by Marcia Clark
Waylon looked pale and guilty. He laced his fingers together and squeezed so hard I saw the skin on his knuckles turn white. “I—I lied. Cassie never told me she’d been molested by anyone.”
Hardly the shocker of the century, but he deserved to feel shitty. I nodded. “I figured.”
Waylon’s mother nudged him. “That’s not all. Tell her the rest.”
He took a breath, his eyes on the floor. “After Cassie got out of jail, she called me. She wanted to get back together, but I told her I was with Marina. I asked her if I’d still have to testify. She said no, and she thanked me for backing her up.” Waylon swallowed and finally looked at me. “Anyway, I asked her what was up with that? Were they really molesting her? She laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry about that shit.’”
Don’t worry about that shit. I pondered that statement all the way back to the office.
That Cassie had put Waylon up to lying for her was really neither here nor there. I could see how a victim might be desperate enough to ask someone to back her up. But a victim being that cavalier about what she’d been through . . . that was a different matter. That statement played over and over again in my head as I drove, my anger growing with every mile.
And that’s when I realized what it was about the videotape of Cassie’s confrontation with Tiegan in the jail that had pinged me. Just to be sure, I decided to rewatch it.
It was late by the time I got in—eight thirty—and Michelle and Alex had gone home. Given the mood I was in, it was probably a good thing I was alone. I sat down at my computer, pulled up the e-mail from Emmons, and clicked on the attachment. This time, I knew what to look for. I sat forward and watched carefully as Tiegan asked why Cassie was doing this to her. I studied Tiegan’s demeanor. Then I studied Cassie’s reaction. I stopped the footage each time Tiegan’s emotions shifted, then stopped it again when it got to Cassie’s reaction. And by the time I got to the end, I knew what had always bothered me about this scene.
Tiegan cried. Cassie cried. Tiegan cried. Cassie cried. Monkey see, monkey do. But when Cassie accused Tiegan of abandoning her, she was cold as ice. And when she insisted she hadn’t committed the murders, her reason was equally as cold. It wasn’t because they were the only family she’d ever known. It was, “Why would I kill them? I’d have nowhere to live.” Nowhere but foster care, which she’d vowed never to endure again. And at the very end, when Tiegan became enraged, Cassie had known better than to react in kind—I’d always warned her not to say or do anything she didn’t want the world to see. So she’d begun to sob. But when she turned toward the camera, I could see there were no real tears.
And now, with the benefit of time and distance, I realized what it told me about who Cassie might really be.
I wasn’t 100 percent sure, and there was nothing I could do about it now. But I needed to know, just for my own peace of mind. As I turned off the computer and left the office, my mind began to work on the problem of how to determine once and for all whether I’d finally gotten it right: that Cassie was a psychopath, that she’d lied about the molestation. And that she’d decided to kill Abel because he was going to ruin her relationship with Tiegan.
Over the next few days, I found myself preoccupied with the question. Was my new perspective on Cassie the right one? Or was I making too much of the recent revelations? I had to admit that those revelations didn’t necessarily have to mean Cassie was a liar. But it did seem clear to me that she had an antisocial personality disorder and was likely a psychopath. After my last viewing of the jail footage, I’d gone back over her behavior with me from the first time we’d met, and I’d been forced to recognize that the signs had been there all along. It was in the way she talked about others, with a near complete emphasis on what they could do for her; it was in her manipulative behavior—with Barbara, with Tiegan, and with me—and it was in her emotional reactions. The undying love and affection for Tiegan when she thought Tiegan was her ticket out of the Sonnenberg house, and the shift to total indifference when she learned that testifying against Tiegan was her ticket out of jail. The abrupt shift from profound sorrow and remorse to cold accusation when she’d accused Tiegan of abandoning her. And there’d been many times during our visits when her emotional outbursts felt like fake soap-opera melodrama.
But even so, that didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t been molested. And if she had been telling the truth about that, the rest of her story—that Tiegan had gone off the deep end when she found out and committed the murders—stood a good chance of being true, too. Mostly true, anyway. I thought Cassie’s claim that Tiegan had become unhinged when she’d heard about the abuse was a bit of self-puffery. The blackmail undoubtedly played a bigger part in Tiegan’s motive to kill Abel.
