by David Grace
“Disappeared? But he’s still alive? He could still be alive.”
“No, sweetie,” Helen said, giving her head a little shake.
“How do you know? You said that there was no way we could call him.”
“But his boss can contact me. We set up a plan before he left, code words they would put in an ad in the newspaper. They wouldn’t mean anything to anyone who didn’t know the secret code. Every week I buy a copy of the Los Angeles Times and I look in the ‘Personals’ column. A few weeks ago they sent the message I was afraid of, the one that means that he’s disappeared and that they think he’s probably dead.”
“But he could still be alive!” Nicole said, fighting back tears.
“No, honey. They told me that if I ever got that message it would mean that the drug dealers had found him out and that they’d killed him and buried him where he’ll never be found. I’m sorry, honey, but your daddy’s gone forever. I know you loved him, but he’s never coming back. Never. Now do you understand why I can’t let you type his name into a computer or ask any questions about him? Those men, those monsters, always kill the families of their enemies. If they ever find us they’ll kill us too. Do you understand?” Nicole’s eyes glistened and she rubbed away her tears with the palms of her hands. “I don’t want to die, Elaine. You don’t want them to kill me the way they did your father, do you?”
“No. No!” Nicole said and buried her face in her mother’s blouse.
“No, of course you don’t,” Helen whispered. A few seconds later she gently pushed Nicole away until she was looking into the child’s face. “Now, do you understand?”
Nicole pulled a tissue from her jeans and wiped her eyes. She looked down for a moment then back up, “If you knew this might happen why did you tear up all our pictures!” she demanded. “Now there’s nothing left!”
“Because I knew this day might come and I knew that if it did your looking at pictures of your father would just make you sad. I was protecting you, sweetie.” Nicole rubbed her eyes again and looked away. “Now do you understand why you can never mention your father’s name to anyone, and why you can never, ever look for him on the computer?”
Nicole hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“I need to hear you say it, Elaine.”
“I understand,” she said in a breaking voice.
“All right. Let’s not talk about it any more. Here,” Helen gave her a fresh Kleenex. “Wipe your face.”
For the next few minutes they shopped in silence. Helen knew that Nicole was trying to process the lie that her father was dead and gone forever and she let her be.
It had to be done, Helen told herself and avoided looking at her daughter’s tear-stained face.
Her head spinning, Nicole followed blindly along, thinking about the worn, little picture that she had kept hidden all these months of herself and her father hugging each other and smiling into the camera. She couldn’t wait to get home, to retrieve it from its hiding place and stare at it and tell him goodbye.
Chapter Five
LOS ANGELES, SEPTEMBER, PRESENT DAY
Virgil parked the Cadillac ATS halfway down the motel’s U-shaped arm and climbed the stairs to the second floor two steps at a time. He knocked twice then took a step back. For an instant the light behind the peephole darkened then the door opened to the length of the chain.
“Morning, Ms. Hamilton. I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Virgil Quinn.” Virgil held out his leather holder with his star on one side and his photo ID on the other. “I’m here to take you to the courthouse.”
The woman stared at him for a moment then closed the door and released the chain. About five feet five with a thin face and frightened eyes, she slowly opened it again.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked uncertainly.
“No, thank you, ma’am.” Virgil scanned the empty room behind her. “If you’re ready, we can get started.”
She paused for a moment then grabbed her purse and pulled the door closed.
“I’m Carrie,” she said and held out her hand, “but I guess you know that already.”
She was in her late twenties, more wholesome than pretty, with straw-colored hair and eyes a washed-out blue. Virgil could tell that she was scared but fighting it, like a wounded man who is determined not to give in to the pain.
“You said your name was ‘Virgil’?” she asked, giving him a weak smile. “Like Wyatt Earp’s brother.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said as he led her down the stairs.
“He was a U.S. Marshal too, Virgil Earp.”
Quinn glanced at her over his shoulder in surprise. “How’d you know that?”
“I’m from Arizona – Salome. Nothing much there. It’s just a dust spot on the map, but we all know about the Earps. Is that why you became a Marshal, because of your name?”
“No,” Virgil said, hitting the Cadillac’s remote. “I was in the army, military police, and I figured that I could do better in law enforcement as a civilian, so, well, here I am.” He smiled as he pulled back the door, but Carrie just stood there, frozen in place.
“We get our pick of seized vehicles,” he said, taking a step back and holding his arms away from his body, palms out. “The FBI grabbed this one from some stockbroker who they caught for insider trading. I thought that with everything you’d been through that maybe you’d like to ride in style today.”
Carrie hesitated a second then seemed to draw on some well of inner strength and slipped into the passenger seat.
“Sorry,” she said, giving Virgil a weak smile, “it’s just that he had a nice car, an SUV, but it was German, a ‘Porsch’,” she said leaving off the “e” at the end. “He looked normal and it was such a nice car, I figured . . . well . . . stupid, right?” she said, dabbing her eyes and looking away.
