In any event, it was obvious to Beverly that Maxine’s mind and soul alone were insufficient for her marriage to Judge Crawford to work. The real question was whether or not the couple’s sexual appetite played any role in the judge’s murder and his wife’s sexual victimization.
“I think that’s all I need for now,” Beverly told the woman she expected to be her star witness against Rafael Santiago.
After she showed Maxine out, promising to keep her informed on the progress of the case, Beverly asked Jean to get Walter McIntosh on the line.
* * *
Ten minutes later Beverly watched as the ex cop turned D.A.’s office investigator strolled into her office.
“Nice of you to invite me over, Beverly,” he said dryly, flopping onto a leather side chair.
Walter McIntosh was forty-one, around six-two, and had no neck to speak of. His dark blonde hair receded and was pulled back into a tiny ponytail. Beneath thick brows, gray-blue eyes gazed across Beverly’s desk at her.
“You’re always welcome here, Walter,” she said with a teasing smile.
“Yeah?” He grinned crookedly. “Is that why I practically have to bribe Jean to talk to you?”
Beverly laughed. They had always had a good-humored working relationship. Though he had been careful not to cross the line, she suspected that Walter was attracted to her. Unfortunately he was not her type for romance. Not to mention she’d heard that he went after everything in a skirt and heels.
“So what’s up?” asked Walter, lifting a brow.
“I need you to do a background investigation.”
“Okay.” He rubbed his aquiline nose. “So who am I supposed to be investigating?”
Beverly’s throat went dry. “I want to find out everything I can about the late Judge Sheldon Crawford and Maxine Crawford—”
Walter scratched his pate. “Everything? That covers a lot of territory. Can you be a bit more specific?”
She had anticipated this, but it still didn’t make it any easier to dig for possible dirt on a dead judge and his victimized wife who Beverly needed as a friendly rather than hostile witness. Better to know upfront anything that could derail or otherwise call into question what seemed to be a solid case against Rafael Santiago.
“I’d like to find out about their sexual histories, financial histories, friendships, acquaintances, enemies, and any other information or innuendoes about their lives—”
Walter jerked his head back. “Wow! Is that all?” He chuckled uneasily. “What exactly are you hoping to find in their sullied laundry? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
Beverly wondered the same. “I guess I’ll know when, and if, I find it.”
Walter put his large hands on the desk and peered. “In case you don’t already know, Judge Crawford was a powerful man in this town,” he warned. “Asking the wrong questions about his life, professional or otherwise, could bring us both down.”
Beverly got the picture. Judge Crawford’s stature was such that Walter considered the assignment risky to his own job. Along with perhaps his welfare.
And mine, should I step on the wrong toes.
“I’m not looking to trash the judge’s good name,” Beverly promised assuredly. “Or his widow’s. I only want to be sure that Rafael Santiago acted alone in committing the crimes against the Crawfords.”
Walter’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you thinking this was some kind of conspiracy to commit murder?”
“Not saying anything of the sort,” she stressed, aloud anyhow. “But anything’s possible. I just want to go into the trial knowing everything my opponent knows.” And maybe a little extra for good measure.
There was no reason to believe that Conrad Ortega would go to any unusual lengths for a client such as Santiago. On the other hand, why wouldn’t Ortega try and use this golden opportunity to steal a victory any way he could? Even a hard fought loss could do wonders for his career.
Whereas Beverly felt there was no substitute for winning. She knew her career advancement could rest on the outcome of a trial.
This trial.
As a result, she preferred to cover all the bases. Even those that may lie outside the base path.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Walter told her. “I just hope you know what you could be getting yourself into—”
What might I be getting myself into beyond the obvious building a case for trial? Beverly wondered. Did Walter know more than he was letting on?
She considered if there could actually be some sort of conspiracy against Judge Crawford, who had more than his share of critics in spite of his reputation as a no-nonsense, by the book judge. One that could have resulted in murder and a brutal sexual assault.
