“We looked into it,” Gorecki says.
“Why was that, Captain?”
“Herman Kreiss Jr., one of our detectives, reported that a source put William Bishop at the scene of the crime. We looked into the report, and it didn’t check out. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that Mr. Bishop had anything to do with McGrath’s disappearance.”
Then Frantz surprises me by announcing that he has no further questions. He knows I’m going to ask Gorecki about Luther “Boardwalk Freddy” Frederickson’s statement that Bishop was at the scene. Most lawyers would have tried to defuse my cross-examination about Boardwalk Freddy by asking Gorecki about it first. What kind of trap have Frantz and Diamond laid?
As soon as I stand, Gorecki gives me his cop’s iron stare and doesn’t break it. I’m sure Frantz told him about my stage fright. No problem—the fear doesn’t affect me when I’m interrogating a witness, maybe because I can hide behind the questions and make the witness the center of attention. I show Gorecki a copy of the 1987 McGrath police report and say, “Mr. Gorecki, you testified on direct examination that you investigated whether William Bishop played a role in Felicity McGrath’s disappearance, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“But there’s no reference to William Bishop in the police report, is there?”
“That’s correct, sir. We left it out because we didn’t think the information Kreiss provided was credible. The police report is a public document, and it wouldn’t have been fair to Mr. Bishop to mention it.”
“You were trying to protect Mr. Bishop’s reputation?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just like you’re trying to do now.”
“Objection, argumentative,” Franz says.
“Sustained,” the judge says.
“Would it surprise you if I told you that my side subpoenaed all the department’s case files for the McGrath disappearance and there wasn’t any reference to Mr. Bishop in any document, public or private?”
“After thirty years on the police force and many years in private security after that, nothing surprises me, sir.”
“Why wouldn’t any of the field notes refer to William Bishop?”
“The information wasn’t credible. Why ruin a man’s reputation?” It’s Gorecki’s first slip-up.
“So you did leave something out of the file to protect Mr. Bishop’s reputation?”
“I . . . as I said, Detective Kreiss’s information wasn’t credible.”
“Bud Kreiss was an experienced police detective, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’d headed up many murder and kidnapping investigations?”
“That’s correct.”
“Like you, he received commendations from the department.”
“Yes.”
“In fact, he received the Medal of Valor.”
“Yes.”
“The LAPD’s highest honor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Awarded for conspicuous bravery or heroism beyond the call of duty?”
“That’s accurate.”
“You never received the Medal of Valor, did you, sir?”
Gorecki’s metallic jaw slackens slightly, and he suddenly looks his age. “I did not, counselor.” One way of shaking a professional witness is to challenge his credentials, let his own pride undermine him.
“You agree that in 1987, Bud Kreiss was an experienced decorated cop?”
“I do agree with that.”
“Doesn’t the amount of detail a witness gives increase his credibility?”
“It might.”
“Detective Kreiss gave you a lot of detail about William Bishop’s involvement, didn’t he?”
“Not that I recall.”
“He told you that a man name Luther Frederickson—also known as Boardwalk Freddy—saw two men force Felicity McGrath into a Volkswagen?”
“Objection, hearsay,” Frantz says. “In fact it’s double hearsay—what Frederickson supposedly said to Kreiss and what Kreiss said to the witness.”
“Your Honor, it’s only hearsay if I were offering Detective Kreiss’s statement to prove the truth that any of what he said actually happened,” I say, making an argument Poniard would despise. “I’m not. I’m offering the testimony to show that if Frederickson did make the statement, it bears on whether my client acted with reckless disregard for the truth.”
Here it comes—Anita Grass will sustain the objection and keep out my strongest argument. And she does open her mouth to say sustained, aspirates the s, but there’s the sound of computer keys rippling in the media section, and she hesitates. “O . . . overruled,” she says.
Frantz falls back into his chair—she’s stolen victory from him. I think I know why. Anita Grass is ambitious and certainly not someone who’ll be satisfied with sitting on the Superior Court for the rest of her career. She might dislike me, but she also doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of the news media and, by extension, the people who elevate trial judges to the Court of Appeal. Still, from her pained expression, the need to swallow the word sustained has made her dyspeptic.
