by Marcia Clark
I looked around. “Just think. If you lived here, you’d be home already.”
Alex’s nostrils flared, and he shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.” He pointed to the tinfoiled window. “I believe that’s Julio’s place.”
Alex knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. After the third time, the front door of the apartment to the right opened, and a skinny, barefoot woman with fried-blonde hair, wearing capris and a torn men’s T-shirt, came out. A lit cigarette dangled from her cracked lips. “You looking for Julio?”
I noticed her teeth were yellow, and one or two were missing on either side of her mouth. Meth. Had to be. I nodded. “You know when he’ll be back?”
She looked me up and down, then gave Alex the once-over. “You want to make this worth my time?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Because your time is so limited?”
She flicked her ashes to the side and narrowed her eyes at me. “Because all our time is limited.”
Profound. I nodded at her and thought, That’s what I get for making assumptions. Glad to pay her, I opened my wallet. It was my lucky day; I had some cash. I held up a twenty. “Okay?” She nodded. I gave it to her. “So when’s Julio coming back?”
She took a drag on her cigarette and blew out smoke rings before she answered. “I’d bet never. Some bangers came by looking for him a few days ago. I told him about it. Haven’t seen him since.”
Bangers. Nothing about this felt good. “You see their tats?”
She gave a little snort. “You could see ’em from space. One had a Christ tattoo with a big ‘MS’ on it. The others had ‘Mara’ . . . something on their backs.”
“Mara Salvatrucha?” I asked.
She frowned for a moment. “Maybe. I remember some big word after ‘Mara.’”
Mara Salvatrucha. If she had it right, Julio had the MS-13 after him. I didn’t like the way this was coming together. “You ever see those guys around here before?” She shook her head. “Ever seen any other bangers with those tats in this ’hood?”
She picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue and rolled it between her fingers. “Not that I can recall at the moment, but it’s possible. I only remember these guys because of Julio.”
I’d have to find out whether this was MS-13 turf. “What’d they say about Julio?”
“Nothing. Just asked where he was, when he’d be back. I told ’em I didn’t know. But I could tell it was trouble. That’s why I warned him.”
I nodded. “You did the right thing.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve done a few of ’em in my time. I didn’t always live here.”
I definitely did believe her. “Meth?”
She gave me a sad, resigned look. “What else?”
We thanked her. She held up the twenty-dollar bill and thanked us back, then went inside. I looked down the row of shithole apartments. “Should we try and door knock the rest?”
Alex scanned the building. “I think the minuses might outweigh the pluses.”
Probably so. The later it got, the more likely it was that we’d get robbed or stabbed. And the odds of us finding anyone as literate—or even as conscious—as our meth junkie were slim.
We went back to the car, and as Alex headed west on Sunset, I watched the stores and restaurants get nicer and newer. It was depressing and relieving at the same time. “It looks bad for Julio’s sister.” And Hausch was looking dirtier by the second. But it didn’t make sense. “I don’t get it. If Hausch got his MS-13 besties to take Julio out, then why didn’t he just do that to begin with? Why ask for my help?”
Alex stopped at a red light and peered at me. “Who says Hausch called them in?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “You think they did this on their own?”
The light turned green, and Alex pulled through the intersection. “I think Hausch wouldn’t want those bangers to know he’s being investigated. It makes him a weak link.”
And I supposed they were capable of making a command decision on their own. “So Julio complained to too many people, and those gangbangers found out about it?”
Alex stopped to let an older woman pushing a shopping cart filled with newspapers and stuffed animals cross the street. “You saw the way Julio was acting. Does he strike you as the type to play it cool?”
Definitely not. And Alex was right. Hausch wouldn’t want those bangers to know that IA was looking at him. “Then I hope Julio can outrun them.”
Alex and I exchanged a grim look. His chances weren’t great.
TWENTY-THREE
The next morning, I was on my way in to work when my cell phone quacked. It was Dale. I was stopped at a red light, and there was a motorcycle cop in the lane next to me, so I let it go to voice mail and waited until I got into my office to listen to the message. It was a good thing I did.
Dale had offered to help Emmons and Templeton in their reinvestigation of the crime scene. He’d been looking at photographs when he spotted a pair of girl’s fuzzy pink socks in the hamper. They were muddy. It’d been raining the night of the murders. Those socks meant Cassie had been out in that rain. They’d taken a K-9 officer to the house. Once they took the dog to the backyard, it’d taken her about ten seconds to alert to a spot at the edge of the property. Sure enough, buried in a shallow hole were Abel’s wallet and a pair of girl’s pajamas, blue with yellow daisies. The pajamas were soaked in blood and just Cassie’s size.
I asked Michelle and Alex to come into my office and gave them the news.
“Then she did it. She really did it.” Michelle looked like she’d been slammed in the face with a frying pan.
I’d bypassed shock and gone straight to feeling like a fool. When I’d first learned of the murders, the fact that Cassie had survived the attack shot up a little warning flare in my mind. But the sheer brutality of the murders, and the fact that the killer had managed to take down the father . . . I just didn’t see a teenage girl doing all that.