But if Cassie hadn’t been molested, the case took on a whole different blush.
I needed to keep digging. Maybe there was something I’d overlooked. I went back to the police reports, the crime-scene photos, everything I had on the case, to try and figure out what I’d been missing. But it wasn’t until I happened to take another look at the photos of Tiegan’s apartment that I hit on a possible solution. It wasn’t really a “Eureka!” moment. It was more like a “Hey, that’s an interesting idea” moment. But I needed Emmons’s cooperation. It was Friday, and everyone likes to take off early on Friday afternoon. But when I looked at my watch, I saw it was only two thirty. I might get lucky. Emmons was a hard worker who was trying to make a good impression. I’d heard he was hoping to transfer to LAPD. I called his direct line.
He answered. “Emmons.”
I asked him whether Tiegan’s apartment was still being held as a crime scene. He said they were about to release it tomorrow, actually. I had to act fast. “Can you let me in? There’s something I need to check. I promise it won’t take long.”
His voice was suspicious. “Your girl’s out of it. What more do you want?”
“Please, humor me. Just this once.”
After a longish pause, he said, “I’ll send a uni to let you in. Be there by three thirty. I’ll give you one hour.”
That should be more than enough time for what I had in mind. I thanked him, told him I’d head over there right now, then went to get Alex. Two pairs of eyes would work faster than one.
We flew out the door and got to Tiegan’s place at three thirty on the dot.
The uni let us in, and we headed straight for the living room.
One hour later, I had the answer I’d been looking for.
SIXTY
I spent the weekend catching up on laundry and housework, mindless chores that helped me sort through what I’d learned about Cassie. When I got in to the office on Monday, I found a message from Cassie on my voice mail. She thought her ankle monitor was supposed to be taken off by now. I consulted my calendar and saw that it was actually due to come off tomorrow. I’d just picked up the phone to call and tell her when it rang in my hand.
It was Rusty Templeton. He’d called to tell me that Paula had made an unexpected recovery. She was fully lucid, and she wanted to see Cassie. He asked whether Barbara or I could bring her to the hospital today. I said I’d do it, but I wanted to know whether Paula had given them another statement.
Rusty was noncommittal. “We’ll question her again. But I’m not sure she’ll have much more to say. Anyway, you don’t need to hang around. You can just drop her off; we’ll bring her home.”
I called Barbara, who was at work, and asked whether I could pick up Cassie and take her to see her mother. She was happy to have me do that and said she’d take a break so she could meet me at the house. I told Alex and Michelle about Rusty’s call, then headed out to Glendale.
The drive gave me a chance to think—about a lot of things. My first thoughts went to Cassie’s jeopardy. I considered the possibilities. Could Paula now claim to know that Cassie was the killer? That didn’t seem likely. Paula had been attacked from behind, and she’d gone down fast. No, if she remembered anything new, it’d more likely
have to do with hearing Tiegan’s voice—or maybe seeing another pair of feet—before she totally blacked out. If so, that’d be a big plus for Cassie. I didn’t see Paula as a viable threat. On the personal front, if Paula kept improving, Cassie would be able to go and stay with her in the not-too-distant future. I thought Cassie might be okay with that. I knew she’d had her problems with Paula—and some were legitimate. But I had a feeling Cassie wouldn’t mind getting out of Barbara’s way-too-normal household—a constant reminder of the kind of life Cassie could never have. And whatever my feelings about Cassie’s psychological makeup, she was unlikely to harm the only person who’d put a roof over her head at this point. When I got to the house, Barbara Reeber—that long-suffering saint—had just pulled into the driveway. She seemed happy to see me. “How’ve you been, Sam? I haven’t seen you in . . . Lord, it’s been quite a while.”
She ushered me in, and I thanked her for taking Cassie in again. I didn’t see Cassie in the kitchen or the living room. “I guess she’s in her room?”