Before she can reverse herself, I ask, “Boardwalk Freddy said he saw two men force Felicity into a Volkswagen, correct?”
“So claimed Bud Kreiss,” Gorecki says.
“Freddy said the VW sped away toward the Santa Monica Pier, the same place where blood of McGrath’s type was found?”
“If you say so. It’s been twenty-seven years.”
“Would you have remembered better if you’d filed some notes on it, Mr. Gorecki?”
In my peripheral vision I see Frantz standing to object, but before he does the judge says, “That’s argumentative, Mr. Stern. I’m going to sustain my own objection.”
I hear Brenda sigh in disapproval, the high whooshing sound perilously close to the word “Jesus.” She cannot behave that way. If I can hear her, so can the judge.
“Well, according to Detective Kreiss, Boardwalk Freddy saw a blue Mercedes-Benz pick up the two men who’d abducted Felicity McGrath, correct?” I ask.
“I don’t recall, sir. I do know that Luther Frederickson—Boardwalk Freddy—suffered from chronic alcoholism and drug addiction, and was a transient who was prone to make up self-aggrandizing stories.”
“And I suppose you don’t recall Bud Kreiss telling you that the driver stepped out of the car and went into the backseat and that McGrath’s abductors got into his Mercedes?”
“You’re right, Mr. Stern, I do not recall that.” He’s trying to keep his cop-as-witness demeanor, but his right knee has started bouncing rhythmically.
I catch Judge Grass glancing at his moving leg. Let’s see if I can worsen the restless leg syndrome. “But you do recall that Boardwalk Freddy identified the driver of the blue Mercedes as the movie producer William Bishop?”
“It wasn’t credible information.”
I’m tempted to ask him why, but you almost never ask a why question on cross-examination because you’ll most likely get an answer you don’t want. So I ask, “If Boardwalk Freddy was right, William Bishop would’ve become a prime suspect in the abduction of Paula Felicity McGrath, correct?”
“Objection, calls for speculation,” Frantz says.
Judge Grass sustains the objection. Of course she does.
“Shortly after he reported Boardwalk Freddy’s sighting of William Bishop, Detective Kreiss was busted back down to patrolman, correct?” I say.
“He was demoted, yes.”
“Assigned to the graveyard shift?”
“As I recall.”
“To punish him for not covering up William Bishop’s role in Felicity McGrath’s abduction, correct?”
“Absolutely not, sir. Because we need patrol officers to work late night and early morning to protect our citizens. And Officer Kreiss had lost seniority, so we couldn’t very well require others to work those hours.”
“He was demoted because he wouldn’t go along with your cover-up of William Bis
hop’s role in the McGrath kidnapping, am I right?”
He shakes his head and lets out a mocking snort. “You’re not only wrong, sir, you’re rude and offensive.”
“Well, the pretext for demoting him was that he was having a romantic relationship with a newspaper reporter named Dalila Hernandez, whom he told that the LAPD was looking at a person of interest, correct?”
“It wasn’t a pretext,” Gorecki says, his lips twisted as if he’s fighting back a snarl. “Bud Kreiss had a conflict of interest that arose from his relationship with Hernandez, but that was a very small part of why he was demoted.”
When Brenda and I interviewed Kreiss, he claimed his alleged relationship with Hernandez was the only reason for his demotion. Again, as curious as I am about the actual facts, I don’t ask Gorecki what he means. Instead I ask, “Do you know where Dalila Hernandez is today, Captain Gorecki?” Brenda has spent months trying to find Hernandez.
“I have no idea.”
“She’s disappeared just like so many other witnesses in the McGrath investigation, hasn’t she?”
Judge Grass tosses her pen onto the bench. “Another argumentative question, Mr. Stern. No need to answer that, Captain Gorecki. But please answer this—you said the alleged affair was only a small part of the reason why Detective Kreiss was demoted? What was the primary reason?”
Again Brenda sighs, though Grass has asked a legitimate question that Frantz would’ve asked on redirect anyway.
