Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  She raised her hand abruptly, cutting me off. “I’m in it as long as you are.”

  “I’m serious, Bailey. This could get really ugly.”

  She stopped walking and looked at me squarely. “I’m guessing it is going to get really ugly, and fast. But you’re right: it’s not all the way there yet, and we both know anything can happen from here. I’m in.”

  Her show of support was a much-needed balm on a wounded memory. I couldn’t express what I was feeling in words, so I did the next best thing. “Feel like El Chavo?”

  The cozy little dive served up some of the best Mexican food and margaritas this side of Baja.

  “Perfect.”

  As we headed for Bailey’s car, “The Crystal Ship” by the Doors—one of my favorites among the rock classics—began playing on my cell phone.

  “That’s Toni,” I said as I pulled out the phone.

  “Tell her to join us,” Bailey said. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the tiny parking lot and wove around to the old adobe building adorned with strings of multicolored Christmas lights that stayed up year-round. We walked into the claustrophobic vestibule, where we were greeted by Blanca, the owner’s wife, who looked more like the owner’s daughter.

  “Your friend is already here,” she said with a smile as she gathered up two plastic-coated menus and gestured for us to follow her down the narrow stairs. Our eyes adjusted to the dim light and we found Toni already seated at one of the long picnic-style tables. Looking around the room, I marveled again at how something as simple as tiny multicolored lights could give a place such a warm, rosy glow. It felt like an endless party.

  We ordered a pitcher of margaritas and filled Toni in on what we’d learned. She remained steadfast. “It’s gonna take more than this to make me believe Jake was a homicidal-suicidal pedophile.”

  The simple, defiant statement stiffened my spine, and I could feel Bailey’s spirits lift too. In unison, we raised our glasses in a silent toast and took a long, delicious sip.

  “So now what?” Toni asked.

  “I’ve got a few ideas,” I began, then paused to look around the room, catching Bailey’s expression as I finished my scan. Her look confirmed what I was feeling. “Later,” I said as I looked steadily at Toni, sending a message. She nodded.

  We weren’t the only ones in the business who liked to hang out at El Chavo, and I’d already been busted twice for butting into Jake’s case. I didn’t need to go for strike three.

  I considered telling them about Graden Hales’s elevator invitation but decided against it. Nothing had happened yet, and maybe nothing would ever come of it. And there was also the possibility that since I’d been officially warned off the case, and Bailey was risking her neck to help me, she’d be less than pleased to find out that the cop who was heading the operation—her boss—was getting flirty with me. Now that I thought about it, she might be right. It was a little too close for comfort. Speaking of which…, I thought as I turned to Bailey.

  “What’s up with you and Drew?” I asked her.

  “Details—now,” Toni demanded.

  Bailey laughed, and we all leaned in as she regaled us with the tale of her amazing date with Drew at the Rooftop Bar at the Standard. Two margarita pitchers later, Bailey called in and got a patrol car to give us a ride home. The officer turned out to be a hottie. A proud example of the LAPD’s finest. Toni rode up front with him. I think she might’ve kissed him good night. He bore up with selfless dedication: “To Protect and Serve.” The motto was still alive and well in L.A.

  13

  I woke early the next morning, only slightly the worse for wear after last night’s dining experience. I had a meeting set up with Jake’s sister, Jennifer, whose number I’d cadged from my buddy in the Planning and Training Division. I didn’t know what she could offer, but anything was more than I had now. As I got dressed, it struck me as tragic that a person could work with someone so closely for so long and yet know so little about him. We are, in essence, a lonely species. I hiked up to the parking lot behind the courthouse, where I’d left my car. Its dusty exterior was wet with morning dew—muddy dew. Lovely.

  Jennifer lived in a duplex apartment on a quiet tree-lined street in Glendale, a bedroom community just ten minutes north and west of downtown L.A. There were old-fashioned planters lining the front windows, and blue hydrangeas were in full, luscious bloom. Everything grew like crazy here. Back in the ’40s or ’50s, the whole town had been slated for orchards, so they’d trucked in the best-quality soil. The orchards had given way when the real estate became too valuable to waste on fruit, but the soil kept on giving. If you spit out a pumpkin seed, by next week you’d have a pumpkin patch. I pressed the buzzer at the side of the screen door and stepped back so as not to crowd the entry. Through the door, I could hear the television playing a morning news show. I had time to hear that it wasn’t the usual lame jousting between airheaded anchors, so it couldn’t have been a network program. Probably CNN. A serious person, this Jennifer.

  She answered the door breathlessly; I’d obviously caught her in the middle of getting ready to go to work. Although I knew from Jake’s bio in Planning and Training that she was twenty-nine, just five and a half years younger than Jake, she could’ve passed for a high school junior. Petite, no makeup, soft wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders—Jennifer was the female version of Jake. The resemblance made me feel close to her, even as it caused a lump in my throat. But whereas Jake visibly burned with an intense energy that powered his rapid speech and passion for work, Jennifer gave off a soft blue, lower-wattage reserve. The sun and the moon. And I could tell from the way she barely held my fingers when we shook hands that this was not a people person.

