RK02 - Guilt By Degrees

by Marcia Clark

  “So I should believe him when he says he won’t give me grief if the case goes south?” I asked.

  Bailey hesitated. This did not reassure me.

  “What?” I asked impatiently.

  “Yeah, he’ll probably be okay,” she said, then stopped and looked off down the street. “It’s just that he’s going through a real bitch of a divorce. It’s got him a little…unhinged. Otherwise he never would’ve gone off on some dumb-punk DA, no matter what he said.” Bailey put her hands into her pockets and looked at the ground for a moment. “But you did him a solid—pulled his case out of the Dumpster. I’d think you’d be bulletproof where he’s concerned.”

  I didn’t care for the choice of words, reminding me as it did that if Stoner lost it, I might literally need to be bulletproof.

  A group of men in business suits who were trying to navigate the sidewalk and talk at the same time created a moving roadblock, so I stepped to the curb to avoid a collision. They never even broke stride or seemed to notice that they’d commandeered the sidewalk. They’d probably walked around my John Doe with equal oblivion.

  “Anyway, it may all be moot,” Bailey continued. “If that DDA beefs Stoner, they’ll make him ride a desk until it all gets sorted out.”

  “So who’ll I get?”

  “Depends on who’s up.” Bailey shrugged, then gave me a little smile. “But I’d take the hit and work with you for Stoner’s sake.”

  Bailey and I had met and bonded over a serial-killer case we’d worked together six years ago. We’d wound up becoming best friends and had finagled our way into working more than our fair share of cases together. But then Bailey got transferred into the elite Robbery-Homicide Division, and we didn’t need to finagle anymore. It was common practice for Robbery-Homicide to funnel nearly all of their cases to the Special Trials Unit.

  Bailey thought a moment. “I could probably get clearance to babysit the case until Stoner’s beef is settled. That should be long enough to at least get it through the preliminary hearing.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll bet no one’s going to fight to get their hands on this one.”

  “True story.” Bailey sighed and shot me a sour look. “Seriously, Knight, would it kill you to get me in on an easy one for a change?”

  “Apparently,” I said with a shrug. I did seem to have a habit of sticking us with some of the nastier messes. “You want to call Stoner and let him know we’re out here?”

  “Probably be the smart thing to do.”

  Bailey opened her cell, and I looked around at the businesses on this stretch of Hope Street: a travel agency advertising low-fare tickets to Costa Rica, a dry cleaner whose window afforded a view of racks filled with men’s dress shirts, a bank, a liquor store, and a Subway sandwich shop. I watched a man in a flannel lumberjack coat bite into a thick, juicy meatball-and-cheese submarine and remembered that I’d been too angry to finish my wafer-thin turkey-and-lettuce sandwich. I felt my stomach rumble as I watched the tomato sauce drip onto the paper wrapper he’d spread on the table. I was just about to throw caution to the wind and go order one for myself when Bailey snapped her phone shut. Her expression was grim.

  “What? Is he pissed?” I asked. Maybe we should’ve gotten his okay before invading his turf.

  “Apparently that asshole, Averill, already beefed him. Stoner’s gonna be stuck at his desk for a while.” Bailey shook her head. “The good news is, he’s glad to have me help out. For now anyway.”

  This had clearly put Bailey in one funky mood, but since there was no chance she’d get a whole lot happier in the next hour or so, I decided the only thing to do was to roll on with the business at hand.

  “Most of these places have surveillance cameras, don’t they?” I asked.

  “They should.” Bailey looked up and down the street for a moment, then stopped and gazed at a storefront near the northwest corner of Hope and Fifth. “Especially that one.”

  I followed her gaze and saw that there was a check-cashing store across the street. I hadn’t noticed it before, because the sign was so small. I figured that was a testament to the business’s popularity. I peered at the building and thought I could see a camera mounted above the storefront window.

  It was the start of rush hour, and traffic was beginning to get serious, so we walked up to the corner and waited for the light. Between the commuters in a hurry to beat the bottlenecks and the homicidal taxi drivers, jaywalking was tantamount to a death wish.