Beverly shuddered at the thought that moving ahead could open up a Pandora’s box. It was a risk she was willing to take, considering the alternative of allowing a rapist-killer to walk and justice to be denied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rafael Santiago was brought into the room by an armed guard who looked to O’Dell like he just got out of high school with a little goatee and few freckles on his broad nose. They seemed to be getting younger each year, if not bulkier. He wondered if the guard was taking steroids.
“Just need a few minutes with him—alone,” O’Dell told the guard.
“What are you gonna do with him?” The guard wrinkled his nose suspiciously. “Or don’t I wanna know?”
O’Dell smiled slightly. “You should ask. If you didn’t, it could cost you your job.” He ran a hand across his chin, casting an eye toward Santiago. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to beat the crap out of him. I don’t need to have the brass all over my ass telling me I’ve violated his damned civil rights.”
The guard grinned with relief and went into the hall, closing the door behind him.
The suspect, who was handcuffed and shackled, flashed O’Dell a smirk, which annoyed him. He didn’t like killers, plain and simple. Especially killers of judges—the men and women who took assholes like Santiago off the streets and put them where they belonged.
He also didn’t like men who had their way with women by force. O’Dell considered such men to be spineless and the scum of the earth.
But he wasn’t willing to test the waters with this creep, by smashing his face in. It wasn’t worth it.
“What you want, man?” Santiago asked fearlessly, thin brows knitted.
“Not much, asshole,” sputtered O’Dell. “Just need to see a certain part of your anatomy.”
Santiago laughed instinctively. “You a queer, man, or what?”
O’Dell got into his face, growling. “You wish, you son of a bitch! You’ll get your chance soon enough to have a daddy. I’m way out of your league. Now get them pants down, and fast, or I’ll do it for you—”
Santiago smiled wryly as he pulled his orange prison pants down to his ankles. He wasn’t wearing underwear. He grabbed himself, half erect, and pointed it towards O’Dell, as if it was a garden hose.
“You want some of this, huh, man?” he taunted the detective. “Come and get it—” He began caressing himself, grinning salaciously.
O’Dell glared disgustedly. He wanted to wipe that grin off his face, but thought better. He grabbed the prick’s cuffed wrists tightly, lifting them over the inmate’s head, and regarded the area above Santiago’s penis. Just as Maxine Crawford had indicated, damned if he didn’t have a colorful lizard tattoo in place of pubic hair.
“What’s with the tattoo?” he questioned. “That part of the Latino brotherhood in the pen?”
“Just freedom of expression, man,” Santiago responded tartly. Nothing more. Why, you want one, too?”
“Not a chance.” O’Dell squeezed his wrists till Santiago winced in pain. “The woman you assaulted will have to live with that damned reptile for the rest of her life—and so will you!”
O’Dell released him and stepped away, thinking it was another surefire indication that they had the right man. You just sealed your fate, Santi
ago.
“If it was up to me,” he said out loud, they would castrate you first without anesthesia—so you could see how Maxine Crawford felt when you raped, orally copulated, and sodomized her—then put the lethal drugs in your veins.”
Santiago laughed crudely. “It ain’t gonna happen, man. No matter what the bitch is sayin’, me and my lizard friend here are innocent.”
“Like hell you are.” O’Dell noted the half-inch scar on his right thigh. The judge’s widow had also identified the scar. Probably the result of some gangbanging activity. “Put your clothes back on, asshole,” he ordered. “I can’t stand the sickening sight of you.”
“Whatever you say, man,” chuckled Santiago, lifting his pants. “We through?”
“Yeah, we through,” mimicked O’Dell. He called the guard and ordered photographs to be taken of the suspect’s pubic area and left leg. They would come in handy during the trial.
* * *
O’Dell drove nearly sixty miles to Folsom State Prison. He parked in the visitor parking lot and then braved a downpour before getting inside.
