by Dave Daren
“That is beautiful,” Landon commented from behind the lens. I was going to have to get used to him not necessarily directing his comments to me.
We walked up the floral lined steps to the porch where Chloe was already sitting. She sat on a green outdoor couch with a mug and a journal.
“Hello,” she smiled slightly and stood as soon as she saw us.
Chloe was tall, and so slender it was almost disconcerting. She moved with slow calculated moves, perfect posture, and grace. She had long, light blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and she wore gray Victoria’s Secret sweatpants, and an oversized pink tank top layered over a red sports bra. She had black no-show athletic socks without shoes. Her eyes were light blue, but they looked puffy and strained, as if she had been crying.
“Hi, Chloe,” I said and offered my hand. “I’m Henry Irving.”
She smiled politely. “Good to meet you. Chloe Ostreander.”
“And this is Landon Verhelst,” I said. “He’s filming all of our interviews. Is that okay?”
“I guess,” she shrugged.
“How have you been doing, Chloe?” I asked genuinely. “This has got to be difficult.”
She stiffened and then looked sad. “I’ve never hurt like this in my life. It’s like a cloud that follows me, all day, every day. I live with a physical feeling of a lump in my heart.”
She clutched her fist to the center of her chest. “It’s right there. I can feel it, right here--the heartache. And, everything and anything can make me cry. I’m emotional all the time. I mean, it was something stupid yesterday. My phone company lost my payment somehow, and so I had to call them and straighten it out. Normal, right? Not that big of a deal. But, I found myself yelling, and calling that poor phone rep every name in the book, and… I-I’m not that kind of person. I don’t do that.”
I listened and tried to remember that this poor girl was away from home, staying with strangers, and had just lost her lover to a cold blooded murder that had not yet been solved.
“This is a difficult experience for anyone to go through,” I said. “Do you have a therapist back home you can call?”
She shrugged. “The police gave me a number to a counselor. I met with her once. Nice lady, gave me some good tips.”
“Chloe,” I said. “How long did you know Beowulf?”
She drew a deep breath and looked furtively at the camera.
“You can look at me, if the camera is distracting,” I said.
She smiled awkwardly and then turned back to me. “I met Beyo when I was still in high school. I was pretty rebellious, into a lot of things, and he saved me. I had a rough childhood, and he was the first person I ever met that showed me unconditional love.”
She started to cry and then wiped her eyes and looked apologetically at the camera.
“I had been classically trained as a ballerina,” she said, “and he had done a lot of acting and martial arts. So, he said he was thinking of starting a performance group.”
I shifted in my seat. I didn’t want the whole history of Ghoti. I just wanted a relationship premise, and to establish basic trust, and then get to the night of the murder. Besides, given her emotional state, I didn’t know how long she could last.
“You helped found the group, then?” I prodded.
“Yes,” she said.
“And how many years ago was that?” I asked.
“Six,” she said.
“What can you tell me about the night of the incident?” I asked.
She was quiet, and then all the words came tumbling out. “It had to have been that crazy paint lady.”
“Judith Klein, the feminist protester?” I clarified.
“Is that her name?” she asked. “She was going around throwing paint on all of us. She had these green buckets and threw paint everywhere telling us to be clothed. It was the worst experience of my life. I was getting ready to go out, and all of a sudden, I heard screaming, and I turned, and the next thing I knew, this wall of green paint comes hurling at me, and I’m covered in it. It was so humiliating. And she was yelling something about nakedness, I don’t know.”
“And do you have any idea how she got backstage?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I just happened to be in the hall. Security chased her away. Fortunately, there were showers backstage. She got all of us, Olivia, Julianna, Beyo, all of us.”
“She was alone?” I asked.
“As far as I know,” she answered.
“Was this before or after the show?” I asked.
“This was before,” she said. “But, security wasn’t able to catch her, so I believe she came back to finish the job after the show.”
“Julianna says the murder weapon was hers, and that it was in a knapsack in a dressing room. Why would Judith go through a knapsack to find a murder weapon?”
A shadow passed across Chloe’s face. “I… I have a confession to make.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t remember this part until later,” she said, “until after the police had already questioned us. But, I wasn’t even sure it was relevant, so I didn’t know if I should come forward with it or not. But, now that you bring it up.”
She sighed and looked at the camera and then me again. “Julianna and I both have long hair that has to be pinned up, and that night, I ran out of hair pins. I knew she would have one, and we share supplies like that often, so I asked Beyo if he had seen Julianna, and I explained I wanted some hair pins from her. He said he hadn’t seen her, but that her bag was in his dressing room. And he tossed me the key.”
She rubbed her face uncomfortably. “I didn’t think anything of it, her bag being locked up in his dressing room. I was mainly thinking about how we were behind because of the paint, and how we were supposed to be already on, and we weren’t even in full costume yet, and how I was going to get my hair up.”
