“And how involved is he in these proceedings?” Christian asked.
“He does the prep work. Talks to the client, does the legal research, talks to the doctors who are treating the patient. He doesn’t represent them in court, of course, because he can’t yet. But he does the legwork.”
Christian put his hand to his chin and looked at the email. “Let’s start there,” he said. “Your brother is a friendly guy. He might have made a friend there at the mental institution during one of his visits to the hospital. Maybe somebody who he might chat with about what’s going on in his life, and perhaps he casually mentioned that you were going to hire me. It’s worth a shot to think about.”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling apprehensive. I couldn’t imagine Aidan chit-chatting about me with a mental patient, but, then again, maybe he would do something like that. “But how would a mental patient have access to a computer to do something like this?”
“That I don’t know,” Christian said. “To my knowledge, people who are involuntarily committed to a hospital don’t have access to computers, let alone Wi-Fi. But it’s still worth thinking about.”
“What about Esme herself?” I asked. “She knows about your working with me for sure. Maybe she inadvertently told somebody about your being my second-chair, and that person is the one who is threatening me.”
Christian and I brainstormed ideas until 1 PM, at which time I had to rush to get to court for one of my robbery clients. Chanel McMillan had held up a liquor store because she was desperate to get money to feed her addiction. She had since gotten clean, but she still had the robbery charge hanging over her head. I took her case because I had a great deal of sympathy for her – I knew women like her in prison, a lot of women like her. Women who were great people who did stupid things while in the throes of an active addiction. This robbery charge was Chanel’s first arrest for anything at all, and I was determined to get as light of a sentence as possible for her.
Christian and I had gotten no closer to finding out who the mysterious “X” was, but we had some good ideas on where to start on where to find out who it was.
Chapter 17
Regina
Regina had finally managed to track down the elusive Julian Rodriguez. She had gone to the address that Juan had given her originally, and found that that house was abandoned. From there, it was a matter of talking to Julian’s neighbors, until one finally talked to her and told her where Julian had moved to. She went to that address, the address that the neighbor gave her, and he wasn’t living there, either.
His social media had gone dark in the past few months. He used to be quite an active poster to Instagram, Facebook and Twitter, but, in the past few months, there had been nothing. No postings at all.
She finally managed to find out that Julian was back in the hospital. He was in a mental health facility in La Mesa. He had apparently had another acute episode with his bi-polar disorder, according to a lady she spoke with who was living close to the neighborhood where Julian had moved to.
“He was running naked through the streets, screaming at the top of his lungs,” Anna Kent told Regina. Anna was currently a neighbor in his new apartment where he had moved. The apartment complex was in La Mesa, a suburb of San Diego, and was a dark brick building that resembled a motel. The apartments faced a courtyard in the middle, and each apartment was next door to one another in a neat row, ground floor and second floor, with a small sidewalk connecting all the apartments. Julian’s apartment was on the second floor, and Anna was right next door.
“Why was he doing that?” Regina asked. “And what was he saying?”
“He apparently went a little bit crazy one night,” she said. “I don’t know, I know the guy, I don’t think that he does drugs, but he sure was acting strangely that night. I saw him earlier in the evening, and he talked to me a little bit, but what he was saying was incoherent. I asked him a question, and he responded by telling me about how Vincent van Gogh was persecuted for his beliefs.”
“What question did you ask him?” Regina asked. That was weird, to respond to a simple question by talking about van Gogh’s persecution. Regina wasn’t aware that van Gogh had any controversial beliefs, let alone that he was persecuted for them.
“I literally just made small talk with him,” she said. “You know, you see a neighbor, you don’t want to be unfriendly to him. And it’s not like I can really avoid him if I’m coming out of my apartment to go to my car, and he’s going to his place. I had to pass by him on the way to the stairs. I think that I just pretty much asked him how he was doing. You know, small talk. What do you think about this weather, do you think it’s gonna rain, that kind of thing. It wasn’t an important question, but he responded by telling me how similar he was to Vincent van Gogh because he was persecuted for his beliefs, just like van Gogh. I thought that that was very odd. To say the very least.”
“Have you seen him since? Have you talked to him at all?”
“No. I haven’t. I’ve heard around that he might have gone into a behavioral management facility.”
“By behavioral management facility, you mean nuthouse, right?”
“Yeah. That’s what I mean. Obviously. I don’t know which one though. And even if I knew which one, I don’t think that you would be able to talk to him. My mother was in one of those facilities, and I know what kind of a strict protocol they keep.” She seemed to be mildly offended by Regina’s use of the term “nuthouse,” as many people were.
Regina silently kicked herself, wishing that her mouth had a bit more filter than it did. But it didn’t, and that was just her. Her words flew out of her mouth before she could even engage her brain.
