by Marcia Clark
I returned his gaze with a defiant look. “With Santiago in the wind, we’d never have gotten Hausch convicted.”
Dale’s expression hardened, but he didn’t argue. He couldn’t; he knew that was true. He stared down at his drink for a moment. When he looked up, he asked, “Did Hausch pay up?” I nodded. “What’d you do with the money?”
This was it. This was where I had to tie a knot or the whole story would unravel, and I’d have to tell him about Deshawn and the dope I’d taken from him and . . . I came up with a fast lie. “I gave it to the Orozcos.” I watched Dale absorb it all. Would he understand why I’d done it? He had to see the poetic justice of nailing Hausch that way: live by the gangbangers, die by the gangbangers.
Dale sat back and sipped his drink, then lowered his glass to his lap and searched my face. “How are you feeling about it?”
That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. I was confused. “About what? Giving them the money?”
Dale looked into my eyes. “No.”
What did he want me to say? That I felt bad about setting up an asshole who’d fried ten people, had another one murdered—and who’d probably disappeared countless others? Fuck that. I wasn’t sorry, and I wasn’t going to put on some weepy act to please him. Besides, it’s not like I did it myself. “I didn’t pull the trigger, Dale. I just gave the Orozcos the opportunity to do it. It was their choice to make.”
Dale gave me another searching look, then took a slug of his drink and stared out at the view through the sliding glass door. I held my breath as I waited for him to speak. Was he going to help me? Or was he going to cut me out of his life? I wanted to tell him he was no better than me, that I knew he thought what’d happened with Jenny Knox was different—but he was wrong. Killing her might’ve been impulsive, but the cover-up, the denials, weren’t. No, Dale was a lot like me. And I had a feeling he’d kept many more secrets than Jenny Knox. But I didn’t think he was ready to hear any of that. It’d just make him pull away—maybe for good. So I said nothing and tried to act calm as I waited for his decision.
Finally, he turned back to me. I looked into his eyes. “And?”
Dale leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “What do you need?”
He was in. I held on to my cool and tried not to let him see me exhale. I took a full, deep breath as my stomach unclenched. “The Orozcos are starting to lose their minds. Now they’re pointing the finger at me, claiming the clerk said she saw me near the bailiff’s desk. I either have to find out who did it or give them a believable fall guy.”
Dale’s expression darkened. “And if you don’t?”
I tried to keep my tone even. “They’ll kill me.”
Dale ran a hand over his face, then put down his drink and gazed into my eyes. “Tell me the truth, Sam. Were you the one who messed with that custody list?”
I’d known that was coming, and I was ready. I’d decided ahead of time that this was a bridge I was not about to cross—at least, not tonight. But lying—especially to a practiced lie detector like Dale—is an art. The trick is to keep it tight and not embellish. And outrage wouldn’t fly either, especially since I’d just admitted to setting up Hausch. So I didn’t get angry or self-righteous. When I spoke, my voice was firm but calm. “No. I’m not sorry he’s dead. But no, I didn’t do it.” I fixed Dale with a steady gaze, knowing everything hinged on selling the lie. If he didn’t buy it, it could turn him against me forever. But there was only so much honesty I could stand. I’d hit my limit.
Dale watched me closely for a long moment, then stared down at his drink. I couldn’t tell whether he believed me or not. When he finally looked up at me, he said, “You know whoever you name is a dead man, so if you’re asking me to set up an innocent guy for this—”
I raised a hand to cut him off. “No, absolutely not. I have a plan.”
FORTY-NINE
I had to be in court downtown by eight o’clock the next morning. Judge Franks likes to put in a full day, and he hates—I mean five-hundred-dollar-fine hates—when lawyers are late. I dreamed of the day I’d be rich enough to come in late on purpose, just so I could show him I didn’t give a shit. But that day was not today. I was on the road by seven.
I still wished I hadn’t had to tell Dale how I’d set up Hausch. I knew it’d rocked him. Or maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t make myself say I was sorry. Maybe I should have tried. But then again, if I was going to be honest, shouldn’t I let him see who I really was? Otherwise, what was the point? I sighed. It was useless—and way too late—to worry about that now. There was no way to know how this would play out. I’d just have to wait and see.