“She must be. You can just go on in.” She looked at her watch. “But I’ll have to get back to work pretty soon. I just thought I should be here to let you in, in case Cassie didn’t hear the doorbell. Sometimes she puts on those headphones and . . .” Barbara smiled. “A bomb could go off and she wouldn’t hear anything.”
Sure enough, I found Cassie sitting on the bed, listening to music on her headphones and swaying to the beat. Her knees were drawn up, and a math textbook was propped up on her legs. Just your average teen—who’d managed to beat a double homicide rap. When she saw me, she smiled and pulled off her headphones. “Sam! Hey!”
She started to get off the bed, but I motioned for her to stay put. “Cassie, I’ve got some news.”
The smile started to sag. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” I pulled over the chair in front of her desk and sat down. “It seems your mother has gotten better. She’s fully awake, and she’d like to see you.”
Cassie looked stunned for a moment. Then her expression became puzzled. “But I thought the doctors said she wasn’t looking that good?”
“They did, but she unexpectedly made a turn for the better.” I watched her absorb the news. “Pretty wonderful, don’t you think?”
Cassie nodded slowly and her smile returned. “I . . . yeah, it really is.” Her smile grew hopeful. “Do you think maybe she’ll remember seeing Tiegan there now?”
“It’s possible.” I gave her arm a squeeze. “What do you say? Want to go see her?”
Cassie’s eyes were shiny. “Sure. Can we go now?”
I said we could.
Ten minutes later, we were on our way to Glendale Adventist Hospital.
The room in ICU was dark and quiet. The lights in the ceiling had been turned way down, and the monitors glowed dimly above the bed. I could barely make out Paula’s face above the covers. She appeared to be sleeping. The steady beep-beep of the machine that registered her heartbeat was the only sound.
Cassie stood back against the wall, watching her. “Should I wake her up?”
I kept my voice low. “Maybe give it a minute and see if she wakes up on her own.”
I watched Cassie closely. At first, when I’d told her that Paula was recovering, I’d thought she seemed worried. But she didn’t look worried now. Her head was tilted to one side, and there was a little smile on her face.
She stayed focused on Paula as she whispered, “Will I get to go stay with her?”
“If she keeps making progress, I can’t see why not.”
A look of fear crossed her face. “We won’t have to go back to that house, will we?”
That was unthinkable. “No, certainly not.”
Cassie’s face relaxed, and she resumed watching Paula with a fond smile.
A moment later, a nurse stepped in. “Ms. Brinkman?” I nodded. “We have an urgent call for you.”
I frowned. “Did you get a name?”
The nurse gave an exasperated sigh. Her voice was low but irritated. “We’re a hospital, not an answering service.” She backed up, one foot out the door. “I’ll tell them you’re not available.”
“No, don’t. I’ll take it.” Cassie was still watching Paula, her expression wistful. I whispered, “I’ll be right back.”
Cassie stared at me blankly for a moment, as though she’d forgotten I was there. Then she blinked and nodded. “Sure, okay.”
I took one last look at her, then hurried out.
I’d just reached the nurses’ station when I heard a loud bang that sounded like a slamming door come from inside the room. I ran back.
Just in time to see Cassie leaning over the bed, pressing a pillow down on her mother’s face. Cassie was fixated on Paula, her jaw set, her expression determined. Emmons, who’d just thrown back the door to the bathroom where he’d been hiding, grabbed Cassie and pulled her hands behind her back. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Abel, Stephen . . . and Paula Sonnenberg.”
Cassie jerked up as though she’d just been shaken out of a trance. She twisted around and looked at Emmons, her mouth agape, then turned back and stared at the body on the bed. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Emmons pulled her away. “Your mother died this morning.”
I stared at Cassie, who stood there, frozen, as she tried to process what had happened. Then, all of a sudden, her eyes grew wild. She struggled against Emmons and whipped her head back and forth as she screamed. “No! You can’t do this! It’s not fair!”
She’d just been caught red-handed, but my lawyer reflex kicked in, and I barked, “Don’t talk, Cassie.”
