In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  “What did you think?” Joe asks me when we’re back upstairs again.

  “He was solid. I was watching the jury. They trusted him.”

  “Yeah,” Joe says glumly. “You know, he didn’t do everything exactly by the book, which actually makes him more credible. Humanizes him.” Another Diet Coke out of the fridge. Diet Cokes to Joe are like cigarettes to a chain-smoker; the more upset he is, the more of them he drinks. His stomach lining must resemble a lace doily on the arm of your grandmother’s sofa.

  “We knew going in that this was a tough case. And even though we’ve scored a few points, we were right. Their game, their ball, their court. That fucking anonymous phone call,” he grouses. “What shitty luck.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “If they hadn’t gotten that call, the Full Moon Killer would still be on the loose.” As Joe shoots me a disbelieving look, I say, “Assuming Salazar is the killer. Which, let’s face it, we have. You have, anyway.”

  He falls onto the couch. “Life’s a bitch.”

  “And then you die.”

  “So make the most of what’s between,” he says, pointing to my ginormous belly. “That’s what you live for. A damned good reason.”

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Cordova.”

  “Good morning.”

  Joe is at the podium. His suit, a dark blue, light-weight wool, is freshly pressed, his white dress shirt is right out of the dry-cleaner’s box, his shoes are spit shined to a high gloss. He’s wearing oxblood wingtips today, for him the height of fashion.

  “You were in charge of the task force,” Joe starts out.

  “That’s correct.”

  Everyone in this room knows that. Like a good chess player, Joe is setting his pieces in place, hopefully for a mate thirty moves later.

  “When the latest victim was found, you automatically made the assumption that she was a victim of the so-called Full Moon Killer?”

  “That is correct.” Cordova is at ease, but alert. His outfit is a variation of what he always wears when he’s dressed up—blazer and slacks. He probably doesn’t own a real suit.

  “Isn’t is possible that it could have been a random killing, and that the victim just wasn’t wearing underwear?”

  “Absolutely, it was,” Cordova agrees. “But we had to go on the assumption that it was another Full Moon Killing. Not only were her panties missing, but there was a full moon. One coincidence too many, for me.” He goes on without prompting. “Later, if that had turned out not to be the case, we would have gone in another direction. But we had to go on the assumption that this one was connected to the others.”

  “An anonymous caller phoned the police department and told them about Mr. Salazar’s whereabouts, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So you went to where Mr. Salazar was parked, waiting to go to work.”

  “Yes.”

  “What aroused your suspicions that he was in any way connected to the murder that had occurred a few hours earlier?”

  “His description,” Cordova answers.

  “The description that Mr. Lazarus, who has testified previously, gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “A Latino driving a pickup truck.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If he had not been Latino, you would not have been suspicious of him, is that correct to say?” Joe asks.

  A hesitation. Then Cordova says, “Yes, that is correct.”

  “In other words, racial profiling was the reason you suspected Mr. Salazar.”

  Racial profiling is the bogeyman of current policing, all the way up to the federal level. It’s not supposed to happen, but it does, every day. The reason airport security guards search seventy-year-old nuns of northern European extraction is because they have to bend over backward to avoid the accusation of racial profiling. But if the police didn’t do it, guilty people would slip through their fingers. That’s not a politically correct attitude to take, particularly from someone who considers herself to be on the liberal side of the fence, but it’s true.

  Cordova, however, isn’t buying into that. “No,” he answers. “We suspected him because he fit the description the eyewitness had given us. If he had said the man was blond and blue-eyed, we would have been looking for a blue-eyed blond. That has nothing to do with racial profiling.”

  A nifty dodge. Joe presses on. “While you were interrogating Mr. Salazar—”

  “I was questioning him,” Cordova interrupts. “I was not interrogating him. In fact, what I specifically asked him was whether he had seen anything or anyone suspicious in the area.”

  “What changed your mind? His prior arrest, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. That was the reason.”

  “Even though he was found innocent at trial. In other words, he had not committed the crime for which he had been accused.”

  “He was found not guilty,” Cordova corrects Joe. “The verdict was not guilty.”

  A small distinction, but to a layman it could be critical. Innocent and not guilty have different meanings, especially emotionally. Cordova knows that. I’m sure he’s made that distinction at other times when he’s given testimony.

  “But that was why you decide to search his truck.”

  “Yes, it was,” Cordova answers forthrightly.

  “Is it not true, Detective Cordova, that when you learned about Mr. Salazar’s prior arrest, you did not know where or when that arrest had taken place? That is true, isn’t it.”

  “Yes.”

  “So there was no connection to Mr. Salazar and those previous killings, was there?”

  “Nothing direct,” Cordova admits.

  “In other words, you were on a fishing expedition,” Joe declares. “Some vague resemblance to a description given you months before, but with no real basis in fact.”