  “Hi, Jennifer, I’m Rachel Knight. Thank you for seeing me. I know this is a hard time for you.”

  She opened the screen door and stepped back to let me in. “No, actually, I was glad when you called,” she said as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I never met any of Jake’s friends…. In fact, you’re the only one he ever mentioned by name,” she said in a soft, sad voice.

  Did this mean I was his only friend? Or was I the only person he could tell her about? I immediately choked off the unwanted thought, but I could feel the threads of a memory being woven together in my subconscious.

  “Did someone from the office call you?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Yes, they did. But, um… it’s just… not the same, you know…?” She trailed off, and her eyes darted away. She directed me to the living room, and as I took a seat on the sofa, I tried not to dwell on how horrible it must have been to lose a sibling under such circumstances, and on top of that not to have anyone close to him to share memories with. I’d suffered many agonies with the loss of Romy, but none had involved ugly speculation about who she’d really been. I couldn’t imagine how much worse that would be. Assuming, of course, that the speculation about Jake was untrue. I looked around the room as she settled on the couch. A house can tell you a lot about a person.

  Jennifer had cleverly chosen to furnish the small space sparsely—just a sofa, a coffee table, and a mini entertainment center against the opposite wall. It was a room uniquely devoid of personality—just one framed photo of her and Jake on the fireplace mantel, and judging by the clothes they wore in the picture, I could tell it was at least five years old. No plants, no pets, no artwork. This place could have belonged to anyone.

  “Oh, can I get you coffee or… anything?” she offered as she started to get up.

  “No, thanks,” I said, gesturing for her to sit back down. “I want you to know that I wasn’t Jake’s only friend. Everyone in the office loved him.”

  Jennifer bit the inside of her lip and nodded silently. I could see she was holding back tears. She didn’t want to cry on a stranger’s shoulder—or maybe anyone else’s either. The decor told me that Jennifer wasn’t the sharing type.

  “Are you a lawyer?
” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m a psychologist.”

  That would not have been my first guess. I deliberately kept my expression neutral. “Do you have your own practice?”

  “I’m not that kind of psychologist. I do testing for research. Right now I’m working on the data for the next edition of the DSM.”

  This, I could totally see—as a researcher, Jennifer didn’t treat patients; she compiled the data that would be used to figure out how to treat patients. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is a sort of bible for the mental-health profession. Shrinks who testify for the defense at trial often refer to it when they’re trying to tell the jury why the defendant wasn’t responsible for the rape, murder, and burning of a dozen women in their eighties. I love this kind of testimony the way Keith Olbermann loves Bill O’Reilly.

  “I got the impression you and Jake were close,” I said.

  My impression didn’t come from what he’d said, because Jake never offered any personal details. It was more in the way he’d spoken of his sister, the warmth and real affection in his voice when he said her name.

  “We were,” Jennifer said as she looked up at the photo on the mantel. “When we were growing up in New York, we did a lot together. Even shared an apartment in the East Village for a while—before it got all hipped up and expensive.”

  Her gaze drifted off as she smiled at the fond memory.

  “Did you move out here with your folks?”

  Jennifer blinked quickly, and I saw that my question had brought her down to earth with a thud.

  “No. Jake and I… we got tired of the cold, and we both liked the idea of California. So we saved up and moved out here together.”

  She looked down at the floor and swallowed. I’d known this meeting would be painful, but the tightness in my throat told me it had outstripped my expectations. I gave Jennifer a moment to recover, then asked, “How long ago was that?”

  “Ten years ago. He put himself through law school; I got a scholarship and majored in psychology. We still had dinners when we could, but we both got busier and busier, so we saw less of each other…” She trailed off as she paused again to collect herself, then continued. “By the time he joined the DA’s office and I got this job, we’d see each other maybe once a month for dinner or something.”

  I watched her remember and nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “But, you know, he was still there for me. No matter how busy or tired, he was always there when I needed him.” Suddenly Jennifer, her features twisted with pain, burst out, “And he wasn’t some sick child molester! I don’t care what anybody says, it’s a disgusting lie!”

  She covered her face, bending over and sobbing. I moved toward her and put my arms around her. She leaned into me and cried as though it were the first time anyone had offered her any sort of comfort. Maybe it was.

  I smoothed her hair and gently rubbed her back.

  “I know,” I said. “Jake wasn’t that guy.”

  I hoped. More than ever, I wanted to squash all the doubts—mine and everyone else’s. Meeting Jennifer had made me doubly determined to prove Jake’s innocence. I explained that I intended to dig into the case to find out what had really happened. “So do you know anything about his personal life? What he did in his spare time?”

  “Spare time?” Jennifer gave a short, mirthless laugh. “We didn’t believe in it. Like I said, we had dinner once a month. We’d go out or I’d make dinner here.”

  She noticed me looking toward the small, immaculate, and fairly untouched kitchen and added, “Mostly we ate out.”

  I nodded with a little smile. “I live in a hotel, and the part I like the most is room service.”

  “That would be wonderful—no dishes, ever,” she said, and smiled. It was a nice smile. I wanted to help her keep it.