He used his identification to gain clearance to Cell Block D, which Rafael Santiago had called home for twelve years. O’Dell knew that the one thing that kept prisoners going during long stretches behind bars was making grandiose plans once free. He was betting that a vengeful minded Santiago couldn’t resist bragging about what he planned to do to Judge Crawford and his pretty young wife when he got out.
If he had told anyone, it would likely be the person Santiago roomed with for more than eight years during his stint.
Nkaki Ahmad entered the room, a curious grin on his face. The thirty-eight year old African-American was Muslim, brawny, and shaven bald. He was serving life for beating to death a man in a bar fight.
“Do I know you?” he asked, scratching his forehead while handcuffed.
“Detective O’Dell, Homicide, Eagles Landing P.D.” O’Dell approached him tentatively. A guard was outside the door, but O’Dell wasn’t worried that the prisoner might try to attack him unprovoked. Not when he was in cuffs and had stayed out of trouble behind bars.
As it was, his beef wasn’t with Ahmad. Right now, he needed the inmate’s help.
“That don’t mean nothin’ to me, man,” Ahmad said acerbically.
O’Dell bit his lip. “I just want to talk to you, that’s all.”
Ahmad narrowed his bulging, black eyes. “About what?”
“Rafael Santiago.”
Ahmad reacted. “What about him?”
“I know you were cellmates,” said O’Dell. “And you could be cellmates again...”
Ahmad twisted his lips meditatively. “Yeah, I heard that he offed a judge and had some fun with his old lady. So what’s that gotta do with me?”
“I was hoping you could tell me if Santiago ever talked about what he was going to do when he got out.”
A frown creased Ahmad’s brow. “You mean snitch on my Latino brother?”
“I wasn’t aware he was your brother,” O’Dell said curtly. “But I do know that you two didn’t always get along. In fact, I heard that Santiago cost you some time in the hole on more than one occasion.”
“So what?” growled Ahmad. “That don’t make me want to tell you nothin’, man.”
O’Dell’s ire was definitely being tested. Be cool. You can still reach him. He narrowed his eyes and moved a bit closer. “A judge is dead and his wife was sexually assaulted. We’ve got enough to know that Santiago committed these crimes. I could really use your help by telling me everything that he ever told you about this.”
Ahmad stepped back and thought about it for a moment. “If I did happen to remember an interesting conversation or two between me and Rafael about the judge,” he offered, “what’s in it for me, man?”
O’Dell knew he had him intrigued. Now he had to reel him in like a big fish in the water.
“I’m not going to kid you, Nkaki,” he told him as the setup, “there’s not going to be any reduction of your sentence. The information isn’t that valuable.” He watched the hope seem to deflate from him like hot air. “But I do know that you’ve been trying to get conjugal visits with your girlfriend. What if I were to help arrange that for you? It could take some of the steam out of these cold, lonely nights—”
“Yeah, it could.” Ahmad sat down, ready to talk.
O’Dell turned on a small recorder. “I’m listening.”
“Santiago couldn’t stop talking about the judge,” Ahmad said, looking the detective straight in the eye. “He blamed Crawford and that prosecutor for sending him to prison, claiming he never got a fair trial.”
Grant Nunez tried that case, recalled O’Dell. Obviously he was next on Santiago’s hit list. Fortunately for the prosecutor, Santiago was no longer in a position to carry out his threats. Still O’Dell imagined that Nunez had been spooked by Crawford’s death. Could he have known he would inherit the judge’s spot on the bench once Sheldon Crawford had been removed permanently?
O’Dell contemplated that and Beverly Mendoza’s involvement with Nunez, and the potential for a conflict of interest in the Santiago case.
“Did Santiago ever specifically threaten the judge?” O’Dell peered at the inmate.
Ahmad grinned. “Yeah. He said the judge would get what was coming to him just as soon as he was released. Said he would see to that.” He rubbed his head. “Even said the Mrs. would be his for the taking.”
O’Dell groaned. “Would you testify to that in court?”