  Cordova sits up taller in the witness chair. “You’re right,” he says. “There was no basis in fact.” He turns so that he is now looking both at Joe and the jurors. “If you want to call it a fishing expedition, I will accept that. I did not have a warrant. I was going on my gut and my experience. And if those underpants had not been in that truck, I would have apologized to him and sent him on his way. But …” He leans forward, to physically emphasize his point. “… If I had not searched that truck, and there was another killing later, or multiple murders, and the accused was later found to be the killer, that would have been far worse than my technically violating his right against unreasonable search and seizure. I would never have been able to live with myself if that had happened. Who knows how many more innocent women might have been murdered if I had gone strictly by the book,” he says. “Sometimes you have to err on the side of caution, and that can mean bending the rules.” He leans back. “I bent the rules. I don’t apologize for that. I’m thankful that I did.”

  You’re too damn good, I think, watching this performance. I look at the jury. They’re eating him up with a spoon. He has natural charisma, and he’s milking it.

  That was a bust, and Joe knows it, so he shifts gears. “You found the incriminating evidence in Mr. Salazar’s truck, is that correct?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “And you removed it from where you had found it and showed it to the other detectives who were there with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “So they did not see you actually find it,” Joe says. “They were not in the truck cab with you.”

  “No,” Cordova agrees, “they weren’t.”

  Joe takes a moment before asking his next question, because he wants the jury to pay special attention to it. “Why didn’t you leave it where you found it, and call them to see it there? Isn’t that the way collecting evidence is usually done? The way it’s supposed to be done?”

  “Yes, it is,” Cordova says. “I messed up. It was dark in there. I wasn’t sure what I had seen, so I picked the underpants up to make sure.” He gives a too-bad shrug. “Once I had done that, I had violated the crime scene, technically. S
o it didn’t matter.” He leans toward the jury box again. “I was a little excited, I’m sorry to say. I didn’t go by the book. I let my emotions get the better of me.”

  He sits back. I look at the jurors again. They have fallen in love with him. If you went to Central Casting and asked for the perfect credible police officer, this is the one they would send over.

  Joe, thwarted with this approach as well, changes direction again. “You went to the woman’s home?”

  Cordova had talked about that during his direct examination. His testimony and that of the victim’s roommate had matched, almost word for word.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you have a warrant?”

  Cordova shakes his head. “No. We were moving too fast. And the victim’s roommate let us in voluntarily, so it didn’t matter.”

  Joe looks at the notes from yesterday. “You went there to get the phone number of her family, next of kin, is that what you stated?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I … we … had to tell them before they heard about it through the media. That has happened before, and it’s devastating to the family.”

  “Her roommate gave you that information?”

  “Yes. She was upset, of course, but she was very helpful.”

  “You went into the victim’s bedroom, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “With her roommate, Ms. Koontz.”

  “No,” Cordova says. “Ms. Koontz was distraught. She had collapsed onto the living room couch.”

  “So you went in there alone.”

  “Yes.”

  Joe looks up from his notes. “What were you looking for? If you were there to get the name of her parents, you already had it, didn’t you? Ms. Koontz had given it to you.”

  “She did. I was looking for something that might tie the victim to the suspect,” Cordova says.

  Joe looks at him suspiciously. “Like what?”

  I’m watching this and I’m thinking, a pair of underpants? Is Joe actually going down that road? Man, what balls. I steal a glance at the jurors. From the way they look, they haven’t connected those dots.

  Cordova hasn’t either, or is ignoring the implication. “A note, something like that,” he explains. “People write things on their calendars. I thought maybe she had done that, something about meeting a man. A name, a place. Something to tie her directly to Salazar.”

  “Did you?” Joe asks.

  “No. I was only there a minute or so, I had to get back into the field. All hell had broken loose. It was a shot in the dark that didn’t pan out, so I left.”

  Joe rifles through his notes. He glances back at me—is there anything he’s missed?

  I could remind him to ask about fingerprints on the pay phone, but that would be useless, and would prolong Cordova’s time on the stand. We have to get him off the stage—he’s blowing us away.

  I shake my head: no. Joe nods. “No further questions of this witness at this time, Your Honor,” he tells the judge.

  Suzuki gavels the session closed. After the lunch break, the prosecution’s key eyewitness will make her appearance. I can hardly wait.

  A surprise awaits Joe and me when we reenter the courtroom after lunch. Salazar’s wife is there, sitting next to Amanda in their customary front-row seats. She looks up at me sheepishly as I walk over to them.

  “Hello,” she says, in a tiny voice. She still looks like death warmed over, but better than when I saw her in the hospital.

  “Hello,” I answer back. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re better.”

  “She’s much better,” Amanda chimes in. “Getting better every day.” She pats a frail hand. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She has a tissue in her hand that she is wringing as if she’s killing a chicken. “How is Roberto?” she asks nervously. They haven’t seen each other since she tried to off herself.

  “All right,” I answer, keeping my tone neutral. “He’ll be glad to see you. Make sure you give him a big smile.” I lean over the railing and whisper in Amanda’s ear. “Thanks for bringing her.”

  “It’s important that she be here,” Amanda whispers back. “Especially now. He needs all the support he can get.”

  “Amen to that.”

