by Marcia Clark
“To be ashamed of? Maybe not, but I am. And Dale knows that. That’s why he told you not to talk to me. Because he knew it’d put all my history out there and how much I’d hate that.” Bobbi looked out the window for a long moment. Then she took a deep breath and set her jaw. “But I’ll do it. If you need me, if it’ll help at all, I’ll do whatever I can.”
It was a noble sacrifice, and if I got desperate enough, I might ask her to make it. The client’s welfare comes first. But not yet. It wasn’t worth what it’d cost Bobbi. It would’ve been good to have a civilian—a woman—say nice things about Dale, but I could already hear Amanda Trace claiming that Bobbi had either been threatened or bought off to get her to whitewash her ex-husband.
“As of now, I don’t see the need to put you through that. But just to give you fair warning, I might later on.”
She gave me a wan smile. “I’ll try not to skip town.”
So much for Bobbi being my leaker. But she might have some ideas about who it was. “You’ve seen the stories about Jenny Knox? The prostitute?”
“Yeah. Any clue who leaked that rape charge yet? That was really shitty.”
“It is, and I don’t. Do you have any ideas?”
Bobbi blew out a breath. “I’ve got thousands of ’em. The LAPD is a big ocean with lots of little fish who wouldn’t mind making some extra money. But I don’t know of anyone in particular.” Bobbi sighed. “You know, Dale’s a good guy. I don’t believe he raped that prostitute. And I really doubt that he killed her.” She looked at me steadily. “Just in case you were wondering.”
I could tell she believed that. And I wanted to believe it, too. But it was just an opinion. I smiled. “Good to hear.”
“Sure. But just between you and me, Chloe had to be about the worst choice in the world for him.”
I looked at her, confused.
“Because of the drugs.” Bobbi gave me a meaningful look. “Dale’s mother.”
“But she’s dead. Isn’t she?”
“Yeah. Of an overdose. She took a header down the stairs and messed up her spine when Dale and his sister were young—maybe ten, eleven years old? They put her on painkillers and she got addicted. She OD’d right after Dale graduated from high school. The insurance payout put Dale through college for a couple of years.”
And when the insurance money ran out and he had to get a job—my mother left him. “Then his issue with drugs isn’t just a cop thing.”
“No, it’s personal. He really has zero tolerance. And apart from that, he has one heck of a temper.”
“How bad?” I searched Bobbi’s face. “Did he ever—”
“No, he never hit me. But he’d hit the walls, kick the furniture. It could get scary. Especially because it’d come out of nowhere. He’d be okay one second, and in the next he’d just explode. So when I heard Chloe had a drug problem and they’d been fighting about it that night, I thought . . .” Bobbi shrugged.
“He might’ve done it.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
For a few moments there, I’d started to think I was wrong about Dale. I sighed. “Me, too.”
FORTY-ONE
I didn’t know whether I was glad I’d met Bobbi—though I supposed it was best to know all I could about Dale, for a lot of reasons. But I did know I felt sorry for her, and I liked her. And I was relieved to find out she didn’t hate Dale. Unfortunately, that only made her suspicions about his guilt that much more credible. If she’d hated Dale, I could’ve dismissed it as ex-spouse bitterness.
But Bobbi obviously still loved him—more than that, she still liked him. And I could see why. Flash-point temper or no, he’d been there for her in every possible way. And he still was. Even now, when he was facing life in prison—when anyone could be expected to get a little selfish—he’d put her needs first. So to hear even someone like Bobbi say she thought Dale might be guilty was a real gut shot.
It didn’t stop me from working night and day on his case. Nothing short of his televised confession could do that. But it was one more thing weighing on me. On all of us. And time was running out. I couldn’t afford to chase any more dead ends.
So when Michelle said she had a call from an inmate at Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street who claimed he had something that’d be “super important” to me, I told her to have him write me a letter. I had just three days to go before we started jury selection, and I had a stack of two hundred juror questionnaires to read. I wasn’t about to waste a minute on some goofball who was looking for a free ride.