And yet, I’d had my doubts. I’d noticed little cracks and fissures in Cassie’s behavior. The way she’d talked about her mother, the self-conscious, dramatic mourning for Abel—a guy almost nobody seemed to miss, and with good reason—and of course, in hindsight, Cassie’s behavior on the way to the hospital. There’d been other, much smaller clues: odd reactions, an inappropriate smile here, a strange expression there. Bottom line: I’d seen all the ingredients; I’d just refused to see what they made.
So to me, the only shocking thing was my own denial.
Alex—who’d been speechless—now was shaking his head. “So she threw that brick through the window.” He frowned. “Did they test it for prints?”
“Yeah,” I said. I’d asked Dale about that. “They didn’t get anything. The rain washed out a lot of evidence.” Which was why no one had been fazed by the fact that they hadn’t found shoeprints in the backyard where Cassie had claimed to see a man running away. A faked forced entry and ransacking. Not genius, but pretty smart.
Michelle was shaking her head. “I can’t get over the fact that she buried her clothes and Abel’s wallet but left her socks in the hamper. What a weird thing to get tripped up on.”
My irritation with myself made me bitter. “I don’t know. I think it’s a pretty small mistake, all things considered.” Such as the fact that this “perp” was just a fifteen-year-old girl who, presumably, hadn’t led a life of crime before these murders.
Michelle caught the bitter note in my voice and gave me an impatient look. “Get over it, Kreskin. The girl fooled everyone. Not just you.”
Alex tilted his head at me. “She’s got a point. Look at all the cops who missed it.”
I wasn’t consoled.
Michelle sighed. “I heard on the news that Cassie’s uncle finally showed up. Hella timing he’s got.”
Stephen’s brother, Nathan, and his wife hadn’t exactly sped into action when they found out about the murders. But they lived in Michigan, and the aunt was getting chemo fo
r stomach cancer. She couldn’t travel, and Nathan didn’t want to leave her. “Given the circumstances, though, I cut ’em some slack.”
“Oh, definitely,” Michelle said. “I just meant because, irony. You know?”
“Yeah, no question.”
Alex rubbed his chin. “What about Paula? Doesn’t she have—”
I shook my head. “No siblings, and her parents passed away years ago. She might have cousins somewhere, but no one’s made contact yet.”
Michelle fished a bottle of water out of the box behind her. “Better dust off your fancy suits. Because if the press liked this case before . . .”
No doubt about that. A fifteen-year-old girl who was a mass murderer wasn’t something you saw every day. That Cassie had done it seemed a foregone conclusion. The cops were running tests on the bloody clothing and wallet, but the pajamas were the same size and style as others they’d found in her dresser, and the fact that she’d buried the clothes in the first place spoke volumes. Beyond that, it explained why no one in the neighborhood had noticed anyone breaking into the house, why the AB suspect lead had never panned out—and on and on.
The only real question left was why. “This one’s going to be all about motive—”
Michelle nodded. “And you love that.”
I really did. For a whole lot of reasons. Why people do what they do intrigues me in general, but particularly when they kill. Usually, it’s personal, though sometimes it’s business—or even pleasure. But it can also be about justice. I looked at the scar over Michelle’s left eyebrow, a souvenir from the pistol-whipping she’d gotten when she’d been robbed at gunpoint several years ago. The judge had thrown out the case on a technicality, but that hadn’t been enough for that scumbag piece of shit. After he’d gotten out of jail, he’d tortured her with anonymous death threats. The cops had agreed it was probably him, but they couldn’t do anything about it because Michelle had no proof. She’d been losing weight and losing sleep and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I knew I had to do something. And so I had.
Bottom line, relatable or not, every killer has a motive. But proving what that is can be tough for the prosecution. The killer’s usually the only one who can explain why he did it. The victim gets no say in the matter. So I can shape my client’s story to get maximum appeal with the jury: the victim threatened him, the victim had a reputation for being violent, the victim was going to kill my client’s girlfriend/brother/sister/cousin, etc. And it doesn’t matter how many times the judge says that the prosecutor doesn’t have to prove motive. Juries always want to know—need to know—why he did it.
I had a feeling there’d be plenty of why to chew on here.
Michelle asked, “Is Cassie still at Barbara’s house?”
I shook my head. “The uni who’s been staying with Cassie already brought her in.” Which pissed me off, because I’d have preferred to bring her in myself and do what I could to ease the pain for Cassie. “They’re going to keep her at Twin Towers so they can give her security.”
Michelle looked concerned. “She’s awfully young, and she’s got no record. Any chance the DA will try her as a juvenile?”
I shook my head. “With two—maybe three—dead bodies? I seriously doubt it.” The DA would have to go through the motions, put on a fitness hearing to get her certified up to adult court, and I’d make the pitch to keep her in juvenile. But it was a nonstarter. I looked at my watch. It was one thirty. She should be through booking by now. “I should get going.”
Michelle gave me a curious look. “Doesn’t it bug you that she played you all this time?”
That never even occurred to me. “Not really. If there’s a shot at getting away with it, why not take it? I mean, who wouldn’t?”
