by Marcia Clark
And unbelievably, to top it off, he was rich—filthy rich, to be exact. Though I didn’t know much about his early life, I did know his wasn’t family money. Before he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up, Graden had worked a minimum-wage job for a construction company. As a hobby, just for the fun of it, he dreamed up video games. But once he got hired by the LAPD, he decided he didn’t have the time or the desire for games anymore. So just before he finished the police academy, he put together one last game: Code Three—police jargon for a sirens-on emergency. Had it been up to him, that game never would’ve seen the light of day. But fortunately for Graden, his younger brother, Devon, a computer whizbang, saw the potential in this last creation and decided to write up the software and see if anyone was interested. Five years later, Code Three hit the gaming world like a tsunami, setting Graden and Devon up for life.
Graden and I had been dating for months, but I wasn’t ready to pick out any china patterns. Toni likes to call me commitment challenged. I like to tell her that’s the pot calling the kettle African-American. Though she hides it well, I know she finds this hilarious every time I say it.
I answered Drew with a shake of my head. “Graden’s ‘bonding’ with his brother tonight.”
Drew nodded, then favored Bailey with a slow, sexy smile. “How was your day, baby?” That voice had surely undressed enough women to populate a small country.
“Okay,” she replied, her voice so silky, she practically purred. Hell, men at the end of the bar started loosening their ties. It was enough to turn your stomach. “And what about you? Did you talk to the bank today?”
Drew had been working on getting a small-business loan for his bar.
“I did,” Drew replied. “So far, so good.” He held up crossed fingers. “So, ladies, the usual?”
“Sure,” Bailey replied, managing to give the word two syllables.
They exchanged another sappy smile.
“No,” I replied. “I’ll have a shot of Pepto-Bismol.”
They both laughed.
“I wasn’t kidding,” I said.
They smiled, apparently unconcerned that their “sweet nothings” had caused a bilious “something” to rise in the back of my throat.
I fixed them with a steely glare. “I guess I’ll let you pay off your bet now after all.” I gave Bailey a smug look. “I’ll have a Russian Standard Platinum martini, straight up with a twist.” It was one of the most expensive vodkas in the house.
Bailey’s expression turned dour. I smiled back sweetly.
I take my revenge very dry and very cold.
14
The only downside to a meeting at the Los Angeles County Men’s Central Jail was that I’d have to go to the Los Angeles County Men’s Central Jail. Entering the dank, sprawling concrete monstrosity, the largest county jail in the world, always made me feel like I was walking through the seventh gate of hell. The mixture of disinfectant, sweat, and misery lingered in my nostrils for days, and it took just as long to get the echoes of clanging metal doors and gates out of my head.
“You find out what Stoner’s done to identify our victim?” I asked Bailey. “I haven’t had time, since I kind of got stuck into this case headfirst—”
“It doesn’t count as got stuck when you do it to yourself.”
She was right, of course, so I ignored her. “You know anything?”
“Stoner ran the fingerprints through all databases, asked for DNA testing—”
“So we’ll get those results about six months after we get his killer,” I said dryly.
The crime lab was notoriously backed up. It was hard to get fast results even when we had a suspect set for trial. Getting them to do testing just to identify a victim—a homeless victim, no less—would go to the bottom of the pile.
Bailey nodded. “Yeah. Especially because we probably don’t even have his DNA on file. So far, his prints don’t show up anywhere.”
“A homeless person who’s never been busted? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Usually there’s at least a shoplifting or panhandling conviction. Either someone had dropped the ball and failed to print the guy, or this was one of the most unusual homeless people I’d ever encountered.
“Makes me wonder how long he’d been out on the streets,” I remarked. “What’d the coroner say about his physical condition?”
“Don’t know yet,” Bailey replied. “Haven’t had time to get the report since we ‘got stuck into this case headfirst.’” She shot me a meaningful look. I busied myself with a search for my badge at the bottom of my purse.
We crossed the lobby and held out our badges to the deputy sheriff behind the bulletproof glass.
“Drop ’em in the slot,” she said. “You carrying?” she asked Bailey.
Bailey removed her service 9 mm Glock while I fished out my .38 Smith & Wesson. She passed us a key, and we locked our guns in one of the boxes lining the wall behind us.
I paused to ask the deputy, “Did a public defender by the name of Walter Schoenfeld check in?”
“What am I, your friggin’ hostess for the day?” she asked. She pushed our badges back out to us and buzzed us in. “You wanna know if he’s here, go look.”
We moved through the metal detector and found Walter sitting among a throng of defense attorneys in the waiting area. Bailey and I walked over to him.
“They tell you how long for an attorney room?” I asked.
“Said about ten minutes,” Walter replied. He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes ago.”
I sighed. Typical. With only five attorney rooms, the wait could easily take hours.
“I’ll go goose him,” Bailey said, and walked off.
No one gets better service in county jail than a cop. Within five minutes, the jail deputy called out for us to follow him. I deliberately avoided looking at the other attorneys who’d undoubtedly been waiting there for hours as we passed by. The room was silent as we all read our reports and got ready for the interview. Ten minutes later, Ronald Yamaguchi was being escorted down the glass-enclosed hall toward us in waist and leg chains. He clutched a notepad in his hands, which were cuffed in front of him, but his expression was surprisingly serene.