“No,” Virgil said firmly. “No, it wasn’t stupid. How were you supposed to know that he wasn’t just a good Samaritan offering you a lift? How were you supposed to know your car had broken down because he’d put something in your gas tank? How were you supposed to know that he was a . . . .” He wound down, lost for words.
“Monster,” Carrie said in an acid tone. “Animal. . . . Sub-human . . . .” She turned away and leaned her forehead against the glass. “You read my file?” she asked in a muffled voice.
“Last night. I always try to get to know the people I’m transporting.” He concentrated on the traffic and turned North onto the 101. “I really admire you,” he said a minute later.
“You admire me? Why would you admire me?” Carrie asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Because you won.”
“Won? What did I win?” she asked with a bitter laugh.
“Your life.” She just stared at him and a moment later Virgil spoke again. “You started out that afternoon in a battle, him against you. You started out as a victim. But when it was over, when you kicked out that window and jumped out of that fancy car of his, you beat him.”
“I beat him?”
“Don’t you see?” Virgil rasped, twisting in his seat. “It was a battle between you and him. You’re here with me and he’s in a cell. You tell me, who won and who lost?”
“I . . . I–”
“Don’t you understand?” Virgil demanded. “He had all the advantages – strength, money, guns, ropes, and at the end of the day you beat him. You started out as a victim and you ended up a survivor. You won and he lost.”
Carrie’s face went blank and then she turned away and didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. Virgil ushered her through security at the District Court Building on Spring Street and made sure that they were alone in the elevator.
“Did you mean that?” she asked when the doors closed. “What you said about me being a winner and him being a loser?”
“Every damn word,” Virgil told her, looking straight into her eyes.
“I never thought about it that way,” Carrie said, mostly to herself, then the car dinged its arrival and when the doors ope
ned her face carried a little smile.
They met the Assistant U.S. Attorney in the hallway outside of Judge Wilkington’s courtroom at five to nine.
“Ms. Hamilton, Marshal – I’m Assistant U.S. Attorney Bradley Odermatt. We’re here today because Crocker’s lawyer is asking the court to reduce his bail.”
“What do I know about his bail?” Carrie asked.
“It’s just a tactic,” Odermatt said with a little shrug. “Sometimes defense lawyers file these motions as an excuse to question a witness, to try to get an idea of how well they’re going to do when the case comes to trial.”
“Will he be here, Crocker?”
“No, we stipulated that he wouldn’t be present.”
“I still don’t understand what–”
“The Judge is coming in, Counselor,” the bailiff called to Odermatt from the doorway.
“Just answer his questions in as few words as possible and this will be over in a few minutes,” Odermatt told her.
“Are you staying?” she asked Virgil.
“Absolutely,” Quinn promised after the slightest of hesitations.
* * *
“The United States District Court for the Southern District of California is now in session,” the bailiff called out in a sing-song voice. “The Honorable Homer Wilkington presiding. Please be seated.”
Stocky and bent-over as if in pain, Homer Wilkington settled into his chair and stared at a sheaf of papers in front of him.
“In the matter of the United States v. Miles Steven Crocker,” he said, looking up and peering at the defense table. “This is a motion for a reduction in bail on the grounds that . . . .” he flipped to the back of the packet, “there is a lack of material evidence to indicate that if released the defendant will not appear as required and a lack of material evidence to indicate that, if released, the defendant presents a danger to the safety of any other person or to the community. . . . Appearances, Gentlemen?”
“Assistant U.S. Attorney Bradley Odermatt for the Government, Your Honor.”
“Martin Fitch, Weis, Fitch and Lowy for Mr. Crocker, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Fitch, I don’t quite understand why you’re bringing this motion at this time. Your client’s preliminary hearing is set for . . . two weeks from this Thursday. If he’s not held to answer the issue of bail is moot. If he is bound over you can make your motion to reduce bail at that time. What’s the rush?”
“Your Honor, Mr. Crocker is an innocent man and federal detention is, no offense to the Government intended, a terrible place. While we believe that he will not be held to answer, if at all possible we don’t want him to spend another two weeks in custody. Mr. Crocker is a man of some means and if a reasonable bail is set he will be able to meet it. Also, it will be much easier to prepare his defense to these unfounded charges if Mr. Crocker is free to consult with counsel outside of a detention environment.”
“You’re saying that you want to present evidence that the Government’s case is so weak that the Court should reduce Mr. Crocker’s bail? Is that it?”
“That’s exactly right, Your Honor.”
“How long is this going to take?” Wilkington asked, glancing at the clock.
“Half an hour or less, Your Honor. I have only one witness and she’s here in the courtroom.”
“Who’s the witness?”
“The alleged victim.”
At the words “alleged victim” Carrie’s mouth gaped in a tiny “O.”
Wilkington scowled, then made a little nod.
“All right, call your witness, but make it brief. I’ve got a full docket today.”
“The defense calls Carrie Susan Hamilton.”
Carrie walked nervously to the witness stand and said “I do” when the bailiff completed the oath.
“Ms. Hamilton, you’re a resident of Salome, Arizona, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And on Saturday, June 25th, 2016 you told the Los Angeles police that you had been kidnapped by Miles Crocker, is that correct?”
