Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  At this time of day I didn’t have long to wait. Within seconds, the bell rang and I stepped into a blissfully empty car. The elevator hurtled down all eighteen floors and came to a shuddering stop on the first floor. It was a head-spinning ride that happened only at quiet times like this. I enjoyed the rush as long as I ignored what it meant about the quality of the machinery and my possible life expectancy.

  As I walked through the darkened lobby toward the back doors, I stretched my eyes for better peripheral vision. I’d been walking to work ever since I’d moved into the nearby Biltmore Hotel a year ago. It seemed stupid to drive the six blocks to the courthouse, and I enjoyed the walk—it gave me a chance to think. Plus it saved me a bundle in gas and car maintenance. The only time I had second thoughts about it was after dark. Downtown L.A. empties out after 5:00 p.m., leaving a population that lives mainly outdoors. It wasn’t the homeless who worried me as much as the bottom-feeders who preyed on them.

  Being a prosecutor gave me an inside line on the danger in any area, but the truth was, I’d grown up with the knowledge that mortal peril lurked around every corner. So although I didn’t have a permit to carry, I never left either home or office without a gun. The lack of a permit occasionally worried me, but as my father used to say, “I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six.” I’d never applied for a permit because I didn’t want to get turned down. There’d been a crackdown on gun permits ever since a certain sheriff’s brother-in-law had fired “warning shots” at some neighborhood kids for blasting rap music from their car. And, to be honest, permit or no, I was going to carry anyway. Besides, I was no novice when it came to guns. Being my father’s daughter, I’d started learning how to shoot the moment I could manage a shaky two-handed grip. If I had to shoot, I wouldn’t miss. I stood at the wall of glass that faced out toward the Times Building and scanned the parking lot and sidewalk, as always, looking for signs of trouble. Seeing nothing, I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped out into the night.

  As I walked toward the stairs that led down to street level, I heard the sound of sirens, distant at first but rapidly getting louder. Suddenly the air was pierced with the whooping screams and bass horn blasts of fire engines. They were close, very close. Police cars, their sirens shrieking, seemed to be approaching from all directions, and the night air jangled with wild energy. I watched intently, waiting to see where they were headed. The flashing lights seemed to stop and coalesce about four blocks south and east of the Biltmore, in the middle of a block I knew was filled with junk stores, iron-grilled pawnshops, and low-rent motels. I’d never seen this much action at a downtown crime scene. My usual “neighbors”—druggies, pimps, hookers, and the homeless—generally didn’t get this kind of “Protect and Serve” response. My curiosity piqued, I decided to find out what was going on. At least with all those cops around, I wouldn’t have to worry about muggers.

  2

  Within minutes, I could see that the hub of the action was on the corner of 4th and South Broadway, just around the corner from Pershing Square—at one of those seedy pay-by-the-hour motels. I brilliantly deduced from the hose snaking in through the front door, and the fact that there was only smoke and no flames, that the firefighters had gotten on top of it already.

  Sliding through the scraggly bunch of lookie-loos who’d gathered on the sidewalk, I got as close as the police line allowed and looked for a familiar face to ask what was going on. As another plume of smoke wafted out through the front door of the motel, the seen-better-days coroner’s van pulled up. I peered through the haze and saw a head with a short crew cut pop out from the driver’s side of the van. It was followed by a short, square body dressed in high-water pants, a blue Windbreaker, and Nike sneakers.

  I was in luck. “Scott!” I yelled out. Scott Ferrier was a coroner’s investigator. He’d become my buddy when I’d pulled my first homicide case, back in my baby DA days. He waved and trotted over.

  “Does your mommy know you’re out after dark?” I asked. Scott cut me a look. “This is a lot of firepower for a pimp fight, don’t you think?”

  Scott nodded. “Yeah, it’s weird. If you want to hang around, I’ll go see what I’ve got and fill you in.”

  “Okay if I wait here?” I gestured to his van.

  “Yeah, just don’t steal it,” he said with a snort, knowing he’d have to pay someone to take the beat-up corpse jalopy off his hands.