Gorecki speaks directly to the judge. It’s clear that he’s been waiting to give this answer all morning. “Detective Kreiss was demoted because he was an alcoholic. His alcoholism affected his ability to perform his job duties. Before his demotion, he’d undergone extensive counseling and had been disciplined more than once. He was intoxicated while on duty several times in the months leading up to his demotion. To put it bluntly, he and Luther Frederickson were occasional drinking buddies. He was lucky he didn’t lose his badge.” He turns toward me. “Bud Kreiss’s struggles are well documented in his employment file if you want to verify this. So his demotion had to do with protecting the citizens of the City of Los Angeles, not with some imagined cover-up that you’ve made up to try to get your client out of this mess.”
So Kreiss wasn’t forthright with us. Now I know why Frantz didn’t explore the issue on direct. He knew I’d walk right into the trap.
I glance at my opponents’ table. Frantz and Diamond are both leaning back in their chairs with arms crossed, as if they’re formerly ravenous diners who’ve just polished off a prime piece of meat.
“You didn’t mention Kreiss’s alleged alcoholism in your deposition, did you, Mr. Gorecki?” I ask.
“You didn’t ask me about it,” he says. “I thought you would, but you dropped it. And it wasn’t alleged alcoholism, sir.”
When a witness hurts you on cross-examination, the short-term goal is to look unfazed, and the easiest way to do that is to ask another question immediately, as though the bad answer was innocuous.
“Mr. Gorecki, you told us earlier that after you left the force you worked in private security,” I say. “What was the name of your company?”
“Majestic Security Systems,” he says. “I was one of the founders.”
Next to me, Brenda starts inputting keystrokes into her computer. We were ready for this.
“Do you still work with Majestic Security?” I ask.
“The company was bought out by a large public company several years ago. I’m still a major shareholder and also a consultant. I retired from full-time work three years ago.”
“What’s your role in the company?”
“Threat management. Protecting individuals who because of their stature may be likely kidnap victims or targets of stalkers.”
“The same kind of work that Detective Bud Kreiss did when he left the police force, correct?”
“In broad strokes, true, but Bud Kreiss catered to a different clientele.”
“You mean your clients were richer and more important?”
He shrugs.
“Excuse me for one moment, Your Honor, while my colleague projects something on the courtroom monitors,” I say.
“Hurry it up, counsel,” the judge says.
The webpage of Gorecki’s company appears on the courtroom LED screens.
“Your company Majestic Security Systems was acquired by a subsidiary of Parapet Media Corporation, wasn’t it?”
Frantz springs out of his seat with the agility of a man half his age. Good—he didn’t do a background check on his own witness. That often happens when the witness is an ex-cop—lawyers, even great ones, believe they’re automatically credible.
“Objection! Irrelevant,” Frantz says. My question couldn’t be more relevant, but Frantz is hoping that his friend Anita will sustain his objection anyway. Even she can’t go that far.
“Overruled,” she says, sounding almost apologetic. She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, her lips pressed into a one-dimensional line.
“Mr. Gorecki, was Majestic Security acquired by an affiliate of Mr. Bishop’s Parapet Media?” I repeat.
His knee bouncing revs up. He folds his arms across his chest so tightly that his undersize jacket looks as if it might split at the seams. His shoulders and arms are still huge, and from the expression on his face, I’m sure he’d like to use them to snap my spine. “We were . . . yeah, a company very far down the Parapet Media chain acquired us. It’s a security company. Mr. Bishop didn’t run it, probably didn’t know about it.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong about that,” I say.
Gorecki relaxes a moment, and his leg stops bouncing. Not for long.
I nod to Brenda, and she projects the Majestic Security webpage titled “Clients and Testimonials” on the courtroom monitors. Over the next fifteen minutes, I get Gorecki to admit that Majestic Securities represented twenty-two affiliates of Parapet Media Corporation, Bishop’s conglomerate, and that Parapet also referred outside business to Majestic. The inference is clear. As payback for covering up his role in Felicity McGrath’s kidnapping, Bishop, upon Gorecki’s retirement, rewarded the ex-cop with lucrative security work and ultimately made him a multimillionaire.
