State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

  Santiago pretended as if he was doing just that—aiming his hands at Ortega’s face. The attorney was not impressed. “So what about your threats against Crawford?”

  “Just empty words, man,” Santiago said tonelessly. “I said what I felt at the time, but it don’t mean I spent the last twelve years of my life just waiting to get out to do in the judge and bang his woman.”

  Perhaps not, considered Ortega. Or, he may have done just that, putting the suspect in the unenviable position he was in at the moment. It would ultimately be up to the courts to decide.

  And his skills as an attorney.

  “I’ll do what I can to help you, Rafael,” he said honestly. “All I ask is that you be straight with me all the way. Deal?”

  For the first time Santiago grinned. “Deal.”

  Ortega reached across the table and shook the prisoner’s hand. It was cold as ice, much like his eyes. Was that an indication that this one was slated to be a frigid case all the way?

  “Can you get me outta here, man?” Santiago looked at him without blinking, as if he believed it was truly possible.

  Ortega was all business when he stood and said, “The arraignment is Monday. It’s highly unlikely there will be any bail for you.”

  “Why not?” Santiago’s jaw dropped. “What about innocent till proven guilty?”

  He was serious. Ortega raised a brow. “You’ve already been down this road,” he advised. “I’m afraid all ex cons are presumed guilty until proven innocent.”

  Santiago seemed to have trouble digesting his situation. Ortega found this bizarre, considering he highly doubted the man would be able to raise the money anyhow for what could only be a bail well out of his reach.

  “The most we can hope for is that adequate security will be in place at the courthouse,” Ortega told his client candidly. “After all, we are talking about the murder of a popular judge. And many people can be unforgiving—”

  He wondered if Rafael Santiago was one of those people.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stone read the autopsy report. The victim, Adrienne Murray, had been strangled, crushing her windpipe. She had also been beaten, stabbed repeatedly, raped, and sodomized. There was semen inside her, along with strands of hair, presumably from her attacker’s pubic area. She had also been worked over pretty good. This usually indicated more than a stranger attack. It was almost always personal when the victim was beaten up. Almost as if to punish her for the rage of the one who wanted her dead.

  “Here’s a list of all the people who work in the building,” Chang provided, sliding it across Stone’s desk. “Can’t say there’s anything unusual here. Not even a criminal record amongst them.”

  “Some criminals don’t have records,” Stone muttered, admitting to himself that it didn’t look to be an inside job. But looks could be deceiving. “Dig deeper,” he ordered just to be on the safe side in leaving no stones unturned. “Check out everyone and anyone who may have been associated or involved with employees there—boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, sons, whatever... Maybe we’ll get lucky—”

  Unlike Adrienne Murray.

  Chang frowned. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “That’s what we’re paid for, man,” Stone reminded him. Few cases were as cut and dried as often portrayed on TV cop shows. Usually just the opposite.

  Chang rubbed his nose. “Whoever killed Adrienne Murray is probably someone she ran into in the park,” he suggested. “That’s where we should be concentrating our efforts.”

  Stone was not about to be told how to conduct an investigation. Not when, as the lead detective on the case, it was mainly his neck on the line if he failed to make an arrest for Adrienne Murray’s murder. Or worse, set their sights on the wrong perpetrator. But he also wanted to keep the peace with his partner.

  “Why don’t we try this my way first, Chang,” he said, holding his gaze. “My gut tells me that what we’re looking for is right before our eyes. We just have to find the connection and go from there.”

  Chang gave him a pacifying nod before heading out the door. Stone stopped him when he said, “Oh, one other thing... Have someone check out the pawnshops in town. Adrienne was wearing an expensive wedding and engagement ring, along with a Seiko watch. All were missing when her body was found. We have a photograph of her wearing these. Shouldn’t be too hard to make a match if we find them. Maybe her killer decided to try and sell the jewelry.”

  It was a long shot. The rings and watch could have somehow found their way to the bottom of the lake. Or Adrienne could have taken them off when she went jogging, in spite of Chuck’s insistence otherwise. The fact was, they weren’t found amongst the victim’s possessions at work or in her car.

  * * *

  That afternoon Stone was visited by an attractive young woman named Erica Flanagan, who claimed to be Adrienne Murray’s best friend.

  “How can I help you?” Stone feigned disinterest, but it was just the opposite.

  “I’m here to see what you’re doing about bringing Adrienne’s killer to justice.”

  Stone surveyed the tall woman. She had shoulder length black hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and a petulant pout. A hand was rested precariously on her hip. Her leather outfit was something he could imagine his daughter Carla wearing, to his discontentment.

  “The investigation is ongoing,” he told her politely. “If there’s something you know about Ms. Murray’s death, I’d be happy to hear it.”

  Erica looked as if she were ready to explode. “I know her husband had something to do with Adrienne’s death,” she said without preamble.

  Stone reacted to the passion in which she spat this out. “What makes you think Murray had anything to do with his wife’s murder?” he asked bluntly.