Rusty Templeton, who’d been waiting in the room next door, rushed in and helped take control of her. As they half dragged, half carried her—still screaming—out of the room, I said, “She’s invoking. No questioning until she has a lawyer.”
He gave me a grim smirk. “Guess that’s not going to be you this time?”
I glared at him. “No. Not this time.”
I stood in the hallway and watched them leave. I’d had a feeling this was a setup when Templeton told me Paula was better and wanted to see Cassie. The tip-off had come when he’d told me I could leave once I got her there. And the confirmation had come when the nurse told me I had an urgent call—which, as I’d expected, turned out to be bullshit.
I didn’t have to go along with it. I could’ve refused to bring Cassie—and I could’ve warned her not to go.
But I didn’t, because I’d found the final piece of evidence that laid my other lingering questions to rest.
It’d been on Tiegan’s bookshelves. When I’d studied the blowups of the photos, I’d noticed an entire shelf of books devoted to child psychology. One in particular caught my eye: Child Molestation: Case Studies. At first, it’d merely struck me as ironic that Tiegan would have books like that, though it made sense that a school counselor would need to be well versed on child-focused issues. But in that moment, I’d realized it might be more than just ironic.
When Alex and I went to Tiegan’s apartment, I saw that the book was still there, on the upper shelf. And after fifteen minutes, I found what I was looking for. It was in the fourth case study. “Ann R.” had reported that her brother would “come into her room while she was asleep” and that she’d wake up to see him “with his pants open.” At first, “he only touched her,” but after one week, he began to demand that she “touch him.” Ann R. said she was always “afraid to fall asleep.” The assaults quickly escalated as he demanded that she perform oral copulation on him, and then forced her to engage in anal intercourse.
Julie M. reported that her stepfather would come into her room at night and make her undress and lie on top of the covers “while he touched himself.” And on and on.
It was all there—Cassie’s story—with remarkably little variation.
I marveled at how well she’d pulled off her act, at how real her pain and embarrassment had seemed when she described what Abe
l and Stephen had supposedly done to her. But of course, psychopaths can always feel their own pain—even when it’s imagined.
Truth be told, I’d always had my doubts about Cassie’s molestation story, but they’d fluctuated. Sometimes I believed it; sometimes I didn’t. But for the most part, I’d given her the benefit of the doubt.
Still, when she spoke to the reporter and neglected to say that her father had been abusing her, too, it sent up a red flag. It seemed unlikely that a true victim would leave out something that big—especially since, at that time, the molestation was her whole defense. Cassie had made it seem as though she’d left it out because she was too embarrassed. But she’d been pretty graphic in her descriptions of what Abel had done to her. And I’d seen how she behaved during that interview. She didn’t look in the least embarrassed. She’d just forgotten her lines under pressure.
And so it was clear: Cassie had never been molested. She certainly had been tortured by that sadistic freak, Abel. But Cassie couldn’t afford to bust him, because he’d out her relationship with Tiegan, which would have put an end to her dream of escaping from that house and going to live with Tiegan.
And that dream was real. Delusional. But real. Cassie had clearly been unhappy long before Abel started blackmailing her. I remembered how she’d complained right from the start that she’d never felt like she fit in, that Paula had always reminded her how “lucky” she was that they’d taken her in. Cassie may have exaggerated, but I’d never gotten the impression that she was lying. And Tiegan was supposed to be her way out.
Only it hadn’t worked out that way—because of Abel. When Tiegan learned he was blackmailing Cassie, she’d immediately told Cassie to back off. Tiegan was a predatory pedophile, but she wasn’t suicidal.
Cassie saw that her ticket out of that house was all but gone—unless she could eliminate the threat, i.e., Abel. Had Cassie planned it all long in advance? The fact that she’d stolen Tiegan’s knife made it seem so—and the fact that she’d picked the night her parents were supposed to be away, at a hotel. But maybe not. Cassie did like to steal things from Tiegan. So it was possible Cassie took the knife with no plan in mind, that she’d only begun to conceive of killing Abel that same day, after Tiegan told her they had to “cool it.”