I finally let him leave the stand. He lumbers past me on creaky arthritic knees, and for a moment I imagine him as an actual level boss in Abduction! whom I’ve just defeated. He did damage to our case with his revelation about Bud Kreiss’s alcoholism, but in the end, I avoided the ultimate trap that Frantz and Diamond laid for me.
Or so I think until Judge Grass says, “Mr. Frantz, call your next witness,” and Lovely Diamond says, “Plaintiff calls Luther Frederickson,” and up to the stand walks Boardwalk Freddy, looking more like a retired Vegas croupier than a one-time derelict who lived on the rough streets of Venice Beach twenty-seven years ago.
Philip and Brenda searched diligently for Luther Frederickson. When they couldn’t find a trace, they concluded that he’d OD’d or died of cirrhosis of the liver, or as Poniard believed, was killed by Felicity’s kidnapper to silence him. He was the only known witness through whom I could have proved that what Poniard says in Abduction! is true. And that’s why no plaintiff’s attorney of sound mind would have let Frederickson come within fifty miles of this courthouse. Frantz and Diamond are hardly irrational. But they have a powerful client who’s accustomed to getting whatever he wants, and Bishop wants not just victory but vindication. In that way, Poniard and William the Conqueror are alike—they’re both rich megalomaniacs who’ll listen to no one. Frederickson is here to refute what Bud Kreiss told me.
Lovely stands at the lectern, so close that I can smell her perfume. Without so much as a glance at me, she grips each side of the lectern, squeezing so hard that her fingers turn blue at the tips. I’m not the only anxious lawyer in the courtroom.
Frederickson takes the witness stand and swears to tell the truth. We’ll see. He’s a tall, thin man with a wiry body and a flabby, pallid face. He’s mostly b
ald, with several strands of gray-blond hair combed over to the side. He has an eighties-style moustache, but it doesn’t look old-fashioned because he has a strong chin. His eyes are slightly crossed, which is probably why he tilts his head back and squints at Lovely as if using his longish nose as a gun sight. He’s dressed in baggy blue polyester slacks and a red and gray plaid sport shirt that doesn’t completely hide an ugly scar that runs horizontally across his chest just below the neck.
“What’s your name, sir?” Lovely asks.
“Luther Grant Frederickson. Back in the eighties when I was living on the beach they called me Boardwalk Freddy.” He speaks in an even Great Plains twang. He points a hitchhiker’s thumb at his chest. “Yeah, that’s me, Boardwalk Freddy. I got that name from Officer Bud Kreiss, the Venice Beach beat cop, who later became a detective, you know what I mean? When I was on a bender, he’d holler, ‘Get off the boardwalk, Freddy!’ And the name stuck. Of course, I never left the boardwalk.” His gap-toothed smile makes him look like an elderly Alfred E. Neuman, the cartoon character from those old Mad magazines that Harmon Cherry collected.
Lovely returns Freddy’s smile, but hers is as forced as his is genuine.
“Let’s slow down, Mr. Frederickson,” she says. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m on disability. Have been for many years. I have vision problems, so I can’t drive, amblyopia, a lazy eye they call it, since childhood. I’m a diabetic, other problems, bad back, so I can’t work much. Had thyroid cancer, but I’m cancer-free. Sometimes I do people’s income taxes, simple stuff, kind of like H&R Block, because back in the day before I moved to San Francisco, I was an accountant for the movie industry. Of course, I was on food stamps after that, and then on the streets. But mostly I can’t work anymore.”
“You were living on the Venice Beach boardwalk in July 1987, correct?”
You’re not supposed to lead your own witness, but there’s an exception for background questions, which this is. I stand and object anyway just because Freddy’s first rambling answer broke Lovely’s rhythm, and I want to see if I can throw her off some more. I’m ready to duck and cover in response to what I expect will be Judge Grass’s rebuke for my spurious objection—I used the same technique against her when she and I were trial adversaries—but to my surprise she says, “Sustained.”
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