  Scott turned and wove through the throng of police and firemen and made his way into the motel. I slid into the driver’s seat and tried not to think about the “passengers” that’d ridden around in the cargo space behind me.

  A few more clouds of smoke drifted out as firefighters began to emerge from the building. One of them was rolling up the hose as he walked. They’d been here only a few minutes; if they were already wrapping up, this couldn’t have been much of a fire.

  I watched the hunky firefighters at work and was pondering the truth of the old saying—that God made all paramedics and firemen good-looking so you’d see something pretty before you died—when a deep, authoritative voice broke my concentration.

  “Miss, are you with the coroner’s office?”

  I’d been sitting sidesaddle in the van, facing the motel. I turned to my left and saw that the owner of the voice was somewhere around six feet tall, on the lean side but tastefully muscled under his blue uniform, his dark-blond hair just long enough to comb. His eyes were a gold-flecked hazel, and he had wide, pronounced cheekbones, a strong nose, and a generous mouth. The bars on his uniform told me he was brass, not rank and file. His nameplate confirmed it: LIEUTENANT GRADEN HALES. His skeptical look annoyed me, but his presence made an already weird scene even more so. What the hell was a lieutenant doing here? I mustered up my best “I belong here” voice and replied, “I’m a DA, but I’m waiting for Scott.”

  I expected that my status as a prosecutor would end the discussion. Wrong.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave,” he said with a steely firmness. “Only crime scene personnel are allowed right now.”

  High brass chasing me off a low-life bust? Something was really off here, and now I wasn’t just curious—I had to find out what was going on. “Well, I have to wait for Scott. He’s my ride.” It was a lie, but I figured that would push Lieutenant Officious out to greener pastures. Wrong again.

  “I’ll arrange for one of the patrol units to take you home. Where do you live?”

  Now I was pissed off. Since when does a DA get tossed out of a crime scene? Special case or no, this was bullshit.

  I stepped down from the van. I was just about to open my mouth and get myself in trouble when the coroner’s assistants came out single file, rolling two gurneys carrying body bags. Suddenly Scott came running out of the motel and yelled to one of the assistants, “Get his glasses! Give me the glasses!”

  The team rolling the first gurney came to an abrupt halt. They had been moving at a rapid pace, and when the assistant at the head of the line came to a sudden stop, the gurney kept moving and banged into his hip, causing him to yelp and curse. The other assistant, who’d been at the side of the gurney, quickly reached out and tugged down the zipper of the body bag.

  Illuminated by the harsh streetlight, the face glowed a ghastly bluish white as the assistant lifted the wire-rim glasses from behind the ears and handed them to Scott. I’d been around more than my share of dead bodies, but the searing shock of what met my eyes made me reel and stumble backward into the side of the van. Then a firm hand gripped my arm, steadied me, and led me away from the scene. I looked up and saw that the hand belonged to Lieutenant Hales. I dimly realized that he was saying something, but I couldn’t make the sounds turn into words. I shook my head slowly, as if trying to wake up from a nightmare. This couldn’t be real, I thought, feeling as though I were watching a movie in slow motion with the sound turned too low. The coroner’s assistants loaded the gurney into the cargo area, and I stopped, transfixed, still unable to bel
ieve what I’d seen. The lieutenant pulled me by the elbow with one hand and pushed me on the back with the other, leaving me no choice. I moved in stiff, jerky steps, like a windup toy whose key was on its last few turns. He steered me toward his unmarked car, and I numbly let him stuff me into the passenger seat and buckle the seat belt.

  I must’ve told him where I lived, but I don’t actually remember saying anything. I just remember staring blankly as the streets rolled by, telling myself it couldn’t be, that I had to be wrong.

  Jake Pahlmeyer, my office soul mate—dead. In a rat hole like this. I closed my eyes and told myself I’d been wrong. Irrationally, I refused to ask the lieutenant. If no one confirmed it, it wouldn’t be true.

  3

  Lieutenant Hales pulled up to the Biltmore, guided me out of the car, and walked me to the front entrance. Through the fog of denial and disbelief, the shocked features of Angel, the doorman, floated before me.