  The side door opens, and Salazar is brought in. His eyes widen when he sees his wife. She smiles wanly at him, but he doesn’t smile back. He stares at her intently for a moment, as if trying to read her mind. Then he gives her a curt nod and sits down in his chair at our table.

  “It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you gave her a smile,” I admonish him. “Her coming here in her condition is a big deal, Roberto. I know you’re angry with her, but this has been hard on her.”

  His hands are gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles are white. “My kids would have had nothing,” he hisses between clenched teeth. “She had no right.”

  “Cut her some slack, damn it!” I hiss back. “She’s human, okay?”

  He inhales sharply. Then he lets go of his grip on the table and turns around to look at her. He closes his eyes, as if in prayer, then opens them and smiles at her. “Hola, dulzura,” he says.

  “Hola, mi amor,” she whispers back.

  “All rise.”

  Judge Suzuki enters the courtroom. The climax of this wretched tragedy is about to unfold.

  The eyewitness, a middle-aged floozy with hair bleached so blond-white it almost shimmers, is wearing a short skirt. She crosses her legs as she sits in the witness chair and flashes a large portion of thigh as she does so. A couple of the male jurors who have a nice view of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow can’t help but gape. She looks like a Pamela Anderson knockoff. Her plastic surgeon didn’t spare the silicone on her. Women like this are a dime a dozen in Los Angeles, where every other one is an actress, model, or singer. Only in their dreams, almost all of them.

  Loomis guides her through her story. As we all listen, I feel Salazar tensing alongside me. I lean over and whisper in his ear. “You have to relax. You’re sending the jury the wrong message.”

  He bites his lip, takes some deep breaths. I turn my attention back to the witness.

  “You came to the police with this information,” Loomis now says. We could object on the grounds that he’s leading the witness, but he would rephrase the question, and our calling attention to it would only tighten the noose around our necks.

  “Yes,” she answers. She has a baby-doll voice, which goes with the rest of her persona. She must think her image is cool, she has obviously spent years cultivating it.

  “What happened?” Loomis continues.

  She describes the process. First, you look at pictures in a book. If one of them looks like the person you saw, you look at them for real, in a lineup, protected by the well-known one-way window.

  “Did you pick someone out of the lineup?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You positively identified a man in that lineup as the same man you saw with Cheryl Lynn Steinmetz right before she was murdered.”

  “Yes.”

  “And is that man in this courtroom today?”

  Here it comes: the left hook that will knock us to kingdom come. My stomach is in such a knot I fear for my baby’s health.

  “I’m not sure.”

  All the air has suddenly been sucked out of the courtroom. Judge Suzuki’s jaw literally drops like a cartoon drawing. Twisting to look at the jurors, I see that they are in shock, too. As is everyone else.

  A few reporters dash out, cell phones in hand. The rest of the audience stares at the witness in amazement. She couldn’t have blown everyone away any more if she had poured gasoline over her head and lit herself on fire.

  Loomis, Mr. Ice-water-in-his-veins, looks as if he’s been poleaxed. He leaves the podium and walks to his witness. I look at his hands. They are trembling.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Morganne.” That’s her name: Marlene Morganne. Obviously, made up. She must have wanted two Ms, a
nd Marilyn Monroe was already taken. “The man you picked out of the lineup. He is in this courtroom today, isn’t he?” There’s an edge in Loomis’s voice now, an implied threat.

  Her answer is the same. “I’m not sure.”

  Loomis turns to Judge Suzuki. “May I ask the defendant to rise?” he asks.

  The defendant, not the accused. The first time he’s said it that way.

  Suzuki nods. “The defendant will rise,” he orders Salazar.

  I touch my client’s elbow. He gets to his feet. I stand next to him. Joe stands as well. “Look right at her,” I whisper to Salazar.

  He turns his face to the woman, and stares at her unblinkingly.

  “The defendant, Roberto Salazar,” Loomis says, in a voice that could cut glass. “Isn’t he the man you picked out of the police lineup?”

  The woman’s lip is quivering; she’s on the verge of tears. She shakes her bleached tresses. “I can’t be positive,” she says. Her voice sounds like Shirley Temple, when she was six or seven.

  “But you identified him!” Loomis has lost his cool. He sounds almost hysterical now. “You positively identified him.”

  “I know,” she whimpers. “But I was looking at him through that mirror. In person, I’m not sure.” She squints her eyes, as if that will bring Salazar into sharper focus. “It could be him, but I’m not a hundred percent positive. So I can’t say it was him absolutely.” She looks up at the judge. “I can’t lie, can I? If I’m not positive it’s him, I shouldn’t lie that it is, should I?”

  If a judge is God in his courtroom, this is a very wrathful God. “No,” Suzuki commands her. “If you are not sure this is the man you saw that night with the victim, you must not testify that it is.”

  She looks down at her hands. “Then I can’t.”

  Loomis, the color drained not only from his face but, from the look of his hands, his entire body, asks for a recess. Suzuki grants it and retreats to his chambers. The bailiff escorts the witness, who is shivering with anxiety, out of the room. Loomis retreats to the prosecution table. He and his team begin to confab in furious rage and bewilderment.