But Michelle told me to take it, that I needed the break. “Besides, he’s only got five minutes left on his call.”
I sighed and picked up. “Samantha Brinkman. Remember this call is being monitored—”
His voice was high and pressured. “Yeah, I know. You’re the lawyer for that cop dude who killed those girls, right?”
“For that cop who’s charged with killing those girls—”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m Scott Henderson, prisoner number 1011432. I’m in for possession for sale of coke. I need you to take my case—”
“Why don’t you get the public defender—”
“’Cause you’re better, and I’ve got something you need.”
“Write me a letter. If it works out, I’ll substitute in—”
His voice got even higher. “I don’t have time. I’ve got a lot of enemies in here. You’ve gotta get me out. And trust me, you’ll want to jump on what I have.”
The recording came on saying this call was being monitored. I looked at my phone. We had only one minute left. I was sure this wasn’t worth my time. But I did have to go see Dale. I’d been sending Alex to keep him company for the past two weeks. It was more than my turn, so I’d be in the neighborhood. But visiting prisoners was a huge time suck. I didn’t want to commit. “Maybe I’ll come by later today.”
“Don’t tell anyone you’re coming to see me.”
I sighed. “Scott, you already did.”
There was a beat of silence. “Oh.”
It was eleven o’clock. I decided to spend the next hour getting started on the juror questionnaires and leave for Twin Towers at noon. But after I’d gotten through the first ten, I thought I saw an alarming trend.
I quickly checked the first page of the next fifty questionnaires. I was right. Almost all of the jurors were in their twenties. That never happens. The twentysomethings are working, or they have little kids, or they’re in school—or all of the above. They don’t have time to sit in court all day.
That’s why older, retired people always dominate jury pools. Plus, older folks are more inclined to feel like they should do their civic duty. And usually, they’re the bane of my existence. If this were any other case, I would’ve been in heaven with this jury pool. But in this case, with a cop as my client, I needed those senior citizens. They had a more benign view of cops. And they’d been my best hope.
By noon, that hope was dead. I fumed to Michelle about it as I packed up to leave for Twin Towers. “That friggin’ jury commissioner must’ve sent the summons to every college campus in LA County.”
Alex offered to go downtown with me, but I needed him to keep working on the questionnaires. I had him and Michelle looking through them so I could get their feedback. The more eyes the better. “Dale’s seen enough of you. This is just a hand-holding session anyway.”
And thanks to Alex, who’d been doing all the driving, Beulah had a full tank of gas. So I had a shot at making it downtown and back before I had to refuel. More luck, the traffic gods were with me. I flew down the freeway and got there in record time.
But the multitiered parking lot was packed. I couldn’t find a space till I got to the top level. Even that was pretty crowded. So it really chapped my butt to see a silver Bentley parked diagonally across three spaces. “Asshole,” I muttered under my breath as I got out of the car. Then I saw the personalized license plate, A1 LAWYER, and realized I knew this particular asshole. Sherman E. Cr
oss was a high-priced loudmouth with an elephant-size ego and a pellet-size brain. He was the reason lawyers should never be allowed to advertise. Thanks to his ubiquitous TV ads, billboards, and bus benches, he’d managed to bilk millions out of unsuspecting clients who largely got sold down the river. Jerks like this are proof that there is no justice.
But seeing his license plate gave me an idea. A way to make Sherman E. give back. I went to my car, fished my shaver out of the glove box, and took out the razor blade. I looked around to make sure there were no surveillance cameras or anyone else nearby, then strolled casually over to the Bentley. After one last look around, I knelt down and scraped off the registration stickers. I’d probably need to use Scotch tape to make them stick to my plate. But that was one less bill I had to worry about. I smiled as I slipped the stickers into my wallet.
In a much better mood than I’d expected to be, I decided I might as well go visit the coke dealer first and get it out of the way.