All I had in Judge Franks’s court was a trial setting on my torture murder case. The DA wasn’t making any offers, and it didn’t matter if he were, because my client was adamant that he hadn’t “tortured” anyone. Killed the guy, sure. Tortured, no. Whatever. All we had to do was pick a date. Such a simple thing, right? But the custody bus was late—one of the inmates in lockup had vomited, and they had to clean it up before they could spare the manpower to bring out the defendant whose case was before mine. And then that attorney argued endlessly—and uselessly—that his client, a serial rapist, deserved to get bail. I pressed my hands together and imagined them wrapped around the lawyer’s neck.
It took a friggin’ hour, which of course made me late to my next appearance, because I always stack them up for maximum efficiency. But that always puts me on the horns of a dilemma because efficiency and courtroom management are oil and water.
I’d intended to go see Cassie after I was done in court, but a bailiff told me Twin Towers was on lockdown. Some inmate had been stabbed. That meant no visitors would be allowed until it was lifted. I got them to let me have a confidential call with her instead.
By the time I’d finished, I was ready for a drink. And it wasn’t even lunchtime. I was on my way to the elevators when my cell phone buzzed. No name, but I recognized the number. It was either Rusty Templeton, in which case he was calling to gloat that none of the stray prints in the house matched Tiegan’s, or it was Westin Emmons. If it was the latter, the call could go either way. My hands instantly got clammy. This was it. I answered the phone. “It’s Sam.”
“Hey, it’s Emmons. Can I meet you somewhere? I’ve got some questions and answers for you, and I don’t want to do it on the phone.”
I told him to meet me in the courthouse cafeteria. “I’ll be on the far left end, near the window.”
“Be there in ten.” Emmons ended the call.
I was anxious as I headed downstairs. If the print run put Tiegan in Abel’s bedroom, I stood a chance of walking Cassie out the door. But if not . . . I didn’t know that Cassie could sell a jury on Tiegan’s guilt. She’d changed her story so many times.
After viewing the culinary offerings in the cafeteria, I decided on a cup of coffee and a bag of Doritos, then found a relatively isolated table next to the windows.
Three minutes later, Emmons strode in and scanned the room. I waved to him, and he nodded as he moved toward my table. He must’ve run out the door the moment we ended the call. I watched him weave through the growing lunch crowd like a running back—if the running back were built like Fred Astaire. He seemed like the type who ran track in high school or college.
When he got to my table, I saw what the case—and probably working with Rusty Templeton—had done to him. His eyes were bloodshot, the corners of his mouth sagged, and the furrows between his eyes—or as the Botox babes call them, his “11s”—had deepened. I even thought I saw more salt than pepper in his hair now.
He took in my chips and coffee. “That it?” I nodded. “Mind if I grab a bite?”
I wanted to seize him by the throat and make him tell me what came out of the print run, but just on principle, I didn’t want to let him see me sweat. I glanced at the row of steaming trays. “I don’t if you don’t.”
He gave me a quizzical look and floated over to the food counters. I watc
hed him scan the steaming trays and tried not to laugh as he finished the circuit with his plate still empty. Even from where I sat, I could see the pained expression on his face. He came back carrying a bottle of water and a plastic-wrapped turkey and Swiss sandwich. “This has got to be safe, right?”
I lifted my hands and shrugged. “Your call. Bon appétit, brave warrior.”
“Tell my kids I went down in the line of duty.” Emmons unwrapped his prize with a wary expression. “We got the print run back.”
My heart gave a hard thump. “And?”
He opened his bottle of water. “We’ve got Tiegan’s prints at the doorway to Abel’s room.” He took a bite of his sandwich.
This case had just turned into a winner. I suppressed the urge to yell and do a fist pump. “What about on Cassie’s window?”
He shook his head as he swallowed. “We couldn’t lift any latents off the window. Too wet.”
That’s right. It’d been raining that night. “I’ve got something else for you—”
He took a swig of water and gave me a knowing look. “We already spoke to Allison Swanson. She gave you a glowing report.”