“You guys going to tape this?” Walter asked.
“Yeah,” Bailey said. She produced a small digital recorder from her jacket pocket and placed it on the table.
The door opened, and Yamaguchi was guided into the room and seated next to Walter, across the table from Bailey and me. I did a double take at the sight of Yamaguchi. I hadn’t really noticed in court, but between the olive complexion, jet-black shoulder-length hair, and well-muscled physique, Ronald Yamaguchi managed to rock that ugly orange jumpsuit. I had to hand it to him—though not at the moment.
Before his client could speak, Walter warned him that he was being recorded and pointed to the device.
“Good,” Yamaguchi replied.
An interesting reaction. I saw from Bailey’s raised eyebrow that she thought so too. She calmly read him his rights and he waived them, and we got down to business.
“What were you doing in the area that day?” I asked.
“I work in Little Tokyo,” he replied. “My bank’s on the street where it happened. I made a deposit and was on my way back to work when I saw the homeless guy.”
I made a mental note to get into the specifics of where he worked and banked later.
“What drew your attention to him?” I asked.
“What he did,” Yamaguchi replied. “He, like, almost jumped at that lady, and then he grabbed her. I thought he might hurt her.”
That wasn’t exactly what he’d said when he’d been interviewed at the scene—at least, according to the arrest report. Then again, it wasn’t completely different either. It was all a matter of emphasis, I supposed. Sometimes the truth can be elastic.
“Was she carrying a purse?” I asked.
Yamaguchi thought for a moment, then shook his head. “She might’ve been
. I didn’t get a good enough look at her.”
“Could you describe what the man did when he reached for her?” I asked.
I was making sure to keep my questions open-ended so he wouldn’t be able to claim later that I’d “confused” or cornered him.
Yamaguchi stared at the wall over my shoulder for a moment before responding. “I was on the sidewalk, just outside my bank. I caught a fast movement out of the corner of my eye. He kind of lunged and grabbed the lady at the same time,” Yamaguchi said, frowning as he pictured the scene. “And he seemed pissed off—”
“Could you see his face?” I asked.
“No. But that’s what it felt like to me, so I guess maybe it was the way he reached for her. He grabbed on to her elbow like this—”
Yamaguchi tried to shoot his hand out to demonstrate, forgetting it was chained to his waist. The motion jerked the chain taut with a loud clank but stopped just a few inches from his waist. His face registered shock for a brief moment.
“Did he actually manage to put his hand on her elbow?” I asked.
“Yeah. That’s why I thought he might be trying to hurt her, so I knocked his arm down, like this.”
Yamaguchi did his best to show us what he’d done. As he carefully lifted his hand and brought it down in a karate-chopping motion, I could see the muscles in his forearm bunch and move. That would’ve been one powerful hit.
“Did you see any weapon on the homeless man?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “For some reason, I never even thought about it. Stupid, huh?” he said, his expression puzzled. “The guy coulda shivved me right there. Matter of fact, I heard afterward that he had a box cutter—”
“But you didn’t see any box cutter at the time?” I said evenly.
This was a critical point. If he admitted he hadn’t seen the box cutter, he’d be hard-pressed to later claim that the killing was done in self-defense. I half expected Walter to jump in here and keep Yamaguchi from answering, but he sat quietly.
Yamaguchi said, “No, I didn’t. I just saw the guy grab that lady’s elbow, and I reacted. It wasn’t like I had a chance to give it a whole lot of thought, it was just a reflex, you know?”
“You have any training in martial arts?” I asked.
Walter stepped in. “I don’t see the relevance of that.” He turned to his client. “Ronald, I’m advising you not to answer that.”
Yamaguchi looked at Walter, confused. “Why? I thought the whole point was to be up front about everything. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Walter paused for a beat, then nodded and sat back. He waved his hand. “Go ahead.”
Ronald continued. “I’ve got a black belt in tae kwon do.”
“I had a feeling,” I said. “Okay, so you knocked the guy’s arm down. What did he do? Did he turn on you?”
I was giving him another chance to claim self-defense.
“No.” He stopped and was silent for a moment. “I pretty much came at him out of the blue. He just stood there, like, in shock. But I don’t know what happened after that, because as soon as I saw his arm drop and I could see the lady was out of reach, I took off.”
If Yamaguchi was telling the truth, it meant that regardless of who the killer was, the stabbing certainly hadn’t been done to defend anyone. This was a murder.
15
I moved in to nail down the point.
“What do you mean, ‘the lady was out of reach’?”
“She took off running,” he replied. “I remember thinking there was no way he was gonna get to her again. She moved fast, and the sidewalk was packed, you know?” He shook his head. “I can promise you I wouldn’t have taken off if it’d looked like she was still in danger.”
I heard the note of pride in his voice.
“The tae kwon do came in handy,” I remarked.
He dipped his head and gave me a modest smile. “All those classes. I always hoped I’d get the chance to help someone.”