Michelle studied me for a moment. “Maybe someone with a conscience?”
“That silly old thing?”
Michelle gave a little laugh. I joined her, but I wasn’t kidding.
“I’ve got to use a credit card for gas.” I didn’t have enough cash to fill up Beulah, but if I used the card, we’d be maxed out again.
“It’s okay. The Orozcos’ check just cleared.”
I got my purse and briefcase and headed for Twin Towers.
When I approached the building, I noticed a few reporters with cameramen hanging around the custody entrance. The press was on it already? That was fast. I found a pretty good parking space for a change and moved toward the entrance. As I neared the crowd of reporters, I asked, “What case are you guys here for?”
A cameraman I recognized from Dale’s case nodded to me. “Hey, Sam. The Sonnenberg case. That yours?”
“Yeah, but I’m not talking.” Yet. First, I had to figure out what my angle was.
The jail deputy at the attorney window recognized me. “Nice to see you, Sam. The inmate said you were coming.”
So Cassie had her wits about her to some extent. An encouraging sign. I passed through the metal detector and headed up to the attorney room, which was just a row of cubicles with partitions between the seats and the usual plexiglass between the lawyers and the inmates. It took longer than usual for them to bring Cassie out. I suspected that was because they were keeping her in a segregated area. Juveniles aren’t allowed to mix with the adult population.
Cassie finally appeared, a female deputy on one side and a male deputy on the other. It seemed like overkill to have two escorts for one slender teenage girl with no record. But she had butchered at least two people. Her face was haggard and her eyes were wide with terror. I picked up the phone and gestured for her to do the same. The moment I said, “Hi, Cassie,” she burst into tears. Between sobs, she kept repeating, “Don’t be mad at me! Please don’t be mad at me!”
I waited for the sobs to subside, so she could hear me. “I’m not mad, Cassie.”
She looked scared and disbelieving. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Have the cops tried to talk to you yet?”
She sniffled and wiped her nose. “No. They said they’d want to, but I told them I wanted my lawyer.”
I gave her the thumbs-up. The day after I’d brought her home from the hospital, I’d called to tell her that if she got arrested, the only thing she was allowed to say was, “I want my lawyer.” And she’d followed my directions. Which meant she’d already done better than 75 percent of my adult clients—some with rap sheets longer than a school bus, who, for some reason, thought the cops really meant it when they said, “You can trust me. I understand why you shot him—I’d do it, too.” I gave her a little smile. “You did the right thing—”
“But maybe I should talk to them.” Cassie glanced around her. “Is it safe to talk here?”
I’d often worried about that myself. But I hadn’t been bitten by it so far. “It has to be. It’s an attorney room. Everything you say here’s privileged, just between you and me.”
But she whispered anyway. “It’s true, I did do it. But I had to! I can explain; let me tell them!”
It took me a second to process the fact that she’d confessed so readily. My typical client denies everything, no matter how many witnesses identify him, no matter how much evidence nails him—even if he’s caught on videotape. But Cassie wasn’t a career criminal or even a streetwise ghetto kid. And she knew—because I was sure the cops had told her—that the evidence against her was pretty damning. So of course, the “why” of it was the only place she could go. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let her tell it to the cops. I studied her face. “Tell me first.”
Cassie took a jagged breath and wiped the tears from her face. “Because . . . they were . . . They were coming into my room at night and . . . touching me and making me do things and . . .” She dissolved into tears again. Her whole body shook with deep, racking sobs that came in bigger and bigger waves. It felt as though floodgates that’d been closed for years had suddenly flown open. “I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
When the sobs finally slowed down, I asked, “Who is ‘they,’ Ca
ssie?”
“Both of them. Abel and . . . my dad.” She closed her eyes, but tears continued to roll down her cheeks. “And she wouldn’t stop them!”
TWENTY-FOUR
I stared at Cassie. She had no way of knowing that she was talking to someone who’d been there, done that.
I shifted into trial mode. I’d need an explanation for why she’d told that “skinhead did it” lie. But I already knew what I’d have her say: that she hadn’t wanted to “out” the ugly story if she could avoid it. And that might even be the truth. I’d only recently told Michelle about what Sebastian had done to me, and we’d been friends for more than twenty years.
But the story itself seemed a little over the top to me. Assaulted by her father and her brother? I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, but it had to be pretty damn rare. And on top of that, her mother refused to do anything about it? It didn’t fit what I’d heard about Paula. She’d been tagged by most of the people we’d interviewed as ambitious, no question about it. But they’d all considered her to be a decent person. Not perfect, but certainly not the type to ignore claims this serious. In short, Paula was no Celeste.
On the other hand, Paula was a politician. If she’d had higher aspirations—as most pols did—a scandal like that would be ruinous. I supposed it was possible she’d try to silence Cassie. I’d have to see what else I could find out about Paula.
As for the father, we’d had some indications that Stephen was a little too friendly with younger women. That girl Heather, who lived across the street, was almost as young as Cassie. And clearly, Abel was no angel, either. But did the stories we’d heard about either of them add up to serial molestation?