“Thanks for your help. And I’m sorry about using the derogatory term for a mental health facility. Obviously, I didn’t know that your mother had issues as well.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I’m not offended. I’ve heard that from people for most my life. If I got mad every time somebody called a mental health facility a nuthouse, I would be in a state of perpetual anger. Anyhow, I wish you luck with trying to talk to him. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know if you would be able to talk to him even if you found him.”
Well, Regina thought. This is another dead end. But maybe she could make the best of it.
Maybe there would be a way to find out where he was, and not only that, go and talk to him.
She was just going to have to think outside the box.
Chapter 18
Avery
Christian and I headed over to the Whitmore mansion the very next day. I had made an appointment with Jacob and Colleen to speak with them about their daughter’s death.
At first, neither of the people wanted to talk to me. Which was always the problem with not being able to subpoena people for depositions. Obviously, you don’t know a witness is going to be material unless you speak with them. And, if you can’t prove that witness is material, then you can’t subpoena the person for trial. Which is why, as I understood it, some states had the option to subpoena people for depositions prior to trial. California was not one of those states, as you pretty much had to show that the person would not be available for trial for one reason or another in order to subpoena that person for a deposition, and you have to have a court order.
So I was very happy that both Jacob and Colleen were willing to speak with me. I supposed that they probably had it in their head that if things fell through with the Esme case, they would be the prime suspect. Maybe they wanted to get ahead of it. I didn’t blame them for that if that was the case.
We went in Christian’s car. It was a brand-new Tesla, two-seater, red and sporty. I had to smile. Such a yuppie car, and, I had to admit, Christian was a yuppie kind of guy.
“Nice car,” I said. Then I had to rib him just a little bit. “Are you sure you want to come work for me? I mean, I’m not sure if I can keep you in the manner of luxury to which you’ve been accustomed.”
I got in and fastened my
seatbelt, and Christian grinned at me. “Don’t forget that our arrangement is just my second-chairing this one case for you. Granted, it is a huge case, but I’ve already got some clients of my own lined up for next week. I’m thinking that I would like to not just focus on criminal defense, but I might also go the personal-injury route. I was talking to Alex, she does a lot of medical malpractice cases, and she told me that she can give me some good referrals for other kinds of personal injury cases. Products liability, class actions, train accidents, things like that.”
He stretched out a little bit before putting his hand on the leather steering wheel. “I have to tell you, I feel so much freedom doing this job. When I was working at my old job, I really felt like I couldn’t breathe. That’s how I felt – like I couldn’t breathe. I mean, I couldn’t even have a dog at home. Hell, I couldn’t even have a cat at home. Or a hamster, parakeet, or anything like that. Maybe some fish – but any other animal, I wouldn’t have been able to take care of it. Now, it’s just a matter of me coming home at 6 o’clock, and taking care of whatever pet I decide to have. I haven’t quite decided that yet, though.”
“Let me suggest that you look into getting in a boxer dog. I know how much you get along with my pups Harlow and Lola. You’re really good with them.”
We drove down the highway, heading towards the Coronado Bridge. The Coronado Bridge was what connected the mainland of San Diego to the so-called island of Coronado. It was a so-called island, because it really wasn’t. It was more of a peninsula, connected to the mainland of San Diego by a thin strand called the Silver Strand. There was a ferry that ran from Coronado to the Bay every 15 minutes or so, so there were three different ways of getting onto the “island.”
The “island” itself was a quaint and tony little enclave. The main drag was Orange Ave, which was a boulevard that was lined on both sides with storefronts of every kind. The traffic was horrendous because the streets were so narrow and there were always cars lined up on either side of the boulevard. At one time, Coronado was mainly a naval base and many of the navy men lived in the houses around the island. In fact, on the beach where everybody hung out, there was a Navy base right next to it. The planes would fly in so low over the heads of the beachgoers that you could not fly a kite on Coronado Beach. Literally. Kite flying was not allowed.
What was allowed, at least on part of the beach, were dogs. There was an off-leash dog beach that was right next to the Coronado Navy base, and I really enjoyed taking Lola and Harlow down there on a regular basis. They would gallop, run and chase each other while making new friends, while I would put my toes in the water, thinking about how nice it was that I would be able to have the kind of freedom to have my toes in the sand. At one time, I despaired that I would ever have that kind of freedom again.
On the way to Jacob’s home, I thought of Becky and about the mysterious person who had written me. I wondered if he was just trying to freak me out. I wasn’t alarmed that he knew about Becky. Everybody knew about her. When I got on the case, there were all kinds of news stories about me, in just about every major publication there was. It was a big deal, I guess, that I was a former prisoner who was now defending people. Ever since I had gotten out of prison and went to Harvard, there had been interest in me. There were some offers to make a movie about my life for TruTV, but I rejected these offers because I had no desire to have my personal life splashed onscreen for everyone to see.
But my involvement in this case made it to where my personal life was splashed for everyone to talk about, anyhow. So the fact that my best friend had been murdered, and I was in prison for her murder, was common knowledge amongst the people at large. So the fact that this mysterious X person, whoever he was, knew about Becky’s murder, did not disturb me.