  “Wouldn’t you think Stoner would’ve done this already?” I asked.

  “Maybe he did and just didn’t have the video in time for court.”

  “Or maybe he got it and it didn’t help,” I said.

  Bailey nodded. Neither of us voiced the third possibility: that Stoner had dropped the ball because his life was falling apart. That was definitely not Bailey’s style. Or mine. We were great at what shrinks call compartmentalizing. Frankly, I think being able to keep your worlds separate is a great thing. Keeps me sane. Or close to it.

  9

  As check-cashing places go, it was relatively discreet. Just a cursive neon sign in the window to let people know they could get fleeced in exchange for a fast return. We entered the small store and walked up to the counter, where an older Asian man with wire-rimmed glasses and a few strands of comb-over hair sat on a high stool behind a cash register.

  Bailey flashed her badge. “LAPD, homicide investigation. I’d like to speak to the manager.”

  He calmly inspected the badge and glanced at Bailey to match the photograph, then sat back. “First time I see detective as good-looking as you,” he said, his speech accented but very intelligible. He seemed appreciative in a completely nonlascivious way. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “Does your surveillance camera pick up a view of the street?” Bailey asked.

  “Of course,” the man replied. “You talking about the day that homeless guy died?”

  We both nodded.

  “I hear he lay there long time before someone call,” the man said, shaking his head. “Sad business, very sad.”

  I was glad to find someone who seemed to get that.

  “You have exact date when it happened?” he asked. “Camera record on a loop. After so long, record over itself.”

  “It was twelve days ago,” I said. Please don’t let it be a ten-day loop.

  He smiled. “You in luck. It’s fourteen-day loop.”

  He called out, and an older woman in thick-soled rubber shoes and polyester pants and blouse shuffled out from the back of the store.

  “Show them tape for twelve days ago,” he ordered her.

  The man let us behind the counter, and we entered a back room so cluttered it looked like it was occupied by hoarders. Literally every single square inch of space was covered with layers of paper of all kinds: invoices, newspapers, dry-cleaner trade magazines. The woman gestured for us to follow her to a tiny office at the back. It had only a computer and monitor on a small desk, which was handy because that’s all there was room for.

  She punched some keys and asked us for the date and time. We gave it to her, and then she punched some more keys and sat back to let us watch.

  The black-and-white images didn’t allow us to discern any details, only gross movements. But we could clearly see John Doe reach for a woman in dark sunglasses who was walking in front of him. She spun toward him at first, then recoiled and tried to pull away. Seconds later, John Doe’s arm fell, and the woman broke free. John Doe watched her for a moment, then sank down and dropped out of the frame. By that time, the woman was out of sight.

  “So that’s when he got stabbed,” I said. “But it doesn’t show the stabber.”

  “Because our John Doe’s body was blocking him from view—at least from the angle this camera had.”

  “And I couldn’t see what that woman did just before he went down, could you?”

  “No,” Bailey replied. She tapped the screen. “Would you mind replaying it for us?”


  We watched again. “Look,” I said, pointing to the monitor. “He grabs her, she stops, then somehow she gets free and turns away. But he’s still standing.”

  “Right,” Bailey agreed. “So he got stabbed after he let go of her.”

  “Could you please rewind a little and freeze it?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I watched again as the homeless man grabbed the woman’s forearm. At the moment the woman pulled away, I told the shopkeeper to freeze the picture.

  I pointed to the screen, which showed John Doe still on his feet. “Makes it hard to believe that the stabber was just trying to protect her,” I remarked.

  “Though not impossible,” Bailey said. “We need to find some surveillance footage from another angle.”

  “Ideally, one that shows the stabber,” I agreed. “And it’d be good to find this woman. She had to have seen something.”

  “Right,” Bailey replied.

  “So why’d she split without reporting?” I asked.

  Bailey shook her head.