And this was his reward. A cell in the county jail. But Ronald had uttered the words without a trace of irony. Though it definitely hadn’t turned out well for him, he knew he had saved that dark-haired woman and he didn’t regret it.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t the stabber. I moved on.
“Did you see where she went?”
Again Yamaguchi stopped and thought. If he was pulling an act, I had to admit it was a good one.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s all kind of a blur, it happened so fast. All I know is that after I hit his arm, he stopped, she moved away, and it seemed like everyone was okay. So I took off.” Yamaguchi looked at me, his expression open, earnest.
There was something so…off about this case. The pieces weren’t fitting into any logical pattern. Or at least not one I could see at this point. I rubbed my aching neck and shoulders, and moved on to the next subject.
“So the victim was standing and unharmed when you left the area?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where did you go?”
“Back to work,” Yamaguchi replied. “I work at a spa in Little Tokyo on First near San Pedro Street. I’m a masseur—”
It wasn’t conscious, but I guess my reaction showed on my face. I’d heard that some of those “spas” were just fronts for prostitution.
Yamaguchi continued, his tone firm. “It’s a real spa and I’m a real masseur. And you could use some help,” he said, nodding at my hand, which was at that moment kneading the rigid muscles in my neck. I dropped my hand, busted.
“But you went back to the scene. Why?” I asked.
Yamaguchi sighed and looked down at the floor. We all sat silently, waiting. Finally Walter spoke up. “Ronald, you’ve gone this far. There’s no point in holding back now.”
Intrigued, I leaned forward.
Yamaguchi nodded but pressed his lips together. After another minute, he spoke. “One of my regulars is a cop. He was on the table when the call came in on his radio, and when I heard the location I realized it might be the homeless guy I’d just seen. He ran out when he got the call, and I decided to go look.” Yamaguchi held his hands out, palms up, as far as the chain would allow and shrugged. “Just curiosity, I guess.”
His story was just weird enough to have the ring of truth. But we weren’t quite done yet.
“First of all, I’d like the name of that cop,” I said. “If he corroborates your story, it’ll go a long way toward getting you out of here.”
Yamaguchi shook his head. “If it gets out that he was getting a massage while he was on duty, he’ll be in big trouble. He’s a good customer. I can’t do that to him.”
I was impressed by his reluctance to dump out the cop—assuming it was the truth. What I’d need to do is talk to the officer on the down low, promise not to let anyone else know about his “afternoon delight,” and see if he would corroborate Yamaguchi’s story. But I’d need Bailey’s okay first, because we’d be hiding evidence of an officer’s dereliction of duty. That meant there was no point in pressing the issue right now.
“You know they found blood on the sleeve of your jacket,” I said. “You have an explanation for it?”
The working assumption had been that it was the victim’s blood, and Stoner had submitted the jacket for testing as soon as Yamaguchi was arrested, but the lab hadn’t given us any results yet.
“I don’t,” Yamaguchi said, his expression distressed. “It couldn’t have been much, or I’d have noticed it.” He frowned to himself. “It was just a drop or something, right?” he asked Bailey.
Bailey shrugged, noncommittal. “Big or small, the point is, you don’t remember cutting yourself at all that day, right?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” he replied. “But no, I have no memory of it.”
It impressed me that he wasn’t trying to give us a cover story. This was yet another answer that’d come back to bite him if he suddenly remembered at trial that he’d had a shaving accident. The fact that Walte
r was letting us pin him down this way told me he must really be thinking this guy is innocent. Still, Walter wouldn’t be the first lawyer to be suckered by his client. I decided to continue with the last point.
“From what I hear, you had a lot to say about the homeless—none of it good. Want to explain the rant you got into with the arresting officer?”
For the first time since the interview began, Yamaguchi reddened and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I waited without comment, letting the silence build. Sometimes silence is the best interrogator.
“That was…unfortunate,” Yamaguchi said slowly, his eyes focused downward at a point on the table. “We’ve been having a real hard time at work because some of the homeless guys can be…pretty aggressive. They’ve been scaring off customers, especially the women.” He paused. “This economy, things are already so tough. We lose many more customers, we’ll fold.” He shook his head. “When I went to the bank that day, I’d made the smallest weekly deposit ever. I was in a pretty bad mood.” Yamaguchi stopped, realizing what he’d said, then looked at me steadily. “But I’d never kill someone. Never. And I didn’t kill that guy.”
I watched him as I returned his gaze. I decided to test the waters some more. “You willing to take a poly?”
“Sure,” Yamaguchi immediately replied.
At that same instant, Walter erupted, “No! I do not trust those things, and I will not allow it.”
Frankly, for my own reasons, I didn’t trust them either. If Yamaguchi was a real martial artist, he might be able to control his breathing and galvanic responses enough to pass, or at least to give an inconclusive result. Maybe Yamaguchi knew that too. But if that were the case, I would’ve expected him to bring up the idea of taking a poly first, not to wait to see if I did. The fact that he hadn’t, and that he’d readily agreed to take it, meant either he was the slickest con artist ever or he really was innocent and eager to prove it.