“I didn’t know his name. I described him and his car and I gave them part of his license number.”
Fitch ignored her answer and pressed on.
“Where and when did you first meet Mr. Crocker?”
“The night before, on the highway outside of town, Salome. My car broke down and he stopped and offered me a ride.”
“At that time were you working as a cocktail waitress at the Gold Dust Bar and Grill in Salome?”
“Yes.”
“The six p.m. to two a.m. shift, correct?”
“Yes,” Carrie said uneasily, glancing at the A.U.S.A.
“Was Mr. Crocker one of your customers that Friday night?”
“Not as far as I remember.”
“You don’t remember your serving him dinner and then drinks?”
“No.”
Fitch paced over to the defense table and pulled two sheets of paper from a folder. He handed one to Odermatt and the other to the judge.
“Your Honor, this is a copy of Mr. Crocker’s VISA statement for June, 2016. The court will note that I’ve highlighted a charge for $62.15 on June 24th to the Gold Dust Bar & Grill.”
“Your Honor,” Odermatt said, getting to his feet. “This unverified photocopy does not show the time of these charges. For all we know Mr. Crocker could have had lunch there before the witness even started work.”
“I will make an offer of proof that at trial Mr. Crocker will testify that these charges were for dinner and drinks that evening and that Ms. Hamilton was his waitress.”
“Your Honor–”
“The defendant claims he met the witness at her place of business on the night of the 24th and she says that she doesn’t remember meeting him. Fine. Let’s move on. Do you have any more questions for Ms. Hamilton Mr. Fitch?”
“A few Your Honor. Ms. Hamilton, on that Friday evening did Mr. Crocker offer to take you to Los Angeles for the weekend?”
“No.”
“Did Mr. Crocker promise to show you the town, take you to restaurants and clubs, all expenses paid?”
“No,” Carrie snapped.
“Did he promise to take you shopping in Beverly Hills and buy you a new wardrobe appropriate to a weekend of dining and dancing?”
“No.”
“Did you agree to accompany him to Los Angeles in his Porsche Cayenne at the end of your shift after you had picked up some cosmetics and other personal items from your home?”
“No!”
“Did he offer you some cocaine in the Gold Dust’s parking lot?”
“No!” Carrie answered through gritted teeth.
“Did you and he both snort a line of cocaine in the Gold Dust’s parking lot?”
“No.”
“Did you and he agree that he would follow you to your home but your . . . 1991 Volkswagon Rabbit,” Fitch read from his notes, “broke down halfway there?”
“No, I mean I never told him to follow me home.”
“But that night your Rabbit did break down on the highway leading to your house?”
“Yes.”
“And he, Mr. Crocker, pulled over behind you?”
“Yes.”
“And he offered you a ride?”
“Yes.”
“And you willingly got into his Porsche?”
“I didn’t know he was going to rape me!”
“So, you did get into his car willingly?”
“Yes.”
“Let me understand this, Ms. Hamilton. You say that you had never met Mr. Crocker before he offered you a ride after your car broke down. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s about quarter after two in the morning on a lonely, deserted, stretch of highway. Your car breaks down. Another vehicle stops. A man, a stranger, gets out and suggests that you get into his car and you say, ‘OK, sure’ and you hop right in?”
“That’s what happened,” Carrie insisted.
“How old were
you at that time?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“You’re a high school graduate?”
“Yes.”
“Two years of college?”
“A year and a half, junior college.”
“All right. A year and a half of college. As a cocktail waitress in a small-town bar did you often see men try to pick up women?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Did they ever try to get, let’s say, pushy, grabby?”
“I suppose.”
“Did you ever hear of any women in the area being attacked or raped?”
“Your Honor!” Odermatt objected.
“I’ll allow it. Ms. Hamilton, answer the question.”
“A couple of years ago one of the women in town was attacked in her home. They never arrested anyone for it but they thought it was–”
“Thank you. You’ve answered my question. Would it be fair to say that on that night you knew that it was dangerous for a woman alone to get into a strange man’s car out on the highway in the middle of the night?”
“Yes, sure, but he seemed all right. He had such an expensive car, I mean, you think those people are all, you know, losers and drug addicts.”
“Did you have a cell phone that night?” Fitch asked, ignoring Carrie’s explanation.
“Yes.”
“Was it working?”
“Yes.”
“So, you could have called someone to come out and pick you up when your car died? Correct?”
“I suppose.”
“Just to be clear – it’s after two in the morning on a deserted highway. You have a working phone, and you could have called a friend or your boss or a co-worker at the bar to drive the five minutes from where you worked to where your car died, but knowing that about a year before a man still on the loose had raped a woman in your town, instead you willingly climbed into a strange man’s car? Is that your story?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Ms. Hamilton, isn’t the real truth that Mr. Crocker flirted with you at the bar; that he offered to finance a weekend of partying in Los Angeles; that he offered to buy you a new wardrobe; that he gave you some happy drugs in the parking lot; that you agreed to go with him, and that you voluntarily got into his car because that was the idea all along?”