“Is this a bad time?”
“Never a bad time for you, Kevin. I’m at Tao with Rabid Dawg. We just today beat that bullshit gun charge.”
“Congratulations,” I say.
“Thanks, Kev. Now what the hell do you want?”
“I need some information on that former L.A. prosecutor I told you about over the summer.”
“The cocksucker?”
“That’s him.”
“What do you need to know?”
“We have everything official on him—everything from the California State Bar, everything from L.A. County. I want some unofficial information. I want to know what really drove this bastard out of town.”
“You want his Brandon Glenn,” Milt says matter-of-factly. “Hold on.” Milt doesn’t bother covering the mouthpiece on his phone. “Hey Dawg, what’s the name of your West Coast agent?” Pause. “That’s right, the Korean Jew. Give him a call at home, it’s only eight P.M. in L.A. Ask him if he knows anyone in the L.A. County Prosecutor’s office. I’m looking for shit on a guy named…”
“Luke Maddox,” I tell him.
“… Luke Maddox,” Milt says. “Good.” Then Milt’s speaking to me again. “All right, Kev. Give us a little time on this. I’ll get back to you soon as I hear anything.”
“Thanks, Milt.”
“Hey, what are Jews for?”
I close my phone and slip back onto the lanai. “Now, what were we talking about, Josh?”
He thinks about it a moment. “Transformers.”
CHAPTER 49
I am a zombie.
Where once stood an impetuous vampire now stands an impotent, shuffling corpse. I cross the threshold into Erin’s Kaneohe home for perhaps the last time. We sit on the rattan sofa without looking at one another. My tongue feels too thick in my mouth to speak. I can’t hold her, can’t caress her, can’t take her into the bedroom for one final escape. The Fukitol has stolen my sex drive and, truth be told, I’m not certain I want it back.
“We’re going to lose, aren’t we?” she says finally.
I say nothing. For the first time I want to back down from this fight. I want to fly away from these islands and pretend I was never here. I want to leave behind all courtrooms and all clients and all prosecutors, most particularly Luke Maddox. My latest professional freefall, I’m convinced, all started with him. But the fire in my mind is doused. For some reason I can’t truly hate him. And I fear if I can’t hate him I can’t win.
“We’re going to lose, aren’t we?” she says again.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I promise.”
“How can you promise that?”
“Because I can’t allow you to be convicted,” I say. “I won’t be able to live with that.”
“But you can’t control—”
“I am in control,” I insist. I still haven’t once looked at her. “I’ve always been in control.”
* * *
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” I ask her, standing in the darkness on her lanai.
“An artist,” she says without hesitation. “Or a musician. I couldn’t decide.”
“What happened?”
“What always happens, I suppose. Reality takes over.”
“Whose reality?” I ask.
Her head turns toward me but I still can’t look at her, not even in the dark. “I don’t understand,” she says.
I think she does.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” she asks.
I shrug. “I wanted to go to Hollywood, to be in some way involved in the making of movies. Maybe as an actor, maybe as a screenwriter.”
“What happened?”
“The Dreamkillers,” I say, before I turn away and step inside.
We don’t discuss the case the rest of the night. These charges are what brought us together and these charges are in all likelihood what will tear us apart. But this story—her story, my story, our story—started well before the night of the fire. And for the first time since Erin refused to change her plea to not guilty by reason of insanity, I ask to hear her side of it.
“My mother was always the domineering type,” she says while we lie atop her made bed, fully dressed, both of us staring through the darkness at the ceiling. “Pretty sure that’s what drove my biological father away. Nothing he did was ever good enough for her. She’d tell him to work more hours, then complain he didn’t spend enough time with his family. She constantly criticized the way he dressed, the way he looked, threw a fit if he put on a baseball cap or didn’t shave.”
“Did she drink?” I say.
“She drank but the alcohol actually seemed to calm her. I was always more frightened of her when she was sober. And always more afraid of what she’d say in public than in private. The tantrums, the screaming, it was scary, even when the rage wasn’t directed at me. Especially when the rage wasn’t directed at me. I always wished she’d hit me rather than embarrass me.”
“Did she hit you?”
“Sometimes. But it was almost a relief when she did. That was the only time she could understand my running away from her. And I dreaded the inevitable moment a half hour later when she’d be on the other side of my locked door apologizing. Because I knew as soon as I opened that door the whole fucking thing would start all over again. The only variation was the minutia that would cause the spark.”
“Why not keep the door locked?”
Erin almost laughs. “Because if I did that, a few minutes later I’d hear the drill. And over the drill more of her screaming and it was always just a matter of time. I had to always be by her side, even when she hated me. Growing up, there was nothing and nowhere in the world that was solely mine. My toys were hers; she made a constant point of telling me that, that she could take all of them away from me at anytime, even my favorite teddy Corduroy. My room was under her roof so she claimed she had complete access to it always, even when I was thirteen or fourteen and needed a little privacy. I couldn’t keep a journal because it would be read. I couldn’t write notes to boyfriends because they would eventually be found and destroyed.”