  We continued watching. Our John Doe dropped out of frame. Pedestrians walked by. Eventually a man stopped and looked down at the spot where John Doe had fallen, then walked on. Some minutes later, a young girl aimed her iPhone at the same spot, then continued down the street. Other passersby parted around an unseen obstacle, then rejoined and kept moving. I winced as, one by one, each of them walked right past my John Doe, most without so much as a second glance.

  According to the time counter, John Doe lay on the ground for two and a half hours before the police arrived.

  10

  Chase sauntered into her office and dropped the flash drive on her desk with fake nonchalance. “We’ve got him,” he said with a superior smile.

  Sabrina flashed him a skeptical look. “We’ll see,” she replied. She didn’t really doubt him, though. Chase wasn’t a braggart. Tenacious and whip-smart, he had an almost perfect track record. Which was why she’d brought him in as her right-hand man. Well, that, and the fact that she’d always trusted him more than anyone else in the world. Though what that meant was somewhat murky, since she trusted no one else at all. Sabrina waited as Chase flopped down into the cushy sofa to the right of her desk and pulled off his “cover”—a wig and fake glasses. Sabrina wasn’t usually a fan of disguises. Too often, they screamed “costume,” which only managed to draw more attention. But she was forced to admit that for Chase, there was no other option. His long nose, piercing black eyes fringed by insanely long lashes, and thick curling brown hair presented a combination distinctive enough to make an impression on even a marginally observant witness.

  “I take it my intel was good, then?” she asked.

  “I don’t know how you do it, but it’s the best.”

  Sabrina plugged in the flash drive, then picked up the remote and pressed a button. The floor-to-ceiling metallic shades moved quietly across the wall of windows and shut out the afternoon sun. Now the only light in the cavernous office came from the glow of the cobalt-blue buttons on the remote in her hand.

  She swiveled her chair to face the wall on the right and pressed another button. A flat screen descended and locked into place at eye level. Sabrina hit play, and the image of an empty bedroom filled the screen in gray scale. The colors were so muted, it was difficult to make out what was in the room. She adjusted the contrast for maximum definition, and the outline of a bed, a dresser with a television set, and two nightstands—typical hotel furniture—came into view. Seconds later, a man in his sixties—in slacks and shirtsleeves, his expensive suit jacket slung over one shoulder—entered, loosening his tie. He tossed his jacket onto a chair in the corner, lumbered over to the king-size bed, and sat down heavily, hands hanging loosely between his thighs. Sabrina smirked. The man was obviously more than a few drinks into his good time. He rubbed his face, then looked around the room. Sabrina hit pause and peered over at Chase.

  “Can you enhance this? I don’t want there to be any doubt.”

  “Yeah, of course. But, trust me, there won’t be.”

  Sabrina turned back to the screen and continued the footage. The man went over to the minibar and pulled out two small bottles of champagne and two flutes. The door of the mini-fridge closed with a thunk, and when he set down the glasses, the clink gave a clear treble tinkle. Sabrina noted the clarity of the sound, pleased. A knock came at the door, and the man went to answer it. The visitor moved past him into the room and stopped dramatically at the foot of the bed.

  She was tall and slender, with waist-length blond hair, and dressed in a classic trench coat cinched with a knotted belt. When she spoke, her words nearly boomed from the speakers in the silent room. “Pour the champagne, darling. We don’t have all day.”

  The man obeyed, and the visitor undid the belt and dropped the coat to the floor to reveal a black sequined bustier and black fishnet stockings. She strutted over to the man. They clinked glasses and drank, and the man reached out with one hand and began to caress her breasts.

  She drained her glass, sat down on the bed, and leaned back on her elbows, letting her hair cascade down her back. “Bring me any prezzies?”

  “Just this,” the man said, brandishing a clear baggie holding what looked like three grams of white powder.

  “For the girl who has everything.” She took the bag, dipped in a long plastic fingernail, and scooped out a nice little mound.

  Sabrina hit pause, freezing the image of the woman holding a healthy snort of cocaine on her nail.

  “Congressman Rankin, you dog,” Sabrina said to the screen. “Or should I say bitch?” She gave a low chuckle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was fake.”