  Erica rolled her eyes. “Because Chuck was insanely jealous of her. He thought Adrienne was sleeping around with every man she knew. And even those she didn’t know. He wanted to know everything Adrienne did, who she did it with, where she went for lunch at work, what she had to eat—everything! He even followed her around sometimes to make sure Adrienne did exactly what she told him she was doing—”

  “That definitely sounds obsessive,” acknowledged Stone, “maybe even sick. But that doesn’t prove Chuck Murray wanted his wife dead. Or that he murdered her.” It has gotten my attention, though, and speaks of possible motive.

  “What other proof do you need?” Erica’s lower lip dropped. “The man is crazy. He threatened Adrienne all the time...told her that if she ever even thought about leaving him, he would kill her.”

  Stone propped his elbows on the desk. “Did she take these threats seriously?”

  “Adrienne was scared to death of him,” Erica insisted.

  “Did she ever consider leaving him?”

  “A thousand times. But each time she would back off for fear of what he might do.”

  Stone chewed on his lip. Very interesting and disturbing, if true. He could imagine Murray having a psychological and physical hold over his wife, fearing the possibility of losing her and deciding he couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “Was Murray physically abusing Adrienne?” he asked, recalling the multiple bruises found on her body. The assumption had been that most were very recent and likely caused by her assailant. But what if some had come before the attack?

  “She tried to deny it,” Erica said, “but many times she would show up at my house with black eyes and purple blotches on her arms and legs. She always said that she had bumped into a wall or tripped over her own two feet.”

  “But you didn’t believe it?”

  “Would you?” she sneered.

  Not in a million years. Stone had witnessed firsthand his father abusing his mother. In those days it was considered strictly a family issue. Hence, no one else knew about it and those who did weren’t talking. But there was no place for domestic violence in today’s world, even if it continued to happen.

  Stone was beginning to believe that Chuck wa
s a wife beater and a bully. Was he also a rapist? And murderer?

  “Was Adrienne having an affair?” he asked.

  Erica practically jumped from her chair. “No way!” she exclaimed. “She wouldn’t have dared cheat on him. Adrienne was too afraid for her life to ever consider being with another man.”

  “How about a woman?” Stone couldn’t rule out that she could have been Adrienne’s lesbian lover and not just her platonic best friend.

  Erica’s eyes widened. “If you’re asking if Adrienne was bisexual, the answer is no.” She sighed. “And, just for the record, I’m straight, too.”

  Stone smiled faintly, while making a mental note.

  “Thank you, Ms. Flanagan, for coming in and providing me with this information,” he told her sincerely. “I’m sure it will be quite helpful in the investigation.” As far as he was concerned, it was more than enough to take a much stronger look at Chuck Murray in connection with his wife’s death.

  “Are you going to arrest Chuck?” Erica batted her lashes impatiently.

  If only it were that simple. “First we need to verify the facts...” Stone almost hated to say.

  “I have absolutely no reason to lie, Detective!” Erica snapped.

  “No one is accusing you of lying about anything, Ms. Flanagan.” Not yet anyway.

  She began to cry. “I just don’t want to see Adrienne put into the ground like forever, while her killer gets off scot-free.”

  Stone handed her a Kleenex. “If Adrienne’s husband killed her, I promise you he won’t get off scot-free,” he said earnestly. “Not if I have anything to do with it!”

  Right now he had everything to do with it.

  And the same could be said for Chuck Murray.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Just say here comes the judge,” Grant said gleefully, as he embraced Beverly and did a little dance.

  “When?” she asked, feigning total shock. They were in his office. He’d called her in, claiming it was for some unfinished paperwork.

  “The call came from the governor himself this morning. He needed a replacement for Judge Crawford and asked if I was interested. I told him I would have to think about it.” Grant made a comical face. “Two seconds later, I said hell yes!”

  “I’m so happy for you, Grant,” Beverly said, and kissed him on the mouth. “I’m sure you’ll make a fine judge, even if we’ll miss you around here more than anyone will admit. Except for me.”

  Grant laughed. “Didn’t you know—they’ve been trying to get rid of me for years. Now I’m granting them their wish.” He pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms. “As for you, my dear, you’re not going to get rid of me that easily. I intend to make sure you’re never too far to miss me.”

  “Promise?” She didn’t want his promotion to have an adverse effect on their relationship. And why should it?

  It wasn’t as if he was headed to Washington, though that suddenly didn’t seem so far-fetched. Beverly wondered if Grant might someday decide to run for the Senate. Or even try his hand at the White House.

  “You have my word as a gentleman who adores you, lady,” Grant said positively. He didn’t even want to think about anything else that could cause a rift between them. Not today anyway. “In fact, I’d say that this calls for a celebration. I want to take you and Jaime out to dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, Grant,” Beverly hummed regrettably. “We can’t—not tonight. I promised Jaime I’d take him to the video store to pick out a couple of movies.” Also, she didn’t know how Jaime would feel about going anywhere with Grant. But she knew they would have to make an effort to get along at some point, if Grant was to remain a vital part of her life. “How about Friday night?” she asked. “If you don’t have any plans.”

  “Nothing that can’t be changed,” Grant was quick to say. “Friday night it is.”