She played with her ponytail nervously. “So, I unlocked the door and saw her bag on a table. I went through it, and it was mainly clothes, and I remember seeing the dagger in there. I couldn’t find any pins, but I knew she kept them in there. Then, I heard the film come on. The film is three minutes and thirty-two seconds long. Immediately after the film, we go on. And my hair was still not done.”
Her eyes welled up, and her face contorted with guilt.
“So,” she continued, “I freaked out and poured out the bag on the table. I found the pins, threw my hair up, and ran out of the dressing room and down the hall just in time for the entrance. Several days later, I remembered that I never put her stuff back in the bag. Which means… the killer could have found the dagger on the table.”
“And you are certain the dagger was in the bag?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Absolutely certain. Ever since I remembered that, I’ve felt terrible. If I had just put the stuff back into the bag, Beyo would probably still be alive.”
She dissolved into uncontrollable weeping, and Landon switched off the camera.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I can’t.”
She waved at us dismissively and then went inside the house. Landon and I looked at each other.
“Something about that story doesn’t sound right,” he said as we descended the steps.
“Yeah,” I said. “Her story sounds credible. But, it also sounds like a good way to cover her tracks. She had a key to the locked room, and if her prints were on the dagger, she’d be covered.”
Chapter 7
My phone buzzed as Landon and I drove out to the Mooreland House, and I recognized the number immediately.
“It’s the prosecutor,” I said.
“This is good stuff,” he said, as he switched on the camera and filled the space between us. I shrugged and answered the call.
“Henry Irving,” I answered.
“Hello, Henry,” he said. “Chet Levinson, the county prosecutor.”
Chet and I had worked together a handful of times and had been around a few mulberry bushes toge
ther.
“Hey, Chet,” I said. “Tell me something I want to hear.”
“Well,” he said. “I’m going to keep this brief. I wanted to let you know where we are on this case with Beowulf.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Lay it on me.”
“Based on the evidence,” he began, “we believe it’s an open and shut case.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s debatable.”
“And we can go to trial if you want,” he said. “But, the state is prepared to offer a plea bargain. We’re charging Julianna Spencer with second degree murder, which carries a miniumum sentence of ten years, with a maximum of twenty-two years.”
“Right,” I said. I had defended enough murder clients in the last eight months that I surprised myself by knowing that.
“If she doesn’t go to trial,” he said. “We can get her the bare minimum of ten, and she’ll be eligible for parole in eight. Gabriel, we’re going to charge with aiding and abetting, and we’re prepared to offer him three years.”
“Well,” I said, “she didn’t do it, so the whole thing is a moot point.”
“If you can prove that,” he said. “Be my guest. I know you’ve had some beginner’s luck in the last few months, but trust me, criminals can be very convincing.”
His tone turned condescending and fatherly. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, now son, and you’ve got your client’s life in your hands. You don’t want to be reckless with that, just to satisfy your ego.”
“I think I’ll worry about that,” I said. “I’ll inform her of your offer, but my client’s not guilty. She didn’t do it, and we’re going to prove it.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “We’ll see you at the arraignment.”
“We’ll see you then,” I said.
I ended the call and sighed.
“What was that?” Landon asked from behind the camera.
“It’s our plea bargain,” I told him. “We’ve been waiting for it. They’re going to offer her ten years to plead guilty to second degree murder, and him three for aiding and abetting.”
“That’s a shitty deal,” he said.
“It actually wouldn’t be,” I started, “if they were guilty. You can’t just go around stabbing people in the stomach and get away with it.”
“Right,” he said. “But they’re not.”
“Well,” I explained, “that’s the position we’re taking anyway.”
“You think they might be?” he said.
I eyed the camera, and he shut it off, and I continued.
“In every criminal case,” I said, “there’s always a point where you start to doubt. But, you take a side, and you stick with it until the end.”
“That’s your old friend,” he said. “You think she killed the guy?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t. But, I don’t get to make that call, the jury does. My job is to present the best evidence possible to make my point, and to trust the justice system to do the rest.”
“So what’s next?” he asked.
“Now they set an arraignment,” I said. “That’s where we’ll officially enter our plea, and we’ll ask them to turn over whatever evidence we need. Then, they’ll set a trial date, and we’ll have until then to get our proof together.”
I called Vicki. “Hey, I heard from the prosecutor.”
“You did?” she said. “Hold on, let me put you on speaker.”
I heard her muffled voice say something to AJ, and then she came back.
“Okay,” Vicki said. “We’re both here. What have we got?”
“It’s pretty much what we expected,” I said. “Second degree murder for Julianna. He’s offering ten years, parole at eight.”
“That’s standard,” Vicki said. “He’s not doing us any favors, is he?”
“No,” I said. “But it wouldn’t matter anyway. We’re not going to take it. He’s offering the typical three for aiding and abetting.”
“Has he not learned anything?” Vicki asked. “This is the third time we’ve defended one of his botched murder charges, and we’ve beat him every time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He told me it’s beginner’s luck.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s rich.”