  “You didn’t know of any friends or people outside the office he hung around with?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t think he had any. I don’t,” she said quietly.

  I was struck by the naked honesty of the statement. These two were classic loners who’d barely been able to stay connected—even to each other. For both, the only real bond they’d had was to their jobs. And now Jennifer didn’t just feel alone; she really was alone. Her isolation was complete. I felt what she was going through as though it were me—probably because, in so many ways, it was me.

  I tried to get some additional information, but after a few more minutes of fruitless inquiry, I admitted defeat. Jennifer had given me all she had, and right now she was engulfed in a grief that went beyond the pain of Jake’s death.

  I told her that I’d be in touch and that she should call me any time she felt like it. She said she would. I didn’t believe her. That was okay; I’d keep checking in on her until she saw that I meant it—or told me to stop. I said good-bye and squeezed my eyes shut as I hugged her at the door.

  I walked to my car, planning the lunches I would set up for her with the deputies in the unit. They were sharks at work, but they’d show up for Jennifer. I turned left onto the freeway and headed back downtown in traffic that wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t until I neared the Broadway exit that it occurred to me she hadn’t once mentioned their parents.

  14

  I sat at a stoplight at the intersection of Temple and Broadway and watched the mix of workers and witnesses make their way through the crosswalk to the courthouse. The last stragglers were a pregnant mother and her toddler boy, the latter stopping to pick up a gum wrapper that was glinting in the sun. “No, papi, es sucio,” she chided as she grabbed his hand and pulled him, toes dragging along the street, toward the sidewalk.

  The light changed, and I pulled through the intersection. As I turned right onto Spring Street, heading for the employee parking lot, the memory that had begun to tweak me during my meeting with Jennifer finally emerged from the shadows. I pulled into a spot and let it play out.

  I’d just come back from court after a long session wrangling over discovery with four of the biggest chowderheaded defense attorneys I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. I’d stopped in Jake’s office to do some venting and found him hunched over his desk, head down, talking intently into the phone.

  “Don’t worry,” Jake said, his tone softly reassuring. “I’ll take care of it, okay?”

  He listened a moment, then looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He mouthed, “I’ll meet you,” as he gestured toward my office.

  I nodded and moved on. A few minutes later, Jake came in, shaking his head.

  “Sorry. I was just talking to my IO on that stalking murder,” he explained. “He’s kinda new, needs some hand-holding.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  But I’d known it was a lie. I’d recognized the number on the display screen of his phone. It was for Central Juvenile Hall.

  I hadn’t understood why he’d lied, but I’d let it go. There were plenty of innocent reasons for Jake to talk to someone in juvenile hall, some of which might well have required secrecy. Like, for example, a juvenile witness who was cooperating with the prosecution and in danger of gang reprisal. I’d still found it weird that Jake didn’t trust me with that information, but I’d figured he thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Now, of course, there was another, far more sinister possibility to consider. The memory, and what it might mean, was deeply disturbing. How could I have been that wrong about Jake? How could I have missed seeing a side of him that was so despicably perverted? I wanted badly to prove that it wasn’t true, that the call hadn’t meant anything. But that would require some digging, and I didn’t know of a safe way to do that.

  Angry and frustrated, I turned my thoughts to Kit Chalmers. I thought there might be a little more wiggle room for us to look around in his life without getting caught, but not much. And it wasn’t as though I had nothing else to do. I was under a lot of pressure to move forward on the Densmore case, and then there was the rest of
my caseload. The press of having too much to do closed in on me, and I had to force myself to relax, slow down, and think.

  I looked around for cops, then, holding my cell phone in my lap, I flipped it open and dialed Bailey’s number.

  “Meet me in my office,” I said. She hung up without bothering to reply.

  I stopped in the snack bar for coffee, and by the time I got back to my office, Bailey was already there, her feet up on the side table under the window, staring down at the street below.

  “What took you so long?” I said as I dropped my purse on the floor next to my desk and flopped into my chair.

  Bailey turned her head to face me without changing her position. “You meet with the sister?”

  I nodded and filled her in. She grunted. “So all possibilities are still open—and she ruled out nothing. Fantastic.”

  Then I told her about Jake’s phone call with someone at juvenile hall.

  Bailey raised her eyebrows and fell silent. “We can’t check phone records without getting noticed,” she said finally.

  “Yeah.”

  “Could be completely innocent,” she added.

  “Could be.”

  We both sat quietly for a moment as we shared the same thought: we couldn’t rule out the ugly possibility that the phone call might have been evidence that Jake had a suspicious interest in fringe children.

  There was nowhere to go with this train of thought at the moment, so I changed the subject to something I hoped would prove more productive. “Did you run the gangbanger kid, Luis, on the Densmore case?”

  “I did. Had to kick some rookie ass to get the job done, but, of course,” Bailey said as she brandished a sheaf of papers, “that’s not a problem for me.”

  Not only was it not a problem, but I knew that Bailey actively relished the chance to call out the slackers.

  She began to read: “Busted for possession of marijuana when he was twelve, arrested for burglary when he was fourteen.” Bailey paused for effect. “No convictions.”