I’d forgotten that I told her to do that. Just another fun “in your face” prezzie for good old Rusty. I gave a short laugh. “Did Rusty tell her he was giving me a promotion?”
Emmons pressed his lips together, but the corners of his mouth turned up. “Uh, something like that.”
“I have another witness who identified her car, too.” I gave Emmons the contact information for Stewart Smith. “You going to get a search warrant now?”
Emmons took another bite of his sandwich. When he’d swallowed, he said, “That’s what I wanted to ask you about. I can make the logical guesses about what we want to seize, but I’d like to know if there’s anything we should look for that’s off the beaten path. I promise, whatever you tell me goes no further. I just want to get it right.”
I smirked. “So now I’m . . . what? Your CI?”
He took a long gulp of water. “Not even. We would’ve had to talk for that to be true.” He looked me in the eye. “And we never did.”
I scanned the cafeteria, which was now packed, complete with lines of unsuspecting victims at the food trays. The likelihood that any of those poor souls would remember seeing me with Emmons—assuming they survived—was probably nil. “First, promise me you’ll keep me in the loop and tell me what you find.”
He raised two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
I supposed that’d do. “I doubt I’ll be able to tell you anything you wouldn’t have thought of. But check Tiegan’s car for blood. It’s possible the murder weapon was there, though I’d be surprised if you found it now.”
Emmons nodded and spoke around another mouthful of sandwich. “You never know. It’s on the list.”
I tossed out a few more ideas before I got to the most important part—the part Cassie had just given me during our confidential phone call. “And get a female cop to check Tiegan’s butt for a rose tattoo and a mole on the inside of her upper left thigh.” I’d been glad that I’d had to ask Cassie about any “unusual markings” on Tiegan’s body over the telephone. Asking a fifteen-year-old to describe the body of her pedophile “girlfriend” wasn’t something I’d have enjoyed doing in person.
Emmons had just taken another bite of sandwich. His chewing slowed, and he stared at me. When he swallowed, he started to ask, “Why would we—”
The cops didn’t know about Tiegan and Cassie yet. I shook my head. “That I can’t tell you. And if you can’t justify it now, I’ll get a court to order the exam later, so don’t sweat it.”
Emmons nodded, still looking at me, trying to figure out what I was up to. “If we bust her, we can handle it in the booking search.”
Emmons balled up the rest of his sandwich in the plastic wrapper and polished off his bottle of water. I picked up my briefcase. “We good?”
He nodded. “I’ll be in touch. We should be hitting her place in about an hour.”
As I walked back to my car, I thought about my phone call with Cassie. When I’d asked her about any markings on Tiegan’s body, she’d been silent for a long time. She’d asked in a small voice, “Why do you need to know that?” I said I just needed to know everything so I could be prepared for . . . whatever. She’d insisted, “You can’t tell anyone about us!”
I’d assured her I wouldn’t, but I’d warned her that at some point I might have to. And she was going to have to get onboard. Her life depended on it.
I called Michelle and gave her the good news about Tiegan’s prints. She gave a giant “Whoot!” and then told Alex, who called out, “Fantastic!”
When I got in to the office, I saw that Alex and Michelle were watching something on her computer. Michelle waved me over. “Check it out. More Cassie love from another victim advocate group.”
I watched over her shoulder. It was one of those daytime talk shows. A young woman in a smart business suit was telling the host, Tyra Banks, about the lifelong impact of childhood sexual abuse. “People don’t realize how it stays with you forever. It’s been fifteen years since my uncle molested me, and he only stayed with us for a few months, but I’m still not over it. So imagine how someone like Cassie suffered, being abused like that for so long.”
Tyra’s face exuded sympathy as she nodded. “It’s impossible to overestimate the damage that can be done to a young person who suffers this kind of abuse. I hope you’re getting therapy, because I don’t know how you deal with trauma like that on your own.”
The woman said she’d been in therapy for three years now. Tyra shook her head. “And yet you still suffer from the aftereffects.”