  “Rachel, what’s wrong?” he asked as he opened the door and took the elbow Hales wasn’t holding.

  “She’s had a tough night,” Hales said tersely.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Angel said proprietarily, with an accusatory glance at the lieutenant.

  I didn’t have the energy or the sentience to explain that it was nothing the lieutenant had done. I remained mute as Angel led me inside and steered me toward the elevator.

  He managed to get me to my room, and I meant to thank him, though I’m not sure the words made it out of my mouth. All I know is that the moment the door closed behind him, I pulled out the bottle of Russian Standard Platinum vodka someone had given me a while ago and poured myself a triple shot.

  I looked at the television. Was the story being aired yet? I decided I didn’t want to know. And I couldn’t bring myself to call Toni. Talking about it would make it real. Right now, all I wanted was oblivion. I tossed down my drink, then poured myself another and didn’t stop pouring until I passed out cold.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Less so now, the morning after. I had a jittery, buzzy kind of hangover that told me this was going to be a really special day. I groaned as I got out of bed and crept into the shower. Somewhat revived, I called room service and ordered my usual pot of coffee and 2 percent milk, but this time I decided to treat myself to some real food—scrambled eggs and a bagel—instead of my usual egg whites and stewed tomatoes. Screw the diet; I needed some comfort food.

  I ate as I stared at the blank television screen, daring myself to turn it on. Finally curiosity won out over denial, and I reached for the remote, dreading what I was about to see. But when I scrolled through the channels, I saw nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I frowned—that was odd, very odd. I clicked off the television and enjoyed the quiet that settled over the room. In my current condition, the less noise, the better.

  Not seeing the story mentioned on the news even fleetingly had left me feeling weirdly isolated, the whole experience of last night surreal. Now eager to talk to Toni, I quickly downed enough coffee to be semifunctioning and went out onto the balcony to check the weather. I pulled my fluffy robe around me and shivered at the cold bite in the air. The darkened skies told me that the clouds that’d rolled in last night were going to show us why. I threw on gray wool gabardine slacks, a black turtleneck sweater, and black low-heeled boots. I decided to pack my .357 Smith & Wesson revolver instead of the more compact Beretta. After what I’d seen last night, I was willing to trade a lighter load for more firepower. I picked up my briefcase and the black cashmere muffler that had been a Valentine’s Day present—for some reason it was the only souvenir I’d kept from my last ill-fated relationship—wound it around my neck, and walked out to the elevator. I punched the down button and tried not to wince at the sound of the bell when the doors slid open.

  The brisk six-block walk to the courthouse marginally helped to calm some of my jittery buzz, but as I approached the metal detectors, I noticed that I was holding the .357 in my pocket in a death grip. I flashed my badge, and the deputy waved me through. Seeing an open elevator, I ran for it and quickly jumped inside, then endured what felt like a million stops on the way to the eighteenth floor. I punched in the security code on the main office door and realized that I was going to be right next to Jake’s office. I wondered whether they’d put up crime scene tape to seal off his space and reflexively looked down the hall to see if it was there. Not yet. But the glimpse of his closed door undid me, and my eyes filled with tears. I blinked them back, then took deep breaths as I turned and walked up the hall, away from my office.

  “Knock, knock,” I whispered hoarsely, unable to bear the sound of my knuckles on the frame of Toni’s open door.

  Toni, who’d been working on her computer, turned to look at me. “My oh my, but you look like shit. So was it a very bad night or a very good one?”

  I sank into the county-issue metal-framed chair that faced her desk. The sky had grown even darker in the few minutes it had taken me to ride up in the elevator. Right on cue, the first big, bloated drops of rain began to splat against the window. I took another deep breath, swallowed, and tried to make myself say the words I still didn’t want to believe. “Tone,” I began, then had to stop. A lump swelled in my throat as the enormity of it all hit me afresh.

  Toni regarded me with alarm.

  “Honey, what is it? You okay?” she asked.

  “It’s Jake. He’s dead.”