“Sounds like a toss-down of a prison cell,” I say.
“She wanted to make sure I didn’t have anyone else in my life. Just her. Always her. She became afraid when I made friends, did everything she could to make sure I didn’t have relationships with boys, even when I was seventeen or eighteen years old. God, I was such a social misfit. And no one understood why. I was the pretty girl who couldn’t get a date to the prom.”
“But then college…” I prod.
“My mother wouldn’t pay, wouldn’t cosign my student loans, unless I continued to live at home. And she held it over my head, same as my car, a cute little red Geo Storm. Reminded me all the time that she could take everything away with a couple phone calls. So college was just a repeat of high school. If anything it was worse because I knew I had the option of quitting school and getting a minimum-wage job and making a clean break, getting my own apartment and living paycheck to paycheck.”
“But that was something else you feared you’d never escape.”
“Yeah,” she says. “In hindsight I probably would have been better off but I was so scared. I would have zero family support and no way of advancing without a higher education. I still had no friends.”
“What about Tara and Mia?”
“I mean, we’ve known each other since forever, but we didn’t become real close until after college when I finally got out of my mother’s house. By then, of course, it was too late to pursue my passions. Thanks to my mother’s pushing and pulling, I had a degree in fucking food science, something I had absolutely no interest in. It was just another way for her to remain in control.”
“So after college…”
“After college I took on small jobs that had nothing to do with my degree. I was a bank teller at First Fidelity, an assistant manager at an In-and-Out Burger, a saleswoman in the shoe departm
ent at Sears. I was so depressed, so lonely. That’s when I started throwing myself at men. All these wonderful relationships that lasted all of two or three weeks. Until I met Isaac.”
“And then Trevor,” I say.
“Trevor was me getting greedy. I wanted to be with somebody who could take care of me the rest of my life so that I would never once after the wedding have to set foot in my mother’s house again.”
“Your mother’s marriage to Todd didn’t help?”
“It helped a bit. Deflected some of the crazy, you could say. Todd makes a good target because he’s perpetually quiet, doesn’t like arguing so he hardly ever answers her back. He just takes it, and I think that pisses her off more than anything. I think she needs to fight.”
“And the cutting?”
“Funny thing is, I started cutting long before I realized my mother did. I started when I was around twelve. At first it was just little scrapes with an opened paperclip. Then I started using a sharp pencil but I became afraid of lead poisoning. That’s when I switched over to knives. My legs were always a favorite target, but eventually I moved up to my belly, my arms, my wrists. At fourteen I started smoking, and on my way home from school, I’d stop in this dog park and sit on a bench, and when I was through, I’d stub the butt out on one of my thighs.”
I cringe.
“But cigarette burns are very noticeable,” she continues. “So I started using lighters and matches and the blisters weren’t as conspicuous. Burning seemed to give me the most relief. I can’t explain why, it just hurt better than the burning inside. I didn’t feel as empty after I burned myself. I felt full, almost alive. Before I burned, I dreamt everyday of jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Then you started a fire.”
“Then I started a fire,” she says with a single bow of her head toward the dark ceiling. “It was in the break room at this bullshit job I had at a chain pet store. Someone walked in unexpectedly and I dropped the match I was holding under my upper arm and it fell right onto a stack of old L.A. Times we used to line the bird cages.”
There were three similar incidents, none of which are admissible at trial, all excluded as “prior bad acts.”
“That’s around the time my mother found out,” she says. “But I don’t think we’ve ever spoken a word about it. Even after I spent a few days in the psych ward at St. Claire’s.”
“And your mother,” I say, “she never tried to get help for herself?”
“That’s the worst part of it, Kevin. It was so obvious to everyone else that something was terribly wrong with her. But…”
I slowly lower the lids of my eyes and finish her thought. “But she didn’t see it,” I say.
CHAPTER 50
“Dr. Noonan,” Luke Maddox says from the podium, “in the case of Trevor Simms, were you able to determine the cause and manner of death?”
The chief medical examiner shifts in the witness chair so that he can direct his answer to the jury. “I was.”
“And what did you discover to be the cause of death?”
“A sharp-force injury to the lower abdomen.”
Noonan’s words are drawn out as though dipped in molasses, tinged with a throaty German accent.
“In layman’s terms, Doctor?”
“The victim was stabbed.”
“Stabbed,” Maddox repeats. “And what did you determine the manner of death to be?”
“Homicide.”
“Homicide,” Maddox says again. “Is it possible, Dr. Noonan, that you may be mistaken about this determination? Is it possible, for instance, that the manner of Trevor Simms’s death may actually have been accidental?”
“No.”
“Why not, Doctor?”
“Because in order for this stab wound to have been accidental, the victim Mr. Simms would have had to fall onto the sharp object. There is no evidence of that. In fact, there is much evidence to the contrary. Chiefly, that the victim Mr. Simms was discovered faceup on his bed with a sharp-force wound to the front of his torso.”