“Yeah,” I said as I pulled up to Mooreland House. “Call the clients and tell them what’s going on. We’re at Mooreland House, and I’ll catch up with you guys later.”
“Will do,” Vicki said. “See ya.”
“See ya,” I said.
Mooreland House was a brownstone condo about a mile from our office and was legendary for being the coolest of Bohemian indie cool. I parked curbside and looked the place over.
On one side was Java Loft, a trendy, overpriced cafe with bland coffee patronized largely by tourists who want to think they are getting authentic Sedona. On the other side were three more brownstones, and then directly across the street, was a gourmet grocery store, and then a sushi restaurant next to a wine bar.
Jogging trails ran in front of the house and circled through most of the downtown area, and a bike rack sat squarely in front of the place. Vehicle use was discouraged in these parts, I gathered.
Two hipsters with man buns sat on the steps and smoked pipes Sherlock Holmes style. One strummed the guitar and the other laid on the railing and stared into the sky that begged the question of what was in the pipe.
Landon and I entered the front yard which was about the size of an average house bathroom. However, there were still two bistro tables and a well-kept flower bed to add ambiance.
We approached the smoking hipsters, and the guitarist looked up quizzically.
“Sup,” he greeted us.
“We’re here to see Olivia, is she here?” I asked.
“The dancer chick?” he asked. “Yeah, I think she’s in there. She might be out. I don’t know. Check around.”
He nodded in the direction of the ornate wooden front door, but didn’t move and then went back to his guitar. Landon and I went inside and found something between a dorm and a living room.
The first third of the room was occupied by a full size pool table, followed by a seating area of mismatched second hand couches. There was a coffee table littered with old Chinese takeout containers and empty beer bottles. A massive bookcase filled the back wall full of sophisticated looking volumes I would wager had never once been read, and the floorboards beneath us vibrated, and I looked at Landon.
“Cool. There’s a band in the basement,” he gathered. “That’s probably where everyone is. We should check it out.”
We clanked our way through the bottles covering the living room floor and followed the noise down a set of steep wooden stairs and into the basement. Landon was right, that was where they were.
I coughed my way down through the hazy stairwell and blinked as smoke burned my throat. Loud, experimental art rock that reminded me of a Sigur Ros imitation, took over the basement. People were everywhere, some dancing to the slow, rising rhythm, while others listened or stared off. There must have been over a hundred people crammed into that basement.
I found a young woman with a red plastic cup belly dancing to the music. I had to yell to be heard, “Where is Olivia?”
“Wha?” she yelled back.
“Olivia,” I shouted, “the dancer?”
She looked at me glassy eyed for a moment and then pointed. I looked, and there she was. Olivia was a tall, slender waif of a young woman that looked to be a year or so out of high school. She had pale ivory skin, and blonde hair worn slicked into a tiny bun at the back of her neck. She was barefoot and danced in a gauzy pink gypsy costume. A crowd gathered around her and stared at her like she must have been a goddess, a creature from a different world. I didn’t blame them.
The band transitioned into a slow melodic piece with non-English lyrics. But, Olivia perfectly interpreted it with mesmerizing full body thrusts and hypnotic moves. Landon and I looked at each other, and he seemed just as captivated, so we edged in closer to watch. A handf
ul of cell phone videos were already going, so he switched on his camcorder.
Her movements were deep, pained, and sudden, all portraying the darkness within her. A reverent mood fell over the crowd, and I even caught a few sniffles as people wiped away tears. Her work with Ghoti was at best trite and even gimmicky. But this was something real, coming from her soul. Even I could see that, as cynical and jaded as I might be.
She danced for about ten minutes, and then the band took a break. The crowd gave her resounding applause, and she smiled politely, but her expression was clearly upset. She hastily picked through the crowd and back up the stairs to the main floor. Landon and I tried to catch her, but the crowd was too thick.
“Hey, man,” some guy in Rastafarian dreads and a knit poncho waved a joint in my face, “You look like you could use some of this.”
“No thanks,” I said, as I tried to keep Olivia in my sights. She was rapidly on her way up the stairs now.
“Are you sure, man?” he asked. “You look like you need to loosen up.”
“Nah, I blazed on the way over here,” I replied as I finally managed to step around him.
“Right on!” He cheered as I walked by him.
The band started back up, which made it even more difficult to get through the crowd. Landon and I finally made up to the first floor, and we found Olivia sitting in a stuffed chair in the living room, staring off into space.
“Olivia?” I asked.
She turned and gave a tiny smile. Her eyes were large and blue, and she seemed unsure.
“Hello,” she said shyly.
“I’m Henry Irving,” I said.
“Oh, the lawyer,” she shifted uncomfortably.
I sat on the edge of a couch. “We talked on the phone... is this a good time?”
She smiled slightly again. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“Is there somewhere we could talk?” I asked.