Scott Henderson was the only inmate I’d ever seen who managed to walk on his toes in those ankle-to-waist chains. I watched him roll down the hallway in a side-to-side lope, his long blond hair swinging. He was tall and slender, with a mustache and short beard. He reminded me of Ted Neeley in Jesus Christ Superstar.
The deputies plopped him down in the chair across from me and locked his handcuffs and ankle cuffs to the ring on the floor. As they left, the heavier-set deputy told me we had twenty minutes.
I figured that should be more than enough time, but I didn’t want Scott to think he had time to dawdle. “I’ve got somewhere else to be, so talk fast.”
He snorted back what sounded like a wad of phlegm and licked his lips, which looked cracked and dry. “Okay, uh, here’s the thing. If I tell you I did something that’s, like, a crime, you can’t tell anyone, right?”
I looked at him steadily. I knew I couldn’t possibly get lucky enough to have him confess to the murders. But just in case, I had to let him know that I couldn’t keep that confidential. I had a preexisting relationship with Dale, and I had a duty to present any evidence that would help him. “Depends on what the crime is.”
Scott swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “It involves those girls.”
My heart thudded in my chest. Had the incredible happened? Had I really gotten that lucky? I wanted so badly to hear him tell me he’d done it—for so many reasons. My emotions warred with my ethics for a long moment. But I couldn’t do it to him. It wasn’t right. “If you’re about to confess to the murders, I’m afraid I can’t keep that confidential, so I’d advise you—”
His eyes flew open. “What now? No!” He shook his head so hard his hair got stuck on his beard. “I never killed nobody.”
I’d had a moment of such intense hope it took me a few seconds to recover from the crash landing. “You had nothing to do with the murders?”
He tilted his head back and sniffed hard. “No way. I wasn’t even in LA County when that went down.” He looked at me impatiently. “So now can I tell you?” I nodded. “I was the one who did the burglary. I ripped off that jewelry.”
I stared at him.
“They had a nice flat-screen, but I couldn’t get that thing out of there—”
“So you grabbed the jewelry. I get it. Did you pawn it?”
“Fenced it. Got about five thousand for it.”
“Which means it was probably worth about fifteen.”
Scott shrugged. “Whatever. It was safer than a pawnshop. Really boosted my business—for a while, anyway.” Scott had a dreamy look on his face as he relived better times.
Those times were probably what landed him in Men’s Central Jail. “Can we cut to the chase? What do you think you have for me?”
“I also took a cell phone.”
“From where?”
“From the top drawer of that girl’s dresser. The one where I found the jewelry. I kept it—thought I might be able to use it. Then I forgot about it. But after I got busted, I saw you on television in the day room, and I remembered about that phone. I got to thinking maybe you could use it.”
And then he could use me. “What was on it?”
Scott sniffed and wiped his nose on his forearm. “Don’t know. I never looked. Maybe phone numbers or something.”
I thought about that. He’d found it in Paige’s dresser. It had to be an extra phone, one Paige didn’t use anymore. Zack had given me the cell-phone records for the phone the police had found—the one she did use—and they went back for more than a year. The likelihood that an old phone would have anything of critical importance was slim. But I didn’t think I could afford to pass up the chance to look.
He leaned forward and dipped his head to my eye level. “What do you say, Ms. Brinkman? Will you do it?”
“What’re you in here for?”
It turned out to be a routine car bust. Traffic stop, cop sees white powder on the console, cop calls K-9 unit, dog alerts, they find five grams of cocaine under the passenger seat. I probably couldn’t bitch about the search, but five grams wasn’t that much. I should be able to get the DA to break it down to straight possession.
I asked about his priors. Clients never get this right. It’s always “I got almost nothing. I think they busted me for joyriding once when I was fifteen, then I got busted a year ago for pot. That’s about it.” Then I check the rap sheet and find robberies, a burglary, and an attempted murder.
So while I hoped he could give me some idea of what I was up against, I wasn’t about to take his word for it. Much as I wanted to see what was on that phone, it wasn’t worth getting into bed with Pablo Escobar.
Scott frowned and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair for a moment. “I’m pretty sure all I’ve got is a DUI and one pot bust.”