“All right,” says Maddox. “Well, then isn’t there a possibility that the manner of Trevor Simms’s death may actually have been suicidal?”
“No. If possible, that is even less likely.”
“Why so?”
“Because,” Dr. Noonan says directly to the jury, “if the wound were self-inflicted, there would very likely be smaller, shallower wounds associated with it. These are called hesitation wounds and they vary in both size and depth. They are caused by an individual who is working up the courage to make the fatal stab.”
“Nevertheless, can a stab wound be suicidal in the absence of these hesitation wounds?”
“Unlikely, but yes.”
“Are there any other reasons, then, Dr. Noonan, that cause you to believe that Trevor Simms’s manner of death was not suicidal?”
“Well, for one, it is exceedingly difficult for someone to stab himself with enough force to be fatal. Secondly…” Noonan looks from Maddox to the jury with a slight grin on his face. “… it would hurt like a bitch.”
Cue uncomfortable laughter from the gallery.
Judge Maxa doesn’t even bother to admonish the witness. Noonan has probably used that exact line in at least a dozen homicide trials featuring death by stabbing in order to lighten the mood, to break the proverbial ice. Maybe even to awaken a dozing juror or two.
“So, Dr. Noonan,” Maddox says, “just so that we’re clear for the jury: Setting aside for the moment the fact we established earlier—that Trevor Simms was dead at the time the fire started—is it reasonably possible that the stab wound found on the victim’s abdomen could have been self-inflicted?”
“Not reasonable at all.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Maddox walks over to the prosecution table and takes a long sip of ice water. When he returns to the podium his voice is charged, his body language more lively. “Now, Dr. Noonan, tell us: Is it clear from your study of the wound on Trevor Simms’s abdomen that whoever inflicted that wound intended to kill him or to cause serious bodily harm?”
The ME allows for a practiced pregnant pause before saying, “As clear as the nose on my face.”
* * *
“Dr. Noonan,” I say from the podium, “on direct examination you testified that your examination of the wound on Mr. Simms’s body led you to the conclusion that he was likely stabbed with a knife, and that the knife likely possessed a blade between three and four inches in length. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Corvelli, that is correct.”
“And you supposedly made this determination after using a probe and carefully plumbing the depth of the wound on Mr. Simms’s torso, is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Would you explain to the jury why the blade could not have been any shorter than three to four inches?”
Noonan looks at the jury and says, “Because the wound on the victim’s abdomen was just under three inches deep.”
“I see.” I follow Noonan’s gaze to the jury box. “Now, Dr. Noonan, would you kindly explain to the jury why the blade used could not have been any longer than three to four inches?”
Noonan smiles gently; this is old hat to him. “It could have been longer.”
“It could have been significantly longer, isn’t that right, Dr. Noonan?”
“I suppose—”
“You suppose? Well, tell me, Dr. Noonan, did you find on Mr. Simms any abrasion that suggested to you that the knife had been thrust into Mr. Simms’s abdomen all the way to the hilt?”
“No, I found no evidence of that.”
“Would you explain to the jury what a hand guard is in the context of a knife?”
“The hand guard is the piece of metal between the handle and the blade that prevents the user’s hand from sliding down onto the blade.”
“If this hand guard struck Mr. Simms—in other words, if the knife had been thrust into the torso all the way to the hilt—could it have left a patterne
d abrasion?”
“It could have if the hand guard struck the victim with enough force.”
“But in this case, it didn’t.”
“That is correct.”
“Then how is it, Dr. Noonan, that you can suggest to this jury that the measured depth of the wound reflects the actual length of the blade?”
“Well, I cannot say with certainty that the blade was between three to four inches long.”
“Really?” I say, turning to the defense table, where Jake is already standing and extending to me my legal pad. “Because on direct examination, you said the exact opposite. Mr. Maddox asked you, and I quote, ‘Can you say with a reasonable degree of certainty that the knife used on the victim Mr. Simms possessed a blade that was between three to four inches in length?’ You, Doctor, replied, and I quote again, ‘Yes, I can.’”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Maddox is standing, but his voice remains calm. “Is Counsel asking a question or simply reading back testimony?”
Judge Maxa looks at me. “Well, Mr. Corvelli?”
“My question is, what is your final answer, Dr. Noonan? Was the blade necessarily between three to four inches in length or not?”
“The blade was at least three to four inches in length.”
“At least?” I say. “Well, that’s a tremendously different statement than the one you made in your direct testimony, isn’t it, Dr. Noonan?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“You don’t? Doctor, you told this jury just hours ago that you believed with a reasonable degree of certainty that the knife used on Mr. Simms possessed a blade three to four inches in length. Now you say that the blade was at least three to four inches in length. Which means, does it not, that the blade used on Mr. Simms could have been five inches in length?”
“It could have.”
“Or six inches in length.”
“It is possible.”
“Or seven, maybe eight or even nine inches in length.”
“Possible,” Noonan says. “To clarify, the measurement I offered is only the minimum length of the blade.”
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