are not here about that. But what happened during or after the sex is what brings us here today. On the morning of October thirteenth the body of Jody Krementz was found strangled and in her own bed in the small home she shared with another actress.”
Kretzler flipped up a page of the legal pad on the lectern in front of him even though it seemed clear to Bosch and probably everyone else that his statement was memorized and rehearsed.
“In the course of this trial the State of California will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that it was David Storey who took Jody Krementz’s life in a moment of brutal sexual rage. He then moved or caused to be moved the body from his home to the victim’s home. He arranged the body in such a way that the death might appear accidental. And following this, he used his power and position in an effort to thwart the investigation of the crime by the Los Angeles Police Department. Mr. Storey, who you will learn has a history of abusive behavior toward women, was so sure that he would walk away untouched from his crime that in a moment of —”
Kretzler chose this moment to turn from the lectern and look down upon the seated defendant with a disdainful look. Storey stared straight ahead unflinchingly and the prosecutor finally turned back to the jury.
“—shall we say candor, he actually boasted to the lead investigator on the case, Detective Bosch, that he would do just that, walk away from his crime.”
Kretzler cleared his throat, a sign he was ready to bring it all home.
“We are here, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to find justice for Jody Krementz. To make it our business that her murderer not walk away from his crime. The State of California asks, and I personally ask, that you listen carefully during the trial and weigh the evidence fairly. If you do that, we can be sure that justice will be served. For Jody Krementz. For all of us.”
He picked up the pad from the lectern and turned to move back to his seat. But then he stopped, as if a second thought had just occurred to him. Bosch saw it as a well-practiced move. He thought the jury would see it that way as well.
“I was just thinking that we all know it has been part of our recent history here in Los Angeles to see our police department put on trial in these high-profile cases. If you don’t like the message, then by all means shoot the messenger. It is a favorite from the defense bar’s bag of tricks. I want you all to promise yourselves that you will remain vigilant and keep your eyes on the prize, that prize being truth and justice. Don’t be fooled. Don’t be misdirected. Trust yourself on the truth and you’ll find the way.”
He stepped over to his seat and sat down. Bosch noticed Langwiser reaching over and gripping Kretzler’s forearm in a congratulatory gesture. It, too, was part of the well-practiced play.
The judge told the jurors that in light of the brevity of the prosecution’s address the trial would proceed to the defense statement without a break. But the break came soon enough anyway when Fowkkes stood and moved to the lectern and proceeded to spend even less time than Kretzler addressing the jury.
“You know, ladies and gentlemen, all this talk about shoot the messenger, don’t shoot the messenger, well let me tell you something about that. Those fine words you got from Mr. Kretzler there at the end, well let me tell you every prosecutor in this building says those at the start of every trial in this place. I mean they must have ’em printed up on cards they carry in their wallets, it seems to me.”
Kretzler stood and objected to what he called such “wild exaggeration” and Houghton admonished Fowkkes but then advised the prosecutor that he might make better use of his objections. Fowkkes moved on quickly.
“If I was outta line, I’m sorry. I know it’s a touchy thing with prosecutors and police. But all I’m saying, folks, is that where there’s smoke there’s usually fire. And in the course of this trial we are going to try to find our way through the smoke. We may or may not come upon a fire but one thing I do know for sure we will come upon is the conclusion that this man —”
He turned and pointed strongly at his client.
“—this man, David N. Storey, is without a shadow of a doubt not guilty of the crime he is charged with. Yes, he is a man of power and position but, remember, it is not a crime to be so. Yes, he knows a few celebrities but, last time I checked People magazine, this too was not yet a crime. Now I think you may find elements of Mr. Storey’s personal life and appetites to be offensive to you. I know I do. But remember that these do not constitute crimes that he is charged with in these proceedings. The crime here is murder. Nothing less and nothing more. It is a crime of which David Storey is NOT guilty. And no matter what Mr. Kretzler and Ms. Langwiser and Detective Bosch and their witnesses tell you, there is absolutely no evidence of guilt in this case.”
After Fowkkes bowed to the jury and sat down, Judge Houghton announced the trial would break for an early lunch before testimony began in the afternoon.
Bosch watched the jury file out through the door next to the box. A few of them looked back over their shoulders at the courtroom. The juror who was last in line, a black woman of about fifty, looked directly back at Bosch. He lowered his eyes and then immediately wished he hadn’t. When he looked back up she was gone.
16
McCaleb turned off the television when the trial broke for lunch. He didn’t want to hear all the analysis of the talking heads. He thought the best point had been scored by the defense. Fowkkes had made a smooth move telling the jury that he, too, found his client’s personal life and habits offensive. He was telling them that if he could stand it, so could they. He was reminding them that the case was about taking a life, not about how one lived a life.