The woman nodded, her expression weary. “Less than before, but yes.” The camera zoomed in on her face. “That’s why I’m speaking out on behalf of Give Children a Voice and asking that they remember what Cassie Sonnenberg has been through before they pass judgment.”
Tyra threw to a commercial, and Michelle hit the mute button. She sat back and stared at the monitor. “You think they’ll turn on her when they find out about her and Tiegan?”
Great question. It was one I’d been pondering ever since Cassie told me about the relationship. “You never know. But it could get her even more sympathy.”
Alex nodded. “They’ll see Cassie as a vulnerable young orphan kid who got preyed on by a pedophile teacher.”
I told them the cops were searching Tiegan’s car and apartment as we spoke. “We might know something more by tonight.”
Michelle leaned back in her chair, her expression troubled. “But one thing’s been bothering me. Since Tiegan was obviously there, how come Paula didn’t see her?”
I’d thought about that, too. Paula had only accused Cassie. But maybe that was because Cassie was the only one she’d been able to see. “Paula got attacked from behind, and according to the medical reports, she went down fast. I don’t think she ever had a chance to see who’d stabbed her.”
Alex stood up and pushed the secretary’s chair he’d been sitting on back into the corner. “That’s right. Didn’t Paula admit that the only time she saw Cassie was after she went down?” I nodded. “Then maybe that was when Cassie tried to help her?”
That’s the way I saw it. “So both things can be true: Paula did see Cassie, and Cassie was not the killer.”
Michelle leaned against her desk. “How’s Paula doing now?”
“Last I heard, not too well. But she’s still hanging in.” I looked at my watch.
Michelle saw me checking the time. “Nervous about the search?” I nodded. “Why? They’ve got her prints in Abel’s room. What more do you need?”
“Tiegan can say those prints got there any time. And even if Paula says Tiegan never visited them at the house, Tiegan can just say Paula wasn’t around that day.”
Alex frowned. “Then we need more.”
I moved toward my office. “Right. So now I plan to go do some serious angsting about that.”<
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Alex followed me into my office to tell me he’d finished putting together the background information and support letters on a burglary case that was due for sentencing next week, then left me to my own devices. I did my best to lose myself in those devices, but I kept darting glances between my desk phone and my cell phone, hoping to hear from Emmons.
I didn’t get the call till six thirty. I fumbled with my cell and almost dropped it before I managed to hit answer. I could feel the pulse in my throat. “Tell me.”
He spoke in a low voice. “We’ve got traces of blood in the trunk of her car.”
I raised a fist in the air. “Good enough for DNA typing?”
“Don’t know yet. But we took Tiegan into custody, and she just went through booking. We found the mole and the rose tattoo. Right where you said they’d be.”
FIFTY
During the next seventy hours, the whole case swung around. And Emmons, true to his word, gave me the updates.
The day after Tiegan’s arrest, he and Rusty visited Paula. Emmons called me from his car that night. “Tiegan never came to visit them as far as she knew.”
“So the prints had to have been from the night of the murders.”
“Seems so. I asked her whether it was possible Tiegan was in the room that night. She said no at first, that Cassie was the only one she saw.”
“But she got stabbed from behind—”
“Yeah, so I pointed that out, and I asked her whether someone else could’ve been in the room. She said she didn’t think so, but she admitted it was possible. We’ll see what the DNA shows.”
The following Tuesday, we got the results: the traces of blood in the trunk of Tiegan’s car were a mixture of all three: Abel, Stephen, and Paula.
The court appointed a public defender for Tiegan. I’d known Fred Hamer when I was in the public defender’s office, and he was good. Very good.
And he gave the lie to the notion that juries love the lookers. Fred had the body of Stick Stickly—he even walked like a stick figure, stiff-legged and jerky—and he had a frizzy brown comb-over that always looked untamed. He had an uneven, ruddy complexion—pale around the eyes and jawline, flaming on his cheeks and nose—and skin so dry the flakes showered the shoulders of his jacket. But he had merry blue eyes, a great sense of humor, and an overall kindness that made juries not only love him but also trust him. If anyone could pull Tiegan’s bacon out of the fire, it was Fred.