  “Good.” Beverly smiled and kissed him again, then used her finger to wipe lipstick from his mouth. “Now, Judge Nunez, I hate to leave so abruptly, but I have to prepare for an arraignment this afternoon.”

  Grant frowned. “You mean the Santiago case?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know who’s representing him?”

  “I’ve heard that K. Conrad Ortega from the public defender’s office was assigned the case.”

  “Poor bastard,” Grant shook his head. “Ortega is a good attorney, but not good enough to snatch victory from the jaws of certain defeat. I’m sure you won’t have any problem convincing a jury of Santiago’s guilt. The asshole’s made to order for any prosecutor looking to tack up one on the scoreboard.”

  Beverly flashed him a look of surprise. “This isn’t a basketball game, Grant,” she told him. “My only interest is that justice is served as swiftly and fairly as possible.”

  “Of course,” he said apologetically. “Fortunately justice usually does prevail in cases like this where everything points in one direction.”

  Beverly agreed, though she wished the same could be said for cases that didn’t involve the murder of a sitting judge. She’d been in trials where swift and decisive justice seemed blind or, at the very least, nearsighted.

  “I hate having to try and fill the Honorable Judge Crawford’s shoes this way.” Grant lowered his gaze respectfully. “But if it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

  “I’m sure he would have wanted the best person for the job,” Beverly said. “And clearly that’s you!”

  He grinned boyishly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bev. I think you just might be the next one from the D.A.’s office to move to the bench.”

  Beverly blushed, flattered that he should think so. Do you really believe that? Or are you just trying to make me feel good?

  “Right now,” she told him, “I’ll settle for one victory at a time.”

  Starting with the State’s case against Rafael Santiago.

  * * *

  The arraignment was set to begin at two o’clock, but it was closer to three before all the parties were present. Security was extra heavy, as some threats had come in against the accused and were taken seriously. No one wanted to see Rafael Santiago gunned down before he had a chance to be convicted by a jury of his peers and sentenced appropriately.

  On the bench was Judge Harriet Ireland. She was in her late forties, but looked older. Her auburn hair was stylishly coiffed and she wore tinted glasses. She nodded coolly at Beverly who nodded back.

  Representing the State, Beverly sat at the prosecution table. The second chair was empty at the moment, as no other attorney was needed at this stage of the proceedings. Given the relatively strong case against the defendant, she had more or less decided to go with one of the younger A.D.A.’s to give them the experience and credibility she was once afforded.

  Beverly looked across the room at K. Conrad Ortega. He seemed to smile at her. She did not smile back. She’d heard he was ambitious and looking to make a name for himself. Showing any signs of weakness could only encourage him.

  Next to Ortega was his client. The defendant, Rafael Santiago, had only recently arrived, shackled and handcuffed. He wore the standard orange jail attire. Later, she imagined, he would be in a suit, looking like a Wall Street lawyer. And his hair, currently disheveled, as if he had been in a wrestling match, would be smoothed back or to the side. Even the smug look on his face would be toned down to a look of innocence or, at the very least, remorse.

  Not present was the State’s key witness and crime victim, Maxine Crawford. It was unnecessary to have her in attendance at this juncture, only to be gawked at and intimidated by the monster who hurt her after he shot to death Maxine’s husband.

  Beverly glanced at the front row where Grant sat in attendance. He said he wanted to come in support, as well as regard the courtroom setting from his new perspective as a judge. She was grateful to have him close either way. He smiled at her and she returned it, while thinking briefly about their dinner date and having him and Jaime emerge as friends.
>
  “Are we ready?” Judge Ireland asked the attorneys, as if in doubt.

  Both said yes in unison, standing, along with the defendant.

  After going through the preliminary issues, the judge read the five current charges to the defendant. Additional charges related to possession and use of an illegal firearm were expected to be filed later when the murder weapon was located.

  With each charge Santiago was asked pointblank if he understood.

  “Yes,” he responded each time with little emotion.

  Judge Ireland adjusted her glasses and then asked the defendant, “Mr. Santiago, how do you plead to count one of murder in the first degree?”

  Santiago looked at his attorney, who then answered without prelude, “My client pleads not guilty.”

  “Count two, of criminal sexual battery?”

  “Not guilty,” Ortega responded.

  “Count three, of sodomy?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Count four, of forced oral copulation?”

  Ortega sighed. “Not guilty.”

  Judge Ireland eyed the defendant as if to read his mind. “And count five, of breaking and entering?”

  “Again, my client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” Ortega spoke without looking at Santiago.

  This did not surprise Beverly at all. Few defendants facing murder charges ever pleaded guilty, at least not at the arraignment. She fully expected Santiago, or Ortega on his behalf, to seek a deal in which some degree of guilt would be admitted so long as it was less than the current charges and a softer sentence as a result.

  Beverly knew there wasn’t a chance in hell she would ever accept a plea bargain. Not in this lifetime. Not if she valued her future in the D.A.’s office.

  And her possible future as a judge.

  The preliminary hearing was set for two weeks, at which time the prosecution would have to present just enough of its case to show probable cause that Rafael Santiago had committed the crimes for which he had been charged. By then Beverly expected to have put together the pieces of the puzzle necessary to send this one to trial.