He went back to preparing for his afternoon meeting with Jaye Winston. He’d gone back to the boat after breakfast and gathered up his files and books. Now, with a pair of scissors and some tape, he was putting together a presentation he hoped would not only impress Winston but convince her of something McCaleb was having a difficult time believing himself. In a way, putting together the presentation was a dress rehearsal for putting on a case. In that respect, McCaleb found the time he labored over what he would show and say to Winston very useful. It allowed him to see logic holes and prepare answers for the questions he knew Winston would ask.
While he considered exactly what he would say to Winston, she called on his cell phone.
“We might have a break on the owl. Maybe, maybe not.”
“What is it?”
“The distributor in Middleton, Ohio, thinks he knows where it came from. A place right here in Carson called Bird Barrier.”
“Why does he think that?”
“Because Kurt faxed photos of our bird, and the man he was dealing with in Ohio noticed that the bottom of the mold was open.”
“Okay. What’s it mean?”
“Well, apparently these are shipped with the base enclosed so it can be filled with sand to make the bird stand up in wind and rain and whatever.”
“I understand.”
“Well, they have one subdistributor who orders the owls with the bottom of the base punched out. Bird Barrier. They take them with the open base because they fit the owls on top of some kind of gizmo that shrieks.”
“What do you mean, shrieks?”
“You know, like a real owl. I guess it helps really scare birds away. You know what Bird Barrier’s slogan is? ‘Number one when it comes to birds going number two.’ Cute, huh? That’s how they answer the phone there.”
McCaleb’s mind was churning too quickly to register humor. He didn’t laugh.
“This place is in Carson?”
“Right, not far from your marina. I’ve got to go to a meeting now but I was going to drop by before coming to see you. You want to meet there instead? Can you make it over in time?”
“That would be good. I’ll be there.”
She gave him the address, which was about fifteen minutes from Cabrillo Marina, and they agreed to meet there at two. She said that the company’s president, a man named Cameron Riddell, had agreed to see them.
“Are you bringing the owl with you?” McCaleb asked.
“Guess what, Terry? I’ve been a detective going on twelve years now. And I’ve had a brain even longer.”
“Sorry.”
“See you at two.”
After clicking off the phone, McCaleb took a leftover tamale out of the freezer, cooked it in the microwave and then wrapped it in foil and put it in his leather bag for eating while crossing the bay. He checked on his daughter, who was in the family room sleeping in the arms of their part-time nanny, Mrs. Perez. He touched the baby’s cheek and left.
• • •
Bird Barrier was located in a commercial and upscale warehouse district that hugged the eastern side of the 405 Freeway just below the airfield where the Goodyear blimp was tethered. The blimp was in its place and McCaleb could see the leashes that held it straining against the afternoon wind coming in from the sea. When he pulled into the Bird Barrier lot he noticed an LTD with commercial hubs that he knew had to be Jaye Winston’s car. He was right. She was sitting in a small waiting room when he came in through a glass door. On the floor next to her chair were a briefcase and a cardboard box sealed at the top with red tape marked EVIDENCE . She immediately got up and went to a reception window through which McCaleb could see a seated young man wearing a telephone headset.
“Can you tell Mr. Riddell we’re both here?”
The young man, who was apparently on a call, nodded to her.
A few minutes later they were ushered into Cameron Riddell’s office. McCaleb carried the box. Winston made the introductions, calling McCaleb her colleague. It was the truth but it also concealed his badgeless status.
Riddell was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties who seemed anxious to help in the investigation. Winston put on a pair of latex gloves from her briefcase, then ran a key along the red tape on the box and opened it. She removed the owl and placed it on Riddell’s desk.
“What can you tell us about this, Mr. Riddell?”
Riddell remained standing behind his desk and leaned across to look at the owl.
“I can’t touch it?”
“Tell you what, why don’t you put these on.”
Winston opened her briefcase and handed another pair of gloves from the cardboard dispenser to Riddell. McCaleb just watched, having decided that he would not jump in unless Winston asked him to or she made an obvious omission during the interview. Riddell struggled with the gloves, slowly pulling them on.
“Sorry,” Winston said. “They’re medium.
You look like a large.”
Once he had the gloves on, Riddell picked the owl up with both hands and studied the underside of the base. He looked up into the hollow plastic mold and then held the bird directly in front of him, seemingly studying the painted eyes. He then placed it on the corner of the desk and went back around to his seat. He sat down and pressed a button on an intercom.
“Monique, it’s Cameron. Can you go to the back and get one of the screeching owls off the line and bring it in to me? I need it now, too.”
“On my way.”
Riddell took off the gloves and flexed his fingers. He then looked at Winston, having sensed that she was the important one. He gestured to the owl.
“Yes, it’s one of ours but it’s been . . . I don’t know what the word you would use would be. It’s been changed, modified. We don’t sell them like this.”
A Darkness More Than Night Page 13