  “I couldn’t fake it, man. Who could ever dream up stuff this crazy?”

  There was that. A transvestite and a coker. And married with children. The rank, arrogant stupidity of it all was incredible, almost laughable. “Bless their pointed little heads—and Adam’s apples,” Sabrina remarked with a smirk.

  “It was touch and go for a minute there. I lost him after the lunch break—somehow he melted into the crowd and got away from me. I panicked at first, but then I spotted his boyfriend there”—Chase gestured to the man on the screen—“the one you singled out in Miami. He was leaving the restaurant, so I followed him.”

  “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Chase gave a modest shrug.

  Sabrina paused, then frowned. “How’d you get the camera in?”

  “My old standby, the maintenance-man rig. Told the front desk I had to inspect the wiring and suggested they could give him a drink while he waited. They’ll never check the maintenance logs. I mean, who’s gonna complain?” Chase snickered.

  Sabrina gestured to the flat screen. “I assume our lovebirds ‘get down’ after this?”

  Chase’s features twisted sourly. “You don’t want to see it.” He turned to the screen. “But the picture’s good enough, right? And the sound. Couldn’t be better, right?”

  Sabrina nodded. “We got him.”

  “So when do we get paid?”

  11

  By the time Bailey and I thanked our store manager for his help and stepped out onto the sidewalk, lacy cirrus clouds had spread across the sky, covering the sun and causing the temperature to drop. I shivered inside my peacoat and looked longingly across the street at the Subway sandwich shop.

  “You hungry?” Bailey asked, seeing the focus of my gaze.

  “Kinda, yeah,” I said, though I knew it wasn’t just because my stomach was empty. I needed some comfort food. This case was making me feel sad and lonely.

  “I’m with you,” she said.

  We headed back across the street and walked in. I’d just begun to read the menu on the wall behind the counter when I saw a familiar face.

  I nudged Bailey. “That’s the eyewit, the guy who pissed backward on the stand today,” I whispered. His long, stringy hair was thankfully imprisoned by a hairnet, but there was no mistaking t
he face with that scraggly soul patch.

  Bailey smiled. “Some things were meant to be, weren’t they?” she whispered back. “What’s the name again?”

  I told her.

  Bailey moved up to the counter and smoothly whipped out her badge. “Charlie Fern? We need to take a few moments of your time. If you don’t mind.”

  Not that we cared if he did mind. It just sounded more genteel to say it like that.

  “Oh!” he said, his eyes widening at the sight of the shield. “Uh, okay. Uh, sure. I’ve got a break coming up in about five minutes. That okay?”

  “That’ll be just fine,” Bailey replied. “We’ll be right over there.” She pointed to a table against the wall.

  Charlie nodded. We ordered our sandwiches from the young Latina standing next to him—a pastrami six-inch for Bailey, and a vegetarian six-inch, no mayo, for me. I vowed that after a couple of weeks at the gym, I’d be back to answer the siren song of the meatball and cheese.

  I was about two surprisingly tasty bites into my sandwich when I saw Charlie lean in and say something to the woman at the register. She nodded, and he waved to Bailey and me and signaled that he’d be right out. He began to untie his apron as he turned and moved toward the kitchen.

  I set down my sandwich and saw Bailey do the same. There was no need for discussion. Bailey and I jumped out of our seats and ran. Seconds later, we screeched to a halt at the side of the building—just as Charlie Fern burst through the back door. Bailey reached out, swiftly snatched a fistful of his T-shirt collar, and gave it a firm backward yank.

  She held on to his shirt and shook her head. “Dumb, really dumb.” She looked at him with annoyance. “You made me leave my sandwich.”

  I contributed a tsk-tsk of disapproval. “You know, Charlie, it really hurts our feelings when witnesses dodge us like that.”

  Charlie’s eyes darted between me and Bailey so rapidly I thought he was going to give himself a seizure. His voice came out in a squeak. “Look, man, I told the cops I din’t see who stabbed the dude!”