What did disturb me, or maybe it intrigued me, was this person’s statement that he knew who killed her. I was sure it was just him trying to pique my curiosity, trying to torture me really, but what if he really did know about it? How would I even find this guy?
And was this guy, whoever he is, somehow tied to the Esme Gutierrez case? Did he maybe have some kind of information about that case as well? Maybe he knew who did it. That was why he was telling me to back off. He wanted Esme to have a court-appointed attorney, so she would be less likely to win the case. If she got convicted, obviously the cops would not continue to look for the real culprit. That would make sense – maybe this guy was trying to throw me off my game so that I lost. At least, I hoped that it was something as simple as that, because if he really was a deranged psycho, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.
We finally arrived at the Whitmore mansion, which was actually just one of many homes for the family. At least, that was what I understood. They apparently had houses all over the world, including a penthouse in Manhattan. This house was one of the few beach houses on Coronado that actually had a bit of land attached to it. Most of the homes in this neighborhood were quite stately, and worth multi-millions of dollars. There were all kinds of different genres of architecture in the neighborhood, from Cape Cods to Colonial to thoroughly modern, to Spanish style. There was even a house that was in the Queen Anne style that was called the “Baby Del” that was right down the street from the Hotel Del. The “Baby Del” was called that, because it was white with a turret and a red roof, and it resembled a small version of the large and grand hotel.
But one thing I noticed about all these homes was that there was hardly any land for any of them. No real backyard to speak of, and every house was extremely close to one another. It was almost as if one house was built on top of the other. It was somewhat unusual for me to see, because coming from Kansas City, I was used to grand homes having grand lands. Like an acre or more per home. Even the homes in the city always sported a large front yard and backyard. But not Coronado.
The Whitmore mansion was the one exception. It was built on the corner, and the front yard, at least, was enormous. It didn’t have much of a backyard to speak of, but there was an attached guesthouse, and I knew that that was where Aria was found. The judge had given me permission to go ahead and inspect the crime scene as well, so Christian and I were going to head to the guesthouse after we spoke with Jacob and Colleen.
I walked to the gate, and up the sidewalk to the enormous wooden door. I knocked on it, and a lady about 25 years old, blonde and blue-eyed, answered it.
“Hello, you must be Avery and Christian,” she said. It was then that I noticed that she was pregnant. She was wearing a loose-fitting frock, but her baby bump was obvious. At least, I thought it was a baby bump. I wasn’t going to ask her about it, or say “congratulations” or anything like that. It was entirely possible that she was simply a little thick in the middle. I had been embarrassed about making assumptions on more than one occasion, and I was not going to go there again.
I glanced over at Christian, and I knew that he was thinking the same thing. I had told him about what Esme had told me about how Jacob and Colleen needed her as a surrogate, and how she had to sleep with Jacob. I noticed that this maid, or domestic worker, had a thick accent that was much like Esme’s. I wondered if she was in the same situation. I wondered if she was being forced to sleep with Jacob and bear his children. Or his child. I wondered if she was being forced to have abortion after abortion, because Jacob was so obsessed with having another male child.
It would make sense, really. I wouldn’t imagine that Jacob would be satisfied with having just one child. After all, what would happen if something had happened to that child? Maybe the child got sick with cancer and died, or got run over by a car. What then? Jacob would once again be left without a male heir to run his hotel empire. I would imagine that he probably would want an insurance baby, and I wondered if this woman was pregnant with that baby.
The woman led us through the enormous house to a small sitting room that was towards the back of the house. It faced a brick patio that led out into an alley. “Wait right here,” she said. And then she disappeared.
> I whispered to Christian. “So what do you think? Do you think that bun in the oven belongs to Jacob?”
He nodded his head. “If I was a betting man, that’s exactly what I would say. But you and I know better than to jump to conclusions. After all, we’re lawyers. We need to go on the facts and evidence. But my hunch is that that lady is having his insurance baby.”
About 10 minutes later, Jacob came into the sitting room. He was a tall, elegant man. He was in his 70s, but he was obviously very fit. His hair was grey, but it was very thick and wavy. His eyes were blue, and his nose was straight and Roman. When he sat down, he had the bearing of a patrician man. His back was very straight in his chair, his legs were crossed, and I could see that he was wearing loafers and no socks. He looked like he wanted to be drinking a spot of tea with us, but he didn’t. Instead, he brought out some brandy in a crystal decanter, and poured a glass for himself. And then he looked at the two of us.
“Would you like a spot?” he asked us.
I shook my head, because I didn’t like to drink on the job. But Christian nudged me, and I thought that he was probably trying to tell me that I would be rude if I said no. So I nodded my head. Then Jacob poured both of us a glass. “Rocks or neat?”
“Rocks, please,” I said.
“Neat for me,” Christian said.
Jacob nodded his head. He poured the two glasses, and handed them to both of us. “Now, what would you like to ask me?”
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