  Toni reflexively looked in the direction of his office. “What?” She shook her head, her face closed in denial.

  I nodded, struggling to stop a fresh wave of tears. Her face frozen in shock, Toni automatically handed me the box of Kleenex we all kept at our desks for victims and their families.

  As I pulled a tissue out of the box, it occurred to me that this was the first time I could remember either one of us using it.

  “How? He’s, what, thirty-five?” Toni said as she focused on a point on the wall to the left of my head, trying to grasp the reality. “Was it a car accident?”

  I shook my head and swallowed. “Somebody killed him, Tone.”

  “No,” Toni said, shaking her head again. “That can’t be,” she said softly, almost to herself.

  I told her what I’d seen the night before.

  As I spoke, Toni folded her arms around her body and leaned forward.

  “Our Jake—in that sleazebag motel. I can’t believe it. He was like my…” Toni broke off.

  “… little brother,” I said, finishing the thought.

  She nodded as her eyes welled up with tears. She bit her lip, then put a hand over her mouth, trying in vain to rein in her emotions. “It’s so wrong for someone so… young and so sweet to be… dead,” Toni said.

  At her words, the last photo taken of my sister, Romy, with her sixth-grade gap-toothed smile, filled my mind, and my throat tightened with pain. I nodded, overcome, unable to speak. As always, I pushed the thought of Romy away. It did no good to revisit the memories that always ended in the same abyss of guilt and self-loathing.

  I sat unmoving, trying not to think. Toni blinked rapidly and put a hand to her chest, as though to ease the ache in her heart. “Do you know if he has any family in L.A.? Or a girlfriend?” she asked.

  In all the time we’d spent together, he’d never once mentioned his parents. But since we’d never really talked about anything personal, I’d never given it any thought until now. I scoured my memory for any personal snippet. “He never mentioned a girlfriend, but he did mention a sister.”

  “What in the hell was he doing in that hole anyway?” Toni asked, her features twisted in confusion. “And who on earth would want to kill him?”

  I’d been asking myself the same things for the past several hours. I shook my head, and we sat in silence for a moment. I again tried to make sense of it. And again I failed.

  “I guess the Feds will handle the case?” Toni asked.

  “Yeah, it’s a conflict of interest for us, so it’ll go to the U.S. Attorney�
��s Office.”

  Toni’s intercom buzzed, and we both stared at it as though it were a UFO. It had to buzz a second time before she finally reached out and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” Toni answered. She listened for a moment, then said, “Yeah, she’s here. Send him down.”

  I looked at her quizzically. Before she could reply, a cop appeared in the doorway. It took me a second to recognize him as the brass from the crime scene. He had a gritty, stubbly look that told me he hadn’t been to bed yet, but his uniform still seemed remarkably crisp.

  He nodded to Toni, then to me. “Lieutenant Hales, from last night,” he said. “I drove you—”

  “I remember, of course.” My tone was frosty at best. Shooting the messenger.

  “I was in the office for a meeting with your boss—”

  “Eric?” I asked.

  “No, Bill Vanderhorn.”

  I nodded to myself. Of course. With a case this politically sensitive, he wouldn’t meet with the head of Special Trials—he’d go straight to the DA.

  “The case going to the Feds?” I asked.

  “Probably,” he said noncommittally. His attitude made it clear he didn’t want to discuss it, which annoyed me even more. If he didn’t want to talk about the case, then what the hell did he want?

  He seemed to sense my irritation. “I just wanted to make sure you were, you know, okay.”

  The warmth in his voice startled me. I looked up and saw that he was watching me intently, his expression one of concern. The personal interest flustered me and made me uncomfortable, which only served to increase my irritation. I knew that, as Carla would say, I was just displacing my grief with anger. Carla had been my childhood shrink in the aftermath of Romy’s disappearance. Twenty-six years later, with five hundred miles separating us, she was still a major force in my life. But I didn’t care what Carla would say. I’d burned right through the denial stage of grief and was eager to get to the fury. Anger was good. I was comfortable with anger. And action. I needed to do something about this. I wanted to get the son of a bitch who’d killed Jake.