Ahmad hesitated. “Hey, man, telling you is one thing. But sayin’ it in court is a whole different story—”
“It’s the only way the information can be useful,” O’Dell said, keeping the pressure on.
He knew an affidavit might suffice, but it wouldn’t carry the same weight as direct testimony. And even that would be viewed with much skepticism, considering the source. O’Dell wasn’t sure he believed one word from Ahmad himself. Yet it made sense. Guys like Santiago always ran off at the mouth, too stupid to consider that it might one day come back to bite them in the ass.
Ahmad seemed to get the picture. “Oh what the hell,” he said. “I don’t owe Santiago a damned thing. He made his own bed, let ‘em rot in it. I’ll testify, so long as you hold up your end of the bargain—”
O’Dell saw this as a small concession. He planned to call in a few markers.
Small indeed if it helped convict Rafael Santiago.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Westside Deli was a regular hangout for attorneys and hip young judges. Beverly agreed to meet K. Conrad Ortega there as a courtesy and to see what type of strategy he might employ in his defense of Rafael Santiago. She made her way through the lunchtime crowd, finding Ortega way at the back. She wondered if he had deliberately made her walk this far as a show of intimidation. Or perhaps it was manipulation?
Ortega stood when he saw her. “Ms. Mendoza. Thanks for coming.”
“Couldn’t resist,” Beverly admitted, regarding the chubby attorney in a tight blue suit. “And please call me Beverly.” It seemed less formal that way, which was always strategically advantageous outside of the courtroom.
He smiled deceptively. “Call me K or Conrad,” he said. “Take your pick.”
“I pick Conrad,” she said, shaking his clammy hand.
“Heard a lot of good things about you, Beverly.” He showed his whitened teeth.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Conrad,” she said wryly. “I don’t.”
He laughed uneasily. “I’ll try and remember that.”
They sat, studied menus, and ordered. Beverly went with the corned beef sandwich and grilled veggies, while Ortega had a ham sandwich and fries.
“You know that you’ve got the wrong man, right?” Ortega looked serious across the table.
“Right.” Beverly rolled her eyes as she sipped her mocha. “Santiago’s about as innocent as John Wilkes Booth was of murdering Abraham Lincoln.”
<
br /> Ortega chuckled while wrinkling his nose. “Don’t you think that’s getting a bit carried away, comparing Santiago to Booth? Judge Crawford was hardly Abraham Lincoln, Counselor.”
“Does that make his life any less worthy?” Beverly challenged the attorney. “As far as I’m concerned, your client and Booth are cut from the same cloth. Both are guilty of heinous, cold-blooded murder. In fact,” she added for effect, “Santiago may be even more atrocious. He added rape, sodomy, and oral copulation to his list of bad deeds.”
Ortega’s gaze betrayed acrimony. “My client is not guilty of the charges!” His voice boomed. “He was at home with his mother when the crime occurred.”
Beverly laughed derisively. “You really believe that? Please. Give me a break! We’ve got an eyewitness named Maxine Crawford who has positively identified your client as the man who sexually attacked her and shot her husband to death.”
“But what else have you got?” he questioned. “You’ve got no other witnesses to place Santiago at the scene. No murder weapon, which means the real killer probably has it. And you have no conclusive physical evidence linking my client to the crime.”
Beverly kept her cool. She understood how the game worked, aware that this was leading to something. Didn’t mean she had to bite.
“The physical evidence will come,” she promised, “just as soon as the DNA results are in. And we do have one important piece of evidence that is irrefutable. Your client has a lizard tattoo where his pubic hair used to be. Now I seriously doubt that Maxine Crawford could have just conjured up that interesting little detail about your client’s physical makeup. Do you—?”
She watched Ortega squirm. “What kind of deal are you willing to make?” he asked tensely.
Beverly pretended to think about it. “How about a plea of guilty in the first degree to murder, rape, sodomy, and oral copulation?” She let that sink in. “And, oh yes, let’s not forget breaking and entering—”
State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller Page 14