See?
“If that’s right, I’ll substitute in as soon as you get the phone to me.”
He gave another loud honk, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and nodded. “I’ll get it to you today.”
I gave him my office address. “See you later. Maybe.”
FORTY-TWO
I headed to Twin Towers, which was just a couple of blocks away from Men’s Central Jail.
I had a fifteen-minute wait before they brought Dale up, so I texted Michelle and told her to keep an eye out for someone who said he was delivering a package from Scott Henderson. Then I went through my e-mail. I’d just finished deleting my cyber junk mail when they brought Dale out. He still moved a little slower than usual, but he looked much better now. He’d regained most of the weight he’d lost when he was in the infirmary, and his face had filled in somewhat. Just in time for jury selection.
I picked up the phone. “You look good.” I studied his neck and arms. “Still haven’t gotten those tats, though.”
Dale smiled. “My favorite artist got transferred out to Delano. I refuse to settle for anything less than the best.”
“And why should you?” I told him about the Marc witnesses—Golden, Julie, and Ashton—and that we were still trying to track down the photographer, Russell Kitson. “But if he’s not willing to meet in the next day or so, we might have to let that go.”
“Don’t sweat it. I never heard Paige mention him.”
“And I just got a call from someone out of the blue.” I told him about the burglar, Scott Henderson. “Even if he really has Paige’s old phone, I’m not sure we’ll find anything of value on it. But I have to check it out. Hopefully it’ll get dropped off today.”
Dale chuckled and shook his head. “I guess that’s the upside of a high-profile case. All the weirdos come crawling out of the woodwork.”
“How obnoxiously true. Everything okay?”
“So far.” Dale looked into my eyes. “I heard you met Bobbi.”
“She’s really cool.”
“She liked you, too.”
A rush of sadness made my throat tighten.
Dale had a look of concern. “What? Are you okay?”
I stared down at the counter.
Meeting Bobbi had reminded me of the way I’d felt when I was a child. The sadness of meeting my friends’ mothers, wondering why I couldn’t have a mother like that—and inevitably feeling that somehow, it was my fault. I never told anyone about that. But now for some reason, I blurted out, “I guess I couldn’t help thinking . . . all the Bobbis out there, and I get Celeste.” I was shocked to hear the words come out of my mouth. “Please, just ignore my self-pity party. I don’t know what made me say that.”
When Dale spoke, he looked into my eyes, his voice low. “Why do you hate her so much? I’m pretty well aware of Celeste’s shortcomings. Believe me, I’m no fan. But it’s not like she abandoned you—”
In that moment, something snapped. A flame of anger seared through me. “How the hell would you know?”
Dale looked stricken. “What happened? Tell me. Please.”
I’d never intended to tell anyone about it. But for some reason, the dam that’d held back the memories broke. “I was twelve. I’d just finished seventh grade. That’s when Celeste met her ultimate dream guy. Sebastian Cromer. He owned a string of real estate agencies—Cromer and Associates. They’re all over Southern California—”
“I’ve heard of them. He sold her a house?”
“No. She was a real estate agent. She worked at the branch in Studio City. She was doing pretty well but not nearly well enough. You know Celeste; she wanted the huge bucks, not the ‘good enough’ bucks. And she’d never planned to work for it.”
Dale sighed. “I’m very familiar with her life plan.”
“So even though the guy was, like, a thousand years old and she was thirty-two, when he asked her out she thought she’d died and gone to heaven. I hated the guy from jump. I told Celeste there was something creepy about him. But she wouldn’t listen. She dragged me to his mansion in Bel Air practically every friggin’ weekend. And after just one month, we moved in.”
Dale lifted his eyebrows. “One month?”
I nodded. “In late August. I remember because school started two weeks later. I’d always been a straight-A student. But by November, I was flunking just about every class except art. I got busted three times for having ecstasy, pot, and Jack Daniel’s in my locker. But you checked my background. You didn’t see any juvie history on me, did you?”